When I was five, I went on pilgrimage. Yes, pilgrimage. This was during our move from Senegal to Greece. Spirituality. Clean white clothes. Zamzam water. You get the picture. Except—it wasn’t quite like that. Because we weren’t that kind of family. We went as a group—my parents, my siblings, and I—but very quickly it became clear that this wasn’t exactly a deeply religious endeavor. It was… a holiday. With prayer breaks.
My parents? Did what suited them. Some historical sites, some sacred rituals, and a lot of “let’s do what works for us.” My dad got tired very quickly and used me as a crutch – so technically he blamed it all on me whereas Ami tried to do some hardcore worship with Farzana tagging along. Tariq we lost him the moment he became a walking history channel.
It was the first time I realized my parents weren’t as conformed or traditionally devout as I’d thought. They practiced in a way that fit their lifestyle, and I—five years old and silently absorbing it all—was just along for the ride.
And what a ride it was.
The Best Daal of My Life
Somewhere en route to Medina, we stopped at a random roadside dhaba.It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t curated—but I swear to God, it served me the best daal of my life. Our parents told them, our kids don’t do spicy so we’ll pass on the daal. The owners forced the daal on us on the house and the rest was history.
I was five. I still remember the taste. Nothing since has touched it. Nothing.
The Great Shoe Heist of Mecca
A core memory: My extremely pretty shoes got stolen outside the mosque. Ami even remembers they had the cutest bow, brand new – big deal as they were barely worn in – gone in a flash. So did my sister’s. And you know what that means for a Pakistani mother who traded your birthday gift for necessities.
We walked barefoot through Mecca, slightly shocked, slightly impressed at how clean the city actually was. It wasn’t traumatic. Mecca was spotless. Even at five, I made mental notes.
Then, the Pivot: Egypt
After all the spiritual energy, we switched countries and vibes.
Next stop: Cairo.
We stayed at the Pakistani ambassador’s residence—my dad’s colleague. Very official. Very stately. And then came the Nile cruise.
Let me set the scene: We’re fresh off a religious high or we would like to believe we have been cleansed of all our sins. And suddenly, a belly dancer jumps on our table. Not nearby. On. Our. Table.
Three people on that table were thrilled:
• My dad
• My mom
• And me
My siblings? Mortified. Couldn’t believe their eyes. I, however, wanted to go back on the cruise every single night after that.
Pyramids, Panic & Running Away
We did try the pyramids. We almost made it inside. Until claustrophobia—mine and my mother’s—kicked in. We turned back. Stood outside. Admired the legacy from a safe, airy distance.
Then there was the pyramid sound-and-light show. Everyone enjoyed it. I had a meltdown. Apparently, I’m also a bit of a scaredy cat.
Conclusion?
We started that trip with a spiritual cleanse. We ended it with a belly dancer, a stolen pair of shoes, and a lifelong appreciation for roadside daal.
Honestly, it was one of the best trips of my life.
And maybe that’s when it clicked:
My parents weren’t rigid, or overly defined by faith. They were adaptable. Human. Selective with their spirituality and everytime I get lectured, they’re reminded of these instances.
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