For hundreds of years, pilgrims have come to Saudi Arabia to sanctify God in Islam’s holiest site, heeding the command of the Quran: “And proclaim to mankind the hajj. They will come to you on foot, on very lean camel, they will come from every deep and distant mountain highway.”

Today, they also come by bus and aircraft. They traverse between sites in air-conditioned corridors with lanes for those who are older and disabled. They eat in modern malls nearby, and some pay $2,700 a night to stay in towering hotels with views of the Haram, the sprawling mosque built around the black, cube-shaped building known as the Kaaba.

Last year, more than 2,300 people were killed in a crush during the hajj. The pilgrimage has also become a petri dish for disease; many return home with a heavy cough Muslims call the “hajj flu.”

I grew up in a observant Egyptian-Lebanese Muslim family in Canberra, Australia, and at 15 started wearing the hijab. I prayed regularly, memorized the Quran and sought to study Shariah, Islamic law.

But my faith began to shatter in college. I was 20 when I took off my head scarf, feeling I could no longer visibly represent a religion that did not allow women to preach before men, lead them in prayer or serve as witnesses in some judicial matters.

Now, at 38, I have a tangled relationship with Islam. It is the bedrock of my values. It informs how I smile at strangers, give to charity and try to be patient with dentists and landlords. But I date, I own a (modest) bikini, and while I still fast during the holy month of Ramadan, I do not exactly adhere to Islam’s other prescriptions.