Songs
إلى عرفات الله Ila Arafat Allah (To the Arafat of God)
- Year
- 1951
- Lyricist
- Ahmed Shawqi
- Composer
- Riad Al-Sunbati
- Maqam
- Huzam
Lines marked with a gold ornament carry a note — select one to read it.
إلى عرفاتِ اللهِ يا خيرَ زائرٍ
Ila 'arafati Llahi ya khayra za'irin
To the Arafat of God, O best of pilgrims —
Ahmed Shawqi wrote the original qasida in 1910 as a poetic apology to Khedive Abbas Hilmi II, who had invited him on the Hajj — the opening addressed the ruler as "ya bna Muhammadin," O son of Muhammad. For Umm Kulthum, Ahmed Rami cut roughly forty of the sixty-three verses and recast the courtly address as "ya khayra za'irin" — O best of pilgrims — so that every believer bound for Arafat becomes the poem's addressee. A panegyric for a prince was quietly converted into a song for millions.
Sunbati's setting rests on maqam Huzam, the ceremonial, quarter-tone-lit mode he reserved for the sacred qasida, over the stately masmudi rhythm. In the instrumental prelude the drums fall like the footfall of a caravan — the pilgrimage begins before the voice enters, and the whole melodic architecture stays within the older Eastern modes, without a single excursion into Westernized color.
عليكَ سلامُ اللهِ في عرفاتِ
'Alayka salamu Llahi fi 'arafati
God's peace be upon you on the plain of Arafat.
The song has a forgotten first owner. The singer Nagat Ali had recorded a selection of the poem for the radio in 1949, in a setting by Abdel Fattah Badir. When Umm Kulthum wanted the text, broadcasting rules stood in her way until Nagat Ali graciously ceded it — only then did Sunbati compose the version the world knows, an episode that says much about how songs were owned, and surrendered, in mid-century Cairo.
ويومَ تولِّي وجهةَ البيتِ ناضرًا
Wa-yawma tuwalli wijhata l-bayti nadiran
And on the day you turn, radiant, toward the House,
وسيمَ مجالي البِشْرِ والقسماتِ
Wasima majali l-bishri wa-l-qasamati
your face all brightness in its noble lines,
على كلِّ أفقٍ بالحجازِ ملائكٌ
'Ala kulli ufqin bi-l-Hijazi mala'ikun
on every horizon of the Hijaz stand angels
Shawqi's Hajj is a pageant seen from above: angels stationed on every horizon of the Hijaz, greeting the pilgrim like a royal procession. It is the neoclassical imagination at full stretch — the ritual geography of Mecca redrawn as a court ceremony in which heaven itself performs the honors.
تزفُّ تحايا اللهِ والبركاتِ
Tazuffu tahaya Llahi wa-l-barakati
bearing in procession God's greetings and His blessings.
لدى البابِ جبريلُ الأمينُ براحِهِ
Lada l-babi Jibrilu l-aminu bi-rahihi
At the door is Gabriel the Trustworthy, in his palm
رسائلُ رحمانيّةُ النفحاتِ
Rasa'ilu rahmaniyyatu n-nafahati
letters fragrant with the breath of the All-Merciful;
وفي الكعبةِ الغرّاءِ ركنٌ مرحِّبٌ
Wa-fi l-Ka'bati l-gharra'i ruknun murahhibun
and in the resplendent Kaaba a cornerstone gives welcome —
بكعبةِ قُصّادٍ وركنِ عُفاةِ
Bi-ka'bati qussadin wa-rukni 'ufati
itself a shrine of seekers, a pillar for those who plead.
وزمزمُ تجري بينَ عينيكَ أعينًا
Wa-Zamzamu tajri bayna 'aynayka a'yunan
And Zamzam runs before your eyes in springs
The well of Zamzam multiplies into many springs and is grafted onto al-Kawthar, the honeyed river of Paradise — earthly ritual water and promised celestial water made one stream. Shawqi keeps compressing the seen Hajj and the unseen one into single images; Umm Kulthum lingers on "al-ma'sul," the honeyed, letting the word taste of what it names.
