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Sample Translation
From Zu den heiligen Quellen des Islam. Als Pilger nach Mekka und Medina
Sample translation by Mike Mitchell
MALIK, September, 2004 (172 pp. ISBN 3-89029-287-9)
Departure [Chapter 1]
At the first checkpoint a long queue of people were waiting, all dressed the same. The queue wound its way back across the terminal and out through the exit. A few yards away a glass wall separated those waiting in the queue from their relatives who, excited, exuberant, attired in the colours of everyday, were crowded together as they looked out for a last wave, one last gesture of confidence. Although it was the middle of the night, it was warm and damp outside; inside there was a cool breeze blowing from the air-conditioning and the men waiting felt cold, for all they were wearing was two pieces of white cloth, one wrapped round their waist, the other slung over their shoulder. The women were somewhat better off in the long white dresses that covered the whole of their body. Outside, amid a veritable bazaar of excitement and expectation—luggage surrounded by whole extended families, the way blocked by bodies and sacks of rice—the mood was of loud festivity giving way, here and there, to a creeping feeling of uncertainty. Inside, the solemn atmosphere was more spread out: we were standing in a single, orderly line, pushing our trollies forward by fits and starts, calm, as if we knew what awaited us.
It was hours ago now that they had come round to my house to collect me. They were worked up, exhilarated, more excited than relatives or friends usually are on such occasions, since they had been the ones who, during the preceding months, had prepared me for this journey, answering my questions and sharing my anticipation. They had been the witnesses to my transformation into a pilgrim. They had bought the ihram for me, those two pieces of white towelling; now they helped me put it on. They surrounded me for the obligatory photo, banishing the smiles from their faces as they would a recalcitrant child.
After a short, solitary prayer, I found myself in the middle of the room, feeling exposed. My friends inspected me, expressed themselves satisfied, and yet I felt a certain distance between us. By assuming the ihram , I had become a pilgrim and as such was no longer the same as them. Not only was I in an enviable state of holiness, but from now on the rules I had to obey were in many respects the reverse of those for them, the “normal” believers. Wearing the ihram , I was forbidden to cut my hair or fingernails, to wear clothing that had been sewn, any kind of headgear, proper shoes or socks, to use perfume, cover my face, have sexual intercourse, kill animals (with a few dangerous and poisonous exceptions), fight or quarrel. At the end of the pilgrimage I would return to my friends and normality, though with the distinction of being a hajji, a person to whom respect is due because he has completed the pilgrimage to Mecca.
Can you recite the Labbaika? one of my friends asked me, and I started to say the first line, somewhat hesitantly at first, but with increasing confidence as the others joined in and we intoned the pilgrim’s declaration together on the sixteenth floor of a tower block in Bombay:
During the drive to the airport I collected the prayers my friends wanted me to say for them. Prayers that are said for another are more effective than prayers that focus on oneself. Most powerful of all, however, are prayers said at the Ka‘bah in Mecca and at the grave of the Prophet ( Sallallahu alaihi wa-salaam—saw) in Medina. I promised to pray for one man’s mother, another’s highly pregnant wife, someone’s relative who had recently died and a newly wed couple.
At Terminal 2, called the “Hajj Terminal” at this time of the year, we said our farewells. In a conspiratorial gesture, Burhan, who had been of great help to me in my preparations, took me to one side.
“You’ll see things,” he said, “which you’ll find very strange. Sometimes the hajjis act like madmen. Perhaps you might question the point of some of the rites, running backwards and forwards between the hills, for example, or throwing the stones at the pillars. And you’ll be amazed at the behaviour of some of the hajjis . What you have to understand is that it’s all done for love. A lover often does crazy things to express his feelings, to please his beloved. He’s passionate and uninhibited.” Then Burhan embraced me and I joined the queue.
The first thing to strike me was all the green, then the lettering: Cosmic Travel. The man in front of me with his small son—his affluence appearing in the fine material of his ihram and the elegance of his spectacles—was pushing a trolley with green luggage. A family was sitting a little way away on the floor surrounded by Cosmic Travel bags. All around there were many people who, like me, were carrying one small and one larger bag with the logo of the travel agency. We were all in the same party, all dependent on our guides, who enjoyed the privilege of performing the hajj every year. The one I knew best was Hamidbhai, a chain smoker with bags under his eyes and a prominent lower lip. When he spoke, he gave the impression he was about to fall into a deep, untroubled sleep, even if all hell were let loose around him. He seemed to be smiling to himself all the time, in the depths of his eyes dwelt an expression which said, “Lord, what fools these mortals be,” and which would occasionally, though rarely, surface in a pointed joke. It was not easy to take to him straight away, and after spending some time with him, it was impossible not to like him.
