This time last year, I was in Mecca. Almost three million other individuals, journeying from all corners of the globe, joined me at this holy site. Pilgrimage to Mecca, or Hajj, is one of the five pillars of Islam, required of all able-bodied Muslims at least once in their lifetimes before they die. For the nearly two billion Muslims worldwide, Hajj season brings with it the festivities and celebrations of Eid al-Adha, or “the festival of the sacrifice,” which took place this past Sunday.
Many around the world do not perform their Hajj until very late in life, when they have finally saved up enough money to undertake such a trip and when, aware of their own mortality, they are concerned about the state of their souls. So why was a 20-year-old Duke student on a leave of absence performing one of Islam’s holiest rites?
The simple, incomplete answer: My mother was finally planning on going herself and wanted me to accompany her. Parents have proposed worse in the name of religion, for instance, binding you up and offering you as a sacrifice to God. All things considered, getting a free trip for a once-in-a-lifetime experience didn’t sound so bad.
But Hajj is no light vacation, it’s a serious undertaking that requires patience and dedication and encourages deep spiritual reflection. Initially, I was extremely opposed to going at all. I didn’t feel ready. I wasn’t convinced of the idea that a religious experience was somehow supposed to help me out of the depression that led to my leave of absence in the first place. I wanted peace and rest, not a trip to an extremely patriarchal and oppressive kingdom.
Eventually I surrendered my apprehensions and, as a result, am still reaping the rewards of the experience to this day.
Many of the rites of Hajj find their origins in the mythology surrounding Hagar, the Egyptian handmaiden of Sarah, wife of Abraham and mother to Ishmael. Whether it’s drinking water from a well, scurrying between two hills or even journeying to the Arabian desert, all of these acts are echoes from the life of an African slave-woman cast out from her home to fend for herself and her son in the harsh wilderness.
Reflecting on that mythology and observing the world around me, it was impossible not to gain a greater sense of social justice. I was reminded of the profound effect that Hajj had on Malcolm X and his thoughts on race in America. That is not to say that Mecca is a model for the ultimate egalitarian society—in fact, it’s far from it—but that the pilgrimage offered insights into what human compassion can look like in the face of gross injustice.
Now that I’m back at Duke, steeped in academic reading and a seemingly endless amount of assignments, what does this experience mean? To me, the question is what does my university experience mean in my larger life journey? How do I lead a good and just life and how do I help create the world in which I would like to lead it?
Celebrating Eid al-Adha this past week offered further insight into these questions. A community, whether it’s centered on faith or academics or sports or simply on common humanity, is a place where you feel safe enough to be vulnerable and to ask tough questions, but it’s also a place to celebrate. Celebration consists of jubilant expression and sharing, both of what’s common and more importantly of what’s different. On a Monday night in Blue Express, students from all different backgrounds danced, ate and laughed together as pilgrims half a world away were preparing to head back home. As the end of the semester approaches, I had the opportunity to remember what makes all the hard work worth it: precious moments of joy shared with others.
During Hajj, I dressed in two simple white cotton cloths, the same shrouds that Muslims are usually buried in—a somber reminder of death. To live my daily life like this would be overwhelming (and not to mention uncomfortable), but in a way I already do. If I am not walking around in a burial shroud all day, I am at the very least walking around in a body that will one day be buried. But as long as I am still able to walk, I may as well dance and sing too. This desert can be a harsh place to journey, but it can transform into an oasis of celebration when people you love surround you.
Ahmad Jitan is a Trinity junior. His column runs every other Thursday.
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