by Qanta Ahmed
In time, I began to unpack a few essential items. I glanced up, meeting a hard stare. A woman, perhaps forty-five years of age, was watching me intently.
She was already settled in a spot just across from me. Her thin daughter cowered just behind her left shoulder, flinching from attention. The mother assessed my attire, revealed now that the abbayah lay crumpled on the ground. Across my chest, a snug Guess T-shirt gave away its American origins and my Calvin Klein trousers, secured at the waist with a shiny Italian belt, divided my legs, identifying me as an unmistakably Western woman.
She visibly grimaced. Physically, I offended her. I tried to ignore her disapproval, wondering if I had somehow made a faux pas of some kind. As I was reaching for an item deep in the back of my case, stretching my torso and arms bared by short sleeves, I looked up at her and smiled casually, trying to be friendly.
“Hi,” I said, rummaging around in the case.
“You say ‘Hi’ to me? Hi?” she snapped, immediately, as if primed for an angry response. Her English was precisely enunciated. Her face flashed. She was Saudi for sure, probably also Najdi and maybe even from Riyadh but obviously, by her English, she had studied overseas. “As a Muslim at Hajj greeting another Muslim, you say Hi!” she went on, practically spitting with fury.
I looked at her nonplussed. There was such latent energy in her rage.
“You say to me: ‘Salaam alaikum,’ as a proper Muslim deserves!” she hissed, exhaling in annoyance. By now, I had completely abandoned the search in my bag and was staring at this woman who, while absolutely correct, was surprisingly angry for one performing Hajj herself. I decided to hold my tongue, partly because that was my job as pilgrim, and partly because she was correct. I should have greeted her as a Muslim deserves. I met her flashing eyes with a cool stare and held it, feeling guilty even for this defiance, but she had infuriated me. Her mute teenage daughter remained behind her mother, voiceless, irrelevant.
Again it was time for food. Rashida and her crew of maids arrived, bearing trays of food for the tent. As they shyly offered the rice and lamb, the young ladies barely met my eyes. Some of them watched me askance, giggling with their scarf-endings held up over their mouths, muffling the offending sounds of laughter.
Rashida's bustling bonhomie diffused the tension that had spilled from the angry woman opposite me. Rashida didn't seem offended by my person even now that she could see my Western clothing. I was silently grateful to Rashida for her acceptance. I found myself more confident when she was in the room. I thanked her for the tray of food, “Shukran, Rashida.”
“Afwan, Qanta. Maalish.” (You're welcome, no problem.) She responded, revealing a perfect set of strong, white teeth framed in her huge booming laugh. Even though she was raised in Mecca, and veiled life-long, never traveled, and married at an early age, her spirit remained indomitable, confident, down-right brassy!
Touching nothing of the main meal, I peeled and ate an orange. My appetite was already waning; by week's end, it would be gone. The late lunch ended in time for Asr (late afternoon) prayer. Women began readying themselves for worship. It was time to make a trek to the bathroom facilities. Before I could step out, I had to put the abbayah back on again. Haneefa and Rashida waited for me patiently, until at last I was ready. I took my toiletries and a small towel with me in a plastic bag. Like a visor, Rashida pulled her veil back down over her face, peeped out of the canvas door, and signaled to us to follow. I stepped into the incredible heat of a Hijazi afternoon.
I began to sweat almost immediately, especially at the surprisingly brisk pace that Rashida was keeping. She moved swiftly, her veil inflating behind her like cape. Haneefa followed behind me, a thin bundle of nerves. We walked between rows and rows of tents, making several turns in sequence. I was utterly disoriented because at every turn the tented tarmac avenues repeated themselves endlessly in a kaleidoscopic confusion of symmetry.
Completing my ablutions quickly, I returned to my veiling. This time we positively rushed back to the tent in time for prayer. Rashida moved like a motorized mannequin. Boy could she move! I stumbled to keep up to the best of my ability and was already dying to get out of the hideous veil.
