by Qanta Ahmed
“Qanta, how's the packing going? When do you leave?” It was Randa, my friend who had taken me on the first circuits around the Ka'aba during Hajj.
“Hey Randa! I leave on Thursday night at two a.m. I only have a couple of days left, the containers are here, but you know what, Randa? I want to go to Mecca again. It would be great to perform Umrah at this point of change in my life. I wish I had planned it earlier.”
“Why don't you call Saudia?” She was referring to the national airline in the Kingdom. “In fact, let me call my husband—he can probably help you get a return trip to Jeddah. You could leave tonight and come back in the morning. People do it all the time!”
I couldn't believe what I was hearing nor the timing of her call. Randa prattled on, reminding me her husband often did this trip on weekends.
At that moment, completely out of character, I stopped my organized preparations for departure and answered the powerful desire to return to Mecca.
Sure enough, in under half an hour I had a flight to Jeddah for midnight that evening. I would be back at 8 a.m. the next day with an entire day to pack. I still needed a way to get to Mecca from Jeddah. I remembered Reem's open invitation to visit her family home in Jeddah.
“Reem, I am coming to Jeddah tonight. I want to make Umrah this evening! Can we go together? We always talked about this!”
“That's fantastic, Qanta! I will meet you in Jeddah at the airport. My driver can take us to the al-Haram Mosque. Mashallah, Qanta, this is a wonderful opportunity. Tonight is the night before Ramadan. It will be very auspicious for you on the threshold of a new life. I can't wait! I am so glad you asked me along.” She sounded ecstatic.
I traveled to the airport a few hours later, feeling strangely free. All I had with me was my handbag because I needed no luggage at the House of God. I couldn't believe my luck nor the spontaneity of the opportunity. I felt carried on a current back to the epicenter of Islam. This was how I was supposed to leave this world, with a Divine blessing.
My memories of Hajj were still fresh, and I wondered how the short Umrah would feel in comparison. Unperturbed at my ignorance, I knew Reem would show me exactly what to do. I found my fears and apprehensions about resigning and leaving, my uncertainties about Imad, all flowing away. I knew I was on a trajectory prescribed for me by destiny. I busied myself preparing for my spontaneous journey.
After a short flight, I arrived in Jeddah. Even in late November the air was sodden with humidity from the Red Sea. Reem was waiting for me, standing outside the burgundy Cadillac that would take us to the Ka'aba. The fat American car glided along the highway, following exits marked for Muslims only.
We talked nonstop along the way until, spying the mountains that surround the holy city, we were lulled into silence. The night was beautiful, a low glow emanating from the Holy Mosque. I couldn't wait to see the Ka'aba again.
The driver parked the car in a multistory parking lot, and Reem and I strolled to the Grand Mosque. I was full of joy as I approached the huge marble forecourt. It was close to 2:30 a.m., but the mosque was illuminated as bright as day. Fellow worshipers sauntered to the entrance. There was an air of relaxation and joy about the Mosque. The fearful tension of Hajj, the feelings of reckoning that had accompanied that trip, were absent. This was a different experience altogether.
We crossed the enormous forecourt. Walking through one of the large gateways in the mosque, we were waved in by a sole veiled sentry. Beyond her I gazed on an unimpeded view of the Ka'aba.
It was there exactly as I had left it months earlier, still reverberating with an invisible, eternal energy. Suddenly massive in proximity, it surged with a palpable force. It had grown in size since my memory, calling me closer. I followed the call, unable to break my stare from the black and gold Kisweh that glowed in the night air. My face was already wide in a reflex smile that came from deep within my core. My joy spilled over into my happy, clumsy footsteps that hastily carried me further into the heart of Islam.
I was at home again.
Reem and I immediately went to the station of Abraham and proceeded to begin our seven counterclockwise circumnavigations of the Ka'aba. This time, unlike Hajj, we could do so on the ground level, rather than on the aerial roof. With so few people in the Mosque, we could approach the Ka'aba directly and walk immediately around its perimeter. We could even touch the walls of the house of God, walk next to it with none other separating us, but something about its sanctity was awesome. I wanted to see it from a slight distance, so that the whole was not obscured by my tiny view. I found myself unable to concentrate on my prayer book, the same one given me for Hajj by Nadir the Saudi surgeon.
