The Color of Pilgrimage
Ilari Pass
Tom Howard/John H. Reid Fiction & Essay Contest 2020 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Nonfiction
Labbayk, Allahuma labbayk, labbayk la sharika laka labbayk,
Innal Hamda wan nimata, laka wal mulk, la sharika lak.
I am here at Your service, O Allah. I am here at Your service. You have
no partner. I am here at Your Service. Praise and blessing belong
to You, and the Kingdom. You have no partner.
It is Christmas Eve morning at JFK International Airport. I am taking my fifteen-year-old son, Abdur-Rahmaan, to Mecca, Saudi Arabia for Umrah. [1] We are excited and nervous to get away from Greensboro, North Carolina, and the two sweaty Caucasian men sitting nearby drinking Starbucks coffee, reeking of alcohol. Their hats suggest they want America to be like it used to be. Abdur-Rahmaan is feeling uncomfortable, "Mama, can we sit somewhere else?" We move to another section of the airport. I walk up to some women and teenage girls with golden skin tones and dark brown eyes, wearing traditional long flowing abayas with matching hijabs. I extend the formal greeting, "As Salaam Alaikum" (Peace and blessings be upon you). They look at me with a strange and hesitant demeanor, responding: "Oh...uh...Wa Alaikum Salaam" (And unto you peace and blessings). It is not a friendly response.
I am already beginning to feel I don't belong—a strong sense of not feeling at home in any culture, not even within the community of fellow Muslims in my own home country—my fiction of home. Created by Colonial society, race is a pure construct. In Islam, race has no meaning. But how one is raised, Muslim identity is nurtured, not nature.
And yet their depths teeming with life, we meet a group from Rockford, Illinois. Their alacrity welcomes us, and their guide, Abdu-Rashid, is the Imam. The group consists of large families of Pakistanis, Palestinians and only two African-American men. Abdu-Rashid is wonderful, catering to almost anything my son and I want—coffee, snacks, advice about our forthcoming trip—we're now part of a family. Before boarding, we pray Salat-ul-Zuhr and Salat-ul-Asr [2] as if it will be our last moment.
* * *
Some passengers read the Qur'an. Some make Ad'iyah. [3] Some of them talking, others are laughing. Some are sleeping, Abdur-Rahmaan included. I am not asleep. The flight attendants are dressed in royal blue pantsuit outfits, with white blouses and hats that are draped with sheer silky hijabs. Abdur-Rahmaan wakes. He notices a flat screen television displaying a map with an airplane letting us know how many hours remain before landing; we can also see where we are flying over—starting from New York to Maine and New Hampshire to Europe; England, France, Iceland, and North Africa like Morocco, Ethiopia, and Egypt. Abdur-Rahmaan feels enthusiastic:
"Mama, are we really flying over Africa? I can't believe it."
The pilot announces to passengers that are going to Mecca first that we are entering a place called Miqat, [4] preparing to enter the state of Ihram. [5]
"I am going to look like a monk!" says my son.
"You are not a monk. We are Muslims and we are going to radiate everything that we are, son. Don't you ever forget it. Besides, we have to wait until we get to Medina before we enter the state of Ihram. When I know, you'll know."
We land at King Abdulaziz International Airport in Jeddah. It is close to noon. The thought of not seeing any Christmas decorations or to hear Christmas songs caroling throughout the airport is certainly foreign. The sound of the Mu'adhdhin [6] flows through the loudspeakers with each phrase of the Adhan [7] spilling out like a spell, with a fulfilling promise of hope. Everybody performs wudu [8] for Salah. The airport is at a stand-still as we are all praying and prostrating. It is so quiet the trilling of the telephone can be heard. After prayer, we quickly get moving. While preparing to go on the connecting flight to Medina, the Saudi workers shout directions at us: "Yalla, Yalla, Imshi Imshi!" The female workers wearing all black abayas and niqabs, fully covered from head to toe, showing only their eyes and hands, are shouting at me and Abdur-Rahmaan: "Umi, umi, move left with women! [9] Abn, abn, with men, go right! [10] Empty bags! Take off your shoes! No food! No drink!"
The vibrant richness in our garments, even the black ones, underscores the importance of our mission of this journey. Abdur-Rahmaan and I are radiant, but with an emotional and physical exhaustion that undermines the beauty.
We board the connector. A flight attendant announces no snacks will be served. It is close to 4 p.m. Familiar thoughts of home, the faces, the voices, are transcendently gone. I have consumed every charged encounter—even in passing, every communication—and savored it. From the air, the Arabian Desert appears as a vast expanse of light sand-colored terrain with an occasional indistinct line of escarpments or mountain ranges, black lava fields, or reddish systems of desert dunes stretching to the horizon. The visible camel trails crisscross the surface between watering places. It is 4:45 p.m. We land in Medina.