منَ الكوثرِ المعسولِ منفجراتِ
Mina l-kawthari l-ma'suli munfajirati
bursting from the honeyed river of Paradise.
لكَ الدينُ يا ربَّ الحجيجِ جمعتَهم
Laka d-dinu ya rabba l-hajiji jama'tahum
Faith is Yours, O Lord of the pilgrims: You gathered them
لبيتٍ طهورِ الساحِ والعرصاتِ
Li-baytin tahuri s-sahi wa-l-'arasati
to a House whose courts and precincts are all purity.
أرى الناسَ أفواجًا ومن كلِّ بقعةٍ
Ara n-nasa afwajan wa-min kulli buq'atin
I see mankind in throngs, from every corner of the earth,
Umm Kulthum made an edit of her own here: Shawqi wrote "asnafan" — in categories — and she sang "afwajan," in throngs, echoing the Qur'anic verse in which people enter God's religion "afwajan" (Surat al-Nasr). One word deepens the scriptural resonance and turns taxonomy into tide; it became the most quoted line of the song.
إليكَ انتهوا من غربةٍ وشتاتِ
Ilayka ntahaw min ghurbatin wa-shatati
ending at Your door their exile and their scattering.
تساووا فلا الأنسابُ فيها تفاوتٌ
Tasawaw fa-la l-ansabu fiha tafawutun
They stand as equals: no lineage outranks another
لديكَ ولا الأقدارُ مختلفاتِ
Ladayka wa-la l-aqdaru mukhtalifati
before You, and no worldly stations differ.
ويا ربِّ هل تُغني عنِ العبدِ حجّةٌ
Wa-ya rabbi hal tughni 'ani l-'abdi hijjatun
And O my Lord — can one pilgrimage avail Your servant
The pivot of the whole work. After the pageantry, the voice drops into first-person frailty: can a single pilgrimage outweigh a lifetime's stumbles? Sunbati marks the turn by bending the melody toward maqam Saba, the mode Arab ears associate with brokenness and supplication — the music itself bows its head.
وفي العمرِ ما فيهِ منَ الهفواتِ
Wa-fi l-'umri ma fihi mina l-hafawati
when a lifetime holds the stumbles that mine holds?
وتشهدُ ما آذيتُ نفسًا ولم أضرْ
Wa-tash-hadu ma adhaytu nafsan wa-lam adur
You witness I never wounded a soul, did no harm,
ولم أبغِ في جهري ولا خطراتي
Wa-lam abghi fi jahri wa-la khatarati
sought no wrong in my speech nor in my secret thoughts;
ولا حُمِّلتْ نفسٌ هوًى لبلادِها
Wa-la hummilat nafsun hawan li-biladiha
and no soul was ever charged with love of its homeland
كنفسي في فعلي وفي نفثاتي
Ka-nafsi fi fi'li wa-fi nafathati
deeper than mine, in all I do and all I utter.
وقدّمتُ أعذاري وذلّي وخشيتي
Wa-qaddamtu a'dhari wa-dhulli wa-khashyati
I have laid out my excuses, my humbleness, my fear,
وجئتُ بضعفي شافعًا وشكاتي
Wa-ji'tu bi-da'fi shafi'an wa-shakati
and brought my weakness and my complaint to intercede.
وأنتَ وليُّ العفوِ فامحُ بناصعٍ
Wa-anta waliyyu l-'afwi fa-mhu bi-nasi'in
You are the Master of pardon: erase with the white light
منَ الصفحِ ما سوّدتُ من صفحاتي
Mina s-safhi ma sawwadtu min safahati
of forgiveness whatever pages I have blackened.
Shawqi seals the plea with a jinas — a twinned-word pun — worthy of the classical masters: erase with the whiteness of forgiveness (safh) what I have blackened of my pages (safahati). Sin as ink, pardon as light on paper; a poet's theology, where the ledger of deeds is literally a manuscript awaiting correction.
