In the Land of Invisible Women (13 page)

“Hesham is describing intercession.” Faris continued, “Allah wants us to learn patience. The death of a child is perhaps the most difficult test to develop this, Qanta. Patience is a tremendous virtue in Islam because Allah wants us to cope with difficulties and trials always with acceptance.”

Faris went on to explain how the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) himself emphasized that the person who praises God both in good times and bad is the true believer and most worthy of God's Grace. He continued, “Raeef's death is terribly painful for his parents but they have been given a special opportunity to grow closer to Allah.”

As I listened I was reminded of the amazing tolerance of the patients I had attended in this country. The principles Faris was describing were probably why my patients, no matter how ill, were surrounded, by and large, by nonjudgmental, accepting relatives who seemed equally pleased and comfortable with my efforts no matter what the outcome of their family member. Relatives of patients in Saudi Arabia were surprisingly devoid of the recriminations despite the severity of disease, the unexpectedly precipitous deaths, or the difficult course their family members often faced in critical illness. I used to explain this away by the absence of litigiousness in the Kingdom where medical malpractice suits do not exist, but now from Faris's careful explanations I understood that this belief that one must be patient in the face of terrible ordeals and terrible tribulations was evidently dearly held among all Saudis in the Kingdom.

Faris continued, “A child who has passed from this life, at the Will of God, is allowed to plead on behalf of his parents. God's heart is soft to these young, innocent souls. Always tell a suffering parent this, because it will soothe their grief. Allah allows the deceased child to speak to Him on his parents' behalf. Raeef will intercede, meaning, plead to Allah for His mercy when He must make judgment on his parents in the afterlife, asking Allah to excuse their mistakes. Normally only special souls can appeal to Allah at the time of judgment, asking Allah to be merciful in his judgment, for instance like the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) or holy saints may speak on behalf of the soul. But the soul of a child can speak for his parents too.”

Faris felt compelled to add more, “The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) taught that a child who dies, whether a boy or a girl, will always appeal on their parents' behalf. Not only for the mother,” and he looked significantly at Hesham, “but also on behalf of the father. Allah will look very compassionately on these parents who will suffer lifelong for their precious loss and of course, the child is always admitted to heaven in the afterlife, to Jannat.” Faris used the Arabic word for special emphasis. “Because children are pure, without sin, and die in a state of innocence, like Raeef. And what is most important of all is to remember it is said the child will not bear to be separated from his parents in heaven and so when Allah is calling him to Jannat, he will refuse to enter the gates of heaven without his beloved mother and father's admission. In this way he takes each parent by the hand and leads them towards Allah in Heaven. And God takes pity on them.”
⁹

“How beautiful,” I couldn't help saying. Hesham nodded.

“Raeef is taking us by the hand. I know he is,” Hesham murmured. “Maybe we will stand before Allah in judgment and maybe Raeef will plead our sins to be forgiven. And you know, Qanta, God may take with one hand but he gives with another. Inshallah he has given us much, and he will give to us again.”

I looked at him puzzled, wondering if he was considering replacing Raeef with a new baby. I didn't dare ask such a sensitive question. The grieving father was too raw. Identifying my confusion, Faris again helped me understand and explained how another belief about the death of a child is substitution, though as humans we cannot begin to comprehend His wisdom. Some parents think that one child has been taken so that they might receive another who is even more pious. Or it could be Allah wished the child a sinless, innocent death in order for him to appeal for his imperfect parents on the Day of Judgment.

Hesham was calm now, approaching tranquility. “You know, Qanta,” Hesham began, “my wife always thought Raeef was special. Mashallah, also I think he was. Sometimes it worried my wife, because he was so adoring of Allah. His request every night at bedtime was, ‘Mummy, please read me the Quran.’ And even when my wife tried to read him a storybook or children's story he was not satisfied. She was worried by his piety. He seemed to have a maturity way beyond his six short years. He liked best the stories about the Prophet and he liked very much to picture Allah. None of our other children were like this. He was very pure, Qanta. That is why we really believed he was angelic. I think that is why he had to return so soon.

“You must know, Qanta, that the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) was himself an orphan. You remember he lost his parents and his beloved uncle and grandfather at a very early stage in life. His parents died when he was a young child. His life was marked by loss, Qanta. As a father, he went on to lose every single son and numerous daughters. We always tell one story to teach Muslims about grief following the death of a child. It is the story of when he was burying his son, Ibrahim, who had died in infancy. Do you know this example?”

I quickly admitted my ignorance. Quietly Imran switched on a lamp. Imtiaz poured some more coffee. A stray cat called for its mate in the alley outside. Looking through the shades I could tell it was finally growing dark. We listened in silence. Faris's explanations of Islamic teachings were very compelling. We were ensconced in this unfolding beauty of Islam.

