Written when I was a much younger man …
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I cannot explain the Hajj.

I did not experience that catharsis of attitude as did my brother, Malik El-Shabazz Al-Shaheed (Malcolm X). When I first saw the Ka’ba, I did not feel any excitement in my heart. I did not kiss the Black Stone; I did not touch the Black Stone; I did not even see the Black Stone. I did not cry on the Mount of Mercy. I did not feel a feeling of purification from sin — purification that is promised me (on successful completion of the Hajj).

And yet, I’m not disappointed.

I cannot explain the Hajj. I cannot even comprehend it.

How can you explain the night at Muzdalifa? Muzdalifa is a long field; some parts paved, some parts gravel, some parts dirt, resting on a declining slope of about thirty degrees. On arriving at Muzdalifa, our home for the night, I searched for some patch of ground to lay out mats for my wife and my self. The place was packed with people. Packed. We managed to find a few thin spots on asphalt. I laid out the mats and looked across the field. I saw something that, at least in life, I would probably never see again… not even in my imagination.

How can you comprehend it? It went as far as the eye could see. No, it went farther. As far as I could see, on this dry, dead valley, I could see nothing but people. People. Millions. All seemed to be dressed in white, a white that seemed to catch the green tinge of fluorescent light from the towering bulbs above us… a white accompanied by the steady soundtrack of the conversation of people.

Millions.

I remember stepping in the courtyard of the Ka’ba. We’ve all seen this courtyard: picture, television image, film shot. These images are used to symbolize Islam… used to advertise products… used to decorate rugs, rooms and hallways.

I stepped into this courtyard, and suddenly, this shaded mosque became this bright white ocean. The solid, drowning hum of prayers suddenly welcomed my heart, and invited me to witness, and thus, bear witness.

The Ka’ba, dressed with a white cloth under the black sheets (embroidered in gold), was floating amidst this galaxy of white ihrams. The walking pilgrims seemed a floating mass around this Ka’ba, performing the Tawaf. The crowd sucks you in and you circulate with them, celebrating Allah in this different form of prayer. Tiny birds caught my attention, speeding across the courtyard, singing somehow above the prayers.

I thought about those tiny birds. This big, black box is the descendent of that structure built by that Friend of God, the Prophet Abraham (peace be upon him, and his family). So too are those tiny birds the descendents of those feathered soldiers that protected this box from an army of elephants. Abraham. Abraha.

Tiny pebbles destroyed an army of charging elephants.

I remember marching toward the Jamaraat… a monument of the devil’s failure. I could not avoid the sense of doom as we proceeded through tunnels under these giant mountains of dirt and granite. Everywhere else during The Hajj people die of traditional illnesses; at the Jamaraat they are trampled by pilgrims dressed in white. The Last Day, that opens Surah Al-Hajj, describes chaos on earth. You taste it at the Jamaraat.

A simple exercise. Toss pebbles at this tall obelisk, marking the point where the devil dressed as an elephant to distract God’s Friend (pbuh). God’s Friend responded by merely tossing pebbles at the devil, and moving on. The exercise is simple, except that a few million people are trying to perform the same exercise, at the same spot, at the same time.

We walked toward the Jamaraat. With every turn on every street, it seemed that our number doubled or tripled — by multiples of one hundred or one thousand. We would pause to let large groups pass us, getting pushed by the growing crowd of hundreds of thousands behind us.

As we walked through the parking-garage-type structure that now houses the Jamaraat, the sense of doom only grew. It felt like we were approaching a beast, whose claws could reach out and strike us at any moment — the Minotaur, hiding at the end of the maze.

And suddenly it began.

The shouting just surrounded us. The crowd behind us pushed us forward, while the crowd ahead of us pushed us back, while the crowd ahead of them pushed their way out. I would try to hold my wife, but the crowd would knock me left and right. When I had the chance, I tried to toss the pebbles from the distance, my pebbles seeming to vanish in the air. I could see men with marks of blood — gashes — marking where they were hit by pebbles. We tried to make our way out, now working opposite a larger crowd. Someone behind me seemed to desperately grab my shoulder, tearing off my ihram. I looked back, and did not see him. Stray bottles of water and coke bounced their way toward us, spilling their contents on my feet and garments.

We made our way out — free.

