عطلة صيف 2003... فراغ... هدوء.... راحة بال...

 تلك الراحة التى تصاحب من أنجز كل ما عليه من مهام و لم يترك شيئا فى نفسه إلا و قاله....مع مرور الزمن... و لكننا لا ننساها... بل تأتى غيرها لتشاركها سجنها... و تضيق عليها المكان... فتضيق علينا أنفسنا.

 أستمع إلى شريط كاسيت ... به أغانى لـ "سيلين ديون"....  ذلك الكاسيت الذى كان لا غنى عنه بالنسبة إلىّ... و ظل رفيقى حتى أولى سنوات الجامعة

 و تبدأ تلك الأغنية...

 It's All Coming Back to Me Now...

 أغنية حتماً سمعتموها و سمعتها أنا أيضاً كثيراً .... و لكن انتابنى عند سماعى لها، ذلك اليوم، شعور غريب... كأننى أسمعها للمرة الأولى.... صاحبت هذا الشعور رغبة ملحة بالرسم... ربما أشعل تلك الرغبة منظر الورقة البيضاء الخاليةالراقدة باستسلام فوق سطح مكتبى.... و لو يعلم البشر مدى تأثير منظر تلك الصفحةالبيضاء على النفس الإنسانية، لاستخدموها كدواء ضد الاكتئاب.... فتلك الصفحة البيضاء تعنى بداية جديدة... لم يمسسها قلم الذكريات بعد ليعكر صفوها....نفرح بها كفرحة طفل بلعبة جديدة ظل يحلم بها و سرعان ما تنطفئ سعادته شيئاً فشيئا كلما لعب بها و تأكد أنها صارت ملكه.... .. كلما تحرك القلم على الورقة معلناً أنهاصارت تحمل جزء مننا.... أفكارنا.  

أتيت بدفتر الرسم و بقلم رصاص و ممحاة...أمسكت بالقلم .. و لكنى سرعان ما توقفت....فلم أكن قد فكرت بعد بما سأرسمه!! غريب أمرنا كيف يمكن أن تأخذنا خيالاتنا إلى حالة معينة و مزاج معين دون أن تكون لها أساس ترتكز عليه!! .

و بعد بضعة لحظات من التفكير، تذكرت أنى كنت قد انتهيت لتوى من قراءة "مرتفعات وذرنج"... ففكرت أن أرسم بطلها ... "هيثكليف"

لطالما كان من أحب الشخصيات إلىّ...
 لا يمكن أن تكرهه مهما حاول إرغامك على ذلك... بل كلما ازداد قسوة... ازددت إشفاقاً عليه و تعلقاً به.
 و لكن أليس هذا حال كل قارئ... لا يستطيع أن يكره شخصية قرأها... كيف يكره شخصاً باح له بسره... بما يريحه و ما يعذبه...
 حتى صار يعرفه... يفهم دوافعه... و إن لم يوافقه عليها.

لم يكن فى ذهنى ملامح محددة لـ"هيثكليف" ... و حتى إن استطعت تصور  ملامحه بدقة فقد كنت أعلم أن قدرتى المتدنية على الرسم آنذاك سوف تخذل تلك الصورة فى خيالى لتفاجئنى بصورة أخرى مختلفة تماما... و قد تفاجئنى بصورة أفضل منها إن حالفنى الحظ... ولكنه لم يفعل.

 لكن هذا لم يثنى عزيمتى.... بل أتعجب الآن من تلك الثقة المريبةالتى صورت إلىّ وقتها أنه لن يجسد شخصية "هيثكليف" على الورق فنان أمهر منى... و لسوف ينبهر الناس جميعاً بمقدرة يداى المتلعثمتين على التعبير عن كافة الصراعات النفسيةالتى تجول بداخله فى رسمة واحدة. 

لم أكد أخط بقلمى الانحناءة الأولى حتى فوجئت بانتهاء الأغنية.... فقمت بإعادةالشريط إلى الوراء كى أتمكن من سماعها مرة أخرى و خلق الحالة المزاجية نفسها من جديد... كأن الرسم دونها بات مستحيلاً. و ظللت على مدى ساعتين تقريباً أعيدالأغنية من جديد كلما انتهت حتى ملّ الشريط منى، و لو كان فى مقدور المسكين أن يعبر عما بداخله، لأسمعنى كلاماً قاسياً عوضاً عن الأغنية.

