Postcard from Mecca

It was a tough decision whether or not to write this piece. It was personal and political. Some reflections on finding hope through persecution and isolation

I want to go for Umrah, I announced to my family.

Take your mom, my dad suggested. I want to do it alone, i want this to be my own journey. My family's initial concern for my security did not last more than a few hours. For a practicing Muslim family, the idea of a daughter with a liberal world view travelling to the holiest place in Islam was a welcome move.

There was a minor glitch. Travel agencies who inundate your Whats app with Umrah and Hajj travel offers the year around would stop replying the moment I offered my intention to travealone. Another said point blank: We do not make arrangements for single women

A third one that came highly reccommended through a socialite friend offered to help, and thus started the journey of navigating the holiest place in Islam that saw a record number of 13.5 million Muslims visit the holy cities of Mecca and Madinah last year. As i crossed the immigration at the Mumbai international airport and wore the abaya and the headscarf for the first time in my life, i felt conscious of the gaze of people around me. I was leaving for my pilgrimage days before the inauguration of the Ram temple in India. Television screens at the Mumbai airport beemed images of the preparation for the temple that was being built over a demolished mosque.

At the boarding gate, men started wearing their Ahram, a two piece, unstitched white attire required for them to perform Umrah. For many passengers who had travelled to metropolitan cities like Mumbai and Delhi to travel to Jeddah, this was possibly their first flying experience.

A writer friend in Germany with whom I had shared my apprehensions about this trip asked me to leave my concerns behind "Look for faith and resilience. I know It is easy to feel theanger over destruction of humans, environment, when you witness the luxury, the abundance, the companies with blood on their hands"

On arrival in Jeddah, I was taken to my hotel in Mecca by the driver, Abu bakar who could speak Hindi with the same fluency he spoke Arabic, both languages he learnt on his arrival in Saudi Arabia from Burma. He says he married a Pakistani who he met at a grocery store in Jeddah and that made him a citizen of the world before he proceeds to ask me if my husband would join me for the trip in the coming days.

After a two hour drive to my hotel in Mecca, Abu bakar recommends I eat at Al-Bayk, a fast food store, he believes is far superior to the western fast food outlets.

At around midnight, straight on arrival, I meet the person who has been assigned by the travel company to help me with the rituals. A pakistani national, Asif has his roots in Rajasthan, the northern state of India. We exchange our salam (greetings) and

I tell him I am travelling alone, expecting to be probed about this decision. Asif ignores that bit, he is reassuring, asks me to see him as the brother from across the border. For his help, he has one ask "If you can , will you please pray for my daughter, she is trying to clear her medical entrance in Pakistan. They say that when people see the kaaba for the first time, whatever they pray for, is accepted"

He hands me the name of his daughter on a piece of paper and proceeds to introduce me to a young man, Hamza, roughly nineteen, from his village back home in Pakistan who is also studying to be a Muslim religious scholar. "Inshallah he will explain everything and walk with you throughout your tawaaf"

The men walk me through the glitzy King Abdul Aziz road marked with new constructions, the overwhelming clock tower and the malls on the way to the holy mosque, it is almost 1 am, but there is barely any space to walk. An old man sells miswak (a herbal tree twig mostly used in Asia as a dental cleanser, cited as a herb used by Prophet Muhammad himself), another lady sells colourful beeds and scarves, men line outside a small colourful shop selling Turkish tea.

Out of curiosity, I ask Asif if he has seen protests for Palestine or any solidarity with Gaza in one of the largest gathering of Muslims from around the world. He stops, looks back and then turns to me "Sister, I know you are a journalist but I would request to not probe around here" and then he laughs and says "and you must know, Saudi is not the place for protests."

As I enter the area of Mataaf (the open area around the Kaaba) Hamza asks me to lower my gaze and only look up once the Kaaba is in full view. The Kaaba is a black cuboid stone structure covered with a black cloth called the Qiswa and is considered the home of God. He asks me to chant an Islamic verse till I set feet inside. I keep my footwear in my bag and walk barefeet, rubbing shoulders with thousands of pilgrims reciting 'Labbaik allahumma Labbaik" (Here I am, Allah). Hamza asks me to open my eyes as I take the elevator down straight into the precints of the kaaba, the image I had grown up seeing in wall frames in the house, in spiritual videos, the wallper of my

mom's phone.

