DUNIA Magazine

Standing by the airport window, I watch planes vanish into clouds. I feel the soul’s pull toward its origin. There is a feeling at the airport, quiet yet insistent, that cannot be ignored. Watching planes glide along the tarmac, lift into the sky, and disappear, I sense something simultaneously human, philosophical, and eternal.

It is not merely wanderlust, nor the romance of travel. It is layered — a human ache, a spiritual pull, a recognition that we are always in motion, always in transit.

And there is a smell. Airports have their own fragile, intangible perfume: metallic chill mingling with the sharpness of unisex cologne, the bitter whisper of burnt espresso steam, the stiffness of dry-cleaned fabric pressed against skin, the faint ache of fresh vinyl and polished wood, paper rustling under numb fingers, and a subtle unsteadiness that seems to drift in the air itself. It is as though the experience of travel has condensed into a single olfactory note — like bottling the aftermath of a flight, both alluring and disquieting, fleeting yet unforgettable.

The human vocabulary attempts to capture this feeling. Fernweh — the German “far-sickness,” the ache for distant, unseen places. Hiraeth, a Welsh longing for a home that no longer exists — or perhaps never did. Saudade, the Portuguese yearning for someone or something absent, tinged with the knowledge it may never return. Yūgen, the Japanese awareness of beauty so profound it moves the soul without explanation. Sehnsucht, the yearning for an undefined, unreachable ideal.

These are the surface layers that rise when I watch a plane lift from the runway:

The ache of wanting to be aboard.

The weight of unseen goodbyes and reunions.

The sense that I am meant to be somewhere — anywhere — else.

A hunger for the unknown, mourning the places my feet have never touched.

The awareness of the world’s vastness, yet contained within the frame of glass before me.

Beneath these human layers lies something older, something eternal, shaped by faith and ancestry: the soul’s recognition of its true origin. I remember the words: we are passengers, guests, travellers. We are Musafir.

In this recognition, I feel vast, for I sense the immensity of creation. I feel infinitesimal, for I am a speck moving within the design of the Infinite. The runway whispers a quiet truth: you were never meant to stay here. This is not your forever home.

It is the fitrah ache — the pull of the heart toward its final destination, the meeting with Allah. The soul recognizes itself in transit, suspended between origin and return. Airports become more than terminals; planes more than machines. They are reflections of life itself, of the passage from beginning to end, and beyond.

Arabic offers words to hold this depth:

Safarqalb – the journey of the heart.

Ghurba al-Ruh – the exile of the soul.

Haneen al-Afaq – longing for the horizons.

Musafira – the one who travels between worlds.

Safrah – a journey that carries rest within it.

At the deepest layer, the truest name appears: Rihlat al-Fitrah — the journey back to our origin, the soul’s first home with Allah.

This understanding is reinforced by scripture:

> “Every soul will taste death…” (Aal ‘Imran 3:185)

“Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return.” (Al-Baqarah 2:156)

“And this worldly life is nothing but diversion and amusement…” (Al-‘Ankabut 29:64)

“Be in this world as if you were a stranger or a traveler.” — Prophet Muhammad ﷺ

At the airport, two scenes converge in my mind. One is modern: the runway, the line of planes, the hum of engines, departure boards announcing cities like distant stars. The other is ancient: vast deserts under a merciless sun, men bowing in prayer, women carrying bukhoor, the scent of coffee, bread torn into olive oil and hummus, the dawn of life itself.

Airports and deserts, planes and prayer, are inseparable in this vision. They are both spaces of transit, reminders that the journey itself is sacred. They point toward Barzakh, the intermediary realm between this temporal life and the eternal, where the soul pauses between worlds, aware of what has passed and what is to come. Every flight, every boarding call, gestures toward this liminal space: teaching the impermanence of all worldly attachments, the necessity of movement, and the inevitability of the ultimate arrival.

To watch a plane ascend is to witness possibility itself, fragile and absolute. To feel the pull of horizons is to feel the soul remember its origin. To stand unmoving amid movement is to understand impermanence: we are Musafir, guests of this world, travellers in both time and spirit.

Airports are not merely gateways between cities; they are spaces that reveal the human condition. The hum of engines, the announcements of departures, the fragile, pervasive scent of travel — all speak of impermanence, expectation, and the inevitability of transition.

Standing there, I understand: every human heart carries its own Rihlat al-Fitrah. Every traveller, every plane, every horizon is a reminder. You were never meant to stay. Your departure is inevitable. Your arrival awaits beyond this world.

We are travellers — we always have been, and we always will be.

—
Nabiha Aijaz is a published author and literature student with a Master’s degree from the UK. Her debut poetry collection, We Watered the Wounded Chrysanthemum and Called It My Dear Daughter, blends poetry, philosophy, and personal narrative. Her work explores themes of identity, longing, grief, and the human search for meaning through cultural, spiritual, and sensory experiences.