* * *
Medina. On the ground, features become distinctly individual and relief seems more prominent. Vegetation at first seems nonexistent, but the discerning eye can find sparse patches of growth on the surface, or bits of green where shrubs strive to survive. It is hot right now but the breeze is pleasant and constant. The moon is brilliant and well-rounded. The spotlight of the sun shoots its effulgent beam on top of Mount Uhud, sitting against the sky of varying hues. The rich maroon, purple, yellow, and orange mixed with ribbons of dark grey provides a picturesque backdrop to the surrounding desert.
Natives of Saudi Arabia are different. Once inside the airport, Abdur-Rahmaan goes to the customs agent, who is dressed in his traditional Saudi Arabian white garment called a thobe, and a red and white head covering, to scan his passport.
The agent speaks to my son with a pleasant gaze:
"Are you originally from here?"
"No, I am not," my son replies.
This agent is friendly with my son because he is fair-skinned. However, through the agent's own admission, because I am a darker complexion, he thought I was a servant of Abdur-Rahmaan. Nevertheless, he catches on. He begins his questions with a familiar and pleasant smile:
"You were born in Newport, Rhode Island? Island...is it really an Island?"
"It is known for sandy shores and seaside Colonial towns. It is a U.S. state in New England," I quickly answer.
"Oh, very interesting. Shukran. Please. You may proceed."
Abdur-Rahmaan will share a room with three men, and I with three women. As we wait in the hotel lobby for our rooms, watching my son bond with his new roommates and other pilgrims from all walks of life is a kaleidoscope in place of conversation. It is as though this conversation begins with a look through a glass with several mirrors angled to one another, with light rotating and tumbling beautifully while colored objects—deep ocean blue, orange, red and yellow matching an autumn day. With one look in this cylinder, I am witnessing perfection. At one end of the cylinder, an eye. Beyond the cylinder, a room, and in this room, I no longer see my son as a boy. I see a man.
Khalida, Rashida, and Sumaira: Khalida is a mother figure to us at 74, and a Pakistani living in Buffalo, New York. Rashida is a Moroccan. She just turned 50 last month and this trip is a birthday present from her husband back home in Brooklyn, New York. Sumaira, another Pakistani and a single mother, is 47 and resides in Woodbridge, New Jersey. Khalida and Rashida are sleeping soundly. Abdur-Rahmaan is in good hands with his new friends. Too excited to nap, Sumaira and I venture out. Everything comes alive after sunset. And we are hungry. The aroma of shawarma, falafal, knafah, hummus, pita with various dips, mint tea, and other sweet treats smells delicious. Medina reminds me of New York City, with plenty of modernized shops and restaurants, except we are in a desert, and this city does eventually sleep. However, the restaurants don't have any tables or seats outside for customers. The lines are very long and people are yelling and probably cursing in their native tongues, pushing, shoving, and elbowing me as they try cutting in front of me, albeit this does not impact Sumaira, because she's an Arab.
Sumaira came here to Medina and went to Mecca last year with her nine-year-old daughter, Mariam, for Umrah. As we are finishing our meal, I see all the shops shutting down and closing all their doors. Then suddenly the Mu'adhdhin summons us for Maghrib, the sunset Salah. Everything stops, realizing that this summons is for all the Muslims, wherever they are in the world to prepare for prayer. Here in Medina, all of us walk with our heads down in reflection to the Prophet Muhammad's (PBUP) [11] Masjid, Al Masjid al-Nabawi. Khalida and Rashida catch up with Sumaira and I entering the Masjid, deciding whether to pray inside or outside. Praying outside is so much better.
As my sisters pull out their prayer rugs, I sit at a distance to watch the sunset. The multicolored marbled flooring around the Masjid is covered in areas with a red, black and green carpet scented with light sweet oil. Sliding domes and retractable umbrella-like canopies affixed to freestanding columns with fans underneath to keep the pilgrims cool during warmer temperatures in the daytime surround the space. Inside the Masjid you can see the Green Dome, which is a section of the Prophet Muhammad's (PBUP) grave that is cordoned off with a giant golden mesh door and black curtains. There the floor is covered with a green carpet that is scented with the same oil and is an equivalent of being in Jannah for those who enter to pray. [12] Most of the women wear all black garments, once again covered from head to toe.
I am breathing this in. Nothing else matters. The Maghrib prayer is wafting from the Masjid and the whole city. It is so quiet that the sound of babies crying in the Musalla [13] melts in the air. The women dressed in black garments bow down, and then start to prostrate making them resemble black crows feeding from the ground.
