Comedy of the Week - Hajj & Seek

Episode Date: May 25, 2026

A spiritual journey like no other… just with more chaos, queueing, and a missing pair of sandals.Blending storytelling, stand-up and documentary, comedian Ali Shahalom (aka Ali Official) takes us on a deeply personal comic journey through one of the most important acts of worship in Islam: Hajj. What begins as a sacred pilgrimage becomes a test of patience, endurance, and broadband speed.From battling the notoriously stressful Nusuk booking system (“depression you pay for”) to convincing his entire family to commit to the trip, Ali charts every step of the journey with warmth, honesty and razor-sharp humour. There are frozen bank accounts, passport panics, and a £40,000 leap of faith - and that's all before he’s even left the UK.Written and performed by Ali Shahalom Script editor - Laura Major Sound design - Andy Goddard Producer - Victoria LloydA Mighty Bunny Production for BBC Radio 4

Ali, mate, what is Hajj? It's basically a halal glastonbury. No, Ali, don't dumb it down for me. What actually is Hajj? The Fifth Pillar of Islam, an annual pilgrimage. Ali, stop pandering. I don't want textbook definitions. I want nuance and detail.

I've watched Slomdog Millionaire. I drink masala tea and I've been to four entire Asian weddings. Tell me about Hajel like it's never been spoken about before. All right, James. Here goes nothing. That is the sound of intense worship from Mount Arrafald. Millions of Muslims gather every year to perform their spiritual obligation known as Hodge. In 2024, I was somewhere up there on that mountain.

Hodge. A word you may remember from R-E lessons and still not know it has two J's. Hodge has been top of my bucket list since I was a kid, just above learning how to juggle and solving a rubic scoop. I know, banging bucket list, bro. I always thought I'd do Hodge much later in life, like properly old and grey type situation. You know, like when they finally fixed the potholes in my area, when fast and furious, stop doing sequels or when people shut up about air friars. But then you live a little and see a lot and you're thinking matures. What if I never reach old age?

And I'm gone before I can complete the last pillar of Islam. What will I tell my creator? Yeah Allah, I didn't go Hajj, but I can juggle. Come on now. Welcome to Haj and Sikh, a journey where you find yourself but lose your patience. And if you're my dad, your shoes as well. True story, let's get into it. Hajan Sikh with Ali Sharlo.

Salams and salutations. My name is Ali Shalom, aka Ali Official, a comedian, actor and content creator. I'm a Muslim in a non-Muslim space trying to be a Muslim, which can be tricky. It's like trying to be halal in a casino. I shouldn't be here, but then slowly I realized that, yo, they sell curry here. And that way of serving it is Asian, and he's my cousin. And then together we take over the casino and turn it into a mosque. Relax, James.

We only turn churches into mosques. To me, Islam isn't even know that. To me, Islam isn't just a religion. It's a way of life. And we call this life Dunya. This Dunya has many trials and tribulations. Islam helps inform even the decisions in my career. He didn't know March, who's Ramadan?

Oh, Ramadan is in April. I've turned down action roles where on page 1 everything seems halal, but then page 10, big fat kissing scene. I've been offered brand deals from gambling companies and sponsorships from pork products. I can't do any of that. Although if you're listening in the future and I have done, Just know it's only because my career is going really bad or the money is really good.

Hodge happens once every year. It involves long periods of walking throughout the sacred sites in and around Mecca. The physical journey is an act of devotion filled of worship, remembrance and patience. The reward for an accepted hodge is paradise. So you know, no pressure in it. Two years ago, I was one of 5,000 UK pilgrims granted a hutch ticket. And I'll tell you now, secure in that spot was harder than booking Glastonbury. Back in the day you'd ring a Muslim travel agent,

asked for a hutch ticket and some uncle would sort you out like a mildew. I've even heard stories from my elders who just rocked up in Saudi during hodge season and booked their hotels whilst being there. That's like turning up to India versus Pakistan final and expecting to join the team on the pitch. Mind you, things weren't always better in the old days. Our top story, police raided travel agent in a crackdown on fake pilgrimages to Mecca. Now every year, hundreds of Muslim pilgrims lose tens of thousands of pounds through Hajj fraud.

by trips to Mecca, often costing their life savings, which then failed to material. Today is very different. Since 2003, to go to Hajj, you've got to go through Nusuk. When I first heard this, I thought, who the hell is this Nusuk guy? But turns out, Nusuk is an online platform run by the Saudi government designed to digitalize the Hodge experience. It's safe to say, not everyone's a fan. In fact, a lot of people feel like Sonia, who wrote on Trospailer. Nusuk is basically depression you pay for. It's like buying emotional turbulence in bulk.

