The Call Home: Part 3

A personal account of a young woman’s trip to the Hly Lands to perform Hajj, the holy pilgrimage to Makkah during the sacred days of Hajj, to be performed by every Muslim who is able to, at least once in their lifetime]. (Read parts 1 and 2 in the January and March 2019 editions of the NorthWest Muslim) Author’s Introduction The German poet Christian Morgenstern wrote: "Home is not where you live, but where they understand you. PART 3: Madinah, The Enlightened City. The road to Madinah was an amazingly picturesque experience. The stunning desert landscape, the quaint small towns, the beautiful mosques in every small town. I believe we may have even seen a volcano on the way. Every stop along the way, people would rush into our bus, and hand us water and food. Subhanallah and Alhamdulillah. May Allah bless them in this life and the next. As we drove into the city, the first thing we saw was the large gravesite, “Jannat-ul-Baqi”, as it is called. Jannat meaning Garden, and Baqi refers to a specific type of plant. Our hotel was nice. A step down from the luxury of Makkah, but still quite nice. Think 5-star buffet the size of one elaborate wedding (and not two like in Makkah!) The goal in Madinah was to pray as often as possible in the Prophet’s Mosque. I was eager. I had many happy memories from my childhood at the Prophet's mosque - some of my best memories. So we set out. The Mosque wasn’t quite near, but neither was it far. When I reached the courtyard, my brother left to go pray, and I set out in search of the women’s prayer area. Fancy digital signs pointed me along. But when I followed them, I saw no women’s section. I was confused. I then asked someone, and they pointed me further down. So I set out, still having trouble finding it, turning back a few times, till I finally found it. The women’s section was at the back of the mosque. If the hotel to the mosque was 600 meters, the mosque to the women’s side was another 600 meters, making the walk over a km. I was tired after a days travels, and so a little frustrated, but being young, I took it. When I got back to the hotel, I realized many of the older women, and not so older women, had found the trip far to exhausting, and weren’t planning to go much more often during our stay. This was quite disheartening, considering how far these women had travelled to visit the Prophet’s mosque and pray at it. The next morning, at Fajr, I set out early, to make sure I could find a nice spot, and actually catch the prayer in time! I had decided that I would pray in the courtyard closer to my hotel. So I got to the mosque, picked a nice spot behind a pillar, and sat down. Not long after, an elderly man came by, and told me I couldn’t pray here (in a different languages that I couldn’t quite understand). We found a common language, and I realized he was saying that I was not standing behind the Imam, so my prayer wouldn’t count. So I moved in further, and sat down again. Looking behind me, I saw religious police telling another group of women to leave, and go to the women’s section. My experience in Makkah with religious police has been fairly good, but Madinah seemed to be a lot more strict. Soon enough, he came to me. I explained to him that the women’s section was really far. “Just there” he said. “Lie”, I thought, as I held myself back from rolling my eyes. I stood for a while, considering what I should do next. Should I go to the women’s section another 5-10 min walk from here? I was really tired - exhausted from Hajj and traveling. I stood some more thinking it through. I said to the Mutawah, the Prophet wouldn’t have asked women to walk the length of Madinah to go to pray at his mosque. (Fact: the Prophet’s mosque today + courtyard is the size of the whole town of madinah in the prophet’s time). And I turned, and left. My hope was that he might realize that these strict rules on where women could and could not pray, was turning women away from the Mosque, and Rasulullah (SAW) had warned against turning women away from Mosques. Admittedly, this was a little dramatic, and over the next few days, I looked for some place to complain officially. Not only was the women’s section in just the back part of the mosque, but the section was so full, that many women prayed outside, filling up the outdoor women’s courtyard, and praying in the overflow courtyard outside the fenced in courtyard. The men’s section on the other hand felt quite comfortable and airy. How Muslims feel treating women as second class, and not giving them equal comfort and space at houses of God is something I have never quite understood. Treat your brother the way you wish to be treated. I guess our Ummah forgot that by “brother” the Prophet (SAW) meant “brother and sister”. Or that the Prophet (SAW) said, the best of you are those that are best to your womenfolk. Best? Far from it, unfortunately. How far we have come from the enlightenment of this blessed city, the wisdom of our beautiful Prophet (SAW)’s perfected ways. May Allah guide us all. While in Madinah, many people made it a point to visit the Prophet’s grave, and to pray in the area between his home and his mimbar - which is said to be the equivalent of praying in Jannah. So I set out — another mission. After praying Isha, I then waited in the appropriate section to join those who would visit Riyaz-ul-Jannah. I waited, not really understanding what I was waiting for. I asked a few people, got confused, and left. On my way back, I ran into an aunty who was in our Hajj group. She asked if I had visited the Prophet’s grave yet — that’s what she was going to go do. So I joined her — maybe she would know better than me. She was a big and strong woman. And next to skinny me, I felt protected from the forces that we were about to encounter. Going to the Rawdah was an experience of cattle-hood. We were herded into holding pens. And there we waited, not knowing what was going to come next. And then we were herded again, into another pen. Waiting. Not knowing what was going to come next and when. And then again. I believe we were herded into at least 4 different pens before we made it into the last pen. When the gates would open to go to the next pen, women would run, pushing past others. I would silently smile at the misdirected enthusiasm. Women would push past each other while waiting, climbing over each other’s shoulder. When the mutawah would yell at them (and the mutawah knew how to yell in pretty much every common Muslim language - Malay, Urdu/Hindi, Arabic, Farsi, English), they would make excuses, and outright lies. I thought - Subhanallah. At the house of God, visiting the Prophet (SAW)’s grave, and lies. Subhanallah. When we got to our last pen, We were packed like sardines. Standing back to back, with no room to move. Aunty and I held on to each other very strongly, and discussed our lives and the world to pass the time in this latest pen, and admired the architecture of this older inner part of the mosque. We got yelled at once by an older lady who said we should be doing zikr here, not talking. I thought talking and making light of the situation was better than fighting and pushing past each other, which is what many women were doing. After breaking up a few fights, we finally realized that we had reached the Rawdah, and were not in a holding pen! Oops. There wasn’t much space, so we prayed standing. When we finally got space to leave, and we began walking out, Aunty pointed out an empty corner at the front and suggested I pray there while she guarded me - God bless her soul. So lucky me, I got to pray 4 rakat in the Rawdah, 2 standing, and 2 proper and in peace. Subhanallah. Without pushing, shoving, or getting into any fights. The reward of patience… As we got back, we heard the men hadn’t been so lucky. There were elbows, and flying glasses, and injuries. It’s funny how Shaytan convinces us that this trip it’s about winning, or showing off to people back home “I prayed in the Rawdah”, and not actually honouring respectfully the memory of the Prophet (SAW), and praying a solemn prayer there in homage of his message. Truly, how far we have come. The airport in Madinah was beautiful. A digitized man in a keffiyeh waived at us and wished us an accepted Hajj as we waited in line for immigration. And soon, we were off. Flying back to Montreal, and then Calgary. Minus what?’ I thought as the WestJet captain announced the on ground temperature. Oh yea, Calgary. The drive home felt strangely dissociative. An aunty and uncle had graciously offered to pick us up from the airport, feed us, and drive us home, May Allah have mercy on them. Having lived in Calgary now almost half my life, it was surprising that the plains, the homes, the sky, the prairie landscape all felt distinctly foreign. But this was home, I reminded myself. For some reason, it didn’t feel that way anymore. It was as if the journey was home, and home was just a temporary journey.