Jamarat

Labbaik: The story of my Hajj (Part 13)

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Mohsin Aziz

After dinner, we left for Mina. Today, isha was prayed at Mina Camp. Most of the fellow pilgrims were making plans for the next day. Their topic of discussion was Tawaf al-Ifadah. I was tired but relaxed. Thankfully, I had already done it. Everybody was so happy at the camp. Arafat, Muzdalifa, and even Jamarat al Aqaba were done. Only two more days at the Mina Camp and Hajj would be complete.

The next day, early morning, after Fajr, we went to the hotel. It felt so good to be back at the hotel as I could take a shower peacefully and adjust the room temperature. After breakfast, we had ample time at our disposal. We were told that the group would go to the Jamarat after Zuhr prayer. We were asked to pray in the hotel prayer room itself. Our hotel was in Hudood e Haram. After Zuhr, we had a quick lunch. Immediately after Zuhr, we all assembled in the hotel lobby. The bus was ready. Our bus as usual was bus number 2.

Today was 11th Dhul Hijjah (7 June), the first day of Ayyam Tashreeq. 11th, 12th, and 13th are called Ayyam Tashreeq. These three days, the stoning is done from the time when the sun reaches its zenith (Zuhr) till sunset (Maghrib). The term Ayyam Tashreeq means the days of Tashreeq. The word “Tashreeq” has its roots in the pre electricity era when refrigerators were not available to store the meat of sacrificial animals. Tashreeq was the old practice of drying meat in sunlight for three days so that it could be preserved and used for a longer period of time. Ayyam Tashreeq thus means days of drying the meat. These appointed days have been mentioned by Allah in the Quran:

And remember Allah during the appointed days. But whosoever hastens to leave in two days, there is no sin on him and whosoever stays on, there is no sin on him, if his aim is to do good and obey Allah (fear Him), and know that you will surely be gathered unto Him (Al Quran, Surah Al Baqarah:203).

These days are marked for celebrations, festivity, and prayers.

And the budn (cow, oxens, or camels driven to offered as sacrifices by the pilgrims at the sanctuary at Makkah). We have made for you as Among the symbols of Allah, Therein you have much good. So mention the name of Allah over them when they are drawn up in lines (for sacrifice). Then, when they are down on their sides (after slaughter), eat thereof, and feed the beggar who does not ask (men), and the beggar who asks (men).  Thus, have we made them subject to you that you may be grateful (Al Quran, Surah Al Hajj:36).

This Quranic verse makes it clear that every pilgrim has to individually sacrifice an animal. For those pilgrims who don’t have the monetary means to sacrifice animals, there is expiation. Thus expiation is not in money. It’s fasting. Pilgrims have to fast three days in Makkah and further seven days when they go back to their homes. A total of ten days of fasting replaces the sacrifice of animals.

It was a common practice amongst Arab during Jahiliyya to smear the blood and meat of the sacrificed animal on Kaba. It was believed that they are offering the sacrifice in thus wat. This practice was stopped by Allah. The Quran declared that:

‘It  neither their meat nor their blood that reaches Allah, but it is piety from you that reaches Him. Thus, have we made them subject to you that you may magnify Allah for His guidance to you. And glad tidings (O Mohammad  SAW to the Muhsinun (doers of good)’ (Al Quran, Surah Al Hajj:37).

It is true that Allah does not need the meat. It is the purity of our intention that is important. It has today sadly become a topic of boasting as to how many animals one person has sacrificed. In fact, even the price of animals has become a status symbol in many societies. Animals are bought at a very high price just to show off. This practice has nothing to do with Islam. We as a society need to introspect and change course.

By the time we reached Jamarat, it was a bit late. No carts were available. We had to climb up the slope. It was hot, but thankfully, it was not humid. We brought our spare bottle full of zamzam water. Pilgrims were spraying water on each other to cool them down. There were quite a few tapson the way up where cold drinking water was available. Most of us not only quenched our thirst but also filled our empty spray bottles.

Today, we had to stone all the three Jamarat. The procedure is to take 7 pebbles and throw them one by one first on Jamarat Al Sughra. Before throw one has to recite Takbeer (Allahu Akbar i.e. Allah is Great). After completing the set of seven pebbles is the time for dua. Pilgrims stand on one side facing Kaba and make supplications. Once it’s done, Pilgrims move to the second Jamarat (Janaratt al Wusta) and repeat the procedure. Lastly, the procedure is repeated at the last and the biggest Jamarat (Jamarat al-Aqaba). 

