Among the Believers

As Nafisa looks out to the view of the Holy City she tries to recall a time when she had been of faith, true faith, complete faith, but only hazy pictures come to mind. Perhaps when she was young, when she was still with Ammi and Fazal in their little shack of concrete and tin, perhaps then. As a girl she used to lay her head in Ammi’s lap each night and her mother would run her fingers through her black hair and tell her and Fazal stories. Some evenings were devoted to the prophets; Peghambar Yusuf, Moosa, Lut, other nights there were tales from Alif Laila; Ali Baba, Aladdin, Sinbad, and in Nafisa’s little head the adventures blurred together, details, names, events jumped up and mixed around and even today she sometimes stumbles, forgets which miraculous feat belongs to who. Was Sinbad the pharaoh’s son, did Moosa sail the seas? Of all of these tales though, the story of Hazrat Nūh had been Nafisa’s favorite. This one she can recall with total clarity. Whenever Ammi told it, Nafisa would shut her eyes tight and try to imagine the ark, the animals sitting in beds made of straw, looking out of round windows at the raging storm and the rising tides. The question would come to her heart always and she would dare herself to bring it onto her tongue and ask Ammi: Wouldn’t the lions just eat the gazelles? Ammi would not admonish Nafisa but only gently press her finger to her lips. It is best not to ask about such things, Beta, she said. And, who knows, maybe on the boat they all became friends. Today this seems to Nafisa a most laughably ludicrous proposition but back then it was enough to satisfy her. She’d keep her head still on her mother’s knee, close her eyes again and picture the scenes on the ark; the animals gathered round to celebrate the zebra’s birthday, the animals drinking sharbat, the animals dancing to a tabla and dholak for the wedding of the crocodiles.

Nafisa casts her eyes down at the street where the pilgrims move like ants rushing to reach Masjid al-Haram in time for dhuhr. She lights a cigarette which she knows is not permitted inside the hotel room but there isn’t a street anywhere in Makkah where a woman can light a cigarette and smoke in peace. The Mutawa would beat her unconscious if she was seen. She paces her room and considers her strategy for the day. She has her lucky spots, the ones that always seem to work but it is best to keep moving so as not to raise suspicions. She will try the second level today, it has been quite some time since she tried the second level. It is quieter there yes but that is a good thing, the quiet gives her more time to observe the women carefully. If it is too quiet she will simply go back downstairs and try her game there. There is a knock at the door and she drops her cigarette into a cup of water and pulls her dupatta hastily over her head. It is Masood Sahib with his briefcase and thin plastic bags full of groceries. Uff so hot! he says. Itni garmi! He wipes the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief and hands Nafisa the bags. Memsahib smoking karni hai toh at least open the window. He walks past her and slides the window open. In seconds, a warm wind tugs the thin wispy apparition of cigarette smoke out of the room. Where’s the money?

Nafisa points to a duffel bag on top of the wardrobe and Masood Sahib reaches up for it. Peaking from behind the silvery lips of the zipper are bundles of notes. Masood Sahib starts moving the cash into his briefcase. How much?

Dus hazar dollar.

Mashallah! Mashallah! Two women?

Three.

What did you tell them?

Purani kahani. Kidney transplant.

For you?

No, my son.

That’s always a good one. Works every time. Just keep changing the details haan.

Ji, today I’m going to try cataract surgery for my mother.

Oh! That’s a great idea. Have you tried it before?

No. First time.

Inshallah it’ll work. May I? says Masood Sahib, pointing at the pack of Dunhills.

Ji ji zuroor.

Masood Sahib lights a cigarette standing close to the window. This time after dhuhr is good, he says, taking a long drag and letting a silver spirit escape from his lips onto the wings of the hot desert breeze outside. And between asr and maghrib too. And remember to keep moving.

I always do.

We’re like sharks, Memsahib. We drown if we stay still.

I didn’t know that.

Know what?

That sharks drown if they stay still.

