by Aaqilah Mangarun
The darkness of the night blanketed the sandy terrain outside my bus window. I was already bored beyond my mind with the desert view during daylight, and the night didn’t do it any better. My eyelids threatened to shut close—it was around 8 PM, I think—but I didn’t want to fall asleep. I knew that if I dozed off and we reached our first stop, I wouldn’t be moving from my seat at all. My parents would get mad at me and that would ruin the mood of the whole trip.
My family and I, along with the rest of the passengers in our bus, were headed to Dhul al-Hulayfah, a masjid in Madinah. It was the go-to stop for locals and those who journeyed by land before continuing their journey to Makkah. Here, we were to enter ourselves in a state of cleanliness (Ihram) by performing a bath ritual (Ghusl) and changing into specific clothes. My mom, my sister, and I would wear our simple black abayas, with my mom leaving out her usual niqab. Meanwhile my dad would wear a pair of long white cloths draped and tied over his body.
Thecourtyard of the masjid was wide yet empty. Palm trees were scattered around in places, tall and proud, their leaves blown gently by the night breeze. The stalls and shops were closed for the night, which makes me slightly disappointed; I wanted to know what things people sold here, not to mention I also wanted a snack. I stole a glance at the masjid’s distinct minaret as we headed to the prayer area to pray a combination of Maghrib and Isha, the evening and night prayers. The people inside the women’s section were sparse. I yawned a couple of times as I waited for my sister and mom to finish praying.
It was 2015, and one of the many umrahs my family and I had done over the six years we lived in Saudi Arabia. We have done umrah more times than I could count and through different ways; a few times we took a plane to Jeddah and went to Makkah by land from there. Other times we went straight to the holy city with the family car, a white Hyundai Elantra that felt claustrophobic during very long rides. Those road trips had their own sort of charm, but they made the journey more expensive, tiresome, and sometimes dangerous. One time, my dad shared with us, he was so close to falling asleep at the wheel that by the time he realized it, the car had already drifted off the road. There was nothing or no one to crash into, though, since it was a straight road for kilometers on end and only the plain desert surrounded us. All he got from that supposedly funny anecdote was a scolding from my mom.
So most of the time we booked a bus, just like we did now. Journey through bus had a lot of pros: bathroom breaks and lunch stops were scheduled so you got to the destination faster. There was no way you would get lost or stranded in the middle of the desert—the complete opposite if you traveled by car and you were unfamiliar with reading Arabic signage. That was where the advantages ended.
Back in the bus, we waited for the rest of the passengers to trickle in. We occupied a row of four seats somewhere in the middle, with me sitting next to my dad and my sister to my mom. The buzz of conversation slowly filled the bus, my ears picking up strings of Arabic, Hindi, and some Urdu. Despite the noise, I still felt sleepy. It was almost 10 PM, and if the bus kept to the schedule, we would arrive in Makkah in the early hours of the next day. The second we arrived there, it was certain that we would go right ahead to the Holy Mosque and do the umrah. My parents were like that, religiously eager but sometimes a little too pushy to their only daughters. As much as I wanted to complain, it was a good plan if one wanted to avoid large crowds and the sun’s overbearing heat that can prick the skin like hot, tiny knives.
It was just like any other trip as my head leaned against my dad’s arm. Another long, mundane pilgrimage to go through before we could do something fun, like going to the mall to eat and go shopping. You’d think that someone my age would realize how privileged I was to be able to do a religious rite that other Muslims would spend years to save up for. A plane ticket alone could cost a year’s worth of an average salary. Not to mention that not everyone could get the chance to immigrate into another country like we did.
***
A flock of pigeons flew in the air as we circled the Kaaba at an even pace. Some distance overhead, the face of the Makkah Royal Clock Tower glowed green, proudly showing the world that it was four o’clock in the morning. An ungodly hour for most, but in the holy city of Makkah, it was alive with people from all over the world, all present with a united purpose: to worship none but Allah.
It was a strange feeling. Every time we came here, I would almost always catch it like a fever—stifling, sometimes heavy in the chest. But unlike a fever, it was the kind of presence that fills something good inside me. Little eleven-year-old me wouldn’t be able to explain that feeling until very much later in life. At that moment, all she wanted was to take a break from all the walking. Doing Tawaf was a physically taxing rite in itself, even having the youthfulness of a pre-teen did not exempt one from getting tired. I already dreaded the next ritual to come.
Finally, after finishing Tawaf, we took a small break. The second I sat down, I could feel the hard marble my feet have become, much like the floor they had been walking over for the last hour. The early day was cool, but still, sweat dribbled down my back. I so wanted for everything to be over, but I kept my mouth shut. Complaining felt like a sin, and my mom would probably yap about how I should be more resilient since even a grandpa could do Tawaf without complaint. That part was true, but maybe I was feeling a little whiny and didn’t care about other people.
We resumed our umrah, this time heading to Safa and Marwah, a pair of small hills where we would perform the Sa’ee, the final part of the umrah. The hills were enclosed—for the lack of a better term—behind a tall glass wall or preservation. It was said that when Abraham left his Hajar and his son Ismail in the middle of nowhere, Hajar ran back and forth between the two mountains in search of water. It was only until she ran for the seventh time that an angel descended from the skies and a well called the Zamzam emerged from the earth, blessing Hajar and her son with nourishing water that continued to flow. Today, millions of Muslims would commemorate this act by doing the Sa’ee.
“I’m tired,” my sister grumbled beside me as we did the first lap. We didn’t rest as long as I hoped, and while I was slightly rejuvenated by the Zamzam water we drank a while ago, my feet still felt stiff and numb.
“Right?” I stared longingly at the automated wheelchairs some of the pilgrims used. “Mom, can we—”
“Hush. And no. No wheelchairs. You two are big girls, you can walk fine.”
“But what about the last time?”
“That was only one time,” our mother chided. “See those people who’re using the chairs? What can you tell me about them?”
“They’re old?”
“Exactly. You can use the wheelchairs again when you’re old and have bad knees.”
As we stepped past the green markers and my father started to run, my sister and I could only look at each other in defeat. I stared at the sea of white and black ahead, people who were more eager to do the ritual than I was.
I couldn’t wait to finish and go home.
Aaqilah Mangarun hails from the quiet suburbs of southern Philippines, although she’s grown up in two different countries during her childhood. She currently studies Biology at the Mindanao State University - Iligan Institute of Technology. Her taste in fiction ranges from mystery to historical fiction and science fiction, but fantasy has always been her first love. She was a fellow at the 1st Paradox Philippine Speculative Fiction Writing Workshop 2025. When not writing, she's busy cramming for exams and slurping her favorite caramel macchiato.
January House Literary Journal 
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