Makkah, a City without a Lowland
As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, Zaid and I set out at half-past five on the evening of Monday, the twenty-fifth of Shawwal, in the year 1447 Hijri, towards the Sacred Mosque. Our hearts brimmed with a longing akin to the thirst of a parched soul for cool water, or the yearning of an exile glimpsing the distant visage of his homeland. Our journey to the Haram was not a mere visit to a familiar place; it was a pilgrimage of the heart to its sanctuary, and of the spirit to its place of tranquility.
We entered the mosque through the King Fahd Gate, amidst a serene throng, as if guided by an unseen, unerring order. Ascending to the upper level, we commenced our circumambulation. The ancient House stood in the center of the tawaf area, majestic in its stillness, awe-inspiring in its steadfastness, while hearts circled it before feet, and souls before bodies. We completed four circuits, then the call to Maghrib prayer was announced, halting the tawaf and the visible motion, yet the movement of the heart only grew in clarity and devotion.
After completing the prayer, we resumed our tawaf, continuing from where we had paused, until we completed the seven circuits. Then we offered two rak’ahs, seeking nothing but gratitude and praise, thanking Allah for bringing us to His House and granting us this moment where worship is sweet, and the heart is cleansed of life’s burdens.
We performed the Isha prayer in the courtyard of the Haram, before the Dar Al-Tawhid Hotel, where the air was gentle, the souls at peace, and the night began to drape Makkah in its delicate veil. There, people dispersed in different directions, and so did we, but towards another facet of the night, no less delightful, though different in nature.
We headed to Aziziyah, accompanied by a group of scholars from Umm Al-Qura, among them jurists, hadith scholars, and those who combined narration with understanding. Leading them was our friend Sheikh Turki Al-Fadhli, a man whose name is synonymous with the chains of transmission in Makkah, and whose presence is central in the scholarly circles of the Haram. He is, as we and many others see, the foremost authority and benefactor of Makkah, unrivaled in his domain.
We then rode in Turki’s car to Al-Hussainiyah, a village south of Makkah, beyond the Al-Awali district, stretching across the mountain slopes like a memory in the soul, bordered by Batha Quraysh on one side and Mount Kasab on the other, leading to the Khawajat Road and Wadi Malkan. Al-Hussainiyah at night possesses a unique tranquility, as if distancing itself from the city’s clamor to retain a touch of its original Bedouin essence and the life of the ancient Arabs.
We ascended to Sultan’s Restaurant, perched on a mountain, overlooking the plain like a generous host over his guests. This establishment is not merely a place for dining; it is a social club where the pleasure of taste meets the delight of the view, and the blessing of food mingles with the joy of companionship.
Notably, the lambs are slaughtered on-site, and the meat is cooked fresh, untouched by the chill of freezing or the harshness of prolonged preservation. We witnessed the slaughter and cooking areas, as if transitioning from the table to its source, from the blessing to its origin.
We observed visitors in scattered groups, young and old, seated on plush carpets, reclining on elegant cushions, with the sky as their ceiling and the stars as their lamps, dining in tranquility and engaging in conversation with a natural ease.
We were served lamb broth, which, as I recall, was unlike any other broth I had tasted; clear in color, deep in flavor, and delicate in taste, so much so that I was tempted to suffice with it alone, were it not for the rest of the meal awaiting.
Then came the kabsa, cooked in a pressure cooker, where the aroma of rice mingled with the richness of the meat, followed by the muqalqal with bread, a dish that brings a special joy, not merely for its taste, but for its evocation of the early Arab kitchens, when food was simple and noble, unadorned by false embellishments. I recalled the poet’s words:
“Roasted meat and a drink… And the trot of a swift camel
One endures them in love… Across the vast desert
Of life’s pleasures, and the youth… For time, which has many forms.”
Turki then recited the lines of Imru’ al-Qais:
“We brush the manes of steeds with our hands
When we rise from a feast of roasted meat.”
When we finished the meal, tea was served, a gentle conclusion to a bountiful table, and the conversation flowed among us, shifting from food to knowledge, from the pleasure of taste to the delight of thought. We discussed the prophetic traditions, the two Sahihs, the methodologies of scholars in verifying texts, and the nuances of “I heard,” “He narrated to us,” and “He informed us,” and the confusion some later scholars introduced between these modes of transmission, blurring the boundaries and mixing the meanings.
Sheikh Turki, as was his custom, spoke with the authority of a knowledgeable expert, blending precise narration with insightful commentary, leaving one unsure whether they were in a scholarly session, a social gathering, or a meeting that combined both knowledge and literature.
We returned to the hotel as the night had quieted and the streets were still, yet this evening did not settle in our souls; it remained alive, etched in memory, like a page from a book that is never closed.
If someone were to say: You came to the sacred land of Allah, stayed only a night, and spent part of it in eating and drinking, is this not a form of neglect? We would reply: We see eating and drinking, when done with the right intention, as a form of worship. The One who built this House and bound hearts to it, combined prayer and sustenance in His invocation:
“Our Lord, I have settled some of my descendants in an uncultivated valley near Your sacred House… and provide them with fruits so that they may be grateful.”
Here, sustenance is paired with prayer, and gratitude is the fruit of both.
I have seen in that courtyard those who performed their prayers and then returned to their meals, and I saw no contradiction in this, but rather harmony between the needs of the body and the needs of the soul, as Allah intended for humanity.
To us, Makkah is entirely a place of blessing and sanctity, indivisible in word as it is in heart. It pained me to hear someone refer to “the lowland of Makkah,” to which I responded: What is this term? They said: To distinguish it from the highlands of Makkah. I replied: This is a terminology my heart cannot accept; why not say: the heights of Makkah and the upper regions of Makkah? For Makkah, to us, has no lowland, as it is all elevated by its sanctity, exalted by its sacredness, and radiant with the light Allah has placed within it.
