Laughing All the Way to the Mosque

by Zarqa Nawaz

  My father’s injuries were extensive. His knees and ribs were broken, and all the skin and muscle were torn off his forehead. Miraculously, his skull was not crushed. At that exact moment halfway around the world, my mother’s parents were on their way to a wedding close to Faisalabad, Pakistan. Their car was also hit head-on by a truck, instantly killing the groom and my grandfather and critically injuring my grandmother, who died a few days later.

  My mother gave birth alone on October 1, 1967, in Liverpool University Hospital, not sure if her husband would survive his car accident, unaware that her parents had not survived another in Pakistan. No one would tell her the truth about her parents until they were sure my father would survive his injuries. Her friends could not bear to give her more bad news. In one fell swoop, my mother’s life as a privileged, bourgeois daughter ended forever. To this day, whenever someone tells my mother what a wonderful place England is, she gets agitated and says that the rain made her life unbearable.

  “You know I was dying in a hospital across town when your mother named you,” my father said.

  “Let’s not be so dramatic,” said my mother. “He always told me I could choose the name.” And she had. My mother had fallen in love with Zarqa because of a romantic legend, and I bear the consequences.

  My brothers, Muzammal and Muddaththir, didn’t escape the naming hell either. They were named after two chapters in the Qur’an. No one can pronounce either name properly. I was trying hard to avoid the fate all three of us had suffered by choosing a name for my baby that was both pronounceable and had a good meaning.

  As I lay in bed at 6 a.m. staring at my bulbous belly and wondering if I had squandered nine months when I could have been thinking of a backup name, I suddenly felt the contractions. I didn’t want to give birth to a nameless baby, but Sami insisted we go to the hospital. The contractions started five minutes apart, and within hours I was fully dilated.

  “Could I have an epidural?” I asked.

  “Too late,” said Dr. McMaster.

  “No,” I yelled, “it’s not too late!”

  My doctor urged me to push. I bore down one more time and a baby came out of me. There was an overwhelming wave of physical and emotional relief.

  “Now you just have to deliver the placenta,” said Dr. McMaster matter-of-factly.

  “Could I get an epidural first?” I asked.

  Sami seemed overjoyed by the whole process.

  “That was so easy,” he said as he stared in wonder at our new daughter. Luckily for him, I couldn’t reach the scalpels from where I lay shivering on my too-narrow table. Sami whispered the call to prayer in our daughter’s tiny ear, as is the custom. And then I remembered she was still nameless.

  “What’s going to happen if we don’t name her right away?” I asked Sami. “Does the hospital name her?”

  “I doubt it. I’m sure we have time.”

  “Is it wrong for Muslims to name their baby Christian?”

  “It may be confusing for some people,” replied Sami, as he swaddled our nameless newborn. “It’s like an atheist naming their child Muhammad.”

  Muslims can use any name as long as it doesn’t have a negative connotation like “piece of garbage.” As a result, Muslim names run the gamut. For some reason, Natasha had really caught on among Pakistani Muslims. It means “born on Christmas day.” Some Muslims disapprove, though I heard one mother tell a critic that the real meaning was “gift from God,” which was a brilliant comeback. But with Maysa out of the running, I was still searching for my baby’s perfect name.

  “I think we should avoid names used by terrorists,” I told Sami.

  “We won’t name her Osama or Adolf to be on the safe side,” he replied, “which shouldn’t be hard since she’s a girl.”

  “We need a name,” I said anxiously.

  “We have a name,” said Sami.

  My mother’s objection made me nervous, so I phoned my old Islamic schoolteacher and asked if there was anything about the name Maysa that I should be aware of. He looked up a compendium of names of people who lived during the time of the Prophet.

  “There was a Maysa who was a poet back then,” he said.

  “What did she write about, love?”

  “Agriculture.”

  Oh.

  “She never had her eyes plucked out, by chance?” It never hurts to ask.

  “Not that I know of,” he replied.

