by Qanta Ahmed
I noticed how different these African pilgrims were from the Saudi cohort I was traveling with. Firstly, they were unaccompanied by women, unlike the Saudi couples I was traveling with, who brought wives with them to Hajj (almost every woman in my tent was married). These men were thinner than the men in our group and sported short wispy facial hair. Most had thinned ribcages, scraggy from lifetimes of hunger, and while at Hajj they had continued to lose weight. Distinctly they looked poorer, with no glints of watches or steel-rimmed glasses. In fact in the whole line I couldn't make out a single wristwatch. Here and there on their feet they wore dusty sandals, but many were in broken or torn flip-flops, and quite a few were barefoot.
I clutched my cardigan around my throat to keep out the cool night air. As I snuggled back to rest I realized the African pilgrims had not even clothing like this to keep them warm, relying only on their thin, worn Hajj garments. Many simply wore threadbare sheets rather than the heavy toweling material sold as Hajj robes widely throughout the Kingdom.
The water was reviving the crowd and true to form, the tired Africans were rejuvenated by the magical ZamZam water. They began to laugh, their Swahili rising into excited bubbles of laughter. Here and there, the hubbub was punctuated by a lone phlegmatic cough.
Suddenly, the Imam leader of our group sat bolt upright, his beard almost standing on end when he saw what was happening.
Like Yosemite Sam, hopping from one blistered foot to another, the desperate Imam began snatching the cups of water from the thirsty Africans and roughly handed them to the sleepy men behind him, men from our group. They started at the spray of ZamZam as the Imam, in his agitation, inadvertently flung precious holy water all over the place.
The line of three hundred Africans stood patiently, continuing to wait in turn, calmly assuming someone else's thirst had become more pressing. I could see the line now stretched even further and more were assembling. These samovars could well be the only source of drinking water for miles around. Incensed by the Africans' failure to comprehend, the Imam resorted to dramatic measures. In fury and exasperation he signaled to two of the younger male pilgrims and ordered them to carry the orange samovars to safety.
Obediently, they followed the Imam's demands. Struggling under the weight, the Saudi pilgrims hauled the huge containers and placed them in the middle of the men's matting instead of in the aisle between us. The men would now guard the water all night long, preventing anyone except our group to drink it. At last the poor Africans understood, and without protest they began turning around, heading back into the darkness of Muzdullifah. Like thirsty Masai in the Namib, they made no scene, preferring to conserve their energy for a continued search for water. They even bid warm salaams to the Imam, disappearing back into the night.
I was outraged. At Hajj we were supposedly equal and God was watching every action, and yet our own Imam refused to share water with thirsty pilgrims. Looking at the pilgrims around me I doubted very much any of us would be suffering from serious thirst even if we didn't get another drink of water until we reached Mina in the morning, yet none of us had intervened. Instead we had enabled the panicking Imam and failed our fellow Muslims in need at Hajj. I was ashamed of my group and I was ashamed of myself for not taking a stance. Calmly, Randa and Sherief rationalized the events for me.
“Qanta, they couldn't drink our water. There were hundreds of them. We have to keep it to ourselves. Every group has to be self-sufficient in supplies. You know that. Don't worry so much about it.” Randa stared at me hard, as though seeking some kind of approval.
“And the Africans are notorious for being disorganized at every Hajj!” added a pilgrim next to Sherief, thoroughly irritated at the interruption of his sleep. Randa and Sherief were silent. I wondered if the pilgrim knew how racist he sounded. Rolling over and away from Randa, I tried to sleep, but disturbed by the plight of thirsty Africans, it took some time before I dozed off. As I lay thinking about them I could hear the satisfied snoring of the angry Imam. His conscience was evidently clear.
I couldn't help noticing how nationalities even here at Hajj were distinct in their behaviors: the patient yet irrepressibly joyful Africans; the superior, judgmental Saudis secure in their self-appointed supremacy; the unassuming East Londoner Pakistanis with their curiously charming recitation of Quranic verses in heavy cockney accents; the chatty and cultured Egyptians; the friendly, outgoing Americans who, if they had a chance, would be exchanging business contacts inside the al-Haram (so effective were they at connecting); most recently, the noisy, coughing Bengalis. Of all nationalities, however, the most distinctive by far were the Malaysians.
