Mohsin Aziz

On the night of June 3rd, we received a message that the following day, we would be moving to Mina. The moment we had long prepared for was finally approaching . Our Hajj was about to begin. The actual rites of Hajj span just five days, from the 4th to the 8th of June, yet they carry the weight of a lifetime’s journey. I had to don Ihraam once again.

The following day, we departed from our hotel and journeyed to Mina. It is a vast uninhabited plain, just a few kilometres from Masjid al-Haram. It is popularly known as the “City of Tents,” Mina transforms into a sprawling encampment each year, its barren ground giving way to thousands of white tents that stretch as far as the eye can see. For the sake of order and efficiency, the area is carefully divided into zones based on nationality. Pilgrims from each country are allocated specific sections, their tents neatly pitched within designated boundaries, creating a mosaic of cultures unified by faith.

According to the programme shared by our group head, lunch was scheduled earlier than usual—12:45 p.m. instead of the routine 1:30. The plan was clear: eat early, leave by 1 p.m., and reach Mina by 2, just in time to offer Zuhr prayer amidst its sacred plains.

But this is Hajj, and in Hajj, the unexpected is almost a part of the ritual. With so many hearts beating together in one group, someone is bound to face a delay. A misplaced item, an illness, a forgotten step, and when one slows, all must wait.

The test, then, is not of time but of temperament. Not to grumble. Not to let impatience bubble to the surface. It’s all about trust and surrender and going with the flow without applying too much mind.

My wife and I were ready by 1 p.m., as planned. I had taken a shower with the deliberate calm of preparation and scented myself with perfume: one final act before donning the simplicity of Ihraam. Two unstitched pieces of white cloth, yet so heavy with meaning. The world had narrowed now: no distractions, no ornaments, no identities. Just a pilgrim among pilgrims.

Anticipation stirred within me, laced with quiet apprehension. A prayer circled in my chest: May I do nothing wrong. May I carry this responsibility well. But behind the nerves was a rising tide of joy. This was it. The journey of lifetimes. The invitation was answered. The moment had arrived. I had waited and prepared for this moment for five years.

Due to a delay, we could only reach Mina by 3:30 p.m. The bus took us very close to the Oman camp, but we still had to walk the remaining distance — hardly 500 metres. By then, most people had already arrived.

As we walked, we passed by the tents of several countries, including the Indian ones. Tents were everywhere. It was a vast sea of white fabric. People filled every possible space. Some were sitting, others standing. Some prayed with their beads, some chatted, some were on the phone, calling loved ones back home. A few frantically searched for their companions, while others sat in calm reflection. Some looked worried; others looked at peace.

I could hear a chorus of languages all around me. It was a symphony of cultures and backgrounds blending together. It felt like a united nation of spirituality. But everyone was dressed the same. Two simple pieces of unstitched white cloth. No brand names. No designer labels. No markers of wealth or status. Just seamless simplicity. Here, in this sacred valley, everyone stood equal. There was no rich, no poor. No masters, no servants. No hierarchy of status, only the humility of the soul.

“Ek hi saf mein khade ho gaye Mahmood o Ayaz

(Mahmoodand Ayaz stood in one row)

Na koi banda raha, na banda nawaz

(No one remained a master, and no one slave)

(Allama Sir Mohammad Iqbal)

Kings and beggars, scholars and labourers — all stood shoulder to shoulder, bound not by class, but by faith. The illusion of the world melted into the truth of our shared humanity. Languages differed. Faces came from every corner of the earth. But the prayer was one. The purpose was one. The dress was one. And in that oneness, there was peace — a rare, humbling peace that only true equality can bring.

At exactly 3:45, we arrived at the Oman tent, our hearts filled with anticipation and relief. At the entrance, we presented our Oman Hajj Cards, small yet necessary tokens that granted us passage into this sacred space. Just beyond the threshold lay a large, open tent, alive with the gentle hum of activity. Here, refreshments were laid out generously—tea, water, and a variety of juices awaited the weary pilgrims.

