That afternoon, I walked toward the courtyard of Masjid al-Haram. The sun was blazing against my skin, yet I felt a strange coldness wrap around me. It wasn't the weather. It was my heart, restless and uncertain. I had arrived at the place I had once only seen on screens. My umrah had been completed. I was already here.

I almost lost myself in thought, forgetting my purpose: the Asr prayer. But even then, I hesitated. Where should I go? Where should I stand, among the thousands moving in the same direction, the Ka'bah?

Everyone around me moved purposefully, entering through massive gates marked with numbers. And me? I just stood still.

I didn't ask anyone. I simply paused, trying to absorb the atmosphere, hoping to find clarity in the middle of my confusion. And then, without thinking, I began following two women who looked like they were from Asia. They queued for zam zam water, headed toward the escalator, and entered a corridor. Eventually, I found myself in a prayer area filled with women.

There, a Qur'an memorization circle took place. The recitation filled the space with calm. I sat down and listened. Just the night before, I had quietly wondered, "Will I be able to find a halaqah here?" I hadn't even asked aloud, and yet, here I was. I hadn't searched, but Allah had already answered.

Allah gave me what I needed before I could even begin looking.

I stayed there until it was time to return to the hotel. But on the way back, my mind remained full of unanswered questions. Where were the bodies placed for the funeral prayers after each obligatory salah? And where was the flat route for sa'i used by pilgrims in wheelchairs?

Again, I didn't look for answers. I just wondered quietly.

The following day, I was determined to find a place closer to the Ka'bah. Not knowing which gates were open or where they led, I walked around the mosque for 30 to 40 minutes. Eventually, I stopped only to find myself right in front of the funeral procession. So this is where it happens, I thought.

I watched the bodies, now free from pain, free from joy. I stood silently and prayed,


"Oh Allah, let me die like this.
With a heart ready to meet Allah."


And again, another question was answered, almost effortlessly.

The day after, something similar happened. I accidentally took a different exit from the mosque—one I hadn't used before. Because a security guard directed me there. I got lost, but in getting lost, I found the wheelchair-accessible sa'i route.

I stood there, watching people in wheelchairs completing their rituals with such determination. It reminded me of my knee injury months earlier. My doctor had warned me to adjust my lifestyle to avoid long-term damage. The doctor said I might end up in a wheelchair if I wasn't careful.

Seeing them that day moved me deeply. I felt grateful to still be able to walk, grateful that Allah had allowed my legs to carry me all the way to Baitullah.

There were many more moments like this in Makkah, but some are too personal to put into words. These three stories are the ones I can share. Because the truth is, a spiritual journey always has private corners. Moments that only the soul can fully experience.


 Read more : 


And then, I travelled to Madinah. There, everything felt different! If Makkah is where you rush to earn a reward, then Madinah is where you slow down and let your faith settle.

In Madinah, I joined a Qur'an recitation class at Masjid an-Nabawi. I sat among women from all over the world. The atmosphere was calm, respectful, and full of grace. In this city, women are honoured. The dedicated spaces, the thoughtful arrangements, even the way the staff interacted. It all made one thing clear: Madinah honours women with dignity.

One afternoon, while walking around the mosque, I unexpectedly passed by Jannat al-Baqi. I had wanted to find this place, but as always, I hadn't asked anyone or searched online. I just walked, and there it was.

I stood there for a long time, simply gazing. And then came a thought I had never dared to think before,


"Oh Allah, if Allah ever brings me back to this city,
let it be to return to Allah."


It surprised me. I've always been afraid of death. But in Madinah, death didn't feel frightening. It felt near and strangely peaceful.

That night, I visited the As-Safiyyah Museum, just a short walk from the mosque. After the Isha prayer, I walked over and was welcomed by a guide who told stories of the universe's creation, human existence, and the lives of the prophets. The guide spoke of the end times and of the Day of Judgement. My heart trembled as I listened.

Before we left, the guide said something that struck me deeply,


"If Makkah and Madinah can't bring you closer to Allah,
then where else will?"


In that moment, I felt incredibly small, so far from Allah. And yet, at the same time, I felt surrounded by the mercy of Allah. In these sacred cities, I met people who were striving for nothing but the pleasure of Allah.

The rest of my time in Madinah was quiet. I didn't socialise much. I focused on myself. But on my last day, I made a point to connect with a few women, hoping that maybe, inshaAllah, we would meet again in Jannah.

I made two new friends that day. Putri from Indonesia and Uma from Russia, who live in London. We were in the same Qur'an class. Before we parted ways, we exchanged numbers. Uma and I ended up having a long and meaningful conversation. Before she left, she said to me,


"My sister, trust that if it's good for your akhirah and dunya, Allah will make it easy.
And if it leads you away from both, Allah will take it away."


I went home with a full heart. No one can teach you the kind of surrender I felt. You only learn it when your heart has truly searched and found clarity. The guide's words and Uma's reminder became the conclusion to all my wondering over the past few months.

Go where you are drawn closer to Allah. Even if it demands sacrifice. Even if no one understands. If it brings you closer to Allah, then that is where you belong. Not where you look impressive to others. But where your soul remembers who it was always meant to serve.

And so, I returned home with longing in my heart, and a prayer that one day, Allah will call me back once more and more.