The Haj holds a deeply special place in the hearts of Muslims. It is not just a journey. It is the spiritual ambition of a lifetime – one undertaken by those who are physically able and have the means to do so at least once in their lives.
The Haj draws more than a million Muslims from around the world to Makkah each year, united by faith and bound by ritual. They come from every part of the world, regardless of race, language or background – and for a few sacred days, become one.
When my husband and I were selected to perform the Haj in 2024, we were overwhelmed with gratitude. For him, it was his second pilgrimage. For me, it was my first. The sense of awe was indescribable.
Even before the journey began, emotions ran high. I remembered my late grandmother, so overcome with joy that she forgot her passport. At the airport, she crouched to the ground in despair until my father reassured her that there was still another flight to catch.
I once read that such reactions are emotional flooding – a state where joy and overwhelm blur the mind. That is the kind of effect Haj can have on the heart.
Alhamdulillah, our journey was filled with blessings – from Tabung Haji’s support and efficiency to the kindness of strangers who became friends. My husband’s patience, too, became a source of strength.
Haj is not for the faint-hearted. It is demanding – physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Yet every hardship we faced only reminded us why we were there.
Still, our difficulties pale in comparison to those faced by earlier pilgrims. My great-great-grandfather, Tok Guru Haji Abdul Malek of Sungai Pinang, like many from this region in the 19th century, travelled by ship.
The journey took months, sometimes longer, and the risks were immense: cramped cabins, limited food, uncertain waters.
Many never made it to Jeddah. My grandparents used to speak of those departures when families said their goodbyes, not knowing if they would ever reunite. Even those who made it often returned years later, weathered and changed.
Today, we enjoy conveniences they could not have imagined. Yet every pilgrim, whether past or present, will be tested in some way. Each challenge becomes a mirror, reflecting the depth of our faith, the strength of our patience and our readiness to let go.
At the heart of it all is a story of adversity that is often overlooked, though it is etched into the very rituals of Haj and Umrah. Every year, pilgrims walk between the two hills of Safa and Marwah seven times, retracing the steps of a woman who held no worldly title.
She was not a queen, not a warrior in the conventional sense. Yet her story is central to the pilgrimage. Her name is Siti Hajar. She is the origin of Sa’i – the ritual act of running between Safa and Marwah.
Left alone in the desert by her husband, Prophet Ibrahim, she stood in the valley of Makkah with her infant son, Ismail. He had left them there under divine instruction. There was no visible source of water. No shelter. No help. It was a scene that defies logic. A man of God was asked to leave his wife and child in an arid land.
Instead of despairing, Siti Hajar acted. She moved. She ran. Seven times she went back and forth between the hills, desperate to find water, desperate to save her child.
It was through her movement, not her stillness, that Zamzam was gifted. Mercy from the unseen. That act of running – an act of desperation, faith and relentless hope – became enshrined in the Haj. Every pilgrim today walks that path because of her. Her struggle, her sacrifice, and her trust in God became a pillar of faith itself.
Siti Hajar is not just a figure from the past. She represents resilience and embodies a mother’s love. Her story teaches us that faith is not passive.
It moves, it searches, and it endures. In an age that glorifies control and certainty, her example reminds us that transformation often comes when we are most vulnerable.
She did not surrender to despair. She moved forward, not out of ease, but out of conviction.
Her footsteps echo in every woman who has ever kept going (mine included) – not because she was unafraid, but because someone else was counting on her.
Siti Hajar’s story holds deep relevance for women, especially in workplaces, in society, and in spaces where we are still fighting to be seen and heard.
She reminds us that faith can be powerful, purposeful and profoundly feminine. She was not defined by her silence but by her actions.
She did not wait to be saved. She was proactive: she moved, she searched, and in doing so, changed the course of history.
This is what we honour on Eid.
And this is what we are reminded of when we celebrate Haj – that from the earliest caravans to today’s chartered flights, every pilgrim is tested. Whether by hardship, uncertainty or emotion, the journey demands movement. It demands trust.
A woman’s lived experience has become a rite of passage for every pilgrim. Her story is not one of helplessness. It is one of courage, rooted in faith. She teaches us that belief is not always about having the answers. Sometimes, it is about moving forward even when the way is unclear.
To all pilgrims, may your Haj be accepted. And to the rest of us, may we continue walking in Siti Hajar’s footsteps. With grace and with conviction.
The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the writer and do not necessarily represent that of Twentytwo13.