Some cry at the first glimpse, others fall on the prayer mat to offer their prayers, many start recording the visual on their smart phones, calling their family members to share a glimpse of the most important journey of their life. After praying my salat, I start straight for the Umrah, taking seven circular rounds around the Kaaba, for each round Hamza makes me repeat the verse he is chanting and explains its meaning to me in Urdu. A big group of pilgrims from Indonesia try to make their way ahead, the women holding hands, the small kids perched on the top of their parents shoulder. The group head carries an Indonesian flag asking the group to stay together through the crowd and chanting Islamic prayers using a China made sound amplifier. After the seven rounds of the Kaaba, I make my way to touch the kiswa. People fall over each other to try and touch the piece of cloth that covers one of the most divine sights in Islam.

As i finally reach, I impulsively kiss the kiswa. 'Do not'reprimands Hamza,it is improper for women to do it. A middle aged man who is standing to my right stares at Hamza and scolds him "And what part of Islam or the Quran says this ? Do not invent rules ?"

He looks at me and tells me in Urdu that I should do what I feel. He walks away, a minor tension is deflected and Hamza asks me to walk with him to the water tankers that are dispensing the holy zam zam. In Islam, the zam zam is referred to as the miraculous holy water.

It is believed that Abraham referred to as the friend of Allah and the father figure for all Muslims , a revered figure across Abrahamic faiths, left his wife Hagar and infant Ishmael in the custody of Allah in the scorching desert of Mecca. When Hagar ran desperately between the hills of Mount Safa and Mount Marwah, dragging her feet, desperate for water, it is believed that the angel Gabriel (Jibreel) struck the ground that led to the birth of a spring that till today flows through the holy land, devoured by millions across the world.

After the seven rounds of the Kaaba, pilgrims walk between hills of Safa and marwah. I see a man with a massive dragon tatoo that stares through the bare shoulders through his ahram.Through the second tawaaf, another hispanic man with tattoo and face piercing walks past me chanting "Labbaik allahumma labbaik" (Oh Allah, am here). I look around for probing, judgemental eyes, i found pilgrims immersed in their rhythmic chanting, reading from the compact books of prayers.

My barefeet began to give up. I wade through the crowd and find myself a corner. A young couple in their mid thirties too take refuge in the corner. They offered me and my young teacher ajwa dates (considered a variety known for its health benefit) from a plastic packet. 'Take either one, three or five', they insisted. Hamza says it was a tradition of Prophet Muhammad to eat dates in odd numbers. I smiled and asked the couple about their country. The lady says 'China'. It piqued my interest, we spoke about the pilgrimage ,ask them general questions about the rituals and bring up the perescution of Uighur Muslims, curious if they are allowed to perform their religious duties in China.

There is a non commital nod, the wife is about to say something and I feel a sudden pause, the husband looks around, carefully observing people around him. "Your first time ?' He asks, I replied in the affirmative. He smiles, asks me about my own experience thus far, then speaks to his wife completely oblivious to my questions ; they return to their prayers. We stay there for a bit. And then move on to complete the remaining three rounds. Over the years news reports have informed the world about the religious persecution of Muslims in China. A report in NPR last year documented the surveillance of the Muslims in China who try to travel to Mecca

(https://www.npr.org/2023/08/17/1189860622/china-muslims-mecca-hajj-travel-surveillance)

My guide escorted me out. On our way out, men and women, mostly from Bangladesh who come to Mecca to find employment, approach Hamza, the women turn to me. 'Five riyals only' to cut or shave the hair. To ensure the completion of Umrah, men need to shave their head post the ritual and women need to chop off an inch of their hair. I reached my hotel, sat on the edge of my bed, looked into the mirror and reached out for the longest strand of hair, rolled it around my finger and chopped off an inch. My Umrah was complete.

I stayed in Mecca for four more days. The glitzy shops lined up on the way to the holy mosque would persuade you to buy the Oudh (an arabian non alcoholic perfume) or the colorful Keffiyehs worn by the arabs. Jewellers try to get the attention of women by screaming "pure 24 karat gold, only in mecca'.