Faris began to recount the story about the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) when he buried his own son. “It is recorded that when the Prophet Muhammad's son died, he held him one last time, pressing the body against his chest. Witnesses saw the Prophet's face became wet with tears as he said to the small body, ‘Oh my son, I didn't own you. You belonged to God and now you are returning to Him… If there had not been the true and certain promise of Allah that we too shall come after you, I would have wept more and become more grieved at the separation from you.’”

Hesham began to cry softly again as he imagined the parallel grief of the Prophet. Faris sniffed a little, stemming back his own tears. He continued, “After the corpse of the child was washed at the Prophet's instruction (which in Islam must be done by a same-sex member of the family) they approached the place of burial.” Hesham seemed lost in his own memories of his son's burial only two days earlier. “The gathered men—and in fact women as well, women in the Prophet's family were there too—saw the Prophet crying and they too were grief-stricken. Ye t even in this state of distress, still the Prophet showed us the correct example and chastised the noisy mourners gently saying…” (again Faris lapsed into classical Quranic Arabic, translating quickly for me) “‘Shed tears from your eyes and grieve in your heart but don't wail and moan!’”

Faris was finally silent. All that could be heard was the occasional sniff and the silent weeping of the grieving father. By now my own eyes were wet. I rummaged in my bag for tissues, pulling out a residue of crumpled Kleenex.

“We should not be ashamed of tears,” Faris suddenly announced in a louder, more impassioned voice, making no effort to hide his own tears which streamed into his beard. “The Prophet always said crying indicates a subtle and spiritually refined heart. Crying is a mercy from God that He gives only to whomever he pleases. He shows mercy only to those people who are merciful to others. It is a sign of tenderness that pleases Allah greatly.”

In these quiet, extraordinary moments of inclusion into the grief of a Saudi father, I was learning what I needed most, humility. Around me, these Saudi men, one, a new divorcé, and the other, a bereaved young father, were clumsily but gently showing me the way to be a better Muslim, perhaps even a better woman.

Hesham offered me more coffee. I nearly crumbled at his simple kindness, accepting some quickly to hide my quivering chin. The Azaan rang out, indicating time for Isha.

“We have stayed too long, Hesham,” Faris stood, suddenly, at once filling the room with his height and a recovered bonhomie. The men began their courtly procedures of farewell salaams. I flouted convention and shook Hesham's hand. He received it warmly.

“Please give my regards to your wife,” I volunteered.

“Yes, yes I will,” he responded, almost excited. “Hayyat knows you are visiting. She was very pleased, Doctora Qanta. You will have to meet her when she returns home. When she is stronger.”

“Inshallah,” I responded. “I will be glad to.”

We left him standing at the doorway, a forlorn figure forever framed by his loss. The solitude around him was overwhelming. Faris started the car, pausing momentarily before lurching the Cadillac into gear and rolling out of the driveway. I could tell he was reluctant to leave Hesham, but we all knew none of us could shelter Hesham from his loss. We knew there was no escape for Hesham from his grief, no peace or tranquility, either with the company of others or without.

The cocooning silence of the Cadillac muted us once more, each lost in private thoughts. The white road marks disappeared under the heavy American tires that carried us over anonymous roadways, the same roadways which were carrying me on so many strange journeys in this Kingdom of Loss, and the same roadways which had cut little Raeef's journey of lightness so unbearably short.

AN INVITATION TO GOD

I
NSIDE THE KINGDOM, HAJJ SEASON was upon us. Something approaching national fervor was beginning to take hold, quickly erasing the somber weeks of Ramadan, which had just elapsed. Each year, Hajj draws millions of Muslims from around the world who descend upon Mecca into an unparalleled pandemonium of worship. In Riyadh, several hundred miles northeast of Mecca, I could already feel the reverberations of Hajj. I wondered if I would glimpse some inkling of this extraordinary mass migration washing over the Kingdom.

Early one morning, I entered the doctors' office in the ICU and walked into a discussion on scheduling. I looked on with disinterest as colleagues negotiated leave for Hajj holiday. Most had already booked trips with Hajj agencies for their families and would be making Hajj themselves. Within me, the slow stirrings of a new curiosity tugged into life. Before I could investigate my thoughts any further, an emergency halted the meeting.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Imtiaz and I looked at each other with the intense release physicians know to follow extreme pressure. We had just pulled Halima (at sixteen, our youngest patient in the ICU) back from the brink of death. Thankfully she would get to live another day. We joined Mobeen, the other physician on duty, and together headed toward the South Indian's stall to buy ourselves tea. As I was leaving the ICU, pulling me to one side, Mobeen stopped me just inside the steel doors.

