Muzdalifa

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 9)

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Mohsin Aziz

The following morning, on the 5th of June, just after Fajr, a bayan was held in the tent on the virtue of sabr—patience. As the beds were retracted, the space transformed into a modest yet serene gathering area. Pilgrims sat cross-legged on the floor, the air filled with quiet reverence.

After the bayan, I joined a few fellow pilgrims in bringing tea to share. People were scattered in small, peaceful clusters—some engaged in heartfelt conversations, others immersed in the recitation of the Qur’an. A few were quietly engaged in their morning azkār, their fingers rhythmically moving along the beads of their tasbih.

I, too, sipped my tea, savoring both its warmth and the calm of the morning. It had become my daily habit during the Hajj to jot down a simple to-do list for the day. It was a small act—barely five minutes of planning—but it brought a sense of clarity and purpose to the hours ahead. As each task was completed, I would strike it off the list, a quiet satisfaction settling within me.

Once my tea was done, I reached for my pocket Qur’an and began to recite, letting its timeless words wash over me in the stillness of the sacred morning.

At around 5 a.m., Asif Bhai arrived and, in his usual calm and composed manner, announced that everyone should be ready by 5:30 a.m.—we would be heading back to the hotel. The bus, he said, was scheduled to depart at 6:00 a.m.

I immediately called my wife to inform her. Like me, she was puzzled. Weren’t we supposed to remain in Mina for at least three days? we wondered aloud. It seemed there were differing opinions among the various schools of thought regarding the duration of stay in Mina. But as we would soon come to realize, this decision wasn’t necessarily rooted in fiqh—at least not in our understanding of it. It was a logistical or organizational call, and we simply had to follow suit.

In fact, after the dinner fiasco yesterday, our team leader Jamal bhai decided that we would go to the hotel and take breakfast in the hotel and stay there till maghrib. The group will do early dinner and come back to the Mina Camp after maghrib. Isha will be done at the camp, and the night will be spent at the camp. This way the problem of food will be solved and the obligation of spending night at the Mina would also be fulfilled.

We reached the hotel at 6.30 a.m. Our room was as it is except that it was cleaned by the hotel staff, and bedsheets were changed. Supplies in the washroom had been replenished. I immediately went for breakfast. Unlike Madina Hotel, the good thing about Makkah Hotel was separate dining areas for men and women. The name of the restaurant was Tasneen (tasneem is the name of a spring in the Paradise). In the ladies’ section, there was no entry for men. It was good. Ladies could take their food in a relaxed atmosphere. However, in the men section, it was allowed for families to sit and partake food together. It was not very ideal but practical. There were a few ladies, some elderly who were on wheelchairs. They had come with their sons or husband’s. If they had to go to the ladies’ restaurant, who would take care of them? They came with their mensfolks to the male section.

Breakfast at the hotel was a lavish affair. A grand spread of dishes adorned the tables. It was a rich array of breads, fresh salads, cut fruits, and an assortment of delectable sweets. Yet, for me, simplicity was the key. I helped myself to a modest combination of a single slice of bread, a fluffy omelette, a few pieces of watermelon and pineapple, and a warm cup of karak tea. This became my morning ritual for the entirety of my stay in Makkah.

Among the many offerings, the live omelette station was the highlight. Every morning, I would eagerly join the queue to watch the magic unfold. The chef behind the station was a man of Saudi-Rohingya descent, his skilled hands swiftly crafting the perfect omelette.

The presence of the Rohingya in Makkah is quite significant—thousands of them now call the city home. Some are citizens, others hold legal residency permits, while many remain without official status. Their journey to Saudi Arabia began during the reign of the late King Faisal, a time when they first sought refuge here, fleeing the turmoil of their homeland(Ahmad, Syed Neaz, 2009). When I did my Umrah in 2015, that time also our Porter at the hotel was rohingya. He was a Saudi citizen. In Makkah, their presence has woven itself into the rich fabric of the city’s culture, and each morning, as I waited for my omelette, I couldn’t help but think about the long history of resilience that these people carry with them.

