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On the Hajj, It Matters Where You Come From

By Suhaib Albarzinji

Sunday, February 22, 2004; Page B04

It's been two weeks since I returned from the Muslim holy city of Mecca, where I was part of the swirling mass of humanity that congregates each year in observance of the hajj, a reenactment of the story of Abraham, Ishmael and Hager. Like everyone else coming back, I should be elated; having been reborn, all my sins were wiped clean. Friends called to congratulate me, wanting to participate vicariously in my experience. I smiled and told them the trip was okay. I couldn't tell them that, in some ways, the experience left me heavy-hearted and confused.

When I arrived in Mecca, one among 2 million worshipers, I dove right into the rituals. The pressing throng of pilgrims carried me around the sacred Kaaba, back and forth between the mounds of Safa and Marwa (where Hager sought water for her thirsty infant) to the well of Zamzam (which gave them sustenance) and to the place where the prophet Abraham stood. Men and women of every race and nationality and all ages were there -- and I was in the middle of it all, packed in so tightly that I couldn't lift my arms. I felt exhilarated. Everyone was sweating, crying, pleading in prayer. I was surfing a spiritual current that has been flowing for more than a thousand years.

There, among the world's Muslims, I felt unconditionally accepted. I am an American who, at the age of 2, emigrated with my family from Iraq to the United States. That was 33 years ago. I was so young when we left Baghdad that my culture, my nation, my sense of self are American. That, I would soon realize, would not go over well with some of my fellow pilgrims.

With a quick exchange of salaam (peace) the old man praying next to me, the woman selling prayer beads and the child passing out sips of holy water seemed at first to become a part of me, like a neighbor or a cousin, or as if a tap has been twisted wide open and familiarity gushed out. But when I wandered the endless bazaars, where everything from rugs and robes to cigarettes and cell phones were sold, I would try to converse, in English and broken Arabic, and conversation would inevitably lead to, "Where are you from?"

That was when I learned that being unconditionally accepted there had one condition -- that you not be American. Regardless of whom I spoke with, whether Moroccan, Turkish, Nigerian, Kuwaiti, Uzbek or Filipino, man or woman, old or young, educated or not, the response was almost universal. When they learned I was American, they would scowl and mutter a prayer. Then they would elaborate on the evils of America: the greed and immorality of its people, the arrogance and hypocrisy of its foreign policy, President Bush's crusade against Islam, the self-righteous wars launched in the name of liberation. They spoke of special interests and multinationals that bring death and misery in a quest for a better bottom line. That's not true, I would plead. I am proud to be an American, we stand for liberty, human rights, freedom to say and practice what we believe, economic opportunity and justice for all. They stared at me in pity: I was the product of media brainwashing, no doubt.

In the valley of Arafat, where pilgrims consummate the hajj by being present from noon until sunset, all 2 million of us stood for hours, our souls and bodies bare except for two white pieces of cloth. This was the hour of mercy, where all our prayers were heard. I prayed for my country and its people, beseeching God to let mercy and understanding envelope all His creation. If I prayed hard enough, I thought, my voice might counter the many other voices praying for the humiliation of all things American.

I went to Mecca assuming that suspicion, distrust and nationality would be left behind, that brotherhood and sisterhood would supersede international grievances. I had imagined us, Muslims all, standing before God on an equal footing, not as people who would see each other as a reflection of the policies of our governments.

I returned to camp -- an inconspicuous collection of tents where about 600 American pilgrims were staying -- and, warily, I suggested that a group of us march behind a U.S. flag on our way to stone the pillars that represent the devil (another rite of the hajj). I had seen groups walking behind almost every other nation's flag, which gave their nationals a reference point so they wouldn't be separated in the pulsating crowd. I theorized that if people from around the world saw how many American Muslims were there, worshiping and praying just like themselves, they would be less willing to pass judgment.

My friends were aghast. One ventured that the crowds might start stoning us instead when they saw our flag. A group swept by behind a huge Canadian flag, and I asked one of its members if they all were Canadian. He said no, we're mostly Americans but this is the closest we can get to expressing our identity. Huddled on the roof of an engorged minivan, stuck in traffic, I turned to the man next to me, a radio broadcaster from Burma who spoke decent English. I asked him whether he thought Americans were universally distrusted.

He said that Americans live in a fishbowl and judge everyone else from that confine. People are good or bad, civilized or not, rich or poor according to the standards that America has set for itself, he said. This self-centeredness, he continued, taints every action we make as a people and as a government, be it well meaning or not. It makes us feel that we have the moral authority to impose our way of life on everyone else, and makes us wring our hands in disbelief as to why someone would want to harm us. It leads us to persuade ourselves that it's our way of life they want to take away. He blamed the media for distorting our perceptions of one another. For example, he asked, why was the only U.S. coverage of the hajj that of the tragic stampede that killed more than 240 people, a story that makes the pilgrimage seem barbaric and medieval? The coverage, in America and elsewhere, could have focused on the grace of the whole experience, he said, the love and bonding, the immense spirituality, the awesome image of millions of people united for the purpose of prayer, the only mass gathering of its sort on the Earth.

He seemed sincere. I told him that I, too, have at times fallen for sound bites about the Muslim world in place of facts. It's a way of escaping responsibility, I guess. I promised him I'd do my bit to increase understanding.

On the last day, in an act of desperation, I pulled an Old Navy T-shirt from the bottom of my suitcase and put it on. Across the front was a small American flag. It was my last chance to make a statement, to say publicly that not all Americans are scoundrels, that we are trying to do what's right, that our country has much greatness. Awkwardly, I began walking around, bracing myself for rejection. And sure enough, eyes glanced at Old Glory and quickly turned away. I instantly became a stranger. I smiled at people but they would catch themselves as they started to smile back, averting their gaze. After a few more insults, I used my name tag to cover the flag and to hide my identity, before diving back into the ocean of pilgrims. I resigned myself to experiencing the hajj without being able to reveal my national identity.

Now as I reflect on my experience, my frustration has turned to anger over the weakness of people, both in the Muslim world and in the United States, who are quick to judge one another. In the end, I prayed for mutual understanding.

Author's e-mail: Barzinji@aol.com

Suhaib Albarzinji is a video production consultant based in Sterling.

© 2004 The Washington Post Company