Hamidbhai was standing at the check-in supervising the baggage. The pilgrims were as heavily laden as they were lightly clothed. Doing business during the hajj has been permitted since time immemorial; in pre-Islamic days the Beduin streamed to Mecca to visit not only the shrines to the gods but also the great market, and the prophet (saw)—bearing human needs in mind more than the founders of other religions—permitted such activities, which would both motivate and finance the journey. The sacks of basmati rice mounted at the Air India desk; the trolleys were so overloaded they were almost impossible to move. There were so many of them that pilgrims who were not trading had to clamber over sacks and crates to get to the desk. Even in an age when one can traverse whole time zones in a few hours, the way to Mecca was paved with a few obstacles.
Hamidbhai handed me one of the better boarding cards. Although on hajj flights no formal distinction is made between business and economy class, the seats on the upper deck of the Boeing 747 are always more comfortable. I was delighted at the prospect of a restful first night on a journey which guaranteed plenty of sleepless ones. One of the assistants at the travel agent’s, who was genuinely pleased for me when my visa came through, begged me to say a prayer that his wish to go on the hajji next year might be granted. I undertook to do so; there would be plenty of opportunities to fulfil all my promises. The other passengers in Terminal 2—businessmen heading for Singapore, yoga tourists returning to Paris—stared at us, bewildered at the sight of all these men in archaic dress making their last calls on their mobiles as they took their places in the winding queue at passport control.
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Every journey starts before you set out, but the believer spends his whole life preparing for the hajj , the pilgrimage to Mecca. From earliest childhood, when he first hears that the hajj is a duty for every Muslim, he longs for it. If he does not feel this obligation himself, within his own heart, then his nearest and dearest will apply pressure by keeping on at him to perform the hajj , like every Muslim who can afford it, until he yields to the necessity. Every day he is made aware of Mecca by the direction of each of his prayers. Once a year he shares the tense excitement as he takes his solemn farewell of relatives setting off from the airport (in former times from the railway station, even earlier from the market place.) During the weeks before the days laid down for the pilgrimage the imam talks in his khutbah, his Friday sermon, of the significance of the hajj and of the duties of the pilgrim.
The divine law, he tells us, requires us to put our family and business affairs in order before we set off.
The pilgrim must leave behind enough money for his family, and no debts; according to one hadith, even if it is a neighbour who is in need, he must put off the journey. For the hajj is not just an individual pilgrimage, it is a gathering of equals, a conjuration of the ummah, the Islamic community. But the most important thing of all is for the individual Muslim first to free himself of his vices and weaknesses (And take provision with you for the journey, but the best of provisions is uprightness, ii.197). For while the hajj will cleanse him of all his sins, it will not make him a better person. A man who sets out as a liar or a hypocrite, will return a liar or a hypocrite. A hajj is not an end in itself, the mere accomplishment of it has no effect. A hajj performed in the wrong way is worse than no hajj . For that reason, and because the hajj is not just a high point in a man’s life but also involves considerable financial outlay, a Believer must save up for it for a long time, sometimes for decades, and in the year before he sets off learn a number of special prayers and rites.
Rites [Chapter 4]
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No pilgrim can ever forget his first sight of the Ka‘bah
On foot it was less than two minutes from our hotel to one of the ninety-nine entrances to the Haram, the most sacred sanctuary. Or would have been, had it not been for the masses of people streaming past. As it was, it took a quarter of an hour before we—felt all over and finally allowed through by the crowd—managed to enter the Great Mosque. Hamidbhai, whom I met on the pavement after the afternoon prayer, had offered to accompany me while I went through my first ritual task. Two other pilgrims from India joined us and together we fought our way through the dense crowd, putting one hand on the shoulder of the man in front as an essential navigation aid. Women often tie their veils together so as not to get lost, or clasp hands in such an unyielding grip it is impossible to pass through a group in closed formation. We clung together, repeating the pilgrim’s cry, “Labbaik Allahumma, labbaik; laa sharika laka labbaik . . .” which Hamidbhai intoned until we were all reciting the hymn of praise in a staccato chorus.
At the entrance Hamidbhai drew me close and said forcefully, “The wish you make the first time you see the Ka‘bah will come true. You must keep your eyes down now. Only look up when I tell you.”
I left my sandals at the entrance, among the piles of thousands of other pairs, and went barefoot through the Abdul Aziz Gate, concentrating my gaze on the marble floor. Kneaded by the crowd, reciting the pilgrim’s cry to myself, as nervous as if I were taking an important exam, I slowly advanced, wrapping myself more and more tightly in the prayer, voices all round me, single voices, voices raised in chorus.
