ONLY IN MECCA

Thursday, June 7, 2007

Only in Mecca
Its 11:30pm and I walk up to the counter to start the check-in process while simultaneously beckoning my wife's parents to sit down and relax. The journey was not very long, only an hour flight from Riyadh, but time has taken its toll on their frail bodies. The nice young Saudi behind the counter speaks very nice English – I guess the hiring standards here are a bit more stringent – and welcomes me to the Mecca Hilton.

As he is processing the information, my wife's mother resolutely walks up to the counter, credit card in hand, insisting that she pay for the room. I softly decline her sincere offer, but she won't take no for an answer. She turns to the receptionist and asks him to refuse my payment and instead take her card. He looks unsettled by the request and smiles with a polite shake of his head. My mother continues and before I can compile a complete rebuttal, the man saves me by stating that the computer system will only process the specific card used for the reservation.

He understood the situation. He understood the respect owed to the parents. He understood the repulsion of a grown man allowing his parents to pay.

She politely argues. He respectfully refuses. She sternly insists. He kindly rebuffs. I try to interject with my two cents, but get swatted like an annoying fly. He needs no direction from me as to how to deal with the persistent elder while she gives me the irritated mother look that says ‘Go away child!’

He reiterates his initial explanation and adds that she is like his mother, ‘If I could do anything to accept your card, I would’. She puts the card away having lost the battle, but refuses to lose the war. She takes out a handful of money, 'Then take cash!' she pleads. Patiently, as though he has been through this type of exchange countless number of times, he says that the computer system can only process the credit card used for the reservation – no possibility for cash. Having put up a good fight, she finally backs down and reluctantly returns to the couch. And so started our 24-hour jaunt to the birthplace of Muhammad (saw).

Time for Dhuhr. Time to wake up. Having performed an Umrah that lasted until Fajr, we took advantage of the long break between sunrise and noon by returning to the hotel. Now its time to wake. No more time for sleep. I now return to the House that Ibrahim (saw) built with one specific goal in mind – Allah (swt). I need to reconnect with Allah (swt). I need to reestablish my lifeline.

Here’s a nice spot. Perfect, unobstructed view. Not many people around. Ideal location to soak in the Ka'bah and all its existential wonders. But my focus gets quickly diverted.

So many people with such variety. It is spellbinding and mindboggling. The contingency from Indonesia dominated by scores of tiny women marked by small green insignias of their Umrah group pinned to the back of their white scarves scurries along as a flock of penguins afraid of getting swallowed by the polar bear of a crowd.

Looking back up at the Ka'bah, I swiftly remind myself that merely looking at it is an act of worship. Yet I keep failing. My attention continues to get diverted by the endless flow of the world's peoples as they pass my way in their circumambulation.

Where are the outrageous colors worn by the African pilgrims? Umrah visas likely haven’t been issued for Nigeria and its neighbors I suppose. Fear not, for they have been duly replaced by the equally brazen shades of shalwar kameez donned by the Indo-Pakistani women.

Here comes a Turkish congregation made up of young well-bearded men wearing calm white knee-length overcoats with matching turbans, surely the mark of a Sufi group. Amazing how they stand out even on the blindingly bright white marble floor.

Persian women march along with their chadors pulled over their heads and the sides pulled up and clenched between their teeth, either as an attempt at a face-cover or a functional innovation to prevent it from dragging on the ground.

The graceful walk with an unimaginably straight posture of the elderly rural Pakistani women, surely the result of decades of carrying buckets and pots on their heads, puts to shame the plasticity of any NYC supermodel on the catwalk, who learned to walk with a book on her head and for no other serviceable utility but to show off the clothes on her body.

Enough with the people! Focus! I choose to look down and immediately notice a child sitting in front of me next to his father. Iranians – I can tell from the khaki shirt tucked into the father’s dark slacks in addition to the dark stubble gracing his beardless face. I can’t help but smile when I see the boy playfully swinging a small bag of birdseeds over his shoulder, lightly smacking his back, mimicking a motion he has seen myriad times back home.

Only in Mecca.

Truly my short attention span is indicative of my depraved spiritual state. How can I ever dream to scale these walls of my insatiable nafs when even in the presence of the Ka'bah I am unable to maintain my focus on Allah?

While my ears are straining to hear the celestial calls to the Divine - of the Divine - by the Divine – ringing through my heart ‘Allah! Allah!’, my eyes persist in drawing attention to the swarms of people, preventing the spiritual ascension I so desperately crave.

Or could it be that Allah is deliberately summoning me towards the source of my distraction? Are we not commanded to live and love amongst the peoples of the world? Hermits and monks we are not. Attention to our fellow man ought not to stifle the spirit; it must be used as a vehicle to gaining greater heights.

While endeavoring to build a connection with the Creator, I have inadvertently stumbled onto building a connection with the creation. And in connecting with the creation, have I not but connected with the Creator?

Only in Mecca.

And what about my fine Meccan friend behind the hotel counter? Having so deftly dealt with the urgings of my dear mother, he returned to punching some keys into the computer. He then looked up at me, gave a quick glance to my seated mother, and with a glean in his eye and wry smile on his face, whispered 'Mr Aslam, will you be paying with your credit card or cash?' Only in Mecca.