Geez, doubt Nusuk is on Sonia Zid list. Hate the platform or not, the reality is your visa permit, flights, hotels, accommodation and transport must be booked via Nusuk. It's basically JETU holidays, Muslim edition. It's not straightforward, though. There's a strict quota allocated to each country and you have to pay all the money for your trip into a digital wallet

before you even know whether you've secured your place. Banks get twitchy about people stashing bags, in Middle Eastern e-wallets. I had to ring the fraud team. To help. Brian, you might have frozen my account. Can you like unfreeze it please? Oh, never.

No, Brian, that's why I'm calling. That pratt was me. I moved the money. Hector? No. NFPs? No. Terrorism? What? No. It's for Hodge.

Not anymore. Now you have to go through Nusuk. Why? Nusuk's not... Yeah, me and him are best mates. Perfect. You know, I don't blame the banks for being cautious. Because plot twist, My hutch ticket cost me £10,000.

Not for four people, 10 grand for one person. It cost us 40 grand for four of us. 40 grand is someone's life savings, a deposit on a house, or a very, very cheap Asian wedding. At the time I wanted to go, I was broke. More broke than Woolworths in 2008. I kept thinking about hutch, researching it and praying for it. Lo and behold, I landed two well-paid TV commercials in the same year.

Good news? Money sorted. Bad news? I'm 60 days away from that money landing in my account. The money then has to go into this e-wallet. At this point, I'm thinking, can I do Hajj on Klanah, bro? Now remember, Hajj happens once a year. What month fall, eh? Well, it changes. Muslims live by a lunar calendar, so the dates for Hajj vary. You've got a sight of the moon for that, don't you?

Exactly, James, I'm impressed. I'm high on my third correct try. When I had the hitched to go Hajj, I reached out to an acquaintance, Yusuf. Yusuf has been to Hodge ten times. How come bloody Brian from fraud never called this dude? Yusuf's from Glasgow. He's proudly Scottish and proudly Muslim, meaning he's basically hated by everyone.

Yusuf knows the ins and outs of Hodge, having been both pre-and-Pos Nusuk, working as a guide for a Hodge travel agent. In short, my man's got a P-Hodge D in this thing. The best advice Yusuf gave me was to join the Hodge Telegram channel. So I did. And straight out the gate,

I'm getting hundreds of messages a day. Believe it or no, I'm reading every single one. My screen time is through the roof. I'm making Mark Zuckerberg look like is off-grid. This telegram channel is essentially a forward. Members ask questions and guides that work in the Hodge industry answer. Questions like, What will the food in Hodge be like?

What sandals are best for Hodge? Why can't I mute notifications for this group? Free Palestine, everyone. Whilst I'm here, anyone from Luton, need a new sync. DM for Price Cash only. But one message from the group admin sprung everyone into action. Hodge packages. will drop soon. We advise those interested in purchasing a ticket to make an application

complete with passport details on Nusuk as soon as possible. Oh my days, packages will drop soon. I don't want to miss this booking window. Plus, I haven't actually properly told my wife and parents about this plan. When I did, I witnessed a real-life telegram chat in my living room. How will we get the money for Hodge? How am I supposed to get time of work? I don't even have walking sandals. I'm diabetic. What if I collapse? Am I even ready for her? Who the hell is Jusuk? They're looking at me like I've lost the plot. But with my newfound telegram research,

I feel like the Martin Lewis of Hodge, quoting numbers off the dome. But my family weren't convinced. So I channel my inner Garraf Southgate, look my family in the eye, and deliver the team talk of my life. Guys, listen. Money comes, money goes.

Life is short, life is long. All of this is just Dunya. But what we have right here is an opportunity to invest in our art. After life, this is our time. This is our year. We got a trust in Allah, but tie our camel too. And that is exactly what we will do.

