In the Land of Invisible Women (20 page)

NEXT STOP: ABSOLUTION

T
HE TENT WAS ALREADY IN full swing when I awoke. Today, after an intense day of supplication at the Valley of Arafat, we would be spending the night outdoors on the plain of Muzdullifah. This was the pinnacle of Hajj: Arafat—the Day of Standing. All pilgrims would stand in worship en masse.

Soon the tent was vacated, the air conditioner was switched off, the refrigerator emptied and disconnected. We filed out toward our bus, weaving a route through the city of fifty thousand tents. Outside, Tent City already seemed desolate, thousands of pilgrims already setting out for Arafat on foot where today all two and a half million of us would stand before God.

The fifty to one hundred thousand vehicles snarled into impassable traffic. Pilgrims on foot made faster progress. Some were power-walking, weaving through traffic at a rigorous pace.

Even the disabled hobbled faster, such was the urgency to worship. Young steeds pushed wheelchairs over bumpy tarmac while the disabled pilgrims, weak already from effort, prayed aloud. I could see their lips moving to the same Labbaik prayer I was reciting, which literally means “Here I am, Lord, hear me!” It is the Muslim's expression to answer the invitation to perform Hajj.

Tendinous hands clung to Qurans heavy enough to snap their osteoporotic wrists. Even though the glass pane between us silenced our shared Labbaik anthem, I knew we were singing it in unison. Alone, a one-legged African jauntily limped on a homemade crutch, strapped together with rope and elastic, yet he was managing his flowing Hajj robes well and passing many able-bodied pilgrims who struggled behind him. The dynamism of Hajj was astonishing. Not a creature was still. It was as though an entire globe was on the move.

I watched the feet of the millions scurrying by. Many wore sneakers, frequently Nikes! I couldn't imagine a better commercial for Nike than “Just do Hajj!” The American sneakers made an extraordinary contrast in a world of Islam, reminding us that though the Hajj rite was 1,400 years old, we now had modern comforts to ease the process. Many Filipino pilgrims wore plimsolls, their footwear of choice, and I spied a number of Birkenstocks too. Most on foot had to rely on rubber flip-flops. In my tent the teenage girls had shown a penchant for the rubberized platformed sneakers, hideously kitsch, that had seized Riyadh's fashionistas that winter, perhaps because their gargantuan height both eased movement in an abbayah and was the only statement of individuality that female teenagers heavily veiled in public could make in Riyadh at the time. These girls had brought their fashion to Hajj.

Eventually, just before noon, we reached Arafat. The hundred-degree heat was already unbearable, deadeningly hot and humid without any relief of breeze. We were in a giant valley, without shade, and the sun was full-strength at its zenith. Again we were assigned a tent in which to rest and pray.

The older guard heaved themselves against supporting poles of the tents and leaned their weight tiredly. They recited prayers, reading nothing. These were the illiterate Saudi women of a generation earlier. Education was very new to the Kingdom for women other than the highly privileged. Others, who were clearly literate, studied their books intensely.

Fully veiled, I peered out of the tent but saw only a sea of fiberglass. Either everyone had gone to stand at Arafat under the midday sun or actually climbed the Mount of Mercy where the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) had delivered his final sermon. Most male pilgrims would stand like this all day until sunset, an incredibly arduous task. And most women like us were engaged in intense supplications inside the shade and comfort afforded by tents.

I sat next to the redheaded woman who once more was checking her blood pressure. She had brought her sphygmomanometer even here to Arafat. I saw her measure her pressure, 190/100 mmHg, but she seemed unalarmed at the reading.

“Salaams,” I began, wondering if she spoke English.

“Wa alaikum Salaam, Qanta.” She knew my name. By now I was unsurprised. She continued in cultured English polished by a colonial Cairo upbringing.

“I am tired and my blood pressure is high. It's the strain, it happens at every Hajj,” she went on, smiling patiently. I tried hard to guess how old she was. Somewhere between fifty and sixty-five, I estimated, judging by the fading of her red hair at the temples and her crow's feet on either side of her deep-set blue eyes which sparkled intensely in a sea of freckles. “My name is Yehyia. Most call me Professor Yehyia, but you may call me Yehyia.” She popped a pill into her mouth and swallowed water from the plastic bottle she was clutching. In a few minutes she started checking her blood pressure again.