  After some further agonizing, I decided that my mother had had her chance at naming her kids and now it was mine.

  “I’m naming her Maysa,” I told my mother.

  “They’ll call her Mess-up,” she said in her final attempt to dissuade me.

  “That’s better than what people called me,” I said, determined not to waver.

  We took Maysa out for a walk in her stroller one day and ran into a neighbour who had moved to Canada from Chile.

  “What a beautiful baby,” she said. “Can I hold her?”

  Sami handed her over.

  “She’s got beautiful brown eyes,” said the neighbour.

  I felt smug. I hadn’t named her after the colour of her eyes, which, unlike my mother, I’m sure I would have gotten right.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Maysa,” I said proudly.

  “Ah,” said the neighbour frowning. “That’s an odd choice.”

  “Why?” I asked, suddenly panicked. “It doesn’t mean ‘blue’ in Spanish, does it?”

  “No, it means ‘table.’ In the southwestern U.S., the large flat-topped hills are referred to as mesas.”

  Oh well.

  “When she meets Spanish-speaking people, they might think it’s a strange choice, that’s all.”

  “It also means ‘gift from God,’” I said as Sami eyed me.

  “Sure it does,” said the neighbour, and gave Maysa a quick kiss before handing her back.

  I decided not to tell my mother.

  Hajj

  “Would you like to go for hajj?” asked my father-in-law.

  “Go for fudge?” I asked him. “I really shouldn’t. I’m trying to lose my baby weight. But maybe a tiny piece?”

  “Not fudge, hajj,” he replied patiently. “Would you like to go for hajj?”

  Hajj and fudge have nothing to do with each other except that one is a religious requirement and the other I eat as if it were a religious requirement. And the words rhyme really well.

  Go for hajj. The words pinged off each other in my brain.

  Muslims are required to visit Mecca and perform the religious rituals there once in our lives as an act of submission to God’s will. It’s one of the five pillars of Islam: going for hajj, belief in one God, praying the five daily prayers, fasting during the month of Ramadan, and giving 2.5 percent of one’s savings to charity. The hajj can occur only during Dhu al-Hijjah, the last month of the Islamic calendar.

  In the past, it was difficult for disabled Muslims to perform hajj, but through extensive renovations to facilities, Saudi Arabia has made it possible for almost anyone to do it. Because of the renovations, Muslims have developed a bad habit of waiting until they are old and decrepit before going—the last hurrah on the Muslim bucket list.

  I dimly recalled that my parents had gone to hajj separately while I was a teenager. First my father had gone with relatives while my mother looked after us three kids, and the next year they switched. But right now my life was consumed by a baby, and the biggest thing on my bucket list or any list was to find time to take a nap. We had gotten married and had Maysa in just under a year. I had finished a contract at the CBC and was unsure about which way my career was going. I was feeling a little unmoored. I could use a distraction. And a vacation. Suddenly hajj sounded perfect.

  I started calculating how much it would cost to get from the Midwest to the Middle East. Enough to buy two really good espresso machines.

  “I’m paying for everyone,” he said. That included Sabreena and Munir, Sami’s brother and sister, and their
spouses, Amir and Samira.

  He could read my mind. I agreed immediately. Visions of a romantic holiday complete with sun and sand consumed me. I wondered if they had little drinks with umbrellas in them.

  “You know this isn’t going to be like going to Club Med, right?” said Sami when he came home from work.

  He was ruining my reverie. Our apartment was an explosion of plastic neon-coloured toys and stuffed animals. There were splats of tomato with dried-up spaghetti stuck on the walls from meals gone awry. The source of those mealtime tantrums came tottering into the room clutching her favourite plush cat, which made purring sounds when you shook it. Maysa was twelve months old and had started speaking early. She wandered over to me, flung her cat against the wall, producing a choked purr, pointed at my breasts while eyeing them covetously and said “Yum.”

