The Journey

As he finished the Maghrib, the sunset prayer, he felt grateful that the heat was letting up. It was unusually hot for May in New York and working at a kitchen didn’t help too much. But although his body felt that as a blessing, his soul still felt tormented by some recent news: he would not be travelling to Mecca, like he always dreamed.

The Hajj, a sacred yearly pilgrimage for every Muslim, would be very atypical this year. The pandemic, which cursed the globe, had no respect for the heavenly things — as it had not for the earthly ones. For the first time in hundreds of years, maybe ever, the Kaaba would not be surrounded by millions of pilgrims. There would be just a few thousand. And those had to go under a strict selection. One of the criteria stated they should be between 20 and 50 years old. Baahir had just completed 55.

He did not want to be late for his shift at the restaurant, so he prepared his backpack and brooded on his way to work.

- So, you can´t go? Really? Can´t you just show them how much you prepared? — asked a co-worker.

- No, of course not, Darrell. It is not about deserving or earning something. It is an objective standard. I am too old to go, it can be dangerous for me.

- I know, I know… It´s just not fair. You’ve been waiting for this for years!

- Life is not always fair, I guess…

Baahir came to the United States with his family when he was only four. He grew up listening to his parents telling stories about the Hajj and how beautiful and meaningful it was. “As long as you have the means and can provide for your family, you must do it”, his father once taught him. “This is one of the five pillars of our faith”. For him, that was not only about his religious duty. It also meant reconnecting with his roots, with who he was.

Another thing he remembers is his mom once saying that “time is like a sword”. A sword which cut through his family at a very young age. When he was just 16, he lost his father, who worked as a driver, in a car accident. Baahir had to stop his studies. His mom was devastated with the loss and could not work. From then on, he took good care of her and provided for the house, by doing something he had learned from her: cooking.

For more than thirty years, his mom had everything she needed. Until the day came when the sword of time slashed again. Baahir was sad, but also proud. He had been a good son. And he was sure that his mom, the nicest and most pious woman he knew, would now feast herself in Jannah, with sparkling jewelry and delicious fruit. Just like she loved.

Since then, Baahir worked to fulfil his biggest dream: go to the Hajj and experience what he only heard about or saw on TV. It was like a fairytale, one that he could, now, prepare himself for.

The last two years had been hard: he made double shifts and saved as much money as he could. His prayers were fueled by the hope of stepping on sacred ground for the first time. By the beginning of 2020, he was finally ready.

But so was the sword of time. On a regular new-year visit to the doctor, Baahir learned he was dying.

- I am afraid you have a very rare type of cancer, Mr. Ali. I can present you some treatment options…

- But?

- But they won’t make it disappear, unfortunately. They could, nevertheless, buy you some time.

- At which cost?

- I am sorry to say it is not a cheap one…

- And if I don’t do it?

- You might be able to live a normal life, until it starts to compromise your brain functions… Then you would need intensive medical care.

- And how long do I have until then?

- I can’t say for sure. Based on what we have found out in your MRI… It could be weeks. Or months. Not much more than a year…

That year was probably his last. He would still be happy to use this time to do the one thing he dreamed of. And now, he could not.

When people knew about how devastated he was for not being able to go on the Hajj this year, they would say: “But not all is lost! You can go next year”. He could not.

Darrell suddenly pulled him out of his drift:

- What does that mean, Baahir, “the Hajj”?

- It means “the pilgrimage” or “the journey”. It’s our Journey to the Kaaba: the house of God.

- You mean, Allah lives in there?

- Not exactly, but you could say so. And we feel honored and blessed to be allowed in His place.

- Cool!

It finally made sense to him. His duty would be indeed fulfilled. Darrell never understood why his colleague smiled at him with a warm “thank you”. Baahir had just realized his Hajj was already in course… And he was grateful for that.