“Where do you teach, Professor Yehyia? And what is your area of expertise?” I asked, anxious to know more. Perhaps like me she was a doctor of medicine.

“I teach in Riyadh. I teach Arabic literature at the King Abdul Aziz University to the Saudi students there. But half of the year I return home to Cairo where I still teach my favorite course, nineteenth century English literature. I teach it at the University in Cairo.”

I was amazed. “English literature was my favorite subject at school, Professor Yehyia,” I gushed. “I had wanted to study it further, perhaps even at University myself.” I babbled on, unable to stop. “Who do you teach, I mean which authors, in your classes?”

“Henry James, among others. I have studied his work in depth, in fact, my PhD was focused on some of his work.” She waited for a response.

Feeling ignorant, I confessed, “I have never read any Henry James. Tell me more.” And there, surrounded by a tent of orthodox Saudi Wahabis, in a valley eight miles east of Mina, Professor Yehyia instructed me on the finer points of Henry James. We must have talked for at least an hour, probably longer, as her vivid imagination and her perfect command of English led me through a compelling journey of James's contribution to consciousness and morality. I couldn't believe my luck at finding such a brilliant woman amid the confusion of Hajj. As we talked, everything else fell away from our attention. I was bewitched. I wasn't sure if it was proper to talk about Henry James at Hajj but am sure I was allowed a reprieve from the hours of praying. After a while it had become difficult to concentrate.

“So you have attended Hajj before,” I finally remembered to ask in between our impromptu seminar in nineteenth century literature.

“Indeed,” she responded, “Alhumdullilah, many times,” unwilling to divulge how many.

Bluntly I pressed her, “How many times did you make Hajj, Professor Yehyia? Why do you still keep coming?”

“A Muslim is not supposed to announce how many times he has been to Hajj, so I cannot tell you. But, Mashallah, it is many, and most times I have come like this, in a group, because I am alone. I have one son who remains in Egypt and my husband is dead many years now, but still I manage to come. Like you, I come without a man!” She threw back her head laughing with abandon. Some of the orthodox Saudis around us looked up, squinting sharply at the blasphemy of laughter, but they didn't intervene.

“Inshallah, I shall keep coming as long as I can walk, as long as I have strength, and as long as God invites me,” she rested back, rubbing her swollen ankle, glinting her charming smile of pearly teeth worn low and uneven through years of bruxism. “You will have to visit me in Riyadh, Qanta. I invite you! We will have dinner!” she decided, terminating our conversation. I quickly made a mental note to obtain her details when we returned to Mina. I had no pen or paper with me here at Arafat. Unwilling to leave her side lest my incredible discovery of such a brilliant Muslim woman vanish into the ether, I stayed next to her and returned to my prayer book. I squeezed her cool, freckled hand in mine, expressing my joy at discovering her. What a journey I was on!

PRAYER UNDER THE STARS

I
AWOKE OUTDOORS TO THE sounds of Swahili. Around me on the hessian mat, the women in my group slept. Across the way, on a similar mat the men in our group dozed. We were separated only by a makeshift aisle in the dust.

Latecomers to the plain of Muzdullifah (where we were to spend the night in prayer and rest under a starlit sky) were still arriving, hours after we had reached there by bus. Many pilgrims, tired after their almost twenty-four-hour-long foot journeys, now searched for a place to rest and water to drink. These tall Africans were among the latecomers. In the dark, luminous African smiles ripped incandescent rents of white in the velvet of night.

I watched as one leaned over the water samovar placed in the center of our sleeping group and, with his calloused, arachnoid fingers, carefully poured cups of ZamZam. Balancing the water, he passed the precious liquid down a long, silent line of patient Africans stretching into the black shadows of night. Centipede-like, the waiting Africans reached forward with their sinewy right arms to receive the refreshing drink. There must have been three hundred men at least. Quiet as church mice, so as not to disturb our rest, they had edged toward our water tank in an attempt to slake their thirst. I lay still, enthralled by the amazing scene. My watch said 1:30 a.m. We were only a few hours away from water and eventually, back at Mina, we would have ice cold Pepsi to drink. I hoped there was enough for all of them.

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.