AT SOME POINT in their life, every Muslim must make a pilgrimage to Mecca. An umrah, sometimes called a “hajj lite,” is a shortened pilgrimage to Mecca that Muslims can take at any time of the year. Mecca and the “one human family” he found there, “rearranged my thought patterns,” he said, and brought him “numerous unexpected blessings beyond my wildest dreams.” Malcolm was my man. If Malcolm X had loved Mecca, I was sure that I would, too. During those long nights poring over Malcolm X, I began to think that maybe going on umrah might change me, once and for all. But in Mecca I would find the real Islam, and like Malcolm X, I hoped, I would receive blessings beyond my wildest dreams. When the plane began its descent into Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, all of the women around me began pulling out scarves like magicians. I fumbled with mine, how to wrap it around my head so that none of my hair would show, which wasn’t allowed in this country.
As my mom wrapped my head, I looked over at my brother, oblivious and absorbed in his Nintendo Game Boy. “If we had flown in at night,” said my father, who had been on many business trips to Saudi Arabia, “you would have seen the whole country lit up.” He used a sweep of his arm to suggest the entirety of it. Every day, five times a day, a billion Muslims turned their mats toward Mecca and said their prayers, hopes and wishes all lobbed this way like pennies into a fountain. I looked around at my family and wondered if they could feel the magic yet. Millions and millions of Muslims descended on Mecca each year; they needed a place to stay, to eat, and, I guess, to shop. In the morning, we would walk into the Great Mosque, the largest mosque in the world, to orbit the Kaaba, the most sacred site in all of Islam. Our day would begin with salat al-fajr, the morning prayer, which took place inside one of the Great Mosque’s halls, a wide room of soaring columns and arched ceilings crowded with fans. I briefly thought of Malcolm X’s excitement that he was able to stand next to blond-haired, blue-eyed white people and be regarded as equal. At least we don’t have to stand behind them.”
Abla rarely went to mosque in Jordan. After, it was time to enter the central area of the Great Mosque, the outdoor space where we would find the Kaaba. We would walk together as a family, women linked arm in arm, men linked arm in arm, too. A few deep breaths and careful steps later, we had joined our place in the parade of thousands of pilgrims circling the Kaaba. To complete the ritual, called tawaf, we had to walk around the Kaaba seven times while silently chanting a prayer. “Please change me.” We circled and circled. Please change me.” We circled and circled. “Please forgive me.” We circled and circled. I felt the breath and body odor of the thousands of people behind me, all waiting to touch the Kaaba, all hoping to have their prayers answered. We stayed in Mecca for two more days, completing the other rites of our pilgrimage. One day our bus took us out onto the Plains of Arafat, a barren, rocky place where we listened to sermons and gathered stones for our next rite, which was hurling those stones at large columns within the Great Mosque that were said to represent Satan. I wouldn’t let myself think that awful thought: that maybe Muslim Las Vegas had made things worse, not better.