Each year, millions of Muslims from around the world descend on Mecca in an atmosphere thick with devotion, humility, and a sense of sacred purpose. They arrive from every continent—young and old, rich and poor—bound by faith to fulfil one of Islam’s most profound obligations: the Hajj pilgrimage.

Hajj, a journey of spiritual transformation, is one of the five pillars of Islam, alongside the declaration of faith (Shahada), daily prayer (Salah), fasting during Ramadan (Siam), and almsgiving (Zakat). For Muslims who are physically and financially able, completing the Hajj at least once in a lifetime is not merely encouraged; it is mandatory.

Among those who have performed the Hajj, few can speak with the historical depth of Hasan Aksay, a former Turkish minister and now 94 years of age. In an exclusive interview with TRT World, Aksay recalls his first pilgrimage in the early 1960s, shortly after entering Parliament.

“There were no hotels, no tour groups, no luxury. We stayed in a Turkish dentist’s apartment in Mecca—six of us crammed into that humble space,” he says. “But what we lacked in comfort, we made up for in brotherhood.”

In those days, the pilgrimage was often the final act of a devout life, undertaken by the elderly after years of saving. Roads were unpaved, sanitation was rudimentary, and conveniences were rare or minimal. Yet, for Aksay, this very hardship sanctified the experience.

“Whether you sleep on the sand or under air conditioning, if your heart is sincere, Hajj transforms you. The Kaaba doesn’t care about your status. It pulls at your essence.”

‘We went not for ease, but for purification’

Hajj is not simply a physical trial—it is a journey of the soul, a ritual of humility and self-surrender passed down over centuries.

“We went not for ease, but for purification. There, you are no longer a member of Parliament, or a businessman, or a villager. You are a servant of God, nothing more. No one asks your name; they see your heart.”

He recalls one moment with particular clarity: under the searing sun at Arafat, drenched in sweat and dizzy from the heat, he was offered unexpected relief by a stranger.

“A tall African tribal chief, standing nearby, quietly took the umbrella that was held for him—and he himself held it over my head—for two hours. I tried to refuse, but he insisted. That is the Hajj spirit: an unspoken fraternity. The kind you don’t find in politics or business, but only in places where ego dies and worship begins.”

The former statesman’s voice grows quiet, almost reverent. “Even now, decades later, I remember the sound of the Azaan (call to prayer) echoing through the desert valleys. Hajj is a call, not just to prayer, but to unity, to justice, to conscience.”

“Hajj is the fast of the soul”

Years later, Aksay returned, this time at the invitation of King Faisal of Saudi Arabia, a devout monarch whose relationship with Türkiye was marked by respect and shared values.

“King Faisal was a devout Muslim, not just in title, but in heart. He gave me a special visa card, a bitaka, valid for life. I still keep it in my drawer. Whenever I showed it at the airport, even decades later, I was let in with reverence.”

As the King’s guest, Aksay stayed in climate-controlled tents, travelled in organised groups, and was hosted alongside dignitaries. Yet the essence of Hajj, he insists, remained untouched.

The precise timing of Hajj is announced annually by Saudi Arabia’s Supreme Court, guided by the lunar calendar.

Upon arrival, pilgrims enter a state of ritual purity known as ihram. Men wear simple, seamless white garments, symbolising the shedding of status and material concerns.

In the last four days of the pilgrimage, a series of symbolic rites is completed: standing in prayer at Arafat, stoning the pillars at Mina, and shaving or cutting their hair to mark spiritual renewal.

On the 9th of Dhul-Hajj, pilgrims gather on the plain of Arafat, the spiritual climax of the pilgrimage. Pilgrims begin the tawaf—circling the Kaaba, the black-draped cube at the centre of the Grand Mosque—seven times counterclockwise. This act symbolises the unity of the global Muslim ummah and the spiritual centrality of Mecca.

Eid al-Adha, or the “Feast of Sacrifice,” is celebrated on the 10^th Dhul-Hajj, commemorating Prophet Ibrahim’s readiness to sacrifice his son Ismail in obedience to God. It is marked by communal prayers, shared meals, and the ritual slaughter of animals—a reminder of faith, surrender, and generosity.

Today, nearly two million pilgrims visit Mecca. High-speed railways now link holy sites; skyscrapers loom above the Grand Mosque; real-time surveillance monitors the flow of people.

For veterans like Aksay, the sanctity of the experience remains intact. “Ramadan is the fast of the body. Hajj is the fast of the soul. There, you kill your ego and come back reborn,” Aksay says.

As the sun sets over Mecca and pilgrims settle into their tents, the echoes of those who came before—like Aksay—still drift in the desert air. Each footstep is more than an act of personal faith; it is part of a shared, timeless proclamation.

The Hajj endures as it always has: a profound testament to humanity’s yearning for the Divine, binding hearts across borders, languages, and generations.