Arafat: The Soul of Hajj

Today was the blessed Day of Arafat — the very heart of Hajj, the day when pilgrims stand before their Lord in humble submission, their hearts full of longing and their hands raised in earnest du‘ā’.

Our day began early. We left our hotel at 9:00 a.m. and arrived at our Mina camp by 9:30. According to the schedule shared by our group leader, we were to be ready by 10:30 a.m. to depart for Arafat. Though we left a little behind schedule, by the mercy of Allah, we reached Arafat by 11:15 a.m.

Our assigned tents were well-organized and spacious. The men’s tent, number 41, was quite large and accommodating, while the women’s tent, number 62, was conveniently close by. Despite the intense heat of the day, the interiors of the tents were remarkably cool — outfitted with multiple air conditioners and blowers. In fact, it was so cool that I even turned off one of the units for comfort.

There wasn’t much scheduled activity before the prayer, as Zuhr was to be delayed and combined with Asr, following the Sunnah of the Prophet ﷺ. Around 12:15 p.m., the powerful and poignant Khutbah of Arafat was delivered from Masjid Al-Namirah. Though we were not physically present at the masjid, we experienced the moment through a live broadcast on our mobile phones from within our tents. It was a reminder of how technology can serve a sacred purpose.

Following that, a special Khutbah for Omani pilgrims was also relayed through the audio system in our tents, resonating through the quiet calm of Arafat as we listened attentively.

As we waited for the time of prayer and du‘ā’, the atmosphere carried a sense of serene anticipation — a stillness before the spiritual downpour. The Day of Arafat is not about external activity but deep, internal reflection. It is a time for shedding burdens, for baring the soul, for turning to Allah with every hope, every fear, and every secret desire.
Among all the sacred days that adorn the Islamic calendar, the Day of Arafat stands as the pinnacle of divine mercy, the very soul of Hajj. It is not merely a moment in the pilgrimaget. Is the pilgrimage. As the noble Hadith declares: “Arafat is Hajj.” Without it, the Hajj is void, incomplete. While there may be expiations for shortcomings in other rites, for missing Arafat, there is none — such is its gravity and grace.

On this sacred day, the pilgrim’s soul finds itself standing at the threshold of the Divine, in the vast plain of Arafat, under the open sky — where countless prophets once stood, where the Mercy of Allah descends more abundantly than on any other day.

At Arafat, the rituals reflect the solemnity of the hour: the Zuhr and Asr prayers are combined and shortened, performed with humility and reverence. Then begins a sacred stretch of time — from Asr until Maghrib — a time not for idle talk or worldly distraction, but a time wholly dedicated to du‘ā’.

Here, hands are raised, hearts are softened, and eyes overflow with tears as pilgrims pour out their souls to their Lord whispering hopes, seeking forgiveness, asking for guidance, pleading for mercy, and yearning for the ultimate gift: a beautiful ending (ḥusn al-khātimah) a death upon faith.

On this day, one begs for freedom from the blazing fire, for the Book of Deeds to be placed in the right hand, for ease and safety on the Day of Judgment, and for nearness to the Most Merciful in the gardens of eternity.

It is the day when angels descend in thousands, when sins are washed away like dust in the wind, and when the veil between servant and Master feels thinner than ever. There is no gathering on earth more beloved to Allah than the gathering at Arafat. It is the day on which Allah boasts in front of Angels, showing them his servants standing and seeking forgiveness in millions.

Due to high temperatures, Saudi authorities had called on the pilgrims to stay inside tents from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. (Oman Observer,  2025, June 5). I tried standing outside at around 3.30 p.m. outside the tent in open but could not manage more than 5 minutes. It was excruciatingly hot. I came back to the comfort of the tent.

Inside the tent at Arafat, every possible comfort had been thoughtfully arranged. It was a testament to the hospitality and care extended by the Government of Oman. Despite being in the heart of a desert plain, the atmosphere inside was nothing short of remarkable.

Rows of refrigerators stood well-stocked with chilled water bottles and an assortment of refreshing fruit juices — mango, orange, mixed berry, and more — each a welcome relief from the heat outside. Fresh fruits, including apples, oranges, and plums, were provided in generous supply, offering both nourishment and energy for the long day ahead.

