In 1983 I returned to Pakistan to visit my family for the first time since leaving the country in 1976. During that time my sister Amber had been married and had moved to Medina with her husband, Irshad Mir, who worked in Saudi Arabia as an engineer. During their six years of marriage, they had also had three children. I had never met my brother-in-law or my nephew and nieces. Since I was planning to visit my parents and my extended family in Pakistan, I thought it would be a good idea to go to Saudi Arabia to visit my sister’s family. When I called Amber in Medina, she was thrilled to hear the news. During our conversation she said,

“When you come to Saudi Arabia, you will get a chance to perform umra [pilgrimage]”.

“No, I don’t want to perform umra. I don’t believe in it anymore. I am coming to Medina to see you and your family and not for any religious or spiritual reason.”

“O.K. we will talk about it when you get here.”

It was obvious that she was not comfortable discussing the issue on the phone. At that time I realized how much I had changed in those seven years and I hoped that those changes would not create a gulf between me and my sister, whom I loved dearly, but who led a religious and traditional lifestyle. I was a bit nervous about meeting my brother-in-law, hoping that he would be able to accept my non-traditional philosophy and unconventional lifestyle.

          When I arrived at Jeddah airport, my sister Amber, brother-in-law Irshad, my nephew Zeeshan and my nieces Afifa and Arooj were all there to receive me. After the exciting introductions with all the affectionate hugs and kisses, we got into the car for our trip home.

          While we were driving and busy talking, I noticed a road sign saying Mecca. I wondered for a few seconds why were we heading towards Mecca rather than Medina where Amber lived but I kept quiet. After a few minutes I was surprised when Irshad stopped the car on the roadside.

“Why are you stopping here?” I was curious.

“To put on our ehrams [unstitched white cloth people wrap around their bodies to perform pilgrimage].”

          At that time I realized I was in deep trouble. Irshad and Amber had already decided to take me to Mecca for umra without my consent. I also realized that since I was meeting my brother-in-law for the first time, my interactions with him could negatively affect his relationship with my sister. Irshad opened the trunk and took out ehrams and offered me one. I think that was one of the most difficult and sensitive moments of my life. I found myself on a slippery slope. I did not know what to say or do, as I did not want to cause any serious damage to my sister’s marriage. Finally I decided to be honest and said, “My dear Irshad, I have come to Saudi Arabia to meet you and the family, not to perform umra. If you were living in Stockholm, I would have gone there. I really appreciate your thoughtfulness in bringing an ehram for me, but I don’t believe in rituals anymore. I will accompany you to Mecca and visit the holy shrines as a tourist but not as a believer.”

          Irshad looked at me strangely. He was speechless. It was obvious that he was in uncharted territory too.

          “Why don’t you perform umra for my sake?” Amber suggested.

          “I can do anything else for your sake because I love you but I can’t be hypocritical. If I perform umra when I don’t believe in it, I will be deceiving myself and everybody else too. I would not ask you to pray, if you did not believe in it. Prayers are very personal things. I think one should be honest to oneself.”

          As we talked, I also realized that Irshad, standing in front of me in his ehram, was also worried about his social image in the community. He had talked about my visit to his friends. Since I did not want to create any problems for him I said, “Listen, Irshad, let’s make a compromise. I will not perform umra but I will keep quiet about it. You can say whatever you like to your friends.”

          Once Irshad realized that I was trying to be sympathetic and respectful and not unnecessarily complicate his life, he relaxed and the tension that had developed faded away. I felt quite relieved.

          When we reached Mecca and wanted to enter khana-e-kaba (God’s house), I had my camera to take some pictures. The gatekeeper stopped me and would not allow me to take my camera. He told me taking pictures was a sin. I saw a lot of television cameras set up inside to take films for the television programs. I pointed them out to the gatekeeper, but he was in no mood for a rational discussion. He wanted to exercise his power and control by being irrational and rude. So I went away to plan a strategy because I was determined to take some pictures. I did not want to lose that golden opportunity. Finally I hid my small Olympus camera in my underwear and went back with empty hands. He did not stop me that time. While Irshad and the family were performing umra , I went upstairs and when nobody was looking, I took the camera out, took a few wonderful pictures and then hid the camera again in my underwear. I was aware of acting unholy in a holy place but I seemed to have no choice.

          After the visit to the holy shrines, we went to visit my class-fellow Salman, who worked in Mecca hospital as an anesthetist. While I shared with him my dilemmas of practicing psychiatry in Canada, he shared his latest challenge working in a theocratic state as an anesthetist. He told me that the law of the land was to cut off the criminal’s hand if it was proven that he had stolen things. Since there was an outcry from international human rights organizations, the government wanted to make the punishment more humane. So the administrator had ordered Salman to give the criminal local anesthesia, before his hand was chopped off.

          Salman was in a difficult position. On one hand he did not want to be a part of that barbaric punishment, especially on the premise of making it humane, but on the other hand he did not want to risk his job by refusing to cooperate. That example was enough for me to get a glimpse of how human beings were treated in that holy city.