ومن تضحكِ الدنيا إليهِ فيغتررْ
Wa-man tadhaki d-dunya ilayhi fa-yaghtarir
For he at whom the world smiles, and who is beguiled,
يمتْ كقتيلِ الغيدِ بالبسماتِ
Yamut ka-qatili l-ghidi bi-l-basamati
dies as the victims of beauties die — slain by a smile.
إذا زرتَ بعدَ البيتِ قبرَ محمدٍ
Idha zurta ba'da l-bayti qabra Muhammadin
When, after the House, you visit Muhammad's tomb
In the original, this verse began "If you visit, my lord, the tomb of Muhammad" — the "lord" being the Khedive. The sung text's "after the House" removes the last trace of the royal addressee and folds the visit to Medina into every pilgrim's itinerary. It is the finest example of how Rami's scalpel turned an occasional poem into a timeless one.
وقبّلتَ مثوى الأعظُمِ العطراتِ
Wa-qabbalta mathwa l-a'zumi l-'atirati
and kiss the resting place of the fragrant bones,
وفاضتْ منَ الدمعِ العيونُ مهابةً
Wa-fadat mina d-dam'i l-'uyunu mahabatan
and eyes brim over with the tears of awe
لأحمدَ بينَ السترِ والحجراتِ
Li-Ahmada bayna s-sitri wa-l-hujurati
for Ahmad, there between the veil and the chambers,
وأشرقَ نورٌ تحتَ كلِّ ثنيّةٍ
Wa-ashraqa nurun tahta kulli thaniyyatin
a light will dawn beneath every mountain pass
وضاعَ أريجٌ تحتَ كلِّ حصاةِ
Wa-da'a arijun tahta kulli hasati
and a perfume rise from under every stone.
فقل لرسولِ اللهِ يا خيرَ مرسلٍ
Fa-qul li-rasuli Llahi ya khayra mursalin
Then say to God's Messenger: O best of the sent,
أبثُّكَ ما تدري منَ الحسراتِ
Abuththuka ma tadri mina l-hasarati
I pour out to you sorrows you already know.
شعوبُكَ في شرقِ البلادِ وغربِها
Shu'ubuka fi sharqi l-biladi wa-gharbiha
Your peoples, in the east of the lands and in their west,
The devotional song suddenly becomes an argument about civilization: the Muslim peoples, holding "two lights," sleep like the Sleepers of the Cave (Qur'an, Sura 18) through their own dark age. This is Shawqi the reformer of the nahda speaking through the pilgrim's mouth — and when Umm Kulthum recorded the song again for television in 1963, filmed by Ahmed Badrakhan with designs by Shadi Abdel Salam, she famously wept as she sang. Broadcast every Hajj season since, it remains Arab radio's pilgrimage anthem.
كأصحابِ كهفٍ في عميقِ سُباتِ
Ka-ashabi kahfin fi 'amiqi subati
are like the Sleepers of the Cave, sunk deep in slumber.
بأيمانِهم نورانِ ذكرٌ وسنّةٌ
Bi-aymanihim nurani dhikrun wa-sunnatun
In their right hands are two lights — the Book and the Way —
فما بالُهم في حالكِ الظلماتِ
Fa-ma baluhum fi haliki z-zulumati
so why do they wander in the blackest of darkness?
وقل ربِّ وفِّقْ للعظائمِ أمتي
Wa-qul rabbi waffiq li-l-'aza'imi ummati
And say: my Lord, make my nation equal to great things,
وزيِّنْ لها الأفعالَ والعزماتِ
Wa-zayyin laha l-af'ala wa-l-'azamati
and adorn its deeds and its resolves with grace.
What this song means
Every year, when the pilgrims begin to gather on the plain of Arafat, Arab radio reaches for the same recording. “Ila Arafat Allah” is not merely a song about the Hajj; for seven decades it has been the sound of the Hajj for millions who experience the season through the airwaves. That an ode written in 1910 to flatter a Khedive became this — the common property of every pilgrim — is one of the great stories of editorial transformation in Arabic song.
