A Night in Mecca: Reflections and Experiences

Makkah, a city without a lowland

By Dr. Muhammad Akram Nadwi
Oxford

As the sun began its descent, casting a golden hue across the horizon, Zaid and I set out for the Sacred Mosque at half-past five on the evening of Monday, the twenty-fifth of Shawwal, in the year 1447 AH. 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 merely a visit to a familiar place, but rather the return of a heart to its sanctuary, a soul to its place of tranquility.

We entered the mosque through King Fahd’s gate, joining the serene throng, as if guided by an unseen, unwavering order. Ascending to the upper level, we commenced our circumambulation. The ancient House stood in majestic stillness at the center, its awe-inspiring presence unshaken, while hearts circled it before feet, and spirits before bodies. We completed four circuits, and then the call to Maghrib prayer echoed, pausing our tawaf and the visible movement, though the heart’s motion only grew in clarity and reverence.

After the prayer, we resumed our tawaf, completing the seven circuits, and then offered two rak’ahs, intending only gratitude and thanks, praising 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 prayed Isha in the courtyard of the Haram, in front of the Dar Al-Tawhid Hotel, where the air was gentle, souls were at peace, and the night began to drape its delicate veil over Makkah. People dispersed to their various destinations, and we too set out, but towards a different aspect of the night, equally delightful, though different in nature.

We headed to Aziziyah, accompanied by a group of scholars from Umm Al-Qura, among them jurists and hadith scholars, including 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 on hadith in Makkah.

We traveled in Turki’s car to Al-Husseiniyah, a village south of Makkah, beyond the Al-Awali district, stretching along 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 road of Al-Khawajat and Wadi Malkan. Al-Husseiniyah at night has a unique tranquility, as if distancing itself from the city’s clamor to preserve a touch of its original Bedouin essence and the life of ancient Arabs.

We ascended to Sultan’s Restaurant, perched on a mountain, overseeing the plain like a generous host over his guests. This restaurant is not merely a place for food, but a social club where the pleasure of taste meets the delight of the view, and the blessing of food mingles with the blessing of companionship.

Notably, sheep are slaughtered on-site, and the meat is cooked fresh, untouched by the chill of freezing or the harshness of long preservation. We witnessed the slaughter and cooking areas, as if transitioning from the table to its source, from the blessing to its origin.

We saw visitors in scattered groups, young and old, seated on plush carpets, leaning on elegant cushions, with the sky as their ceiling and stars as their lamps, dining in tranquility and engaging in conversation with ease and sincerity.

We were served lamb broth, which, as I recall, was unlike any other I had tasted; clear in color, deep in flavor, and delicate in taste, tempting me to savor 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 melded with the richness of the meat, followed by the mugalgal with bread, a dish that brings a special joy, not just for its taste, but for its evocation of the simplicity and generosity of early Arab kitchens, free from false adornment. I recalled the poet’s words:

“Roasted meat and a drink… and the trot of a swift camel,
One endures in passion… the distance of the vast plain,
From the joy of life, and the youth… for time, and time is diverse.”

Turki echoed the lines of Imru’ al-Qais:
“We brush the manes of steeds with our hands,
When we rise from a golden roast.”

After we finished eating, tea was served, a gentle conclusion to a bountiful table, and our conversation shifted from food to knowledge, from the pleasure of taste to the pleasure 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 by mixing these terms, blurring boundaries and meanings.

Sheikh Turki, as usual, spoke with the authority of a knowledgeable expert, blending precise narration with insightful commentary, leaving one unsure whether they were in a lesson, a convivial gathering, or a session combining both knowledge and literature.

We returned to the hotel, the night having calmed, the streets quiet, yet this evening remained vibrant within us, etched in memory like a page from an unclosed book.

If someone were to say: “You came to the sacred land of Allah, yet spent only a night, and part of it in eating and drinking, is this not neglect?” We would reply: “We see eating and drinking, when done with the right intention, as a form of worship; for He who built this House and bound hearts to it, combined prayer and sustenance in His supplication:

‘Our Lord, I have settled some of my descendants in a barren 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 perform prayer and then return to their meal, and I see no contradiction in this, but rather harmony between the needs of the body and the needs of the soul, as Allah intended for mankind.

To us, all of Makkah is a place of blessing and sanctity, indivisible in word as it is in heart. I was dismayed to hear someone refer to “the lowland of Makkah,” and I asked: “What is this term?” They said: “To distinguish it from the highland of Makkah.” I replied: “This is a term my soul cannot accept; why not say: the heights and uplands of Makkah? For Makkah, to us, has no lowland, as it is all elevated by its sanctity, noble by its sacredness, and radiant with the light Allah has placed within it.”