From this point on, my time with Shahinaz became increasingly impossible. It was almost as if the women were deliberately being taken further away. Shahinaz sent me frequent dispatches from the women’s group—how they would tell tales on one another and yet be there for each other when things got challenging, like a simple menstrual cycle. She said they regularly held the Shia majlis, and tears were abundant.
On this morning, I was Shahinaz-less—she was taken on a “women only” tour of Mecca’s Saudi destruction; we men were soon to have our own. Pretty soon I would start escaping the male-only tours.
The other woman in my life, Siri, seemed confused. She and I rode on the sometimes password-free Wi-Fi network kindly provided by Osama bin Laden’s family, the biggest construction conglomerate in the holy land. Siri was babbling about not knowing the geography of where we were. I had just finished Facetiming with Keith back in New York, assuring him I was safe. I was still transfixed by an ancient sight—hundreds of thousands of chanting pilgrims from nearly every nation, all circling the Kaaba. From my vantage point, on the second level of the largest mosque in the world, the Masjid al-Haram, the pilgrims seemed to float. Haram, depending on how it is pronounced, could mean both “forbidden” and “sanctuary.”
I was yearning for a nice cup of joe. Asr, the afternoon prayer, was a while away. On the escalator I glided down past an ascending group of abaya-wearing women, presumably on their way to get their one-way tickets to heaven, along with extra brownie points from Allah. I didn’t dare tell them that they were defying the Prophet’s edict on behavior in Mecca. Men and women were supposed to be equal here. Women actually have to expose their faces, so that God would see them! But this was Wahhabi-land. As I got off the escalator, I noticed a sign: “WATCH OUT ABAYA.” Some thoughtful engineer must have considered the constant danger that would accompany women on these escalators, their abayas dangerously dangling below the ankles they dare not expose.
I was a bit shaken. Yesterday I had chatted with an older Yemeni man called Mohamed at Al-Baik, the Saudi version of KFC or Popeye’s. I told him how the bin Laden family got worldwide fame only because of one out of more than fifty children. He referred to that Osama as “Sheikh Osama.” Sheikh was often reserved for a learned Muslim. I asked him why. I learned once again that one person’s terrorist could be another’s freedom fighter.
He told me how Osama’s father had been a Yemeni. He rose to become a multibillionaire, BFFs with the ruling Saud.
“What do you think of the new Kingdom Tower?” I had asked him, referring to the monstrosity that dwarfs everything in Mecca. “Isn’t it like King Abdullah’s having an erection?”
Mohamed laughed. “But remember, Parvez—Sheikh Osama destroyed America’s two biggest erections.” I had difficulty sharing his mirth.
“How can you live in that country as a Muslim?” he asked. I changed the subject and we parted company.
On this day as I continued walking out of the mosque, I was in a dystopian, Ayn Randian landscape. Dozens of skyscrapers and innumerable cranes leapt into the heavens. Crowds of pilgrims, transformed now into eager shoppers, seemed to be oblivious to the obliteration of Muslim history that predicated the new construction. Chinese workers, hastily converted to Islam, were among the burgeoning armies of builders. More indentured servants from India, robbed of their passports and hope, also toiled here. In the past five decades, Saudi authorities had allegedly destroyed more than 90 percent of Mecca’s Islamic history in the form of buildings, graves, and artifacts. They built a row of toilets over the home the Prophet shared with his first wife, Khadija. In the nineties, Saudi architect Sami Angawi fought to save this home. He made other attempts at conservation, even directly appealing to the king. But the clout of the bulldozer-happy bin Laden family was no match for one man’s protest.
As a young man, Osama bin Laden was briefly his family’s executive assigned to Mecca. He oversaw the early stages of the demolition his family was carrying out. Years later, when he finally gathered the courage to speak openly against the Saudi-sponsored erasure of Islam’s history, he omitted this major detail. As Osama’s list of grievances against the Al Saud grew exponentially, he never referred to that time in Mecca.
The Saudi king insists upon the title, “The Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques.” This is his only way to reinforce his authority throughout the Muslim world. The Al Saud, and their builders, the bin Ladens, exert a sense of ownership over these holy places, which should theoretically belong to all Muslims. Change is inevitable, but change at the expense of history is tragic.