Flinging back the canvas door, we again entered Tent 50007. Most women were relaxing after prayer, some folding up their prayer mats having just finished. I went to my corner, removing my shoes and hurriedly oriented my prayer mat to Mecca based on the direction of the women praying around me. Disrobing my abbayah but keeping my head covered, I began the short afternoon prayer.
“Allah hu Akbar,” I began softly, speaking the words just under my breath. I bowed my head, folding my arms, and tried to block out the surrounding chatter, surprised that the pilgrims were not more respectful to the few of us who were still praying. They were chatting noisily.
I bent forward at the hip, immediately before descending into my first prostration. As I kneeled, the ground was hard and stony underneath the thin durries. It was distinctly uncomfortable. As I sat at the end of the first rakat, I prepared to rise to complete the second. I began to hear some clucking from behind me, the sound of pursed lips snapped in disapproval.
I frowned trying to concentrate, reminding myself that I stood in front of God while in prayer, yet even here in this holy land I was still so distracted. I descended again, flexing first at the hip, then standing, then descending into my second set of prostrations. As I held my forehead flat to the ground, my palms either side to my ears, supporting my weight as I kneeled in front of my Maker, I heard a rising chorus gain momentum.
“Haram! Haram!”
“Wa Allah, Haram! Haram!”
I was increasingly alarmed. In Islam, Haram indicates the most heinous, disallowed substances or behaviors for Muslims: alcohol, swine flesh, sinful actions like murder, blasphemy, or suicide, among many others. What could be going on behind me? It was a monumental effort to stop myself turning to see what was unfolding in the tent. Something atrocious must be happening to trigger such an outcry. I couldn't imagine what it was. I rushed through the rest of my prayers at breakneck speed. Then I remained seated this time gabbling the requisite one hundred chants, a combination of Allah hu Akbar (God is Great), Subhan'allah (all Grace belongs to God), and Alhumdullilah (all thanks be to God). Bowing my head as I marked off my chants with the creases of my fingers, I was breathless but I had to know what was going on. The sounds of “Haram” were coming from somewhere near me in the tent.
At last I finished. Before I could completely straighten myself, a Saudi woman came straight up to me. Her Holbein hat framed her fury. I shrank from her.
“Haram!” she said, touching my exposed ear, which was peeping out of my head scarf.
“Haram!” she repeated defiantly, her chin upturned, scanning the room for any who could have been unsure of my disgraceful ways. I colored with shame, though only the puce tips of my Haram ears could indicate it. I had deliberately pushed the headscarf behind my freshly washed ears immediately after entering the tent. The exposed ears allowed me to listen more clearly and formed a useful anchor for my slippery headscarf, which could stretch tightly behind my ears to keep the whole scarf secure during my various movements in prayer. Because I was surrounded by women, I was sure this was acceptable.
I had no response for her. She spoke no English and I spoke no Arabic but, my pride getting the better of me, I managed some defiance.
“Mafi Haram!” (Not Haram!) I answered her, gathering indignation from the remnants of my shame.
“Mafi Haram?” she mimicked, provocatively. “Mafi Haram?” and she stamped off muttering to herself, as if to say, “We'll see about that.” Around me the noisy tent had fallen into an uncomfortable silence. Randa's row of Palestinian and Jordanian moderates didn't enter in the fray. No one wanted to anger another pilgrim, even if she was unjust in her comments or behavior. No one wanted their own or anyone else's Hajj defiled, but already I had offended two of these women deeply, women who seemed to have no regard or fear of d
efiling my Hajj.
In the rising heat of my deepening chagrin I returned to my isolation. All I had to rely on was the knowledge of Islam my parents had passed on to me. I was not formally educated in an Islamic school. Instead, my family had always instructed their children in the home. These women were correcting me in ways I had never experienced before—severe, categorical, critical. There was no softness in their guidance. I was disappointed for myself and yet also for them. The spirit of unity among pilgrims seemed to have been left behind in Mecca.
After an hour or so another Saudi woman approached me, waving an olive branch. She smiled at me. “Salaam alaikum,” she offered. She sounded friendly.
“Wa alaikum Salaam,” I responded, afraid to be hopeful.