In Guests of God, Robert Bianchi explains that female pilgrims had long dominated the Malaysian Hajj, always exceeding fifty-three percent of all Malay pilgrims. They were notably younger, many in their thirties, forties, or fifties, and less than ten percent over seventy years of age. Most of these women were housewives, but many actually earned a second income outside their homes while describing themselves as “housewives.” They were the antithesis to most female Muslims in the world who would never have an opportunity to reach Hajj because of economic hardships or male oppression, or more often both reasons.
I had noticed the Malaysians on the first night at Hajj as I watched missiles of Malayan women, arms linked, surge forward through the crowds around the Ka'aba, completing their revolutions around the House of God with the greatest efficiency. Entire cohorts of Malays seemed female, save for their single Imams at the head of each group leading the way with a Quran and a megaphone. Each woman was exactly the same mesomorphic build and none of them exceeded five feet in height. Together, they formed a stocky and satisfyingly dense Hajj organism that coursed through the rites independent of the rest of us, almost unhindered by the huge crowd. They came through each stage like Hajj-express trains, arms linked, faces fixed and firmed in determination, and heads bowed slightly forward as though seeking an actual aerodynamic advantage against fictional headwinds.
These Malaysian bullets of worship were uniform in dress, down to the last detail. As they steamed past, I noticed on every woman, tightly wrapped at the back of the head, identical Malaysian flags methodically sewn onto every veil. These women were a monumental, moving organization eliciting envy and admiration in any pilgrim I spoke to. When they prayed, they lined up immediately in a perfect, precise geometry, while nearby, the rest of us rummaged around, struggling to exit our disorganization. After prayer, they re-formed into their pilgrim-juggernauts and continued their tremendous, unassailable pace. And at last, when they finished their rites, they sat like so many bowling pins in perfectly aligned rows, identical to the last gesture.
So, even without opening my eyes tonight, I had known the spitting and coughing could not have been Malaysian pilgrims. Malaysians were simply not relaxed at Hajj. They had a mission to accomplish and they did so with military precision, year after year with a minimum of fuss. All energies were conserved only for worship. Even spitting, joking, or coughing seemed superfluous to the Malaysian at worship; such was their discipline.
While many Muslims regard Hajj as a farewell and final Islamic obligation to be done toward the end of one's life, the Malaysian women, like me, were already discovering what I was finding to be true: Hajj, while a beautiful closure to life and a gateway to the next life, can also be the threshold to a new life in this world. I was already glad to be experiencing Hajj at thirty-one, and I hadn't even finished yet. I couldn't imagine waiting another forty years for this privilege.
BETWEEN THE DEVIL
AND THE RED SEA
MORNING CAME, AND WE HAD returned to Mina, preparing for the final rites of Hajj. Refreshments had just been served. Haneefa, the shyest maid of all, stood to the side, uncomfortable to be the center of the conversation.
“You know, Doctora,” began Rashida excitedly, “Haneefa is a Hafiz! Hafiz-al-Quran, no less!” I was amazed. Hafiz is the title given to one who has memorized the Quran perfectly. The enti
re book is committed to memory and was so transmitted for many years at the dawn of Islam. Memorization was the only way the revealed word of God was preserved and transmitted unchanged, before scribes began to record the words verbatim which remained, unchanged now, more than 1,400 years later.
“How old are you, Haneefa?” I asked, guessing she couldn't be older than twenty.
Rashida translated for both of us as we talked. “I am fifteen, Doctora Qanta, going to be sixteen next month, Inshallah,” she responded.
“So how did you become Hafiz at such a young age?” I asked, puzzled. The only Hafiz I had ever known was my own ninety-year-old grandfather, though I was unsure at what age he had mastered the holy book.
“I studied here in Mecca, at the Madrassah (Islamic school). My father is an Imam there, and he taught me to read. It was easy for me, Alhumdullilah, and with the Grace of God, I became a Hafiz one year ago!” She was unable to conceal her pure joy at her sole but rather staggering accomplishment.
