I didn’t really want to go. When my dad suggested it, I didn’t see the purpose. Why go perform a ‘umrah when I hadn’t even done the hajj yet? Why start with something that wasn’t a fard? Was there even a purpose in fulfilling a ‘umrah? It was the first time I had ever willingly refused to explore a new avenue of spirituality. The first time I had ever said “no” to the pursuit of God. I don’t know if it was fear. Fear of the people, fear of the experience, fear of not finding anything on the other end of it. It might have been honesty. The honest belief that it might not count because it wasn’t coming from the soul. The soul which had been too quiet as of late. Not having ever felt a pull or a desire to go perform the rite of pilgrimage, I didn’t see it as a gift to be given the opportunity to go. I didn’t see it as a blessing that I— unlike so many others—had the option. But in the end, I went. I weighed the pros and cons, pros being it was a new experience in a country that I had never been to, cons being the people, the sheer number of the crowd and the fact that it might be exhausting. The pros won out, mainly because it was a trip my dad was willing to sponsor, a chance I wasn’t sure would come around again.

Pilgrimage is unlike anything I can explain. I had thought, because I had been to festivals, big summits, and sold-out concerts that I knew what being part of a crowd was like. That I, a little bit, understood the energy and joy that comes with being part of something greater than you. That I grasped the belief that awakens in you when you see people from all over the world converging on a common goal. But it is different when this goal is God. It is different when you see the old, the young, the lame and the healthy putting aside any limitations— physical, mental, financial— to fulfill an age-old practice that isn’t even a cornerstone of their religion. I don’t know if there is a purpose to ‘umrah. I don’t know if the act itself— the seven times tawaf and then seven times sa’i— means something specific to God. If it has an ulterior goal than just commemorating the experiences of our ancestors. My mom believes that the counterclockwise movement releases old stuff and brings it to the surface for you to deal with. That something about the motions, the time, and the place energetically balances you out.That after ‘umrah (or hajj I guess also) you enter a new phase of your life, one that includes dealing with whatever was holding you back in the previous phase.

 How is it different from me running laps around our compound? I ask her, perhaps naively, perhaps insultingly. “You are greeting God in his house,” she responds, stunned by my uneducated comparison. “This place is holy.” But even so, it doesn’t appease me. I— who have always believed in the power of energy, in symbolism— find it hard to swallow the significance of this piece of rock. I gaze at the people shoving each other to try and place their hands on the حجر الاسود, the ones who take the bigger lap to pass by مقام ابراهيم and lay their sweaty hands on the glass, the ones who line up around the block for a chance to pray in the gated off part of the Kaaba and wonder if everyone has gone crazy. Do they think God will bless them more, the closer they get to the velvet encased structure? Do they think that God hides secret powers beneath the veil of black? I am reminded of the story of the cat in Eat Pray Love. The cautionary fable that the Indians tell about a cat that was tied to a pole during meditation practice—to stop it from disturbing the ritual—and then over time the cat becoming synonymous with that meditation practice. Of the meditators becoming unable to meditate unless a cat was tied to a pole. Have we somehow taken the meaning of this place too literally? Has tradition and practice garbed the essence of what was supposed to be a symbolic ritual?

But even so I am in awe. I am in awe of the number of people who have trekked across seas and lands to make it here to give something back to God. I am in awe of the women in wheelchairs and the men sporting canes that hobble slowly around the Kaaba, putting one step in front of the other. I am in awe at the mothers carrying babies on their backs and the fathers holding the hands of their little ones tightly, so as not to get lost. I am in awe of the colours, black, white, brown, tan—faces that glimmer with age and wisdom. Of the multicolored saris, the obsidian abayat, the snow of the لبس الاحرام. I am in awe of the  أفواج who can barely speak the language and yet chant together in Arabic, gathering their thanks and prayers to the Almighty. I am in awe of the multitudes of bare feet, each one telling a different story of trials and hardships. Of the role that technology now plays, individuals from all over the world, Facetiming their family members and friends, to do just one lap, one kilometer with them. And, of course, of the cleanliness, the complete lack of body odour, and the tandif crew that comes multiple times a day to deep clean the floors of marble. But mostly, I am in awe of the choreographed dance that is the tawaf and sa’i, the fact that everyone knows what to say, where to stand, when to run, when to pray, when to raise their hands in worship. I am in awe of the ‘ummah.

