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Editor's Note:
This article originally appeared in
the online edition of The Christian Science Monitor on February 5,
2004. This article is part five of a series.
Click
on the titles below to read the other articles
that appear in this series.
The
Reluctant Pilgrim's Grudging Return Home
By
Faiza Saleh Ambah
[Part
5 of 5]
MECCA,
SAUDI ARABIA � At
the goodbye circling of the Grand Mosque, the
final rite of the hajj, a Jordanian woman
holding hands with her husband turns around for
a last look at the Kaaba. Tears fill her eyes.
I
know how she feels.
"Is that it? Aren't there any more rites we
can do?" I ask my cousin Allal. He laughs,
but he understands.
In
the middle of our final walk around the Kaaba,
the geographic and spiritual center of Muslim
prayers the world over, my cousin Allal succumbs
too.
"God
you are the Generous. God you are the Mighty.
God, you who are capable of all things, help us
defeat our enemies. Help us defeat our laziness.
Strengthen our faith and bring us back soon to
visit your house," he says before his voice
breaks from emotion.
I
repeat after Allal, but my mind and eye wander,
distracted by the colors, smells, and languages
around me. In the mass of circling pilgrims, I
see two Sufis in white turbans, their eyes
closed, chanting in Turkish accents, "God
is Great, God is Great, God is Great."
Tradition
says that the Kaaba was built by Adam and
rebuilt by Abraham and the descendants of Noah.
It is known as the House of God and is the
center of our circumambulations. At one point,
the crowd circling the large cube slows as we
make our way around four Lebanese women causing
a traffic jam. They have stopped to pray,
kneeling on the marble skirt that surrounds the
Kaaba, and just in front of a shrine that
contains the footsteps of Abraham. Their
husbands are standing and holding hands, forming
a human chain around them.
On
my left a group of Malaysians in purple and
white outfits perform their Tawaf [the circling
of the Kaaba] prayers in a singsong of
heavily-accented Arabic, shuffling their feet to
the rhythm. I join in with them, but Allal turns
around and gives me a "keep up with
me" look as we finish the last of our seven
turns. Am I missing the point? I wonder. Isn't
being a spoke in this colorful wheel of humanity
part of the point?
An
hour later, squeezed in the back of the car
returning to Jeddah, everyone around me is
sleeping. But I am too scared to nod off. I have
become very comfortable in this sanctified world
of the past five days. I've been free of worries
about money, how I look, jealousy, and envy. I
don't want to expose my self to the real world
again.
When
we arrive at my parents house, there's a goat
running around the garden. "You haven't
slaughtered it yet?" Allal asks the driver,
and I look away from the goat with a splotch of
green dye on its head, knowing it will be
sacrificed soon.
The
sacrifice represents the lamb with which
Abraham's son Ishmael was replaced at the last
moment. We will dine on part of it, and the rest
will go to feeding the poor.
Allal
joins us for dinner and my sisters and I appear
in our jeans and T-shirts. It's the first time
our hair has been uncovered since last Friday.
The
television in the living room is broadcasting a
scene from Mina in front of the Jamaraat
pillars, and Allal can't help but give a final
lecture. "Do you realize the importance of
stoning the devil? The 70 stones we threw at the
devil mean the next 70 times he tries to whisper
in our ear he's already defeated."
I
smile because I've got 100 whispers from the
devil to go before he reaches me; I was throwing
pebbles in bunches on the third and final day.
A
quarter of the sacrificial lamb is set at the
dinner table but I don't have any. Though I'm
not a vegetarian, I'm disturbed by the
sacrifice.
"It
is symbolic of following God's orders, whether
or not you know what's behind them, because
God's words always have wisdom behind them that
we don't understand," my sister Reem says.
"In
the sacrifice, it's not the meat nor the blood
that reaches God, but our piety, explains
Taghreed.
It
feels strange to sit around with my sisters,
Reem's long wavy hair still wet from washing,
looking just like we did a week ago, but feeling
that we're not the same.
"What
did you get out of the hajj?" I ask
"It
made me realize that we are only here on this
earth temporarily. Our real destination is the
hereafter," says Reem. "If you have
fun going out with men, or to New Year's
parties, you want to have more parties and you
forget God. But the hajj made very clear to me
that we're in transit. I want to prepare, from
now, for the hereafter. Some people use drugs,
or relationships in their search for God, but
there's a more direct way. Praying and
continuously remembering Him."
"Is
the hajj something you can take with you?"
I ask.
"We
can leave the hajj with the experience of it
inside us. We now know that being close to God
works and makes you feel at peace," says
Taghreed. "We barely slept, we were up at
dawn everyday praying, but the presence of God
was energizing, instead of tiring."
Alone
in my room I stare at the mirror. I'm still not
sure why we had to go around the Kaaba seven
times, or the significance of reenacting Hagar's
search for water between the hills of Safa and
Marwa. But I do feel different - more than the
sum of my appearance, job, money, and education.
I feel more centered and balanced, my backbone
straighter. My inner space is larger and richer.
I
want something to mark and remind me of this
feeling, something I can wear or keep with me. I
fumble around in my purse looking for a way to
keep the hajj with me. I find only the badge
which let me in and out of our camp in Mina and
consider wearing it like a necklace, but discard
the idea. I guess I won't be able to use props.
I'm going to have to remind myself - with a
little help from above.
Last
in a series. Previous entries appeared in the
Christian Science Monitor on Jan. 30, Feb. 2, 3,
and 4.
Click on the
titles below to read the other articles that
appear in this series.
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