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For Shahid Ali and his wife, the dream of completing Hajj was decades in the making. For years, the East London couple stashed savings in a dented tin box hidden in their home, skipping vacations, putting off home repairs and cutting out all non-essential luxuries to afford the once-in-a-lifetime religious journey they hoped to take before old age stole their chance. But when open conflict broke out between Israel, the United States and Iran, what should have been a period of quiet anticipation curdled into worry and doubt.

“My children asked us to reconsider, but we have waited our lives for this,” Ali told Middle East Eye shortly before his departure. “There was massive uncertainty after mass flight cancellations, but we never changed our plans. It still looks like we’re going.”

Ali’s anxiety is shared by Muslim pilgrims gathering in homes and mosques across the globe ahead of this year’s annual pilgrimage to Mecca, one of the five central pillars of Islam. Yet that shared uncertainty has not stopped hundreds of thousands of worshippers from moving forward with their long-planned journeys, even as the regional conflict upends travel logistics and drives up costs.

The ongoing conflict has already disrupted regional air travel, pushed up living costs worldwide, and forced commercial carriers to implement costly detours and new surcharges to navigate restricted airspace. Even with these disruptions, Saudi authorities announced Saturday that more than 1.5 million international pilgrims have already arrived in the kingdom for this year’s Hajj – a number that already surpasses the total international arrivals recorded in 2024.

The shadow of geopolitical tension has hung heavily over the pilgrimage season. Earlier this week, two senior officials confirmed to Middle East Eye that former U.S. President Donald Trump delayed a planned offensive against Iran after senior Gulf allies and his own national security team warned against launching new military operations during the Hajj. In subsequent statements, Trump noted that a new agreement was “largely negotiated,” and multiple reports over the weekend indicated that Washington and Tehran are close to finalizing a 60-day extension of an existing ceasefire alongside a formal memorandum of understanding.

For Muslims worldwide, Hajj is a sacred religious obligation that every believer is expected to complete at least once in their lifetime if they are physically and financially able. For many working-class and low-income families, saving for the journey takes decades, and waiting lists for official Hajj slots in many parts of the Global South can stretch to 10 years or more. For elderly pilgrims in particular, postponement is unthinkable: many worry they will not live long enough to get another chance.

“There’s uncertainty everywhere now,” said Farzana Begum, a retired teacher from Birmingham who is preparing to depart for Mecca. “But if God has invited you, you cannot refuse because of politics.”

Despite the hopeful signs of a ceasefire, the conflict has created severe logistical hurdles for travel operators and pilgrims alike. Airspace restrictions and fears of sudden escalation have forced Gulf commercial airlines to reroute all flights passing through sensitive areas of the region, with some carriers suspending routes entirely. The longer flight paths and elevated fuel costs have caused Hajj package prices to spike sharply in recent weeks, according to travel operators based in Jordan, Pakistan and Indonesia.

“Every single day the situation changes,” explained one Jordan-based Hajj organizer who requested anonymity due to the sensitivity of the topic. “Flights are being rerouted constantly, prices shift from one day to the next, and pilgrims are calling every hour asking if the journey is still safe. When the war first started, anxiety was through the roof, but that panic has mostly died down now.”

Saudi officials have moved quickly to reassure pilgrims, emphasizing that the kingdom has put extensive contingency plans in place to ensure the safety and smooth operation of the pilgrimage. Even so, some countries with large Muslim populations have passed on the new added costs to worshippers. India, for example, has added an extra 10,000 rupees ($105) to all official Hajj packages, while Indonesia – home to the world’s largest Muslim population – has announced it will absorb the additional costs to avoid burdening pilgrims.

While a ceasefire agreement appears imminent, concerns persist that tensions could reignite at any moment. The Gulf region hosts some of the busiest and most congested air corridors in the world, and any sudden escalation of hostilities would trigger widespread further disruption to global travel networks. Most pilgrims traveling from Europe, South Asia and Africa transit through major regional hubs including Doha, Dubai and Jeddah, leaving their travel plans vulnerable to any sudden shift in security conditions. For many, this persistent uncertainty has added a heavy layer of emotional stress to what is already an intensely spiritual and costly journey.

At London’s Heathrow Airport earlier this week, groups of British pilgrims gathered around luggage trolleys stacked with suitcases and rolled prayer mats, waiting for their flights. Some said they were nervously refreshing news updates every few minutes ahead of departure, while others chose to avoid political coverage entirely to focus on their pilgrimage. One woman traveling with her 78-year-old mother said her entire family had begged the pair to cancel their trip and rebook for next year.