  I shifted the newspaper I was reading down to cover my chest. Love her as much as I did, I was starting to realize I could really use a break from being a new mother.

  We had just finished sleep-training Maysa, which had been a nightmare. I’d been breastfeeding her every two hours throughout the night since she was born. I had figured she would eventually outgrow her habit, but like a crack addict, she only grew insatiable. My breasts were her drug dealers, doling out their contents every two hours to lull Maysa to oblivion. If she didn’t get fed on time at night, she would scream and howl like a wounded animal until I finally relented. After a year of this, I was on the brink of a nervous breakdown from lack of sleep. Sami could see I was dying.

  “End the night feedings,” he had insisted. “After six months, babies are able to get through the night without food. We’ll Ferberize her.”

  The idea seemed sensible enough. We would go into her room at ever-increasing intervals to soothe her without feeding until she fell asleep on her own. But like any good addict, she went down screaming.

  “You’re hurtin’ me!” she’d yell as she pounded on her door at night. We’d been forced to move her to a futon on the floor after she had jumped out of her crib in an attempt to find my breasts. “Somebody help me!”

  “We really should have started this before she could talk. Do you think the neighbours can hear her?” I said.

  “We’ll just have to explain to social services that we’re sleep-training a child,” said Sami, calmly steering me away from the door.

  After a few days, the screaming had died down, and I began to remember what it was like to dream again. As I sat having dinner with George Clooney—why yes, I am free to come to Lake Como for the weekend, but I might be going for hajj—a tiny, furious raccoon attacked me mid-bite. George looked at me with shock in his eyes, and I startled out of my sleep to find a tiny, furious Maysa attacking me. Maysa had learned to turn the doorknob in her bedroom and escaped.

  “Is this worth it?” I asked Sami as he snapped a white plastic cover on Maysa’s doorknob the next morning.

  “We should have done this when she was six months old,” he said. “It would have been easier.”

  “Do you think she’ll be scarred for life?”

  “She’ll never remember.”

  “I feel like a terrible parent,” I moaned.

  “Do you ever want to sleep again?” said Sami. “Because this could go on for years. And then you’ll be scarred for life.”

  “Make sure that doorknob protector is snapped on properly.”

  After ten more days of screaming, Maysa finally gave up the fight. I could sleep. We had won the war.

  The next morning, I started weaning her off during the day.

  I handed Maysa a sippy cup full of milk, which she flung away in disdain. She stared at my breasts like a dog stares at a steak. The war was far from over.

  “Yum,” she said, pointing at my breasts. Strict parenting was no match for full-blown addiction. I needed to cut all ties with her dealer.

  “Mama’s breasts are going on vacation,” I said.

  I sold my mother on the idea of taking Maysa for two weeks by telling her that Maysa was now sleep-trained and totally weaned.

  “This isn’t work-related, is it?” asked my mother, suspicious of my motives.

  “Nope, we’re going for hajj.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Really, you?”

  “Why’s that so hard to believe?” I was actually a little insulted.

  “Hajj is a spiritual journey. You have to be in the right frame of mind.”

  “I can be spiritual,” I said as I tried to decide between an open-toed shoe and a sandal. Which would get less sand in it?

  Sami and I met my parents at the airport in Toronto on our layover. While we waited, Maysa pushed an empty luggage cart. I wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. I knew she’d be upset if she saw me go.

  “Just let her push the cart,” my father said as he lured her down the hallway by getting her to chase him. It worked like a charm. Maysa thought it was a game and followed. An Air Canada luggage cart had just replaced my breasts. I went through security and turned back just in time to see the back of a tiny, happy girl who had no idea what was happening.

  I felt a little guilty. I knew my parents would look after her every need. But what would go through her head when she finally got bored of the luggage cart? Would she think I had just abandoned her? Sami knew what I was thinking.

  “She’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s been a challenging year with her. You could use a break.” And then I walked down the hallway, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. I was no longer responsible for another human being’s every physical and emotional need. I could finally concentrate on me.

