After completing our first Umrah right after landing, exhaustion wrapped around us completely. Our bodies were tired, but our hearts were still wide awake. We returned to the hotel for a few hours of rest, knowing we would soon be called back—to the Haram, to something greater than ourselves. And just like that, we found ourselves returning for Tahajjud, Fajr, and Ishraq prayers… as if sleep no longer mattered when your soul is being fed.
Subsequently from finishing our prayers, as we slowly walked towards the Kaaba, my mum and I exchanged a look—no words needed. Without hesitation, we chose to begin our second tawaf instead of going to shop. This time, we stayed along the outer edges, wanting others to experience the closeness we had been blessed with the night before. There was a quiet contentment in that decision… a feeling of gratitude.Lost in du’a, in reflection, in a conversation only Allah could hear—I didn’t even realize how close I had drifted. Suddenly, I was there… so close to the Kaaba. Closer than I ever expected. And then, even more incredibly, I found myself near the Hajar al-Aswad.
In that moment, everything stilled. The noise faded. Time paused. It felt as though Allah had gently brought me there Himself, without me even noticing the path. A strength I didn’t know I had surged within me—I wanted to move forward, to reach out, to touch the stone… all while holding tightly onto my mother. But the emotions around me were just as intense. Everyone was yearning, pushing, hoping for that same moment. I was only inches away… inches. And yet, in that fragile space between desire and reality, I made a choice. I let go of my chance. Because my mother’s safety meant more than anything else. As I struggled to hold onto her and find our way back, it became clear—if I took even one step further, I might lose her in the overwhelming crowd. And that was something I couldn’t risk. Not here. Not ever. And so, I stepped back. I reminded myself of everything Allah had already blessed me with—that just the night before, I had been able to pray so close, to kiss the Kaaba, to touch Maqam-e-Ibrahim multiple times. My heart softened with acceptance. Maybe this wasn’t meant for me right now. And if Allah wills… He will call me back to it again. Ameen.
After completing our tawaf, we stood to pray two rakats in gratitude. Gratitude for being there. Gratitude for being chosen. But I had no idea what was about to unfold next. I found a quiet spot in front of the Kaaba door and lowered myself into sujood. In that moment, I poured everything out—my prayers, my hopes, my fears—not just for myself, but for everyone I carry in my heart. While in sujood, I felt my bag shift slightly, the strap loosening. I instinctively pulled it closer, not thinking much of it. It felt like a small, insignificant moment. Until it wasn’t. When I finished my prayer and looked down… my heart dropped. My bag was open. My wallet was gone. Everything else was still there—my prayer books, my phone, even something as random as scissors—but the one thing that mattered most had vanished. I froze. My wallet… gone. Stolen. Right there. In front of the Kaaba. The disbelief hit me first. Then confusion. Then a deep, sinking heartbreak I couldn’t quite explain.
My mum tried to comfort me, gently suggesting that maybe I had left it in the hotel room. But deep down, I knew. I’m always careful with my belongings—especially something this important. Still, I stayed quiet, holding onto a small thread of hope as we returned to the room. But the moment we checked… that hope shattered. It wasn’t there. And suddenly, it all became real. It wasn’t even about the money. Not at all. It was everything inside it—my IDs, my US Passport Card, my BD NID. Things that couldn’t simply be replaced in a moment. Trying to hold myself together, I quickly blocked my cards and started searching for what needed to be done next. My mind was racing, but my heart felt heavy… almost numb. I knew I had to go to the police station to file a report before I could even begin the process of replacing my IDs. And that realization hurt in a different way—because it felt like time was being taken away from what I came here for. Time that should have been spent in front of the Kaaba. Time in du’a. Time in peace.
Frustration crept in. I felt annoyed at myself, overwhelmed, and quietly worried that this situation might overshadow the rest of my journey. But my mum… calm and hopeful… gently suggested we speak to the hotel management first. And in that moment, while everything inside me felt shaken, her calmness reminded me of something I was close to forgetting—Allah is still in control of every single moment. Hotel management guided us to contact the police at the Haram and sent us on our way with the kind words of hope. "Allah is forever kind. Inshallah, you will find your wallet.”
As we were directed from one corner of the haram to another, fumbling through broken phrases on Google Translate, a quiet anxiety lingered in my chest. Eventually, we found ourselves standing at the lost and found office. Behind the desk sat an officer, surrounded by mountains of misplaced belongings—each item carrying someone’s story, someone’s moment of panic.
