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“I want to go for Umrah,” I announced to my family. It must have been a surprise to them, their journalist daughter deciding to take the Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca.

“I want to do it alone, I want this to be my own journey.”

Why now? I was feeling a void, almost like an outsider in my own country, as the Indian prime minister prepared with great fanfare to inaugurate a Hindu temple where an Islamic mosque once stood. At the same time, the images from Gaza were heartbreaking. I needed to cling to something, some semblance of hope, some spiritual solace, some feeling of community. Maybe I would find that in Mecca, birthplace of the prophet Muhammad, a trip I had been contemplating for years.

There was a minor glitch. The travel agencies that had inundated my WhatsApp with Umrah and Hajj travel offers stopped replying the moment I stated my intention to travel alone. Another said point blank: “We do not make arrangements for single women.”

But one agency agreed, and thus started my journey to the holiest place in Islam. Last year, <a href="https://themedialine.org/mideast-daily-news/record-breaking-13-5-million-muslims-participate-in-umrah-pilgrimage-to-mecca-in-2023/" target="_blank">a record 13.5 million Muslims</a> visited the holy cities of Mecca and Medina in Saudi Arabia. As I passed through immigration at the Mumbai airport wearing an abaya for the first time in my life, I was conscious of the gaze of people around me. Over the last two years, right-wing <a href="https://www.seattletimes.com/nation-world/hijab-bans-deepen-hindu-muslim-fault-lines-in-indian-state/" target="_blank">Hindu fundamentalists had made</a> hijab-wearing women their targets as part of the dehumanization of the 200 million Muslims in India.

A friend in Germany with whom I had shared my apprehensions about this trip advised me to leave my concerns about my country behind. Look for faith and resilience, she advised. Put your anger aside. I would try.

Rana Ayyub

On arrival in Jeddah, I am met by a driver who takes me to my hotel in Mecca, a two-hour trip. Then, around midnight, I meet the person who has been assigned by the travel agency to help me with the religious rituals. A Pakistani national, Asif has roots in Rajasthan, a state in northern India. He asks me to see him as a brother from across the border.

He introduces me to a young man, Hamza, from his village in Pakistan who is studying to be a Muslim religious scholar. “Inshallah, he will explain everything and walk with you through the rituals.”

The men escort me through the glitzy King Abdul Aziz Road, past the massive clock tower and the shopping malls on the way to the holy mosque. Though it is almost 1 a.m., there is barely any space to walk. Pilgrims are everywhere and we are all headed to the same place.

I ask Asif whether he has seen pro-Palestinian protests at one of the largest gatherings of Muslims from around the world. He stops, looks around and then turns to me, saying: “Sister, I know you are a journalist but I would request to not probe around here.” Then he laughs and says, “And you must know, Saudi is not the place for protests.”

As I enter the open area around the Kaaba — <a href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Kaaba-shrine-Mecca-Saudi-Arabia" target=_blank>considered the home of God</a>, built by Abraham and his son Ishmael — Hamza asks me to lower my gaze and look up only when the building is in full view. The Kaaba is a black cuboid stone structure covered with a black cloth called the Qiswa with Islamic verses written in gold thread. He asks me to chant an Islamic verse until I set foot inside. I keep my footwear in my bag and walk barefoot, rubbing shoulders with thousands of pilgrims reciting “labbaik allahumma labbaik” (here I am, Allah). And then there it is, the image I had grown up seeing in picture frames in the house, in spiritual videos, the wallpaper of my mom’s phone.

Some cry at the first glimpse, others fall onto mats to offer their prayers, and many start recording on their smartphones, calling their family members to share a glimpse of the most important journey of their life. I stand there for a minute, just absorbing the sight, feeling the goosebumps on my skin. After saying the salat (the ritual prayer performed five times daily in Islam), I begin the Umrah ritual, making seven circles around the Kaaba. For each round, Hamza has me repeat the Islamic verse he is chanting and explains its meaning to me in Urdu.

Next, I make my way to the Qiswa. People fall over each other to touch the piece of cloth that covers one of the most divine sites in Islam. As I finally reach it, I impulsively kiss the Qiswa. “Do not,” reprimands Hamza. “It is improper for women to do it.”

A middle-aged man standing nearby stares at Hamza and scolds him: “And what part of Islam or the Quran says this ? Do not invent rules!” He looks at me and tells me in Urdu that I should do what I feel. I am validated.