و أخيراً انتهيت من الرسمة.... كانت لـ"هيثكليف" و هو متكأً على سور حديقةالـ"وذرنج هايتس"... يفكر بالانتقام من كل من حوله فى سبيل الانتقام من نفسه...
 هذا على الأقل ما كنت أنوى رسمه...
فما ظهر كان بالكاد صورة لرجل واقف بجانب سور خشبى

و لكنى وقتها رأيت فى تلك الرسمة الكارتونية البسيطة منافساً للوحات السيد رينوار.

 ليس غروراً منى وقتها أو ضعف نظر – لا سمح الله – و لكنى رأيتها جميلة فعلاً.

 فتذوق الجمال لايولد معنا و إنما نقوم نحن بتربيته فينا. بل يستحيل أن نرتقى بمستوانا الفكرى و حسنا الأدبى و الفنى حتى نعبر بهم كافة مراحل البدائية و السذاجة... و نظل نهذبهم ونهذب روحنا معهم حتى تتعود تذوق الجمال. 

تظل الرسمة قابعة بأحد أدراج مكتبى.... لا أريها لأحد... و إنما استرق النظر إليها بين الحين و الآخر لأذكر نفسى بذلك اليوم... أو على الأدق، بالشعور الذى أحاطنى ذلك اليوم. شأنها شأن أى غرض قديم يذكرنى بوقت مضى، حلو كان أم سئ. شأنها شأن الكاسيت الجالس فوق مكتبتى... ألمحه كثيراً لكن لا أراه حقاً إلا إذا تذكرته فجأة... و اشتقت إليه. و شأنها شأن شريط "سيلين ديون" الذى لم أعدأعلم مكانه ... ربما ذهب... كما ذهبت أشياء كثيرة لم ألاحظ وقتها أنى فقدتها... أو لربما لاحظت و لكنى لم أهتم.

سمر

ملحوظة: علمت بعد ذلك بعدة سنوات أن هذه الأغنية مستوحاة  من رواية "مرتفعات وذرنج"........ !! 

The Sweetest of all Rhapsodies

    Some people think that the opposite of love is hate, which is totally untrue. Hatred is an acquired attitude we develop as a result of some dis-likable experience with someone or something. It may develop suddenly, or it may take time if we are more tolerant. In other words, hatred is a choice. Some people choose it to keep thems

elves away from unpleasant experiences. And others may choose to rise above it and transform this unpleasant feeling into another one they can live with.

    On the other hand, love was never a choice. It's a basic instinct that we are born with and that we are meant to follow. That's why there's no such thing as an unloving person. However, there is a person who is afraid to take the risk of love. Yes, love is a risk; because it leaves us vulnerable. We can be badly hurt by those whom we love, either by things they do to us, by divorce, by rejection, by abuse, or even by death. We may be hurt so much that we begin to wonder if we should love at all. That's when we begin to feel the temptation to withdraw and to live in a cocoon. We start to deny love, because we don't want to be hurt again.

    And then withdrawal starts to be an attitude. It gives us that false sensation of being fortified against any emotional suffering. That false sensation of strength. While, in fact, the very opposite is quite true, withdrawal itself is a huge suffering of the heart. Denying a love that is longing to flourish is the worst of all pains. The pain of a wrecked soul. The pain of indifference, which is the real opposite of love.

    I have a theory; it's true that the heart can suffer from a love that's lost. But, if you take a deeper look at the matter, you'll find that suffering itself is a gift from God. God created suffering because He wants us to be able to love and be loved… He wants us to grow up. Like children, who think their childish toys bring them all the happiness. And that their nursery is the whole wide world. But something must drive them out of the nursery, someday, to the world of others. And that something is suffering.

    So, when love beckons to you, follow it, embrace it. And don't try to direct the course of love; for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. If it doesn't turn out right, don't be ashamed of it... learn from it… get stronger… and open your heart to a new love. And remember that behind every beautiful butterfly, there's a caterpillar fighting for change inside its own cocoon. So is the human soul. It has to experience agony in order to reach purity. And when it does, you will no longer need to search for another love. It will be right there waiting for you, closer to you than you can possibly imagine. It might have been around you all that time, but only waiting for you to learn from your past, to learn to forgive, to grow up… to earn it !

