In our frenzy, announcements rained down on us through loudspeakers in all the major pilgrimage languages as we trampled the advice underfoot. Large groups were the most dangerous because they had the brute force to push their way through, shoving weaker competitors out of their path. Whenever I saw a group, recognisable usually from the corner of my eye by the patch of colour in the crowd, I tried to maintain as much distance as possible. By the great pillar stones rattled down through the funnel above; they had already half-covered the devil. At the end of the stoning he would hardly be visible – a cosmetic change par excellence.
Arif, like me, was disgusted by his experience at the stoning, perhaps even more so since his belief in the good of the Ummah was stronger than mine. When he was annoyed he would draw his neck in while his shoulders formed a slight hunch as if every muscle from his heart to his tongue was tense.
‘You have experienced,’ he shouted with the passion of a travelling preacher, ‘what an easy game of it Shaitan [Satan] had today. It is forbidden to push, let alone to wound another Muslim. Most Hajjis do not know what they are doing. Not only are they hurting their brothers and sisters, they are damaging the spirit of Islam too, and the Kaaba. To touch the Black Stone, to kiss it – it means nothing, it’s absolutely worthless, a symbolic gesture, nothing more – they are ready to heap sin upon sin on themselves. It doesn’t add up – it is utter madness. Far too few know what Islam is really about.’
I showed him the booklets that some young activists in the street had pressed into my hand. The selection of themes was surprising. ‘The Permissible Length of Leg Coverings’ was the title of one, in which a certain Dr Saleh as-Saleh described, in over 16 pages, the infernal punishments those who wear short trousers will face. False priorities – Arif and I agreed – blind pedantry. Unyielding moralists had too loud a voice while the gentle mystics spoke in whispers that were too soft to be heard.
‘Tell me,’ Arif asked me unexpectedly, ‘what is your favourite sura?’
‘Surat al-Manu’un,’ I said.
‘A good example, excellent,’ he said.
Ara’ayt alladhi yukadhdhibu biddin
Fazaalikal ladhii yadu: ul-yatiim
Wa laa yahuddu’ alaa ta’aamil miskiin.
Have you seen the one who denies his faith
He is the one who shuns away the orphan
And doesn’t care about the feeding of the poor.
‘What does that tell us? Consider how many sins Allah ta’ala could have listed to describe those weak in faith. But of them all he has chosen egotism, cold-heartedness, and the lack of social conscience. What a clear exhortation!” he exclaimed.
We were standing in a corner of the camp indulging in the small sin of a cigarette. Certainly the current crisis in Islam is also due to a deficiency in social responsibility. Although the Qur’an, even more so than the New Testament, cites social responsibility and compassionate solidarity as an individual’s duty and an essential pillar of society, in most Muslim countries there is a striking discrepancy between compassionate care and indifference. Just the evening before Badrubhai had referred to the commandment with perspicacity:
‘If we want to be true, we must consider the plight and well-being of our fellow human beings. The Prophet, Sallallahu alaihi waa-sallam said, “you are only a Muslim when you think of your brothers and their needs every morning.’”
The responsibility for the good of the whole has faded into the background, while concern about one’s own well-being has come to the forefront. The concept of the Ummah has become a sentimental sofa on which one can recline comfortably. Identification doesn’t even extend far enough into everyday life to prevent someone from pushing his brother or arguing his position in a queue (waiting for a telephone box in one of the many telephone centres would be the perfect ground for such Hobbesian studies).
‘Islam,’ Arif continued in agitation, ‘is followed to the letter of the law but not according to the spirit. A person gets up before sunrise to pray, but goes back to bed afterwards although fajr should be the start of a day. A person adheres to the discipline of the five prayers, but is fairly lax with discipline otherwise. A person takes painstaking care to ensure the Qur’an is not placed under things, remaining on top, and is careful not to touch it with soiled hands – but does not read it. A person is generous towards a relative but abusive to a beggar. A person scolds his children when they curse but then pays a bribe. A person is meticulous about eating halal meat but poisons his spirit with senseless television programmes. A person is careful in prayer but careless in thought.’
This inconsistency was a thorn in Arif’s side and I could understand his disillusionment. In its most beautiful moments the Hajj makes you believe that a different life and a different sort of humanity is possible. Pilgrimages are among the greatest creators of euphoria. A shiver runs through the masses, their lethargy evaporates briefly; a change of direction seems possible – which makes the realization all the more sobering when everything collapses again, slipping back into its usual place.
The 12th of Dhu al-Hijjah – The Day of the Rain
The moon rose over the valley in trails of light. I was lying on an outcrop of rock above Mina, the heat of the day on my back, and my thoughts on one of Amir’s favourite stories, a parable from the Qur’an: One day Ibrahim decided to worship a particularly bright star. Yet, as the full moon shone out brightly, he changed his allegiance and worshipped the moon instead. But then the moon disappeared and the sun rose and Ibrahim turned to the sun. As he considered his changing loyalties, he came up with a conclusion and solution; he would worship the power that had created the star, the moon and the sun.
