The Hajj Journey | رحلة الحج
"Two strangers meet on the plane to Hajj. Five days of pilgrimage together. By the end, they've found more than spiritual renewal."
The Hajj Journey
رحلة الحج
The seat next to me is empty.
Twelve-hour flight to Jeddah. I'm prepared to be alone with my thoughts.
Then she arrives.
I'm Karim.
Fifty-three, Egyptian, finally doing Hajj after years of saving. Divorced, children grown. Going to make peace.
She sits down, breathless.
"Made it," she laughs. "I thought I'd miss the flight."
She's maybe forty-five. Full-figured, American accent. Her ihram clothes are in a carry-on.
"First Hajj?"
"First and probably only. You?"
"Same."
Her name is Angela.
American convert, fifteen years Muslim. Works as a nurse, saved for a decade for this trip.
"Why now?" I ask.
"Because I'm tired of waiting for the right time. There is no right time."
We talk the whole flight.
About faith, about our lives, about what we hope to find in Mecca.
"Forgiveness," she says. "For myself, mostly."
"For what?"
"For being angry at God when my son died. For walking away from faith and coming back."
"Coming back takes courage."
"Or desperation." She looks at me. "What about you? What do you seek?"
"Renewal. I've been going through the motions for years. I want to feel it again."
"Maybe we'll find it together."
In Mecca, our tour groups are separate.
But we keep finding each other. At tawaf. At Mina. On the plains of Arafat.
"This isn't coincidence," she says.
"In Mecca, nothing is."
Day of Arafat.
The most important day. We stand together, making dua.
"What did you pray for?" I ask after.
"That wasn't just for myself." She hesitates. "I prayed for you."
"Why?"
"Because you deserve renewal too."
We're properly chaperoned.
Tour groups, thousands of pilgrims. Nothing inappropriate.
But everything is changing.
"Can I see you after Hajj?" I ask. "Back in the real world?"
"The real world is Egypt for you, America for me."
"The internet exists."
"That's not the same."
"Then come to Egypt. Visit. Properly."
She visits two months later.
Cairo, Alexandria, my family home. We're still circling each other, still careful.
"I've missed you," she admits.
"I've thought about nothing else."
"Is this crazy?"
"This is Hajj. Everything after Hajj is new."
The first kiss is by the Nile.
Where the Prophet Musa was found. Where everything begins.
"Astaghfirullah," she breathes.
"We've made no sin."
"Not yet."
"Then let's make this halal."
We marry in Cairo.
Small ceremony, her children flying in. Mine still skeptical but accepting.
"Eid Mubarak," I say at the wedding feast.
"Wrong holiday."
"Every day with you is a celebration."
Our first night is sacred.
Like the pilgrimage that brought us together.
"Beautiful," I say.
"Karim—"
"Let me show you what I found in Mecca."
Five years later
We split time between Egypt and America.
She's learning Arabic. I'm learning patience. Hajj renewed everything—including the possibility of love.
"Happy?" she asks.
"Alhamdulillah. Forever alhamdulillah."
The End.