She paused beaming at me, as though choosing her words. In carefully constructed English, she ventured a question. “When you converted to Islam, Mashallah?” she smiled, thrilled at the courage of her curiosity. I was dumbfounded.
“I have always been Muslim,” I began, not sure if she knew what I meant exactly. She continued to smile, revealing uneven, stained teeth.
“And your parents,” she asked, “also they converts?” I laughed, startling her. If only my parents could have heard this!
“No, Alhumdullilah, we are all Muslim.” I smiled at her confusion. Her question answered, she retreated back to a clutch of Saudi women and translated for them in Arabic. It seemed she was their spokesperson. They digested the new information and appeared to discuss me at length, finally sinking into a silence. Dissatisfied with my answer, they followed my every move with their cumulative gaze.
I hadn't convinced them. They genuinely believed I was a newcomer to Islam, so alien was I in appearance, dress, and yes, so obvious my mistakes. I was just as enigmatic to them as they were to me. Like wary predators in a forest, we were circling one another, each creature assessing the other in the undergrowth of the huge jungle of Islam we had found ourselves in. Within myself I admitted their observation of my naïveté in performing my prayers was a sign of my poor practice and observation. Though born a Muslim, the fountainhead of my faith had just begun to flow. Inside I knew, these strangers were right: my conversion had actually begun.
The day passed punctuated by regular prayers, food, and private supplication. I spent time burying myself in guidebooks which Nadir had given me. I was constantly grateful to him for helping me. I wanted to know more about the women in my group, but my stumbling follies had subdued my curiosity.
Night fell, sleep overwhelmed me, and as soon as I could after prayers, I unrolled the bedding and stretched out on top of it. The room was semi-darkened though external lights penetrated even the heavy canvas, casting the figures in a ghoulish glow. Somehow the Saudi pilgrims seemed more animated than during the day, whereas the rest of us were exhausted. Regardless of their chattering and snacking, I slipped into a deep sleep.
The ground was shaking, then seemingly the tent. Regaining consciousness, a stubby hand shook my shoulder awake.
“Doctora! Doctora!” a voice called to me. Out of habit, I was immediately alert. I rubbed my eyes returning to my surroundings. The tent quaked to a cacophony of snoring. Perhaps it was time for an additional prayer of which I was yet again ignorant. I struggled to see my watch: two a.m. Feeling for my glasses, an anxious face came into view.
“Doctora! Doctora!” The Saudi woman seemed in distress, perhaps she was ill.
“Fi wajja?” (Is there pain?) I asked her, an attempt at the broken Arabic I had learned from Afrikaans-speaking South African nurses in my ICU.
“La, burra, burra.” (No, outside, outside.) She responded. Gesturing to me to rise, I had no option but to follow. Rashida appeared from behind. Even more alarming, she had lost all signs of joy. Something must be wrong.
“There is someone in another tent, Doctora Qanta, she needs an injection. Please we need you to do this. Come.”
I didn't have time to think how they could have known I was a doctor or how news of someone's distress could travel from tent to tent when cell phones were still rarities in the Kingdom. I slipped on my shoes and pulled on my abbayah. I followed Rashida and the other Saudi woman out of the tent into the night. I had never imagined I would see patients at Hajj. I regretted coming unprepared. I hadn't even packed Band-Aids.
Outside, the night was balmy with a delicious sea breeze. The darkness was impenetrable. We relied on the tiny beam of a flashlight Rashida was carrying. As she hurried, it stabbed a jagged path of light through the velvet night. Like miners, we carved our route forward. We walked past the tent avenues of the morning. I began to recognize some of the turns, but this time we were leaving our section.
Eventually, after fifteen minutes of scurrying, we reached the perimeter of our enclave of tents. I found our section was cordoned off behind steel barred gates, painted deep green. Amazingly they were locked. I couldn't imagine why, when everyone at Hajj was Muslim, engaged in intense worship. As we approached the gate, Rashida pulled out keys, unlocking one. It creaked backward noisily.
We were now on a main road of some kind, running through the Tent City. Vehicles flanked both sides, leaving passage for one vehicle at a time, but none came. The entire complex was asleep. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I began to notice details. Many of the vehicles were pickup trucks or heavy goods vehicles. Further on we came across buses much like the ones we had arrived in ourselves.