How can we accept defeat when we haven't even tried yet? That's not us. Out of that 5,000 quota, we will be four of them. Am I right? And just like that, my dad's on his feet applauding. My wife's crying and I'm feeling like I've just scored a penalty in the last minute. And then my mum says, But mine and your dad's passport,

I've expired. I don't really swear. And even if I did, my mom's listening. But it's safe to say, the words going through my mind right now would make Gordon Ramsey sound extra halal. I'm in full panic mode. Will I have to RSVP to my divine invitation with a SOS mom and dad can't come due to a technicality? No! Frantically, I do two online renewal applications. The website says it could take up to three weeks for them to arrive. Brother, I'm now in a race against the Home Office, the Saudi Ministry of Hodge and my bank ballots. all halfway down the track and I'm still trying my shoelace. Hudge tickets are divided into economy, premium and luxury packages.

The biggest difference between the tiers is where your accommodation is located. If you pay top dollar, you'll likely end up just a couple of minutes from each ritual site. While the cheaper packages will have you training for London Marathon. In a nutshell, same hudge, different step count. Telegram will tell us when the packages will drop. Then it's fastest fingers first to purchase. Forget who wants to be a millionaire. This is who wants to be a haji-ha-ha-y-hage.

I got to click that checkout button before tens of thousands of other British Muslims. Bro, do I need to up my broadband speed? Imagine your place in paradise is jeopardised because Virgin don't do fibre optic in your area. Thankfully, I'm at least able to cross one problem off my list. My parents' passports arrive. That felt like the best thing to come out of the home office since Pretty Patel's P-45. Now we wait for the packages.

Days become weeks and weeks become a whole month. Still nothing. It's now Ramadan. I'm trying to fast. Read Quran and go mosque. all outglued to this telegram chat. I got invited to Parliament for Iftar, but said no. That's not me flexing.

I just can't risk it. What if I'm eating a smosa in the House of Commons and I missed a booking window to the House of Allah? My priorities are straight cause. A ticket to paradise is more important than a selfie in Parliament. In hindsight, I could have actually gone. Because the booking window wasn't that day. I missed out on free biryani, man.

But then a few days later, inshallah, becomes al-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-haw-l-haw-habil-haw. Bookings will open your preferred package in your basket by 12pm and look out for the checkout button. It's finally happening. I wake up at 7am. Telegram is busier than Green Street on a Sunday. 12pm comes and no checkout button.

1pm, nothing still. 2pm, still nothing. It gets later and later. I'm breaking my fast with my laptop on the dinner table. I'm even taking my phone to the toilet. Okay, that's not a big deal. I do that anyway. But the point is I've spent the whole day staring at free devices

trying to locate a button that's harder to find and then a halal mill in a service station. The guides also clarified that they're unsure where exactly the checkout button will appear. So I'm basically playing a 40 grand game of where's Wally. Now the website has placed me in a queue, my pass was not working and the platform crashed all this before I've even packed a suitcase.

I'm tired, frustrated and impatient. They're out of nowhere. Boom! I see it. Check out. I smack that button with a bismillah and then nussu clogs me out. Congratulations. This email is to confirm that your booking has been secured on the Nusukhajh platform. Allah Wahbara, I'm crying tears of joy. I cannot believe we got in.

Within minutes, all the UK packages sold out. I tell my wife the good news, she cries. I tell my parents, they don't believe me. Together, all four of us are excited, and for once, no pizza is involved. It's 10th June, and we're all on a plane to Saudi. I'm 35,000 feet in the air worrying about. about two things. One, can my mum and dad do this? I'm basically asking my diabetic parents to complete an iron man in scorching heat with sandals on. Secondly, is my wife going to annoy me? Before I could finish that thought, she already did. After six hours, we land in Medina and head towards Moschid al-Nabawi. The second largest mosque in Islam built by Prophet Muhammad himself, peace be upon him. For the first time, I'm seeing, touching and feeling these remarkable places

that are symbolic to my favourite. Immediately, my anxiety marks into amazement. This was better than watching Shakibul Hassan hit six. Everything clicked like I just solved a spiritual rubic scoop. Our hotel stood in the shadow of Mastjid al-Nabawi. I would literally be sleeping next to the second holiest site in Islam. I'm used to sleeping next to three broken charges, so this was a massive upgrade.

