Solo Trip: Umra "Small Pilgrimage" To Mecca (Part 2 of 3)

Note: This is the second installment on a series of posts. Read: Part 1, Part 3.‍

I woke up around 11:00 o'clock in the morning, after falling asleep while listening to the whir of the air conditioner. Ahmed had woken up prior, and was brushing his chest-length beard. Upon waking, Ahmed produced a whole roasted duck from his suitcase. He mentioned that his mother made it for him, and insisted that I eat part of it. I remember smiling to myself, and picturing the last time I thought about eating a duck. It was while watching a chef, Ming Tsai, on the Food Network separating a duck's skin from it's flesh. I ate the duck slowly avoiding the fat. Ahmed wanted to get a move on, so I told him to go on ahead and leave the keys with me. He hesitated for a few minutes, pausing while stroking his beard and finally entrusted me after checking and re-checking the locks on all of his bags. I told him I'd be back after noon prayer. I left shortly thereafter, not completely ready for glare off the acres of marble surrounding and inside the holy mosque. The mosque was packed. Since it was Friday everyone, including the locals, flocked to the Kaaba. I sat on some stairs under the roofed portion of the mosque, and sat next to a Syrian man. After talking to God for a little bit, I spoke to the man sitting next to me, Muhammad, who, I later found out, was a business man who worked in Riyadh. After the first call to prayer, there was no place I could pray, so I said goodbye to Muhammad and searched for an open space on which I could prostrate.I ended up next to a man who seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. He complained after I asked him if I could pray next to him. After performing the optional units of prayer, I said thank you to the man, and found a man who no longer seemed annoyed.

While prostrating during the formal prayer, I noticed ants on the floor, crawling right below my nose. It was as if God was saying, "HijabMan, don't forget to contemplate over My creations!" Up until this point, I was a bit unsure of what to say to God. There are all sorts of prayer books that people carry with them during their trips to Mecca. The prayers within those books have never resonated with me, however. It was at that moment, when I was prostrating, that I realized that saying the simplest things, caused the greatest emotion within me. After prayer, I scurried along with the flow of people, being careful not to get swept away. Eventually, I found myself in a covered market. "What better way to cool off than to indulge in the ever-popular blessing of God, the mango-vanilla soft serve ice-cream cone?" I thought.

At 3 o'clock I was back in our room writing about my plane ride when Ahmed arrived, and offered me some more duck. As I was eating, I asked Ahmed if I could take his picture.

"It's forbidden." He replied.

I was expecting conservative, but not to this extent.I smiled a bit, and let out a giggle.

"But Ahmed, there is debate on this issue, some scholars say it is forbidden, others do not." I tried to be diplomatic.

"If you are wrong though, you may go to hell." He seemed to be concerned for my well-being in the afterlife.

Thankfully, he wasn't in the same room, not able to see my eyes go wide as I took another bite of the duck. Usually, my response would be to argue with him, but then I repeated exactly what he said piece by piece, in my head:

"If you are wrong..." he began. "Okay, he didn't say I was wrong, so he recognizes that he could be wrong," I thought.
"You may go to hell." He didn't say I was going to hell, he said, I may go to hell, and only after I took pictures, if picture-taking was forbidden." I smiled.

After my careful analysis, I decided to drop the topic of conversation. All things considered, Ahmed was a nice guy. He and I just practice Islam in different ways. That's what I think is awesome about Islam. If the Qur'an asserts that it is for all people, then there must be flexibility to accommodate these differences across time, place, culture, and the like. From what I have read of it, it does just that. I gave Ahmed a hug goodbye, and then he left.

Honestly, I was glad to see him go. I needed my alone time, and God willing, he did what God meant for him to do by helping me get to Mecca and settled in. By this time it was around 6 o'clock, and I intended to start my 'umra after evening prayer. I was feeling better than the previous night, but still felt somewhat unsure of something, so I decided to call my family. They weren't home. While I left a message on my parent's machine, an unknown emotion built up inside me, and by the time my friend Hena picked up the phone, I was visibly shaking. The beginnings of tears were burning my eyes as well. I couldn't speak, so I asked her to talk to me. That didn’t last long; I interrupted her and spewed every emotion I thought I was feeling at the time. I still don’t know what it was. After I was finished with my rant, she articulated, beautifully, what I needed to hear. "Just do your thing, and forget about everyone else." She said.

Next, I spoke to Mariam, a good friend of mine back in Cairo. She added to what Hena had said, and generally put my mind at ease.I walked slowly, with purpose, back to the mosque to pray, thankful for all the people in my life. My eyes were still stinging. After evening prayer, I searched for some food, now that Ahmed's mother's duck was finished. First, I explored the mall connected to the Makkah Hilton hotel. While strolling around, I made a mental list of things that were already familiar to me. Among them were Rolex watches, Movenpick Icecream, Cinnabon, Burger King, Baskin Robbins, Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC), and a Dippin' Dots ice-cream booth.

