SAUDI Arabia’s stricter health requirements should not simply be seen as barriers to Hajj.
They are also safeguards — painful perhaps, but necessary — to ensure pilgrims can perform their ibadah safely and with dignity.
I came to understand this in a very personal way when I performed the haj in 2019 at the age of 57. I was still in relatively good health then, though I had only undergone surgery for a fractured left arm just three weeks before the journey.
I provided a letter from my surgeon confirming that I was fit to perform the haj. Without it, the medical officer who conducted my pre-departure medical check-up said he would not have given the clearance for me to go. My medical booklet had a yellow sticker on it, indicating a health concern.
Even in a stable physical condition, the pilgrimage tested the limits of the body in ways that are difficult to fully explain unless one has lived through it.
The long walks, the extreme heat, the congestion of millions moving as one, the lack of proper sleep and the constant shifting between Makkah, Mina, Arafah and Muzdalifah; all combine into an experience that is as spiritually elevating as it is physically draining.
The level of strain also depends on the type of haj performed. Those performing “tamattu’” or “qiran” often experience greater exhaustion even before the core haj days begin, as they go through additional umrah-related rituals earlier in the journey.
By the time the main rites arrive, fatigue has already quietly settled into the body.
I, however, performed the “ifrad”, which allowed me to enter directly into the haj rites without that earlier layer of physical depletion. Umrah is done after the completion of the haj rituals.
Yet even then, one of my most exhausting moments came after Arafah, when we were to spend the night in Mudzalifah to collect stones for the Stoning of the three Jamrats. We had barely rested and sleep was almost nonexistent before we were moved back towards Mina. The body was already running on reserve.
Because of unexpected road closures and strict crowd-control measures, the bus from Muzdalifah could not enter our base camp area in Mina. We had to go back to the base camp to collect our overnight bags, which we had left behind before heading to Arafah and Muzdalifah.
The guards would not allow us to cross the barriers on foot, even though the camp was only metres away. Instead, we were directed to make a detour through a 3km tunnel — the same route we would later use again for the Stoning of the Jamrat. At that point, exhaustion was no longer just physical; it weighed heavily on the mind as well.
We eventually made the decision to go through the tunnel, complete the Jamrat and walk down to Aziziyah, where we were to stay next. Our travel agent later retrieved our bags and sent them to the apartment. Small logistical details like that suddenly became lifelines.
That experience left a lasting impression on me: even a relatively healthy pilgrim can be pushed to physical limits within a matter of hours. We have to be prepared for any eventualities. We were literally dragging our feet walking down to Aziziyah after the stoning of the first Jamrat.
For elderly pilgrims, or those with serious medical conditions, the strain can quickly become overwhelming.
At the same time, Saudi authorities carry an immense responsibility — to ensure that millions of pilgrims are able to complete the essential rites of haj in safety.
One example is what is termed as Wukuf Safari, where all sick or bedridden pilgrims are transported in ambulances or specially equipped vehicles to Arafah so they are still able to fulfil the wukuf, the most important pillar of Hajj.
It is a remarkable effort of care and coordination, but it also places enormous pressure on medical teams, transport systems and crowd management during one of the largest annual gatherings in the world.
This is why stricter health requirements, though difficult for some to accept, exist within a larger framework of protection.
They also mean that some older pilgrims or those with serious health conditions — even those who have saved and waited for decades — may, in certain cases, be deemed unfit to proceed. It is a deeply painful reality, especially when the desire to fulfil a lifelong dream is so strong.
Yet from another perspective, these measures are not designed to exclude, but to preserve life and dignity.
Haj is not only a spiritual journey; it is also an intensely physical one and the risks rise significantly with age and underlying illness.
The intention is to reduce preventable harm and to ensure that those who do proceed are able to complete the rites safely and return home.
In the end, haj is not only about reaching the Holy Land. It is also about returning home — safely, humbly and alive — to the families who have waited, prayed and welcomed us back into their arms.