Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

My name is Sadettin Kirmiziyüz.

I am an assimilated agnostic migrant son,

but my name, Sadettin, 
means "Joy of Faith".

I was asked to give a short report

on the pilgrimage to Mecca
I conducted in 2010 with my father.

I have 18 minutes to do that.

I will try to make it.

I will take you through

the rituals you perform 
during this pilgrimage.

Where should I point?

You apply for the Hajj with 
the Hollanda Diyanet Vakfi.

For the Belgians: there's also
a Belgica Diyanet Vakfi,

but I'll stick to the Dutch version.

It is a Dutch affiliated 
department of the Turkish

Presidency of Religious Affairs,

founded in 1923 
after Mustafa Kemal Atatürk

abrogated the caliphate.

The caliphate was the islamic pope.

You enlist here.

You pay 3,500 euro and you get

your airplane ticket, visum, 
4 weeks stay in a hotel

and this

Hajji bag.

This is a survival kit.

It contains all sorts of things:

practical information, pictures, 
backgrounds, slippers,

scentless soap, towels,

the Ihram -- the white garment you wear

when you are in the sacred state --

and this prayer book.

You keep it safe.

You get vaccinated against malaria, 
streptococcus, diphtheria, hepatitis,

meningitis -- hepatitis A, B, anything, polio,

you send your vaccination passport 
and your passport

to the Presidency of Religious Affairs

and you're done.

May God accept this pilgrimage
and make it easy for you.

For muslims, the Hajj is the culmination
of their religious life.

To celebrate this, at Schiphol airport, 
in my case,

thousands of happy family members
say goodbye to hundreds of Hajji.

There is a joint prayer

to bless the journey,

and those who stay behind 
are solemnly promised

that they will be prayed for

at the house of God, 
Baitullah, the Ka'aba.

I was at Schiphol too,

where happy family members said goodbye
to me and hundreds of Hajji.

Next to me stood my girlfriend,

from the Judeo-Christian civilisation.

As we are standing there,

the imam who will 
accompany us, starts to pray.

I say agnostic, yes I do,

but I understand very well
that this is a serious endeavour.

So I raise my hands in prayer

and realise that my girlfriend, with whom 
I have been cohabiting for 7 years,

has never seen me praying 
in all those years.

Painful? Maybe.

Even more painful is the fact
that the prayer I am supposed to join in,

is unknown to me.

So I playback. (Laughter)

In Istanbul we enter the state of Ihram.

The garment is called Ihram.

The sacred state has the same name.

This is a Hajji looking very much like me.

My father helped me into this.

There is no other way 
to put on the garment.

You can't do it alone,
you help each other.

The belt I wear around my waist

needed an extra hole,

because according to my father

I am thin because I smoke.

So I had to pray in Mecca
for Allah to help me quit smoking.

To which I responded,

"Oh, yes? Do you think 
Allah will help me quit? Really?"

He said blandly, "Of course.
If you ask him, he helps you."

You tuck one cloth around your waist
and one over your shoulder.

As of that moment, the restrictions
of the sacred state apply.

The restrictions are:

no nail cuts, no haircuts, no shaving,
no scratching wounds,

no use of scents, no swearing,
no complaining, no fighting,

no underwear, no killing living beings
and no sex.

That means no talking of sex,

no thinking of sex, (Laughter)

for four weeks. (Laughter)

Infringements of these restrictions 
require atonement,

spiritually and materially.

Think "small gift to the poor".

In the plane from Istanbul to Jedda --

I can't show you here,
but Jedda is on the West Coast,

it says "Jiddah", near the Red See --

in that plane there is 
another joint prayer.

You use your folding table 
to rest your forehead

and as of that moment 
the Talbiyah can be intoned,

a special pilgrimage prayer.

Labbayk, Allahumma Labbayk! 
Labbayka La Shareeka laka labbayk!

Innal Hamda Wanni'mata. 
Laka Wal Mulka Laa Shareekalak

No Hajji in the room?

Freely translated, it means,

"Here I am, God, here I am,

as I was meant to be here.

Thine is the honor and the glory."

But when one Hajji intones

this Talbiyah, the others 
are supposed to join in.