Still…

I can’t help but think about that scene of thousands of arms catapulting the little pebbles in such a graceful, visual rhythm. And how odd of an event is it? How many monuments are actually celebrated by being pelted? I cannot imagine standing before the similarly shaped Washington Monument, despite its symbolism of the establishment of Freemasonry, and tossing rocks at it.

I cannot compare The Hajj to anything, but I can try to liken its impact to a parent being blessed with birth of a first child. This is a blessed event that has happened to so many people, and is experienced individually (yet collectively) by each of these people. After the event happens, you feel the emotional, psychological, spiritual, physical impact for days, or years — if you choose to feel it and work with it.

I imagine in The Hajj an opportunity to observe the state of life in the world. What did I witness? We were millions of people congregating in garb that hides our class and blurs our ethnicity, reduced to languages and colors. Many of us carried manuals, explaining the rites and wrongs, without providing any form of evidence except, in rare instances, partially quoted Hadith, and (in rarer instances), partially quoted Ayahs. We were looking to scholars to learn rules, not realizing that we were ignoring God’s Qur’an. The Hajj of God and His Messenger is so much simpler than the Hajj of Shaykh such-and-such.

What was that Qur’an that we were reading? It was a Qur’an of Surah Al-Fatihah, Surah Ya-Seen, Surah Al-Rahman, and the Surahs of the last the last thirtieth of the Qur’an. Our Qur’an was a Qur’an of phonetics, not a Qur’an of thought; Qur’anic thought that is almost as dead as the paper of the diplomas, certificates and paychecks that we have prostituted it for.

And what is that mosque that houses the Ka’ba? Consider the Ka’ba, such a simple structure, made of brick — the first, and model mosque. This building that surrounds it, however, is itself but a museum, calling on its observers to marvel at its towering minarets and giant gates. Its hundreds of clumsy, marble pillars provide hindrance for worshippers seeking spots for Salah, or seeking pathways to move elsewhere. The gates that lead to the only air-conditioned space of this building are named after a king, where as other gates were named after The King.

And consider the guardians of the Ka’ba: the Saudi Police. These officers, dressed in their tight, brown uniforms, with such ironic badges. The center of the badge is an open, blank book. Around the book are branches. At the top is a crown. And on that book rests that mysterious symbol: an eye. Is it that the prophesied Dajjal is here? Has it seized the Ka’ba — not to destroy, but to control — to control the heart of the Muslims. Thus, is it urging them to seek the reward of reaching toward the the Ka’ba’s kiswa (laced with solid gold), and thus, leading them to forget the massive poverty that sits in the hot sun outside the mosque? Thus, are Muslims being urged to focus on the smaller aspects of Islam and ignore the larger aspect of Islam — to relieve suffering with relief work, rather than to establish a system that cures? Perhaps.

Conspiracy theories aside: the tiny birds above, like this Ka’ba, like those pilgrims that arrive from everywhere, like the Qur’an that tells us about them, seem to be reduced to mere ornaments that we see and hear.

Was this The Hajj? Did I perform what I was to perform? So much of The Hajj is like Jum’a: when reduced to its simplest form… just an issue of attendance. So many of the practices of The Hajj, like the practices in our daily lives, are, when reduced to their simplest forms… just rituals.

Yet, the various attendances, and the various practices offer loads of various benefits. At Arafat, you are offered to seek from Allah His bounty. With Salah, you are offered to seek strength. With Zakah, you are offered purification.

Did I earn what I was to earn? Did I learn what I was to learn?

When all is said and done, I still think back to the Day at Arafat. I tried to call on Allah for His bounty, almost all day, as He invited me to do so. In that last hour, as the day set toward night, I stood there, as did so many others, facing in the direction of that Ka’ba. The air was thick; the environment was strangely serene; the ongoing white noise of conversation suddenly turned to silence.

And we were praying to Allah.

And I think back to that Tawaf, around that holiest of spots. It is so easy to forget Allah’s commanding control when we are participating in the implementation of His will. I watched the Tawaf from the top floor of the mosque, and, like a bug at night to a light, couldn’t help but stare. The giant whirlpool of people just kept turning and turning.

And they were praying to Allah.

And I am back from The Hajj, perhaps more focused in my relationship with Allah, perhaps more serious about my relationship with Allah, perhaps more alert about my relationship with Allah. I am back from The Hajj, but I still feel as though I have not yet left.

I don’t know that I ever will.

I’m… thirsty.