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We were told that the tickets were of three types: the first cost 1,500 rials and provided front-row seats, very close to the stage. The second was 1,000 rials because it was a little farther back. The third, 500 rials, would be at the back of the huge 22 May Hall. I imagined that the audience there would see him as a dot on the horizon. I decided, together with my sisters, cousins and nieces to buy the first type, and we did. We were very excited to see this man who had embedded in our memories numerous phrases and stories.
On March 29 we went to the 22 May Hall one hour early because we expected it to be crowded. We arrived there and found a huge area of land covered with black, like a sea of crows, except they were women. We were shocked - the crowd was far bigger than we expected. We went and stood near the entrance and after waiting a few minutes I looked back and saw the crowd behind me was now even larger than the one in front. It was crowded and stuffy. I had to raise my face upwards in order to breathe. I also had to lift my elbows above my head to avoid hurting a pregnant lady behind me who was about to weep.
The reason for the holdup was a man at the entrance who was stopping anyone from entering. A number of women were arguing with him. Sometimes he blocked the way with his arms, other times by slamming the door in the women's faces. Every time he did, the whole crowd would move backwards. We were all pushed. Some ladies screamed; everyone was frightened. One lady shouted, "Don't push, sisters! You'll cause the weaker women to be crushed or trampled! Calm down!"
Running out of patience, the women shouted to the man at the entrance, "Why didn't you arrange a separate entrance for each type of ticket?" Of course, no one answered. Another woman raised her veil to breathe and whispered confidentially, "Even on the Hajj we weren't so crowded."
The man at the door grew angry as he was pushed and insulted and cursed. He yelled loudly, "Why don't you women go and chew qat instead of coming here?" Then he pulled out a chair, stood on it and screamed, "Nobody is entering until her handbag is examined!"
The man who was examining the handbags was one. The handbags were thousands. It took a long time. We began to regret having come. I was running out of oxygen and so were the women around me. We were all complaining about the lack of planning and organization. Some teenagers started to cry, trying to find their way back home, but the crowd pushed them forward instead.
I was dreaming of a glass of cold water and a chair to throw myself on when at last we reached the entrance. Please don't think we reached it by walking - we were pushed. We were literally thrown upon the door. It was the first time in my life I had moved without walking. It was an enormous human tsunami that pushed us inside the hall. My scarf was left somewhere behind and my hair was uncovered; my handbag was on the shoulder of an old lady. The pregnant woman yelled, "Don't push, sisters, I'm pregnant!" In my personal opinion she was foolish to come. It really looked like we were going to witness human losses that day.
Once inside I lost everyone that I had come with: my sisters, nieces and cousins. It was a terrifying image of doomsday. The hall must have contained around 8,000 people, not counting the women on the stairs and others leaning on the walls. I was able to find all my relatives except one cousin. We gave up looking for her and tried to find a place to sit down.
That was the next outrage - there was no distinction in the seats. It was a lie! We had been cheated! Whoever entered first sat down, despite the price of her ticket. We sat down near the middle, thanking God just that we were still alive. Then we started worrying about our missing cousin. She could have been trampled or fallen unconscious. Everything is possible when there is no order. Along with my sister, I tried to move between the rows and scan with our eyes the women in the seats, hoping to recognize her face or handbag. Unfortunately we couldn't find her. As the lecture was about to start, we went back to our seats, which my nieces had protected. We decided to calm down and not worry about our cousin until the end of the lecture, hoping that she would show up.
When the lecture began, we found it hard to hear. The PA system was terrible. This was another cheat. I saw a girl translating the lecture for those who are deaf, using sign language. I wished that I understood it. Sometimes Amr Khaled would make a joke and the front rows would laugh. I laughed to make it look as though I too were following the lecture, and I whispered to my sister, "Giggle, laugh." Suddenly we heard an infant cry. I joked to my sister, "Oh my God, the pregnant woman has given birth!"
Amr Khaled's lecture was about tying up people. He told us that the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, was concerned about tying up people even after death. He told a story about two men who died as martyrs, and people were going to bury them in two different places. The Prophet stopped the funeral and asked that they be buried side by side because they were friends and loved each other a lot. He talked about keeping the family caring and related, regardless of the stresses they face in their lives.
I listened to as much as I could, but to tell the truth, what we had gone through just trying to get in had insulted us badly and killed off the mood of listening peacefully to a lecture. I kept thinking of the policeman inside the hall with the cudgel, raising it at our faces, treating us like we were participating in an uprising. What was this? Why?
The microphones were extremely bad. The seats were not arranged at all. It was a mess. I was worrying about my cousin. What would we tell her kids when we go back home? "Your mom was trampled to death," "We don't know where she is." Did she get fed up with the clawing and the pulling? Had she already left and made her way back home? Who knows? I had a notebook and a pen in my handbag. We decided to write her name on a paper and show it while passing through the rows--maybe she would recognize us. We walked around, but it was no use. We couldn't find her. I was so nervous I wanted to go home. It was embarrassing to lift the paper with her name on it and go over the rows with my eyes. I looked like someone waiting in an airport for a passenger he doesn't know. I wished the lecture would end.
Poor Amr Khaled. It wasn't his fault he had come to Yemen. It wasn't his mistake if the lack of order broke bones and caused women to faint. Really, the lecture was very good. He started by praising the people of Yemen and repeated the adage that Islamic belief began in Yemen. He placed a large responsibility on the Yemeni people, telling them to protect the coming generations, as they are the hope of the nation. He also said that Yemenis are the builders of a great civilization. He talked about family relationships and blood relations. He mentioned many points, all of which were beautifully expressed. Yet we heard only about 40% of it. The rest of the time we were worrying about our missing cousin and fearing for the time when we would leave the hall and what the crowds would do.
The lecture ended with a prayer, and then he left. This time the doors were thrown open wide and people exited safely. We found our cousin. She said she had been pushed to the front row, she was lucky after all. We were lucky too, but only for still being alive. We left the hall and got in the car. On the way back I told them, "You know what the lesson should have been about? It should have been about why we can't be organized, why we don't respect order, why we are like this. That should have been the real lesson!"
By Salwa Al-Eryani
© Yemen Observer 2005
