by Jean Sasson
Kareem felt so intensely that his nightmare would be fulfilled if he attended Haj, that I had little heart to argue with his visionary forebodings.
Once again, everything was as before, and our family continued to depart the kingdom during the time of Haj.
When the very real and ghastly tragedy of the 1990 Haj occurred, as over fifteen hundred pilgrims were crushed to death in a mountain tunnel in Makkah, Kareem took to his bed in Paris and trembled for an entire day, declaring that the cataclysmic disaster was yet another extraordinary omen from God that he should never again worship at the Holy Mosque!
After the fateful accident of 1990, when hundreds of worship- ers died, Kareem’s extreme reaction to his dream began to annoy me, and I told him that his fears were inherently unsound. Nothing I could say or do at the time comforted my husband, even when I pointed out the obvious, that his dream had been realized in the death of others. In my opinion, the exact catastrophe was unlikely to occur again.
I saw that my observation failed to quiet Kareem’s fierce apprehension when he replied that, evidently, he would be crushed as a singular tragedy if he failed to heed his dream or the recent mishap, which to his mind was nothing less than a direct warning from God.
Since it is true that a number of Hajjis are trampled or crushed to death during each Haj season, I could not reason further with Kareem. I wanted to dismiss his obsession, to ignore his terrors, but I could not.
Sadly, I pushed the possibility of ever again making the happy journey of Haj far into the back of my mind, but not from my heart.
After our triumphant return from London with a loving Maha in our arms, I felt an irresistible desire to embrace the ritual of glorifying God in unison with other Muslims. The time of Haj was upon us, and I gently approached the topic with my husband once again, suggesting that I take our children to Makkah. Since women in our country rarely travel without the protection of a male escort, I wondered aloud about the possibility of accompanying my sister Sara and her family to Makkah.
Much to my surprise, Kareem responded favorably to my ardent wish to undertake a journey to the city of Mohammed. My mouth fell open when he said he would consider taking the journey himself. Kareem acknowledged that he continued to fear personal harm, but that he too shared my need to give special thanks to God for the return of our precious Maha.
We were discussing the upcoming trip with members of Kareem’s family when we received a warning from his brother-in-law Mohammed, who was married to Kareem’s youngest sister, Hanan. Mohammed said that over two million pilgrims were expected to unite in our holiest city of Makkah, and of that total, a hundred fifty thousand worrisome worshipers were expected from Iran, the Shiite country that makes an annual call to revoke King Fahd’s exclusive custodianship over Islam’s holiest places.
In 1987 the inflamed Shiites had gone so far as to lead a violent protest during the traditional holy event, and in the process of breaching Saudi laws, they had desecrated the Holy Mosque, causing the deaths of 402 pilgrims. Two years later, in 1989, Tehran had instigated two deadly bombings, killing one person and wounding sixteen others.
In Mohammed’s view, Haj was becoming a dangerous religious ceremony for peaceful Muslims. Radical Muslims were on the move the world over, and they favored the holiest of Islamic sanctuaries to make known their political grievances.
Mohammed, a prince of high authority in Public Security, a Saudi public service organization that strives to ensure the security of Saudis and Muslims visiting our country, was privy to knowledge that most Saudis do not have. Blind to my emotion, and absorbed only in our personal safety, Mohammed suggested that Kareem and I wait until the masses of pilgrims left the kingdom. Then, we could take our children and perform the sacred rites.
Kareem sat pale-faced and said little, and I knew that my husband was not in the slightest concerned over Iranian danger but was considering the dreaded effects of four million tramping feet.
Stubborn, and determined to fulfill my personal desires, as is my way, I challenged Mohammed’s warning, saying that in my opinion, as a result of the Iranians’ past violence, those pilgrims traveling from Iran would be so carefully screened and observed by Saudi Security that they would be of little danger to Haj worshipers.
Mohammed, with a stern and uneasy look on his face, said, “No. The Iranians can never be trusted. Do not let yourself forget, Sultana, that we are dealing with Shiite fanatics who dream of overthrowing our Al Sa’ud-led Sunni government!”