* * *
Mecca. A bus takes us to Mecca, six hours away. The landscape of the desert is dry and dusty with a rough and rocky terrain. Other than seeing the expanse of land and mountains, often times you don't see human or animal life anywhere in sight. Then, like seeing a hump of land on sea, whale rising from water, a large Bedouin family on camel back are moving, slowly making their way through the desert—the embodiment of the Arabian Peninsula. This is their home. They are free. Content. There seems to be no limit at all to their endurance.
On the bus, the men in the group, including my son, wear their white unhemmed Ihram clothing, but we are not at our Miqat yet:
"Mama, when will we get there?"
We arrive at a rest stop to stretch, go to the bathroom, and get some lunch at Burger King.
"I'm dreaming," my son says.
"No, this is not a dream. This is really Burger King, son, and it is Halal."
There is only one person to take the orders, one person to prepare the meals in the kitchen, one person to clean the restrooms. They are all men. The person responsible for cleaning is an elderly black man. I remember at Al Masjid al-Nabawi, the caretakers working outside are also men. They are either Saudi natives or from other Arab countries. I did not see a single black man working anywhere on the premises. The female caretakers work inside the Masjid to make sure the carpets are vacuumed and scented with an array of oils, trash is picked up from the floor, and lost items are brought to the lost and found office. But I didn't see black women working inside.
When I place my order at the counter at Burger King, the employee grumbles:
"Yeah. What do you want?"
Abdur-Rahmaan does not understand why I am being mistreated. We quickly finish our lunch on the bus while arriving at the Quba Masjid. And it is from here we will enter the state of Ihram. Any Muslim that enters this Masjid with the intentions of praying one of the five daily prayers will have the blessings as if one has performed Umrah. Abdu-Rashid announces that we are entering the state of Ihram with about an hour and a half left to go before Mecca.
All of us are reciting the Talbiyah [14] with the intention of performing Umrah. As we're invoking this prayer, we're in a trance once again and will continue to be in this state until we complete our journey:
Labbayk, Allahuma labbayk, labbayk la sharika laka labbayk,
Innal Hamda wan nimata, laka wal mulk, la sharika lak.
I am here at Your service, O Allah. I am here at Your service. You have
no partner. I am here at Your Service. Praise and blessing belong
to You, and the Kingdom. You have no partner.
Before I knew it, we made it to Mövenpick Hotel & Residences Hajar Tower. This hotel is a lot bigger than the last one we stayed in and is located directly on the Haram [15] court, facing the King Abdulaziz Gate at Al Masjid al-Haram. [16] Everyone in my group is all together in the lobby and ready to go to the Haram. Abdu-Rashid explains the rituals involved in doing Umrah and will help us all step by step. He explains further that there is a possibility that we will be separated: "If this happens, remember the gate numbers. Go directly there and wait for us. There is no rush to perform Umrah. You can go at your own pace."
There are pilgrims everywhere. We enter gates 18-19—King Abdulaziz Gate. There is a long corridor with elevators, escalators and mezzanines throughout the Haram that will take pilgrims to the rooftop in case if it gets crowded. We get to the stairs that lead us down to the Ka'Bah. Constructed of gray stone and marble, it is oriented so that its corners roughly correspond to the points of the compass. The interior contains nothing but three pillars supporting the roof and a number of suspended silver and gold lamps. During most of the year, the Ka'Bah is covered with an enormous silk and gold cloth of black brocade called the Kiswah. Two-thirds of the way up is a band of gold-embroidered Quranic text, including the Shahada, the Islamic declaration of faith. Believers around the world face the Ka'Bah during their five daily prayers. Muslims do not worship the Ka'Bah but view it as Bayt Allah (House of God).
Here, we are marauders in preparation to roam through natural wonder and worship. Abdur-Rahmaan is close by but walks at a fast pace with the other men. Voices overlap with du'as, reciting verses from the Qur'an, the Talbiyah. We ask Allah for His guidance and forgiveness. To walk around the Ka'Bah seven times looks easy enough. But it is not. Rhythm is key. You have to keep moving. The men are required to walk in a brisk pace during the first three times round, with the remaining four in a normal pace. The women can walk in a slow and steady stroll. But I can't slow down if I wanted to as I am fighting to stay focused so I won't lose count. I want to get close to the Ka'Bah but I know this is probably an impossibility. And now I am drowning. Sometimes tiptoeing in desperation to make sure I can see my son. I am being swept away in an undertow by a current of people coming from different directions—in front of me, behind me, to my left, to my right, coming in and moving out—away from any surface current under our feet. The pilgrims are more aggressive here than in Medina. And this time my body is taking a physical beating—the pushing, shoving, yelling, elbowing almost topple me. Abdur-Rahmaan is several feet away from me, which makes it hard for me to see exactly where he is. My sisters are nowhere to be seen even though I know they are here. After the completion of Tawaf, the next step is Sa'i, [17] between Safa and Marwah. [18]
It is a very long stretch from one hill to the next, and each hill is very steep. In the middle between the two hills, there are green lights where the men have to do a light jog back and forth seven times. This part will take awhile, but I know I will make it. And I can't turn back. I know that people die every day all over the world. Being here is a reminder of this reality. I know people that perform Umrah get killed—every day. And as proof, after every prayer, Salat al-Janazah is performed. [19] And I have seen a lot of people get toppled over and not get back up. I am scared because I do not see my son or my sisters—I am now alone. I no longer have worldly or racial concerns. Not even death. I circumambulate round the Ka'Bah, now performing Sa'i barefoot on this beautiful white marbled floor with sweat and tears, stepping on chewed up lollipop and hard candy—sometimes tripping on sandals and flip flops that are not going to be missed; stepping on pacifiers that has fallen out of the mouths of sleeping cradled babies and toddlers, and giant black crickets and other creepy crawling critters all over the place—I don't care. I don't care about my appearance, about having a lock of hair cut off, or Abdur-Rahmaan having to have his soft curly hair completely shaved off. I don't care about any of these things. As far as I am concerned, we are all one, and for the first time ever, I know where I belong. I am here.