Outside the mosque we had had to jostle and shove a little, so as not to be swept away, inside we had to fight. Clearly, hardly any of the pilgrims paid any attention to the guides’ exhortations to be considerate, not to push others, not to be rough, rude, selfish—in a word, not to sin. The throng of densely packed humanity forced us to ward off those next to us, disregard of others spreading like an infection. One part of me felt a surge of panic-fuelled aggression welling up, the other part was walking on air.
“Pray,” said Hamidbhai, as we went down some stairs, “pray that you will always pray for the right thing. Pray that your prayers may be suitable.”
Then, after a few more cycles of the Labbaika, he said, “Now look up.”
The sight gripped me. Instantly. Without contemplation or reflection. The simple form of the Ka‘bah, the black brocade—the kiswah, as beautiful as a bridal veil—the inner courtyard replete with pilgrims, the maelstrom round the unbending cube; the atmosphere of excitement and joy, charged with all the lifelong dreams that were being realised at that moment. And without thinking, without having prepared anything in advance, a clear, specific wish came to me, and my eyes filled with tears. Carefully we stepped over all the people who had sat down on the edge of the inner courtyard, blocking access to the Ka‘bah, and abandoned ourselves to the swirling throng to perform the tawaf, the sevenfold circuit of the Ka‘bah.
We almost lost contact in the crush, but the Ka‘bah, which we were not actually supposed to look at during the tawaf, was a still centre, steady, steadfast. Its corners pointed to the four quarters of the compass; in the old days they had been named after the great caravans: Yemen, Syria, Iraq, Egypt. The small, gold door in the grey cube was closed (it is opened once a year for the ritual cleansing with rose-water in the presence of the king of Saudi Arabia), and there was no ornament apart from the black kiswah, that was raised up at the bottom, to indicate that it was the time of the hajj —perhaps also to protect it from the eager hands of all the pilgrims.
We were on the outer edge of the crush. There was no way we could even think of performing the first three circuits as prescribed, running, “with your chest thrust out like a bold warrior,” your right shoulder uncovered. The circuit begins at the point where the Black Stone is set in the shrine, that mysterious relic from prehistoric times, a meteorite perhaps, once, according to legend, as white as limestone but now dark from the many sinful lips and hands that have touched it in the course of time. A strip as wide as a man’s foot, running across the marble floor eastwards from the Black Stone, marks the beginning and end of the tawaf, and each time we completed a circuit, we stopped and raised our hands, palms upward, to receive the blessing that emanates from the stone, cried, “Bismillah Allahu akbar” and kissed our own hands.
The excitement of the crowd broke through my prayers. We staggered, someone grabbed my shoulder, someone almost pulled off the upper piece of my ihram , we all recovered our breath together. Just beyond the raised palms in front of us were men waving their arms, desperately attempting to divert the crowd. Lying unconscious on the floor was a woman, surrounded by pilgrims who were frantically trying to attract the attention of some first-aid attendants.
We had only completed two laborious circuits when the call to evening prayer sounded. A miracle happened: the wild, raging, spasmodic circling came to rest, each took up his position, duly aligned with his brother and sister pilgrims around him; a crystalline silence gradually emerged from which a powerful, controlled voice rose up, leading the prayer.
If you could look down on the whole world at once during prayer, you would be able to see the concentric circles of Muslims, all radiating out from the Ka‘bah. During prayer the ummah, the community of all Muslims, forms an Islamic ornament, and we were standing and kneeling only a dozen steps away from the centre of this living pattern. After the prayer we immediately stood up. To continue, as is usual, in private prayer would have been dangerous given the renewed surge of pilgrims. Soon, however, there were noticeably fewer of them and we completed the tawaf without further interruption. We avoided litters in which the infirm were lugged round the Ka‘bah at a trot; I bumped into a pilgrim who was reading the prayers from a sheet of paper—some groups follow a prayer leader, repeating in chorus the single lines he calls out; I was overtaken by an Arab who was busy telephoning and only interrupted his conversation to utter a Bismillah Allahu akbar. During my last circuit I was embraced by an old man from the north of Pakistan and we staggered on together, drunk with joy, keeping our prayers and our steps in time with each other, and for a while the man was both brother and grandfather to me.
After the tawaf you are supposed to say a prayer at the Maqam Ibrahim, the spot where Ibrahim (the Biblical Abraham) once stood—the impression of his foot can be seen in the stone. Given the crush, however, it would have been inconsiderate to throw oneself to the ground, as well as impractical and hardly conducive to prayer. We said our prayers a little distance away, accompanied by the violent sobbing of two men, each in his way overcome by the place and the moment—separated from the crowd’s ecstasy of love, they seemed frail, delicate and unsure of themselves.