The bin Ladens claim they are creating space. Fair enough. I certainly understood the need for more open space, more transportation, and more lodging. But a deliberate government and Wahhabi-sanctioned project to rewrite the history of Islam is egregious. Brand-new trains ferrying pilgrims across the desert, in true Saudi apartheid, were only open to citizens of the Gulf Cooperation Council. So much of the new construction was for the rich, since they provide the most tourism dollars. Another example: An enormous Al Saud palace, complete with helipads, hid behind massive concrete walls, just a few hundred meters from the Kaaba. Why do the Al Saud need a palace so close to the Kaaba even though they possess the keys to it—opening it only for their “special” guests?
Till I got to Mecca, I used to think that the excess and hedonism of the Saudi ruling family were reserved for salacious gossip rags. But Saudis love monarchical gossip and much arises from the deeds of King Salman’s son, who shares his father’s name.
Still Shahinaz-less on that day, I went into the singles section of the Starbucks in this crass megaplex. I had to chuckle again at the company’s logo. The voluptuous mermaid was replaced by a star shining over a sea. This total censorship was better than giving the mermaid an abaya, I supposed. Some years later, a Starbucks in Riyadh would temporarily ban women from entry, putting up a sign reading, “PLEASE NO ENTRY FOR LADIES ONLY SEND YOUR DRIVER TO ORDER THANK YOU,” after their literal gender-segregation wall collapsed.
A fellow pilgrim broke my reverie, asking for a light. His name was Abdullah. We bonded over our shared Siri problems. She was refusing to talk to either of us.
Repeating what I already knew, he said how women unaccompanied by men dared not enter any public space here. “Let’s go to the family section. I want you to meet my wife and sister-in-law.”
“But I’m not family,” I protested.
“We are brothers on Hajj,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulder.
Abdullah’s wife Aisha, who was certainly no virgin like her seventh-century counterpart, was visibly pregnant. For all three monotheisms, virginity is a virtue. For most Sunni Muslims, the second-purest woman is the Virgin Mary, whose son Jesus gets more Quranic mention than Muhammad. Beating even the New Testament, Mary, who gets seventy mentions in the Quran, is the only woman directly named in the holy book. Too many Christians have no idea about the high esteem Islam reserves for them.
This Aisha wore a black niqab that sheathed the lower part of her face. I wondered how on earth she could sip her coffee through the veil. Her sister Maryam was similarly clad. The trio had decided to embark on the Hajj when they discovered Aisha’s pregnancy. They described their long car journey from Sharjah to the Fairmont. This was Gulf money in action. The women did not satisfy my curiosity—their cups remained on the table. Not even a sip!
Abdullah told me of his first night at the Masjid al-Haram. The threesome began the sacred tawaf as soon as they entered Mecca. He was separated from Aisha and Maryam early on. I immediately understood his fear.
“My experience was the most violent night of my entire life,” I told them. The mass of believers all heaved toward the Kaaba in attempts to get ever closer, and even to touch it, leaving no room for the weak of will. It was a mosh pit. A survival-of-the-fittest situation. Most of these men had never been in such close proximity to so many women ever in their lives, I’d thought. The screams of women rising above the Quranic chants from that night still haunt me.
Abdullah described his experience in detail. He was unable to find Aisha and Maryam for hours. He prayed their piety would protect them. “Un-Islamic things happen there, brother Parvez,” he says, shaking his head. “Un-Islamic.” Aisha and Maryam were silent. As my chai tea latte arrived, Abdullah was quick to change the subject. “Maryam is an unmarried student,” he told me. “You should talk to her about New York. She is fascinated.”
Was he matchmaking? Pleased with myself, I launched into a description of the five boroughs. The women, if they were fascinated, never uttered a word of response. Abdullah smiled. At any rate, my “Hajj butch” was clearly working.
On cue, the call to afternoon prayer rang out. I assumed the mutaween would soon be running around with their canes to shut down all the shops, but I was wrong. As in India, this mall had its own class system. A mutawa wouldn’t dare enter the Chanel store.
This mall is built squarely on top of the eighteenth-century Ottoman Ajyad Fortress. Turkey was among the few Islamic countries that dared to protest its destruction. The Saudis have successfully bullied most of the Muslim world into silence. The mall is housed inside a 120-story clock tower, the fourth-tallest building in the world. The clock faces are the world’s largest. There are 98 million pieces of glass embedded into the four clock faces. Apart from the mall, the tower complex also houses a five-star hotel and hyper-luxury apartments costing eight figures, advertised in British newspapers such as the Guardian, as the world’s most-coveted Islamic real estate. A single night in a royal suite in one of these hotels can cost close to $6,000. Mecca contains some of the most expensive land in the world, with ten square feet in some areas selling for well over $100,000.
