Tracing The Prophet’s Footsteps


As we leave the Arafat sunset,

And ride to Muzdalifa.

The whiteness of our ihrams

Gleams in the darkness.

“Hajj Mubarak,” a sister whispers,

As she embraces me tightly.

Her tear stained cheek touches mine,

In silent salaam.

“What are we doing here?” my ten year old sister asks,

As we lie on the sandy stones,

In the open of Muzdalifa.

“We are tracing the footsteps of our prophets,” my father replies,

As he raises his hands to the heavens.

Muhammad’s blessed footsteps from Mina to Arafat to Muzdalifa.

Ibraheem’s blessed footsteps to stoning the devil.

As we head to the large Jamrah.

With bags filled with pebbles.

A frail Turkish man on a wheelchair passes us by.

“Assalamu alaikum brothers and sisters!” he exclaims.

“Where are you going?” my brother asks him, curious.

“To Jannah,” he says,

With a huge smile.



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