I heard it somewhere. It sounds like something that could be true.

*

Nafisa walks among the pilgrims, her steps slow because she is in no hurry. The Hotel Dar-es-Salam which has been her home for the past four months is only a ten minute walk from the Haram and the stroll down the rocky hill is paved and easy. On either side of her are shops from where the devotional prayer of the talbiyah crackles out of small CD players and as the dizzying repetitions of the words spill onto the lanes they mix in with the other sounds of faith that reside here; recitations of the Quran, sweet children’s voices singing hamd and naat, the weekly khutba-e-juma translated to Urdu, Farsi, Malay, Bahasa and so many other tongues. The sermon blaring from one shop tells the brothers and sisters of the Ummah to not despair but to cup their hands in prayer for those brave souls that still fight for their sovereignty; the Chechens, the Kashmiris and for those driven from their homes like the poor and wretched Rohingyas. In another cassette shop, another sermon sputters on a radio, telling the faithful that the signs are nearly complete, that these rising waters, these wars, these earthquakes, have all been foretold. That Isa’s return is imminent. That he did not, as the Christians believe, die on the cross but that he will return and fight the holy war leading the pious against the sinners. The sun overhead is a ferocious demon and under its unremitting white heat the haji rush around Nafisa, some carrying sandwiches and cool drinks, others buying jahnamaz and tasbih and plastic clocks in the shape of the Holy Mosque which will play out loud the azaan. An Ethiopian woman selling scarves calls out to Nafisa holding a clutch of black veils and Nafisa hands her the five riyal and ties on the niqab. It is not a custom to cover the face to enter the mosque but Nafisa always feels safer behind the veil, the anonymity bringing into her heart a kind of calm. From this side of the mask she is an unknown quantity, a mathematical x and for her work it is best to remain invisible for as long as she possibly can. The women who vacuum, mop, scrub and dust the Haram have an especially good eye for regulars. They remember faces and deep inside Nafisa thinks they may even be members of the Mutawa or secret police. On her very first day, a young Sri Lankan cleaning girl rolling up the carpets struck a conversation with her, telling her stories of strange occurrences, of how djinn also roamed these streets, how babies sometimes went missing in the tawaf. She asked Nafisa how long she would be staying, if she would visit the other historical sites, if she had already been to Madinah and it was only when Nafisa was back in her hotel room later that evening that she considered the possibility. That the cleaning girl might have been a spy.

