Foreword
It was late January, and I had to leave the country—not for good, not yet—but as part of a bureaucratic dance with the Qatari government. The company was arranging my work visa, and the rules required me to exit the country so the visa could be processed. The idea was simple: leave for a week or two, let the system do its thing, then return under a new legal status.
Most people in my position took one of two routes. Some went back to their home countries to visit family and catch up on life left behind. Others hopped over to Dubai, the familiar safety net of the Gulf, booking a hotel to wait it out in comfort. But I chose something else. I chose Umrah.
It wasn’t a decision made out of luxury or ease. It was, in fact, the most frugal option. But it was also deeply personal. I hadn’t been on Umrah in years. The thought of walking again in the footsteps of prophets and pilgrims, in the quiet intensity of Mecca, felt like the right kind of waiting. A holy pause, if you will, before the next chapter of my life began—before the ticking clock of work and all that came with it hung on him like a noose waiting to snap…
I booked my Umrah through a budget airline called FlyNAS—the Ryanair of the Middle East. To give them this much credit: the aircraft was surprisingly decent. The route took me via Riyadh to Medina, where I planned to begin my pilgrimage by taking the high-speed train from Medina to Mecca.
But the most meaningful part of my journey didn’t take place in the skies or on the ground. It happened just as we were taxiing to the gate in Medina. A message buzzed on my phone—a short parable that felt like a divine whisper, wrapped in humor and simplicity. It was entitled The Sultan and His Advisor, and its lesson would set the emotional tone for everything that followed.
The Parable of the Sultan and His Advisor
A sultan had an advisor known for a single response to every event, no matter how tragic or fortunate: “Khair, khair,” he would say. “Good, good.” One day, while hunting, the sultan suffered a gruesome accident—he lost a finger to his own bow. In pain and disbelief, he writhed on the ground, shouting, “My finger! What should I do?”
The advisor, true to form, calmly replied, “Khair, khair.”
Furious, the sultan shouted, “How can this be good? I’ve lost my finger, and all you can say is khair, khair? You fool. Take him to prison!”
Years passed. The advisor remained in prison.
Then, one day, the sultan went hunting again—this time without his advisor. He was captured by a tribe of pagan cannibals, who prepared to sacrifice him to their gods. Just as they were about to tie him to the spit, one of them noticed: the sultan was missing a finger.
“No good,” they murmured. “He’s not whole. We cannot offer him to the gods.”
So they let him go.
Grateful and humbled, the sultan returned to his kingdom and rushed to the prison. “Forgive me,” he told his advisor. “You were right. There was khair in the accident. I release you.”
The advisor simply smiled and said, “Khair, khair.”
The sultan’s temper flared again. “I locked you away for years. And all you can say is khair?”
The advisor nodded. “Yes. Because had I been with you on this latest hunting trip, I would have been the perfect sacrifice.”
As the plane doors opened and Medina’s sacred air brushed my skin, I sat with the weight of that story. Khair, khair. Good, good.
Maybe it was all happening for a reason.
After reading the parable, having newly arrived at Medina Airport, and with quiet resolve, it all began. I had no luggage to speak of—just a small backpack. When you're doing Umrah, especially on a tight budget, you travel light. A few clothes, maybe a toothbrush. You wash what you wear in a sink and move on. I was only planning to stay for a week, two at most.
I had done my research on the plane. I needed to catch the number 400 bus from the airport to the Haram—the heart of Medina. But once I landed and began weaving my way through the terminal, my plan unraveled. No signs. No help. My broken Arabic, failing me. Even the airport staff didn’t seem to know where this phantom 400 bus was. After a few failed attempts at asking, I gave up. Frustration mounted. I was the sultan —angry, helpless, unable to see the khair in the chaos.
But just outside the terminal was a masjid. A proper one, as you’d expect at Medina Airport. It was Ishaa time. I was a traveler and still hadn’t prayed Maghrib or Ishaa. So I crossed the road and stepped inside the mosque, grateful at least for that clarity.
There, I noticed a brother who had been on the same flight as himself. He was also preparing to pray. I joined him and started to benefit from the khair of visiting the masjid. When the brother began to recite aloud, I was stunned. His voice—his qira’ah—was one of the most beautiful I had ever heard. Spellbinding. A moment suspended in the sound of revelation.
I finished praying Maghrib behind him. Then Ishaa. It was, without exaggeration, one of the highlights of my prayer life. Afterward, I thanked him. We exchanged a few brief words, a Salaam Alaikum, and parted ways.
Afterwards I stepped outside, still wrapped in the echo of that prayer, and as he bent down to put my shoes back on, I looked up:
There it was.
The number 400 bus.
Khair, khair.
After seeing the number 400 bus, I hopped on, relieved and quietly energized. It was finally happening; I was heading toward the heart of Medina, toward the Haram.
There’s a particular kind of excitement that fills you on the way in. You know where you’re going. If you’re a Muslim, and you're heading to Umrah, that knowledge wraps around you like a warm wind. This isn’t just another city. This is *the* city - Al-Medina.
As we moved through town, the scenery sharpened. The streets grew wider, cleaner, brighter. The closer you got, the more majestic it became. Then the lights—white, golden, and silent like reverence—announced the center of it all. The Haram. The bus crossed over the main road and curved into the orbital ring that encircles the city’s core, passing the grand hotels that hug the perimeter.