When you’re fulfilling the ‘umrah you don’t have a lot of time to think of what the movements mean, to dive into the practice you are fulfilling. You are mostly lost in the motions you are making, being careful to count the rounds and not to bump into the people in front of, next to and behind you. You are being carried from one place to the next, trying to remember which duaa is said where. It is an overwhelming act, one which I felt to be very visceral. After the umrah’ we wait by the exit door for my mom to retrieve the scissors from her bag so we can cut off a strand of our hair. Three ladies walk up to us asking to borrow the scissors. They do not speak a language we understand, just gesticulate towards the metal contraption. It feels very communal, like a moment in time we will note down together. I’m not gonna lie, I expect something to be different. I expect that somehow fulfilling this rite will open my heart up, give me back some of my feelings, or soften me in a new way. But nothing happens. At least nothing palpable. We go back to the hotel to rest a little, after spending so much time in the suffocating Saudi sun. My parents both nap, unintentionally, and I burrow my head in the book I am reading. We miss praying the next prayer in the masjid and have to go down to the hotel prayer room instead. A kind lady tucks in my braid, because it is peeking out of my headscarf, while another one guides me to the women’s room. Here, we are once again separated, men and women in different rooms. It had blown my mind earlier in the day when we were praying dhuhr that I could pray next to a man without anyone saying anything. Mecca still abides by the old rules apparently, less of this segregation in prayer. At night we go back to the haram to perform the salah and pray. Thousands of flying grasshopper-like bugs infiltrate our neat lines, making people squeal and shriek in disgust.But other than a group of rowdy little boys, no one tries to kill them. I distinctly remember a mom telling her kids to leave them alive, maybe overcome with grace by the environment we are in or the rituals she has performed. Live and let live. My dad decides to do another round of tawaf, not for ‘umrah— you have to leave the city and come back in to do a second one— but just for himself. Eyes alight, he comes back urging us to do the same “the weather is much nicer than this morning. It is emptier and the energy is great”. My mom is immediately inspired, me less so. Senseless tawaf? What is the point of going in circles, if it isn’t even for a ’umrah? I bring up my compound question once again but am chastised by my mom who tells me a story of a friend of hers who once said something similar and then—for some reason or other—was never able to come back and do a pilgrimage. She had jinxed herself, according to my mom. So, I drag myself up and walk seven circles around the Kaaba in the hope that God won’t curse me away from this place (even though I have yet to feel a particular tie to it).

During the tawaf I am reserved, much more closed off than in the ‘umrah of the morning. I am not able to summon the prayers for my loved ones, as I was able to earlier and instead just walk around parroting the أسماء الله الحسنى that my mom recites next to me. But my mind is still reeling at the sheer number of people around us. At the breadth of worshippers, at our sameness, at our size. Is this God’s true intention? I wonder staring at the man who has tripped and fallen, 100 people helping him up. To show us that we are not that different? That we are not alone? To bring us together? To unify us? The next day, spearheaded by my dad, we decide to do another ‘umrah. My dad wants to complete one for his brother-in-law who has just passed away, my mom for her mother, and me? I decide to do one for my brother. We renew our neyya and go out of the city to fulfill the ihram. It is a cloudy day, although much more stifling than the previous one. The whole time I am exhausted and barely able to put one foot in front of the other. I attempt to do the duaa as I imagine my brother would, thinking of the people that mean something to him, but mostly I just drag my feet. The second time around it is much quicker, although it feels less authentic (to me at least). When we finish, just ants among the thousands who have come to perform this ritual something kind of clicks into place. Not an opening or a softening or an internal feeling, just this sense that something is complete. And it may be that something was completed— the ‘umrah— but it may also be that my purpose in going there was fulfilled. I turn to the woman next to me, who has— as the other woman did the other day— asked my mom for the scissors and am humbled. I am humbled to be a part of this great race that is humanity, I am humbled to have been born into a family that believes in God and to get to worship Him/Her/It in this way, I am humbled to simply exist.   

If you have never done a ‘umrah or pilgrimage of any kind I highly recommend it. Not just to see “God’s house”, I don’t believe that setting eyes on the Kaaba changed me in any way, but to be united with those like you who are in search of something greater. To step outside of yourself, your everyday needs and wants, and look into the eyes of all of the worshippers who are just like you. To see the range of people that believe, and all of the ways in which their belief manifests. And maybe— if my mom is right— to receive the energy that this place has to offer. Yes, Islamic pilgrimage is very specific, it only covers one religion, there are perhaps other places to journey to that cover more faiths (Jerusalem?), but it is still eye-opening to see all of these races and creeds united in their pursuit of God. To see people with various illnesses and physical limitations push themselves to complete this rite, just to get a chance at getting closer to God. To see people spend money and travel far from their own country to say thank you, to ask for guidance, to commemorate. I don’t think anything within me has changed, not in the way I wanted it to, but my eyes have definitely been opened in so far as to my significance and insignificance in the world. I have come to accept that I am one of many, not singular in my belief or want of God, but perhaps still essential in getting the wheel to turn. That I am not special because I seek God, but that my seeking is still meaningful, still felt.

Searchingly and obediently yours,

Girl With One Earring