An Experience of a Lifetime

When they planned the Umrah, they hadn't intended for it to fall on a Jummah day. But that was how it unfolded — Umrah on a Friday. What more could one ask for? Fajr was all they could think about. They wanted to be inside the Haram as soon as possible. The hotel had given them simple, straightforward directions — a quick walk to the escalators, they said, and the Haram would be right in front of them.

They left the hotel and walked in the direction they'd been told. The escalators rose upward toward the Haram level. With whatever energy remained, tired bodies fuelled by restless hearts, they walked swiftly. But when they arrived, they found blockades. Multiple gates were closed. Access to the Mataf — the open space around the Kaaba — was restricted.

So they made a decision: they would pray Fajr with the scattered crowd around them. That scattered crowd quickly shifted and aligned. Within moments it had formed a solid, unified shape — rows upon rows of people, all facing the same direction, all waiting for the same call. They removed their shoes and tucked them into their bags. They sat close to one another and prayed two rakats of Tahiyat al-Masjid, the greeting of the mosque. Then they waited.

The Fajr adhaan began. The feeling of listening to it was indescribable. The sound filled the air — deep, resonant, ancient. The sky was beginning to soften. The air was cool against their skin. The floor beneath their feet felt firm and sacred, worn smooth by millions of footsteps over centuries. Everything could be absorbed. Everything was alive. They prayed Fajr. And when the prayer ended, they rose with a singular purpose: it was time to begin Umrah.

With many gates still locked, they made their way toward Gate 79. They walked in, removed their shoes again, tucked them into their bags, and began moving toward the Kaaba. They all knew not to look at it in fragments — not to catch glimpses in bits and pieces. You had to reach a place where the Kaaba was completely visible. That was the right way to do it. That way, it would be etched in your memory for a lifetime.

The walk did not seem long, but the craving to see it was intense. Saji made sure her sons stayed close — Yazen and Saif walked near her, their young faces serious and focused. Shehnaz and Nazia held hands the entire way. Shehnaz had always been afraid of being lost in large crowds, and since her diagnosis with depression, the fear of separation had grown sharper, more present. Nazia had promised she wouldn't let go. And she kept her word.

They kept walking. Closer. Closer still.

And there it was. The Kaaba. Standing proud. Tall. Timeless.

Now came the time for Tawaf — seven complete rounds around the Kaaba. The crowd moved in like a wave. The closer you got to the Kaaba, the harder it pressed. Bodies moved together, each person carried by their own urgency and devotion. Shehnaz held onto Nazia tighter. Soni and Saji walked ahead, closely followed by Shehnaz, Nazia, and the boys.

This was the place where duas were read and offered — for yourself, for your family, for every person who mattered, and for all those who had asked to be remembered in prayer. Shehnaz referred to her pages and phone, reciting duas she had carefully written down. Nazia, Soni, and Saji did the same, each carrying their own lists, their own hopes. They reminded each other of what they could ask from the Almighty — for health, for guidance, for forgiveness, for Jannah, for everything in this world and the next. For rizq, for barakah, for aafiyah. The list grew with every round as they thought of more they could beg from the Most Giving.

Saji's boys stayed close throughout. Yazen and Saif observed every rule that men in ihram were required to keep — no stitched clothing, no covered head, humility in every step. They moved with a seriousness that made Shehnaz's heart swell. She thought of her own children and prayed that all their children could one day stand in this place with hearts full of imaan. Ameen.

Two rakats of prayer came next. They found a spot — not easy in the crowd, but they managed. They prayed with hearts still trembling from the Tawaf, made more duas, whispered and tearful and full of hope.

Then came Zamzam. They searched until they found where the blessed water was available, and when they found it, they drank. Drinking it felt like drinking directly from the fountain itself — not from a bottle or a cup, but from something real, true, and sacred. They drank deeply, letting the cool water settle into their chests, their souls.

Next came Sa'i — the walk between Safa and Marwah, seven times back and forth, tracing the steps of Hajar as she searched for water for her son Ismail. This was very different from Tawaf. As they walked, they thought about how hard it must have been in the ancient past — no ceiling to shield from the scorching sun, people barefoot on burning ground. This corridor had smooth floors, air conditioning, light. It was thousands of times easier, they said to each other. And yet, even this felt demanding.

The crowd moved in a long, steady stream. People walked with minimal distance between them. Children sat on their parents' shoulders as they covered the distance. You could hear babies crying. And then there was a toddler — small, unhurried — reciting "Labaik Allah" out loud and clear. People turned around, smiling, whispering Masha'Allah.

Green lights marked sections where men were required to increase their pace — a brisk jog, replicating the urgency Hajar must have felt in her search. Saif and Yazen made sure they followed it, their young legs moving quickly, faces flushed with effort. Shehnaz watched them with quiet awe — how passionate they were, how dedicated, how seriously they took every single task.

At the ends of Safa and Marwah, there were duas to be recited. People stopped briefly, hands raised, voices murmuring before resuming the walk. They completed their seven walks between the hills, legs aching, breath shortened. But hearts full.

The final task was cutting their hair. The women had decided to do it back at the hotel, but the boys wanted to complete theirs immediately. They walked to the nearest barbershop. Saif trimmed his hair. Yazen shaved his head completely. Both emerged looking proud of what they had accomplished — their Umrah was complete.

The women still had to wait. But first — breakfast. They walked back to the hotel at a brisk pace, the surroundings still somewhat unfamiliar, until the Anjum Hotel came into view. The complimentary breakfast was scheduled to close at 10:30 a.m. The clock read 10:32 when they entered the lobby. They moved quickly. The person at the entrance let them in but asked them to be fast — the counters were already closing. They filled their plates with whatever they could grab, sat down, and ate quickly before everything was cleared away.

Back in the room, the last ritual was completed. Saji cut Soni's hair, and Soni returned the gesture for Saji. Shehnaz had a pixie cut — a symbolic snip was all that was needed to fulfil the requirement. For Nazia, with longer hair, it would be about an inch, which Soni cut with care and precision.

And now — NOW — the Umrah was complete.

What a relief washed over them in that moment. Their entire journey had been built toward this. Every flight. Every layover. Every conversation. Every prayer. All of it had been leading here. And they had done it.

And in that quiet, sacred moment, sitting together in a small hotel room thousands of miles from home, they felt something deeper than relief, deeper than accomplishment. They felt gratitude. For the opportunity. For the ease with which everything had unfolded. For the companionship that had carried them through. For the children who had joined them with such sincerity. For the husbands who had supported them without hesitation. For the strangers who had shown them kindness. For the open gates and the patient drivers and the charming clerks and the gentleman with the chair at Newark Airport. For all of it.

Their journey wasn't over — Madinah still awaited them. More prayers, more reflection, more moments to carry home. But for now, in this room, in this city, at this moment, they were exactly where they were meant to be. And that was enough.