In between the Salah, the women shop for gold, memorablia, prayer beads and dates to take home as gifts. At the restaurant in my hotel, Rashid who is one of the servers at the massive buffet breakfast, hosting close to a thousand guests with international cuisines, every morning makes sure to bring me cheese omlette with Indian chai to my table. The first day he asked me if I will be joined by family, then onwards he makes sure I am looked after. I am mostly, always, the only person sitting alone in the restaurant. "You are probably the only person

across Mecca and Madina to be travelling alone, without family or friends. It is beautiful, this solitary journey " he adds.

Rashid is a Rohingya whose family members are still at a relief camp in Cox Bazar. He asks if I and my friends can help the community through aid. He has given me the relief camp details where I can locate his family. He works double shifts and whoever he befriends at the restaurant, he requests them to send zakaat (charity given during Ramadan) to his family and relatives. "We have been left alone by the world" Rashid tells me of the Rohingyas who have fled in neighbouring states due to persecution.

Almost one million Rohingyas have been given shelter in Cox bazaar in Bangladesh where they survive in heart wrenching conditions. He laments that India, a neighbouring country he had great regards for is treating the Rohingyas like terrorists and sending them to detention camps. The Rohingyas have been used as a trope for dehumanisation of Muslims in India.

The Home Minister of India recently promised that he will implement the controversial citizenship Act before the general elections in mid 2024. The draft of the citizenship act promises citizenship to all persecuted minorities in the neighbouring countries except Muslims.

As the azaan from the holy mosque is relayed across the city through loudspeakers attached in every corner, the lobby area of my hotel converts into a makeshift praying space. Men and women rush to find space, I find myself next to an Algerianwoman dressed in a fine silk abaya, she asks me to cover a strand of hair that sneaks out from the hijab. We speak about our Umrah, she asks me about my work. 'Journalist ? You write news?"

She is curious if I am in Saudi to prepare a report, I tell her that it is a personal journey of faith. We talk about France and Algeria and she asks if I am reporting on Gaza. I tell her that most international journalists are not allowed into the city. "The Ummah (Muslim world) is to be blamed, all of us to be blamed", she looks around and then looks back at me "You see these people, good people offering salah, but no one wants to talk for other people. we Muslims are scared of tyrants, we are not scared of Allah" She tells me a fellow Algerian was arrested for waiving the Palestinian flag. "These are muslims ? No.These are evil people"

I check her reference on google. An Algerian man was indeed detained in the month of November for waiving a Palestinian flag in Mecca. We offer our salat and I walk up to the elevator to pack for my trip to Madina. Emails, texts from television producers from multiple international news channels find their way. It is the week of the Ram temple inauguration. As I left India for Mecca , my city, Mumbai had begun dressing up in saffron. Prime Minister Modi was preparing to inaugurate a grand Ram temple over the historic Babri masjid that was demolished by Hindu nationalists in 1992. Social media influencers, television channels, cinema houses, newspapers, the streets of the country felt triggering. Never before did the isolation feel more acute.

Abu Bakar, the driver is back, he drives me to Medina, a five hour drive. Prophet Muhammad who was persecuted by the people of his native ,Mecca had migrated to Madina with his chosen followers in the year 622. He was exiled from his own land, the land of his birth, persecuted by his own people who attacked him for preaching God's word. Numerous accounts talk about the assasination attempts on his life by his own people, he and his followers were economically besieged, mocked, scorned upon, the ones who he called his own turned their backs on him. Madina, city of his exile, the city of Mount Uhud, made of volcanic rocks that surround the city also the site of the second biggest battle in Islam became his refuge. I wondered if persecuted minorities from across the world, the Muslims who felt alienated in their lands, Islamophobia on the rise identified with the pain of exile endured by the prophet.

In my growing up years, almost an outcast with my own polio, congenital defects and a communal carnage that forced me to flee with my sister and seek refuge with another family, Prophet Muhammad was a calming religious figure. My mother would tell me stories of his persecution, his kindness, his resilience and vulnerability, the man, Allah refers to as his friend (habib)

In sufi culture, south asian singers like Atif Aslam would immortalise the love for Prophet Muhammad in chartbusters like 'Tajdar-e-Haram' and 'Mustafa Jaane rehmat pe lakhon salam' both love notes to the Prophet, a part of my personal playlist which I found listening in solitude in Medina.