After the man walks away, the minor tension is deflected and Hamza directs me to the tankers dispensing zamzam, the miraculous holy water. It is believed that Abraham — referred to as the friend of Allah and the father figure for all Muslims — left his wife Hagar and infant Ishmael in the custody of Allah in the scorching desert of Mecca. When Hagar ran between the hills of Safa and Marwa, desperate for water, it is believed that the angel Gabriel (Jibreel in Arabic) struck the ground, which led to the birth of the spring that still feeds a well in Mecca. Each pilgrim is allowed to carry a prepacked one-gallon bottle of zamzam water home to share with friends and relatives.

Next, pilgrims walk where Hagar walked, between the hills. There, I see a man with a massive dragon tattoo on his shoulder that stares through the white ahram he is wrapped in. Another man with tattoos and face piercing walks past me chanting “labbaik allahumma labbaik.” I look around for probing, judgmental eyes<b> </b>at these breaches of protocol, but instead find pilgrims immersed in their rhythmic chanting, reading from the compact books of prayers.

My bare feet begin to give up. I wade through the crowd and find myself a corner. A couple in their mid-30s also takes refuge there. They offer ajwa dates to me and my young teacher. “Take either one, three or five,” they instruct us.

Hamza tells me it was a tradition of the prophet Muhammad to eat dates in odd numbers. I smile and ask the couple about their native land. The woman says “China.”

This piques my interest, and we speak about their pilgrimage. I bring up the persecution of Uyghur Muslims, curious whether they are allowed to perform their religious duties in China. The wife is about to say something when she pauses suddenly. The husband looks around, carefully observing the people around him. “Your first time?” he asks. Yes, I respond. He smile and asks me about my own experience, completely ignoring my question. They then return to their prayers.

The religious persecution of Muslims in China is well known. <a href="https://www.npr.org/2023/08/17/1189860622/china-muslims-mecca-hajj-travel-surveillance" target=_blank>An NPR report last year</a> documented the surveillance of the Muslims in China who try to travel to Mecca. Could my questions have landed the couple in trouble?

On our way out, men and women approach us with haircut offers — “five riyals only,” or about $1.35. To complete Umrah, men need to shave their heads and women need to chop an inch off their hair. Back at my hotel, I look into the mirror, wind a strand of my hair around my finger and chop off an inch. My Umrah is complete.

I stay in Mecca four more days. In between the five daily prayers, women shop for gold, memorabilia, prayer beads and dates to take home as gifts. At the massive buffet breakfast in my hotel, Rashid, one of the servers, makes sure to bring a cheese omelet with Indian chai to my table. On the first day, he asks whether I would be joined by family, then makes sure I am looked after. I am usually the only person sitting alone in the restaurant. “You are probably the only person across Mecca and Medina to be traveling alone, without family or friends. Mashallah,” he observes, meaning “Allah has willed it.”

Rashid says he is a Rohingya whose family members are still at a relief camp in Cox’s Bazar in Bangladesh. He asks whether I have friends who can donate to help his community. He gives me the details of the relief camp where I can locate his family. He works double shifts and asks everyone he befriends at the restaurant to send zakat (charity given during Ramadan) to his family. “We have been left alone by the world,” Rashid says.

It strikes me that, here on Umrah, I am surrounded by persecuted Muslims.

The plight of the Rohingyas in particular resonates with me because these refugees from Myanmar have been used as a trope for dehumanization of Muslims in my country. India this month began implementing the controversial <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-50670393" target=_blank>Citizenship Amendment Act</a>, which promises citizenship to persecuted minorities in neighboring countries — but not Muslims.

As the call to prayer from the holy mosque is relayed across the city through loudspeakers, the lobby of my hotel converts into a makeshift prayer space. Men and women rush to find a place. I find myself next to an Algerian woman, Mehra, who is dressed in a fine silk abaya. We speak about our Umrah, and she asks me about my work. “Journalist? You write news?”

She is curious whether I am in Saudi Arabia to prepare a report; I tell her it is a personal journey of faith. She asks whether I report on Gaza. I tell her that most international journalists are not allowed into the territory. “The Ummah (Muslim world) is to be blamed, all of us are to be blamed,” she says, looking around. “You see these people, good people offering salat, but no one wants to talk for other people. We Muslims are scared of tyrants, we are not scared of Allah.” She tells me a fellow Algerian was arrested in Saudi Arabia for waving the Palestinian flag. “These are Muslims? No. These are evil people,” she says.