“Qanta, I must talk to you about Hajj.” His urgency stopped me in my tracks. We had hardly had any conversations outside of patient care. I leaned against a cool wall. Beads of perspiration slowly evaporated from between my shoulder blades. An air conditioning vent whirred directly overhead, dissipating the last remnants of my adrenalin. Intent, I listened, still keen from recent crisis.

“Qanta, you must go to Hajj. You must.” Taken aback, I listened. I hadn't been thinking of going to Hajj at all.

Mobeen's soft voice was unexpectedly impassioned. The room contracted to a single, shared moment. Conspiratorial, he urged on:

“It is every Muslim's right. It is your right, Qanta. No one can stop you from going because of the schedule. This could be your only year in the Kingdom. Who knows when you will get a chance to attend Hajj again, Qanta? You must take this chance. You are a Muslim and this is an Islamic Kingdom. It will be impossible for anyone to deny your request to attend.”

Triumphant that he had made his point clear, he left, looking suitably pleased. He had made an indelible impression. I was slightly shaken. In a bland instant, amid the humdrum of critical care, I had stumbled upon my
niyyat
(intent). I had clasped the fleeting Muslim within me and started a journey which would carry to the innermost sanctum of Islam.

Mecca is the place on earth where a Muslim can meet his Maker in this lifetime. Until now, the force field of my Maker had escaped me, but since I had moved to the Kingdom, I was beginning to feel His rumbling magnetism. Now, with my own Hajj days away, I realized I had never been so badly planned nor so spontaneous. I was a mixture of elation and fear as I began to find the edges of my ignorance.

I hurried to arrange leave and find a means of getting to Hajj. Mobeen had read the situation precisely. When I told him, my chairman was surprised but coolly complied with my ill-timed request. He couldn't deny a Muslim the opportunity to visit Mecca. The ICU would have to manage without me. I needed to find a carrier who would take me to Hajj, a Hajj agent. I soon realized that most had made arrangements months earlier. Helpful colleagues advised me to speak to the hospital's travel office. As soon as I could, I went to the hospital's Hajj office and booked a last minute package.

Later that afternoon, I made more tea. Switching on the computer, I surfed the Internet for information on how to do Hajj. On the verge of the most fundamental pillar of being a Muslim, I found myself an imposter. I didn't even have a copy of the Quran here in the Kingdom, let alone a book about how to do Hajj.

At last, I found a diagram explaining the stages of the journey. Designed for children, it was one of the few explanations I could find in English. I gathered up the pages as they unfurled from the printer. Fat arrows depicted steps that would soon be mine. I read hungrily.

In the beginning, I would express an intention to make Hajj. I would assume the required purified state, the ihram, through ablutions and prayer, before departing for the airport. As I traveled, I would acknowledge the Holy Sites of Medina and Mecca when I flew over them. (The pilot would notify us of precise moments to do so.) On arriving in Mecca, I would make my first Tawaf, circumambulating counterclockwise seven times around the Ka'aba, before embarking on Hajj proper. There was so much to remember, I found myself filling with a rising panic.

Returning to the map, I read more. After that first night completing the first Tawaf, I would depart the next day to a place called Mina where, for three days, I would spend the time in a reverie of supplication, along with several million others. From there I would go to the plain of Arafat. I would stand on the ground where Abraham had stood before God and prayed all night long. This was the most important part of Hajj: “Arafat is Hajj,” was repeated everywhere on any explanations I read. This was the essence of Hajj.

After a day at Arafat, in the late evening, I would spend the night outdoors on a plain called Muzdullifah. Finally, I would return to a place near Mina, called Jamaraat, where I would throw seven stones at three pillars which symbolize Iblis, the Devil, showing him appropriate scorn. This would mark the end of my Hajj, and I would cut a small lock of hair and discard it; a symbol of my purification. If God accepted my Hajj, I would be reborn, without sin.

If my Hajj was complete, I must sacrifice a sheep to distribute to the poor. How would I do this? Things seemed complicated enough without sheep shopping to boot! Only then, after finishing all these steps could I celebrate Eid, the end of Hajj. With a frantic rushing back and forth in memory of Hagar's search for water in the desert (a ritual called the Sai'ee), I would make a final Tawaf, at the end of which, with a final backward glance at the Ka'aba, I would pray that God allow me to return once more in my life to the Ka'aba, and leave the city limits immediately. I would thus become a Hajja (the official title of a Muslim woman who has completed Hajj).

As I looked at the crude diagram, it seemed straightforward enough and, thankfully, at eight days, apparently quite short. I kept the map in my bag and transposed some of the rituals into my diary. My Hajj was beginning to materialize from a mirage. I went to the phone. I wanted to call my Saudi friends and tell them I would go to Hajj. Maybe they would know what I should wear and exactly what else I needed. They would fill in the details.