And then… the transformation.
You stop feeling like a passenger in a city. You feel like a guest in a sanctuary. The hotels part as if by divine instruction—like Moses parting the sea—and there, unveiled in all its glory, is the Haram. The mosque. The radiant heart of Medina.
I stepped off the bus, overwhelmed. It was glorious. All I wanted in that moment was to enter and worship. To pray. To pour it all out. To step across the threshold and stand before God.
So I made my way to the nearest main gate—a towering entrance carved like something eternal. But before I could step through, I was stopped.
A policeman, perched on a raised wooden chair like a judge, denied me entry. Not because I had done anything wrong. Just because I had a small backpack. No luggage was allowed through this gate, not even one slung lightly over the shoulder of a pilgrim trying to carry his heart inside.
Frustrated, yes. But even then, the Haram was still before me and therefore I was happy.
There was khair in being stopped. I just didn’t know it at the time.
After the policeman refused to let me enter the Haram with my small backpack, I gave up trying. I shifted focus: I’d find my hotel, settle in, drop my bag, then return to the mosque properly.
I had booked my hotel the night before, just after booking my flight. It was a budget place a bit further away from the Haram—cheaper because of the distance, and I didn’t mind the walk. I was capable, I thought - strong legs and strong will. So I started the walk, retracing roads I had studied on my phone in the aeroplane.
After about 45 minutes of weaving through Medina’s outer streets, I arrived at the location. But there was no hotel. Nothing remotely close to what I had booked. I checked the map again. I knew how to read maps—I’d done it all my life. I was in the right spot. Still, no sign. I called the number on the booking confirmation. No answer. Just silence.
I couldn’t believe it. I had booked it through a major platform—one of the big ones. If it was a scam, I could cancel and get a refund, which is exactly what I ended up doing - but I still needed somewhere to sleep.
So I began walking back toward the Haram, back along the same paths and streets I had come, checking in at every hotel I had passed. Do you have a room? Are you full? One after another—no vacancies. Until I got to the very last hotel before the Haram itself.
It was beautiful. High-end. The kind of hotel you skip over on the booking sites because you assume it’s out of budget. I walked in anyway. It was close to the Haram, newly renovated, and—I was told—just moments earlier, had received a cancellation from another customer.
“Yes,” the receptionist said. “We have one. It’s a double room. You can have it.”
It was cleaner. Closer. Better than the place I had originally booked. And to top it all off—it was cheaper, because it was last-minute.
I knew, had I entered the Haram when I had first arrived - had I not been stopped by that policeman in his wooden throne - that room would have gone.
There was khair. He just needed to walk a little to see it.
—
That morning, I felt good.
Not to mean just rested— but meaning; cared for, and looked after. Like someone, somewhere, was orchestrating this whole experience for me, detail by detail.
It started with a receipt.
When he checked in the night before, the receptionist had handed me a slip of paper. I hadn’t looked at it too closely, but when I did that morning, I noticed that the room included breakfast. That wasn’t something I had planned for. In fact, I hadn’t factored in breakfast at all during this trip. My idea for the trip was simple: fast a little in the mornings, and grab something later if needed.
This breakfast felt like a bonus. So I made my way down.
Anyone who’s been on Hajj or Umrah knows that hotel breakfasts are a chaotic affair. Buffets, crowds, people everywhere trying to get their fill before the day begins. This one was no different—heaving with pilgrims. But it was good. Plenty of protein. I loaded up with eggs, yogurt, and cheese. Grabbed a cup of coffee and scanned the room.
Four-seat tables filled the space. I ended up sitting alone, awkwardly, trying to make peace with being a solo traveler in a place that celebrates togetherness.
And then— in a moment - a brother walked past, paused, and asked, “Is this seat taken?”
“Please,” I said, “join me.”
We started talking. His English was excellent—fluent, smooth. I was curious and asked the stranger how he had learnt English so well. He told his life story in the space of a few minutes… how he was from Libya but now lived in Egypt, working as an architect. How he’d gone to boarding school in England growing up. How his children were like him had been raised in English boarding schools. Certainly, the English private school system had left its indelible mark on this brother! But what was remarkable was that this one in a million private school product was sitting in front of another graduate of the same system - me.
The more we talked, the more we clicked. Sami, for that was his name, explained that he wasn’t even supposed to be staying in this hotel. His airline had messed up his return ticket to Egypt, and his family had flown ahead. The airline had put him up here—in this very hotel—for two nights.
It was unreal. Divine orchestration. Both of us rerouted by circumstance and thrown together by something larger than coincidence.
Sami suggested we spend the day together. And so we did.
We visited the masajid of Medina. We explored the historical sites. We stood together in the Haram, for hours, worshiping the same God that had brought people of all colours and creeds together. We walked and talked and shared in the kind of effortless brotherhood that happens when two souls meet at the right time. We even bumped into a group of brothers from Pakistan, joined their company, and built new friendships.
There was khair in everything.
In not getting the original hotel.
In being delayed.
In not finding the bus right away.
In not being allowed into the Haram on the first attempt.
In landing here—in this hotel, with this breakfast, at this table.
And it all began with a parable, read while taxiing on a runway in Medina.
Khair, khair.