    And when love finally goes your way, prepare yourself to the greatest of all gratifications. The sweetest of all rhapsodies. To wake at dawn giving thanks for another day of loving; to rest at noon and reflect upon love's perfection; to return home in the evening singing a hymn to joy… and to sleep with a prayer to God... thanking Him for giving your heart a chance to believe in miracles once more.

Samar Ahmad Elsaadany

To Grandma ♥

    One of my earliest childhood memories is that of me and my grandma sitting in the balcony, making up stories about the people walking in the street and laughing at them. I admit it's not a nice thing to teach to children, but we spent some quality time doing that :D

     I used to wonder why my grandma didn't spend her time teaching me something useful like all grandparents do!! But then I liked the way she was different and unique. She once told me that if she didn't laugh at others, she'd laugh at herself… she'd laugh anyway, otherwise she'd explode. I didn't understand what she meant back then.

     I remember once when we were sitting in the balcony, as usual, a young man passed, he was running and still getting dressed at the same time; it seemed he overslept and was late for college. He raised one of his legs to his chest while still jumping on the other, he tried to tie his shoe laces… that was when he stumbled into a rock, lost his balance, ran into a tree and hit his head… then finally fell to the ground. Now he was all covered in dirt. We couldn't help but laugh so hard that he heard us and looked at us in rage. But then he grabbed his bag, put it on his back and went back the way he came and didn't go to college. A totally Donald Duck kind of thing !

    As she got older, she lost her struggle with dementia, and gradually fell into a mood of silence and depression… she didn't talk nor complain. She just sat there looking at us. My mother tried endlessly to get her to say anything, but all in vain.
I refused to think that she might have forgotten who we are, and I never asked her to say my name to prove it. The truth is, I never believed that she didn't talk because she was sick, I liked to think that it was she who chose silence because she was no longer interested in talking, now that she had reached a point in her life when nothing more could possibly be said. So, I chose to respect her decision. I didn't talk to her much. My mother told me I was tough at heart. These words used to bother me.

     But I couldn't blame her. It seemed ungrateful of me that after all those good times I shared with my grandmother, all the funny stories, all the nights I ran from home to my grandmother's house at the end of the street just to sleep in her arms because there was nowhere else on Earth that I'd rather be…  all those warm memories and I couldn't find anything to say to her. She used to sit there looking at me… and I just smiled to her and avoided looking her in the eyes.

     The truth is, I never felt at ease sitting with someone sick around… especially, someone I care for. To sit in the same room with someone I love, who doesn't seem to recognize me and doesn't show any sign to prove otherwise; is the most painful experience I've ever encountered. It's the pain of feeling useless, the pain of burning inside and screaming "Please, say anything!", while outside you're just poker-faced. Sometimes, I wished I could cry to take it off my chest, but I just couldn't.

    Then one day, it came to me that we always had another way of communicating that didn't necessarily involve us speaking with each other. So I seated her on her wheel chair and took her to the balcony and sat next to her. We spent half an hour in silence, but she wasn't looking at me this time. She was looking at the people in the street, following them with her eyes and watching their facial expressions. Until a man passed, he was running and still getting dressed at the same time; it seemed he overslept and was late for work. He raised one of his legs to his chest while still jumping on the other, he tried to tie his shoe laces… that was when he stumbled into a rock, lost his balance, ran into a tree and hit his head… then finally fell to the ground. And now he was all covered in dirt.

    That was the day I finally got to hear my grandma laughing again, after seven years of silence. I was so surprised that I laughed till I cried… not at the man, but at her laughing at him. Then I looked at the man who was looking at us in rage. My God, he was the same young man who was late for college. Was it possible that grandma remembered him and recognized him even before I did? Maybe. The thing about a demented person is the ability to remember older events better than the new ones . I just never figured she would remember someone she never saw but once.
   

    The man then suddenly seemed to remember us too, he looked at the old woman and the little girl who laughed at him once, now an older woman and a teenager. His frown gradually disappeared and was replaced by a smile that burst into a laughter.
He then stood up, grabbed his bag gently, greeted us… and went back the way he came and didn't go to work. More of a Mickey Mouse kind of thing now !