So you may happen to be on the bus

from Jedda to Mecca,
four and a half hour through the desert,

and you are slowly 
but soundly falling asleep,

and the Hajji behind you may start,

Labbayka Allhumma labbayk, 
labbayka la shareeka,

so you join in.

You need to get used to it,
but believe me: you get used to anything.

Then we arrive in Mecca.

We go straight to 
the sacred part of the city.

You will not see Mecca itself 
during those four weeks.

This is a replica of the Big Ben.

They built it there.

My father pointed out to me that it says
"Allah" in Arabic on the Big Ben.

He thought that was very beautiful.

You check into your hotel 
and as of that moment

you no longer enjoy double citizenship.

You are no longer a Belgian Moroccan
or a Dutch Turk,

you are simply a Moroccan or a Turk.
That's all.

Go on.

To the Masjid al-Haram,
the holy mosque,

because that is where the Ka'aba is.

By the way, Ka'aba just means "cube".

What struck me immediately,
was its architecture,

and I don't mean the number of minarets

or domes, or the beauty of the ornaments,

no, it was as if the architect 
had counted in

the suspense generated by a first look

at the Ka'aba.

Because first you have 
to walk around those walls.

That is a 500 to 600 meter walk.

But you know it is there, 
the Ka'aba. You feel it.

Outside, Hajji are praying,
in that direction.

You get closer

until you reach Gate 11.

You take off your slippers, 
put them in a plastic bag,

put the bag in your backpack

and then -- astonishment

because I did not feel the way
I thought I would feel.

Not that I didn't feel anything,
no mistake.

It was different.

At home, in Amsterdam,

I listened a lot to Oum Kalsoum,

Fairuz, sufi music, Verdi's Requiem,

I put the volume up and thought,

yes, I will feel this, exactly this --

but I wasn't.

It was not what everybody said
I would feel.

My father, on the bus 
to the Masjid al-Haram,

"The Ka'aba is a magnet
and we are pieces of iron."

Or my mother, who couldn't speak of it
without tears in her eyes,

or my aunts, who called it
indescribable.

But astonishment too --
because I make jokes, I laugh,

I say 'agnostic',

I flirt with atheism, maybe,

but there were times when I was different.

In every house I visited, 
when I was a child,

every family member had a picture --

maybe this picture.

I walk around, butterflies in my stomach,

in this white speckled human hurricane,

pumped around this black pulsating heart,

above me the moon and the stars,

Allah on the Big Ben,

and I feel the moon and the stars,
God on the Big Ben,

and that black pulsating heart.

Here we perform the first real ritual:

the Tawaaf, the procession.

Like the planets around the Sun,
the Moon around the Earth,

so does man revolve around God.

We go round seven times,
anti clockwise.

We are reciting prayers 
from the prayer book,

a prayer for every round,

and after seven rounds
we perform a special prayer

to close the Tawaaf. Masha Allah,
congratulations, you performed the Tawaaf.

We go straight on.
I have 9 minutes left.

We go to the next ritual, the Sa'i.

The Sa'i is a hike between to hilltops,

Seffa and Merveh, currently situated
within the Masjid al-Haram resort.

It is a reconstruction.
Everything is a reconstruction.

They are enacting a big theatre play.

It is a reconstruction of the story of
Ibrahim, Abraham, Ibrahim --

whom God ordered to send his wife, Hagar,
and their son Ismail into the wilderness.

They arrive at this spot, there, in Mecca.

She understands very well
that they will not survive,

looks for water,

stands on the hilltop 
and puts down her baby,

because she lacks the force to carry it,

and walks to the other hilltop.

She arrives at a ravine 
she needs to bridge

in order to reach the hilltop.

So she climbs down,

and upon arrival at the bottom,
she panics: she can't see the baby,

so she runs to the other side, climbs up,

looks, sees baby Ismail, 
nothing happened, thank God --

looks around, sees nothing, runs back,

through the ravine again, panic again,
running to baby Ismail.

She does this seven times.

After seven times, 
she is about to give up,

when she finds God hasn't forgotten her.

An angel descends from heaven

and kicks a hole in the ground
with the tip of his wing.

From that hole, pop!
water, the Zamzam Well.

The part with the ravine

is now indicated with green lights.