By the time we finished the three Jamarat, it was close to maghrib time. We all assembled near the Asif bhais flag. As a group, we moved to the bus. Just after Maghrib time, we were back to the hotel, relive that one more days rituals are done. 

Back to the hotel, the first task was to pray maghrib, which we prayed in the hotel prayer room. After maghrib we took our dinner. Today the dinner was very good with a lot of choice. Jamal bhai had arranged a huge cake and qahwa for the whole group. It was a nice gesture from him to the pilgrims. We truly felt cared for, though I did not eat the cake. By the time dinner was done, it was Isha time. Isha was also prayed in the hotel.

By the time we left the hotel for the Mina Camp, it was 10.15 p.m. We reached the camp at around 11 p.m. as today we found some traffic on the way. Back at the camp, people got engaged in supplications and supplementary prayers. I was too tired for anything. I made up my sofa bed and went to sleep.

(To becontinued in Part 14)

References:

Al Quran. Interpretations of the meaning of THE NOBLE QURAN in the English language. Muhsin Khan. Darussalam Publications, 2011.

Labbaik: The story of my Hajj (Part 11)

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Mohsin Aziz


Our bus pulled away from Muzdalifah at 6:20 a.m. The atmosphere inside was alive with the rhythmic, resonant chant of talbiyah. Asif bhai’s voice would rise, strong and steady, calling out Labbayk Allahumma labbayk,  and the rest of the bus would follow like an echoing tide, voices raised in soulful unison.

There was a gentle urgency in our recitation.  The time for saying talbiyah was drawing to a close. Soon, we would arrive at the place where we would stone the symbols of Satan. After that, the lips that had so fervently repeated the ancient call would fall silent. The final Labbayk was approaching.

Inside the bus, the atmosphere was both reverent and reflective. The men sat toward the front, quiet in their contemplation, while the women, seated at the back, murmured prayers. It was a journey wrapped in devotion and spirituality.

Our bus stopped approximately one and a half kilometres from Jamarat, as it couldn’t proceed any further due to police barricades. The driver found a suitable spot to park, and the bus came to a halt. Everyone was eager to perform the ritual—we had heard so much about Jamarat. With anticipation and excitement, we all stepped out of the bus, ready to begin the next part of our spiritual journey.

Then, suddenly, there was commotion outside the rear door of the bus. One of my fellow travellers had fainted. He had passed out and collapsed inside the bus. The word spread quickly: he was diabetic. Two of the women doctors in our party moved very quickly without even breaking their stride. Calm and tranquil, they knelt alongside him, their hands calm and experienced. One was checking pulse, and the other was withdrawing some medicine from her pouch. They never left with them small pouches filled with vital medicines. Their preparedness at this time became invaluable.

Within minutes, their expert intervention bore fruit. The man slowly regained consciousness. A collective sigh of relief swept through the group. He was elderly, and the cause soon became clear: a sudden drop in blood sugar. His body, worn and fragile, had simply given way under the strain.

The incident left everyone worried. I had come prepared, carrying an ample supply of chewable rehydration capsules. Seeing the concern etched on faces around me, I handed them out generously. The gesture, though small, lifted spirits. In that moment, we were more than a group of travelers. We were a community, watching over one another in a sacred journey that was as much about compassion as it was about faith.

The person who fell down was advised to stay on the bus along with two other ladies who were on wheel chair. The driver was always in the bus. They appointed other family members to stone on their behalf.

The path leading to the Jamarat is a pilgrimage of both body and spirit, where the scorching sun presses down with an unrelenting heat, and the heart beats with an equal measure of anticipation and reverence. As we walked from the bus towards the Jamarat, our muallim, ever the guiding presence, raised his banner high—a symbol not just of identity but of unity. In the midst of the vast throng, the banner became our tether, a lifeline that ensured no soul would be lost in the crowd’s consuming sea. Asif bhai, the steadfast leader of our group, bore the banner proudly, his presence a beacon that guided us through the tumultuous currents of pilgrims.