The reward for praying in Mastred al-Nabawi is equal to a thousand prayers. So me and my family wanted to maximize our short time here by gaining as many heaven points as we can. There were moments when tears would just gush down my face. And let me tell you, bro, I'm not a cryer. The only time I cry is when Bangladesh losing cricket. To be fair, they do lose quite a bit. Point being, this was all very emotional stuff.

And the matter's part, this was just the beginning. We spend the next few days in Medina, praying and absorbing the sights. Medina has this calm serenity, unlike anything of experience before. It feels like a home for your heart, which is probably how middle-class white people feel about John Lewis.

This stage of our journey ends with the final preparations for Hutch. Me and Dad each wrap ourselves in two pieces of white cloth known as Ihram, which looks and feels like two soft towels. One for your upper body, one for your lower body. At a glance, you'd think we're heading to a sauna.

We weren't, but outside did feel like one. Other than sandals and a backpack, you wear nothing else. Yes, not even boxers, bro. We go full Scotsman on a stagoo for this ting. The Ihram will be in my garment for the next few days. Little tip for any hajee's, make sure you wax some Vaseline between your thighs

or chafing will have you walking less like a pilgrim and more like a penguin. At last, we jump on the Haramane bullet train and head to the city of Mecca. Our official Hajj pilgrimage is about the star. First impressions of Makkah? Hot. Immediately you feel your foot fry in nature's oven.

But past the blinding sun and the sea of pilgrims, something black and majestic slowly comes into focus. There it is right in front of me. The holiest sight in Islam. The Kaaba. Every day, billions of Muslims laid their prayer out to face this black stone. And here I am, seeing, circling and touching it to perform what's known as Umra, alongside the three most important people in my life.

Mecca was mad, busy, man. I can't even see the floor to take my next step. The place is rammed with pilgrims. It's basically a field of whiteness, squint, and you could be in a reform voter's dream. Almost. From start to finish, this ritual took nearly three hours. That's almost as long as one Bollywood film. At the end of this, me and my dad shave our heads for the first time as a symbolic act of purification, humility and submission to Allah.

Now, not only am I feeling different, I'm also looking different. Sort of like a Bangladeshi Dwayne Johnson, but without the muscles, tats, or tequila. I don't want to sound like a broken record, but I cannot overstay how hot it was. At the time, this was the hottest hudge in history. The weather hit 50 degrees and we had just walked over 20,000 steps under the unforgiving sun. It felt like we were hiking inside a McDonald's apple pie. Everywhere you look people are struggling. We then migrate to Minna, the city of tents, where we are met with the most amazing sound.

Air conditioning needed that. Now Minna is 20 square kilometers of high-tech tents. More than 100,000 marquee-like canopies host 2.6 million pilgrims. That's the equivalent of 13 glass glassed. Astonbury festivals happening at once. The tents vary in size. Some hold just a few people, others host hundreds. But everyone who books a hodge ticket gets a designated spot.

Men and women stay separately in Minow. My dad and me are sharing with 20 men of mixed ages. Each of us is allocated a small area with pecks for our rucksacks to go overhead and a single sofa bed we can fold out, which as it turns out is a pretty risky process in a room full of brothers going commando. We're giving three hot meals a day, cold drinks, snacks and ice creams whenever we will. want. It's basically a massive Muslim sleepover. Everyone's in matching white pajamas, no one's getting any rest and we've all got brain-freeest from eating too many chocolate magnums.

At last, we've reached the central plank of Hajj. In the coming hours, pilgrims will gather for intense prayer, supplication and repentance at Mount Arafat. This is the pinnacle of our journey. Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said, Hajj is Arafat. Today we'll be reminded of the day of judgment, when mankind will be resurrected and gathered in crowds, strict of worldly status and attachment and left with nothing but our deeds. But we have a problem.

To get to Arafat, we need to catch a coach. But my mum and wife are nowhere to be found. You're probably thinking, Ali, how do you lose two ladies in a crowd of two million people? I'll tell you how? Easily! They're not answering my calls. They haven't sent any messages.

Now I'm starting to worry. The heat wave is deadly. Or if something terrible has happened. That's what I remember. I have a secret weapon. a very particular set of skills. Skills have acquired over a very long career. So I will look for them and I will find them

because I made sure we all put air tags in our bags. That's right, my wife rolled her eyes and called me extra months ago when I pitched these stalker style tracking devices. But now who's laughing, eh? Okay, we're not laughing. But still, sure enough, I opened the Find My App and it shows my mom and wife still in camp.