Two massive deep freezers drew quite a bit of attention — filled with a delightful variety of ice creams, enough to bring a smile even in the solemnity of Arafat. I treated myself to one, savoring the cool sweetness in the calm of the tent.

But what truly caught my interest was something that felt like a small luxury in the middle of a spiritual journey, piping hot karak tea. Rich, fragrant, and perfectly spiced, it was a familiar comfort, and I gratefully sipped a cup right after the ice cream to protect my throat. There was no harm in being extra cautious. After all, common cold, sore throat, and fever often find their way into the ranks of pilgrims during Hajj, when bodies are tired and immunity stretched.

The care and detail in these arrangements didn’t go unnoticed. They were more than just physical comforts — they reflected a spirit of generosity, a reminder that ease can be a part of devotion, and that serving those on the path of worship is itself a noble act.

Arafat day is a busy day. Three points are to be touched on the same day. Morning, you are in Mina. Before Zuhr, you have to reach Arafat. Maghrib has to be prayed at Muzdalifa. It is physically and spiritually straining. As per the schedule shared with us, we were asked to be ready by 5.45 p.m. so that the buses could start by 6.15 p.m. towards Muzdalifa.

Jabal al-Raḥmah (The Mount of Mercy)

An important place of interest for the pilgrims, besides the Masjid Al Namirah, is the Jabal Al Rahma (the mountain of Mercy).
Standing silently in the heart of the plain of Arafat is a small, rocky hill that is witness to history. Many people from my tent were going to Jabal Al Rahma, but due to intense heat, I decided not to go. It was visible from outside our tent. At around 4 p.m., a group from my tent decided to go. I was also invited, but I politely excused myself. In hindsight, It proved to be a correct decision. Nobody could actually reach there. The gate near our tent, which provided access to Jabal Al Rahma, was closed by the authorities as a precautionary measure due to heavy rush at the mount. When the authorities saw a very heavy rush near the Jabal, they decided to stop others from reaching there, thus potentially averting  any possible mishap.

It was on this hill that the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ delivered his final sermon during his Farewell Pilgrimage — a sermon that echoed the timeless values of justice, equality, and the sanctity of life. Here, countless hearts have turned to Allah in repentance, and countless prayers have ascended to the heavens.

Though not a requirement of Hajj, many pilgrims yearn to climb this hill — not for its height or challenge, but for what it represents. It is a symbol of divine compassion and human humility. It is the place where Adam (‘alayhis-salām) and Ḥawwā’ were reunited on earth after their descent from Paradise and where their repentance was accepted by Allah. Ever since, it has been a place where forgiveness rains down upon those who seek it with sincerity.

From a distance, Jabal al-Raḥmah may appear as nothing more than a rugged elevation of stone. But to the believing heart, it is a sanctuary of hope — where sins are shed like worn garments, and the soul feels closer to its Creator than ever before.

To stand at its base, or even to gaze upon it from afar, is to be reminded of the endless mercy of Allah — the One who forgives again and again, no matter how many times we return.

It was standing on this Mount the Prophet declared that the Deen has been completed, a sign for sahaba that the Prophet’s mission is complete and it is time for the Rahmatul lillalmin to meet Ar Rahman and Ar Rahim. It was a powerful sermon, a charter of equality and human rights that the world had not heard before. This Farewell Sermon was delivered by the prophet on the Day of Arafat on 9 Dhul Hijjah, 10 Hijri. The Prophet said:

‘O People, lend me an attentive ear, for I know not whether I shall ever be amongst you again after this year. Therefore, listen carefully to what I am saying and take these words to those who could not be present here today.

O People, just as you regard this month, this day, and this city as sacred, so regard the life and property of every Muslim as a sacred trust. Return the goods entrusted to you to their rightful owners. Hurt no one so that no one may hurt you. Remember that you will indeed meet your Lord, and He will indeed reckon your deeds.

Allah has forbidden you to take interest; therefore, all interest obligations shall henceforth be waived. Your capital, however, is yours to keep. You will neither inflict nor suffer any injustice. Allah has decreed that there shall be no interest, and all interest due to ‘Abbas ibn ‘Abd al-Muttalib is waived.