Something in the sky distracted me, clouds creeping in, heavy and menacing as they swallowed up the stars one by one and then the moon, too. And there shall be rain, I thought to myself amused, the full works. I raced down the slope to our tent.
Hours later when I woke up for the second time just before eight, I saw my prediction come true; the sky over the desert was overcast, throwing a dark shroud over the tented city. Then it burst and the rain started to pelt down. Mecca is prone to storms like this one; the square around the Kaaba has been flooded several times. In 1629, a flood wrecked the city, 500 people lost their lives and the Kaaba was destroyed. In 1877 the flood waters reached two metres in height. In the bookshops one can buy a sepia photo taken in 1941 of boys splashing around by the Kaaba, which begs the question whether the lads also swam round it seven times. In the days of the caravans certain valleys were infamous for seasonal floods. Nasir-i-Khusrao tells of countless pilgrims who drowned in a sudden flood in a place still named Juhfa (washed away).
‘Let’s take our time,’ Badrubhai said. ‘Everyone will be making their way back to Mecca today and there will be a terrible crush around noon. Let’s wait in the tent and set off later.’
For the first time, I was left alone with Badrubhai after our fellow tent-dwellers had departed, which gave me the chance to have a peaceful conversation with him. His reference to the 10 stages that the believer can advance had aroused my curiosity. I inquired how he had progressed from one level to the next.
‘Every Ramadan,’ he told me, ‘I travel to Deoband and spend 10 days with my Sheikh. I use the time to learn from him. I practise and practise; for hours on end. He advises me, asks me questions, and only when he is completely satisfied am I able to move up to the next class.’
I had often heard talk of Deoband; the huge Islamic seminary in that small town in northern India where all of my ‘ulama brothers had studied. They spoke about Deoband as though it were a second home, expressing the greatest respect and affection. They had even taken on the surname of the man who had founded Deoband, all of them named ‘Qasmi’.
‘Studying there,’ Badrubhai said, ‘changed my life and my family’s too, Alhamdulilah, and even the life of my relatives. I would even venture so far as to say that it has influenced my friends as well, both the Muslims and non-Muslims.’
It wasn’t curiosity alone that led me to Deoband a few months later with Burhan; I was hoping to recapture some of the serenity and the contented state of mind I had experienced during the Hajj. I was in pursuit of a way back to that peaceful and focused feeling. We took the slow train from Delhi, several hours through the dusty plains of the Doab; a land sandwiched between the Ganges and the Yamuna. There was nothing at the small railway station of Deoband that hinted at the presence of one of the largest seminaries in the world. A rickshaw took us through the narrow streets of the seething, grubby old town. Bookshops and publishers were cheek by jowl with the shops of tailors and ironmongers. The main thoroughfare of the bazaar ended abruptly in front of an immense edifice made from red and white marble. An eclectic mix of architecture inspired by the Taj Mahal, it was the recently completed seminary mosque, large enough to accommodate as many as 3,000 students.
The campus was an oasis of order in contrast to the chaos of the town that surrounded it. After maghrib the students sat in the open classrooms grouped around inner courtyards and memorised the holy texts by heart in dissonant sing-song tones, their torsos swaying from side to side. The neon light in the rooms illuminated the different colours of the walls, which shone blue and green when seen from the outside.
Burhan showed me around his alma mater with evident pride. We were accompanied by some of his friends from his student days who had remained in Deoband to teach. Every once in a while students would stop to ask where I was from. Following September 11th, Mohammed Afzar, an extremely eloquent and reflective man explained, ‘many foreign journalists have come to visit. They were under the impression that we were training terrorists here because the madrasas in Pakistan where many of the Taliban received instruction are also known as Deobandi. They have no connection whatsoever to our seminary, though.’
Meanwhile, criticism of Darul Uloom Deoband (the official name) is that the lack of modernisation in Islam’s teachings creates a vacuum in which the doctrine in its pure form is distanced from external influences, which in turn results in placing limitations on free thought.
‘The education we offer,’ Ijaz Qasmi, another teacher and also a columnist for various Urdu newspapers, explained to me, ‘is one of religious instruction. The students shouldn’t be too well-acquainted with worldly matters, they shouldn’t be brought up in a Westernised way, but should learn to serve their own community in a simple way. Eight years are required for this, eight years of learning the holy texts: the Qur’an and its interpretation (tafsir), as well as the ahadith.
Going up to the first floor we had a view of the largest auditorium. A teacher was reading a text excerpt in Arabic and then explaining it in Urdu, the mother tongue and lingua franca of the estimated 400 million Muslims in the Indian subcontinent.
‘Each hadith is explained,’ Ijaz whispered to me, ‘until eventually all six ahadith collections are absorbed in such detail that the students are able to judge the genuineness of any alleged hadith without looking it up.’
Discussions were not encouraged apparently. Students had to jot their questions on a piece of paper and pass it forward to the class prefect who would then check them for repetition or nonsensical comments before handing them to the teacher.