At last, an anxious voice answers the phone. I just about make out what my wife is saying. Ali, we've lost to tram. Yeah, the signal wasn't great. She said Ali, we are lost in camp, and my heart sank. But the coach driver is about to set off. So I make a split decision. We ditch the girls and do it alone, lads on tour all aboard the banter bus.

Ooy! Did you actually, Harley? No, James, I'm kidding. But the coach driver was seriously about to leave. So I tell Dad to stay on board and head to Arrafat while I go and find the girls. A few of the brothers on the coach offered to keep an eye on my dad, and I set off on my Mission and Possible Minna edition.

I'm navigating this maze as if my life depended on it, like a stressed and sweaty pack man. My wife says they're near their clinic. I speed walk there whilst keeping them on loudspeaker. I turn a corner and boom, Shaka! There they are! Relief washes over me! I'd say they feel the same, but they know they're going to enjoy my air-tag smockness

for the entire coach trip to Arrafa. So I sense they're a little less enthusiastic. At last, we make the journey together and reunite with my dad. The biggest day of Hajj began with panic and we're all pretty shaken, but now we're together at Mount Arafat. We're filled with gratitude both for this incredible journey and also for Steve Jobs' innovation. Mount Arafat is this high hill

upon which the Prophet Muhammad peace be upon him delivered his final sermon. While you're there, you feel this powerful stillness in the middle of millions. All the noise of the world disappears. Every step, every hardship, and every tear has been leading to this single conversation of Allah. I pulled out my list of things I wanted to ask my lord and slowly read them. Time feels suspended.

The past, present and the afterlife all seemed closer than ever before. I feel completely exposed yet completely held. Nothing could ruin this pure moment. Until some auntie elbowed me for some more space. That experience didn't end when I left Arafat. Rather, it continues to live inside me every single day. After a long day at Arafat, we now move on to the next part of our haj called Muzdalfa. Here you sleep in an open field under the stars.

Sounds romantic, but is chaotic. Imagine having to sleep on the floor alongside 2 million people. There are rocks on my back, a foot in my face and some dudes snoring like his sound-checking Wembley arena. And to top it all off... Ere Ali, I can't find my sandals! I didn't think I'd have to air tag footwear, but Dad lost his shoes. Luckily though, I listened to a telegram user who's said, pack a pair of backup shoes just in case. We found out what just in case means in real

time. Before we can attempt any sleep, we have to collect some pebbles for the next part of our hudge. Spoiler alert, it's not a hot stone massage. Once that's done, I jostle my way into some space on the floor with the aim of sleeping slash defending my family from the sandal snatcher. As I'm about to drift off, it's Fajar, don't pray a time. I'm so tired, man. I can barely see. But one look at My wife tells me we've got bigger problems. Her face is whiter than my harem. She's hardly eaten surviving on adrenaline and zumsam water. There are two ways to go back to Minna.

You either walk, which is over an hour in the heat, or you take the bus. Now, we're packed inside this crowd like sweaty sardines and everyone's trying to get to the front. My cute etiquette disappears faster than the vaseline between my thighs. Elbows are flying, toes are getting trampled, and every time a bus appears, the crowd surges forward. It's madness! madness. Suddenly, I feel the carrier bag of bananas I'm holding get snatched from my hand. I spin to face the culprit, ready to give it some brave heart. You can take my sandals, but you'll never take my bananas. Only to see a woman open it and vomit inside. We were in an

open field. She could have chosen to be sick anywhere on the floor, but did it in my banana bag. Nothing in the telegram chat prepares you for that type of horror. Then out of nowhere, my wife loses consciousness and collapses in my arms. She is out cold. I start screaming over the crowd. Everyone, make some space. I have an emergency. Broth?

No one moved. I look around desperately and spot a brother who has a wheelchair but isn't using it. He was literally stood up. I don't know if Hodge healed his limbs or he's taking a break from benefit fraud. Either way, I shout, brother, is it okay if I use your wheelchair? My wife just fainted. Yeah, bro, take it. I just wanted good parking in it.