Soon, we approached a vast incline. It is a big slope leading towards the sacred Jamarat. The sheer scale of the path was humbling, for it was one of ascent and descent, each slope distinct, designed to direct the flow of pilgrims and diminish the chaos of the throng. There was a rhythm to the journey now, a sense of order in the movement of bodies and souls towards their goal. Yet, the heat of the morning air made the climb no easy task. The suffocating weight of the sun seemed to press down upon us, each step a small victory over fatigue.

At the base of the slope, there was a cart service for those whose bodies were not up to the gruelling task of the climb. For the fortunate few, including our group, this service was extended early in the morning before the great flood of pilgrims arrived. Thanks to the kindness of the police we were spared the walk up the climb.

Upon reaching the Jamarat, the sacred act of stoning awaited. It is an act that transcends mere ritual, becoming a profound symbol of submission, of rejection, and of unwavering faith. In this act, we were not simply casting stones upon a wall but participating in a divine narrative. It is a story of courage, trust, and submission that traces it origin thousands of years back to Ibrahim and Ismail. Their sacrifice, their resolute rejection of temptation, echoed through time.  In that moment, as we prepared to cast our stones, we too were asked to cast away our doubts, our fears, and our worldly distractions.

The experience was a symphony of spiritual surrender, a moment where the weight of history, the struggles of those who came before us, and the depth of our own devotion converged. Every stone thrown became a symbolic act of defiance against the fleeting temptations of this world. It was a reaffirmation of our own resolve to walk in the path of obedience to the Divine will. And in that sacred space, amidst the roar of the crowd, there was a profound silence within. It was a kind of silence that only the heart could hear.

The stoning of the Jamarat is not simply an act of ritualistic defiance against evil but an embodiment of the ultimate act of submission to God’s will. It commemorates the courage, trust, and surrender of both father and son in the face of an unimaginable test, a test that ultimately led to the intervention of God, who spared Ismail and provided a ram as a substitute.

In a literary sense, this ritual serves as a vivid reminder of the strength that can be found in submission. It highlights that true faith often requires a confrontation with one’s deepest fears and doubts. By embracing Allah’s will, one is elevated to a higher state of acceptance. The stoning thus becomes a metaphor for rejecting the worldly temptations and the forces that would lead one astray.

Each pebble thrown at the Jamarat signifies a resolute choice to stand firm against the whispers of doubt, anger, and defiance and to choose a path of patience, faith, and unwavering obedience. Through this act, pilgrims not merely commemorate a historical event but also internalize its deeper meanings. It is all about embracing the challenges of faith, submitting to the divine decree, and emerging stronger in Iman.

When we reached Jamarat, three things struck me. First, the sheer scale of the structure. It rose like a fortress of stone and steel, immense and imposing. In response to the tragedies of the past, the Saudi authorities had expanded it into a sprawling, multi-level complex. And it worked—despite the surging tide of pilgrims arriving all at once. Theree was space enough to breathe, to move. The chaos of the crowd was tempered by thoughtful design.

Second, the coolness within. It was remarkable.  The vast  expanse traversed by thousands, yet gently chilled by air-conditioning. After the long walk of nearly two kilometres from the buses to the Jamarat, it felt like comfort wrapped in technology. I remember jokingly telling  my companions, “I never imagined Iblis living in an air-conditioned palace.” We laughed, half in jest, half in awe of this surreal juxtaposition.

But what struck me most was the conduct of the police on duty. In a place where movement is life and stillness can lead to tragedy, they had a difficult task to keep pilgrims moving. They carried it out with what i would call firm politeness. “Hajji, harrak!” they called, again and again (Pilgrims, keep moving!). Firm but always with a smile, always with respect. They congratulated pilgrims with beaming faces, spraying cool mist into the air, often on the faces, neck and hair of the pilgrims. Though a small gesture, it felt profoundly kind under the blazing sun

In the midst of ritual and history, heat and exhaustion, there was order, comfort, and yes, joy. It was not just the stones that were being cast, but perhaps also a little of our own fatigue, our doubts and our burdens, hopefully, being left behind, one step at a time.

At the heart of the Jamarat complex stand three symbolic walls. They are powerful reminders of a timeless struggle between faith and temptation. Once, these were three stone pillars, but with the growing number of pilgrims performing Hajj, they have been transformed into tall, elongated walls to allow more people to perform the rite safely and simultaneously

The first is known as Jamarat as-Sughra (meaning the small Jamarat). It is also called Jamarat al-Ula (the First Jamarat). The second is Jamarat al-Wusta (Middle Jamarat). The final and largest is Jamarat al-Aqaba, also referred to as Jamarat al-Kubra (the big Jamarat).

