The sacred journey and the human desire to remember By Mohammed Dahiru Aminu

Interestingly, I met a friend, Alhasan Darboe, originally from The Gambia, now an American based in Tennessee. We had hoped to meet in the United States but that did not happen. By chance, our paths crossed in Masjid al-Haram. I also met his wife’s parents, people of deep humility and remarkable accomplishment.

The desire to remember one’s time in Makkah and Madinah did not begin with smartphones. Long before modern technology, people preserved these journeys through detailed narration. As a child, I listened repeatedly to my late maternal grandmother recount her experience of Hajj. She travelled at a time when cameras were rare, but her memories were vivid and deeply emotional. She described events and moments with such clarity that it was obvious how profoundly the journey shaped her life.

There has been a growing tendency to police how Nigerian Muslims express joy and gratitude after visiting Makkah and Madinah, particularly through the claim that taking photographs at the holy mosques during Umrah or Hajj is improper because worship must be discreet. This argument, in my view, has been pushed far beyond what is reasonable, often without a serious engagement with history or the human experience of faith. As Muslims, there are no places on earth that carry the spiritual gravity of Makkah and Madinah. These are not ordinary destinations but places that believers, across centuries, have yearned for with a depth that words often fail to capture. If there is anywhere a Muslim can reasonably desire to preserve a memory, even visually, it is in these two cities. To argue that doing so is inherently wrong is to misunderstand both human nature and the long tradition of remembrance that has always existed within Muslims across generations.

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If the Saudi authorities restrict photography in certain parts of the holy mosques, it is far more plausible to understand this as a matter of crowd management and preventing delays or inconvenience to other worshippers. It is difficult to seriously maintain that such restrictions are firmed in a belief that taking a photograph reduces spiritual reward. Were that the case, the policy would be framed explicitly in religious terms and enforced consistently, which it is not. It must also be stated plainly that Nigerians are not alone in taking photographs at the holy sites. Muslims from every region of the world do so daily. Anyone who has been to the Haram in Makkah or the Prophet’s Mosque in Madinah knows this to be true. Worshippers from Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and Europe quietly capture moments as personal keepsakes, rather than public performances. There is no grand plot in which Muslims from different countries conspire to shame others in Nigeria. What exists instead is a shared response to being present in places of immense spiritual meaning.

Close to Al-Masjid an-Nabawi, Madinah. A place where calm settles the heart and time feels gentle.

The desire to remember one’s time in Makkah and Madinah did not begin with smartphones. Long before modern technology, people preserved these journeys through detailed narration. As a child, I listened repeatedly to my late maternal grandmother recount her experience of Hajj. She travelled at a time when cameras were rare, but her memories were vivid and deeply emotional. She described events and moments with such clarity that it was obvious how profoundly the journey shaped her life. Listening to her, I often felt that if the technology available today had existed in her time, she and others of her generation would gladly have preserved those moments visually. Photography, in this sense, is simply an extension of storytelling. It is another form of remembrance and another way of bearing witness. As a Muslim, I do not fault anyone for taking a few photographs in the holy mosques, provided it is done with restraint and without disrupting others. Intention matters, and context also matters; thus, a quiet photograph taken out of gratitude is not the same as turning worship into spectacle.

One must also reflect on the historical weight of these sites. The Kaaba was built by Prophet Ibrahim (Peace Be Upon Him), and his son Prophet Ismail (Peace Be Upon Him). The Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him) prayed there and stood there. Around these spaces unfolded the foundational moments of Islam. In Madinah, the Prophet’s Mosque carries a significance that goes far beyond its physical structure. The Rawdah, which the Prophet described as one of the gardens of Paradise, lies between his house and his pulpit. To stand there and to pray there is a privilege that countless Muslims across history never attained. Given this depth of meaning, should a Muslim who finally reaches these places feel compelled to suppress every outward sign of joy for fear of being judged? Should the memory of standing near the Prophet’s resting place be treated as something unworthy of documentation, even privately? Such expectations are neither compassionate nor grounded in reality.

…in the end, worship is defined by intention and sincerity. A photograph does not cancel prayer, just as silence does not guarantee devotion. What deserves scrutiny is excess and disruption, not the simple human desire to remember a moment that countless generations only dreamed of. When all of this is considered, the question of taking pictures at the holy sites becomes so minor that it should not distract from the profound meaning of the journey itself.

At Quba Mosque, near Madinah. First built in the lifetime of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, in the 7th century CE.

There is also a contemporary reality that critics often ignore. Today, Saudi authorities issue certificates to pilgrims who successfully pray in the Noble Rawdah. These certificates explicitly state that the holder was granted access and completed prayer in this sacred space. Many pilgrims proudly download and keep these certificates through an official government platform. This practice alone weakens the argument that documenting worship diminishes its value. A government deeply conscious of Islamic sanctity would not encourage such documentation if it contradicted religious principles or undermined spiritual reward. This practice is not unique to Islam. Other religious traditions have long issued certificates of pilgrimage. In places such as Israel, Christian pilgrims receive official documentation marking their visit to sacred sites. The purpose is not vanity but remembrance and testimony.

During my recent time in Makkah, I encountered a Saudi citizen of African descent who asked whether we were Fulbe from Africa. When we answered in the affirmative, he smiled and explained that he too was Pullo by ancestry. His family traced its roots to Massina in present day Mali, but his grandfather had already been born in Arabia. He spoke only one word of Fulfulde, ndiyam, meaning water, but the pride in his heritage was unmistakable. That brief encounter carried deep meaning. It reminded me that many of our ancestors set out for Makkah with the hope of completing the pilgrimage. Some succeeded and settled along the way. Others never arrived and built lives where circumstances placed them. Across West and Central Africa, entire communities exist today because journeys to Makkah shaped migration and identity. My own ancestors intended to reach Makkah but settled instead in what is now northeastern Nigeria. History could easily have taken a different path.

This reflection matters because it draws attention to the privilege of our era. What once required years of hardship and uncertainty can now be completed in hours by air. Generations dreamed of seeing the Kaaba once and died without fulfilling that hope. Today, their descendants can arrive with relative ease. To judge these descendants harshly for preserving a memory of such a moment is to forget the weight of that inherited longing. When viewed through this lens, the debate over photographs becomes remarkably small. It fades against the vast history of sacrifice and movement that surrounds the pilgrimage. For someone whose ancestors walked for years toward Makkah but never arrived there, standing before the Kaaba is not a trivial experience. Capturing that moment, respectfully and with gratitude, is not an act of arrogance. It is an acknowledgment of how far one has come, both personally and historically. And, in the end, worship is defined by intention and sincerity. A photograph does not cancel prayer, just as silence does not guarantee devotion. What deserves scrutiny is excess and disruption, not the simple human desire to remember a moment that countless generations only dreamed of. When all of this is considered, the question of taking pictures at the holy sites becomes so minor that it should not distract from the profound meaning of the journey itself.