“My brothers said we should wait another year,” she explained. “But my mother said: ‘What if I don’t have another year?’”

This year’s Hajj is also shaped by the broader wave of turmoil roiling the Middle East. Many pilgrims preparing for the journey say they carry deep sorrow over the ongoing wars and humanitarian crises across the region, particularly the conflict in Gaza. For many, the fact that thousands of Palestinian Muslims trapped under siege and war are unable to perform Hajj this year weighs heavily on their hearts.

“We will pray for them when we are there,” Begum said. “You cannot separate Hajj from what is happening to Muslims elsewhere.”

Historically, the Hajj has persisted through wars, pandemics and political upheaval across the centuries. Long before the advent of commercial aviation, pilgrims traveled for months by foot, camel and ship to reach Mecca, even during periods of regional conflict. More recently, the global COVID-19 pandemic forced Saudi Arabia to restrict Hajj to only a tiny handful of domestic worshippers, the first such large-scale cancellation in modern history, leaving millions of believers around the world heartbroken.

The return of large-scale international Hajj after the pandemic initially brought widespread renewed optimism for both travel operators and worshippers. The new tensions sparked by the Iran conflict have introduced a fresh wave of uncertainty to the pilgrimage season. Analysts note that the situation lays bare just how vulnerable global religious travel has become to sudden geopolitical shocks.

“Hajj depends on massive international coordination across dozens of countries,” explained one Gulf-based aviation expert who requested anonymity over fears of professional repercussions. “When airspace becomes militarized or unstable, the consequences spread quickly through the entire travel network. Some pilgrims may even end up stuck in Saudi Arabia longer than planned if disruptions worsen.”

Yet for most pilgrims, fear takes a backseat to faith. At a pre-Hajj informational seminar held at a mosque in west London earlier this week, organizers walked attendees through emergency protocols, insurance requirements and potential travel delays. Time and again, however, the conversation circled back to spiritual purpose rather than political risk. Imams leading the seminar reminded attendees that hardship has always been an inherent part of the Hajj journey.

“The essence of Hajj is sacrifice,” one speaker told the congregation. “People throughout history traveled under far more dangerous conditions than we face today.”

That message has resonated deeply with worshippers preparing to depart. Some pilgrims openly acknowledge they feel afraid, and many say their family members remain deeply worried for their safety. But almost none are willing to abandon plans they have spent decades of sacrifice and saving to bring to fruition.

For Shahid Ali and his wife, canceling their journey now is unthinkable. “We don’t know what will happen in the world,” he said quietly before his departure. “There is war everywhere. But we believe if God wants us to complete Hajj, we will complete it.”

Five years have passed since the Taliban administration implemented a sweeping ban on secondary and higher education for girls across Afghanistan, a policy that has systematically dismantled millions of young women’s aspirations and narrowed their life options to a single socially expected path: early marriage. For 19-year-old Alia—whose real name has been withheld to protect her from retaliation—escaping that fate required a dangerous, hundreds-of-miles journey from her rural home in Daykundi to the capital city of Kabul last year.

Traveling by taxi with her female cousin, the pair fully covered in line with the Taliban’s strict gendered dress rules that leave only eyes exposed, their trip flouted a separate regulation banning women from making long-distance journeys without a male family escort. At any checkpoint, Taliban enforcers could have stopped them and imposed harsh punishment—but by an unforeseen stroke of luck, the pair slipped through all checkpoints without incident and reached Kabul safely.

Alia lied to her family about her purpose for travel, telling them she planned to meet old friends and former classmates. The truth, she reveals, was stark: if she had remained in Daykundi, her family would have forced her to marry immediately. Once in Kabul, Alia put an alternative plan into action: she enrolled in a private short-term English language course, one of the only limited learning options available to girls who have finished primary school in modern Afghanistan, alongside religious madrasas. Neither of these alternatives, however, can replace the structured formal education that girls were once guaranteed.

Alia’s case is rare for two reasons: not only does it showcase extraordinary courage to defy the status quo, but her family also has the financial means to support her studies in Kabul—a privilege out of reach for most Afghans, three-quarters of whom cannot cover their basic daily needs according to United Nations data. While Alia’s parents supported her dream of becoming a pilot before the education ban, they too have been worn down by the constraints of life under Taliban rule. Today, they urge her to marry, arguing that there is no other future for her when school, university and formal work are all closed off.