These three locations mark the very spots where Satan is believed to have appeared to Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him), attempting to dissuade him from obeying Allah’s command to sacrifice his son, Ismail. At each of these encounters, Ibrahim stood firm, pelting Satan with seven stones. After the third beating, Satan retreated, defeated by unwavering faith.

Today, millions of pilgrims reenact this act of spiritual strength. With each of the seven stones cast at the walls, the pilgrims reaffirm their rejection of evil and recommit themselves to the faith and obedience exemplified by Ibrahim. It is not merely a ritual. It is a deeply personal statement of resistance, of devotion, and of resolve in the face of life’s own whispering temptations.

On the first day of stoning, i.e., on 10th Dhul Hijja, stoning is done only at the last Jamarat, i.e. Jamarat ul Aqaba. It can be done anytime after the fajr prayer to before maghrib prayer.

When we finally arrived at the Jamarat al-Aqaba,  the largest of the three, the air was thick with the mingling of sweat, whispers, invocations, and a thousand silent prayers that rose like incense.

We paused, letting the current of pilgrims flow around us. Our group had agreed to do the stoning together, and so we waited patiently, gathering every last companion like scattered beads returning to a thread. Despite the movement, the noise, and the heat, there was a deep quiet inside me—as though the desert itself were holding its breath.

In my hand were seven pebbles. They were small, almost inconsequential to the eye, and yet they felt heavy, as if each carried the burden of an inner struggle I had long avoided naming. I looked around at my fellow pilgrims: tired but resolute, draped in the plain white of ihram, equal in devotion, stripped of status, walking the same path trodden by Prophets since antiquity.

As I stepped forward, I was careful not to throw too hard, cautious not to hit anyone beside me. It was not just about accuracy—it was about respect, about intention. That was when Ishtiyaq Khan, a kind-hearted and light-spirited man from our group, leaned toward me with a glint of humour in his eyes and said, Mohsin Hit hard!

I turned to him, half-laughing, and replied, “How can one hit himself hard? It hurts.”

He paused, the smile lingering but touched now with contemplation. “Yes,” he said slowly, nodding, “it may look like we are stoning Satan, but in reality, we are stoning our own doubts… our own bad habits.”

And in that simple exchange, something shifted inside me—subtle, yet profound. I suddenly understood, not just with the mind, but with the soul. These were not stones meant to drive away some external devil hiding in the folds of history. These were symbols of every time I hesitated to trust. Every time I had chosen comfort over courage, every moment I had let anger linger, every prayer delayed, every act of kindness withheld.

The wall before me was no longer just a structure. It had become a mirror. I could not recognise myself. The face I saw was disfigured beyond recognition. It was detestable. I could not believe my eyes. Nobody ever told me that I looked so ugly. Maybe I never listened. And what I saw reflected was not some distant evil, but the flaws I carry quietly: pride masquerading as conviction, impatience cloaked as urgency, apathy dressed in the fine robes of detachment.

And so I began slowly but surely.

One by one, I threw the pebbles, not with force, but with intention. Each stone a letting go. Each throw was a resolute vow. With the first, I cast away the fear that had held me back. With the second, the envy that gnawed at gratitude. The third carried the fatigue of spiritual laziness, and the fourth, the stubbornness that resists change. The fifth and sixth fell like silent prayers for forgiveness, and with the seventh, I flung my hope—that something within me had shifted, even if just slightly, toward light.

The act lasted only a minute or two, but the meaning swelled far beyond those brief seconds. Around me, others were doing the same, each one locked in their own internal dialogue, casting their own burdens. The crowd was vast, yet in that moment, it felt like I stood alone. Just myself, my Lord, and the echoes of Ibrahim’s resolve reverberating through time.

We moved on, but something lingered in the air. A strange lightness. Not physical, but spiritual, as though I had peeled away one small layer of the self I no longer needed to carry. And perhaps that is the secret of the stoning ritual—not in the stone itself, not the symbolic wall, but in the release.


By 8:15 a.m., we had completed the stoning at Jamarat. The morning sun had just begun to rise fully, casting a golden hue across the vast crowd of pilgrims. Though the ritual was intense, a quiet sense of accomplishment settled over us as we made our way back.