When pilgrims pass a green lamp,

they are supposed to run 
to the next ravine.

It's a reconstruction.

The Zamzam Well still flows.

And what did the Saudi do?
Very smart:

they connected the source 
to an intricate system

of pumps, tubes, and kettles,
so that anywhere

in the enormous Masjid al-Haram resort,
all day long,

you can drink Zamzam water.
Delicious!

We go straight on.

We have ten days left to go to
the Masjid al-Haram, as often as possible.

You do it at night.

It's too hot in daytime. It's 40° Celsius.

You rest during the day.
We go at night.

We use the special shuttle buses

taking us to the Masjid.

You perform a Tawaaf, 2, 3, 4, 5,

but most of all: you pray 
as much as possible.

Pray, pray, pray, pray, pray.

Not on your knees, Dear Lord Jesus,

no, the Salat, physical exercise.

Because one prayer in the Masjid al-Haram,
counts for a thousand.

In the four weeks 
that I was in Saudi Arabia,

I prayed 247 times, of which 120 times
in the Masjid al-Haram.

Times thousand.

Not bad, for an assimilated 
agnostic migrant son, isn't it?

After ten days we go 
to the plain of Arafat.

Number four.

We officially become Hajji.

Mohamed gave his last sermon here,

and all pilgrims present in Saudi Arabia

gather on that plain.

5.5 million people.

We spend the night in tents,

men and women separated,

and it's hot, cramped,

and there's an exceptional 
amount of mosquitoes.

Which you are not allowed to kill.

You are not allowed to complain.

The next day, there's a prayer service
lasting 5.5 hours.

God is honoured, praised,

hymns are sung,

and at the end of the prayer,
you congratulate each other:

Masha Allah, you became Hajji.

But we are only half way through.

We move to number 5, Mozdalefah.

We collect pebbles

for what I think is 
the most spectacular part:

the stoning of the devil.

You collect 49 pebbles, 
each symbolizing a sin.

A bad quality.
You will cast them off.

The stones cannot be 
smaller than a chickpea

nor bigger than a hazelnut.

I had collected 49 pebbles 
and was ready, at point 5,

to walk with my father to point 6, Mina,

where 3 giant pillars symbolize the devil.

We were waiting for --

Okay. The Saudi authorities, 
for some reason,

had decided that all 140,000 Turkish Hajji
present at the time,

had to gather in an area that was hedged

with fences, the standard kind

that you see here as well.
Heras-fences, I think.

This was -- this is about 4 meter.

Here was a gate that was closed.

We stood in front of that gate.

Along the area there was a road.

On that road there were buses
full of pilgrims from other countries.

The road curved to the right,

so we waited to cross the road.

But it took a long time. 
Longer. And longer.

It was crowded. More crowded. 
Even more crowded.

A few hours earlier, 
we had run out of water.

But hey, this is a test. I am zen.

I am calm. 
I will not be upset.

As I lower my breath,

my father says,

"I really don't feel like doing this, man.

I'm not going to stand here, no way.

This will go wrong."

"Hey, dad, come on! We've come this far.

Let's stone the devil together."

"No, no, no way, no way.

Got your phone?" "Yes, yes."

"I will stand on a quiet spot.

As soon as you cross that gate,
call me and we move on.

"Fine, okay."

He leaves the crowd
and at that moment someone faints.

A lady. The lady had a tougher time,
they were covered.

Someone faints over there, 
and there, and there.

Someone yells:

for heaven's sake, make room, 
she is dying.

Which caused the Hajji standing there

to yell that the damned fucking arabs
needed to open the fucking gate

because he wanted 
value for his 3,500 euro.

Hajji, sabr, sabr, 
what are you doing, think, think!

A Hajji responds

that the son-of-such-and-such-woman 
needs to shut up

or else he'll smack 
the teeth out of his mouth.

As of that moment, things get hazy.

I know that suddenly 
I didn't feel the ground under my feet

and before my mind's eye I saw images

of '97, '98, 2000, 2001, 2004, 2006, 2008,

of Hajji with distorted 
limbs and bloody Ihrams,

and okay, I know I am a skinny guy,

but I have been in a mosh pit at a concert

so I know, mmmm!

