Dear Friends and Family, 

I wasn’t really planning to broadcast this information, although some of you may know, all praise due to The Most High: last month I completed Hajj - an honor that I never knew how, when or if I’d ever get the chance to embark on. Alhamdulilah I am so grateful for it, and I hope inshaAllah that gratitude remains for the rest of my life.

I won’t get too much into the experience overall. I think it’s one I am, and still will be, processing for some time. I don’t know if I can even call it my experience, because at the end of the day I don’t really see it as being about me…but I do want to share with you an encounter I had, and people I hope you may be able to help.

One of the many beautiful things about Umrah and Hajj are the people you meet and the sense of community you feel. If you’re sitting next to someone, and there’s any sign of commonality (or none!), you’re most likely going to end up in conversation.

On my last day in Mecca, I was waiting to pray the evening prayer (Maghreb) when I noticed 2 women sitting next to me with ID badges that had small Palestinian flags on them. I looked at the woman to my left and in Arabic asked if they were Palestinian. Looking directly at me, she said “We’re from Gaza.” I felt myself stare at her blankly for a few seconds before it registered…where I then very candidly asked “how are you here?”

The two women, Ola and Heba, went on to tell me that they had escaped to Egypt just around the time of Ramadan, and the Egyptian Government was sending people who made it into the country to Hajj that year. Something I immediately noticed within myself was the amount of shame and embarrassment I felt. Those of us watching the genocide unfold in Gaza since October have had to recognize that as Muslims, Arabs, Humans with a pulse, this isn’t about us or how we feel. But it's worth noting how deeply shameful it was to sit in front of Ola and Heba just months after my tax dollars aided in the slaughter of their siblings, nieces, and nephews. One of the first things I said shortly after was that I know my words don’t mean much but to please forgive us, where Heba then said “This is bigger than all of us.”

I quickly realized for the remainder of our interactions, anything I say really doesn’t matter…and can’t even be close to relatable compared to what these people endured in the last 9 months, or even before. Everything felt so trivial. So small. Because it was, and is.

As the time continued to pass, we discussed a wide range of things (I figured they probably didn't want to discuss the obvious all the time) topics from: the best places to shop, baby clothes, Al Baik (if you know, you know lol), the beauty of seeing Muslims around the world all gathered for the same reason, and they told me about their lives before October. Ola showed me pictures of her baby she escaped with, while I showed her pictures of my nephews and niece. Our emotions ranged between crying, laughing and everything in between.

They told me how it was true that they only received electricity for a certain amount of time during the day before life changed as they knew it, but that perhaps even then they were too spoiled. They said despite it all they were so happy in Gaza. They told me about the conditions of the tents that they were forced to endure for several months before leaving, first hand accounts of friends in the north who had no choice but to eat bread made of animal feed, and others who experienced atrocities I won’t even type here. But the thing they kept emphasizing: what you see on social media isn’t even a fraction of it, and no one could endure one day in what we experienced. But still they were grateful. Not once did they complain. All I could do was listen.

As one can imagine, life in Egypt hasn’t been easy on them either. Heba told me that they’ve had people challenge them, asking things like “how could you leave your country?” She then continued by saying “My children approached me telling me death is better than what we’re currently enduring…wouldn’t any mother do anything she can to get her children out?” She also told me her kids are now slowly regaining their ability to look up at the sky, see a plane, and not think it’s coming to murder them.

Ola, who became a Hafiza (memorizer) of the Quran within 2 months at 16 years old, was an Islamic School Teacher. She’s now in Egypt with her 1 year old, while her husband and the rest of her family are still currently in Gaza, and hopes inshaAllah they will all be reunited soon.

While I remain in complete awe of their resilience and strength, it’s important to not lose sight of the simple reality that this isn’t normal and no human being should endure such hell at the hands of man. One they described as "the worst disaster the world has ever seen."

Soon before we parted ways, I asked how I could help them. Heba requested that I pass around a Go Fund Me for her daughter Saja, who was in medical school prior to October, and is feeling like she’s ready to enroll in Egypt to eventually help her family. Ola is requesting donations to help her family’s medical expenses who are still stuck: Her mother in law who requires cancer treatment and her brother who has monthly medical expenses. I’m taking this as an amanah (Arabic: trust or responsibility) with their consent to share their stories, and links to help them. Anything you’re able to donate helps, and if you’re unable to then I kindly ask you to please forward my email, share the links, etc. to people who you believe can. 

I’m also including a photo of us which they’ve also consented to me to use. Thank you all. And again, anything you can contribute will make a difference.