     A week later, my Grandma passed away. I was by her bed side, holding her hand in mine. We still didn't talk. But I was certain she knew me. I was certain that all those memories we shared together were still somewhere deep in her mind. Maybe she didn't carry those memories with her at that moment, but there was always something to trigger those memories; not words, not actions… but by the simplest gestures, which generated the mood that was once felt when a certain memory was being created.  So we just sat there looking each other in the eye and smiling. We remembered those happy times we shared together, all the funny stories, all the nights I ran from home to her house at the end of the street just to sleep in her arms… and all those people we used to laugh at… especially that man who was always running late, and who was the reason behind my grandma's last laughter that will keep ringing in my ears for as long as I live.
Yes, I'll always be grateful to that man. Thanks to him, those final seven years my grandma spent suffering… hardly cross my mind. Because that final laughter had the magical power to trigger all the good memories I had of her and erase all the painful ones. 
  
     Only now, I understand what Grandma meant when she said if she didn't laugh at people she'd laugh at herself; that she'd laugh anyway otherwise she'd explode. Only now I realize that laughing was not her habit, or at least it wasn't meant to be one. It was her "coping mechanism". She chose laughter instead of crying herself to sleep over people who didn't deserve… she chose laughter instead of complaining to people who wouldn't help making her feel any better… she chose laughter instead of being drifted with each stormy wind that blew... she chose laughter instead of losing it.

    

     Come to think of it, laughter was the last piece of vanity that always made her feel that time, cruel as it was to her, would never break her spirit.

     As much as I miss her now, and as much as I wish to be held in her arms one more time, I never wept over her passing, at least not on the outside. Maybe I am tough at heart after all. But I'm not bothered by this fact anymore. Because, now I know it has always been my Grandma kind of thing. That was the legacy she left me. 

     And that's how I'll cherish her memory for the rest of my life; I'll stand tall and won't let life stab me in the heart. And even if it does, I'll stab it back a hundred times with a single smile.

I'll laugh at time! Even if it includes laughing at you :D. So, when I do, don't get me wrong… I'm just coping! :D

Samar Ahmad Elsaadany

أيوة أنا مبسوط ☺

ماتقولش أنا لسة فاضللى سنتين فى المخروبة دى... قول أنا عديت 4 سنين بحالهم.. و لسه   واقف على رجلى.. فى غيرك كتير كان نفسهم يعتبوها بس.. و ماقدروش :)

 ماتقولش أنا إنهاردة حاسس إنى مخنوق و مش طايق نفسى... قول أنا اللى كنت امبارح مهايبر حبتين :)

ما تقولش أنا متخلف... قول أنا مختلف !! :)

لما تكون قاعد لوحدك فى السكشن أو الكافيتيريا أو المترو... و مرة واحدة لقيت نفسك عايز تضحك و مش عارف السبب... إضحك و مايهمكش...  الناس هتبصلك و تقول مين العبيط ده... و إيه يعنى يقولوا اللى يقولوه... ما هما برده نفس الناس اللى لو لقوك مِكشر هايقولولك ماتفوكّها شوية!! هما يعرفوا إيه عنك عشان يحكموا عليك... مش ممكن تبقى الضحكة دي هدية من ربنا ليك عشان عارف إنك شايل فى قلبك هم كبير و عايزك تفوق من الهم ده شوية.... إضحك!! بس مش عمّال على بطّال وحياتك ... مش طالبة هبل أصلها :)  

ماتبصش فى المراية إلا و انت  مهيأ نفسك إنك هتشوف إنسان جميل ... بس ماتأفورش فى تخيلاتك أوى عشان ماتتخضش :)

ماتقولش أنا تخنت أوى... قول أنا هاشترى هدوم أوسع :)

لما تلاقى الدنيا بتمطر.... إنزل تحت المطرة و خد شاور...ماتخافش من مامتك لا تزعقلك على هدومك المبلولة... ماهى كدة كدة بتزعق :)

هات كتاب بتحبه و إقراه تانى... هتلاقى نفسك شايف الأحداث بشكل مختلف عن آخر مرة قريته... ساعتها هتحس إنك مبسوط أوى و نفسك تحكى للناس كلها عن عبقريتك التحليلية :)

لو حسيت إنك وحيد و مالكش أصحاب... اقعد جنب مراية :)

لو عايز تفرح بجد... ضَحّك اللى حواليك :)

و لما تلاقى نفسك متضايق... متنكدش عاللى حواليك...عاند نفسك و إضحك... و ضحكهم معاك بردو :)