On the white marble floor outside the Haram Nafisa takes off her slippers, drops them into a small cloth bag and heads for the large entrance: Bab Abdulaziz. The veiled custodians of the mosque pat her shoulders and grab the cloth bag to make sure there are only shoes inside. Pilgrims bringing in large dishes of rice and steamed lamb are turned away but flasks of chai and bags of dates and nuts are permitted. Nafisa enters and deposits the cloth bag containing her slippers behind a pillar where she knows it will be safer than the designated shoe racks. This may be the house of God but shoe thieves and pickpockets are also welcome with the throng. She fills a cup of zamzam and heads to the Kaaba, her heart beating fast because although she no longer believes in the oneness of God, the universal consciousness and omnipresence of Allah, the brotherhood of believers, the sight of the Kaaba and the thousands of pilgrims locked in their circumambulations around it fills her with awe. The structure itself is simplistic, a tall cube with straight clean lines, cloaked in black. Around it is the magnificent mosque, all marble pillars and arches with high ceilings engraved in arabesques and ornamental motifs. And what of the pilgrims themselves? They have indeed come, hundreds of thousands of them, from all four corners of the world; from Bosnia, from Iran, from Somalia, from Malaysia. The men look identical in their ihram but the women are easy to tell apart. With their modesty expressed in differing styles, it is almost always possible to know where in the world they may be from. The Iranians come in chadors, the Pakistanis and Indians in burqas or shalwar kameez, the Arabs in coats or abayas. Oh how she wishes she could be one of them, taking those steps, raising her hands to the Black Stone, crying those tears. What would she ask for? Jannat for Ammi and Fazal? For the two of them to find the cool breeze of paradise blowing onto their faces through the window cracked ajar by the angels Munkar and Nakir in the corner of their graves where they wait for Qiyamat? Yes, if she believed she would ask for this. For herself she would ask for nothing. Her gaze settles on the crowd as it moves like a whirlpool of black and white dots and then a thought flickers through, evil resides here too. Evil goes wherever human beings go, for Allah himself has said that each person has two angels on their shoulders. One to record the good, one to record the bad. Every day she comes here, she has to remind herself that among the believers there are also a number of terrible, treacherous people. All of them in fact. Are they not all imperfect and susceptible to evil by design? Is this not God’s game? She looks at them closely. Yes, here there are mothers that beat their children, husbands that beat their wives, liars, loan sharks, the corrupt and corrupting, perverts and even killers. All types of sinners have the audacity to come here to try and wash away their evil deeds and she wonders if the God in whom she does not believe, actually listens to their chants, their pleas for mercy, their shrieks, their cries. Does he wave his hand and make clean their slate? Does he bring their sins to nil? And when the haji leave here are they unchanged or does it actually take place, that transmutation of their souls? Do they leave here as babies are, once again pure with the nur of God in their hearts. Or do they return to their cities and villages and become as they once were? Ungrateful and vain, plotting and scheming. These are questions that rise up inside Nafisa everyday and everyday comes an answer, not from above but from within. These ones here are fools. It is time to make your money.