          After we arrived in Medina, we all went out for shopping. I wanted to see the local markets and visit masjid-e-nabvi [where Mohammad is buried]. I was shocked to see that after the azan (call for prayers), a middle aged man was going around with a stick in his hand hitting the walls and doors of the shops, ordering people to leave their businesses and go for prayers. I stayed away in the car with children, as I did not want to be beaten up by a stranger. The children were surprised that I did not join their parents. When they asked my reason, I shared with them in a matter of fact way that I did not believe in praying or fasting or performing pilgrimages. While Irshad and Amber were offering prayers, I took a few pictures of the mosque from a distance.

          After the visit to the mosque, we went shopping. While we were looking at some clothes in a super-market, suddenly Irshad came rushing to me and asked,

“ Where is your passport?”

“At home” I answered in a relaxed way.

Hearing that, he looked afraid and became pale.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“You are not in Canada. If you don’t carry your passport, the shurta [police officer] has the right to send you to jail for five days without any trial.” Irshad looked very nervous. He asked me again where I had kept the passport. Amber suggested I stay with her in the market, while Irshad went home to get my passport. While I was waiting, Amber shared with me a few horror stories about Pakistanis who had been picked up by the police and kept in jail for a few days just because they had forgotten their aqama [identity Card]at home. She also told me that in Saudi jails prisoners were not even given food. Many of them starved before their relatives found out and took food to them. That day I wondered why none of the famous Pakistani writers, who wrote extensively about their spiritual transformations while traveling in Saudi Arabia, had ever mentioned those painful realities. Amber also shared with me that in Saudi Arabia Pakistanis, rather being respected as Muslim brothers and sisters, were treated as third class citizens. (Saudis were first class, Non-Saudi Arabs were second class and all other Muslims were treated like third class citizens. Non-Muslims were not even allowed to visit).

          The next day I got a call from Shahid Siddiqi, a well known Pakistani Urdu poet living in Jeddah, who wanted to meet me and introduce me to other Urdu poets living in Saudi Arabia. I discussed it with Irshad and Amber and accepted the invitation. That evening I gave the family the gifts I had brought from Canada and they gave me some presents. One of them was a tasbeeh [prayer beads]. Although I knew I would never use it to offer prayers, I wrapped it around my wrist as a bracelet to acknowledge their affection and love. The next day when we went to Jeddah, not only Irshad and Amber joined me but also Salman came over from Mecca. The mushaira [poetry recital] went very well and I met a number of poets whose poems I had read in various newspapers and magazines but whom I had never met personally. During that evening, many poets asked me about umra, but respecting my promise to Irshad, I did not respond and gently changed the subject. The evening ended with us all taking pictures and making new friends.

          While we were driving back to Medina, Irshad told me that Siddiqi had taken a big risk inviting nearly twenty people to his home because in Saudi Arabia to have such get-togethers was illegal. One of Irshad’s friends was reported to the police while he was having a religious get together in his house. That day ten people were not only arrested but were subsequently deported back to Pakistan. The next day when I called Siddiqi to thank him for the party, I asked him why he and other poets did not voice their concerns in their writings about those violations of human rights. He sounded rather apologetic, stating that even if someone wrote such poetry, nobody would dare to publish it. I kept quiet as I did not want to challenge him.

          While I was in Pakistan, I thought of visiting my friend Jawad in Abu Dhabi. When I called him and told him that I would like to see him, he was thrilled. When I inquired about getting a tourist visa, I was surprised to learn that Abu Dhabi, like some other Middle Eastern countries, discouraged tourists. They did not even have application forms for tourist visas. Maybe they thought they did not have anything special to share with foreigners or that others were not worthy enough to visit them. Jawad reassured me that there were still two ways to visit Abu Dhabi--either to visit a relative or to initiate some business venture. Since I had no relative (they did not accept friends as part of the family of the heart), Jawad promised to arrange with an organization to sponsor me for a business trip. Jawad even paid for a hotel room for five days, the hotel room that I was never going to occupy, just to pretend that I was there on a business trip. After all the formalities were completed, Jawad informed me that I could visit his country and I would pick up the visa at the airport. I was quite excited about the whole trip. Jawad asked me to visit his family in Lahore before I went to see him so that I could give him the latest news. When I visited his family, alongside the most recent news, they also gave me a beautifully wrapped box as a gift to take for Jawad. I was quite pleased to carry it with me, and without asking them what was in it, I put it in my briefcase.

          When I arrived at Dubai airport, there were two lines at Immigration and Customs: Transit and Non-Transit. Since I was staying for five days, I did not think I was a transit passenger, so I joined the non-transit line. After an hour of waiting, when I arrived at the window, the officer told me that the non-transit line was only for United Arab Emirates (U.A.E) nationals, so I had to go to the other line. After another hour of waiting, an officer asked me,

“Where is your visa?”

