In the Land of Invisible Women (43 page)

“Well, Mu'ayyad,” I began gingerly, “I think America is a great country.” I hoped my voice didn't sound too plaintive. “It is a country that allows me to be freer than here, a country that is the closest we have to a pure meritocracy. It gave me all my abilities, all my training, and all the opportunities that stemmed from that effort. I am not an expert on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I hadn't even met Palestinians until I moved here to Riyadh.

“God has granted the Arab Muslim world unparalleled wealth and what is being done with it? Sometimes I feel the wealth here from oil has just been set ablaze, ignited. Like so many oil rigs aflame, it's just vaporizing. Prince al-Waleed is a leader in reinvesting in his country, one of very few men who do this. For the rest of us, all the GDP we earn travels out of the Kingdom. We don't give back to our countries. But for me, most importantly, in America I get to be a Muslim on my terms, not on those of some illiterate Muttawa! No one tells me how to be a Muslim there, or how to be a woman there, for that matter!”

I stopped, breathless and rather worried.

My fellow dinner guests were silent. I had deeply offended them. For once Mu'ayyad didn't have a pat answer. He blew smoke circles and started biting his ragged nails. Lynn looked up in concern but didn't dare enter the discussion. With nervous laughter, looking up at the open ceiling, Imad broke the awkward silence.

“Well Qanta, if the Mutawaeen enter, we will tell them it was you that said that! We will watch them carry you away.” The table dissolved into strained giggles. I laughed the loudest and the tension ebbed. He smiled at me, meeting my gaze warmly.

Like the
People
magazines that arrived in the Kingdom censored, with ripped-out pages and photographs blacked out in thick marker, there were many subjects that could not be discussed outside the barricaded privacy of high-walled homes. In his squirming discomfort, Imad was feeling, like the other men here, some of the same vulnerabilities I sensed as a woman. They were afraid. However, unlike my upbringing in England and America, he and his colleagues had never mastered the freedom of expression that a liberated life in the West truly inculcates. Worse than the defiant women I had encountered in the Kingdom, these men were afraid to stand up for themselves. They had become their own censors to the degree that the governing forces didn't need to actively impose restrictions. The men had censored their own logical dissent and viewed matters, whether women's rights, driving legislation, or the frighteningly passionate subject of Middle Eastern politics, through the same distorted lens of a society that enforced oppression. The men around me, while allowed certain liberties, were no more free than the heavily veiled women who scuttled around them.

The time flew too quickly and soon dinner was over. Imad offered to drive me home, again with the chaperone of the nurse as a cover. Instead, my driver was waiting and so, crestfallen, he escorted us to my car. Discreetly the nurse seated herself into the vehicle, allowing us time alone. Under the Riyadh sky still glowing with light pollution, I finally gazed at Imad. We stood face to face. He was tall and leaning over me slightly, from my vantage, at a perfect height for a kiss. I never felt more attracted to him, but between us, in the short distance which separated us, was a world of traditions, Mutawaeen, restrictions, and cultures that would ultimately separate us forever. On that evening we still believed in each other and the possibility of a shared future. Imad did his best to reassure me.

“You know Qanta, I travel a lot. I am in London and Paris very often. We will see each other soon.” He continued to smile at me, all the shyness suddenly gone.

We stood together in silence for a while and then, after chastely shaking hands, I got into the car. I watched his tall figure absorbed into the darkness. The last image I had was of a rangy muscular figure, hands in pockets, locked in a puddle of street lighting. Like a performer on a stage he was spotlit, immobile, watching me leave, until finally I could see him no more.

Detecting my somber mood, the nurse reassured me, “Don't worry Qanta, you will see him again. He travels all the time. This isn't so much a farewell as a ‘see you later.’” She beamed at me. I suddenly wondered if she was privy to Imad's feelings.

The next day I resumed the slow task of packing and dismantling. I folded up my prayer mats, purchased in the marketplace outside the mosque in Mecca during Hajj. How I wished I could see the Ka'aba again before I left. I stroked the silken rug, watching the soft pile change color with direction. Just as I was pondering this, the phone rang.

