Dark smoke filled the Arab sky, the smell of flesh and plastic spread all around us. Sirens of ambulances and fire engines roared, dozens of helicopters and jets flew low above us. A second explosion, this time even fierce than the primary one, it was so powerful that I could hear just a high pitch whistle. I turned behind and saw a large tower of fire ready to fall on us.
I woke up to find destruction and havoc everywhere. Dad was holding me and mom was squeezing my brother. We were around 9 and 7, the once in a lifetime pilgrimage had turned into a warzone. Mecca was covered in endless destruction, a fire broke out in the far end of the city that spread like a wild fire over the tent village, acres of tents were burning in mid air. Ten kilometers of live fire and we were lucky to be out of the blaze.
We made our way to the refuge camps at the other end of the city. Dad turned on the radio and heard that fre broke out in the devils tomb during the ritual of stoning the devil. I later heard more than 300 people died and more than thousands were seriously injured.
Eventhough, we lost our belongings, mom was still keen to complete the pilgrimage. While from that day onwards, I began to have deja vus.
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