Seeing that my reasoning was not going to achieve the reassuring response I was seeking, I used a female tactic, mischievously asking Mohammed and my husband if they failed to remember that according to Islamic teachings, to die while in Makkah ensures immediate ascension to heaven?
My husband and brother-in-law failed to see any humor in the situation, and my religious argument made little impact with Kareem, but obviously he too felt the wonderful release of anxiety that came with Maha’s miraculous recovery even more than I had imagined.
Kareem took a deep breath, gave a weak smile, and said, “Sultana, I will face a thousand dangers if it will give you peace of mind. Together, we will take our children and go on the pilgrimage.”
Mohammed hid a disappointed face with a smile, and I gave my husband an unexpected kiss on the cheek and began to pull on his earlobes, promising him that he would never regret his decision.
Mohammed looked scandalized at my affectionate display and made some small excuse to leave the room. Kareem’s younger sister Hanan, who had been married for some years to Mohammed, gave us a knowing smile and said that we should ignore her husband’s prudish facade, that Mohammed was the most loving, affectionate, and attentive of men behind closed doors.
I laughed aloud, wondering about their secret life of sweet sex, for Mohammed had always seemed strict and standoffish, and in the past I had pitied my sister-in-law.
I looked at my husband and saw that his face had reddened at the idea of his sister’s marriage bed. I thought to myself that our Saudi men are too uptight and unbearably puritanical when it comes to married passion, even their own.
Remembering that we were soon going to Makkah, I kissed my husband again! I was elated!
Kareem and I invited Sara, Asad, and their growing brood to accompany our family on our long-awaited religious odyssey. Sara never failed to do Haj and was immensely pleased that this year our family would not be traveling abroad during the religious occasion.
We made excited plans to depart Riyadh for Makkah in two days’ time.
*
Finally, it was the day of our trip to Makkah. There was much to be accomplished! Our plan was to meet Sara and her family at the airport in Riyadh at seven o’clock in the evening. Prior to that time, each member of the family had to enter Ihram, which is marked by an all-consuming intention of the heart to fulfill all the rites of pilgrimage.
During the time of Ihram, nothing involving normal life is acceptable. Hair cannot be cut, nails cannot be trimmed, beards cannot be shaved, perfumes cannot be worn, garments with seams cannot be worn, animals cannot be killed, sexual relations must be postponed, and direct contact between men and women avoided, until the sacred time of Ihram has ended.
All the members of our family started their rituals for the pilgrimage before leaving Riyadh. It was important for each person to enter a state of purity even before the long-awaited journey began.
Startling my Filipino maid, Cora, who was dusting in my bedroom, I entered my private quarters chanting the famous cry uttered by all pilgrims as they perform the rites while in the holy city of Makkah, “Here I am, God! Here I am! Here I am to do your bidding.”
After Cora recovered herself, I, in a happy frame of mind, explained the significance of our upcoming religious journey.
Cora, a dedicated Catholic, had little understanding of Muslim traditions, but as a girl of deep religious convictions, she did appreciate my delight at going on a pilgrimage.
I continued
to chant my cry to God as a smiling Cora filled my bath. I counted off on my fingers all the tasks I had to accomplish. My face had to be cleansed of all makeup, and I had to take off my jewelry, even the ten-carat flawless diamond earrings given to me by my husband the year before, which I rarely removed from my pierced ears.
After removing my earrings and placing them in the large bedroom safe that holds my collection of precious jewels, I submerged myself for hours in a hot tub, to symbolically cleanse myself of any impurities. While soaking, I prepared myself for the journey by repeating aloud God’s command to Muslims to visit Makkah, “And proclaim among men the pilgrimage, they will come to you on foot and on every lean camel, coming from every deep ravine.” I put aside any and every thought of my family and myself, concentrating instead on things of peace and feelings of love for my fellow man.