Alia has already received multiple marriage proposals, and she lives in constant fear that she will eventually be forced to accept one that will end her dreams forever. “Some families can be very restrictive. It is possible they could tell me to forget my dreams. I don’t feel positive at all about it,” she says. Even so, her determination to resist remains unshakable. “If my family don’t force me to get married, I will wait. I will resist it until my very last breath.”

For thousands of other girls across Afghanistan, that resistance has already failed. In a sparse, small apartment in western Kabul, 22-year-old Shama shares the story of the future she lost. If the Taliban had not seized power and closed girls’ schools, she would be nearly finished with her education and on track to achieve her lifelong dream of becoming a doctor. Instead, at 18, just four years after the ban took effect, her widowed mother Kamila had no choice but to push her into marriage. Today, Shama is the mother of two young daughters, and her own dreams of professional and personal fulfillment remain unfulfilled.

Kamila, who worked as a cleaner to fund her daughters’ education after her husband died six years ago, says she felt immense pressure from Taliban enforcers to marry off Shama before she drew unwanted negative attention as an unmarried young woman. “I had wanted her to be educated, work and contribute to society. I am illiterate so I am like a blind person. But I wanted my girls to learn. She had so many dreams. But it didn’t happen for her,” Kamila explains.

Shama, who was treated well by her husband, still carries the permanent grief of being barred from reaching her potential. “Having a husband is not the only dream a woman has. She needs to stand on her own two feet first, become independent and then she can marry and start a family. But I went into this new life with none of that. My dreams remain unfulfilled,” she says. Even small, everyday moments trigger her pain: when she watches a movie that shows women working or studying, she is flooded with stress and longing. “I feel like I am trapped in my home. I only live for my children,” she adds.

Shama’s 18-year-old sister Nora now waits in fear for the same fate. “I’m too young to get married. I want to continue my education. It’s like being in prison. I fear going out because of the government, and at home my mother tells me I must get married,” says Nora, who still dreams of returning to the classroom she was forced to leave. She has no hope that the Taliban will ever lift the ban, even after years of waiting for a reversal.

Since the Taliban returned to power in 2021, government officials have offered a rotating series of justifications for the ongoing education ban, with no clear timeline for reopening schools. In a September 2021 interview, a Taliban spokesman initially promised schools would reopen soon, saying the government was only working to improve security conditions. A year later, the explanation shifted to claims that religious scholars had raised concerns about girls traveling to and from school. By 2024, officials were simply deferring the question to the country’s supreme leadership. When the BBC recently asked deputy spokesman Hamdullah Fitrat to justify the ongoing ban, he deflected the question to the Ministry of Education, which never responded to repeated requests for comment.

While internal divisions over the ban have been reported within the Taliban government, the country’s supreme leader has only hardened his stance against lifting restrictions in recent years. For the girls who lost access to education the day the ban went into effect, that day remains etched in their memory. Alia recalls: “All I did was cry and sob the whole day and night. I could not sleep for a week. I felt like I was walking around like a dead body. When I see men my age who have graduated and are going to university – I feel very bad, I feel like I am burning in hell.”

The education ban is just one of dozens of sweeping restrictions placed on women and girls by the Taliban, with other rules barring women from most public sector jobs, limiting their ability to travel, and confining them largely to the home. In recent weeks, the Taliban government codified new rules that effectively legalize child marriage, allowing a minor’s silence to be interpreted as consent to wed. Fitrat defends the Taliban’s record, pointing to thousands of business permits issued for women and the government’s claims to have resolved hundreds of cases of forced marriage and inheritance discrimination. But on-the-ground reporting confirms that forced and underage marriage rates are rising sharply, directly driven by the lack of education options for girls.

Today, many Afghan women and girls report a growing sense of abandonment by the international community, as the systemic discrimination they face has faded from global headlines. “If we hadn’t been forgotten, then something would surely have been done by now,” Alia says. For Kamila, the lost opportunities for her daughters represent a complete erasure of the future she fought to give them. She has a message for mothers across the globe who live in countries where girls can still freely learn and work: “In a world where your daughters are allowed to study and work, let them do it. Let them become independent. Here in Afghanistan, it’s over for us.”

According to UN projections, if the education ban remains in place through 2030, more than two million girls will have been denied a secondary education, leaving Afghanistan with one of the lowest female literacy rates on Earth.