ما انت لو عايز تفرح نفسك... هتفرح نفسك.... و ساعتها أى حاجة بسيطة تقدرتخليك مبسوط... و بعدين يعنى هو النكد هيروح فين.. ماهو عارف عنوانك و مش هيسيبك... إنت بس ماتستعجلهوش :)

 ماتحاولش تقلد حد... اختلافك سر تميزك :)

و ماتبقاش نمطى و ممل... فاجأ نفسك كل يوم بجانب جديد من شخصيتك و اتعرف عليه :)

أول ما تصحى الصبح.. إحمد ربنا إنك صحيت... و إحمد ربنا إنه خلقك كده زى ما انت... حب نفسك... هاتفرق معاك أوى :)

بص للسما... غمض عينيك...  ابتسم... و قول الحمد لله :)



اقعدوا بالعافية :* ^_^

سمر أحمد السعدنى  

A night at the Opera

Cairo Opera House

    A couple of years ago, I went to Cairo Opera House to see one my favorite Italian Operas; "Pagliacci".
It was one of the most amazing experiences in my life !!! From the moment the curtains opened until they were drawn, I couldn't stop laughing!! :D

    I know it's a sad Opera.. but I wasn't laughing at the Opera or the performances... I was laughing at some of the audience!!
That night, instead of enjoying the act (as I really intended to) , I kept looking at the people's faces, watching how they reacted to each line... pretty much like when Hamlet closely watched the face of Claudius during the play. And what I saw really made my day :D

    A man kept waving his hands with the music, closing his eyes, smiling and enjoying every single note... and, needless to say, annoying all those around him. But I wasn't annoyed, in fact I was happy for him! He pictured himself a painter waving with his brush and painting his dreams... I tried to respect that picture... but, I couldn't help noticing how he looked like a traffic officer standing in an intersection.

    A woman was sitting there looking at her mirror, fixing her hair and putting lipstick... either she was so influenced by the act that she thought of imitating the Pagliacci... or she just came all the way to the Opera to meet someone, who was obviously late and would certainly not be allowed to enter before  the intermission! :D

    A man kept looking at the screen showing the translation. I swear to God, he never turned his eyes to the stage for a single moment. He came all the way to see the translation which is a thing he could have done at home ! :D

    Then came my best part of the Opera.... the tenor aria "Vesti la Giubba"  (Put on the Costume)!! Which is the reason why I came here in the first place!
It is an emotionally storming masterpiece... The clown, who was preparing himself for his stage performance, discovers that his wife, who is also performing with him on stage, was cheating on him.
And, through his tears, he puts on his clown's costume and prepares to make people laugh.. because the show must go on.

    Impressed as I was by the performance and the music, I couldn't help noticing a man crying himself out and shouting "Why?" in tears! Looks like he had a similar experience and the clown just reminded him of it. Well, he knew what the story was about, so I guess he came all the way to cry out loud and get it all off his chest.... and spread it all around! :D

    An incredibly annoying man was sitting two rows behind me... shouting "Bravo" and "Brava" all the time... when there was a need to and specially when there wasn't. I guess he was just trying to tell us that he knew the difference between " Bravo" (used to express appreciation to a male performer) and "Brava" (to a female performer). I was almost sure that he would wait till the end of the show to freak us out us with a huge "Bravi"!! :D

    His voice was only surpassed by the chewing noise of the woman sitting next to me me. Who kept eating as if it were her one and only mission on Earth! I figured she would leave after she finished all the food in her bag and not necessarily wait for the end of the show..... I was right! :D

    I finally woke up from my meditations to the voice of the Pagliaccio announcing "La Commedia è finita! " (The play is over)... after he actually stabs his wife and her lover!!
I felt like "WHAT? Please don't tell me it's over!! Play it again!!". I was in tears!! I spent the whole night laughing at those who came to the show to do something else other than enjoying it. And I forgot I wasn't, by any means, different.

    As I walked myself out of the theater, I passed by the man who was waving his hands, the woman who was looking at the mirror was still alone, the translation guy was putting his glasses in his pocket, the crying man was wiping his tears... and the "Bravo, Brava" man looking so happy! I envied him for enjoying every single moment of the act, unlike me. But then, just as I was passing near him, he yelled the word the would make him feel much better...... "Bravi" !!