After my long bath, I wrapped myself in a seamless black garment and covered my hair with a lightweight black scarf. Facing the holy city of Makkah, I prostrated myself on the bed- room floor and performed my prayers, appealing to God to accept the rites of Haj from me.
Finally, I was prepared for my journey.
I met my husband and children in the sitting room downstairs. Kareem and Abdullah were immaculate in white seamless robes and plain sandals. Maha and Amani were dressed in modest, dark- colored garments that covered all flesh except their faces, feet, and hands. They, as I, were unveiled. “The true veil is in the eyes of men,” runs a saying of the Prophet. Thus, women on pilgrimage are forbidden to cover their faces while on Haj.
As a child, I often asked my mother about the strange necessity of covering her face before man but not before God. My mother, reared never to question the authority of men, appeared baffled and confused at the sane logic put forth by her inquiring daughter, but having spent a lifetime under the rigid jurisdiction of men, she hushed me and made no answer to what I believe is still a justifiable question.
Now, looking at my daughters’ faces in all their innocence, the memory came flowing into my mind.
I hugged each of my daughters and said in an irritated tone, “When man comes to share God’s wisdom, you can discard the veils you so hate!” I could not help tossing a glance of contempt at my husband and son.
Kareem moaned, “Sultana,” admonishing me for what I had done!
I was struck with the horrible thought that I had broken my Haj vow! I had lapsed into a moment of discord, thinking of worldly concerns, when I must rejoice in topics of peace and love.
Embarrassed at my indiscretion, I left the room in a rush, explaining that I must perform my rituals once again.
Kareem was smiling, and my children began to laugh, as they seated themselves on chairs and sofas, patiently awaiting my return.
I prostrated myself on the bedroom floor, asking God to quiet my tongue and assist me in entering Ihram once again.
While I was praying, sad thoughts of my mother once again crept into my mind, and angry images of my father played across my eyes, ending the tranquility so necessary for entering Ihram. With a frown, I began my prayers again, from the very beginning.
I was on the verge of tears when I rejoined my family, and my husband gave me a tender look of love, which I mistook for a sexual thought. I shouted at Kareem, and then burst into tears, declaring that I could not go to Haj, that my family would have to leave without me, for I could not quiet my active and spiteful mind in order to enter the state of Ihram!
Kareem gave a nod to my daughters, for our flesh was forbidden contact, and Maha and Amani laughingly pushed me from the room into the waiting car. We were going to the airport.
Kareem quieted my protests by saying that I could go through my rituals once again on the airplane, or at our home in Jeddah before we made the short drive the following morning to Makkah.
*
Asad, Sara, and their children were waiting for us at the royal waiting lounge at the King Khalid International Airport, which is a forty-five-minute drive out of the city of Riyadh.
I greeted my sister and her family with strained silence, and after Maha whispered in my sister’s ear, Sara gave a knowing smile that told me she understood our delay.
Our family traveled in one of Kareem’s private Lear jets to Jeddah. It was a quiet journey, the adults thinking of God and their planned communication with him. The older children played quiet games, while the younger ones slept or looked through books.
Respectful of my inability to control my tongue, I spoke not a word until moments before we landed, and then I spoke too much.
It was night when we arrived at the King Abdul Aziz International Airport at Jeddah, and I was pleased when Kareem instructed the American pilot to take us through the Haj, or Pilgrim’s Terminal, which is a surrealistic tent city that covers 370 acres of land. The Pilgrim’s Terminal is for incoming pilgrims from other lands, but our royal status made it possible for us to land wherever we might wish.
A few years before Kareem had taken Abdullah to the grand opening of the terminal, but neither of my daughters had yet been inside the spectacular building.
Forgetting my earlier vow to remain silent until my feet touched the streets of Makkah, I felt an unexplained need for my daughters to discover a source of pride in their heritage, even if that pride was linked implicitly with economic wealth.
