"So how was it?"
"Hajj was cool."
Perhaps the understatement of the year, "hajj was cool" does not suffice as a response. But it is the response I have made, rather absentminded to folks who ask me about hajj. Really, the pilgrimage to Mecca is the single greatest experience of my life. Standing between my mom and dad in the Masjid al Haram in Mecca after we had completed our ummrah filled by heart with an indescribable love and gratitude. Three weeks of submission, with occasional bouts of puzzlement, and anger at the people of this place--can really transform one's perception of the world. I saw the ummah, this global community of believers sitting, standing, prostrating themselves before God at five appointed times each day for three weeks. I stood sanwhiched between all kinds of people: beautifully, big-bodied Sudanese giants and petitely framed Sri Lankan women. Women wearing multicolored hijabs, scarves, salwar kamizes. Others wore black-only chadors, and jilbabs. I saw an amazing array of foot fungus, and tatooed feet, as women walked over me after salaat. I saw different displays of beauty in these women.
What seemed consistent were the bodies of these women--not how their bodies were covered, or adorned. There was an exodus of bodies each day, five times, moving towards the Prophet's Masjid in Medina. The bodies fascinated me because of the sheer diversity of size and shape. What if people participated in cross cultural exchange in Medina? What if instead of the night-gownish garment some African women wore, they wore white kurtas and slacks like the Indonesians?
What if people were more open to the idea of wearing clothes indigenous to other places? I had hoped to find different things to wear other than black jilbabs--but I didn't. The concept of choice is largely absent in Saudia Arabia. I say this based on the lack of diversity in terms of what is available for consumers, in addition to the obvious fact that the Saudi police do equate "options" with disobediance. I didn't see Thai restaurants, or Japanese food, chadors, pant-suit sets like the Malaysian group wore, etc. I would like to be able to choose between wearing a black jilbab and a African sarong. Essentially, choices for clothing, and food are limited.
Most people travelled in groups, wearing the same costumes so as to not get lost. One hajj group from Sri Lanka wore purple bandanas around their necks. Another group safety-pinned plastic flowers to their hijabs.
My mother and I had a far less coordinated system of identification. Basically, it involved me attaching a facial tissue within the folds of my black two-piece hijab. The tissue was folded in half and vertically, and stood rather upright--not unlike a cowlick.
Despite our creativity, my mom and I often were separated. My mother hates waiting, and I like my independence. I wandered around Medina almost always alone. Not really because that was my first choice, but really because I had no companion.
My father would have been my number one choice for companion after salaat. He and I have similiar tastes, in things that are necessarily expensive. I can't recall his saying "no" to me in the course of my lifetime. I'm sure there have been instances because no parent indulges his child to such an extreme. But I usually don't ask for unreasonable things. And I am extremely persuasive. He also has never said "no" to my mother, or my brother. This makes him very easy to love.
Over the course of trip, he had increasing stiffness and pain in his back and his legs. In the week that we were in Medina, I watched as a pre-Hajj swimmer, Balley Total Fitness regular member became slowly dependent on his cane and then his fold-up chair to walk. By the time we got back to New York, my dad became wheelchair hajji.
As all this happened, I felt like the light of the world was gradually being taken away. I trusted that God would help my father finish his Hajj, and that he would fulfill his niyyah, or intention. However, it was difficult to see how he physically changed. He wasn't as confident as I was. My confidence wore away when my father's condition did not improve even after two emergency room visits in Mina, and then another two hospitalizations in New York.
My father did his farewell tawwaff in a wheelchair my brother pushed. My brother was not impressed with Saudi Arabia, with Hajj or the people, and in fact, the religious zeal scared him more than anything else. He thinks people do dumb things for religion. Despite his position, I believe his heart will one day soften and he will find faith. I tried to tell him why I am Muslim, what is the reasoning behind faith from many different perspectives, why religion is important sociologically, spiritually, emotionally, etc--and still he was not convinced. He thinks the inability of people to treat each other justly and with kindness undoes whatever faith one purports to have. And I said, a religious system serves to guide one's actions and interactions with others.
Even though he always said no, I always asked my brother if he would come to the masjid with me (in Medina). There were instances in which he was so bored with the hotel and tv that he agreed to venture out, but mostly he ignored me. My favorite moment was when I prayed Dhur next to my brother, the (temporary) nonbeliever, in Mecca. I liked standing next to him. It was a moment I could never reproduce here.
Despite the difficulties of talking with my brother, and watching my father's body slowly debilitate, I loved the feeling of these places. The consistent attribute of the millions of people there was the moistness, redness, fatigue of their eyes. Although it may sound cheesy to say, but the eyes of believers seem different. I believe that it is the unity of faith of these millions of people that is manifest in their eyes. The purpose of each day is to worship Allah talla and this is best accomplished when your environment is full of believers who are moving, speaking, and performing their religious duties the same way you are..
