Abdullah’s Umrah Recollections

Stepping into Makkah, there’s an overwhelming feeling of scale, of history stretching back beyond comprehension, of millions who have walked these same paths, prayed in these same spots, and whispered the same duas. It is humbling. It is grounding. And yet, it is also unsettling in ways I didn’t fully anticipate.

Umrah is meant to be a moment of pure devotion, a shedding of worldly burdens. But as I moved through the rituals, I kept thinking about how even this sacred space isn’t untouched by the systems we resist daily. The towering hotels with their luxury suites overlooking the Kaaba, the endless lines of global brands surrounding the Haram, capitalism doesn’t spare even the holiest of places. The contrast between the opulence of those who can afford the best views and the workers cleaning the floors, mostly migrants who will never stay in those rooms, made it impossible to ignore the inequalities baked into our world.

Then there’s Palestine. In every dua, in every moment of reflection, it sat heavy on my heart. The occupation, the genocide, the complicity of governments, including many of those whose citizens stood beside me in prayer. I found myself asking: What does it mean to stand before Allah, completely stripped of titles and statuses, while outside of this sacred space, those same labels?structures dictate who is free and who is not?

Madinah, though, was different. Where Makkah was intense, overwhelming even, Madinah felt like stillness, like a deep breath after a long fight. The presence of the Prophet ﷺ is something you feel in your bones, a reminder that our work isn’t just about resisting oppression but building something better in its place. The Ansar welcomed the oppressed and built a just society from nothing, how different is that from what we try to do in organizing? To create spaces of safety, dignity, and collective care in a world that so often denies them? Madinah felt like a blueprint, a reminder that the struggle isn’t just about what we tear down but what we build in its place.

But Umrah also reminded me of something else, something powerful. The sense of unity, of shared purpose, of millions moving as one. It reaffirmed why we organize. Why we resist. Why we refuse to accept oppression as inevitable. Faith isn’t meant to be passive; it’s meant to drive action. Just as our individual sins don’t define us when we sincerely seek change, neither does the state of the world, so long as we commit to fighting for something better.

Leaving Makkah and Madinah, I carried this with me: the understanding that worship isn’t just what happens in prayer, but in every act of justice, in every refusal to be silent, in every insistence that another world is possible. Umrah was not an escape from the struggle. It was a reminder of why we struggle in the first place.