The Indonesian Umrah | العمرة الإندونيسية
"Two strangers on an umrah tour from Jakarta. Thrown together by circumstance, they discover that pilgrimage can awaken more than spiritual hunger."
The Indonesian Umrah
العمرة الإندونيسية
The bus from Jeddah to Mecca is packed.
Forty-three Indonesians on a two-week umrah package. We're assigned roommates alphabetically—which is how I end up sharing a room with Hendra.
"Assalamu alaikum," he says. "Looks like we're stuck together."
"Wa alaikum assalam." I try not to stare. He's handsome—fifty-ish, silver-templed, with a smile that makes my stomach flip. "I'm Siti."
"Hendra. From Surabaya."
"Jakarta."
This is going to be a long two weeks.
I'm forty-seven.
Divorced, one daughter in university. This umrah was supposed to be spiritual renewal—my mosque group pooled money for my ticket after my husband left.
I wasn't supposed to notice my roommate.
But I notice him.
The way he prays—focused, devoted. The way he helps elderly pilgrims with their bags. The way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not watching.
"Why did you come?" I ask on the second night.
"My wife died two years ago. I promised her we'd do umrah together. This is me keeping that promise."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She's with Allah now. But I still miss her."
We do tawaf together.
Circling the Kaaba seven times, pressed close by the crowd. His hand finds mine somewhere around the fourth circuit.
"So we don't get separated," he explains.
I don't let go.
The sa'i is exhausting.
Seven times between Safa and Marwa. By the end, my legs are shaking.
"Lean on me," Hendra offers.
I lean. His arm is solid around my waist.
"Jazakallahu khair."
"Wa iyyaki."
That night, we talk until Fajr.
About our failed marriages—his to death, mine to betrayal. About our children. About the loneliness that drove us both to seek Allah in His holiest city.
"You're not what I expected," he admits.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. But not someone I'd want to keep talking to."
"Is that a problem?"
"It might be."
Day five: Medina.
The Prophet's Mosque is overwhelming. We pray side by side—men's section, obviously, but I feel him nearby through the walls.
After, we walk through the old city.
"This is inappropriate," I say.
"What is?"
"This. Us. Walking alone."
"We're pilgrims. We're allowed to be friendly."
"This doesn't feel friendly."
"No." He stops. Faces me. "It doesn't."
He kisses me in an alley off Quba Road.
Quick, secret, desperate. The most haram thing I've ever done—and the most alive I've felt in years.
"Astaghfirullah," I gasp.
"Astaghfirullah." He doesn't let go of my hand. "We shouldn't—"
"I know."
"We're on umrah. In the Prophet's city."
"I know."
"I don't want to stop."
"Neither do I."
We don't stop.
Every night, after the group retires, we find private corners. The hotel stairwell. The rooftop. Once, daringly, the storage closet during a group meeting.
"This is wrong," I whisper as his hands explore me.
"I know."
"We're supposed to be purifying ourselves."
"I know." He kisses my neck. "But you're the only pure thing I've felt in two years."
Day ten.
We return to Mecca for final tawaf. The crowd is massive—millions of pilgrims, all seeking forgiveness.
"Marry me," Hendra says as we circle the Kaaba.
"What?"
"Here. Now. We'll find someone to witness. Make this halal."
"We've known each other ten days."
"I've known you longer in these ten days than I knew anyone in ten years."
"Your family—"
"Will adjust."
"My daughter—"
"Will gain a stepfather who loves her mother."
"This is crazy."
"This is fate." He squeezes my hand. "Allah brought us together in His house. Don't you think that means something?"
We find an imam near the Kaaba.
Two witnesses from our group—shocked but supportive. A simple nikah between tawaf circuits.
"Qabiltu," he says. I accept.
"Qabiltu," I respond. I accept.
We finish our tawaf as husband and wife.
That night, finally halal.
The hotel room becomes our wedding chamber. No more stolen kisses—now I can have all of him.
"Finally," he breathes as he undresses me. "I've wanted this since the bus."
"Since the bus?"
"You were reading Quran. The light caught your face. I knew then."
"Knew what?"
"That Allah had sent me my second chance."
He makes love to me slowly.
With the reverence of a man who's been mourning and finally found joy. Every touch is worship. Every kiss is prayer.
"Subhanallah," he whispers against my skin. "Subhanallah."
I come in his arms in the shadow of the Kaaba.
Through the window, we can see the minarets. The sound of prayer echoes from a dozen mosques.
"Alhamdulillah," I cry.
"Alhamdulillah."
The tour group finds out the next morning.
The reactions range from shock to delight. The tour guide doesn't know whether to congratulate us or scold us.
"You got married on umrah?" the eldest auntie demands.
"We made haram into halal," Hendra says simply. "Isn't that what pilgrimage is for?"
She can't argue with that.
We fly back to Indonesia together.
His family meets us at the airport—confused, then welcoming when they see how happy he is. My daughter is more skeptical.
"You've known him two weeks."
"Fourteen days. Fourteen perfect days."
"That's not how these things work."
"It's exactly how these things work. When you know, you know."
Three years later
We live in Surabaya now.
His children have accepted me. My daughter has accepted him. We're building a life neither of us expected.
"Happy anniversary," he says, handing me flowers.
"Three years."
"Three years since the bus. Since the Kaaba. Since you became mine."
"I was always yours. You just had to come to Mecca to find me."
He makes love to me the way he did that first halal night.
Slowly. Reverently. Like I'm still the surprise he found on a pilgrimage.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too."
Alhamdulillah.
For tour buses that pair strangers.
For umrah that becomes union.
For second chances found in sacred places.
The End.