The aroma of karak tea lingered heavily in the air, rich and inviting, impossible to resist. I gave in to its warmth, grasping a cup with gratitude, its steam curling into the still air as I moved forward.

The camp was thoughtfully arranged, with separate tents for men and women. For the men, the tents were divided according to Muallim, maintaining a sense of order and familiarity. The women’s section was mixed, given their smaller number, but no less organized or welcoming.

A fine mist drifted through the passageways, cooling the searing heat of June—the peak of summer in Saudi Arabia. Mist-spraying systems had been set up all around, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere, softening the blazing sun with each delicate spray.

Our camp was located in Zone 4, marked as Camp No. 55, nestled along Street 68. Within this layout, the tent for Asif Bhai’s group was numbered 22 for men and 32 for women. By some stroke of divine luck, or perhaps thoughtful planning, these two tents stood side by side, making coordination smoother and our experience far more comfortable.

Once we settled inside our tents, the call to prayer Azaan echoed softly, a soulful reminder of the sacredness of our journey. As the melodious notes filled the air, preparations began for Zuhr and Asr prayers. The heat of the day seemed to soften under the weight of devotion, as everyone quietly readied themselves for worship.

Both prayers were offered in Jamaat (congregation), right within our tents. The atmosphere was serene, infused with humility and unity, as rows of pilgrims stood shoulder to shoulder, hearts aligned in reverence.

In a thoughtful gesture, Asif Bhai had brought along microphone speakers and an impressively long wire to ensure that no one would be left out. One speaker was placed inside the men’s tent, while the other was passed into the adjacent women’s tent.

This simple yet meaningful setup allowed the ladies to participate fully in the Jamaat, their voices rising in silent harmony with the congregation. It was a beautiful display of inclusion and collective worship, reflecting the spirit of Hajj in its truest form.
This year, the Government of Oman had taken a thoughtful step forward in enhancing the Hajj experience. Instead of the traditional floor cushions, each Mina tent was equipped with sofa-cum-beds. It was a remarkable upgrade that brought much-needed comfort to the pilgrims. These weren’t just functional additions; they were sturdy, cushioned sofas, inviting enough to sit on with ease and effortlessly transformable into full-sized single beds.

Each sofa came neatly arranged with a pillow, a fresh pillow cover, a bedsheet, and a light blanket. These small touches spoke volumes of careful planning.

For Muzdalifah, I had packed two additional sheets—one to use as a base and the other as a cover. But I soon realized that even these wouldn’t be enough. The tent was surprisingly cold, a sharp contrast to the blazing heat outside. Powerful blowers circulated chilled air throughout the tent, maintaining a noticeably low temperature. While it offered respite from the summer sun, it also meant bundling up was essential.

Gradually, everyone settled into their designated sofas. A calm stillness filled the space. Some pilgrims gently opened their Qur’ans, the rustle of pages blending with the low hum of devotion. Others held books of supplications, quietly whispering prayers with closed eyes and serene expressions. A few, curious and practical, stepped outside to familiarize themselves with the washrooms and nearby facilities, ensuring they knew the layout for the long days ahead.

In those moments, a beautiful sense of purpose and peace descended over the tent—each person immersed in their own reflection, yet united in spirit. I was feeling a bit tired. I stretched my sofa into bed and lay down. I didn’t know when I fell asleep. It was the soulful call (azan) for Maghrib that shook me out of my slumber. We followed the same pattern as before, gathering for prayer in quiet unity. This was our first Jahri Salaat (a prayer recited aloud by the Imam), and as it began, I was instantly captivated by the mesmerizing beauty of his voice.

The Imam’s Qirā’ah was soulful and deliberate, each verse flowing with meaning and emotion. Though the prayer was slightly longer than usual, I found myself completely immersed, each word drawing me deeper into reflection. It was a moment of pure spiritual connection, and I cherished every second of it.

After the prayer, I made my way to the cafeteria tent.  The familiar aroma of karak tea once again called out like a comforting friend. I must clarify here that water, tea, fruits, ice cream, everything was free of charge from the government of Oman. I picked up two steaming cups—one for myself and the other for my wife. Unlike the rest of our journey so far, this was the first time we weren’t staying together.

