Umrah ‘95

Despite not being able to go back to Makkah or Medina since I was 12 years old, I am so grateful that I DID go then. Things have changed quite a bit. I was able to stand on Safa. Touch the stone. Feel its crevices beneath my feet. There were those signature orange coolers of zamzam water standing guard at each row. My aunt, who had lived in Saudi for as long as anyone can remember, was there as my guide. I was with my mahram.

So much has changed since then. Firstly, in my own family, Buhbuh and her husband have passed. My cousins who had taken on the torch to guide pilgrims and visitors to the Ka’aba moved back to Pakistan. My own father, who had taken me on that trip, has now passed away. I truly know the meaning of “only by invitation” at this point in my life.

Despite being only 12, only knowing half the stories, half the history, a fraction of the significance of every place I stepped, there were some extremely memorable moments.

1. Ka’aba: the first look

A floating rock

Cloth like a cape

Gesturing me in

“Welcome,

Ask,

I’ll give”

2. Tears

The clear pearl

captured in the black of her veil

What did she have to cry over

I had nothing that could bring me to tears

Did it have to be

turmoil

grief

strife

Couldn’t it have just been

gratefulness

fullness

Magnanimity

That brought her to tears

How long would it take me to get there?

My family had lived in Madina when I was three. My younger sister was born there. It is only now we learn about the difficult conditions my family faced while in the city of the Prophet (SalAllahu alaihe wasalam). The only solace was in going to Masjid an-Nabawi whenever we wanted to go. Though, as a three-year-old I was usually at home, which is why I can remember the roaches very well. But there are faint memories of running around while my mom prayed. My older siblings had the difficult job of watching me and my older sister. I remember the mounds of sand we used as slides. I remember the sounds of the drilling and constant construction, which is likely still going on. I must delve deep in the stories of my mother and siblings, read past the images in our family photos to understand everything that happened. They protect me. They make sure my memories are just about singing “I love custard” or holding up the bathroom because I insisted on using the potty seat while inside the bathroom. Their struggles and sacrifices can only be served justice in another world.

So here I was in 1995, given this amazing opportunity to be with my father, his sister, my cousin, and her family to perform what I call a raw Umrah. No tours, no fast food joints, ground floors, and less marble. There is definitely a better side to the tours of today, as people are able to connect more to the history of the place and appreciate the location. So, I wait for my invitation.

Despite feeling completely hopeless, I know there are small steps I can take to ensure I get there. Increase my prayer, increase my knowledge, find better gatherings, go to the local houses of Allah (the masjid), increase my dhikr so the angels can recognize my voice when the time comes. God Willing.

What are your most memorable Umrah moments?