Nafisa sits at the edge of the steps descending towards the tawaf and watches the scene. Around her pilgrims laying their eyes for the first time on the Kaaba recite duas from little booklets that will guide them through the various stages of the Umrah. Her gaze falls on a white American family, all four of whom have the lightest blue eyes she has ever seen, so pale, almost like a blue milk. Western converts fascinate her like fireflies fascinate children and so she studies the family carefully. The father and son have golden blond hair that comes down to their chins and wear the ihram, their right shoulders bare. The mother and daughter stand in light gray abayas, gloves, scarves and socks, only their faces visible. The boy and girl look around at everything with wonder in their wide eyes. Nafisa wants to step up to the kids, slip her hands into theirs, take them outside and ask them: Was it easy when your father told you that this is the path you would take? Or did you put on these garbs of your own volition? When you ask God a question, does His voice come to you in the night? When you look up at the sky, is He there? Beyond the blue. How do you know, tell me, how do you know? The family joins the tawaf and Nafisa follows them into it though in minutes she loses sight of them and so fixes herself to the tailend of a big group of Indonesian women in matching white hijabs. She mouths the words and raises her hands to the Black Stone and after seven rounds, stops to look more closely at the Maqam Ibrahim—the footprints of Abraham. She is ushered away by a Mutawa tasked with the duty to keep the pilgrims moving and so she heads to the Sa’i, the ritualistic walk between the two rocky hills of Safa and Marwa in honor of Hajar’s anguished search for water for her child Ismail. Nafisa sits on the incline and watches those that have finished the seven laps cut little snips of their hair, the final requirement of the Umrah. Pairs of scissors are shared and the sacrificial hair is dropped into bins. Some of the boys and men will visit barbers and remove the hair from their heads entirely and Nafisa’s eyes fall upon a young Pakistani youth whose head has already been shaved. He wears kajal in his eyes and his arms and legs are long and thin. Maybe it is the almond shape of his smokey eyes, the muscles on his neck, his gait like a jungle cat or the red birthmark on his cheek but when he briefly meets her gaze she is taken back, back to Fazal, back to their days of playing in the gullies in their little corner of Karachi when they were young. She loved her brother because he was always so tough, picking up the chipkalis with his fingers, climbing the trees to get for her that ber or sharifa she couldn’t reach. He called her his lalpari and she clung to him because he would always make her problems go away; the stray dogs with yellow teeth or the street urchins with mischief in their eyes. It was his unabashed bravery that drew her close to him but even as a little girl she watched him with a wariness, feeling deep inside that something bad might come out of all this unchecked bravado. And one day it did. The afternoon the local bandit boys came asking for the goat hides. It was the day after Bakr Eid and the boys, like the thugs that they were, were doing the rounds in the neighborhood, bullying everyone for hides because the hides brought in money. Ammi hadn’t had enough cash to arrange for a goat that year but instead of simply telling the boys there are no hides here, Fazal puffed out his chest, said that he was going to keep the hides for himself. Fazal and Nafisa had grown up without an Abu, but while this fact had made Nafisa turn inwards and fearful, it had made Fazal act older than his age. I’m the man of the house, he used to say, putting his hand on his heart marching in their little tin home. And when the gang of boys came knocking that day, Fazal acted the man, his fists clenched, his chin obstinate with no sense of the danger his defiance might invite. The boys left, saying that they would come back and they came back a week later when Ammi and Fazal were not at home and took Nafisa as she sat on the concrete floor playing with her plastic gudiyas and aluminum kitchen set. She was driven in a van to a faraway place where everything looked different and strange and the days that followed blurred and darkened to a gray fog over time. She passed many hands but eventually ended up on the streets under the control of a Farida Apa who gave her cut roses wrapped in plastic every morning to sell at the traffic lights. Farida Apa counted the bills Nafisa brought back to her every night and gave her in return naan and dal to eat and a sheet of cardboard to sleep on. Nafisa didn’t know the name of the street where her little home stood and so accepted her kismat and it wasn’t long before Ammi and Fazal started to fade. She was too afraid to run away and it was only when she was sixteen on the back of a scooter clutching the shoulders of a lover that she realized that they had turned to a street that was familiar to her. There was the green gate of the kabristan, there was the wall plastered with graffiti and political slogans and there were the small tin homes under the generous canopy of the ber trees. She knocked on the door of the shack she had grown up in and an old man answered, blind but full of stories of the gully. Her Ammi had succumbed to a fever after being caught in the rain. Fazal had taken to moonshine and muttering. He ended his life, just the previous year, by stepping in front of a train. It was the day after Bakr Eid. Her Ammi had left behind an amanat, a single gold chain, as thin as a thread and the old man pressed it into Nafisa’s palm. I can die in peace now, he said, a smile on his cracked lips. Nafisa pawned the chain that very afternoon and used the money to learn how to read and search the web and send emails. It was at the internet cafe that she met Masood Sahib and he took her in, initiating her slowly into a world where all she had to do was listen and tell tales. When she asked why he’d plucked her out, he said he saw in her a plain, simple naivety and that those faces were the ones that worked best. He himself appeared then, non-descript, soft featured, shorter than most men, round silhouette, thinning hair speckled with gray, small eyes behind glasses. Even today she’d struggle to pick him out in a crowd but this generic profile, she reasons, is precisely the cause of his great success. He, in outward appearance, is like the men and women who work under him, hardly unique and forgotten in an instant. 

Nafisa snips the end of her braid, drops the hair into a bin and proceeds to the second level. It is busier than she expected but not entirely packed. She slips through the gap left in between the golden bookcases that have been placed to create partitions and enters the women’s space though she leaves her niqab on. She picks up a copy of the Quran with the Urdu translation and sits leaning against a pillar. She opens the page to Surah Al Araf and pretends to read but as always she lifts her eyes to survey her territory slowly. There is potential here, certainly there is potential. She only ever approaches Pakistani or Indian women and here today there are several, some in groups, some alone. Some pray nafils, some read, their shoulders hunched, tilting backwards and forwards gently to create an internal rhythm, while some lie on their sides, with their heads on their handbags, strings of prayer beads wrapped around their wrists. Nafisa’s eyes flicker from the arrangement of women in front of her to the page open underneath her fingers.