Reem was praying aloud for both us from her extensive memorized knowledge of the Quran. I merely basked in the shadow of my Maker, unable to take my eyes from the place that represented my belief in Him. Just as at Hajj, I felt Him galloping toward me with outstretched arms. In a few short steps into the Haram I was ensconced, engulfed, and embraced by God. Gladness, light, and joy filled me from within.
Reem made sure to point out the Black Stone, the footprints of Abraham, and the details of the Kisweh to me. I was almost unable to hear her. I couldn't stop comparing my experiences at Hajj to my feelings now.
Where once I had been frightened and overwhelmed and awed by the House of God during the confusion and crush of Hajj, all was clarity.
Where once I had been restricted, confined, and pulled by the current of humanity at Hajj, I was unencumbered, liberated, light, and able to decide which directions I should take.
Where once I was astonished at my Maker's acceptance in the face of my shame, now I found my shame replaced with honor.
Where once I was uncertain, now I was secure.
Where once I felt alien, now I belonged.
The Umrah was a metaphor for my recent transitions. I had arrived in this Kingdom a stranger to Islam and I was leaving it as a citizen of my faith. In this Kingdom of extremes, in the sharp shadow of intolerant orthodoxy, I had pried open the seams of my faith and snatched the gemstone of belonging. Glittering and brilliant, it was mine forever. Though I was soon to leave this extraordinary oyster-Kingdom and, at its core, the luminous pearl of Islam, I was taking something within me forever, something from which I could never be separated.
I took with me my place in my faith, my place as a Muslim.
Reem indicated we settle on a spot to pray. She chose a place directly opposite the Ka'aba. As I kneeled and prostrated alongside her, I found myself unable to bow my gaze. The hypnotic Ka'aba was too mesmerizing, too alive, too compelling. Constantly I lost my place in my repetitions. Finally I abandoned any attempts to pray conventionally.
My eye was drawn upward to the sky above, where angels circled the Throne of God. Sparrows circled the Ka'aba, strangely counterclockwise. I watched them unblinking. They were utterly free, happy in song, even at three a.m. I never saw a single bird fly across the Ka'aba or perch on its roof. They were engaged in their own tiny, pure worships. Like me, they were His creatures.
After a time I resumed prayer. With each prostration my bounding blood rushed to my head, beating in my ears. I felt myself heady on the wine of Divine love, almost completely forgetting the mantra of my prayers. Instead, I found myself communing with my Maker, in a language known only to my fluttering spirit. My soul pushed the very boundaries of my flesh, forward, forward, forward, trying to rejoin the essence from whence it had once come and to which it would surely one day return.
Afterwards, I sat and stared and stared at the Ka'aba. I viewed the beautiful blackness. It seemed to expand and shrink, as though a gentle, giant respiration or a heart pulsating with life. For me, Islam had changed from an abstract affiliation to a living organism, and I had experienced this transition against the backdrop of a desiccated desert Kingdom. In a Kingdom where, over centuries, culture had been distilled into salty, harsh, unyielding condensates, my senses had been sharpened and my drink of Islam made sweeter against the bitt
er aftertaste of extreme orthodoxy. Savoring the sweetness of epiphany, in sands bloodied with Wahabiism, my struggles were validated, worthy, and rewarded. I could not have accomplished this insight without experiencing the hardships of Kingdom life and the scars of my self-inflicted exile from Islam which was now ended.
I thought about all the people who had brought me to this point. My parents who gave me my faith and my education. My mentors, Americans who had trained me to a level where my skills had served the Kingdom dwellers. Many of my teachers I remembered were Jewish. In that too-short night, I realized that I had come to meet Allah through the efforts of dedicated Jews who had shared their knowledge and love with me. I prayed for them all and for each Muslim to whom they had led me.
Zubaidah's beaming smile came into view, morphing into Ghadah's impish Onassis grin. I saw Imad's clear eyes and patient, handsome brow. I remembered Mu'ayyad's rakish smirk and smiled in response. Dr. Fahad's fist of courage crumpling up faxes of fatwas returned to my memory, and Faris's gallant sadness and clumsy generosities touched me once again. In my mind's eye, I could see the warmth and elegance of Maha, her enormous bravery unique to those under life-long oppression, that dazzled alongside the quiet pathos and courage of Reem's silent loyalty beside me in this special moment.
