My Liberation

Ink stained fingers: Seven Times

tansheer:

Before stepping into the circle
  of tightly packed men in Ihram reflecting the Sun
  women in black shrouding their sensuality,
I wept.
   If He hadn’t have forgiven me
     why would He let me into His home?
perhaps I wasn’t such a disappointment
after all—
     careful golden calligraphy gleamed
 high over my head, entitled
 we all squinted through the tears
    to read His own words
and whisper our sincerest thank yous

I paid no heed to the warnings
  of aggressive inclinations in the Masjid:
     “They’ll steal your shoes,
    shove you out of their way,
    step on your head
    while you’re prostrating”
   and as I had expected,
    no one was violent
    no one was selfish,
   too fixated on what was resting
over their left shoulder
to be anything
    but peaceful, patient
   and kind.

The men they said would grope me
apologized profusely for grazing
against my arm while the crowds shifted
     making way for sallow women in wheelchairs
     trying to fulfill the second requirement
 of walking with millions of people
 from towns
   they have never heard of

I have traveled too many times to count,
  yet never felt equality
  until I had my trembling hands on the Kaaba
weeping next to an elderly woman
   from Jakarta
  and a young man
   from Albania,
each of us praying
   in the same breath

I had never felt small
    until I looked up to estimate  
    the height of what Abraham built

I had never felt privileged
    until I pulled a sister
    to take my place and rest her head
    on the musk-scented inscriptions

I had never felt the extent of my neglect
   until I watched a father shake,
   heaving repentances towards the Qiblah
  in my own Arabic tongue

I can only speak two languages
   but I understood every word whispered
into the cupped hands  
 of those I walked with,
they were all asking
 for the same thing I sought,
they were all weak
     and human
                  just like me,
 I have moved too many times to count,
yet I had never felt
                  so at home.

During the seven times,   
    I never saw His face or heard His voice,
   but I had never been so sure
 of His existence,
               I was certain—
 in the breaths of the infant
     sleeping in her mother’s chest
     despite the millions chanting His name
in the knees
      of the 90 year old Turkish woman
      who walked for hours
      just to visit Him
in the tears of my father
      who never broke
      for anyone in his life
between the crowds
      that suddenly parted
      so I could touch my forehead
      to the Kaaba
He was there
and I felt him
               I’m certain.

—

naira badawi

(via 1001arabianights)

3 days ago - 150