My educated Shia group considered it particularly obscene. In our group tours of the city, they clucked their tongues at this symbol of unfettered capitalism. In the circular whirl around the cube, at times it almost seemed like people were praying to the looming tower instead of the Kaaba. On the other hand, the clock tower served as a helpful beacon, since it’s visible from anywhere in Mecca and miles around. I was often lost, and the tower, not Siri, guided me back.
I realized that my point of view about the crass consumerism on display was in the minority. I approached Mecca with a critical mindset. The Gucci shops and escalators were quotidian to me, but to a poor pilgrim from Somalia who had just disembarked from his or her first-ever flight, these would be perceived not only as unimaginable luxuries but also as encouraging markers of an ascendant Islam.
Muhammad’s Hajj of equality lay in tatters, at Saudi hands. Clad in white, all were supposed to be one and the same before God. The richest prayed next to the poorest and performed the same rituals. But now brutal dictators from African regimes could rent out entire suites in the Fairmont Mecca Clock Royal Tower. The website advertises:
Fairmont Makkah Clock Royal Tower offers unmatched hospitality throughout the ultimate exclusive hotel experience with Fairmont Gold where our discerning guests have the privilege of choosing their rooms showcasing unrivaled views of either the Kaaba, Haram or to The Holy City of Makkah.
Their jacuzzis, saunas, and steam rooms promised “a guaranteed way to melt away stress.” This Hajj experience was quite different from mine, to say nothing of those of the poorest pilgrims, many of whom slept on the streets throughout their Hajj.
Abdullah, like me, had discovered the spotless Starbucks bathrooms and together we performed our wudu there.
Then he said, “Now let me teach you how to pray in a shopping mall.”
“But the Kaaba is right there,” I replied, pointing to the entrance to the mall.
“It’s hot,” he said. “It can’t be ‘Kaaba, Kaaba’ all the time.” We took sanctuary in the air-conditioned mall, kneeling with others in neat rows below beckoning neon signs. I was one with the mall-praying lazy pilgrims.
Later, I obeyed my maxim: If in Mecca, head to the Kaaba. The Hajj is a harsh pilgrimage that is fundamentally about faith and surrender. My moments spent praying to and contemplating the Kaaba offered great succor. The hungry hands of sinners, over centuries, had made its grainy, granite surface a vessel of forgiveness. It radiated a strength that filled me. Drawn to it like a magnet, I would return night after sleepless night. If Islam offered redemption to its sinner-pilgrims, it was to be found right here.
“Parvez?” It was Younes, a thoughtful, mild-mannered doctor from Montgomery, Alabama, who was part of my group. I’d instinctively liked him—we’d become Hajj buddies. We marveled for a moment at the unlikelihood of finding each other in these immense crowds. “I have something to tell you,” he said. I listened. He proceeded to come out to me as a Sunni man.
“But I thought your wife and mother-in-law were Shia,” I said.
“An unlikely marriage, but a very strong one,” he replied. He asked me if I knew how to pray like the Shia. I told him I had spent months learning their customs before I came. When with the Shia group, I prayed like they did. When alone I prayed the slightly different Sunni way.
“A good compromise,” he said. “It wouldn’t be good to be found out as an outsider here.” I already knew that Younes chose his words carefully. I wondered if he knew the shameful secret I carried. We sat in contemplative silence for a while. I had always been taught that where we sat was God’s abode. And God detested liars, my mother used to say. My burden of deceit suddenly felt heavy.
“I have something to tell you, too,” I whispered. “I am gay.” The three words I have never even dared say to my father.
“I knew,” he said. And then there was silence. Eternities passed. Younes gently put his arm around my shoulder.
“Why would you want to be a part of something that wants no part of you?” he asked.
The Kaaba gave me the strength to come out, I wanted to tell him. His kind gesture validated my very being. The sleepless nights spent here had changed me. By now I believed that I had received acceptance from a higher power than those who patrolled these walls with rifles and batons. Now, my Islam would forever be different. It would no longer be a faith of fear. It was no longer a question of whether Islam would accept me. It was a question of whether I would accept Islam.
And sitting there silent, with the nice Sunni doctor from Alabama, steps away from Islam’s beating heart, I did.