The Mount Arafat

Iram Farooqi
Aug 24, 2017 · 5 min read

-Hajj a journey into the self.

The 9–23 of November 2010 marked a tick off in the check list of my life — a visit to the Holy land.

Out of habit I displayed none of the over eager sentiments, normally displayed by Hajji’s before departure, even so, I did know, from friends and families previously visiting that Hajj had a powerful bearing on the psyche of the faithful, but whether it would or not bring about any spiritual changes in me really didn’t bother me, much. For I was one of those people who proclaimed loudly, proudly:

‘’when the doors of Hell flick open, on the day of resurrection, the first set of people using that entry door would be people who frequented Hajj repeatedly, knowingly that there was so much misery in this world.’ Not my fault, you see I was and still am in many ways too secular to take faith seriously, too globalised to focus myself on any one ideology entirely, and consequently too weak to take up the challenges of faith wholeheartedly. While most pilgrims appear affected by the whole Hajj experience in entirety, a homage to the grave of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) circumambulating the Kaaba, a brief and communal stay at Mina, inclusive of the trip to Arafat, Muzdalifah, the Jamarat (symbolic stoning of the Satan) right down to the farewell visit to Kaaba.

For me, the ritual that moved me and left a marked impression was the experience at the Mount of Arafat. It was affectively the first time in my life I thought I came in close contact with the essence of God, the presence of spiritualism and the semblance of anything of what the Yawm-al-qayama would be like.

We left Mina early with just 1 prayer in unison — Labbayk ala huma Labbayk,* journeying through the arid mountains of Arabia, which remain the same from the times of the prophet Mohammed, the same sleeping mountains standing lazily against the merciless desert heat, probably the same itinerary, the only difference being the increase in the population of the Hajjis and ofcourse our mode of commuting. All three million of us, and arrived (and that’s how many we were this year), within a pace of few hours of each other, at Arafat just before midday prayers, what I saw next may be compared to a sea of people, far into the horizon as far as the human eye could reach, right down to a point where the earth intersects with the sky, were human figures, human after humans, human before humans. All dressed the same, men in a 2 piece garb, in the way of a shepherd women, in accordance to Islamic norms, no way of telling rich from poor, telling the difference between black/white strangely enough, I don’t know if it were by some deception of the eye, or other Muslims feel this to be true, but I noticed I found it hard to tell peoples race apart, I had to focus myself a littleto register a person’s racial background while this may come down to the uniformity in clothing, but the same uniformity in clothing was very much there in Mecca, Medina , without the same affect. Each individual engrossed in his direct supplication to the Lord, in total humility standing facing Kaaba, palms outstretched, seeking shelter from the scortching sun, under shrub trees, under the shadow of hillocks, tents, wherever, they could find refuge from the blazing sun. Each beseeching the lord for acceptance into those he had favoured, words moving their journey from the heart to the lips and from thence to the Creator Supreme.

Perhaps it is an interesting fact to note that this is the first time, in the life of a Muslim’s clock that the ritual prayer, comes to a pause…. (The only prayer we did was zuhr-maghrib, shortened and combined, hardly taking 2–3 minutes!)

To me it is a paradox, that an event so very unique in nature, was being celebrated across the globe by some 2 billion of the followers of the Islamic faith — in the form of a day called ‘’Eid.’’ So while other Muslims celebrated: our devotion to our one God indivisible, and perhaps more than that, our ‘’oneness’’ and equality to one another, we rose up above the definition of rich/poor black/white, education or the lack of it, into celebrating the meaning of life in a kind of way, a principle of Islam we tend to forget in our everyday lives. It was affectively the first time, in my life I came to comprehend fully the Sufi concept of humans being the reflection of one another- or-’I am You’

Moving out of Arafat was not without douleur either, wishing I could hang out a little longer and as we walked away in our millions, I felt the wild urge to stay back a little longer. I walked on until I came to the sign post:

ARAFAT ENDS HERE

I halted looked hard at the sign post obliterating all else. Said a final little prayer with a heavy heart and trudged on towards muzdalifah.

Dear Readers, it’s been 3 weeks down the line, and life in England is business as usual, it’s the same job, the same home, the same chores, all under the umbrella of Secularism, the crowning glory of it all, like a fresh strawberry on some cream dessert…looking back, on the day of Arafat with feelings of nostalgia it is difficult to realise I was the same person who until a month or so back accused frequently performing hajj visitors as people in line for purgatory. Feeling remorseful about it, I take a U turn on my words, for a taste of the humble pie. Perhaps the great Khalil Gibran was right in saying:

‘Yesterday is today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream’

For me keeping my memory fresh I do try to be punctual about the salat. In quotidian life, where the desired score of 5 out of 5 isn’t always met up with, 3 or 4 out of 5 becomes a more plausible score. As for tomorrow, I remember reading somewhere; every goal precedes a dream…. Well as for my dream, I will have to keep dreaming hard, to keep that goal into perspective maybe someday, who knows when yesterdays memory does materialise… Who knows?

Rainham 16 December 2010

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Iram Farooqi

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‘What is man but a collection of thought…of what use is a gathering if man is still in isolation?’ -Mirza Ghalib.