Opinion

“I want to go for Umrah,” I announced to my family. It must have been a surprise to them, their journalist daughter deciding to take the Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca.

“Take your mom,” my dad suggested.

“I want to do it alone, I want this to be my own journey.”

Why now? I was feeling a void, almost like an outsider in my own country, as the Indian prime minister prepared with great fanfare to inaugurate a Hindu temple where an Islamic mosque once stood. At the same time, the images from Gaza were heartbreaking. I needed to cling to something, some semblance of hope, some spiritual solace, some feeling of community. Maybe I would find that in Mecca, birthplace of the prophet Muhammad, a trip I had been contemplating for years.

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There was a minor glitch. The travel agencies that had inundated my WhatsApp with Umrah and Hajj travel offers stopped replying the moment I stated my intention to travel alone. Another said point blank: “We do not make arrangements for single women.”

But one agency agreed, and thus started my journey to the holiest place in Islam. Last year, a record 13.5 million Muslims visited the holy cities of Mecca and Medina in Saudi Arabia. As I passed through immigration at the Mumbai airport wearing an abaya for the first time in my life, I was conscious of the gaze of people around me. Over the last two years, right-wing Hindu fundamentalists had made hijab-wearing women their targets as part of the dehumanization of the 200 million Muslims in India.

A friend in Germany with whom I had shared my apprehensions about this trip advised me to leave my concerns about my country behind. Look for faith and resilience, she advised. Put your anger aside. I would try.

On arrival in Jeddah, I am met by a driver who takes me to my hotel in Mecca, a two-hour trip. Then, around midnight, I meet the person who has been assigned by the travel agency to help me with the religious rituals. A Pakistani national, Asif has roots in Rajasthan, a state in northern India. He asks me to see him as a brother from across the border.

He introduces me to a young man, Hamza, from his village in Pakistan who is studying to be a Muslim religious scholar. “Inshallah, he will explain everything and walk with you through the rituals.”

The men escort me through the glitzy King Abdul Aziz Road, past the massive clock tower and the shopping malls on the way to the holy mosque. Though it is almost 1 a.m., there is barely any space to walk. Pilgrims are everywhere and we are all headed to the same place.

I ask Asif whether he has seen pro-Palestinian protests at one of the largest gatherings of Muslims from around the world. He stops, looks around and then turns to me, saying: “Sister, I know you are a journalist but I would request to not probe around here.” Then he laughs and says, “And you must know, Saudi is not the place for protests.”

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As I enter the open area around the Kaaba — considered the home of God, built by Abraham and his son Ishmael — Hamza asks me to lower my gaze and look up only when the building is in full view. The Kaaba is a black cuboid stone structure covered with a black cloth called the Qiswa with Islamic verses written in gold thread. He asks me to chant an Islamic verse until I set foot inside. I keep my footwear in my bag and walk barefoot, rubbing shoulders with thousands of pilgrims reciting “labbaik allahumma labbaik” (here I am, Allah). And then there it is, the image I had grown up seeing in picture frames in the house, in spiritual videos, the wallpaper of my mom’s phone.

Some cry at the first glimpse, others fall onto mats to offer their prayers, and many start recording on their smartphones, calling their family members to share a glimpse of the most important journey of their life. I stand there for a minute, just absorbing the sight, feeling the goosebumps on my skin. After saying the salat (the ritual prayer performed five times daily in Islam), I begin the Umrah ritual, making seven circles around the Kaaba. For each round, Hamza has me repeat the Islamic verse he is chanting and explains its meaning to me in Urdu.

Next, I make my way to the Qiswa. People fall over each other to touch the piece of cloth that covers one of the most divine sites in Islam. As I finally reach it, I impulsively kiss the Qiswa. “Do not,” reprimands Hamza. “It is improper for women to do it.”

A middle-aged man standing nearby stares at Hamza and scolds him: “And what part of Islam or the Quran says this ? Do not invent rules!” He looks at me and tells me in Urdu that I should do what I feel. I am validated.

After the man walks away, the minor tension is deflected and Hamza directs me to the tankers dispensing zamzam, the miraculous holy water. It is believed that Abraham — referred to as the friend of Allah and the father figure for all Muslims — left his wife Hagar and infant Ishmael in the custody of Allah in the scorching desert of Mecca. When Hagar ran between the hills of Safa and Marwa, desperate for water, it is believed that the angel Gabriel (Jibreel in Arabic) struck the ground, which led to the birth of the spring that still feeds a well in Mecca. Each pilgrim is allowed to carry a prepacked one-gallon bottle of zamzam water home to share with friends and relatives.

Next, pilgrims walk where Hagar walked, between the hills. There, I see a man with a massive dragon tattoo on his shoulder that stares through the white ahram he is wrapped in. Another man with tattoos and face piercing walks past me chanting “labbaik allahumma labbaik.” I look around for probing, judgmental eyes at these breaches of protocol, but instead find pilgrims immersed in their rhythmic chanting, reading from the compact books of prayers.

My bare feet begin to give up. I wade through the crowd and find myself a corner. A couple in their mid-30s also takes refuge there. They offer ajwa dates to me and my young teacher. “Take either one, three or five,” they instruct us.

Hamza tells me it was a tradition of the prophet Muhammad to eat dates in odd numbers. I smile and ask the couple about their native land. The woman says “China.”

This piques my interest, and we speak about their pilgrimage. I bring up the persecution of Uyghur Muslims, curious whether they are allowed to perform their religious duties in China. The wife is about to say something when she pauses suddenly. The husband looks around, carefully observing the people around him. “Your first time?” he asks. Yes, I respond. He smile and asks me about my own experience, completely ignoring my question. They then return to their prayers.

The religious persecution of Muslims in China is well known. An NPR report last year documented the surveillance of the Muslims in China who try to travel to Mecca. Could my questions have landed the couple in trouble?

On our way out, men and women........

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