My unconscious wife is now in this wheelchair and all four of us slowly get to the front of the queue just as a bus pulls up. Now, in true Bollywood style, I have to carry my wife up these mahusive bus steps. My wife is skinny, but for some reason, that day she weighed heavy.

As I'm climbing these steps, my knees are popping like bubble wrap, left, right and centre. I'm there praying and hoping that my harem doesn't come off. I don't want to traumatise 2 million Muslims, and I definitely don't want them to think they've sighted the moon for E. Finally, I lay my wife down on the bus

and hear the doors slam shut behind me and that's when I realized my parents are not on the bus. Panicked, I'll start banging on the window but it's useless. I'm shouting at the driver where are my parents? But the guy doesn't understand. The crowd has swallowed them. I can't see them anywhere. My wife's lying there unconscious,

my parents are missing and some random woman has been sicken my banana bag. Everything goes from 100 miles per hour to super slow motion. For the first time on this entire journey, I'm truly feeling hopeless. But then out of nowhere, Ali, you stupid, we're here! Al-a-a-a-a-moh-ma-and-dad appear through the back door of the bus and give me a huge hug. I'm overcome with relief. Everything's going to be okay.

I sit them down just as my wife starts to regain consciousness. I gently brushed the hair from her face and smile. She then looks up and says a phrase, I'll never forget. Ali, I'm going to be sick. Where's that banana bag? Somehow we've made it to the final stage of our hodge, Jamarath, where thousands of pebbles shower down on these enormous rock structures. We're pelting the devil firm.

When Prophet Abraham was on his way to sacrifice his son upon Allah's command, Satan tried to stop him. Not once, not twice, but three times, curse. Satan basically invented pop-up ads. Each time, Prophet Ibrahim rejected the devil by throwing stones at him. Now, we reenact that moment by casting stones at the three pillars. in Jamarad. It's like the most organized and dangerous group therapy in history. Thousands of us pelt these pillars with full force. It's an incredible sight, unless you're a

health and safety officer. I shave my head again and remove my iran, changing back into my normal clothes. Over the next few days, our journey draws to a close. We pelt pebbles twice more and circle the Kaaba for the last time. Hajj is now officially complete. Al-Handallilah. What a roller coaster of a journey. With the most steps my phone has ever seen. We're exhausted, happy and amazed we haven't all fallen out. Family trips usually end in arguments, but this was an exception. Maybe because we didn't have to order pizza. Callie, mate, what a journey.

Two years on, how'd you feel? Well, the coughs have gone and the blisters have healed. But a part of me still feels like I'm in Hodge. Still walking between the tents. Still looking up at the sky in Muzdhalifa. Still... Not wearing any underwear? What? No, still feeling like I'm in Arafat.

Even now when I meet someone who's performed Hodge, we immediately connect and trade stories. We laugh about the stress of trying to navigate Nusuk. I'm telling you, Muslims compete over who waited on Nusuk the longest like it's the trauma Olympics. And that telegram group? I still haven't left it, you know? Don't get me wrong.

I've therefore turned the notifications off, but I like to lurk and scroll in there every now and then. I'm basically a retired pilgrim checking in on the new recruits, watching the chaos from a safe distance and liking any comment that says take a spare pair of sandals. Having that group on my phone reminds me of a version of myself who said yes to an invitation from Allah and watched the impossible fall into place.

Hajj taught me that patience has a pulse, hardship has reward, and Allah is the greatest. If you're thinking about going Hajj, I say do it sooner than later. And when you do go, brough? Take two banana bags.

Hodge and Sikh was written and performed by Ali Shalom and produced by Victoria Lloyd. It was a Mighty Bunny production for BBC Radio 4. Political language can seem archaic. It's like the light from one of those stars that actually died. Sometimes bamboozling. It's a theme park with a five-foot log flume from one thought to another. And very often, beyond words.

I don't mean how to describe the language I use. I'm Amanda Unucci. I'm all reset and turbocharged to stress, test to destruction, used and abused buzzwords and phrases from the world of politics. I come with a dazzling array of guest presenters and I'll be exploring the verbal tricks of the political trade, the intentions behind them and the effect they have on all of us. The new series of Strong Message Here with me, Amanda Unucci from BBC Radio 4. Listen now on BBC Science.