“Qanta, how's the packing going? When do you leave?” It was Randa, my friend who had taken me on the first circuits around the Ka'aba during Hajj.

“Hey Randa! I leave on Thursday night at two a.m. I only have a couple of days left, the containers are here, but you know what, Randa? I want to go to Mecca again. It would be great to perform Umrah at this point of change in my life. I wish I had planned it earlier.”

“Why don't you call Saudia?” She was referring to the national airline in the Kingdom. “In fact, let me call my husband—he can probably help you get a return trip to Jeddah. You could leave tonight and come back in the morning. People do it all the time!”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing nor the timing of her call. Randa prattled on, reminding me her husband often did this trip on weekends.

At that moment, completely out of character, I stopped my organized preparations for departure and answered the powerful desire to return to Mecca.

Sure enough, in under half an hour I had a flight to Jeddah for midnight that evening. I would be back at 8 a.m. the next day with an entire day to pack. I still needed a way to get to Mecca from Jeddah. I remembered Reem's open invitation to visit her family home in Jeddah.

“Reem, I am coming to Jeddah tonight. I want to make Umrah this evening! Can we go together? We always talked about this!”

“That's fantastic, Qanta! I will meet you in Jeddah at the airport. My driver can take us to the al-Haram Mosque. Mashallah, Qanta, this is a wonderful opportunity. Tonight is the night before Ramadan. It will be very auspicious for you on the threshold of a new life. I can't wait! I am so glad you asked me along.” She sounded ecstatic.

I traveled to the airport a few hours later, feeling strangely free. All I had with me was my handbag because I needed no luggage at the House of God. I couldn't believe my luck nor the spontaneity of the opportunity. I felt carried on a current back to the epicenter of Islam. This was how I was supposed to leave this world, with a Divine blessing.

My memories of Hajj were still fresh, and I wondered how the short Umrah would feel in comparison. Unperturbed at my ignorance, I knew Reem would show me exactly what to do. I found my fears and apprehensions about resigning and leaving, my uncertainties about Imad, all flowing away. I knew I was on a trajectory prescribed for me by destiny. I busied myself preparing for my spontaneous journey.

After a short flight, I arrived in Jeddah. Even in late November the air was sodden with humidity from the Red Sea. Reem was waiting for me, standing outside the burgundy Cadillac that would take us to the Ka'aba. The fat American car glided along the highway, following exits marked for Muslims only.

We talked nonstop along the way until, spying the mountains that surround the holy city, we were lulled into silence. The night was beautiful, a low glow emanating from the Holy Mosque. I couldn't wait to see the Ka'aba again.

The driver parked the car in a multistory parking lot, and Reem and I strolled to the Grand Mosque. I was full of joy as I approached the huge marble forecourt. It was close to 2:30 a.m., but the mosque was illuminated as bright as day. Fellow worshipers sauntered to the entrance. There was an air of relaxation and joy about the Mosque. The fearful tension of Hajj, the feelings of reckoning that had accompanied that trip, were absent. This was a different experience altogether.

We crossed the enormous forecourt. Walking through one of the large gateways in the mosque, we were waved in by a sole veiled sentry. Beyond her I gazed on an unimpeded view of the Ka'aba.

It was there exactly as I had left it months earlier, still reverberating with an invisible, eternal energy. Suddenly massive in proximity, it surged with a palpable force. It had grown in size since my memory, calling me closer. I followed the call, unable to break my stare from the black and gold Kisweh that glowed in the night air. My face was already wide in a reflex smile that came from deep within my core. My joy spilled over into my happy, clumsy footsteps that hastily carried me further into the heart of Islam.

I was at home again.

Reem and I immediately went to the station of Abraham and proceeded to begin our seven counterclockwise circumnavigations of the Ka'aba. This time, unlike Hajj, we could do so on the ground level, rather than on the aerial roof. With so few people in the Mosque, we could approach the Ka'aba directly and walk immediately around its perimeter. We could even touch the walls of the house of God, walk next to it with none other separating us, but something about its sanctity was awesome. I wanted to see it from a slight distance, so that the whole was not obscured by my tiny view. I found myself unable to concentrate on my prayer book, the same one given me for Hajj by Nadir the Saudi surgeon.