By 8:45,we had returned to our bus. The driver had found a more convenient location for pick-up and had shared the new spot with the group via WhatsApp. That simple message saved us much time and effort.

By 9:30 a.m., we were back at our hotel. A deep sense of comfort engulfed me as the familiar scent of the black coffee in the lobby and the coolness of the air conditioning greeted us. Without wasting a moment, I headed straight to the dining area for breakfast. After the physical and spiritual intensity of the morning, the food felt like a blessing.

After finishing my food, I poured myself two cups of karak tea. I returned to our room on the fourth floor, where my wife had come back after taking her dinner at the ladies’ restaurant. We sat together, quietly sipping the hot tea. It was 10 a.m. The ritual was not yet complete, but this small moment of stillness felt sacred.

Still, one important step remained: the Udhiya, the ritual sacrifice. A few days earlier, I had already entrusted the responsibility to Asif Bhai, paying 140 Omani Riyal (approximately 365 USD) at the rate of 70 OMR per person. This was the only additional amount we had to give besides the money paid before the start of the Hajj.

Now, only two rites remained: the shaving of the head (Halaq) and the Tawaf al-Ifadah. But Halq could only be performed after confirmation that the sacrifice had taken place. We waited for the message.

At 10:39 a.m., a message came from our Muallim that Udhiya has been completed. Without delay, I made my way to the barber shop on the first floor of the hotel.


For men, two options are given—either to shave the head entirely or to trim a portion of the hair. While both fulfil the requirement, I recalled a hadith in which the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ offered a doubled reward for those who choose to shave completely. I decided to shave.

I had heard that the regular price for a shave was 25 Saudi Riyals,  but we had received a message earlier from our Muallim informing us that, for pilgrims affiliated with Al Jazeera Company,  the rate had been specially arranged at 15 Riyals.

At my turn, I sat in the barbers chair.  Soon, with every stroke of the razor, I felt the outer layers fall away—literal and symbolic. The cool breeze against newly bare skin was strangely refreshing, almost like a new beginning.

There was a bit of a queue at the barber shop that morning, as expected. Pilgrims were lined up, quietly waiting their turn—some in reflection, some in light conversation. The air was filled with a sense of fulfillment and relief, as everyone had completed their rites and were nearing the end of this sacred journey. By 11:10 AM, I had completed my haircut. It was Friday—the blessed day of Jumu’ah.

I returned to our hotel room, where my wife was waiting. I cut a small portion of her hair, as required, marking the final step in our coming out of Ihraam. After all the physical effort, prayers, and emotional highs of our pilgrimage, this small act felt symbolic—a soft, humble closing to the intense days that had come before.

With our rituals completed, we took showers and changed into our regular clothes. The white garments of Ihraam had served their purpose; now folded and set aside, they left behind a sense of spiritual cleansing. We applied some itr—a fragrant oil, subtle and soothing—feeling refreshed, renewed, and deeply grateful.

Knowing it was Friday, we felt especially blessed to be in Makkah on such a day. We hoped to make it to the Haram in time for Juma prayers. As if by divine ease, a taxi was waiting right outside the hotel entrance. No searching, no delay. Within 10 minutes, we were at the Haram, moving with thousands of others, all drawn to the baytullah, house of Allah. .

There was a sense of peace in the crowd, an unspoken bond among strangers. Though we came from different corners of the world and spoke different languages, we were united in purpose, gratitude, and devotion. The sight of the Haram, with the Kaaba at its heart, never fails to stir something deep inside. An ache, a longing, a deep connection, and great joy.

Looking back, it felt like every step of the day had been gently guided—from the haircut queue to finding the taxi. It was a reminder that in the midst of logistical challenges and crowds, there is always ease granted by Allah, sometimes in the smallest, most unexpected ways.

When we reached Haram, there was very little time left for Friday prayers. This was my first Friday prayer at the Haram. During my last visit to Umrah, on Friday, we were in Madina.

After the Friday prayers had concluded, we moved towards the Mataf to perform our Tawaf. By some grace, we found space among the throng of pilgrims, their faces alight with joy and relief—lifelong dreams fulfilled in this sacred moment. It was almost surreal for me; the realization that my own Hajj was complete felt like a gentle whisper against the roar of my heart. Around us, the air was thick with devotion, every soul immersed in silent supplication.

