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Notes from the Ka'ba
A Canadian Convert in Mecca
By Claire Alkouatli
As long as I can remember, I've wanted to go to Mecca. As a little girl, growing up in Vancouver, I gazed at striking photos of the Kaaba in National Geographic, marveling at the numbers of people all prostrating together, then tracing my finger in the direction of the blurs as people moved in a circular fashion around the mysterious black cube. I don't remember having any significant spiritual yearnings, back then, I think I wanted to go because it was just about the one place on earth I couldn't go. As a rebellious university student, with some very basic knowledge of Islam, I dreamed up plans to sneak into Mecca, across the desert from Jordan, swathed in folds of black fabric. Like a female version of Richard Burton, who came in via caravan, disguised as a light-eyed merchant from the Central Asia. I never ever imagined I'd perform the small pilgrimage, the Umrah, authentic, legal and sincere, with my husband beside me. Now, as I trace these early and misguided yearnings, I see them as the first signs that one day I'd go to Mecca. And once I got there, I realized that perhaps my whole life has been a grooming, a training, a purification to get me to the point where I could go...
My husband, Saadi, and I had set our intention to go to Mecca months before we actually got there, and my desire to visit the most sacred temple intensified over time until one day, during prayer, it surprised me. As I rested my head on the ground, in a corner of Saadi's grandmother's home in Damascus, I was overwhelmed with the feeling that I was literally laying my forehead on the marble floor of the Great Mosque. But we'd been told that a visit to Mecca is difficult—especially for a Canadian-born 'convert' to Islam, married to a Syrian through the American system—and by divine invitation only. Up until a few hours before we actually got on the plane, it didn't look like we'd make it there at all. Our paperwork was in disarray; due to our own disorganization, we didn't have any of the requisite papers. For the dates we wanted to go, the Saudi's weren't issuing Umrah visas. The letter of invitation we'd acquired from a family friend, and prominent businessperson in Saudi Arabia, was rejected. All signs were pointing toward the negative. On the last day it would have been possible for us to go, Saadi's cousin in the Saudi Airlines office told us call him around noon to see if he'd been able to procure us visas in a last ditch attempt at a 'transit' loophole. But by that time, we'd given up hope. At 2pm, we were still wandering around Damascus, eating falafel, planning to spend the afternoon videotaping children at Saadi's old elementary school in the old city. On a whim, between sips of fresh fruit juice cocktail, I said, "Let's just stop by the Saudi office and see what happened. Anyway, we said we would." So we went and were shocked to find our visas waiting. Four hours later we were on a plane to Jeddah. Apparently, we'd been summoned.
The highway from Jeddah splits about 15 miles from Mecca with a sign indicating that non-Muslims must exit. Included in the ones who make it through are tribesmen from Central Asia, village women from India, polished sheikhs from the Gulf, converts from the West. At 4am pilgrims were already streaming through the city toward the Ka'ba, the mysterious black cube around which a large mosque had been built, their energetic steps and bright eager faces defying the dark night sky. It felt like noon. We were excited to join the stream, and not a bit tired on two hours sleep, as we walked toward the sacred precinct, the Beit al-Haram. After ascending a small hill, we suddenly see it: the pale marble of the mosque surrounding the Ka'ba.
Inside, ancient Chinese men with thin, wispy beards, trot past in twos and threes; turban-topped Afghanis with strikingly hawkish features move solo; tens of Indonesian women push past in large groups, with bright green and pink head scarves covering tents of white fabric. As we enter the great mosque, Saadi whispers to me, the sound coming faintly through my various headscarves, "I feel like I've come home; like all these people are my brothers and sisters." I felt the same way. I felt like I was home, although the impact of Mecca didn't hit me all at once. It took some time to seep into my being, it crept in quietly so that I didn't even realize until I'd left what a profound impact the place had on my consciousness until I'd left. Then I missed it intensely and found that at a moment's notice, I could conjure up the feeling of being there, a feeling of calm, astute, loving awareness. But back then, on that first morning, I was just awed by our common and feeble humanity.