All blood feuds from the days of ignorance are abolished, and the first claim I abolish is that of Rabi’ah ibn al-Harith.

O People, beware of Satan for the safety of your religion. He has lost all hope that he will ever be able to lead you astray in major things, so beware of following him in minor matters.

O People, you have certain rights over your women, and your women have rights over you. They are your partners and committed helpers. Treat them well and be kind to them, for they are your companions and trusted aides. You have taken them only as a trust from Allah and with His permission.

O People, listen to me in earnest: Worship Allah, perform your five daily prayers, fast during the month of Ramadan, give Zakah from your wealth, and perform the pilgrimage to the House if you are able.

All mankind is from Adam and Eve. An Arab has no superiority over a non-Arab, nor does a non-Arab have any superiority over an Arab. A white person has no superiority over a black person, nor does a black person have superiority over a white — except through piety and righteous action.

Learn that every Muslim is a brother to every other Muslim, and that the Muslims form one brotherhood. Nothing shall be legitimate to a Muslim which belongs to another Muslim unless it is given freely and willingly. Do not, therefore, do injustice to yourselves.

Remember, one day you will appear before Allah and answer for your deeds. So beware, do not stray from the path of righteousness after I am gone.

O People, no prophet will come after me, and no new faith will be born. Reason well, therefore, and understand the words which I convey to you. I leave behind me two things: the Qur’an and my Sunnah. If you follow them, you will never go astray.

All those who listen to me shall pass on my words to others, and those to others again. And may the last ones understand my words better than those who heard them directly.

O Allah, be my witness. O Allah, be my witness. O Allah, be my witness.‘

To this day, when pilgrims gather in the plains of Arafat, they are reminded of the message of the Prophet. They reflect upon it not merely as philosophical and historical narration but as a covenant between them and the Seal of the Prophet’s.

We had to start at 6.15 p.m. but there was a delay. Many of the pilgrims who went to Jabal Al Rahma were either stuck their due to heavy rush or got confused on the way back. Eventually, we managed to leave Arafat at 7.15 p.m. and reach Muzdalifa only just before 8 p.m. A new adventure awaited us.

(To be continued in Part 10)

References:

Ahmad, Syed Neaz (2009) Burma’s exiled Muslims. The Guardian, 12 October. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2009/oct/12/burma-muslims-rohingya-saudi-prisons?utm_source=chatgpt.com.

Oman Observer (2025, June 5) Hajj: Pilgrims pray at MountbArafat in Hajj apex. Available at: https://www.omanobserver.om/article/1171580/world/region/hajj-pilgrims-pray-at-mount-arafat-in-hajj-apex

Labbaik: The story of my Hajj (Part 8)

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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

Labbaik: The story of my Hajj (Part 6)

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Mohsin Aziz


Before I proceed further along the sacred path of Hajj, it is only fitting to pause and turn back the gaze of the soul to revisit the stories past of Makkah and Kaba. Turn to the ancient valley of Bakkah, whose barren hills cradle not only the Kaba but the very genesis of divine submission. For this is no ordinary place. This is the land where the footprints of prophecy are pressed into the earth, where history and revelation converge in quiet majesty.

It was here, in a desolate and waterless desert, that Prophet Ibrahim, his wife Hajar and son Ismail rewrote the concept of love, devotion, total submission to the divine Will and say yes to every Divine command without second thought.

It was here that the father and the  son would raise the foundations of the Kaaba with bare hands and bowed heads, invoking, ‘Our Lord, accept this from us. Surely, You are the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing.’ The Kaaba thus rose not as an architectural marvel but as a monument to obedience, sacrifice, and love. It was selfless devotion that made Kaba a celestial axis around which hearts would forever turn.

To revisit this history is not merely to recount events but to reconnect with the spiritual core of Hajj itself. It is to understand that every step of this pilgrimage echoes the footsteps of those who walked not with certainty of destination but with certainty of faith.