As we circled the Kaaba, the gentle spray of water cooled the pilgrims, a tender act of kindness amidst the heat and the crowd. When Tawaf ended, we moved swiftly to complete the remaining rites. By the time we finished the Sai, the afternoon shadows were lengthening, and the call to Asr echoed softly through the air. Ihraam cloth is taken out before Tawaf al Ifada and head shaved, but a pilgrim still, spiritually, remains in the state of Ihraam, and all the conditions of Ihraam apply. Once Tawaf al-Ifadah is completed, a pilgrim is both physically and spiritually out of state of Ihram.

We found a quiet corner between Safa and Marwa, settling there in the stillness to await the Azaan. The day had worn on us—our limbs heavy, our spirits content yet exhausted. The long hours of walking and prayers had drained our strength, leaving no energy to stay back in the Haram for Maghrib and Isha. With heavy hearts, we decided to go back to our hotel, seeking rest after a busy day.

(To be continued in Part 12)

Labbaik:The story of my Hajj (Part 10)

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Mohsin Aziz

The journey from Arafat to Muzdalifa, though brief, was brimming with anticipation and spiritual weight. Muzdalifah is a vast, open plain situated between the sacred lands of Arafat and Mina, It holds deep significance in the sacred rites of Hajj. Its name, derived from the Arabic root meaning nearness, symbolizes the pilgrim’s closeness to the Divine after the pivotal day at Arafat.

Located to the southeast of Mina, Muzdalifah is more than just a resting place. It is a sacred pause. Here, pilgrims spend a night under the stars where hearts are stilled and prayers whispered into the open sky. It is also known as Al-Mash’ar al-Haram, or The Sacred Grove. It is also referred to as Al-Jam’, meaning “the gathering”. It is here that pilgrims from every corner of the world gather to rest together to get energy for the rest of the rites.

From the tranquil plains of Muzdalifah, pilgrims gather small, smooth, pea-sized pebbles—seemingly insignificant stones that will soon become symbols of resistance against evil. These pebbles are carried forward to Jamarat, where for three consecutive days, pilgrims perform Rami al-Jamarat—the ritual stoning of Satan, reenacting the unwavering faith of Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him).

In the quiet of Muzdalifah, beneath the canopy of stars and amidst the murmurs of prayer, the soul finds a moment of reflection, unity, and nearness to the Creator. Here, in the vast and silent expanse of Muzdalifah, beneath the open sky, pilgrims spend the night of the 9th of Dhul Hijjah in an atmosphere unlike any other. There are no tents to shield them, no fans to ease the heat, no air-conditioned comfort. Only sand beneath and the heavens above. It is a night of simplicity, humility, and reflection.

Up to this point, the uniformity of Ihram—two plain, unstitched white garments worn by every male pilgrim—had visually erased many distinctions. Yet, differences in worldly comfort still lingered on. Pilgrims arrived through a variety of arrangements. Some came on modest packages, staying in basic hotels, where even meals might not be guaranteed. Others, through premium packages, enjoyed the luxury of five-star accommodations near the Haram, complete with full board, air-conditioned transport, laundry services, and other conveniences.

Muzdalifah is the true culmination of equality for the pilgrim. Here, all distinctions dissolve completely. Here, status, wealth, and privilege lose their meaning. Everyone, regardless of background, sleeps on the same open ground beneath the vast night sky. There are no tents, no private enclosures. Only the most basic of facilities such as public toilets and washrooms are provided. Each pilgrim must find a small patch of earth, lay down a mat, and settle in for the night, shoulder to shoulder with millions of strangers.


In Muzdalifah, all return to the essence of Hajj—equal before God, stripped of excess, and united in submission. In the stillness of the night, beneath the stars, the pilgrim is reminded that true honour lies not in comfort or wealth but in faith, humility, and the sincerity of one’s heart. Pilgrims lie on the ground, and often dust tarnishes their white Ihram. It is a powerful reminder that one day, we all will go beneath the ground in our graves with only a few pieces of unstiched white clothes.

‘Everyone shall taste death. And only on the day of resurrection shall you be paid your wages in full. And whoever is removed away from the fire and admitted to Paradise, he indeed in successful.  The life of this world is only the enjoyment of deception (a deceiving thing)’  (Al Quran, Surah Al Imran:185)

It is a reminder that whatever our position in life in terms of fame and economic status, we must not act haughty. Finally, we have to leave this world without all that we have so proudly achieved, made, and collected. Only provisions that will travel with us and accompany and benefit us in the next life are our good deeds that we send now. Muzdalifah  reminds us of the ultimate truth, that everything faces except our relationship with Allah. It also puts our ego to dust and reminds us that in the end, everything will be dust.