“I will just get her, ma'am,” said Tutu, the Malaysian maid who answered the phone in Zubaidah's house. I heard Zubaidah's couture heels echoing across the cool marble floors of her villa. Barely allowing her time to greet me, I gabbled my news into the receiver.

“Mashallah, this is wonderful, Qanta, really wonderful.” Her deep, cultured voice was infused with joy. I could tell her pearly smile was slowly curving into a wide bow.

“I am so excited for you, Qanta! How did this happen so suddenly? Tell me everything!” exclaimed Zubaidah. I explained it all. As I told her the madcap events of prior days, I was taken aback by her exuberance. She was clearly thrilled at my decision.

“Well, Qanta, this is something incredible. I haven't performed Hajj myself. I don't think it is the time, I don't believe I am ready for the responsibilities that follow. I am too weak. I wish I was stronger, like you. Maybe Inshallah if I am ever married, I will go, Inshallah, Inshallah.” I wondered if she was as wistful as her voice sounded, trailing off into silence. Before I could ask, Zubaidah quickly returned to her genuine glee for me.

“Wa Allah, Qanta, let me tell you something, something very exciting; one can only go to Mecca when invited by Allah.” I listened, rapt, pressing the receiver even more tightly to my ear.

“Clearly, Qanta, your invitation has come. Allah Himself has invited you to Mecca. You have been invited to meet God! There can be no other explanation for why this happened so suddenly. Only He knows when the time is right for you. My invitation has not arrived yet but yours is here now!”

I called my astounded parents in England. My mother sounded remote, bemused, but I could sense my father's thrill. I emailed friends, family, colleagues, mentors. I wanted them to know! I made a list of friends to remember in Mecca. On a piece of paper I assembled a list of those I loved. I wrote the names of my beloved, recording them carefully in pairs: husbands and wives; parents and children; families, friends, and relatives. I wanted to forget no one in my prayers.

The next morning at work was a busy one. I chatted easily with Nadir, the surgeon who was my assigned resident for the month. Nadir was a Hijazi Saudi, an officer in the National Guard and a recently divorced father of a small daughter. I watched Nadir as he placed final stitches in the patient we were working on. “Nadir, I didn't tell you, I am going to Hajj on Saturday!”

A wide smile splayed Nadir's beard, carefully maintained at a straggly religious length. “Mashallah Doctora! That is great news!” I was surprised by his genuine joy. He hardly knew me, yet he seemed so pleased. Saudis could be so spontaneous and warm, but I never knew quite when to expect this.

“I am worried about Hajj, Nadir. How will I know what to do? It all seems so complicated, and I am going alone, with no one to ask.”

He threw back his head and laughed out loud, a rather shocking sight in Riyadh where I had already seen that public displays of joy were rare and looked upon oddly. Nadir stopped laughing, discarded his surgeon's hat, and smoothed his glossy black hair. I was glad of the glass isolation doors. While we could be seen in the patient's room, at least the laughter would be muted behind soundproof panes. Saudi relatives of other patients were already glancing toward us askance, wondering about this fraternization between a Saudi man and a Western woman.

“Please don't worry, Doctora,” Nadir said. “Nearly everyone who attends Hajj is going there for the first time. No pilgrim ever knows what to do. Everyone takes small books with them, books of prayers and instructions.” His face lit up. “I will bring them for you!” Pleased with his plan, Nadir turned on his Birkenstocks and left, squeaking quickly along the hallway.

Sure enough, a day later, he arrived with three books in both English and Arabic. He assured me they would explain everything. I was taken aback by his generosity. He must have run out to the market after work and bought them at once, especially for me. They were obviously new, with the price tags from the Jarir bookshop still in place.

I couldn't have received better counsel and would think of Nadir's simple, kind advice many times during my Hajj when I did indeed ask others for help or directions or simply studied their actions in order to emulate them. This Kingdom of Strangers just seemed to become more unintelligible with time. A Saudi Hijazi surgeon, a military officer in the Saudi Arabian National Guard, and an orthodox Wahabi couldn't do enough to help me on my Hajj!

I called Zubaidah for more counsel. Zubaidah was sipping her customary mint tea on the veranda as she took my call.

“Zubaidah, what shall I wear to Hajj?”

“Qanta, just your usual clothing is fine, always with your abbayah on top when you are in public,” she advised. “Wa Allah Qanta, you know, Jeddah is on the Red Sea and Mecca is forty minutes away. It is extremely humid, really, Qanta, even in March; unbearable. But please, it is very important, Qanta,” she continued, “be sure to cover all your hair inside your veil; not a wisp of hair must show. That is critical, a must!