I was praying afternoon prayers in Masjid Haram, and the prayer was about to end. All I could hear was the sound of several crying babies. It made me smile. Each seemed to be crying in a different key. Why won’t my mom soothe me? She can hear me cry and wave my little hands. It’s been about 6 minutes but probably feels like hours. Why wont she pick me up?
The Imam ends the prayer with salaams and within 20 seconds, all the crying ceases. It’s all about motherhood, I think.
The entirety of the Umrah pilgrimage revolves around a mother’s love and desperation to provide for her child. Running between two mountains in the heat. Looking for water for her baby. She didn’t just run between them twice and give up. She did seven laps. In the Arabian heat, rocks and pebbles and stones. When she finally sees water, she screams “zam zam” – stop, stop. Forever, naming that stream of water until the end of time.
Millions of Muslims will go and recreate the route but will never be able to recreate the conditions. They’ll be under fans and air conditioners powered by Saudi money, smooth and marbled floor beneath their feet, Zamzam coolers available every few paces. Wheelchairs and electronic carts available for those who are sick, old or just plain tired. There’s a patch lit up on the route in green, where the men will usually break out into a jog.
When I was younger, I’d run too - to the chagrin of the security, or some random man who couldn’t mind his business stopping me and yelling at me.
I found it strange. I still do. Who are they doing this in honour of? A woman. But I’m not allowed?
When I was eight, I was pushed to the forefront of the Kaa’bah by mistake and got yelled at by the man standing at the door. All the other men around me witnessing this felt so bad, they banded together to lift me up and I was able to touch the doors of the Kaa’bah. I’ll always be grateful to those men.
I did Umrah on the third day of Eid (at least for Pakistan). I thought about how I wasn’t allowed to pray Eid prayers at the local masjid in my neighbourhood in Pakistan on account of being a woman. My dad did his best to raise the issue, taking it up to the committee, after which it was decided women would pray and a banner went up. The banner was ripped down the next morning at Fajr prayers and he and my mom found somewhere else to pray. I got to the masjid not knowing this and was turned away, and I thought about how God picked me up from there and placed me down right in His house. I think that if it wasn’t said explicitly that we are meant to be here, some ill-meaning people might find a way to keep us out of there too.
The entire pilgrimage revolves around a woman’s actions and the lengths she will go to for what she loves. I’m glad that there’s space for babies to cry and children to play and spill their juice and laugh and be loud. The whole ummah bands together and communally watches these kids so that their mothers can also partake in all the activities. It’s beautiful.
I’m glad to be a part of a religion that honours these women, in addition to Hajrah, the desperate mother. And I find it sad that some people will try to twist the spirit of Islam when it comes to us.
The Imam ends the prayer with salaams and within 20 seconds, all the crying ceases. It’s all about motherhood, I think.
The entirety of the Umrah pilgrimage revolves around a mother’s love and desperation to provide for her child. Running between two mountains in the heat. Looking for water for her baby. She didn’t just run between them twice and give up. She did seven laps. In the Arabian heat, rocks and pebbles and stones. When she finally sees water, she screams “zam zam” – stop, stop. Forever, naming that stream of water until the end of time.
Millions of Muslims will go and recreate the route but will never be able to recreate the conditions. They’ll be under fans and air conditioners powered by Saudi money, smooth and marbled floor beneath their feet, Zamzam coolers available every few paces. Wheelchairs and electronic carts available for those who are sick, old or just plain tired. There’s a patch lit up on the route in green, where the men will usually break out into a jog.
When I was younger, I’d run too - to the chagrin of the security, or some random man who couldn’t mind his business stopping me and yelling at me.
I found it strange. I still do. Who are they doing this in honour of? A woman. But I’m not allowed?
When I was eight, I was pushed to the forefront of the Kaa’bah by mistake and got yelled at by the man standing at the door. All the other men around me witnessing this felt so bad, they banded together to lift me up and I was able to touch the doors of the Kaa’bah. I’ll always be grateful to those men.
I did Umrah on the third day of Eid (at least for Pakistan). I thought about how I wasn’t allowed to pray Eid prayers at the local masjid in my neighbourhood in Pakistan on account of being a woman. My dad did his best to raise the issue, taking it up to the committee, after which it was decided women would pray and a banner went up. The banner was ripped down the next morning at Fajr prayers and he and my mom found somewhere else to pray. I got to the masjid not knowing this and was turned away, and I thought about how God picked me up from there and placed me down right in His house. I think that if it wasn’t said explicitly that we are meant to be here, some ill-meaning people might find a way to keep us out of there too.
The entire pilgrimage revolves around a woman’s actions and the lengths she will go to for what she loves. I’m glad that there’s space for babies to cry and children to play and spill their juice and laugh and be loud. The whole ummah bands together and communally watches these kids so that their mothers can also partake in all the activities. It’s beautiful.
I’m glad to be a part of a religion that honours these women, in addition to Hajrah, the desperate mother. And I find it sad that some people will try to twist the spirit of Islam when it comes to us.