  “This is a big deal,” said Sami as I gleefully searched for the most adult movie on my little screen after takeoff. No more singing monkeys dressed in overalls.

  “I know,” I said, giddy with anticipation.

  “What are you hoping for?”

  “I hope The Usual Suspects is out on video by now,” I said, punching the buttons. “We missed it when it came out in the theatre.”

  “Not entertainment-wise,” said Sami, irritated.

  “Oh, umm, free almonds.”

  “I meant hajj.”

  I knew he wanted to hear something spiritual—something I was never good at expressing. “To be a better Muslim. Connect with God, stuff like that.” It sounded like something I’d say to pacify my Islamic teacher at the mosque. But it still resonated, even if it was a close second to the almonds. And my vacation from being a mom. Third place was still good, right?

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “Free orange juice.”

  “Very funny,” I said. “Really, what are you hoping for?”

  “I’m not sure. But it’ll be nice to spend time as a couple.”

  Darn it. I should have said that.

  “It’ll be our official honeymoon,” I said, taking his hand.

  “Did you read the hajj handbook?” He let go of my hand and put a small booklet in it. So unromantic.

  I looked in the handbook. I knew a little bit about hajj already.

  Visiting the Kaaba in the city of Mecca was a big deal, but the booklet described a myriad of places and things and prayers. My fondness for religious rules and regulations had waned since I was a teenager. I wanted faith to be simpler and less cluttered. The flight attendant came by with the dinner selection.

  “This is complicated,” I said. “There are so many things here.”

  “Don’t worry, hajj gets easier once you’re on the ground and can see what all the procedures are,” said Sami. He saw me staring at the menu. “You’re just talking about the food selection, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m reading the manual.” I forced my eyes back to the byzantine world of the hajj manual.

  “The manual is important because hajj gets overwhelming with the sheer number of people. It’s important to know what’s happening so we’ll be safe. I know because I did it as a teenager.” I pictured him in a cape and tights with a capital S on h
is chest for “Superhajji.” I stifled a laugh.

  “Yeah, there’s really useful information in this,” I said seriously.

  “Like what?”

  “Like apparently the malls are incredible.”

  We landed at Jeddah airport with hundreds of other exhausted but excited people. All of us had to put on clothing referred to as ihram, which was all we would wear for the duration of hajj. Sami, along with all the men, put on two sheets of unstitched white fabric, the size of large bath towels, which is the male hajj uniform. One sheet went around his waist and the other draped over one of his shoulders. Men are not allowed to wear anything else, because dressing identically eliminates any signs of wealth or status: Kings and paupers look the same. Basically, hajj looks like the world’s biggest toga party, with less emphasis on the party. Women wear stitched but simple modest clothes, including underwear. Face coverings, such as the niqab, are not allowed during hajj. I was wearing a grey cotton shalwar kameez and white cotton headscarf.

  Even though it was only May, it was stiflingly hot. People were walking with prayer beads in their hands, reciting prayers. Just making it this far felt like an accomplishment. I noticed that almost everyone had a booklet in their own language explaining the rituals of hajj. It was like we were all taking the same exam. The airport officials ushered each planeload of people into the immigration and customs section of the terminal quickly and efficiently. They couldn’t afford delays, since hundreds of planes from around the world were coming in continuously. Hajj is one of the biggest human pilgrimages in the world. Mecca, a city with a resident population of two million, swells to twice to three times that size during hajj.

  Our passports and papers were examined and we were given wristbands, the kind you get when you enter amusement parks to prove you paid your entry fee. There was Arabic writing on them.

  “What’s this?” I asked Sami. This was different from when he went to hajj as a teenager in the ‘70s. He checked the manual. With ever-increasing numbers of people coming to Mecca every year from all over the world, speaking different languages, the Saudis needed to tag everyone. In case anyone got separated from his or her group, there was a human lost-and-found section based on country of origin.