I was surrounded 
by Turkish aunties, this high.

I don't know what happened to them.

I just know that suddenly
I was at the other side

with stuff sticking to my legs.

Did I stand on someone? 
Did I fall? No idea.

I can only walk, 
so that I get the fuck out ...

I didn't think fuck! Really not!

Run, run, run.
I ran like hell.

Because behind me on the road
139,998 Turkish Hajji came up.

So I ran, I took my phone

and I swear, as if the devil had it's way,

battery empty.

I lose everyone, my father,

the other Dutch Hajji,

and I walk alone for hours, 7 kilometer,

lost, along dusty roads,
looking for water.

I find a fountain 
with Zamzam water, finally,

I get there and think,

"I've been having inappropriate thoughts.

I will stone the devil.

I will cast off my bad qualities --

I have more than I can recount now,
but I have little time --

I think, concentrate, Sadettin,

it is still possible.

I get a poach with the 49 stones.

I empty it in my hand.

From now on, never, really never --

and then all hell breaks loose around me.

To my left are 3 Iranian Hajji.

Long beards, turban.

I see slippers fly through the air.

A crutch flies by

and luckily, just before that,

I put on my face mask.

Because I start laughing out loud.

I walk on to the hotel.

Before I enter the hotel,

I enter a store.

I buy three mars bars, three snicker bars,

one bottle of Mecca cola, 
a pack of cigarettes.

I sit in the lobby,

I eat the snickers, the marses,

I swallow the bottle of Mecca cola,

I light a cigarette and 
someone taps on my shoulder.

And? How did it go, my boy?

Was my father. All quiet and peace.

The stoning of the Devil kicks off
the Feast of the Sacrifice.

I say "Sacrifice". Some say "Slaughter".

I prefer 'Feast of the Sacrifice'.

It commemorates this scene:

the story of Abraham 
who is again put to the test.

God orders him to sacrifice his son.

In the Bible it's Isaac, 
in the Quran it's Ismail.

Let's say it's Ismail.

But at the moment suprême, 
this moment, that is,

an angel descends from heaven.

It points out this ram to Abraham,

in the lower right corner,

with its horn entangled in the bush.

The Feast of the Sacrifice, you might say

commemorates the fact 
that we don't slaughter

our children but our animals unstunned.

I offered a sheep too.

Really. I kept the ticket.

Where is it? Here.
Can you see it?

Sharp eyes.
It says 410, doesn't it?

Take it.
It says 410 rial, doesn't it?

Saudi currency. Divide by 5.
82 euro.

82 euro to buy a sheep, 
have it slaughtered,

chopped up, fly across the world,

distributed among the poor and needy.

I haven't seen the sheep.

Impossible. 5.5 million people
who all want to be there.

Slaughterhouses have limited capacity.

That ticket is proof of the sheep

which is why I want it back.

At the Feast of the Sacrifice 
you may shave off your hair

as a sign of literal transformation.

You leave part of yourself behind

in this sacred place.

Only the men shave.

5.5 million people, 60% males,
80% of whom go bald.

That means 2.4 million men.

It happens everywhere, this going bald.

As a result the streets of Mecca

are covered in men's hair for three days.

So you need to clean your slippers

before you enter your hotel room.

This is him, Satan.

Not really, it's a symbol.

You throw stones at it,
for three days.

Then we pay a last visit 
to the Masjid al-Haram.

We perform a farewell Tawaaf.

This is the last thing we do in Mecca.

We go on to Medina

to visit the mosque 
and the grave of the prophet,

the Masjid an-Nabawi, 
the prophet's mosque,

which is built around Mohammed's grave.

We salute the grave.

Salute. Remember, no praying at the grave,
that is not allowed.

It is sherk, idolatry.

No, Muhammad was a simple man, we salute.

Then you buy 7 kilos of dates,

you fill a jerry can 
with 10 liter of Zamzam water,

you buy an alarm 
indicating the hours of prayer

and having the call to prayer 
as an alarm tone.

You buy it for your mother.

You get onto the plane in Medina,
stop over at Istanbul.

You land at Schiphol airport.

There are thousands of happy Turks.

There are flowers.

There is applause. Masha Allah.

You performed the Hajj.

(Applause)