For in understanding their history, one begins to grasp the profound depth of this pilgrimage, not merely as a ritual, but as a timeless connection to the divine narrative woven through the sands of Arabia.

Macca

In the barren and sun-scorched valley of Makkah, where not a soul stirred and no drop of water was to be found in the merciless desert, Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him) left his beloved wife, Hajra, and their infant son, Ismail. The land was lifeless, void of habitation, for in such an unforgiving terrain, life only blooms where water flows. Even the birds, messengers of vitality in the wild, steer only toward the whisper of springs.

Then, by the mercy of the Almighty, the miraculous spring of Zamzam burst forth from the earth, quenching the thirst of mother and child, marking the dawn of divine providence. As the water gushed and glittered under the sun, birds began to circle above — drawn by instinct to the promise of life below.

Far off, a caravan journeyed through the parched expanse — it was a noble tribe from Yemen, the Bani Jurhum. Their eyes caught sight of the birds wheeling in the distance, a sign too telling to ignore. Where birds soar, water surely lies beneath. They halted their journey and dispatched scouts to investigate.

Upon arrival, the men beheld a wondrous sight: Bibi Hajra, seated beside the spring that had turned a lifeless valley into a cradle of life. In awe and respect, they asked her, “May we dwell near you?”

With wisdom and grace, she replied, “Yes, but you shall hold no claim over the water.”

They accepted her condition without hesitation, for the honour of settling near such a blessed spring was more than they had bargained. Thus, the once desolate valley became a place of gathering, and from that sacred spring, a civilization would rise — all by the will of the Most Merciful. Bani Jurhum sent a message to their families back home. The families came, and within no time, a desolate God forsaken place, by the Will of Allah, became a permanent settlement. Ismail grew with them and learned Arabic from them. They also loved and adored Ismail. When Ismail grew up, he married in the Jurhum tribe. This was the acceptance of Ibrahim’s prayers. When Ibrahim was leaving his wife and child,  he prayed to Allah,

‘O Our Lord!I have made some of my offspring to dwell in a valley with no cultivation, by Your sacred House (Kaba); in order, O Lord, that they may offer prayers perfectly (iqamat al salat) so fill some hearts among men with love towards them, and O Allah provide them with fruits so that they may give thank. To our Lord! Certainly, You know what we conceal and what we reveal. Nothing on the earth or in the heavens is hidden from Allah.’ (Quran 14:37-38).

And (remember) when Ibrahim said,’ My Lord ‘Make this city (Makkah) a place of security and provide its people with fruits, such of them as believe in Allah and the Last Day, He (Allah) answered :’As for him who disbelieves, I shall leave him in contentment for a while, then I shall compel him to the torment of the Fire, And worst indeed is that destination’ (Al Quran, SurahalBaqara:126).

He was so sure and had such faith in Allah that Allah will not let his family alone in this harsh deseart that he even prayed for the prosperity and safety and security of the city that was not there. He had faith that it will be there. 

‘My Lord, make this a secure city and provide its people with fruits – whoever of them believes in Allah and the last day’ (al baqarah 126).

My Lord, make this city (Makkah) secure and keep me and my sons away from worshipping idols’ (surah Ibrahim 35).

Ibrahim, as the epitome of a true Muslim, was not solely preoccupied with the physical safety and protection of his family, as one might expect. True to his noble character, his heart was equally burdened with the spiritual wellbeing and growth of his loved ones, as well as the inhabitants of Makkah. With a soul that yearned for their elevation in faith, he earnestly prayed for their guidance, their peace, and their spiritual flourishing. His concern transcended the worldly, seeking instead the eternal well-being of both his family and the faithful of that sacred land.

Our Lord! Make of us Muslims, bowing to thy (will), and our progeny a people Muslim, bowing to thy (will); and show us our place for the celebration  of (due) rites; and turn unto us (in Mercy); for Thou art the Oft-returning, Most Merciful (2:128).

This aspect of Ibrahim personality is perfectly defined in Quran.

‘Verily, Ibrahim was an Ummah or a nation obedient to Allah, Hanifa, and he was not one of those who were Al Mushrikun (Al Quran, Surah al Nahl:120).