As i reached Madina, Abu bakar pointed out to the green dome, 'that is the prophet's mosque and his grave'. The prophet's grave also called 'Rawdah Rasool' is one of the most revered places in Islam. He is buried in the Masjid e Nabawi in Madina alongwith two of his closest companions, and the first two caliphs of Islam, Abu Bakar Siddique and Umar Ibn Al Khattab.

Women are not permitted to visit the grave and have a seperate entrance where they can pray to the prophet through a stone latice designed wall, synonymous with Islamic architecture

It is time for Friday prayers and by the time I reach the mosque, almost every spot that provides shadow has been taken. I find myself sitting under scorching sun with my black leather bag, a copy of shimmery green Quran passed on to me by my grandmother and prayer beads. The prayer is yet to start and many of us take refuge in our sunglasses , smearing a generous dose of sunscreen. Two young women seated right behind me are reading a book of Hadees (a selected collectionof the traditions of the prophet) . Amira Ibrahim works with the government of Nigeria in the arts and culture department, travels the world, her work is to identify artists, bring their work in the public domain, she is also the COO of a prominent design studio in Abuja. She is travelling with her sister Aysha and the two have arrived in Mecca from Egypt. "We almost thought this would not happen, that this would be jinxed, because we always wanted to but it never worked out and here we are" says Amira who among other things brings up the idea of racial disparity. I wonder if she felt the same through her pilgrimage. She says she felt less judged for her colour as an African woman as opposed to the prejudice one experiences travelling the world. "Iwould be lying if I told you that women are treated equally around the world, that women of colour have it easy. But here, i feel included, like no one cares who you are, you are just a seeker like everyone else"

Right outside the gates of the Masjid Munawwara, I see some foreigners taking pictures of the architecture and the pilgrims. Non Muslims are not allowed access either in Mecca nor within the mosque. The photographer shoots a bunch of Pakistani men outside the gates of the mosque at a takeaway joint that serves Pakistani and Indian curries, savouries with chai. They discuss Imran Khan who they believe is doing the work of God, hence jailed by the corrupt elites. Abdul bhai, a trader from

Islamabad tells me that it is probably one of the worst time to be a Muslim in the world "Look at what is happening in Pakistan,

India, Palestine, Syria and we are all leaderless ruled by these powerful arabs who lick the feet of the Americans"

"Did you see the constructions all around, he asks me, every part of history of Islam is being destroyed, the house of the Prophet, his wife, his confidantes, and all for what, swanky high rises. If this was not the land of the holy mosques, i would never set foot in this country"

Abdul is referring to the demolition of the Islamic heritage sites over the last two decades including the demolition of the houseof the wife of the Prophet. Almost every corner in the cradle city of Islam is a construction, a building coming up, cranes that block the view of the mosque.

Another one invokes the group to pray for Palestine before we pray for our own well being. Two young college students from Bradford, a hub of Indians and Pakistanis in UK, who have been listening to the conversation chime in, "We need our own Malcom X to fill this void else we are doomed"

Inside the courtyard of the mosque, a woman from Sudan sits on a chair in a golden shimmery abaya. A bunch of women from Multan in Pakistan take selfies with her. The Pakistani women talk in Punjabi and Urdu, the woman from Sudan replies in broken English. I ask her if she comprehended what they said. "They are my sisters". There is a comfort that goes beyond language and comprehension, there is a sisterhood as they share their praying mats and stand shoulder to shoulder as the

Muezzin calls the Azaan.

When i return to India, I call Amira who has shared her contact with me. "It was a surge of humanity for me, it is such a contradiction from the skewed, myopic perception of the faith" I stayed in Mecca and Medina for ten days. There was a void, an isolation, I felt in many. A need for belonging, a need for a community where one would be accepted. From the house help in Khartoum who used her savings to stay in Mecca for a month, to the woman from Istanbul who stayed with me for hours as I suffered an anxiety attack in Masjid Quba, the spiritual teacher from Germany, Kathrin, who I have never met but who guided me through the various rituals, I felt a part of a family that had travelled from the world to come together to assert their faith at one of its most testing times. On the last day of my trip, I sent a voice note to Kathrin, I said I found myself to be the same person, I am seeing the negatives, I am judging people, I am still consumed by social media. She replied "You do not go to Mecca as 'you should' you go there as 'you are'

(An edited version of this piece first appeared in The Washington Post )