By the time our bus reached the sacred ground, much of the space had already been taken. Pilgrims were everywhere—resting, praying, and searching for a patch of earth to call their own for the night.

Despite the simplicity, Muzdalifah is brightly lit, its floodlights cutting through the darkness like a reminder of the modern world intruding upon this timeless ritual. For someone like me, that light brings a particular struggle—sleep doesn’t come easily when the sky never truly darkens. But perhaps that, too, is part of the test: learning to rest the body while the soul remains awake to the deeper meaning of the journey.

A constant buzz filled the air over Muzdalifah. The rhythmic whir of helicopters and the soft, persistent hum of drones circling above cut through the stillness of the night. They hovered like silent sentinels, part of the Saudi government’s efforts to monitor and manage the immense crowd spread across the sacred plain.


In recent years, the authorities have taken steps to ease the pilgrim’s burden by laying down wide stretches of soft, carpeted flooring. But by the time we arrived, every inch of that comfortable area had been occupied. I managed to find a small spot near our bus, while members of our group quickly unrolled their plastic mats in a nearby open area.

My wife spotted an empty space about 25 yards away, nestled beneath two trees. Though it was nighttime and the shade didn’t matter in the traditional sense, we soon realized the trees offered unexpected advantages. First, their branches helped soften the glare of the powerful overhead lighting, creating a dimmer, more restful space. Second, the tree trunks—along with a nearby shrub—provided a modest sense of enclosure, a bit of privacy amidst the vast sea of pilgrims. Here, we not only found a secluded place but a touch of solace.

We opened our backpack, and like a magicians hat, things started rolling out. I had brought one cotton bedsheet, which I put on the mat. Our mat was on sand and was speckled with tiny pebbles. With a slightly thick bedsheet, the mat became a bit more cushy. It softened the ground beneath, offering just enough comfort for bodies to ease on it. We had also brought two light cotton blankets. We had a very small self inflatable pillow for my wife while I preferred my backpack as a pillow. By the time we were ready with our preparations, I could hear multiple azaans echoing beautifully. Their melodies weaving a serene tapestry of devotion across the ground.

It was time to pray maghrib and isha. It is Sunnah of the Prophet to pray maghrib and isha combined together, one after another. They are prayed at the time of isha. This is called Jama Takhir, i.e., combining late as they are combined at isha time and not at maghrib time. Thousands of small prayer congregations could be seen. It’s not practical to have one communal prayer, though there is a mosque at Muzdalifa.

The mosque at Muzdalifa is called Masjid Mashar al Haram. It is between Masjid Al Namirah at Arafat and Masjid Khaif at Mina. It can house about 12000 worshipers. There were just under 2 million people at Muzdalifa. There is no option for the rest to pray in their own groups. At isha time in Muzdalifa, there are thousands of Jamaat’s go on simultaneously. It’s a sight to behold. Every group does its own azaan and prayer. Our group was led by Asif bhai. He was our imaam (prayer leader) for both maghrib and isha. The first 3 rakaat of maghrib was prayed. It was followed by a shortened isha of 2 rakaat following the tradition of the Prophet.

After finishing prayers, I sat with my group, and we chatted a bit. At around 9, I came back to my place and started collecting pebbles. Jamal bhai had already gifted every group member small cloth pouches for keeping pebbles. Pebbles have to be collected for all three days of stoning. Each person needs 49 pebbles. 7 for the first day and 21 each for the next two days. I had to collect 98 pebbles for myself and my wife. I saw people collecting more than required in case somebody else requires pebbles. It would not be possible to go back and collect again. Pebbles can not be taken from anywhere. They have to be from the ground of Muzdalifah only. I took at least 25 pebbles extra.

After the pebbles were collected, we ate a very light meal for dinner. After Isha prayers, food packets were distributed by the Saudi government along with a small gift bag. The gift bag was prepared very thoughtfully. It had a water bottle, an umbrella, a sling bag, and a small plastic hand fan. I took only one gift bag and one food packet for both of us. The food packet had a water bottle, a bottle of juice, a croissant, and a chocolate cake. We took only the water bottle and cake from it. We divided the cake into two and both of us took half cake each. We had brought a small packet of dry nuts. We ate the nuts. From the gift bag, we kept the umbrella, hand fan, and sling bag. We left the water thermose there itself. In the morning, we had to go directly to Jamarat. We were not in a position to carry any extra weight.