Names of Makkah

Makka, like Madina, has multiple names. One of the ancient names of Macca is Bakkah. It is mentioned in the Quran.

‘Verily! The first House (of worship) appointed for mankind is the one at Bakkah (Makkah) full of blessing, and a guidence for Al-Alamin (tge mankind and jinns) (Al Quran, Surah Al-Imran:96).

Makka (Al Quran, Surah Al-Fath:24).

Umm al qura (Al Quran, Surah Al-Shura:7).

Al baldah (Al Quran, Surah Al Naml:91).

Al balad (Al Quran, Surah Ibrahim35).

Al balad al amin (Al Quran, Al Tin :3).

Al balad al haram (Al Quran, Surah ).

Haram al Amin (Al Quran, Surah Al-Ankabut : 67).

Some of the other names used for Makkah are

Makkah al Mukarrama, Al mamun, Salah, Al qarya,

Building of Kaba

After leaving her wife and son, Ibrahim used to visit them from time to time. On one of the visits, Ibrahim told Ismail,’O Ismail, Allah has commanded me to do something. Ismail responded , “Do what your Lord has commanded you to do’. Ibrahim asked him, ‘Will you help me?’. Ismail replied,’I will help you’. Pointing to a raised ground Ibrahim saidm ‘Allah has commanded me to build a house here’.

They laid the foundation, and Ismail started bringing stones and giving to Ibrahim, who started building the kaba. When the structure got higher and it was difficult for Ibrahim, Ismail brought a stone (called Al Maqaam) for Ibrahim to stand on it. Ibrahim stood on the stone and continued building the house of Allah. While they were going around building  kaba, both kept praying to Allah to accept their effort:

‘And (remember) when Ibrahim (Abraham) and (his son) Ismail (Ishmael) were raising the foundation of the House (the Kabah at Makkah), saying, ‘Our Lord! Accept (this service) from us. Verily! You are the All-Knower, All-Hearer. Our Lord! And make us submissive unto You and of our offspring a nation submissive unto You, and show us our Manasik (all the ceremonies of pilgrimage – Hajj and ‘Umrah, etc.), and accept our repentance. Truly, You are the One Who accepts repentance, the Most Merciful’ (Al Quran, Surah Al-Baqarah:127-128).

Kaba became the first sanctuary in the history of mankind. Quran says:

‘Behold: The first sanctuary appointed for humankind was that at Bakka (Mecca) Blessed and a guidance for the world’s’ (Quran   3:96).

Acceptance of a Prayer

Ibrahim also prayed for a messenger to be sent to the people of Makkah from their own people who can recite them verses of Allah and guide them. Ibrahim prayed while constructing Kaba:

‘Our Lord send amongst them a messenger of their own who shall recite unto them your verses and instruct them in the book and al-hikmah and sanctify them. Verily, you are the All-Mighty, the All-Wise’ (Al Quran, Surah al Baqarah:129).

With the passage of time, the tribes around Mecca forgot about the message of Ibrahim. They slowly became distant from the deen e hanif of Ibrahim. From pure monotheism, they moved to idolatry. Arabs started idol worship. Each tribe had its own idol. Some of the bigger gods whose idols were kept in the kaba over time were laat, manaat, uza, habal, etc. Still, they gave importance to the Kaba. There was hajj every year, but the rituals had changed. Tawaf was often done in naked state by both men and women. Udhiya meat and blood were smeared on Kaba. Talbiyah was changed. Many did not go to the Arafat. They did not consider it necessary.

Still, kaba was reveared. Its status as santuary was respected. Quraish took it as an honour to provide food and water to the pilgrims. This position gave quraish influence beyond Macca. Warring tribes would often come to Quraish to get their disputes settled. It was this influence that Abraha wanted to curtail by destroying Kaba.

When the transgressions of the Arabs in general and Quraish in particular reached its peak, the prayer of Ibrahim was answered, when, from among the people of Makkah, the last Prophet, Khatimun Nabiyyin, Mohammad  Sallal la hu Alaihi Wasallam, was born. At the time of Prophet Mohammads birth, his grandfather, Abdul Muttalib, was the custodian of Kaba. The course of history was about to change like never before.

