Hajj Experience

By: Mehreen Kasana

I know I don’t write about my Hajj. It’s a conscious decision on my part because I genuinely feel I won’t be able to do justice to the profundity of the entire experience I was blessed with so recently. But I thought I’d share moments in bits and pieces every once in a while. That’s how I like to narrate my life.

During my Hajj, we were in Muzdalifah - papa, mama and I - around 2AM to collect 47 or so stones each from the mountains for the stoning of Jamarat in the morning. We had straw mats, the Quran, our tasbeeh, a pair of extra slippers in case the first pair broke and an umbrella because the sun could get unbearable during the day among other necessary items. We decided to take a small nap before Fajr and then we would resume our way to Jamarat and then eventually Mina before the sun was up - our tent was located on a cliff. I remember spreading the thin mat on the side of the road where there were sharp rocks, big and small. Buses would pass by, tired pilgrims walking briskly ahead, some praying up in the mountains, in the sand, trash thrown by negligent ones after a yard or two. I’ve never slept on the street with a dusty rock under my head as a pillow, gravel under my legs. It was an extremely humbling experience.

I was so overwhelmed with emotion, the intensity of the moment, the fatigue, the commotion, the constant pulling through crowds, the perpetual worry that my parents were old and fragile and I couldn’t possibly admit I was weak in front of them or that my ankles were bruised or my feet were bleeding since I was their strength as they kept telling me and I didn’t want to worry them but above all the pressure of focusing on dua and repentance without giving in to my human weakness got to me completely.

I was lying between my old father and mother on the ground on the mat and I remember looking up at the dark, starry sky. As if talking to Allah, I remembered in my heart how I was little and my mother would laugh and tell me, “Oh you little iblees (devil)! You’re going to perform Hajj one day with your old parents! Behave yourself!” and I’d run away, I remembered my sisters in Pakistan and the funny things we’d say when the electricity was out - singing songs, howling with laughter, one of them would say, “Mehreen’s off to perform Hajj. Isn’t it funny how Allah calls the strangest people to Kaaba? You’re so blessed”, I remembered my friends, I remembered the people who hurt me, I remembered everyone. With my arm over my eyes pretending to sleep, I began crying quietly. It was such a strong flood of tears that I ended up breathing uneven while struggling to hide it from mama, from papa because they’d worry.

That’s when my mother gently pulled me to her chest while lying on the rough, hot, sharp ground and kissed my forehead over and over again. She said, “I lost so many babies before you came. I thought I was barren, I thought I’d never know how it feels to be a mother. You’re my miracle. My first daughter, my friend, my secret keeper. Your father and I promised Allah we’d bring you here as soon as we had the means to and we were ready. He made you a strong woman, a warrior at heart. And even warriors cry. Even warriors hide behind their arms and miss home and their siblings. Even warriors break down because they think they can’t keep up with the expectations people set for them. Don’t hide from your maa. Let it out. Ro lo, bachay. (Cry, my child.)”

I wept in her arms while my father rubbed my back and passed funny remarks about the blisters between his toes. “Man, I wish my mother was alive so I could whine about things too.” I ended up laughing between my tears.

We got up after that, had a simple breakfast consisting of juice and little biscuits and we began walking all over again with the mountains on our sides, millions of devout pilgrims before and behind us toward Jamarat.