Most of the students, as I was to discover over the subsequent days, came from poor, underprivileged backgrounds. The seminary, which had always provided teaching free of charge, as well as accommodation, food and clothing, was the only chance they had to receive an education. The secular state schools in their native villages had a shortage of classrooms, teachers and teaching materials. Even those who completed the free primary school system certificate can at the very most read, write and barely count. For the majority, the alternative to the seminary is a lifelong slog as bonded or seasonal workers. In Deoband the young men (there is a smaller seminary for women in a neighbouring small town) are empowered socially – graduates bear a distinctive dignity and exude self-confidence. However, there is an air of privation and the life practised at Deoband is a humble one. Mohammed Afzar invited us to join him for a meal one evening; he shared two rooms with a colleague. Apart from two mattresses on the floor, a cooking niche and a low bookcase, they were otherwise empty. Their trunks were placed in the middle of the floor to be used as furniture. While Mohammed prepared a chicken curry – and his colleague cut up mangoes, their ripe smell filling the room – we spoke about the origins of the seminary.
The Deoband movement had come into existence in the mid-nineteenth century as a local response to the challenges of colonialism. It promoted a codification of religious education, directly based on the example of the detested British rulers. Simultaneously, it shifted its focus back to the central social pillars of Islam – justice, rejection of hierarchies, and the importance of education. It was one of the first religious institutions to use print media for its purposes, and moreover pioneered in initiating debate with scholars of other religions. Considering the feudal, hierarchical society of the day, this was a momentous achievement. With the standardisation of theological schooling, a compulsory curriculum replaced the previously private (and often irresponsible) relationship between a teacher and his students. This social call also inspired the Indian freedom struggle and led to the founding of a number of influential Islamic organisations.
There is hardly a person more aware of the implicit expectations in the aftermath as Badrubhai; his time in Deoband was not only spent – as I found out – in meditation, but also in discussions, as he was a member of the administrative consultative board, the Shura. Recently he had repeatedly pleaded the case for opening new faculties. After a long debate his suggestions have been put into action: today graduates can embark on further studies in journalism, computing or English. A central library with state-of-the-art technology is planned, with easy access to computers.
Orthodox teachers fear that keeping pace with technology will over time lead to a liberalisation as regards content. From Badrubhai’s point of view this fear is not entirely unfounded since the Deobandis who master English are generally more open to the outside world and discourse, something I also noticed from my experience. If I asked my ‘ulama brothers, for example, for their honest opinion, they would voice some criticism. They complained of corruption in the entrance exams – a serious reproach since bribery is considered a sin in Islam – and about a general drop in performance. Classes were too large and the teachers just sped through the curriculum.
‘Teachers are not as dedicated as they used to be,’ one of my friends exclaimed, ‘they have sold their spirituality and are influenced by materialism. Many of them have only money on their minds.’
This may signify that Darul Uloom Deoband has finally caught up with the global present, much to the great chagrin of its idealistic founders, no doubt.
Yet to my own chagrin, during those days in Deoband I didn’t once pray the zikr with Badrubhai. Early one morning as we were making our way from the dormitory to the campus I heard the familiar rhythmic resonance coming from one of the buildings. I crept up to the window and delighted in the sound, however no sooner had I roused myself to join in the zikr, it ebbed away as some of the men came out, Badrubhai among them. I reproached him for forgetting me and my constant desire for initiation into the zikr and he apologised profusely.
‘Next time,’ he said.
‘Until the next zikr,’ became our motto.
The rain had long since stopped. Badrubhai and his group were waiting for a bus to take them back from Mina to Mecca, but it wasn’t due to leave until that evening. Amir, his father and I decided to return to Mecca on foot but only after we had performed the final stoning of the three pillars. We took our luggage with us; and intuitively I put on the sunglasses I had found that morning in a side pocket. We waded through plastic refuse, the Styrofoam cups crunched under our feet and the discarded juice cartons stuck to our sandals – evidently, the cleaning brigade couldn’t keep up. Those who had set up a provisional camp on the side of t
he road were inundated with rubbish.
We held council and decided I would wait with the luggage at the mouth of the underpass while Amir and his father performed their stoning. A few minutes later they returned frustrated – it was impossible to get anywhere near the pillars. We turned around to try the bridge, but after a few steps Amir was stopped by the police. He had to hand in his bag and collect it after the stoning, a sensible plan, but I just couldn’t imagine having to go through the procedure again to perform the rite, and so in an act of egoism, I kept my own small rucksack hidden and made it through the checkpoint unobserved. We approached the pillars arm in arm. As I was throwing my stones, merely intent on completing the task as swiftly as possible, a stone sailed into the left lens of my sunglasses. The glass was dented, but my eye unharmed.
We lost each other in our attempt to make it out of the crowds in one piece. A small group of Africans found themselves in the way of the crowds heaving away from the pillars, a force to be reckoned with. The slightly-built women didn’t stand a chance; they were pushed and kicked as they tried to desperately hold onto one another, and the only man with them held his hands out protectively in a helpless gesture that was touching. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure clad in black fall to the ground and my throat tightened. I do not know whether it was that woman or another, but someone was crying hysterically. It was the sort of crying you never forget.
Mumbai to Mecca Page 8