At a time when we're divided into communities, nations, countries and civilizations, when cousins are fighting cousins and a propaganda war is swirling around us, being in Mecca is like being in the eye of the storm. When I prayed next to an old Pakistani woman in a faded green shalwar khameez or gave an African woman a scarf to use as a pillow for her sleeping baby, I felt that I was united with these women by our shared purpose, our shared devotion.
In this sacred space, colors merge, features blur, political differences recede—like the first Muslim community the Prophet Muhammad (upon him be peace) built in Medina. With everyone stripped of adornments, social indicators, identity tags—men wearing the two simple pieces of unsewn white cloth emphasizing the equality of humankind before God, and women fully covered with only faces and hands exposed—we become just people, bodies moving round the Ka'ba, hearts beating, feet pounding. We're equal in our humanity, equal in our potential, but unequal in our devotion, in our sincerity, in the intensity of our faith and awareness; unequal in the quality of our actions and in the totality of our surrender to God.
As we circled round and round, I knew that the only difference between each person was the cleanliness of the heart—and all the thoughts, words and actions which spring from these hearts. I knew that my life would be wasted if I didn't make it my life's priority to cleanse my heart. At that moment, I knew that there was nothing else to live for.
I saw a woman sitting on the steps of the mosque one day, looking at the Ka'ba, with tears streaming down her face. Being in Mecca intensifies love for all of God's creatures, as our pain, our joy, our humanity is common and shared. I could feel the woman's pain, and also her tears, because we too had shed tears at points inside Mecca. There were many reasons for our tears, often feelings of intense humility, and sometimes no apparent reason at all, but in this sacred place, we had no doubt that these tears were healing and purifying. I noticed later that half of the woman's face was badly burned. Another time, in the crush of people circling the Ka'ba, Saadi and I looked down to see a man with no legs, circling the Ka'ba on his hands. The expression on his face was of calm serenity—like his circumambulation was normal—his movements patiently persistent. He looked humble, happy to be here, doing this, that we were both inspired. His circumambulation was more than normal, it was perfect.
We knew that each person in Mecca had been summoned, invited. Something beyond their own will and desire had brought him or her there. This is confirmed in the phrase each pilgrim repeats upon arriving in Mecca: Labaik Allahuma, labaik. "Here I am, God, I am here." Like an arrival announcement. We were thankful for receiving such a special invitation, and it evoked an intense feeling of wanting to reciprocate, in our human ways. When someone invites you somewhere, you respond by reciprocating. I knew that our reciprocity would be by inviting divine consciousness further into our hearts, perfecting our interactions with other people and maintaining this reciprocity as the focus of our lives.
The time came in our pilgrimage to drink the water of Zamzam (the spring that had spontaneously gushed up under Ishmael's heel, when he and Hagar first arrived in the valley of Mecca after their exile from the Holy Land and the baby was dying of thirst). The water had an unusually neutral taste, neither sweet nor salty and as we drank it, we prayed that it purify us and would quench our thirst waiting for the Day of Judgment. Even while I was performing the pilgrimage rituals, I would have been hard pressed to be able to explain what each action meant logically, above and beyond the fact that they were done by the prophets Abraham and Muhammad (upon them both be peace) and are prescribed in the Qu'ran:
"Proclaim to all people the duty of pilgrimage: they will come on foot and on every kind of fast mount, coming from every far away point on earth, so that they might experience much that shall be of benefit to them..." Quran 22:27.
The pilgrimage re-enacts some of the rituals of Abraham—willingness to sacrifice his son is remembered by performing a sacrifice, usually of a sheep—and going between the hillocks of Safa and Marwa is an re-enactment of Hagar's flight between the two hillocks. But what about circling the Ka'ba, and why seven times? What about the black cube, which is essentially, empty inside, and which no one is allowed to enter? There is a story about the Prophet Muhammad recounted by his wife Aisha (may God be pleased with her) that describes his last pilgrimage to Mecca. After circling around, Muhammad actually entered the Ka'ba and prayed there, but later expressed regret to his wife saying, "One day people aren't going to be able to enter the Ka'ba, so I wish I hadn't gone in." So why can't we go in? I didn't understand why we were doing these things, but even as we were doing them, they felt right. That God had commanded we do them was enough. Later, though, I got something of an explanation.