I search the internet to check what she told me. An Algerian man was indeed detained in November for waving a Palestinian flag in Mecca. <a href="https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/middle-east/not-allowed-saudi-arabia-detains-people-praying-for-gaza-in-holy-sites/articleshow/105289928.cms" target="_blank">The story also mentions</a> that the head of religious affairs at the Grand Mosque advised pilgrims against making any comments regarding Gaza during the prayers.

As I ponder this news, I pack for my trip to Medina, where Muhammad relocated in the year 622 after being driven out of Mecca. The prophet was exiled from his own land, persecuted by his own people, for preaching God’s word. He and his followers were besieged, mocked and scorned. Medina became his refuge. I wonder whether persecuted minorities from across the world, the Muslims who feel alienated in their lands, identify with the pain of exile endured by the prophet.

By the time I reach Medina, it is time for Friday prayers and almost every spot that provides shade has been taken. I find myself sitting in the scorching sun with my black leather bag, the shimmery green Quran passed on to me by my grandmother, and prayer beads. Two young Nigerian women are seated right behind me. Amira Ibrahim works in the arts and culture department of the Nigerian government and is also the chief operating officer of a prominent design studio in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital. She is traveling with her sister Ayesha, and the two have arrived from Egypt. “We almost thought this would not happen, that this would be jinxed, because we always wanted to but it never worked out. And here we are,” says Amira. She says that, at the holy sites here in Saudi Arabia, she feels less judged for her color. “Here, I feel included, like no one cares who you are, you are just a seeker like everyone else.” We discuss the women of Islam, a subject she knows much better than I.

Like me, she is traveling without a male companion,<b> </b>which until a few years ago was forbidden. Like me, she had been apprehensive about how a modern woman would be perceived in Mecca and Medina. She said she found acceptance, no questions asked, a sense of community, love and warmth from strangers.

Right outside the gates of the Masjid Munawara, a group of Pakistani men are eating at a curry takeout joint. They discuss former Pakistani prime minister Imran Khan — who they believe is doing the work of God and, hence, has been jailed by the corrupt elites. Abdul Bhai, a trader from Islamabad, tells me that it is probably one of the worst times to be a Muslim. “Look at what is happening in Pakistan, India, Palestine, Syria, and we are all leaderless ruled by these powerful Arabs who lick the feet of the Americans.”

“Did you see the construction all around?” he asks me. “Every part of history of Islam is being destroyed, the house of the prophet, his wife, his confidants — and for what? Swanky high-rises. If this was not the land of the holy mosques, I would never set foot in this country.”

Abdul is referring to <a href="https://time.com/3584585/saudi-arabia-bulldozes-over-its-heritage/" target=_blank>the demolition of Islamic heritage sites</a> over the past two decades, including the house of the wife of the prophet. Almost every corner in the cradle city of Islam is under construction. Cranes block the view of the mosque.

Another man asks the group to pray for Palestine — one of the rare times I have heard anyone mention the <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/israel-hamas-war/" target="_blank" class="contextual_link">war in Gaza</a>. Two young college students from Bradford, a hub of Indians and Pakistanis in Britain, who have been listening to the conversation, chime in: “We need our own Malcom X to fill this void, or else we are doomed.”

Inside the courtyard of the mosque, a woman from Sudan sits on a chair in a golden abaya. A bunch of women from Pakistan take selfies with her. The Pakistani women speak Punjabi and Urdu; the woman from Sudan replies in broken English. I ask her whether she understands what they are saying. “They are my sisters,” she replies. The implication: It doesn’t matter.

The Muslim world is hardly a homogeneous group. The Shiites and Sunnis, two of the biggest sects in Islam, have seen bloody conflicts between one another. Yet all come to Mecca.

I think back to the people I have met from all corners of the world: the ones afraid to speak their truths, the persecuted, the outspoken ones calling for change. We came from different countries with different political and ideological baggage. The unifier was the faith we practiced, Islam, followed by 1.8 billion people. That faith is being vilified, its followers often caricatured as savages, radicals and polygamists, its women needing to be rescued by Western saviors.

During my Umrah, from the man who defended my right to kiss the Qiswa to the British woman who sent pain relievers and a hot pad to my room when I was ill, I felt included and respected. I felt I was part of a family that had traveled from the world over to come together to assert their faith at one of its most trying times. I felt I belonged.

Rana Ayyub is an Indian journalist and author of “Gujarat Files: Anatomy of a Cover Up.”

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I went to Mecca to find solace. I found acceptance.

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