HAJJAH” IN HEART, NOT IN NAME

Yes, I’ve performed the Hajj. Alhamdulillah. I’ve stood on the scorching plains of Arafah, walked the sacred paths of Mina, and done more walking in five days than I usually do in five months. I’ve circled the Kaaba shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers who instantly felt like family. I’ve cried in front of the House of Allah, not just from emotion, but also from realising how much I still need to work on myself.


But despite all this, I don’t use the title Hajjah.
Now, before anyone gets offended on my behalf, let me be clear: I have the deepest respect for the title and for those who carry it. It’s an honorable reminder of an incredible act of worship—one that takes planning, physical stamina, spiritual readiness, and in many cases, a surprising level of patience for Immigration clearance, unexpected ground transport changes, and the occasional "spiritual test" involving lost slippers.

So why don’t I add “Hajjah” before my name like a proud badge of achievement?

Well, for one, it feels a bit… heavy. As if I’m declaring to the world: “Behold, I have arrived. Enlightenment has been achieved. I now float slightly above the ground and no longer argue about parking spots.”

The truth? I still argue about parking spots. I still forget things. I still get impatient in traffic. Hajj didn’t turn me into a perfect person—it just reminded me how much I need God’s mercy, every single day.

The experience of Hajj was deeply humbling. It stripped me of distractions, status, and comfort, and left me with myself: just another soul in a sea of millions, standing before Allah. No title, no reputation, no filters—just raw, honest humanity.

And that’s how I like to carry it forward. Quietly. Internally. I don’t need a title to remind me of what I experienced; I have the memories etched into my heart (and, let’s be honest, in a few knee joints that haven't quite forgiven me). The real reminder of my Hajj is the way it now tugs at my conscience when I speak, act, or decide—"Is this who you promised to be when you stood in Arafah?"

Also, let’s face it: when people call you "Hajjah," it can go either way. Sometimes it’s said with admiration. Sometimes it’s said with a raised eyebrow, like, “Oh Hajjah, you’re not wearing socks? Aurat, aurat … tsk! tsk! tsk!” Oh, the pressure!

So, no. I don’t insist on the title. Not because I’m pretending the Hajj didn’t happen, but because I want the impact of it to show in how I live, not just what I’m called.

And really, if someone does call me Hajjah, I’ll smile politely. I might even respond with a lighthearted, “Let’s not get carried away.” But inside, I’ll quietly pray: Ya Allah, help me live in a way that honours that sacred journey—even when no one’s watching, and especially when I forget the wear socks.

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