A PROMISE KEPT, A SOUL RENEWED
But the road to Baitullah was not without trials.
Just three weeks before we were due to depart, I suffered a fall—one that shattered the top of my humerus bone. Surgery followed. My arm was immobilized in a sling, and my body was still in pain when our names — my brother’s, sister-in-law’s and I — were confirmed for the final Haj flight.
I was uncertain. Could I endure the rigours of the pilgrimage? Could my healing body meet the sacred demands of this journey?
And yet, my heart knew the answer. This was a calling I could not ignore.
I placed my trust in the One who knows best. I handed over the pain, the worry, the unknowns—into the care of Allah SWT—and I took that first step.
We left our dear mother in the loving protection of Allah SWT, and in the hands of family and friends whose kindness carried us.
Our confirmation from Tabung Haji had come only five days before the last flight — which we spent rushing to top-up our Tabung Haji accounts, medical checkups (with a letter from the surgeon, I was given the greenlight to go), and frantic last minute preparations. It felt like an impossible race against time.
But His timing is perfect. His plans never fail.
I will never forget standing on the plains of Arafah, surrounded by pilgrims from every corner of the world. I looked up—and saw the sky dressed in soft, swirling pastels, like brushstrokes of mercy from the heavens. It felt as if the sky had opened and angels were descending to gather the prayers of believers.
I raised both hands — having ditched the arm sling — and offered my heart. I poured out every hope, every sorrow, every longing in a doa that came from the deepest part of me. I asked for forgiveness, for strength, for healing. I prayed for my family, my friends, for all of humanity.
And though Arafah held thousands, it was as if the world fell silent. Only whispers of weeping and the weight of collective longing remained. My tears fell freely. My soul, unburdened.
From there, our “Amazing Race” began.
As the sun set, we made our way to Mudzalifah under a sky full of stars. We rested briefly and gathered our pebbles for the stoning ritual. The plan was to return to Mina at dawn, freshen up, and continue. But Allah SWT had written a different story.
By morning, roads to Mina were closed. Our bus was stopped. We tried to cross the barricade on foot, only to be redirected through the tunnel. Our group made a choice: we would not turn back. We would walk on to the Jamrah.
We were tired, aching, drenched in sweat. My steps were slower. My body hurt. But every stride was charged with purpose. It was no longer about the physical—it was an offering of love and obedience.
When we reached the Jamrat and cast our first seven stones, I felt something indescribable: part elation, part relief, part divine intimacy. We were drained, but our spirits soared.
Returning to Mina no longer made sense—we were now closer to our hotel in Aziziyah. Our overnight bags remained behind, but our souls had crossed a threshold that no luggage could carry.
Despite the pain, despite the fragility of my body, every rukun of Haj was performed—with trembling hands and a steady, surrendered heart.
This journey tested us in ways only the Haj can. From the humble patience of tarwiyah in Mina, to the sacred stillness of Arafah, the quiet of mabit under the stars in Mudzalifah, and the strength required to stand before the Jamrat—it was all a divine choreography of faith, trial, and transformation.
Every step was a surrender. Every moment, a mercy. Every breath, a return to Him.
Alhamdulillah.
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