Often forgetting to lower my gaze, I starred at everyone--men dressed in thoubs, women in niqabs. I looked people straight in the eyes as they walked by me after salah. I watched their eyes fill with tears as they stood on Arafat, holding their hands up to God, asking to be forgiven. I saw a woman who remained in sejdah for a good 10 minutes, crying at the Prophet's Masjid in Medina. Her eyes I did not see, but there was a sizeable puddle of water on the floor where her head had been when she left. The eyes for hajjis look perpetually tired, beginning each day at 4 am. Between trekking to the masjid, sleeping, drinking zamzam, and performing ablution, the time seems to pass so quickly, as if there weren't enough hours in the day to spend just contemplating the magnificence of God, his supreme mercy in permitting these people to see Him. You remember that the day was created so that you would worship God, and that the night was created so that you could rest to worship God some more. Food was created so that you can give yourself sustanence in order to worship God, and wealth was endowed upon you to spend on the betterment of others as a responsibility to God. It does seem that all was created to worship and contemplate God, and that this magical place was my place of refuge.
Of all relationships, the one that matters most is our relationship with God. The central question that preoccupies us is What Does God Want Us to Do? Specifically, what does He want Sadia to do? It just so happens that most things that God wants for His creation are in sync with with we want for ourselves--food, shelter, love, family, Paradise, etc. But sometimes, we have to choose against our instinctual, reasonable selves, and choose to sacrifice what we desire and enjoy. Ramadhan is a month of such sacrifice. But what if what we metaphorically sacrifice another human being? What if we cut the ties of friendship, and are left in bloody sadness as a result of ethical principles that are higher, and greater than ourselves? What if we sacrifice our ties for the sake of Allah? It seems not only possible but likely that these sacrifices must happen.
When I was in Arafat, in Medina, in Mecca--in all these places, I asked Allah for the same thing:
I asked Him: "O Allah, grant me Your love, the Love of whoever loves You, and the love of the deed which will draw me in attaining Your love." I also made the following dua:
"O Allah! Grant me Your love, and the love of a person whom my loving him be of benefit to me. O Allah! Whatever you have granted me from what I love, make it a means of strength for me to use in the way You love. O Allah! Whatever love (of thing) You have removed from me then Grant in its place the love (of things) that You love."
=)
"Hajj was cool."
Perhaps the understatement of the year, "hajj was cool" does not suffice as a response. But it is the response I have made, rather absentminded to folks who ask me about hajj. Really, the pilgrimage to Mecca is the single greatest experience of my life. Standing between my mom and dad in the Masjid al Haram in Mecca after we had completed our ummrah filled by heart with an indescribable love and gratitude. Three weeks of submission, with occasional bouts of puzzlement, and anger at the people of this place--can really transform one's perception of the world. I saw the ummah, this global community of believers sitting, standing, prostrating themselves before God at five appointed times each day for three weeks. I stood sanwhiched between all kinds of people: beautifully, big-bodied Sudanese giants and petitely framed Sri Lankan women. Women wearing multicolored hijabs, scarves, salwar kamizes. Others wore black-only chadors, and jilbabs. I saw an amazing array of foot fungus, and tatooed feet, as women walked over me after salaat. I saw different displays of beauty in these women.
What seemed consistent were the bodies of these women--not how their bodies were covered, or adorned. There was an exodus of bodies each day, five times, moving towards the Prophet's Masjid in Medina. The bodies fascinated me because of the sheer diversity of size and shape. What if people participated in cross cultural exchange in Medina? What if instead of the night-gownish garment some African women wore, they wore white kurtas and slacks like the Indonesians?
What if people were more open to the idea of wearing clothes indigenous to other places? I had hoped to find different things to wear other than black jilbabs--but I didn't. The concept of choice is largely absent in Saudia Arabia. I say this based on the lack of diversity in terms of what is available for consumers, in addition to the obvious fact that the Saudi police do equate "options" with disobediance. I didn't see Thai restaurants, or Japanese food, chadors, pant-suit sets like the Malaysian group wore, etc. I would like to be able to choose between wearing a black jilbab and a African sarong. Essentially, choices for clothing, and food are limited.
Most people travelled in groups, wearing the same costumes so as to not get lost. One hajj group from Sri Lanka wore purple bandanas around their necks. Another group safety-pinned plastic flowers to their hijabs.
My mother and I had a far less coordinated system of identification. Basically, it involved me attaching a facial tissue within the folds of my black two-piece hijab. The tissue was folded in half and vertically, and stood rather upright--not unlike a cowlick.
Despite our creativity, my mom and I often were separated. My mother hates waiting, and I like my independence. I wandered around Medina almost always alone. Not really because that was my first choice, but really because I had no companion.