In the next few days, Abdur-Rahmaan and I will perform our farewell Tawaf.
* * *
Umrah is over. But I can't sleep. I take an escalator to the rooftop of the Haram. Up—away up, the stars are blazing over the silhouetted mountains. The surrounding skyscrapers stand tall, gleaming with lights from their windows. The air is mild and caressing, but cool with the breath of spring and the early morning. Beating in the air above, a bird with a broken wing is fluttering and circling down, down to the mezzanine floor. Like the hum of bees, voices of the pilgrims are seductive, never ceasing, inviting my soul to wander in the abyss of solitude. The musky odor of sweat and scented oil fills the air. Amid a constant swirl of the pilgrims, resembling metal shavings that are drawn to this giant and magnificent cube, I have lost all track of family and friends in my own hometown. There is a strange calmness I cannot explain. I am not dwelling upon any particular train of thought. There is no need. I feel like a new-born creature, opening its eyes in a familiar world that it had never known, watching my fellow Muslims circumambulating round the Ka'Bah.
I can never leave.
This essay previously appeared in Free State Review's Summer/Fall 2020 issue
[1] In Arabic, Umrah means to visit a populated place.
[2] Salah means prayer that consists of repeating units or cycles called rakats. There are five daily prayers in Islam that are each assigned to certain prescribed times and measured according to the movement of the sun: Fajr (near dawn), Zuhr (noon), Asr (afternoon), Maghrib (sunset), and Isha (evening).
[3] Ad'iyah: Plural for Du'a in Arabic meaning to summon or call out. It is an invocation, which is an act of supplication. Muslims regard this as a profound act of worship.
[4] Miqat: Arabic for a stated place and principal boundary points of the area within which Muslim pilgrims on Umrah or Hajj must be in the state of Ihram.
[5] Ihram: a state of consecration in which certain worldly activities are prohibited. The male pilgrims wear simple unhemmed two white sheets that are universal in appearance with an objective to avoid attracting attention. The female pilgrims also enter into this state of Ihram but can wear regular clothing with the same objective.
[6] Mu'adhdhin: A Muslim official of a mosque who summons the faithful to prayer from a minaret five times a day.
[7] Adhan: The call for the five congregational prayers in Islam.
[8] Wudu: A ritual ablution of purification is performed using water or sand (tayammum) when water is unavailable or not advisable to use for reasons such as illness.
[9] Umi: Arabic for mother.
[10] Abn: Arabic for son.
[11] PBUP: Peace Be Upon Him
[12] Jannah: Paradise
[13] Musalla: An open space outside a mosque, mainly used for prayer.
[14] Talbiyah: A Muslim prayer that is repeatedly invoked by the pilgrims as a conviction that they intend to perform Umrah or Hajj only for the glory of Allah.
[15] Haram: Any place that is protected and forbidden except for authorized people is called Haram. For an example, entering the two holy masjids and the surrounding areas is only permissible to Muslims, hence called Haram.
[16] Masjid al-Haram: The Great Mosque is the largest mosque in the world, located in front of the Abraj Al Bait, the tallest clock tower in the world. It is the main setting for the Hajj and Umrah pilgrimages that occur in the month of Dhu al-Hijjah in the Islamic calendar and at any time of the year.
[17] Sa'i: The literal meaning of Sa'i is to run.
[18] Safa and Marwah: Are two hills in the neighborhood of Masjid-ul-Haram. Muslims who perform Umrah or Hajj must run in the middle portion of the distance between these hills seven times.
[19] Salat al-Janazah: An Islamic funeral prayer that is performed in congregation to seek pardon for all the deceased Muslims.
