Lost in Mecca: When a sacred pilgrimage becomes a parent's worst nightmare

Kuwaiti literary luminary Bouthayna Al-Essa’s Lost in Mecca is a harrowing odyssey that plunges readers into a world where innocence is exploited and faith is tested, following the disappearance of a child during Hajj.

What begins as the kidnapping of a wealthy Kuwaiti child expands into the revelation of an international network of organ traffickers that operates across borders, faiths, and moral codes.

Published in 2024 by Dar Arab with a deft translation by Nada Faris, this Kuwaiti work unfolds with the visceral intensity of a nightmare.

At its centre is the disappearance of seven-year-old Mishari as he accompanies his parents to the Hajj pilgrimage in 2010, a context that heightens both the sanctity and vulnerability of human life.

In setting the kidnapping against the backdrop of the Hajj pilgrimage in Makkah, the author suggests that a disregard for the sanctity of human life inevitably erodes respect for sacred time and place as well. The novel juxtaposes these extremes: the ruthless determination of exploiters who prey on the vulnerable, and the equal resolve of those who fight to restore dignity and justice.

Through a kaleidoscope of perspectives — parents, Mishari himself, and the criminals who view human beings as commodities to profit off — Al-Essa weaves a narrative that is as disorienting as it is profound.

As readers navigate a moral and emotional labyrinth, the novel excavates themes of human trafficking, racial discrimination, despair of parents, crises of faith, and the imperative to protect children.

Commodified bodies

Al-Essa depicts a criminal world where non-Arab children — whether from South Asia, Africa, or Southeast Asia — are dehumanised, their lives rendered disposable.

This hierarchy is epitomised in a chilling exchange between traffickers, when one explains to another: “Black kids are safe, Ruwaina. Nobody cares if they disappear.”

It’s a line that stings with its matter-of-fact cruelty, crystallising the novel’s core indictment: that certain children, by virtue of race and class, are considered less worthy of protection, less worthy of grief.

In another exchange, they casually discuss the “value” of children’s organs, noting that “foreign” children fetch lower prices due to perceived inferiority.

Approaching the story through the lens of Kuwaiti privilege further complicates this dynamic. Mishari’s parents, middle-class Kuwaitis, are initially insulated by their status. Their citizenship and social capital mobilise a search effort that, in the novel, is not readily extended to a South Asian or Black child lost in the same chaos.

And yet, as their desperation deepens, Mishari’s parents are exposed to the same predatory systems that exploit the marginalised.

Grief and the fragility of faith

At the heart of Lost in Mecca lies a profound meditation on the fragility of faith when confronted with unimaginable loss.

The disappearance of Mishari fractures his parents’ spiritual moorings, sending them on divergent paths. Faisal, Mishari’s father, reflects bitterly: “My son isn’t lost … I’m the one who’s lost.”

Once a devout Muslim, his grief over losing his son spirals him into apostasy, his prayers replaced by accusations against a God who could permit such horrors.

By contrast, Mishari’s mother clings to faith with ferocious intensity. She spends hours in supplication, her devotion bordering on obsession, as if piety alone could summon her son’s return. For her, prayer is not only a plea but also a shield against despair.

Al-Essa does not resolve these opposing paths. Instead, she presents faith as a deeply individual struggle, shaped by grief’s unpredictable alchemy.

The despair of parents

The Kuwaiti writer’s gift lies in her ability to illuminate despair without sentimentality. One of the most moving threads is Faisal’s fleeting connection with an Indian man whose daughter is also missing.

The two fathers are strangers, divided by language and culture, yet united by grief. Faisal observes that the man “might be the only person in the world who understood him.”

Despite their “linguistic disparity” they understand each other perfectly as they revert to their mother tongues “the way terrified children scamper back to their parents.”

This moment of solidarity cuts across racial and national boundaries, offering a glimpse of shared humanity amid systemic cruelty. Al-Essa reminds us that grief, in its rawest form, collapses social hierarchies.

In loss, all parents speak the same language.

A child’s terror

Perhaps the most haunting chapters are those told from Mishari’s perspective. The author does not shield the reader from his terror and ordeal.

Confined in a dank room, he whispers his mother’s name, unaware of the fate awaiting him. The narrative captures the claustrophobic dread of childhood helplessness, a fear amplified by the reader’s awareness of what lies ahead.

In her translator’s note, Faris says that readers of the original novel described feeling “as if they were rushing toward an impending doom … toward claustrophobia.”

Faris’s translation retains this atmosphere with remarkable precision, carefully curating and channelling Al-Essa’s stylistic choices into English while preserving their emotional urgency. The prose pulsates with inevitability, trapping the reader in a nightmare they cannot escape.

A call for collective protection

The novel ultimately is a call for collective responsibility; the region, with its wealth and infrastructure, is uniquely positioned to protect the vulnerable.

For example, the Kingdom’s Ministry of Hajj and Umrah, along with the National Committee to Combat Human Trafficking, has implemented strict measures that reflect the nation’s broader commitment to pilgrim safety and international anti-trafficking standards. This includes multilingual helplines, legal and psychological support for victims, and awareness campaigns to prevent trafficking.

The novel’s themes, however, reverberate far beyond its setting. Its focus on the vulnerability of children speaks to universal anxieties about safety in an era of exploitation, making it a clarion call for collective social reform. 

Al-Essa’s narrative, brought vividly to life by Faris’s translation, is both a lament and a provocation. It forces readers to confront uncomfortable truths while affirming the resilience of those who seek justice.

Sumaiyya Naseem is a CNN academy-trained media professional and literary content creator specialising in reviews of novels by Arab, South Asian and Muslim authors. She works as a freelance page production editor by day and explores literary worlds by night

You can find her work on The New Arab and Instagram @sumaiyya.books