My father would have been my number one choice for companion after salaat. He and I have similiar tastes, in things that are necessarily expensive. I can't recall his saying "no" to me in the course of my lifetime. I'm sure there have been instances because no parent indulges his child to such an extreme. But I usually don't ask for unreasonable things. And I am extremely persuasive. He also has never said "no" to my mother, or my brother. This makes him very easy to love.
Over the course of trip, he had increasing stiffness and pain in his back and his legs. In the week that we were in Medina, I watched as a pre-Hajj swimmer, Balley Total Fitness regular member became slowly dependent on his cane and then his fold-up chair to walk. By the time we got back to New York, my dad became wheelchair hajji.
As all this happened, I felt like the light of the world was gradually being taken away. I trusted that God would help my father finish his Hajj, and that he would fulfill his niyyah, or intention. However, it was difficult to see how he physically changed. He wasn't as confident as I was. My confidence wore away when my father's condition did not improve even after two emergency room visits in Mina, and then another two hospitalizations in New York.
My father did his farewell tawwaff in a wheelchair my brother pushed. My brother was not impressed with Saudi Arabia, with Hajj or the people, and in fact, the religious zeal scared him more than anything else. He thinks people do dumb things for religion. Despite his position, I believe his heart will one day soften and he will find faith. I tried to tell him why I am Muslim, what is the reasoning behind faith from many different perspectives, why religion is important sociologically, spiritually, emotionally, etc--and still he was not convinced. He thinks the inability of people to treat each other justly and with kindness undoes whatever faith one purports to have. And I said, a religious system serves to guide one's actions and interactions with others.
Even though he always said no, I always asked my brother if he would come to the masjid with me (in Medina). There were instances in which he was so bored with the hotel and tv that he agreed to venture out, but mostly he ignored me. My favorite moment was when I prayed Dhur next to my brother, the (temporary) nonbeliever, in Mecca. I liked standing next to him. It was a moment I could never reproduce here.
Despite the difficulties of talking with my brother, and watching my father's body slowly debilitate, I loved the feeling of these places. The consistent attribute of the millions of people there was the moistness, redness, fatigue of their eyes. Although it may sound cheesy to say, but the eyes of believers seem different. I believe that it is the unity of faith of these millions of people that is manifest in their eyes. The purpose of each day is to worship Allah talla and this is best accomplished when your environment is full of believers who are moving, speaking, and performing their religious duties the same way you are..
Often forgetting to lower my gaze, I starred at everyone--men dressed in thoubs, women in niqabs. I looked people straight in the eyes as they walked by me after salah. I watched their eyes fill with tears as they stood on Arafat, holding their hands up to God, asking to be forgiven. I saw a woman who remained in sejdah for a good 10 minutes, crying at the Prophet's Masjid in Medina. Her eyes I did not see, but there was a sizeable puddle of water on the floor where her head had been when she left. The eyes for hajjis look perpetually tired, beginning each day at 4 am. Between trekking to the masjid, sleeping, drinking zamzam, and performing ablution, the time seems to pass so quickly, as if there weren't enough hours in the day to spend just contemplating the magnificence of God, his supreme mercy in permitting these people to see Him. You remember that the day was created so that you would worship God, and that the night was created so that you could rest to worship God some more. Food was created so that you can give yourself sustanence in order to worship God, and wealth was endowed upon you to spend on the betterment of others as a responsibility to God. It does seem that all was created to worship and contemplate God, and that this magical place was my place of refuge.
Of all relationships, the one that matters most is our relationship with God. The central question that preoccupies us is What Does God Want Us to Do? Specifically, what does He want Sadia to do? It just so happens that most things that God wants for His creation are in sync with with we want for ourselves--food, shelter, love, family, Paradise, etc. But sometimes, we have to choose against our instinctual, reasonable selves, and choose to sacrifice what we desire and enjoy. Ramadhan is a month of such sacrifice. But what if what we metaphorically sacrifice another human being? What if we cut the ties of friendship, and are left in bloody sadness as a result of ethical principles that are higher, and greater than ourselves? What if we sacrifice our ties for the sake of Allah? It seems not only possible but likely that these sacrifices must happen.
When I was in Arafat, in Medina, in Mecca--in all these places, I asked Allah for the same thing:
I asked Him: "O Allah, grant me Your love, the Love of whoever loves You, and the love of the deed which will draw me in attaining Your love." I also made the following dua:
"O Allah! Grant me Your love, and the love of a person whom my loving him be of benefit to me. O Allah! Whatever you have granted me from what I love, make it a means of strength for me to use in the way You love. O Allah! Whatever love (of thing) You have removed from me then Grant in its place the love (of things) that You love."
=)
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