I gave thanks for the humility and trust of my nameless, countless patients to whom I could never speak and prayed I might one day have a fraction of the dignity of Haneefa the Meccan maid who had memorized the Quran. As I sat and stared at the Ka'aba, Samha and Sabha, the Arabian horses who had kept my solitudes at bay, nuzzled my heart, injecting me with warmth. The tearful compassion of Hesham the bereaved father, the innocent death of his son whom I never knew, the wit and warmth of Fatima the hopeful divorcée, the defiance and courage of Manaal in the face of leering Muttawa, the simple kindness of Nadir the surgeon… the images were dissolving into one another.
The Kingdom of Strangers was disappearing. Instead, this country had opened its private sanctuaries to me, imbibing me inward until I was compelled to drink from its mysteries and finally unlock the secrets of Islam, which had eluded me until now. A journey that had begun as excluding and withholding and rejecting, had become inclusive and embracing and accepting. I had been improved, uplifted, and strengthened by my time among the Kingdom-dwellers. I was leaving them, altered as a woman, as a physician, and above all as a Muslim.
I thought and saw this and much more as I gazed upon the Ka'aba, wishing I would be allowed to return once more. At last, we had to leave, and with a final farewell as if to a beloved, I reluctantly tore myself away. Even with my back turned I could feel the Ka'aba breathing, beating, living. The compulsion to return was enormous, but this visit had reached its end. I left with head high, heart full, and hopes raised.
Completing our rituals, Reem suggested we eat. Buying a shwarma from a street vendor, we picnicked just outside the mosque, completing the last morsels of food just before the sounding of cannon that marked the beginning of the fast. Reem and I had shared an especially auspicious Umrah on this, the eve of Ramadan. We felt fortunate, privileged, and enormously blessed. Returning to the car, we raced away on the smooth, Cadillac glide. The sky was lightening. The flat roads carried us back to Jeddah and finally to the airport. After a very long hug that said more than any words ever could, I left Reem and returned to Riyadh. It was time to go.
Shipping containers packed, a small army of Filipino men arrived to take my things away. A Sudanese veterinarian came to retrieve Souhaa and ship her overseas to my next home. The apartment was quiet. All farewells had been said. I gazed out at the illuminated tennis courts, once my first view of a barren world that had gone on to yield such enormous fruit. I pulled on my French suit and quickly disguised it under my dying abbayah. I called Imran a final time, confirming I was ready.
“But I wish I had got to see Imad tonight,” I mentioned plaintively.
“Call him, Qanta. Just dial the number. He can't call you anyway because you don't have a mobile. Maybe he is back from his meeting?” I looked at my watch. It was three hours before take-off.
“OK, let me try him.” Dialing the familiar number, I waited for the phone to switch into voicemail.
“Allo?” Instead came Imad's voice.
“It's me. I didn't think you were around,” I began.
“I am just about to take off from Jeddah, heading to Riyadh.”
“Oh, what time do you get in?”
“One a.m.”
“And I take off at two a.m. Let's meet at King Khalid,” I found myself saying, suddenly excited.
“Yes, Qanta, let's do that. I'll be there. I'll look for you and we can talk until take-off. I have to go now.” And with that he hung up. Filled with excitement at the prospect of a final romantic farewell at the airport, I ordered my ride out of the compound, my ride to my next life.
Arriving at the marble airport, I felt elated. Yes, I was sad to leave the exoticism behind. I wondered when I would smell the hybrid of heat and dust again, when I would hear the casual staccato Najdi Arabic again, when I would scurry around in an abbayah once more, when I would drink mint tea on a veranda behind high walls, or when I would ride horses who understood Arabic under the same starry skies that had bewitched Lawrence almost a hundred years earlier. Yes, I wondered when I would next have tickets to my Maker in my pocket. But I knew I would be back. I knew next time, no longer a stranger, I would be welcome.
Tonight I moved easily and without fear. But Imad was nowhere to be seen. I waited for what seemed too long, until finally I had to go through passport control. I searched the airport from the elevated departure area but couldn't spy the lone Saudi in khakis anywhere. I found myself heavy with disappointment. Hours later, connecting in London, I would learn in an email that he too had been searching for me.