He looked up and gently asked how he could help. My mother stepped forward, her voice steady but laced with worry. She explained that her daughter—me—had lost her wallet during prayers in front of the Kaaba. Before the weight of her words could even settle in the air, he reached beside him, picked something up, and simply asked, “Is this yours?”
Time froze.
There it was. My wallet.
Both of us stood there in complete shock, almost afraid to believe what we were seeing. No interrogation. No suspicion. No endless questions about its color, brand, or when it was lost. Nothing. Just quiet certainty. He checked my ID, asked if I was a doctor, and whether there had been cash inside. I told him the exact amount of riyals—and about the brand new 500 BDT note I had received as Eidi. The riyals were gone, taken by whoever found it first… but that one note remained, untouched. Almost as if it was meant to stay. And yet, none of that mattered in that moment. Because I had my wallet back. My identity. My sense of relief. It felt bigger than coincidence. It felt like a lesson.
Maybe I should have left my wallet in the hotel room. Maybe I was careless. But maybe… just maybe… someone out there needed that money more than I did, and Allah chose me as a means to give it to them. Sadaqa. That’s all I could think of.
Even so, the fear lingered. The rest of the trip carried a quiet tension—I moved cautiously, almost protectively, holding tightly onto my phone, my room key, and most of all, onto my mother. I wasn’t going to let anything happen again.
Shopping? It lost all meaning.
Despite having a long list of things I wanted to buy, my heart wasn’t in it anymore. Instead, we immersed ourselves in our ibadat. That night, we performed a second umrah. I poured my heart into every dua—praying for loved ones, for those who had asked for prayers, for the sick, the struggling… for everyone.
Even on our final day in Makkah, when we finally had time to shop, something else was written for us. My mother and I decided to pray a few Nafl prayers, catch one last glimpse of the Kaaba, and then—finally—buy some gifts before heading to Medina. But the moment we stepped into the Haram, something shifted. Soft droplets of rain began to fall, gently kissing our faces. It felt like mercy descending from the sky.
They say that when it rains, duas are more likely to be accepted… that the doors of heaven open wider. In that moment, nothing else mattered. “Screw shopping,” we both silently agreed. And just like that, we found ourselves walking toward yet another tawaf—this time, in the rain. What an indescribable experience.
Yes, we got drenched. Yes, we fell sick afterward. But it was worth every second. Every step around the Kaaba felt heavier with emotion, lighter with surrender. We prayed again—for everyone, for ourselves, for those we’ve lost… and above all, for our beloved Rasulullah (pbuh). During our shukr-ana prayers, gratitude overflowed. There were no words that could truly capture what our hearts felt. In that moment, life felt… complete.
Content.
But the journey wasn’t over yet. It was time to move toward Medina.
I had already prepared my heart for one possible disappointment— not being able to pray in the Rawdah. I had heard how difficult it had become for women to gain access, how it required specific arrangements, and how not everyone gets the chance. But I made peace with it. I had prayed there once before during my Hajj in 2019. If I didn’t get the chance this time, I told myself I would accept it. Surely, Allah would invite me again someday. Ameen.
And yet… miracles don’t stop where we expect them to.
As soon as we reached our hotel, our tour operator informed us—our Rawdah visit had been approved. Not just approved, but scheduled within the hour. I could hardly process it. We rushed—freshened up, hearts racing—and made our way to Masjid an Nabawi. After offering Maghrib prayers, we stood in line once again… waiting to enter a place so sacred, so beloved. The Rawdah.
I don’t know how to explain it, but everything I had quietly hoped for from this journey… Allah gave me more. Far more than I deserved, far more than I imagined. I returned feeling different. Rejuvenated. Refueled. Overflowing with faith and hope.
Many people come back focusing on what they didn’t
get to do. But for us, it felt like we experienced everything we needed—and more. Honestly, despite all the negativity often associated with Saudis, my experience told a different story—one of kindness, ease, and quiet miracles. There was a time just before Maghrib prayers when I was feeling exceptionally thirsty. I was sitting by myself as Mum had to go back to the hotel for something. Without wanting to lose my favorite spot under the dome, I scanned to see if there were any ZamZam water dispensers nearby. Out of nowhere, a lady walked by, giving me a bag which contained a bottle of chilled water, a piece of bread and some dates. She was then handing it out to everyone. Was it my luck or just sheer coincidence, I really don't know.
All, I can say is that I can’t wait to return because the miracles of Allah (swt) are constant, subtle, overwhelming… and I am forever grateful to have witnessed them, felt them, and lived them and will continue to do so. Ameen
I know we all have a right to believe whatever we want but if you consider yourself as a Muslim, I would highly suggest you go through this experience as nothing is more rewarding than this.
