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My Journey to Mount Hira with My Teenage Son – A Walk of Faith and Bonding
Today, my teenage son and I undertook a journey that I believe will stay with both of us for the rest of our lives — a climb to Mount Hira, on foot, from the base to the summit and back. We completed it in about four hours, but the impact of those four hours felt far deeper than the numbers suggest.
We began our walk just after sunrise, when the sky was still soft with early light, and the heat hadn’t yet set in. From the base of Jabal al-Noor, the path upwards stretched like a silent invitation. It wasn’t paved or easy — just over 1,200 uneven stone steps, climbing steadily toward the famous Cave of Hira perched near the top. I had read about it, reflected on it many times, but to walk it — especially with my son — brought it to life in a way I can’t quite describe.
As we began the ascent, I watched him walk ahead with a quiet confidence. He was eager, curious, full of energy. I followed, grateful — not just for the physical ability to do the climb — but for the opportunity to share this with him. With every few steps, we paused to catch our breath, take in the view, sip some water, and exchange words — sometimes light, sometimes reflective.
About halfway up, fatigue started setting in. The incline was steeper than I remembered, and the rocky steps began to bite into our legs. But somehow, the purpose behind the climb kept us going. I thought of the Prophet Muhammad (ﷺ), who used to climb this very mountain regularly — alone, in search of truth, silence, and God. That thought gave me strength. I could sense it gave my son strength too, even if he didn’t say it out loud.
When we finally reached the top — nearly 600 meters above sea level — the sight before us was humbling. Makkah stretched out in the distance, a vast city holding generations of prayer and pilgrimage. And then, there it was — the Cave of Hira, small and unassuming, yet holding one of the greatest moments in human history. We sat near it, quietly. We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. We both felt the weight and peace of that moment.
In that silence, I found myself making du’a — for my son, for myself, for our family. I saw my son look out over the horizon, his eyes filled with something I hadn’t seen before: depth. He was growing, and I was witnessing it, step by step.
The descent was slower, more cautious. Our legs were tired, and the midday sun had begun to heat the rocks. But we helped each other down, sharing a bottle of water, pointing out little things on the path, and reflecting on what the climb meant to us. It wasn’t just a physical journey; it was emotional, spiritual — a shared experience of humility and connection.
By the time we reached the bottom, four hours had passed, but it felt like we had lived a whole chapter of life together.
Looking back, it wasn’t just about reaching the Cave of Hira — it was about walking beside my son, sharing silence, struggle, and meaning. It was a moment of bonding, man to man, believer to believer — one I will treasure forever.