I boarded the plane and settled into my seat. Like other women in the cabin, I tore off my abbayah and unceremoniously bundled it up in the overhead bin. Eventually, hours and continents later, I landed at Kennedy. I gathered my items, preparing to step out in the beloved city that was my cultural home. I decided to leave the abbayah in the cabin. I would never wear it again.
As I stepped over the raised threshold, the PA rang out with an announcement.
“The lady in seat 32A has forgotten her abbayah. Please return for it. We have it here for you.”
Straightening the sleeves on my navy jacket, I glanced furtively around to see if anyone could tell the offender was me. After an imperceptible pause, I placed a stockinged, high-heeled foot outside of the cabin onto the gangway. The announcer was still appealing for the abbayah-wearer as I strode away. I couldn't help laughing out loud.
I was finally free.
RUGGED GLORY
JANE HAD JUST WOKEN UP from major surgery when the alarms rang out announcing a disaster. In the next hours, the same men who had chastised my sadness at 9/11 attended the 178 injured who presented to the National Guard Hospital in difficult, numbing hours. In the same ICU, they too were humbled, broken, and bowed by the terror. I didn't need to say anything. We all remembered. They finally felt the sadness too.
It was Mu'ayyad who had to identify the remains of his friends, including the son of the governor of Riyadh, killed in the May 2003 bombings perpetrated in Riyadh. He told me himself, in wheezy paragraphs interrupted by long drags on his Dunhills as we talked while he commuted home in his massive Benz. Now and again he stopped, placating a worsening smoker's cough. Mu'ayaad's voice descended to a croaky whisper as he described unzipping the body bags and searching for the fragments of his childhood friendships within. Immediately after, he floored his monster sedan, rushing to operate on some of the worst eye injuries and burns he had seen in his storied career. Most of the patients were expatriates; many had been Americans. In true form, he worked without respite for days, and I knew in this Mu'ayyad was bowed in a way he couldn't have prepared for. I believe he now begins to understand the power of hate and through that knowledge he fina
lly attenuates his own hates. On the crackling speakerphone I could hear a new vulnerability in his voice, one which is familiar to those of us who have experienced New York, London, Bali, or Madrid.
On my most recent trip later in the decade, I stayed in a five-star hotel, checked in under my own female name. I ate alone at the Globe at the apex of the al-Faisaliyah Tower. The cityscape unfurled below, flat save for the Mumlaqa, reminding me of a misplaced Vegas. I stared into the glittering Saudi night and found myself thinking of the elusive Prince al-Waleed. Doubtless he was traveling these same skies, flown in private jets by the first Saudi female pilot, Captain Hanadi Hindi.
Later, waiting to descend, an elevator door opened. A Saudi man stepped aside for me to enter. I found myself transiently immobile until I realized he was waiting for me. We shared the slim-line lift until we reached our respective floors. There was no acrimony, no contempt, only courtesy. During the same visit, when I entered a lobby, another Saudi man held open the door, another first for me in Riyadh. I began to find as a woman perhaps I wasn't as invisible as I had felt years earlier.
Some days afterward, returning from Mecca in business class on a Sunday morning, a Saudi passenger retrieved me a pillow. Soon I found myself tucking his card into my handbag. The charming man worked in Riyadh to uncover money laundering cells, one of the millions of Saudis “on our side.” He loved America, having just moved from Boston. We connected, as Muslims, as American migrants, as people.
Unquestionably, Riyadh increasingly feels more relaxed than it did in the years immediately leading up to 9/11. Some of this is due to the increasing access to advanced communication, the new monarch, and the maturation of an intellectual elite that is gracefully pushing the envelope. Something unspoken is slowly easing. People are more confident, hopeful, and progressive. Voices are growing stronger, Mutawaeen perhaps weaker, women emboldened. Now and again, the old ways resurface in the shape of gang rapes and lashings, but instead it is Saudi citizens who call at once for human rights, not only the international watchdogs. Blogging in Arabic and English is burgeoning, unthinkable in the years I had lived there, inviting the opportunity for a collective, public introspection.