After taking our light dinner, we did our azkar. We were now ready to sleep. It was going to be a unique experience for us – sleeping with the most diverse group of almost 2 million people gathered at one place from each and every nook and corner of the world. It is the Rahma of Allah Subhanahu Tala that between the busy day of Arafat and the tough day of first Jamarah, the night of Muzdalifah is not kept for prayers. It’s for taking rest and sleeping. This is the Sunnah of the Prophet. Here at Muzdalifa, the reward is not in Qiyamul Layl or recitation of the Quran  or lots of azkar. Rather, the reward has been kept in sleep and rest. Subhan Allah.

In the small space we had carved out for ourselves, we lay down to catch a few hours of rest, for tomorrow promised to be long and demanding. Earlier that day, we had endured what was perhaps the hottest day of Hajj. At Arafat, not far from Muzdalifah, we had taken refuge inside our air-conditioned tent, shielded from the sun’s unrelenting blaze. And now, just a few hours later, we found ourselves lying under the open sky, our mat spread over coarse sand.

One side of our mat was two trees and a bush that gave us covering. On one side was a very large group of Egyptian pilgrims. On the other side were two pilgrims from our group. One Pakistani and a Bangladeshi. The Bangladeshi uncle was old. He had a very gentle demeanour, always a gentle smile on his face.  The Pakistani person was a lecturer in some university in Oman. He had taken the responsibility of the Bangladeshi uncle. He never allowed him to do anything. He would always be running around and bringing food, water, or whatever required by the uncle. That is the spirit of Hajj. Taken care of each other. Helping each other.

Yet, to our surprise, the night air in Muzdalifah was merciful. The heat had receded. A delicate breeze stirred the leaves above us, rustling the branches with a soft, soothing rhythm. Each time the leaves parted, the moon revealed itself in all its brilliance, shining in a sky so clear it felt like a window to the divine. In that moment, it was easy to believe that Malaika (angles) had descended quietly from the heavens, and it was the fluttering of their wings that sent this blessed breeze drifting through the night.

Two small blessings made our stay at Muzdalifah noticeably more comfortable. The first was a pair of neck fans. It was indeed a thoughtful gift from my dear friend and colleague, Umar Ali Khan. Second was a power bank that my wife insisted on bringing. It was a small but powerful power bank. We both slipped on our neck fans, which we had fully charged earlier at our hotel in Makkah. Their quiet hum brought instant relief, gently circulating the cool night air around our faces.

To our pleasant surprise, the fans’ battery life endured far longer than expected. When mine eventually began to slow, I simply connected it to the power bank and drifted back into sleep. Altogether, we managed to rest for a full two and a half hours. It was a deep, undisturbed sleep. It was, contrary to all our earlier apprehensions, the most restful sleep we’d had in days—a gift of serenity cradled under the open sky.

I woke up in the morning to the sound of people chatting with each other. I realised that fajr time is near. I immediately went to the washroom and made wudu (ablution for prayer). Soon, Fajr Azaan was given, and prayer was held. Asif bhai was our imaam. After fajr prayers, UstadhWaseem (one of the muallims in the grouo) gave a small bayan and also explained about the plan for the day.  Now we had to go to Jamarat for the first stoning of Satan. I had taken a lot of ORS (Oral Rehydration Solution) packets with me from Muscat. Before going to Jamarat, my last activity at Muzdalifa was to drink water with ORS mixed in it. We packed our bagpack and left our place at 6 a.m. and went to the bus, which was just in front of us. Our bus left  Muzdalifa at 6.20 a.m. for Jamarat. On our journey towards Jamarat, Asif bhai led us to say talbiyah loudly. The atmosphere of the whole bus was laddem with reverence and submission, filled with the sound of talbiyah.

Labbaik Allahumma Labbaik

Labbaik La Sharika Laka Labbaik

Innal Hamda Wan Nemata Laka Wal Mulk

La Sharika Lak

(To be continued in Part 11).

References:

Al Quran. Interpretations of the meaning of THE NOBLE QURAN in the English language. Muhsin Khan. Darussalam Publications, 2011.