I had decided from the start of my journey, not to eat any food from big corporate chains, and I stuck to that decision throughout my trip. Outside on the street, I found a shawarma place that also had pakoras, or South Asian-style fritters on display. Score! The best of both worlds right at my fingertips! I sat on a marble ledge near KFC, facing the holy mosque that easily eclipses any American sports stadium in regards to size. The only word I can think of that describes this structure is massive. Its area is 360,000 square meters, and can hold 330,000 worshippers at one time. Yes. That's right, one-third of a million people. If you add the area of the courtyards, 1 million people can be accommodated. To put that into perspective, the new baseball stadium in Philadelphia has a capacity of a not-so-impressive 43,000 people.

There I was, eating one of the best shawarma I had ever tasted, pakoras better than my own mother makes (don't tell her that!), and drinking zamzam water from a source that hasn't run dry since Abraham's time. Needless to say, the memories are so strong that I am compelled to prostrate towards Mecca right now, as I type, and give thanks. I finished my food, and on the way in to the mosque, I filled up my white, plastic cup with some ice cold water from the zamzam before embarking on a trip around the Kaaba seven times. I kept my gaze lowered, so I wouldn't be distracted by the hundreds of people moving in a counterclockwise direction, circumambulating the Kaaba. The crowd reminded me of the Emperor penguins in Antarctica that huddle together during winter months, moving in a circular motion to keep themselves warm. I kept what I said simple, and from the heart.

"Here I am God." After I said it, to myself, and then aloud, I tried to hold back the extreme joy flowing through my veins. Who was I kidding? That joy began to boil at the base of my heels, united at the bottom of my heart, and kapow! Every cell burst with ecstasy! Wind chimes could be felt everywhere! My head flew back and my pearly-white smile beamed towards the seven heavens, stopping at every level on the way to wish the angels peace.

"Thanks for the invite, God." I couldn't keep my head back for that long, and my cheeks began to ache, but the tingly feeling throughout my body was continuous. Imagine a bottle of chilled ginger ale being poured inside your body. During my next six times around the Kaaba, I performed dhikr, or a specific form of remembering God by reciting the same phrase repeatedly. For instance, alhamdulilah, or The Praise is for God. Two units of prayer followed behind a small structure known as the "Station of Abraham" that is supposed to contain his footprints. I made my way over to one of the many containers full of zamzam water, lifted a cup from the dispenser, and drank three cups before heading to Safa, one of two hills nearby.The story goes that Abraham had left his wife Hagar and baby Ishmael in the valley after he was commanded to do so by God. Unfortunately, Hagar and Ishmael finished the little water that they possessed. Hagar, realizing she and her baby needed water, ran between the twin peaks of Safa and Marwa searching for water. Eventually she heard a voice, an angel appeared, and it struck it’s heel on the ground. Where the angel's heel landed, a spring gushed forth, and this is what is known as the spring of zamzam. It quenches the thirst of millions of pilgrims every year.

While running between Safa and Marwa seven times, I saw a man holding his daughter beside me. I couldn't help but wonder, "What would happen if this was broadcast on CNN." What average American, when thinking of a Muslim man, imagines a man holding his baby daughter, commemorating a righteous woman who, out of selfless love struggled to find sustenance for her child? By the end of my ‘umra, my feet ached from running on the marble. I walked out of the mosque barefoot, eyes lowered, contemplating my experience. A man approached me as I was nearing the edge of the marble and asked if I wanted to shave my head. After asking how much it was and receiving a response of five riyals, I agreed. I bought a razor specifically for this purpose before I started my rituals, after Ahmed suggested I do so, to prevent any diseases. However, I was still unsure if I wanted to go through with it. It is an optional part of the 'umra.

The only material thing I really felt attached to at that point was my hair. A few months earlier, my digital camera and my laptop broke while I was in Cairo. I was over that in five minutes, but this was my hair! This was something I had been teased about since the age of seven. Within a few minutes, Liaqat, a Pakistani man, shaved my head. When finished, he dusted my head off with some baby powder. I noticed that there was a brown stripe down the middle of my head. I remember thinking that I definitely looked funny. I had parted my hair down the middle for so long that my part was the only place on my head that saw sunshine. My hands kept moving to my head, expecting to feel hair, but all they met was abnormally warm skin. What better way to get used to my bald head, than to start drumming it with my hands? Back in my room, I fell asleep with my hands resting on my head. Still I felt like I looked a bit funny, and resolved to buy a knitted-cap the next morning. For a moment, I forgot that God has the best sense of humor, little did I know what was in store…