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)