Reem was praying aloud for both us from her extensive memorized knowledge of the Quran. I merely basked in the shadow of my Maker, unable to take my eyes from the place that represented my belief in Him. Just as at Hajj, I felt Him galloping toward me with outstretched arms. In a few short steps into the Haram I was ensconced, engulfed, and embraced by God. Gladness, light, and joy filled me from within.

Reem made sure to point out the Black Stone, the footprints of Abraham, and the details of the Kisweh to me. I was almost unable to hear her. I couldn't stop comparing my experiences at Hajj to my feelings now.

Where once I had been frightened and overwhelmed and awed by the House of God during the confusion and crush of Hajj, all was clarity.

Where once I had been restricted, confined, and pulled by the current of humanity at Hajj, I was unencumbered, liberated, light, and able to decide which directions I should take.

Where once I was astonished at my Maker's acceptance in the face of my shame, now I found my shame replaced with honor.

Where once I was uncertain, now I was secure.

Where once I felt alien, now I belonged.

The Umrah was a metaphor for my recent transitions. I had arrived in this Kingdom a stranger to Islam and I was leaving it as a citizen of my faith. In this Kingdom of extremes, in the sharp shadow of intolerant orthodoxy, I had pried open the seams of my faith and snatched the gemstone of belonging. Glittering and brilliant, it was mine forever. Though I was soon to leave this extraordinary oyster-Kingdom and, at its core, the luminous pearl of Islam, I was taking something within me forever, something from which I could never be separated.

I took with me my place in my faith, my place as a Muslim.

Reem indicated we settle on a spot to pray. She chose a place directly opposite the Ka'aba. As I kneeled and prostrated alongside her, I found myself unable to bow my gaze. The hypnotic Ka'aba was too mesmerizing, too alive, too compelling. Constantly I lost my place in my repetitions. Finally I abandoned any attempts to pray conventionally.

My eye was drawn upward to the sky above, where angels circled the Throne of God. Sparrows circled the Ka'aba, strangely counterclockwise. I watched them unblinking. They were utterly free, happy in song, even at three a.m. I never saw a single bird fly across the Ka'aba or perch on its roof. They were engaged in their own tiny, pure worships. Like me, they were His creatures.

After a time I resumed prayer. With each prostration my bounding blood rushed to my head, beating in my ears. I felt myself heady on the wine of Divine love, almost completely forgetting the mantra of my prayers. Instead, I found myself communing with my Maker, in a language known only to my fluttering spirit. My soul pushed the very boundaries of my flesh, forward, forward, forward, trying to rejoin the essence from whence it had once come and to which it would surely one day return.

Afterwards, I sat and stared and stared at the Ka'aba. I viewed the beautiful blackness. It seemed to expand and shrink, as though a gentle, giant respiration or a heart pulsating with life. For me, Islam had changed from an abstract affiliation to a living organism, and I had experienced this transition against the backdrop of a desiccated desert Kingdom. In a Kingdom where, over centuries, culture had been distilled into salty, harsh, unyielding condensates, my senses had been sharpened and my drink of Islam made sweeter against the bitter aftertaste of extreme orthodoxy. Savoring the sweetness of epiphany, in sands bloodied with Wahabiism, my struggles were validated, worthy, and rewarded. I could not have accomplished this insight without experiencing the hardships of Kingdom life and the scars of my self-inflicted exile from Islam which was now ended.

I thought about all the people who had brought me to this point. My parents who gave me my faith and my education. My mentors, Americans who had trained me to a level where my skills had served the Kingdom dwellers. Many of my teachers I remembered were Jewish. In that too-short night, I realized that I had come to meet Allah through the efforts of dedicated Jews who had shared their knowledge and love with me. I prayed for them all and for each Muslim to whom they had led me.