“Prove it to me, Haneefa,” I challenged rudely, unable to believe what I was hearing.
Rashida said, “Here, Doctora, take this Quran and read any passage. Haneefa can recite the words which follow without looking. We do this to her all the time, to see if she ever makes a mistake, but she doesn't! She is amazing!”
In disbelief, I opened the Quran at a random page and chose a verse which was at least unknown to me (and of these there are many). I began reading, hoping my Arabic didn't sound too uneducated.
“Mashallah, you read Arabic well,” encouraged Rashida generously. Now I knew I must be sounding dreadful, but the words nevertheless were beautiful. Mid-sentence, without warning, I stopped and looked up.
Haneefa had been following me intently, mouthing the words in time to my spoken ones. As soon as I stopped enunciating, she took over and began to recite aloud. My fingers followed the words in the Quran. Haneefa's eyes were closed in concentration by now, and even so there was no way even with eyes open that she could have made out the tiny print from which I was reading. I knew she recited from memory. For pages and pages she recited the Quran perfectly—every word, accent, pause, emphasis, and punctuation. I allowed her to continue for fifteen minutes. I was incredulous.
“Mashallah, Mashallah, Haneefa please stop. You are indeed a Hafiz. I should never have questioned you,” and I went on apologizing. “But this is fantastic,” I went on. “You are such a scholar so learned. What will you do with this knowledge?”
“Be a better Muslim, Doctora Qanta,” she responded without hesitation.
“And marry a very good man, Doctora!” boomed Rashida, roaring with laughter.
I looked at Rashida quizzically.
“It is very desirable to marry a woman who has memorized the Quran. This will help Haneefa in a match.” Haneefa was now shrinking in embarrassment, burying her chin into her chest and hiding her eyes from all of us. “You know we are all very poor ladies, Doctora. We cannot be like you, independent, earning money, making our own destinies. We admire you, truly Doctora, but this is not our destiny; Allah did not choose this for us,” explained Rashida practically, not the least inflection of self-pity in her voice.
Haneefa and I were worlds apart, yet somehow in Saudi Arabia she did not deserve what I had accepted as a birthright—the freedom to seek an education. I was learning a surprising amount about the Kingdom by being at Hajj. The women I worked with in Riyadh clearly were the privileged and moneyed. These women in Mecca were more representative of the growing underbelly of the lower classes in the Kingdom, the poor strata where oil wealth passed them by. In a society where connections and pedigree are everything, nothing could ever draw them out of their circumstances.
In the afternoon I would find myself quite literally between the Devil and the Red Sea. The most hazardous of the Hajj rites was later today. Soon the time came for the ritual stoning of the three stone pillars at Jamaraat. Muslims believe in good and evil and recognize Satan to be Iblis, the fallen one of God's angels who was too defiant to bow to Adam in acknowledgment of mankind's inherent ability to distinguish good from evil. This defiance earned him expulsion from heaven, doomed to perpetual scorn, which fuels his wickedness further. Muslims must be vigilant of the temptations the Devil may place in efforts to impede sincere progress toward spending a life in good works and worship of the Devil's nemesis: the Creator. The stoning rituals at Jamaraat (where pilgrims symbolically throw tiny stones at three pillars representing the devil) are an opportunity to enact this active repulsion of evil that all Muslims must exercise in their daily jihad of self-improvement.10
I approached the pillars on an enormous causeway that split into a two-level road bearing a million men on each level. Underfoot I walked on a river of human hair discarded from newly shorn Hajjis who had completed this ritual earlier that afternoon. Hajji is an honorific title for a man who has completed Hajj, which he can use for the rest of his life. Females who have completed Hajj are called Hajjas. Along the roadside, pilgrim-barbers squatted, shearing scalps of hair, symbolizing the spiritual rebirth of each male Muslim who had completed Hajj.
