A Series of Sketches: The Haja

Dear Readers:

I am truly sorry for my incredibly abrupt departure from regular blogging. It was completely unplanned and unexpected, and also totally unavoidable. My apologies.

Yet, I'm back. Now, more than ever, with a need and desire to write; lacking the time with which to do so (thoughtfully and intentionally), I nevertheless dive in once again--this time, into a series of sketches that I hope will prove to be thought-provoking and heart-moving. After all, what's the use of a heart that's just been 'warmed'?

The Haja.

An older woman, somewhat heavy-set, beams with tanned complexion and wrinkles that betray not only age but depth. Her head and neck are wrapped in a pale gray patterned scarf; her body is cloaked in a shapeless gray tunic. Fitting, as the day is also patterned with gray clouds and gray drizzle.

We are told: "You will stay with this woman. You will call her 'Haja' because she has made the 'Haj.'"

Unfazed by the dreary conditions, the Haja begins making her way through the narrow, stone-paved walkways of the old city. [We follow, fighting with our bags the whole way.] Her gait is not quite a limp and more closely resembles a waddle. Her feet fight to stay within the confines of the cheap sandals that just barely protect from the grime and slime covering the long-dry paths winding ever more deeply into the heart of the medina.

Finally, she turns into a barely visible doorway, slowly and painfully climbs the steep and uneven stairs and unlocks the door to her home. We continue climbing stairs, following her all the way to the top floor where at last we find our place of rest.

All that we know is that she is the Haja; that she has made the Haj. She is one of the devout, who has gone to Mecca and back. Often, devout Muslims don't like to have their picture taken (or so we've been told, haven't we?).

The Haja has a picture of herself in Mecca hanging above the HDTV downstairs. Perhaps its physical placement is symbolic of its importance relative to the tv? Perhaps.

She prepares mint tea for us, and gives us bread, butter and olives to consume. Conversation is virtually impossible because of the language barrier. Body language conveys the most basic and necessary of meanings. Eventually the silence loses to HDTV and the Haja's favorite (Turkish?) soap opera, dubbed into Arabic.

Off come the sandals. Off come the gray head scarf and shapeless tunic. Haja reclines on the narrow couch, resting her elbow on a thick pillow and her head on her hand. She is quickly engrossed in the ongoing saga of lovers and thieves, families and vagabonds.

The women on HDTV soap operas by and large do not wear head scarves or tunics.