Indeed We planned your creation, then We shaped you, and then We said to the angels, “Bow yourselves before Adam.” Accordingly all bowed save Iblis who did not join those who bowed themselves. Allah said, “What prevented you from bowing down, when I commanded you?” He replied, “I am better than he; Thou created me of fire and created him of clay.”

A woman sitting alone walks up to Nafisa and asks her in Urdu if she can too lean against the pillar. Ji zuroor, says Nafisa, moving to the side to make room. The woman sits down and Nafisa glances at her discreetly. The woman wears an Arab-style abaya with a niqab but in minutes she raises it up and reveals her face. Late thirties, Nafisa assesses and sighs. She usually prefers the older ones as they are likely to be more sympathetic but there is something naive about this woman too. There is an openness to her sparrow-like face, something quietly noble and virtuous. Her hands are smooth, her fingers long, slender, her nails neatly filed. She does not work with her hands. It’s from the feet that Nafisa can usually confirm the status of a woman and this one here has her feet in a pair of black socks but her handbag is stylish and new and Nafisa takes this as her cue. Pakistan se hain aap? she asks.

The woman looks up and nods and smiles. Ji. Aap bhi?

Ji. Karachi. Aap?

Lahore.

First time in Makkah?

The woman smiles and nods. Ji.

Madinah ho ayeen?

Not yet, I’m going tomorrow.

Inshallah, says Nafisa. Inshallah.

How long have you been here? asks the woman.

Four months, says Nafisa. Of all the things she will tell this woman today, only this one will be a piece of truth.

The woman’s eyes widen. So long?

Nafisa begins her story. A charity sent her here. She lives with a group of women in an apartment twenty minutes away from the Haram by bus. They take care of the poor of the city, many of whom are in the country illegally. The charity tries to prevent them from begging and helps them find small jobs in the city, helps them with their paperwork and where possible tries to send them back home. It is God’s work because she needs his intervention and just a week of prayers won’t be enough for her, she says.

The woman closes the dua booklet on her lap and leans towards Nafisa. You are in trouble? she asks.

Ji, says Nafisa. I came here because I had nowhere else to turn. No one else to ask for help. And He, she says, pointing to the sky. He says He listens to everyone.

The woman extends her hand and lays it on Nafisa’s knee. Do you think it’s true then? Does He truly listen to everyone?

Ji zuroor, says Nafisa. Look at all these people, from all over the world. He knows everyone’s story. And if they believe, truly believe, He listens.

What kind of trouble are you in behen ji?

Nafisa casts her eyes downwards, pulls up her veil and begins to twist the corner of her cloak around her fingers. Ammi’s sick, she says. She needs eye surgery but we have no money. I’m here to help the poor, to stop them from begging so that I can beg Allah instead. She laughs and wipes a tear from the corner of eye. Strange hain na?

The woman smiles and her eyes move from Nafisa’s face to the sky beyond the marble arches. I used to be devout once, you know, my faith was firm, strong, unmovable, like a mountain. But then—

—It comes to us all Bibi, says Nafisa. It comes to us all. The question, the doubt—

The woman nods. I know. Something happened and it shook everything. It was like an earthquake inside me. It turned everything to dust and nothing was the same after.

An event?

Ji.

Tell me Bibi. Tell me.

The woman hesitates at first but as Nafisa presses her hand to her side, the woman begins to speak.

Five years ago I used to live in London, she says. With a younger brother and sister. Mama, Baba died a long time ago when we were still children. I was a lawyer and I had to work late nights. One evening after work when I went to the carpark there were these three men standing near the stairwell. I could see them from far away, I could have turned and gone to the street and stopped a taxi but I didn’t. It was raining you see. Sometimes I think they might have just left me alone if I wasn’t wearing a scarf. I’m not sure. Anyways I survived what they did to me but the faith I had was gone. I stopped wearing the scarf, stopped praying, started drinking alcohol, all to help me forget. She looks up at Nafisa, a question in her eyes. You see what I mean?

