Curling my toes into the wet sand at the shore of Tulum’s Caribbean coastline, it occurred to me that nobody in my family, whose roots lay in Uganda and before that India, had ever breathed air this far from home. My brother likes to disagree, saying that we could have had a rogue ancestor somewhere up the line who made it to far-flung places – perhaps a sailor at a colonial outpost, an intrepid traveller taken by the promise of adventure like us, or a tradesman looking to make his fortune elsewhere. But standing in the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea, the sky darkening around me with the promise of imminent tropical rainfall, I knew that I was literally standing at a point where none of my ancestors would have, and the thought both stunned and delighted me. 

An Inheritance of Movement

Travel has always been an escape for me, just as I love learning and reading books. Gazing at maps and planning routes makes me feel like I can breathe, like there is so much more out there than whatever is going on in my life or my head.

For many East African Asians, travel and movement are also coded into who we are. I was struck by Nadir Nahdi’s self-description as a “child of the Indian Ocean,” a reference to how the great body of water is as much a part of our heritage and identity as any land, country or nation. 

My grandparents had lived amongst the grasslands of Kutch and the whitewashed houses of Mombasa, high in the savannahs of Soroti and at the tip of the Arabian Sea in Karachi. It seemed they were always at the cusp of travel, living with one foot firmly planted, maintaining families and establishing livelihoods, and the other hovering at the edge of a precipice.

Whether it was poverty, the hope for a better life, or the push of colonial authorities that prompted their moves, I feel lucky that my own motivation comes from a desire to see, feel and experience the world; a chance to enrich my life abroad rather than the pressure to make it. 

Finding God in Beauty and Stillness

Where my heritage at times feels difficult to connect with and complicated to explain to others, I look towards religion as a uniting force, seeking out mosques and a sense of Islamic community wherever I go. A cold weekend in Copenhagen earlier this year brought me to the David Collection’s museum of Islamic art, a pocket of opulence that transported me to the Islamic world. My mum and I whiled away that afternoon attempting to translate the Islamic verses adorning archways and inscribed on jewellery cases, trinkets and Mughal miniatures.

Observing the traditionally Persian symmetry of the art and its patterns, I felt transported to a childhood summer spent in Iran, shouting with my siblings to hear our voices echo under the vaulted ceilings of mosques in Esfahan whose names elude me but whose impression of majesty lingers even now. 

While the grand mosques of Muscat, Singapore and Paris have enchanted me, I have always held an appreciation for the understated and a beauty that calls to the soul as much as it speaks to the eye. Somewhere on the open roads between New Delhi and Agra, we drove past a dilapidated hut that had nothing more than a prayer mat within. The sight of this prayer space, modest yet representing such devotion, brought a lump to my throat for reasons I still can’t explain. I don’t wish to romanticise the circumstances that force people to live in such simplicity, but I feel there’s also something to be said about the presence of Allah ﷻ being everywhere – a fact the Qur’an prompts us to remember.

And while I love visual beauty and I travel to enjoy it, Islam is a religion that strips away adornments to emphasise the importance of the human heart, the intangible ruh (soul) within which Allah is said to dwell. It is this understanding of the divine as all-encompassing that has allowed me to feel at home even when I’m far from it.

The Taj Mahal was described by Nobel Prize-winning poet Rabindranath Tagore as a “teardrop on the cheek of time,” and I was duly impressed when I stood in the shadow of its marble columns tinted apricot in the early-rising sun. But that sense of grandeur that transcends time is what I, like many others, have felt most among nature.

Pausing our Swiss road trip to pray amongst the Alps brought to life the Qur’anic verses about mountains and their majesty, and I attempted to replicate that sense of connection to Allah in the natural world again when in Lombok. My friend and I would spread our prayer mats out on the balcony in the evenings in front of swaying palm trees and an expanse of golden sky, the adhan filling our bedroom along with the smoky smell of fires burned by neighbouring villagers as they prepared their evening meals. In those moments of prayer and reflection in conversation with my friend, I felt a warmth akin to a homecoming.

On a boat returning from Robben Island to Cape Town, the sight of Lion’s Head against the deep amber of the setting sun struck me in a similar way. The view of the Atlantic was so beautiful that I remember feeling as if my breath had been quite literally taken away, overcome with an awe so profound it was almost painful. The sky transformed before my eyes into a kaleidoscope of colour, lilacs and lemon-yellow fading into pink, silver, and those in between shades that mark the boundary between day and night that I simply have no name for. And yet I wondered what the mountains had seen, what the water had witnessed over time as prisoners were transported across the same route I had just taken. Is the splendour of the natural world a sign of renewal or an echo of all that it’s witnessed? That beauty and pain can coexist, that natural beauty can even distract from the bloodshed witnessed across the world, is a notion that I’ve had to grapple with in many places. 

The Inward Journey

As I visited new destinations and returned to old ones, I realised that all the clichés about travel were true. My perspective and understanding of the world and its people have expanded, and I’ve grown to confidently rely on myself, learning to say ‘thank you’ in more languages than I can remember. Beyond that, I’ve developed a new way of connecting with Allah. I would love citing His words where He encourages us to travel, to seek out and recognise His signs in the horizons and yet I neglected to pay attention to the latter part of that verse – that His signs are also within us. 

Being alone even in the busiest of places, in airports, metro stations and markets, environments far from what’s familiar, makes you sit with yourself in a way that’s far more enlightening than among our home surroundings, where we often insulate ourselves with comfort and familiarity. Imam Ali (AS) said that whoever knows themselves, knows their Lord. Travelling alone or in a new place, with a backpack and little else, I was forced to reassess who I was without the trimmings of daily life and remind myself that no matter where we turn, we are under the protection of Allah. In this light, the earth’s beauty becomes a manifestation of His splendour and its pain a mirror to the kindness and sacrifice of His creation, willing to challenge it. 

The Prophet ﷺ told us to be like travellers in this world. The idea always gave me comfort during times of distress because it would be a reassurance that everything was temporary. And indeed that remains true.

But to travel also means to step out of the comfort zones we often encase ourselves within, mentally and physically, to challenge our perceptions and misconceptions again and again. Travel offers gifts – the opportunity to experience awe, to really feel gratitude, and the chance to change.

To live like a traveller now takes on new meaning – among nature and architectural marvels, in chaos and peace, at home or abroad, I am attentive to the inward journey. The aim is no longer necessarily to seek out belonging but to appreciate commonality, to recognise the value of our world and each other, to learn and grow. Above all, to feel the presence of Allah everywhere.