When Makkah was conquered and reclaimed, the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ entered the sacred precincts not as a conqueror but as a servant of Allah. He ordered the idols to be cast out from the Kaaba. Kaba was restored to its original purity and monotheistic sanctity. The House of Allah was cleansed of centuries of falsehood. It’s hallowed premises once again resonated with the call of tawheed. In that moment, the Qur’an proclaimed:

‘Truth has come, and falsehood has perished. Indeed, falsehood is ever bound to perish.’ (Al Quran, Surah Al-Isra:81)

Names of Kaba

Like Madina and Makkah, Kaba, being the most revered House of Allah, is lovingly called by various beautiful names such as Bait al atiq, Bayt al muharram, Al bayt, Al bar Al Atiq, etc.

Kiswa and the Key of Kaba

Today, kaba is covered with majestic and richly embroidered black coloured cloth calked kiswa.. It was not always like this.  Its covering tradition dates back to pre‑Islamic times. King Tubbaʾ al‑Humayri (a Yemeni ruler) is believed to have been the first to ceremonially cover the Kaaba. After the conquest of Makkah, the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ used a Yemeni cloth, and subsequent caliphs varied its colour. It chnged from white to red. Eventually, black colour  was adopted during the Abbasid era (Kaul, Anvita:2024). Today, the Kiswa is produced annually in Makkah, crafted from black silk with elaborate gold and silver embroidery, and replaced each year on the 9th of Dhu al‑Hijjah (Khan, Arfa:2023, The National,  2022).

Whe Makkah was conquered by the Prophet he got all the idols removed and established the true form of hajj. At the time of Fath Makkah, the Prophet allowed keys of Kabah to be kept by the family  that was already in charge of the keys – Bani Shaibi.  The key was the responsibility of Qusai bin Kilab. It passed to his eldest son, Abd al Dar. The Prophet not only allowed the family to keep the key but said that it shall remain with the family until the judgement day except an oppressor taking it from the family. The family is performing this duty now for 16 centuries (Al-Thaqafi, Tareqm 2020).

Though the physical landscape of Hajj has undergone remarkable transformation in modern times, its sacred rituals and enduring spirit remain untouched by change. The essence of submission, sacrifice, and spiritual rebirth continues to flow through every rite, just as it did centuries ago. Today, the pilgrim finds shelter in air-conditioned tents at Mina, comfort in the enhanced facilities of Arafat, and rest in the rising skyline of Makkah’s modern hotels. The logistical burdens may have eased, but the inward journey — the call to humility, reflection, and surrender — remains as profound and unchanging as ever. The soul still travels the same timeless path, seeking nearness to the Divine.

(To be continued in Part 7)

References:

Al-Thaqafi, Tareq (2020, July 30) A history of the management of the Kaba. Arab. Available at: Newshttps://www.arabnews.com/node/1711991/saudi-arabia

Kaul, Anvita (2024) What is the Kiswa, the sacred cloth that covers the holy kaba in Mecca?. The Indian Express, June 14. Available at: https://indianexpress.com/article/explained/explained-culture/kiswah-sacred-cloth-covers-holy-kaaba-mecca-9797209%5D(https://indianexpress.com/article/explained/explained-culture/kiswah-sacred-cloth-covers-holy-kaaba-mecca-9797209.

Khan, Arfa (2023) Unveiling the Story Behind the Kiswa: Covering the Kaaba Throughout History.u TimesGlo, June 26. Available at:
https://timesglo.com/unveiling-the-story-behind-the-kiswa-covering-the-kaaba-throughout-history%5D(https://timesglo.com/unveiling-the-story-behind-the-kiswa-covering-the-kaaba-throughout-history.

The National News (2022) How the Kiswah is Made for Hajj Each Year, June 20. Available at:
https://www.thenationalnews.com/gulf-news/2022/06/20/how-the-kiswah-is-made-for-hajj-each-year%5D(https://www.thenationalnews.com/gulf-news/2022/06/20/how-the-kiswah-is-made-for-hajj-each-year.