I never quite had it in me to write about my Hajj experience, but lately, I’ve felt the need to place it in context—particularly around my religious life and the anxieties of that period. This reflection was prompted by an argument I heard recently: that the current ulema have created a myth that Hajj is for everyone, when it is, in reality, only for the elite.
My answer to that is simple. My father-in-law was a car electrician. I was a software engineer. Both of us had limited means, but we had enough to cover the trip, and neither of us had many dependents at home. Hajj, for us, was not a luxury; it was a spiritual experience rooted in sacred texts, an obligation that is mandatory when one can afford it, regardless of social standing.
Looking back at that journey in 2011, a few distinct realities stand out.
The first is the weather. I feel a deep sympathy for those performing Hajj in the intense heat of recent years. Ours was in November and far more manageable. The camps in Mina still had a little open space back then, which became my sanctuary. It allowed for a bit of isolation—an introvert’s essential need to decompress, reflect, and remember.
The second is the absence of digital noise. There were no smartphones, and therefore, no photographs. Though I’ve picked up the habit of capturing moments in recent years thanks to phone cameras, I had no such inclination back then. Over the entire 42-day trip, I think I called home only three or four times.
The third is the emotional weight. My wife and I had left our one-year-old son with relatives, a decision that weighed heavily on her. I vividly remember how, in the final days of Hajj, she would cry from missing him. But we managed, and so did he.
The fourth was the social friction. The group we traveled with belonged to the Barelvi school of thought, environment I wasn’t entirely comfortable with at the time. I navigated the journey quietly without any major episode, though I did skip several of their organized side trips. They attributed this to my “Wahabi self,” but in truth, it had far more to do with my introverted nature.
The fifth was an underlying spiritual unease. In those days, a recurring dream was deeply troubling me. I later shared it with an elder Sufi, who advised me that some dreams are from the Devil, and that one should stop dwelling on them and instead seek Allah’s protection. At the time, I wasn’t close to my own Sheikh either. Shortly after I returned from Hajj, he passed away, leaving a void. My cousin later introduced me to his own Sheikh, and I took bait (allegiance) from him. Over the years, however, I drifted away from the prescribed dhikr he recommended.
Later I join Tanzeem-e-Islami, which also utilizes a bait system, though one detached from traditional Sufi silsilas. Like most things within the organization, their commitment comes in two distinct tiers: Mubtadi (Beginner) and Multazim (Committed). Those who follow my blog know that I drifted away from their gatherings around 2017. Yet, just last week, I found myself renewing my Mubtadi bait—only to promptly miss this week’s Usra (circle meeting).
The Usra Amir messaged me afterward, graciously noting that he had forgotten to send a reminder and would catch me next week. To be honest, I had spent the previous day shopping for a sacrificial animal and simply could not find it in me to wake up for the dawn prayer when the Usra was scheduled.
2011 was complicated, difficult days spiritually. Looking back at the young man who made that pilgrimage fifteen years ago, the advice I would give my younger self is simple: slow down. Live in the moment, and trust that as life matures, things become manageable. Life, religion, work, and family each eventually find their required space.