The quiet was astonishing. In such a congested an area where two and a half million dozed on the eve of Arafat, the most important day of Hajj, there was almost no human activity. A glittering panoply of stars bathed the scalloped rooftops of Tent City. Unlike Mecca, the light pollution was minimal. The night sky at Mina, surrounded by low mountains and devoid of artificial lights, must have looked much like this in the time of the Prophet. I was glad to be awake.
Rashida had stopped, impatiently waiting for me to catch up. I followed her further when suddenly I sensed movement. Stopping for a moment, I searched for the source. Something in my peripheral vision had disturbed me. As I stretched my eyes to see, I began to distinguish first one figure, then dozens, then finally hundreds, surrounding us on both sides of the road. In fact, now that I could see, I spied thousands of squatting black shadows, swaying imperceptibly, stirring around us. They were assembled in uniform rows, stretching for hundreds of yards until they were finally swallowed by the night. Each shifted weight from one tired heel to another. Occasionally a phantom would adjust a black shawl or a headdress. They were under trucks, between vehicles, leaning against tires or peering from behind them. Other specters were fortunate enough to be leaning on gates or propping themselves up against axles or fenders. Everywhere, they huddled in condensed groups which seemed to sway in unison. In the impossible darkness, they were barely visible.
“Rashida, who are all these people? What are they doing here sitting outside so late at night? Why don't they go to their tents and sleep inside?”
“Doctora, they are pilgrims, they are sleeping. They have no tents. They are poor.” She pressed on, oblivious of my shock.
While I had been rubbing a sore knee or stretching a knotted back, while I had bemoaned air conditioning that worked poorly or complained about the lavatory, these people had no shelter. They were simply spending the night at the roadside, too crowded with poor pilgrims to allow them even a place to lie down. Armies of shrouded pilgrims were crammed beneath the undercarriages of vehicles, sleeping to a lullaby of ticking engines and exhausts, themselves finally cooling as the heat of the day dissipated from tired turbines. Barely a square meter of tarmac remained empty.
In every direction I looked upon thousands of vagrant pilgrims. Perhaps hundreds of thousands could be here tonight, hiding in the shadows. Ye t they were patient, silent, and not the least resentful. They watched me without judgment. Their eyes, glinting in the dark, didn't contain criticism, unlike the hard stares of the unyielding women whom I had offended in my tent. Accepting their hardships, the
y squatted on lean haunches for hours, waiting for dawn without resentment or question.
This was Hajj.
My heart expanded with love. In the deep darkness of that night, finally I heard a message I specifically needed. Their desperate poverty contained an enormous grace, one which, despite my privilege or perhaps because of it, I sorely lacked. Once again, I was deeply humbled. I had so much to learn, and my lessons were coming thick and fast.
CALLING DOCTORA
RASHIDA WAS DISAPPEARING AROUND A corner. I ran to catch up for fear of being lost in the labyrinth of Tent City forever. At last she stopped at a tent exactly like ours. We stepped inside, again pulling back the canvas curtain. Even this late at night these tents were open to anyone to enter. They couldn't be locked, and all pilgrims trusted they would be safe among the millions of pilgrims at Hajj.
Inside, forty or fifty women were in deep slumber, lips fluttering with soft snoring, some moaning as they changed position, aching in their sleep. We followed the beacon of light, careful to tiptoe between the carpet of bodies. There was almost no room for our footfalls. In the back of the tent, Rashida led us to one woman who was still awake. In the dark, I could see she was writhing in pain, her face furrowed in distress.
Judging by her black abbayah which was still fastened while she was trying to sleep, this woman was Saudi also, though her features looked Palestinian. She was in her late fifties or early sixties, though her obesity was aging. As I kneeled at her bedside, trying not to fall on my own abbayah, the overweight woman looked up at me with pleading eyes. Instantly, her frightened gaze transformed us both. We were now doctor and patient.
I turned to Rashida, asking her to translate when I needed help. Rashida nodded in acquiescence.