    I looked furiously at him and said those three words that would make me feel even better..... "You Shut up!"

Samar Ahmad Elsaadany

لا شئ

ما الذي خرجت به من هذه الدنيا؟! صحيح ما الذي يمكن أن يخرج به الإنسان من هذه الدنيا؟

والجواب: لا شيء.. لأنك إذا قلت أنك (خرجت) من هذه الدنيا بشيء فأنت لا تعرف ماذا تقول.. لأنه لا أحد يخرج منها بشئ.. فالذي يموت لا يترك شيئا لأحد.. لأنه بعد وفاة الانسان لا أحد فكل الناس بعده لا شيء أيضا.. وانما الذي يحدث هو الانسان كما دخل الدنيا سوف يخرج منها.. كان وزنه ستة أرطال وسوف يخرج منها ووزنه ستون رطلا.. دخلها

 سليما وخرج منها مريضا..

أو تقول لنفسك: كل هذا التعب والعذاب في الدنيا والنتيجة ماذا ؟ لا شيء.. فأنت قاتلت وحاربت وصارعت وناقشت ومرضت وسهرت وأكلت وشربت وكسبت وخسرت وكفرت وآمنت ودق قلبك طالعاً نازلاً ثم ضاق صدرك والتوت أمعاؤك واحترقت معدتك وزاغت عينك وانشطر رأسك وحارت قدماك في كل أرض وامتدت يدك الي كل الكتب والعقاقير.. والنتيجة ماذا ؟ لا شيء.. فما الذي يمكن أن يخرج به الانسان من دنياه؟!

وقد تقول أن الإنسان لا يصح أن يأخذ من هذه الحياة شيئا لأن الحياة لا شيء.. ان الحياة كوبري تعبر عليه الي الناحية الأخري والطريق طويل.. ولذلك يجب أن يكون الانسان خفيفاً حتي يكون عبوره سهلاً.. وكل الذي قدمناه وعملناه في هذه الناحية سوف نحاسب عليه في الناحية الاخري ان خيراً فخير. وان شراً فشر.. وهذه الناحية عابرة والناحية الأخري أبدية.. وكل شئ هنا من أجل هناك.. وليس الجسم إلا ثوبا يتسلمه جديداً.. ويتركه بالياً قديما.. والموت هو أن يسقط هذا الثوب عنا.

فالدنيا إذن ـ مستشفي دخلنا فيه مرضي.. وأما العلاج ففي الناحية الأخري...

ـــ أنيس منصور

(آخر الاعمدة الصحفية التي كتبها قبل رحيله)

From Bosnia to Makkah to do Hajj on foot!

A Bosnian Muslim pilgrim who left last December 2011 on pilgrimage to Makkah by foot told AFP on Monday that he has arrived after passing through seven countries including war-torn Syria.

“I arrived Saturday in Makkah. I am not tired, these are the best days of my life,” Senad Hadzic, 47, said when reached by phone on a Saudi mobile number.

He said he had covered some 5,700 kilometres (3,540 miles) in 314 days of walking through Bosnia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Syria and Jordan to the Muslim holy city in south-western Saudi Arabia, with a backpack weighing 20 kilos (44 pounds).

He charted his progress on his Facebook page, where he posted a picture apparently of an entry/exit card for foreigners issued by the Syrian interior ministry.

“I passed through Syria in April. I walked some 500 kilometres in 11 days. I went through Aleppo and Damascus and passed dozens of check-points held by pro-government and rebel forces alike, but I was never detained,” Hadzic said.

“At a check-point held by (President Bashar) al-Assad’s forces the soldier ordered me to empty my backpack … When I showed them my Quran and explained I was making the pilgrimage on foot, they let me go,” he told AFP.

“I walked in the name of Allah, for Islam, for Bosnia-Hercegovina, for my parents and my sister,” he added.

On his Facebook page he said God had shown him the way in dreams, including to go through Syria instead of Iraq.

During the pilgrimage, Hadzic faced temperatures ranging from minus 35 Celsius in Bulgaria to plus 44 Celsius in Jordan.

He said he had to wait in Istanbul for several weeks to get permission to cross the Bosphorus Bridge on foot and two months at the border between Jordan and Saudi Arabia to obtain an entry visa.

The hajj (pilgrimage) is one of the five pillars of Islam and must be undertaken at least once in a lifetime by all Muslims who are able to.

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