En Route to Makkah

2 Minutes Read Time

This black and white photograph shows a radio, presumably on mute.
My sisters and I swathe down to ankles
in plain shalwars and row up like duckpins
in the backseat. Every pilgrimage resembles
the other. The car belts down the freeway,
breaches past the occasional tamarisks
that flash along the corridor unreeling
barren mountains. Mother winds the radio
down to mute—against the ungodliness
of stringed instruments my ears strain
for a stray twang and beat. In this country,
I can’t tell what unbraids the consecrated
from the wet glitter of appetite.
Across eastern oil fields, geologists
tap the seep of ancient dead, and
towering drills pound fossil to froth
for the tireless alchemy of black barrels
and guzzling ocean pipes. Minarets echo
haya al’ falah, come to success, and skyscrapers
sprout across the holy city, along the hills
stippled with old rock houses.
Above the Ka‘aba, the gilded entablature
rouses the masjid’s marbled grounds
pilgrims wheel. They close their eyes
and pledge: Labbayk Allah-humma labbayk,
Here I am, o Lord, here I am. How easy,
I think, to thieve into the dizzy mouth
of prayer, to ensconce in its swaddling
tunnel vision. But what do I know of faith
other than the way my own tongue hymns
each of its deflections: the ramshackle food




stalls that brim the masjid’s
farthest edge, the squelch of a kebab
sweltering in a humid conch of bread.

Read more from Issue 17.1.

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