People were everywhere. We were all barefoot, padding lightly over the white marble tiles despite the speed and intensity with which we were walking. I could hear soft puffs of breath touching my ear, and I clung to my sister's hand. The sun blazed, targeting the center of the mosque, but the floor felt oddly cool. My mouth moved in a silent prayer. As each individual mouth whispered its own recitations, the sound of our hopes and dreams rose as a soft, peaceful chant, vibrating through the crowd of millions of people who came for this religious pilgrimage. The surroundings were a mixture of black and white; everything blurred as we moved in circles. The women were a canvas of black cloth, and the men were bathed in heavenly white.

I had never felt so physically enclosed by people as I did there. I struggled to touch my mother and wished I was like the small children who were lifted onto their dads' shoulders as they walked the seven circles of Mecca. “I think someone took my hat,” my brother murmured to me. I chuckled nervously and suggested that it probably just fell from the tremor of the crowd. On cue, I spotted the hat crushed underneath several bare feet. He shrugged and held my hand tightly.

I feared the great crowd, worried I'd be swept away by the tide of devotees. My chest rose rapidly, and I could hear my heart hammering. There were people of every color, race, shape, and size – people who were full of life and others near death. Mecca pulsed with Muslims representing the entire world. We were not the same. I did not live the life of the person next to me, nor did he know my experiences, but we were one, gathered in this holy place with the same goals in mind.

Stepping out of the large mosque, I almost slipped on the pure white tiles that glimmered beneath the moon. The night air blew, and Saudi Arabia did not feel like the blazing desert that I recalled from this morning's pulsing heat when we had left our hotel.

As we moved further away, I thought of the constant supply of water inside the mosque that tasted nothing like water after a long walk. And I thought about the mango ice cream sitting in the refrigerator back at the hotel. I realized I had created a home for myself in this large city. It was different from my home in New York City. However, there were things in Mecca that I could not find in New York, like fierce but peaceful passion, love between strangers, and a strong unification of Muslims who believe the same things. I did not know how to speak Arabic or possess the same cleverness as Arabians, but we did believe in the same god. And for that, I belonged.