After the Isha prayer, we were informed that dinner was on its way and that food packets would soon be distributed. The announcement brought a sense of comfort. After a long and spiritually intense day, the thought of a warm meal was welcoming.

After the Isha prayer, a short but deeply moving bayan (sermon) was delivered inside the tent. It focused on the immense blessing of Hajj. It was a timely and gentle reminder of the extraordinary honour we had been granted.

We were reminded to be grateful to Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala, who had chosen us, from among millions, to answer His call. Every year, countless believers long for this journey. Many meet all the conditions—health, wealth, and intention—but still, for reasons only Allah knows, they were not called. The fact that we were here, standing in Mina, was not a coincidence. It was a divine invitation and a privilege beyond words. He was right. I realised that I was one among only 470 expatriates that got an opportunity to perform Hajj this year (Oman Observer, 2025)

The speaker urged us to carry this awareness in our hearts throughout the days ahead. We were reminded that we were not ordinary travellers. We were rather Ḍuyūf ar-Raḥmān (guests of the most Merciful). And with that honour came great responsibility.

He gave a beautiful analogy: When we are guests in someone’s home, we are mindful. We speak politely, we behave with respect, and we are careful not to overstep boundaries or act inappropriately. Here, in these sacred lands, we were not just guests in a home. We were guests of the Lord of the Seven Heavens.

The message was clear. Every word, every action, and even every thought should reflect gratitude, humility, and consciousness of the divine presence. It wasn’t just a sermon—it was a moment of deep reflection. Many of us sat silently afterwards, feeling the weight of the journey ahead and the spiritual responsibility it placed upon us.

But as time passed, there was still no sign of food. Whispers of concern began to ripple through the tent, especially as some of the diabetic pilgrims began feeling uneasy. For them, the delay wasn’t just about hunger—it was about managing their health in already demanding conditions.

Soon, the organizers explained the reason behind the delay. The food truck had left the hotel on time and had reached very close to our camp when, suddenly, police barricaded the road, diverting all traffic to a longer alternate route. What we didn’t realize was that after we had arrived at our tents relatively quickly, the area around Mina had become heavily congested.

Thousands of pilgrims were still pouring in, and in an effort to control the crowd and manage the flow of traffic, the authorities had begun to close roads and redirect vehicles. It was an understandable decision from a logistical point of view.

It seemed Jamal Bhai had a sense that dinner might be delayed. Wasting no time, he thoughtfully arranged for some fruits and biryani to keep everyone going. It turned out to be a wise move. We had a light meal, sharing fruit among ourselves, and for those with a sweet tooth, a few even indulged in ice cream despite the late hour.

I, however, avoided anything cold—I was being extra cautious, determined not to risk a sore throat during these crucial days of Hajj.

By 10 p.m., the camp began to quiet down. Fatigue had caught up with everyone, and one by one, we retired to our sofa-cum-beds, grateful for a chance to rest. But the peace didn’t last long.

Suddenly, a commotion stirred the silence, and I woke up, momentarily disoriented. I checked my watch—it was 12:30 a.m. The long-awaited main dinner had finally arrived.

Some people got up and eagerly took food packets, the aroma filling the tent once again. But like many others, I chose to stay in bed. Sleep won over hunger, especially since we had already eaten earlier and didn’t feel the need.Thus ended our day one of Hajj.

The next morning, we learned that the late-night meal had been excellent—a detail that brought a few smiles and some lighthearted regret, but no real complaints. After all, we were well-fed, well-rested, and most importantly, spiritually grounded for the days ahead. But in the end, we were content. The real nourishment was the patience we practised and the quiet unity that bound us together through even the smallest of trials.

(To be continued in Part 9)

Reference:

Oman Observer (2025) 13530 Omanis, 470 residents to perform hajj from Oman,l. May 20. Available at: https://www.omanobserver.om/article/1170814/oman/community/13530-omanis-470-residents-to-perform-hajj-from-oman