Initially, I spoke in a quiet voice, which I knew would not be offensive to God. I explained to my daughters that the terminal had won an international award for its unique design and advanced engineering innovation. I felt a surge of pride in the infrastructure that Saudi Arabians had created in one short generation. No longer feeling the shame of my ancestors’ wrenching poverty, which had haunted me in my younger days, the old passions left me and my sense of the past was sharpened. What had once seemed bleak and shameful was now lovely and of great value. I thought to myself: from a forbidding land where scarcely fifty years ago warring tribes had fought over camels and goats, we Saudis have arrived as an economic force. My own family had led lawless tribesmen from a stark desert land to become one of the wealthiest peoples and nations on earth.
While Western minds have always claimed that only the oil paved our way to prosperity, I paid that analysis little heed, for oil had been discovered in other lands, and the ordinary citizens of those countries had never enjoyed the substantial life-style experienced by all Saudis. The secret lay in the wisdom of the men who controlled the proceeds from our resources. While I have always found much fault with the men of my family, particularly regarding their stance on women’s issues, on this one subject I recognized and commended their clever and insightful leadership.
Thinking the opportunity was ripe to instill ancestral pride into those I had given life, I became enthusiastic and began to speak in a loud voice, reminding the children of past events and the virtues of the ones who came before us: the courage, endurance, self-reliance, and intelligence of our bedouin ancestors. Recalling the impoverished life lived by my parents, and then the extravagant life enjoyed by their children and grandchildren, a reversal that was nothing short of miraculous, I became animated, telling family tales with dramatic intensity and convincing realism.
Thinking myself quite the storyteller, remembering happy moments spent at the feet of my own mother and older aunties, I was immersed in the drama of the founding of our country when, suddenly, I realized that I had no audience.
Sara, Asad, and Kareem shared pained looks, but as I had quite forgotten the purpose of our journey, their expressions of disbelief at my conduct made no impact on my mind.
I glanced at our young ones and was keenly disappointed to see their lack of interest. I knew at that moment that poverty not endured does not affect the privileged, and that the younger Al Sa’ud generation had fallen under the enfeebling influence of great wealth.
Plainly, the children were bored at the thought of the bedouin seed from which they had sprung.
Abdullah was playing a game of backgammon with Sara’s oldest son, while
the smallest children were cavorting with some small cars and trucks Assad had brought back from his last trip to London.
Recalling the face of my loving mother and her poignant stories of the wonderful grandparents I had never known, my palms itched with the desire to slap the unresponsive faces of the descendants of those tender souls who had been dead for so very long. I looked around for someone to pounce upon, and just as I reached over to pinch the skin on Abdullah’s arm, my eyes met Sara’s, and she mouthed the word Ihram.
Once again, I had failed to remember where I was going! Thinking, too late, I will perform my rituals once again when I reach my home in Jeddah, my thoughts strayed back to the past, and tears came without warning at the thought of the hardy and brave ancestors we would see no more. Sara gave me a gentle smile of forgiveness, and I knew that my dearest sister knew my thoughts and forgave me my transgression.
Struck by the memory of an apt proverb, “Only our own eyes will cry for us,” I was saddened at my family’s ability to discard the memory of those who had come before us. I cried out in a forceful voice, “Those who seem dead to you are alive to me!”
My family looked at me in astonishment, all except for Kareem, who failed to control a fit of laughter. I glared at him as he wiped his wet eyes with a tissue and mumbled something to Asad that I tried to hear but could not, regarding the woman he had wed.
To calm my emotions, I turned my attention to my two daughters, and saw that they, at least, had heard something of what I had said.
Maha, preferring Europe and America over anything Saudi Arabian, was of little comfort. She had ignored my boastful commentary on our family history, and now began to complain bitterly about the terminal, dismayed that anyone would have designed an airport terminal as a tent!
“Why dig up the past?” she muttered with a tinge of dismay in her voice. “It is the twentieth century, you know.”
Amani, though, was entranced by the spotlights mounted on the support pylons. They gave an amazing view of the striking engineering wonder, and she gave a squeal of delight.