I understand Bibi, I understand. Nafisa takes the woman’s hand into hers. It breaks my heart to hear this happened to you.

While it was happening, I remember I kept thinking, if you can hear me, Allah, just make it stop. But He didn’t make it stop. The men chewed me up and spat me out. And after that everything changed.

But you came here now. After all this time.

I’m not sure why I came. Maybe I just came to tell my story to this place.

Nafisa points to the sky above the Kaaba. You see those birds?

The woman looks at the sky where dozens of birds circle round the Kaaba, mirroring the circumambulation of the pilgrims.

We all come to this place to tell our stories. Even those creatures of the sky. He listens. And He tells us to do the best we can. For ourselves, for each other.

The woman nods. We have told our stories. The question is what do we do now?

Nafisa raises her hands in prayer, we ask Bibi. We give what we can and we ask. Surah Ghafir. Call Upon Me and I will respond to you.

The woman nods again, threads her fingers into Nafisa’s. Do you think it will return? The light that was once there? I feel like I broke something. Like my belief was a piece of glass and now all I have is its fine powder in my hand.

Life is like a forest at night Bibi, says Nafisa. Sometimes it is lit by the moon and the path is easy to see, sometimes it is dark. Right now my path is lit, I am here and I know what I can do. I can pray and help others. The rest is up to Him.

I want to help you, says the woman. How much money do you need for your Ammi’s surgery?

No, no, Nafisa protests, shaking her head. It’s not like that.

The woman gets up. Please wait here, she says and slips out from between the golden bookcases.

Nafisa leans back against the pillar. This has happened before, women claiming to return but disappearing into the crowd never to be seen again. She looks at the words on the page still open on her lap.

The weighing on that Day will be just. As for those whose scale will be heavy ˹with good deeds˺, ˹only˺ they will be successful. But those whose scale is light, they have doomed themselves for wrongfully denying Our signs. We have indeed established you on earth and provided you with a means of livelihood. ˹Yet˺ you seldom give any thanks.

A half hour later the woman returns. Psst, she whispers to get Nafisa’s attention. She stands behind the bookcase with an envelope in her hands. Nafisa walks over to her.

It isn’t much, says the woman. I don’t know how much you need but please think of me in your prayers.

Nafisa shakes her head. No, no, I can’t accept this. Please—

—It is my sadaqah, says the woman, thrusting the envelope now into Nafisa’s hands.

Nafisa stares at the envelope. I am meherban to you forever. What is your name Bibi?

Gulnaz, says the woman. Aap ka?

Alia, says Nafisa.

Think of me Alia, says the woman, covering her face with the niqab. She turns and walks into the crowd and Nafisa watches her till the black of her abaya is lost in the throng.

Nafisa steps slowly, the envelope clasped in her hands. When she is outside the Haram, she opens it. Inside is five thousand riyals and she places the envelope quickly in her bag. The flocks of pilgrims waiting to enter the mosque are growing in numbers. A dutiful Syrian boy pushes the wheelchair for his old mother, a Malay woman clutches the hands of her twin daughters in matching blue scarves, an American built like a marine, his ihram revealing the tattoos on his arm, smiles at a friend, a black man with a shaved head and a prosthetic leg, his four front teeth of gold. Nafisa knows that inside they will behold many sights but perhaps none as spectacular as the birds and their silent orbit around the Kaaba. As the asr azaan begins to sound on the PA system, she thinks of the woman Gulnaz, her story, her body held down by three men in a dark and desolate London car park as a winter rain wets her hair. Nafisa walks away from the Haram as the multitude rushes towards it, like a many headed beast with only one desire, to find a good spot to pray these late afternoon prayers. The sun still hangs high in the sky and Nafisa gazes into it and before she can help it, the words come onto her tongue. Are You here Allah mian? Have You seen me? Have You seen what I have done?