Ahmed Shawqi, the “Prince of Poets,” composed the original sixty-three verses as an elegant apology: Khedive Abbas Hilmi II had invited him along on the pilgrimage, and Shawqi, declining, sent the ruler on his way wrapped in angels and blessings, addressing him as “son of Muhammad.” The poem might have remained a courtly artifact. Instead, two decades after Shawqi’s death, it passed through a series of careful hands. The singer Nagat Ali had recorded a short selection for the radio in 1949; when Umm Kulthum fell in love with the text, she first had to obtain Nagat Ali’s gracious waiver. Then Ahmed Rami cut some forty verses and surgically removed the Khedive: “O son of Muhammad” became “O best of pilgrims,” and “if you visit, my lord, the tomb of Muhammad” became “when, after the House, you visit.” The addressee was no longer a prince but anyone with dust on their feet.
Riad al-Sunbati composed his setting in 1951, and it is among the purest examples of his sacred style: maqam Huzam — the ceremonial mode of his great religious qasidas — carried on the processional masmudi rhythm, with a prelude in which the drums fall like the footsteps of a departing caravan. The melody keeps entirely to the older Eastern modes, bending into the broken, supplicating color of Saba exactly where the text turns inward: “O my Lord, can one pilgrimage avail Your servant?” The most famous public performance came at the Azbakiyya theatre in April 1955, and in 1963 she recorded it again for the new Egyptian television, filmed by Ahmed Badrakhan with visual designs by Shadi Abdel Salam — the cameras caught her weeping as she sang.
The sung poem moves through three ascending registers. First, pageantry: angels on every horizon, Gabriel at the door, Zamzam braided with the rivers of Paradise — Shawqi’s neoclassical imagination staging the Hajj as a celestial court ceremony. Then humility: the speaker lays out his excuses and his weakness, asking that the white light of pardon erase the pages he has blackened, in one of Shawqi’s most exquisite puns. Finally, at the Prophet’s tomb, the poem becomes an argument: your peoples sleep like the Sleepers of the Cave, two lights in their hands, wandering in darkness. It ends not in comfort but in petition — “my Lord, make my nation equal to great things.”
Umm Kulthum left her own fingerprint on the text, singing “I see mankind in throngs” — afwajan, the Qur’an’s word — where Shawqi had written “in categories.” It is a single word, and it is everything: the crowd of pilgrims becomes the crowd of revelation. In that small act of editorship, as in the whole history of this song, the archive shows us how a masterpiece is not only written; it is inherited, argued with, trimmed, and finally given away to everyone.
Related songs
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Wulida al-Huda (1949): Shawqi's mawlid hymn in Sunbati's maqam Rast — the boldest verses on faith, justice and equality Umm Kulthum ever sang.
Nahj al-Burda (The Way of the Mantle) نهج البردة
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Nahj al-Burda (1946): Shawqi's answer to al-Busiri's Burda, set by Sunbati in maqam Rahat al-Arwah — the most exalted of Umm Kulthum's prophetic praise songs.
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Salou Qalbi (1946): Ahmed Shawqi's qasida in Sunbati's maqam Rast — the song that made 'goals are never attained by wishing' the proverb of a generation.
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Misr Tatahaddath An Nafsiha (1951): full lyrics & translation of Hafez Ibrahim's qasida in Riad al-Sunbati's maqam Rast setting — Egypt speaks in her own voice.
From the wiki
All articlesConcepts
Understanding Maqam
A plain-language guide to the maqam system — quarter tones, sayr, and tarab — through four maqams heard in Umm Kulthum's songs: Rast, Kurd, Huzam, Farahfaza.
Concepts
Where to Start with Umm Kulthum: A Listener's Guide
New to Umm Kulthum? A step-by-step listening guide: which songs to start with, from Enta Omri to Al-Atlal, and how to enjoy her hour-long live tarab recordings.
Concepts
The Art of the Qasida
The qasida — the classical Arabic ode — was the most prestigious form Umm Kulthum sang. A guide through Salou Qalbi, Al-Atlal, the Rubaiyat, and Nahj al-Burda.