We did not make it to the Well of Zamzam, now underground, we were carried on by the crowd. In the mosque, however, we found many beige containers full of water with two rows of plastic cups in front of them: the clean ones to the left, the used ones to the right. The water had a strong taste, a high mineral content—perhaps the reason why some earlier pilgrims called it brackish and foul; you are supposed to drink as much, and as often, as you can. The ‘ulema who had become my brothers had expressed no other wish than that I should bring back some of this holy water for them; it is their preferred drink for breaking their fast during Ramadan, for example. The water of the Well of Zamzam used to be sold, and it was expensive; today it is free, you just have to pay for the container.
In the description, the subsequent sa‘y, “the run”, seven times back and forth between Mount Safa and Mount Marwah, had sounded like an endurance test in a parched valley, the mortification of the flesh, doing penance by privation. In reality we simply crossed one of the side-chambers of the mosque and entered a passageway which was some 250 yards long. It did slope slightly down and then up again in the distance, but otherwise it rather resembled a corridor between two exhibition halls or in a hotel in Las Vegas. Long neon tubes on the walls cast a sterile light on the colourful glory of the marble, elaborate chandeliers hung down from the ceiling as embellishment. The “summits” of the hills had been left in their natural state, we could feel the black rock under our heels as we turned to face the Ka‘bah and said the prescribed initial prayer before stepping onto the polished corridor. Two narrow tracks with raised edges in the middle of the passage were intended for people in wheelchairs but were also used by the keener runners among the pilgrims. As I strolled along with my Indian brethren, out of the corner of my eye I saw elegant African figures float past with long, proud strides, their arms swinging like scythes, and I thought I could see in the expressions on their faces a certain disdain for those who put less physical effort into the sa‘y.
The legend on which this ritual is based goes back a long way, deep into the roots of the family all three monotheistic religions regard as their ancestors, the family of Ibrahim. Hajra (Hagar), the mother of his first son, Ismail (Ishmael), was sent away and left to fend for herself and her small son in the desert, her only weapon a fervent prayer. She climbed Mount Safa to look for water, then she ran to Mount Marwah, then back and forward, following the dictates of despair rather than reason, until eventually, close to giving up, she saw that her little boy, playing with his stick, had struck the ground and at that spot water was gushing up.
At the point where Hagar had to cross a stony, dried-up riverbed, every hajji is supposed to go faster, in memory of her hardships; the hundred-foot stretch is marked by two green neon lights. Women do not have to run, but a group of Nigerian women ignored such misplaced consideration for their sex and, with cries of joy, flew from one marker light to the other.
Only a generation ago, Hamidbhai told me, the sa‘y had not been roofed over and there were shops all along the route. His parents had run on sand and had bought presents on the way. In general, he went on, the hajj had become much easier to perform, as people who had been on it ten or twenty years ago could confirm. Almost too undemanding. After all, it should require some effort if you are to be absolved from all your6 sins. Anyone who strives for great things must make great sacrifices, as Ibn Jubayr wrote in the twelfth century.
Since it is permitted to interrupt the sa‘y (for hours, for several days even), we rested after we had done three “laps” and sat down by a side entrance on the steps of a row of barber’s shops. Outside each shop stood a barber, soliciting in a loud voice the custom of the newly qualified hajjis who had completed the prescribed round of rites, brandishing his razor as a visual aid. Shaving your head is the final obligation but, as so often at a bazaar, the many small shops were indistinguishable on the surface, so that for the visitor the decision which salon to choose depended on the persuasiveness or charm of the individual barber. Hamidbhai warned us against these botchers, who were in such a hurry they often drew blood (there are a million heads to be shaved), and recommended instead a barber beside our hotel, a fellow-countryman naturally, who, in the course of many assignments, had acquired the reputation of never spilling blood. I could also choose an easier alternative, namely to cut off just one single lock of hair, as is required of the women, but such expedients always entail a loss of blessing and reputation.
Our ‘umrah, the “minor pilgrimage”, ended one hour later with a shaven head (the barber praised me when I chose a wet shave in preference to one with an electric razor), many congratulations and embraces, as well as a midnight meal in Hamidbhai’s room; he had also earlier given me a new pair of sandals, since he felt responsible when mine could not be found. With the ‘umrah we had completed all the rites a visitor to Mecca must perform at any time of the year; we could take off our ihram . Now we were ready for the main part of the hajj , the firm appointment with God and the community of believers.
© 2004 Piper Verlag GmbH, München
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