One of the most rewarding aspects of Hajj is that it allows a person to observe humanity in all its diversity. Millions of people from different races, languages, cultures and economic backgrounds gather in one place with a common purpose: worshipping Allah and seeking His forgiveness.
Yet, amidst this remarkable display of unity, I witnessed some perplexing behaviours that left me wondering why some of us behave the way we do.
One of them is our apparent inability to respect queues.
Whether it was a queue for the toilet, food, transportation, tea, or even purchasing ordinary items from shops, some people seemed determined to avoid waiting their turn. No sooner would an orderly queue form than someone would attempt to squeeze in from the side. If not challenged or prevented, they would simply bypass everyone who had patiently waited before them.
The phenomenon was particularly noticeable around food vendors, especially the informal traders popularly known as Tikari. Instead of patiently waiting their turn, some people would crowd around the sellers, stretching hands from every direction, creating confusion for both buyers and sellers.
The same thing happened in shops. While other customers patiently lined up to pay for their purchases, some individuals would attempt to jump ahead, as though their time was more valuable than that of everyone else.
Perhaps the most troubling example was during the distribution of free food, known among pilgrims as Sabil. These are meals and refreshments generously provided by charitable individuals and organisations purely for the sake of Allah.
One would expect that people receiving something free would do so with gratitude and restraint. Instead, some rushed towards the distribution points as though they were competing for a scarce resource. In the process, the weak, the elderly and the patient often found themselves pushed aside.
Even more disheartening was the tendency of some people to collect far more than they needed.
Rather than take a single portion meant for one person, some would grab enough for five or six people, leaving others empty-handed. The irony was that many of those denied the opportunity were equally deserving pilgrims who had travelled thousands of kilometres to worship Allah.
The same behaviour manifested itself in Mina and Arafat.
Every morning and evening, large dispensers of hot water would be provided in the camps for pilgrims wishing to prepare tea or coffee. Alongside them were supplies of sugar, Lipton tea bags, Nescafé sachets and milk, sometimes packaged in small containers sufficient for a single cup and at other times provided in larger tins from which pilgrims were expected to take only what they needed.
Unfortunately, no sooner were these items brought out than a few individuals would descend on them, grabbing far more than was necessary. Within a very short time, the sugar, milk, Lipton and Nescafé would disappear, leaving behind only the dispensers of hot water. Pilgrims arriving a little later would find themselves staring at steaming hot water with nothing to add to it.
What made the situation particularly frustrating was that there was usually enough for everyone if each person took only his fair share. Yet the fear that the items might finish often became the very reason they finished so quickly. A few people, in trying to secure more than they needed, ended up depriving dozens of others.
As I watched these scenes unfold repeatedly, I could not help but reflect on the contradiction they represented.
Hajj is supposed to teach patience. It teaches self-discipline, selflessness and consideration for others. It teaches us that every pilgrim is equal before Allah, regardless of status, wealth or nationality. Yet, some of us appeared to forget these lessons the moment a queue formed.
The behaviour reminded me of an incident during the 2006/2007 Hajj season involving a respected Islamic scholar. At the time, some benefactors were distributing cash to pilgrims. Like many others, the scholar joined the crowd rushing to collect the money. In the pushing and jostling that followed, he neither received the money nor escaped unscathed. Instead, his wallet, containing his own money, was stolen.
When he returned and narrated the incident, he did so with remarkable honesty and self-criticism. Rebuking himself, he admitted that there had been no real need for him to join the scramble in the first place. He attributed his actions to what he described as an ingrained “Almajiri” mentality that had remained with him from his childhood days of seeking Islamic knowledge, when receiving handouts was often a normal part of daily life.
The lesson was not lost on those who heard him. In attempting to gain what he did not need, he ended up losing what he already had. His story remains one of the most powerful illustrations of how difficult it can be to overcome habits that have become deeply rooted in society.
One day during this year’s pilgrimage, I listened to a preacher who addressed this issue directly. He reminded pilgrims that they had come to seek forgiveness and spiritual purification, not to commit acts of selfishness and injustice.
His words struck a chord.
He compared our behaviour with that of pilgrims from some other countries. According to him, if one hundred plates of food were distributed to one hundred people in some camps, every person would receive a plate. There would be no struggle, no pushing and no hoarding.
“But among us,” he lamented, “even if you add twenty extra plates, some people will still go without.”
His observation drew laughter from some listeners, but beneath the humour was a painful truth.
The problem is not always scarcity. Often, it is the fear of scarcity.
Some people behave as though if they do not grab more than their share, they may end up with nothing. Ironically, when everyone behaves that way, it is precisely what happens: some people end up with nothing.
What makes this particularly unfortunate is that Hajj presents a rare opportunity to demonstrate the highest values of Islam. Every act of kindness, patience and self-restraint becomes an act of worship. Likewise, every act of greed, selfishness and injustice diminishes the spiritual experience.
The queues at Hajj may appear insignificant compared to the great rituals of Tawaf, Sa’i, standing at Arafat and the stoning of the Jamarat. Yet they reveal something profound about our character.
Perhaps one of the lessons we should take home from the Holy Land is that patience is not only required during worship. It is also required while waiting for a cup of tea, standing in line for a meal, entering a bus or waiting one’s turn at a toilet.
For if we cannot practice patience in these small matters, how can we claim to have fully absorbed the greater lessons that Hajj is meant to teach?
As I watched orderly lines of pilgrims from different parts of the world quietly waiting their turn, I found myself wishing that we would carry that same discipline back home. Not only would our Hajj be more rewarding, but our society would be far better for it.
For ultimately, the greatest lesson of Hajj is not merely that one has visited the Holy Land. It is that one returns home a better person than when one left.
