It’s been eleven long, interminable years since I traversed land and sea, crossed oceans and sand dunes, and embarked upon the most sacred journey a Muslim can possibly make: the Hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca) in Saudi Arabia. As newlyweds, my husband and I decided to opt out of spending a ridiculous fortune on the lavish traditional honeymoon most couples fork out for and felt that there would be no better way to start off our journey in life together than to journey on Hajj together, in order to seek the blessings and forgiveness of God for the long road of life ahead of us.
I had spent the last five years of my youth saving up a substantial enough sum of money to invest in our first house, and decided that life was too short to wait until eighty to make the journey, so I redirected my funds to pay for our trip. As Hajj is the fifth pillar of Islam and pretty much a once in a lifetime dream for most Muslims, it is also obligatory on those who can afford to make the arduous journey, so we decided “why not, it’s now or possibly never.” With that intention we both packed our bags, booked three weeks off work, got vaccinated for tetanus and set off for Saudi!
We arrived in Jeddah and after eight hours of grueling passport stamping, visa checking and coach rides, finally arrived in Mecca late into the night to catch our first glimpse of a very illuminated sacred mosque known as Al-Haram, which houses the Kabah (black cube-like structure around which Muslims circumambulate during the Hajj). I remember being blown away by a sea of white – pilgrims scurrying from one place to the next, some handing out water to other pilgrims, some carrying their mothers on their backs, some pushing wheelchairs, some handing out dates, some sleeping on the sides of the street corners because they had travelled by foot, or donkey, or car from faraway lands and distant places. It felt as if I was in a beehive, with the buzz of all the pilgrims clustering around the mosque and Kabah area chanting in unison, “Labayk Allahuma Labayk, Labayk La Shareeka Laka Labayk, Innal Hamda Wannimata laka walmulk Laa Shareeka Lak,” the meaning of which is “Here I am my Lord I respond to You, there is none worthy of worship save You. All praise, grace and dominion belong to You. You have no partners.”
Saying this in unison with the other pilgrims who were of every race and every color was humbling for me, and an excerpt from Malcolm X’s letter came flooding into my mind of his own Hajj journey where he described, “there are Muslims here of all colors and from every part of this earth. During the past days here in Mecca while understanding the rituals of the Hajj, I have eaten from the same plate, drank from the same glass and slept on the same bed or rug – with Kings, potentates and other forms of rulers …with fellow Muslims whose skin was the whitest of white, whose eyes were the bluest of blue, and whose hair was the blondest of blond – I could look into their blue eyes and see that they regarded me as the same (brothers).”
Here we were, droves of people, all from different backgrounds, races, languages and cultural heritage, rich and poor, kings and paupers, yet we were one in front of God. None of us knew each other, none of us was better than the other, we just knew we were all there for one reason and that was the sheer love of our creator and sustainer. We were lovers of God, who at some point in our lives realised he was enough to make the difficult journey for, he had given us countless blessings and we were compelled to congregate and display our gratitude. That in itself was a feeling of being one with everyone else in unity.
So, unity and collective brother/sisterhood was something that stood out to me from this experience as we came together to declare our praise of one single creator. People who had so little were giving what they had or inviting others to come and eat from their plate. On one occasion, whilst sitting on the steps of the mosque admiring the swarm of activity around the kabah, a young Iranian girl covered fully from head to toe in black garb came and sat next to me and offered me the most delightful tasting mini figs I have ever encountered. As I expressed my delight, she handed me over the entire bag, and although she could only speak Farsi and I could only converse in English, somehow we managed to communicate for a while and express love and gratitude through the language of souls. There were many such incidents where I encountered similar beautiful gestures.
Sometimes in the 40 degree Celsius heat, a random hand out of the crowd would stick out holding a bottle of water just for me to quench my thirst with, or a man on the road would strip back a piece of bark (known as Miswak) and hand it out for pilgrims to clean their teeth with, always with a smile, always with love, saying, “Ya Hajja/Hajji, Hajj Mabroor,” “Oh blessed pilgrim, may your pilgrimage be accepted.” Such goodwill from unknown strangers in a world where, generally, goodwill must be scavenged for.
The white attire known as the Ihram that we donned for the duration of the pilgrimage was also very symbolic in many respects. It was almost as if each of us were stripped back to just the bare minimum of who we were, and it taught me that simplicity can lead to a content soul. We live in societies where generally things are centred around amassing more and more wealth to feel happier and more fulfilled, but the reality is that we find ourselves the polar opposite, becoming more depressed and disgruntled as we acquire more material possessions. We may have the latest cars, opulent mansions and snazziest gadgets, but it never really ends, as that lavish lifestyles requires constant maintenance and upgrading. To do that one is required to run on the never-ending hamster wheel to generate more and more wealth.
To me, the simple white robe, which was not so white after a few days of walking dusty roads and muddy mountainous paths, was a surreal sort of attachment to God; they were simple, but did the job of clothing me from the smoldering heat. Although rough and rugged now, I was reminded of the saying of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings upon him) narrating about God, “Allah, Most High, mentions before the angels about the pilgrims, saying, ‘Look at My servants; they came to Me, disheveled and dusty, from every deep ravine. I make you witness that I have indeed forgiven them.’”
To me, the simple white robe, which was not so white after a few days of walking dusty roads and muddy mountainous paths, was a surreal sort of attachment to God; they were simple, but did the job of clothing me from the smoldering heat. Although rough and rugged now, I was reminded of the saying of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings upon him) narrating about God, “Allah, Most High, mentions before the angels about the pilgrims, saying, ‘Look at My servants; they came to Me, disheveled and dusty, from every deep ravine. I make you witness that I have indeed forgiven them.’”
Therefore, no amount of wealth can fulfil the inner void of the soul like what a bit of simplicity and connection with God can do. Sometimes, stripping off all the glitz and pomp reveals more about you than you would expect.
Finally, my pilgrimage to Mecca taught me about the concept of sacrifice. After all, the Hajj commemorates the willingness of Prophet Abraham to sacrifice his son for God as a supreme act of faith, and due to this, God had mercy upon him for his obedience, as his son was then replaced with a lamb. As a pilgrim, I can safely vouch for the fact that sacrificing your luxuries and even basic needs becomes second nature to a person by the end of the Hajj. Whether it’s sacrificing your prayer spot for the dribbling, rather elderly, crippled lady who comes and virtually sits on top of you during the morning prayer, whether it’s sacrificing your sleep to make sure you fulfil all the rituals on time, or your food and water so you can feed the local cats, or your patience and basic necessities as you brush your teeth with whatever liquid you can find, as all the taps have been broken!
It’s all a bit of a boot camp to test your patience to extreme levels. The strangest thing about it all is that under normal circumstances it would be pretty difficult to not throw an outright tantrum over some of the experiences, but because it’s for the love of God, it’s the most spiritually-awakening, heart-opening experience of sacrifice you could possibly encounter. Eleven years later and with each year that passes by, I watch the pilgrims on my TV set undergo each ritual again and observe them circulating the kabah just as I had done, chanting to God that they are there out of his love and I, too, wish I was right there next to them.