“I thought you were going to give it to me. I was told I would get it at the airport”

He pointed at the table at the far end of the room where all the visas were kept. I was supposed to find my visa in that pile. By that time, dozens of people had been searching for their visas, and the papers were scattered all over the floor. I had to put my handbag and briefcase aside, and get on my hands and knees and pick up each one of those papers to identify which one of them was mine. I was lucky to find my visa after ten minutes of searching. I was painfully aware that it could have easily been lost or blown away by the wind. When I came back to the window with my Canadian passport and the visa that I had picked up from the floor, the officer sent me to another officer for further interrogation. The second officer did not speak English very well and I could not converse in Arabic, so we both had to rely on body language (which might be a blessing in romantic affairs, but becomes a curse while dealing with an immigration officer).

          He looked at me from head to toe. I was dressed casually in a shirt, trousers, coat and a hat that I had bought in Pakistan. He asked me to open my briefcase, which I did. He then pointed at the box that I was carrying for Jawad. I told him it was a gift.

‘What is in it?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He looked at me suspiciously and I realized that before accepting the box, I should have inquired about the contents.

He asked me to open it. I was surprised to see halwa (a special sweet covered with white powder).  Scowling, the officer asked me what it was. As I was explaining in English he was busy searching my briefcase. Obviously he did not understand English and the tension started to escalate. Maybe he thought the white powder was cocaine or some other illegal drug.

          After a few minutes, he opened one of the pockets of my briefcase and found my Pakistani passport. His eyes lit up as if he had found the clue he was looking for. He looked at me as though I were a member of the mafia or a secret drug dealer.

“What is this?” He looked puzzled.

“My Pakistani passport”

“And that?”

“My Canadian Passport.”

And he started to shake his head and body violently, asking me in Arabic how come I have two passports. The more I tried to explain that many people in the world have two citizenships, the more he became suspicious. Probably he had never met anybody with dual citizenship. I was also aware that many Middle Eastern countries never offer citizenship even if people have been residing there for decades and have children and grandchildren in the host country. Finally when our communication had deteriorated from bad to worse and his suspicions had risen sky high, he said,

“I ask last question?”

“Go, ahead” I responded.

“Is there one God or two?”

That was probably the most bizarre question I have ever been asked in my life. Being an atheist, I do not believe in even one God and I hold the firm conviction that human beings have been suffering like orphans for centuries, but I did not want to get into any philosophical dialogue with someone whose thinking was obviously irrational.

“What does your question have to do with my passports?” I inquired.

“The way we have one God, we also have one passport.”

At that stage I followed his logic and discovered that there was a method to his madness. He picked up both my passports and started walking towards the Immigration Police. I followed him. By this time the airport was empty, as all the other passengers had left.

          As I was following the officer, I looked around, and luckily saw my friend Jawad waiting outside the glass door. I waved and pointed to the Police Department. In a couple of minutes Jawad appeared with his friend Sharib who was fluent in Arabic. At Sharib’s request the officer let me go but kept my both passports and asked me to appear in the Immigration Court within forty-eight hours. Jawad was excited to see me but told me that he lived one hundred miles away from the airport and had taken a special day off work to come to the airport. I had no choice but to come back.

          When I appeared in the court, I met with three officers, each one of higher rank than the last. Interestingly, none of them had heard of dual citizenship. Finally the last officer, who was enjoying his television show in his office, got so confused and fed up with the discussion that he threw the passports back at me and told me to get out of there. He did not want his favourite television program to be interrupted. As I left with my passports, I felt relieved. I knew anything could have happened. I could have easily been sent to jail.

          After my return to Canada, I was surprised one day when someone on Gerrard Street in Toronto congratulated me on performing umra in Mecca. I found myself in an awkward position. I could neither affirm, nor deny.

“Who told you about umra ?” I was curious.

“I read it in a magazine.”

“Which magazine?” I was flabbergasted.

“The most popular Indian magazine Shama ‘.

And he showed me a copy of that magazine with an article titled “Jeddah’s Literary Diary”. In that article, one of the poets present in the mushaira in Jeddah had written,

“Dr. Sohail, a poet and a psychiatrist, came to Saudi Arabia to perform umra and visit his family. After visiting the holy shrines, when he came for the mushaira , he looked very spiritual. He was wearing a holy beard and carrying a sandal-wood tasbeeh in his hand…”

          I made a copy of the article and sent it to Irshad and Amber, sharing with them the price I had to pay for staying silent out of respect for their religious feelings and social image. They were shocked to read the news. My niece was thrilled that her uncle was featured in the most popular magazine of India.

          I sometimes wonder whether I am the only person from the Muslim world who received the social acknowledgement of performing umra without doing so, and one of the two people in the world, who had the opportunity of visiting the holy places as a non-Muslim. The other one was nineteenth-century explorer Richard Burton, who had made the pilgrimage, the haj, on a fake passport, pretending he was a Muslim. I did not have to pretend. My Muslim-sounding name was enough to get me the visa for Saudi Arabia.

                                                                   Dr.K.Sohail

Psychiatrist

Creative Psychotherapy Clinic, 213 Byron St. South, Whitby Ontario Canada,                                                            Tel-905-666-7253