Besides my falling in love with a rather simplistic architectural structure (after all, it is a cube), I observe the hajj as the most romantic place on the earth. It’s definitely a place you should go with your partner, husband, or wife. I have never seen so many Muslim couples so affectionately connected. They hold hands as they pass through the crowded streets. Our hajj guide directed that the stronger one physically, usually the man, should walk behind his wife for saiy and tawaf. That turns out to be the best way to keep up with her: hands on shoulders. I saw this over and over again.
Imagine my thoughts about this reversed order, right? The best position for the man in hajj is behind the woman. It made sense that these guys would literally need to be instructed for such, because their normal way of thinking must be, me first. Yes, yes, our wives are equal, but we’re the standard bearers and she must follow our leads. But in the jostle, if the person is behind you, they are more likely to be separated by the crowds. So, the woman gets to the finish line first, by design.
My roommate missed her husband, who is too sick to make the journey. But, not just husbands are missed; it is so important to share those experiences with someone you know. Yesterday evening, I spotted a colleague of mine in the crowd. She was surprised to see me, and although we are not, strictly speaking, on the same page ideologically, we did embrace with the fervor of a chance meeting IN THIS PLACE, at this time. We were lovers and friends. Makkah brings out the love in you.
Even my norms (remember, I hate crowds) have been transformed. I LOVE the crowds here! More on that later, though, because it is so neat to try at least to share the intensity of these devotees of Allah, IN THIS PLACE, at this time—but then that is the gist of it really. Short of one’s individual experience with Allah, what you cannot duplicate anywhere else is this ardent devotion coming together with other devotees, the “macro-communication factor,” as Nasr Abu Zayd referred to it.
Okay, so there is love of the Ka’abah, love of the mosque, love between family and friends, well, think then about the salah! Personally, I should add, I already love the salah. But sometimes, I am a very bad lover, unfaithful as it were, giving my attention to other loves of the lesser sort. Still in all, I have had a lifetime of love for this ritual. Here, the devotees come from all walks of life and all kinds of persuasions. They line up together, standing in the mosque, on the streets, wherever they are when the call to prayer is made, and they bow down in unison, and they drop to their knees and kiss the ground with their foreheads in submission to Allah! And nowhere and no how can they be separated from this act into ranks of class, race, and gender.
Well, then again, there are some gendered ascriptions:
Lines are ad hoc gendered, plus or minus. Priority seating on the first floor of the Haram is given to the men, with male and female security guards shuffling women out of their spots to give way to men, creating men’s sections in a way that is more intrusive or abrasive than what I’ve observed and practiced everywhere else here; including in the Haram on the second and third floors, or even on the streets.
Women—in pairs, small groups, or alone—will put their prayer rugs beside other women, anywhere. This will lead to other women joining until there are various-size jama’ats. To observe this same practice on the first floor of the Haram, however, is futile. Even when a cluster begins to develop, the gender police will come and force women to move.
Our first morning, we rose at 3 a.m. to pray tahujjud in the mosque. Great idea, right? When we arrived there was still space on the first floor, so we put our rugs down next to a few women and were joined by other women, forming our cluster.
Now, for the romantic: if a man will not part from his wife, then he too will find that spot for her, within a small cluster of women. He will then he set his prayer rug down beside hers. As the lines fill up quickly, one of two things will happen. Other women will continue to fill in that cluster, his presence notwithstanding, and that will be that. Otherwise, he gives permission for the other men to begin a cluster of men, starting from the side that is not adjacent to his wife.
This is so sweet to watch.
As for the not-so-good part: there are restrictions on the first floor of the mosque not repeated anywhere else. Not on the other floors: second, third, and a kind of balcony fourth floor. Not outside—as I said, people pray everywhere as the prayer time approaches; people get ready to pray everywhere. But as the call for prayer is made, certain preferences or priorities will disappear. Just put down your rug and join a line. There’s still some looking to make or join a cluster, but a tiny space of decorum is all that’s needed when the call for standing to that prayer has been mass, the iqama.
This was just the best thing since the demise of sliced bread. People praying everywhere: men, women, and very few children falling into position oriented only by the Ka’abah. That means a male cluster might be formed right behind a female cluster. People are really focused there, and that goal, the Oneness of God, removes some of the stuffiness and pretentiousness of some Muslim cultures, and instead the mandate to pray on time takes over.
This even spills over into the after-salat rush. Women and men sit down to eat everywhere: on the curbside, sidewalk, or streets emptied of the normal traffic flow; or jostling in the shops, or jammed in the tight lines to get food at the local restaurants. Nobody says to women to stay behind, keep out, or keep away. There is so much bodily contact a person could be mistaken for being at one with all humankind, and not a measurement of one’s gender.