Clutching my tiny stones, which I had collected in Mina, I approached the maelstrom. The crowds were terrible, focused on the giant pillars; behind me people bore down with incredible force. I raised my arm to throw a stone. To my side, a short Afghani pilgrim suddenly bent down, grabbing his shoe and, leaning backward at a crazy angle, tossed it with all his force. In doing so, he promptly poked me in my forehead with his sharp elbow. I was a little stunned, almost seeing stars. He proceeded to remove his other shoe and throw that too, all the while shouting vicious “Allah hu Akbars!” full of scorn at the Devil, redoubling the intensity of his efforts. It seemed he had finished his stones and both his shoes but was not done with his scorn. After standing around in a minor daze himself, he turned around. A little deflated, he pushed passed me, transiently locking my gaze with his brilliantly green eyes.
I tried to throw my stones again. This time a small Indonesian woman shrieking at full volume knocked my sunglasses hard at the side of my face with the recoil of her swing. I touched my smarting nose, which was now bleeding from the bump. I wondered if the bleeding had violated my Ihram, but as it was an accident, I hoped not. Gripping my eyeglasses with one hand and my stones in the other, I began. My throws were most certainly gestures; barely any of them actually reached the pockmarked stone pillar, testament to my feeble bat-and-ball skills. Still, as I counted the throws, I couldn't believe the pandemonium around me. I wanted to get out as soon as possible.
For one, the pillar seemed to be soaking in rain. I looked hard, noting the brilliant sunshine beyond the covered asphalt. In the sunlight, the bulldozers were rumbling away moving some form of debris. There was no sign of rain but when I looked at the pillar it was covered in an incessant gray drizzle. Upward, the pillar was disappearing in a black sky of fine spray. Finally I realized this was the downpour of stones! A monsoon of pebbles was raining through the upper circular hole where another ten thousand or so pilgrims were now pressed forward, just like us, striving to complete their rituals. Intermittently the monsoon released bursts of footwear that flew through the stone torrent.
I moved closer to the waist-high wall encircling the pillar, which guarded pilgrims from falling in. Below, a huge mountain of pebbles rose up, almost to the edge of the wall. If I had been fool enough to lean in, I could probably grab a handful of the stones from here. They were collected around the base of the pillar and spilling into a funnel-shaped basin that was being scooped out by more heavy machinery. As we moved away in the distance toward the next two pillars, I could see more bulldozers pushing the pebbles into giant mountains of stones. The millions of stones (each no bigger than a large pea) thrown by the pilgrims had formed a staggering collection.
At last we completed the stoning at all three pillars and we turned back triumphantly to the tent. I began to allow myself the euphoria of a completed Hajj. On the way back with Rashida and H
aneefa who had accompanied me to ensure our safety, Randa and I argued about who would cut locks from each other's hair. Returning to the tent, Rula (the youngest Saudi teenager in our group) announced my arrival to the others.
“Hajja Qanta, mabrook!” (Congratulations!) She smiled, the first to bestow the honorific title of Hajja on me. She and I burst out with laughter, and the Saudi matrons nodded a warm approval. Randa rushed up to me and, lifting the veil from my head, eased out my very short hair from the nape of my neck. With sewing scissors made in Sheffield, she sliced away a lock, wishing me “Mabrook!” Now we could celebrate Eid: Eid Ul Addha, the major festival on the Islamic calendar that celebrates the end of Hajj. It was time for sheep shopping!
In Mina, over a million head of cattle: camel, Australian sheep, and goats were already being slaughtered in the giant abattoirs specially built for this purpose. This was in memory of the original sacrifice of the ram by Abraham. Nowadays, the colossal volumes of meat are immediately frozen and loaded into hundreds of jets idling on Jeddah runways that transport the meat to share with the poorest Muslims around the world. Rashida would be preparing goat or lamb today for sure.
Rula handed me a piece of paper from a pile she had been distributing throughout the tent. I read it carefully and realized this was my receipt for the proxy sacrifice of a sheep in my name. The sacrifice had to be by proxy because only Muslim men can sacrifice animals, women being excused from this difficult task. Most Muslims at Hajj, because of its sheer scale, have to relinquish this task to the hundreds of professional Saudi butchers who were specially flown in from all over the Kingdom for the final days of the religious event.