ISTANBUL – We’re now a few days into Dhul Hijjah, the final month of the Islamic lunar calendar, and home to ten of the holiest days for Muslims around the world. Over a million pilgrims have already arrived in Saudi Arabia for Hajj, the once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to the sacred city of Mecca. This year, alhamdulillah (praise be to God), I’ll be one of them.

At nearly 33—a meaningful age in Islamic tradition, believed to be the age of the people in Paradise—I find myself packing in Istanbul with a whirlwind of emotions. It’s considered a relatively young age for this journey, as many Muslims wait until later in life. I feel honoured, grateful, and, to be honest, a little overwhelmed.

There’s a quiet excitement in knowing I’ll be walking alongside Muslims from every corner of the world. We will pray together, shoulder to shoulder, language and culture aside, united in our love for God. But there’s also anxiety. Will I do justice to such a sacred journey?

Hajj is not just a ritual. It’s a transformation

It reminds us of our deeper purpose: why we’re here and what we’re returning to. It’s deeply personal, yet wholly collective. In a way, it’s God’s invitation to remember that we were never meant to walk this life alone.

Through every step—physical, spiritual, and emotional—Hajj teaches us that we are whole beings, meant to worship not only with our hearts but with our bodies and in community.

In the lead-up to my departure, I’ve tried to prepare in layers: studying the logistics of each ritual, reflecting on their meanings, and contemplating the profound symbolism embedded in them. As someone who once prided herself on being a diligent student, I want to get it “right”—but this time, it’s not about grades. It’s about sincerity.

And through this series of reflections, I hope to take you along with me, whether you’ve performed Hajj, dream of it, or simply want to understand it from a personal lens.

Let’s start with Arafat

You’ll hear Muslims say: “Hajj is Arafat.” But what does that mean?

Arafat is a vast plain just outside Mecca, where on the 9th day of Dhul Hijjah, every pilgrim gathers in wuquf - standing still in worship. From noon to sunset, we do nothing but stand and pray. There are no complicated rituals. No grand ceremonies. Just millions of people, silently or tearfully speaking to God.

It’s said that this is where Prophet Adam (the first human being) was reunited with Hawwa (Eve) and where their prayers for forgiveness were accepted. In that moment, humanity’s journey on earth truly began—not with a punishment, but with mercy.

That’s what Arafat symbolises: the beginning of human life marked by repentance, humility, and divine forgiveness.

And that’s why this day matters so deeply to every pilgrim.

A heavy luggage: Carrying duas

As I packed my scarves, sandals, and abayas (loose-fitting garments many women wear during Hajj), I’m also carrying something far more precious: duas—personal prayers.

But this time, they’re not just my own. 

In the past few days, friends, neighbours, and relatives came to visit me, to say goodbye before my departure, and to do something beautiful: entrust me with their prayers. They whisper their names, hopes, and struggles, asking that I remember them at Arafat.

It’s a quiet tradition, yet one of the most profound gestures of faith and connection I’ve ever witnessed.

They ask for something specific: “Please don’t forget my name during Arafat.”

To them—and to me—it’s not just a favour. It’s an honour. And a responsibility.

As I write this, I’m still days away from standing at Arafat. But I already feel its gravity.

Because when you stand there, you’re not just standing for yourself. You stand for those you love, those who’ve lost their way, those who can’t make the journey but whose prayers are folded into yours.

Arafat is a rehearsal for that final day we’ll all face—when we stand before God and account for our lives.

But unlike that day, this one is filled with hope. On Arafat, there are no walls between you and your Creator. And God promises forgiveness to those who sincerely ask.

And so I will ask. 

For myself. 

For my loved ones.

For all the names whispered into my hands.