I found out that Muslim jurists classify the Meccan pilgrimage rites as rites of devotion rather than rites of understanding. I wasn't necessarily supposed to intellectually understand every rite. The whole ritual is larger than I may ever understand, and the test of faith lies in doing the un-understandable, doing it because it is prescribed. Even embarking on the pilgrimage in the first place is such an act. It's really not for us in the sense that it's not easy. It's expensive, difficult logistically and even physically tiring. As the New-York-based Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf says, "It's no Club Med experience." Yet, as I'm sure most Muslims would affirm, there's more profound joy going to Mecca than any Club Med destination.
The Qu'ran says: "To every community We have appointed different ways of worship which they ought to observe..." (Quran 22: 67). Every faith tradition has such rites of devotion, and often these acts appear bizarre, without reason. I've encountered them the world over and they are always fascinating, whether they involve offering a coconut to a stone deity and washing the deity in milk, or breaking bread at a Christian communion and sipping wine representing blood, or circulating a black cube. These rituals have been given to humanity in all its diversity, and somehow, no matter how obscure they may seem, they just feel right.
One day, when I'd been sick, I could barely stand for the prayers, but we didn't want to miss a single one. Praying in the Beit al-Haram, led by Imam Sudais and others of the most famous Quranic reciters in the entire Muslim world, is unlike anything else. Every-day reality in Mecca revolves around these five daily prayers, and we would count the hours between the prayers. In an ideal Islamic reality, I guess this is what everyday life would be like. Outside Mecca, it's so easy to get distracted and lose the thread of praying on time and the priority of those prayers. Inside Mecca, it's impossible to lose track of this thread. So I dragged my sick self to the Beit al-Haram. I had never felt my own weakness and helpless so poignantly. As soon as the prayers finished, I remained in prostration, with my forehead against the cool marble floors, just like I'd imagined before I came. I realized with a jolt that my intense desire to be in Mecca was simultaneously the reason we made it here, and that it was not from myself but from God. He places a desire in a person's heart so that He might grant it. Sometimes it takes time for that desire to manifest, which just increases its intensity. If we had not had such difficulty getting here, we may not have appreciated it so much once we finally arrived. I fell asleep in like that, in sajdah, to the rustle of sock feet, the whisper of prayers on lips, snippets of conversation in numerous languages and the gurgles of babies. I had the most peaceful sleep ever and awoke feeling deeply refreshed. I knew I'd been given a lesson in my own weakness in light of divine strength.
As we circled the Ka'ba one final time—the last thing a pilgrim does before leaving the sacred precinct—Saadi and I walked hand in hand. Our steps were small as people packed in around us from all sides. I could hear my husband's murmured prayers. We walked looking up into the space of clear blue Arabian sky above us, framed by the minarets and streaked with darting swallows. We looked at the bobbing heads of the pilgrims in front of us and to all sides. We looked down at the smooth marble underfoot, polished by millions of eager feet—cracked feet, manicured feet, sock feet, fat feet, frail and wrinkled feet—pounding the marble of the great mosque, pounding with purpose and direction, towards forgiveness, pounding towards God. I recall the verse in the Qu'ran that says that on the Day of Judgment, our mouths will be sealed and our hands and feet will testify to all we did. At that moment, I was ecstatically happy my feet were taking part in this ritual act.
Each pilgrim goes through many different things to get to Mecca, but we've all been guided here. As the trajectory of my life has propelled me to this point, a pinnacle point in the life of a Muslim, where is there to go from here? They say that there is a heavenly Ka'ba directly above the earthly one, which the angels circle round. And directly above the angelic Ka'ba is the Arsh al-Azim, or Throne of God. I see clearly now that there's no place to go from Mecca but up. Even if it takes all my effort, all my life, to get there. And even then, there's no guarantee that I will. Being in Mecca, one can't help but realize that nothing happens without Divine grace.
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