Each photographer carries their own dedication. Some choose to chase social and political stories — like documentary photographer Chiara Wettmann working between Berlin and Beirut. Some devote themselves to beloved creatures, like Mohammed Habib with his horses. And some dedicate themselves to a single place and all the stories it holds — spending years, even decades, learning its every light and shadow.

Abdulrahman Al-Sahli is one of those photographers. For 20 years, he has been documenting Mecca — the holiest city in Islam and a spiritual center for over two billion Muslims worldwide — a place that draws more than 18 million pilgrims every single year. Most of the world knows it through the eyes of visitors. Abdulrahman knows it as home.

How does a place as sacred as Makkah reveal itself to someone who was born and raised within it? And what does it look like during Ramadan, Hajj and Umrah — some of the most significant moments in the Islamic calendar? Through his Instagram account and the stories he carries, Abdulrahman Al Sahli is about to show us.

— Let's start at the beginning. Did your interest in photography begin in childhood?

— Not really. No one in my family worked in photography or the visual arts, so I needed some time to find my own way into it. My first camera was a Canon. I can't remember the exact model anymore, but I still remember the excitement of holding it for the first time and realising it could preserve moments that would otherwise disappear. Like many people, it started as pure curiosity. Over time, that curiosity became a passion and eventually shaped the way I see the world.

I always say that the principle of my work is patience — you don't catch the moment, you wait for it. And I feel the best thing photography did for me is teach me to slow down, pay attention, and notice details that most people walk straight past. If it wasn't photography, I think I would anyway have ended up doing something creative and connected to storytelling. If I couldn't photograph the places and people, I would document them another way — but I am glad photography became the language through which I chose to do that.

— You grew up in Makkah. What was it like to spend your childhood in a place that feels so sacred and almost mythical to the rest of the world?

— It is difficult to describe because it was extraordinary and completely ordinary at the same time. While millions of people dream of visiting Makkah just once, for me it was simply home — the place where I grew up and made my childhood memories.

Many people think Saudi Arabia only opened to the world recently. Yet Makkah has welcomed Muslim pilgrims from across the globe for centuries. Growing up, I was surrounded by people from different countries, cultures and languages. What always fascinated me was how emotional they became the moment they arrived. As a child, I never really understood why people would cry or stand in silence over a place that, to me, was simply home.

It wasn't until I got older that I realised many of them had spent years — sometimes a lifetime — hoping to make that journey. I was incredibly fortunate to experience it every day without even thinking about it. That perspective gave me a deep appreciation for people, culture and human stories, and naturally shaped the way I photograph. In many ways, photography became my way of giving something back by sharing Makkah's beauty and spirit with the rest of the world.

— Photographing people in Makkah requires great sensitivity. Have you ever chosen not to take a photograph because the moment simply wasn't yours to capture?

— Many times. Respect always comes before photography.

People are often surprised to learn that Saudi Arabia is much more photography-friendly than they imagine, but there are still important legal and cultural boundaries. The biggest one is simple: if someone is clearly recognisable, I will usually approach them afterwards and ask whether they are happy for me to keep or use the photograph. If they aren't, I delete it without a second thought. To me, no image is worth making someone feel uncomfortable.

But Makkah goes far beyond the legal side of photography. It is one of the holiest places in the world, and with that comes a different level of responsibility. Even where photography is allowed, photographers are expected not to interrupt prayers, obstruct pilgrims or interfere with moments of worship. During Hajj, crowd management also means that access to certain areas may be restricted, and everyone is expected to follow the directions of the authorities.

There have been countless occasions when I chose not to press the shutter because the moment felt too personal. Sometimes I see someone deep in prayer, overcome with emotion, or sharing a quiet moment with their family, and I immediately know that the photograph doesn't belong to me. Some experiences are simply more important than any image I could create.

Ironically, I think that is one of the greatest creative challenges of photographing Makkah. You are trying to capture one of the largest human gatherings in the world while still respecting every individual within it. The strongest photographs aren't necessarily the closest ones — they are often the ones that convey the scale, atmosphere and humanity of the place without intruding on anyone's privacy.

— You mentioned at the beginning that patience is your guiding principle. What is the longest you have ever waited for a single photograph?

— Let's start with something simple. On a typical day, how many photographs do you think I take? The answer is: it all depends on the day.

Sometimes I take around 50 photographs, and only one to five make the final cut. Then there are days when I spend hours walking without taking a single picture, because I simply can't find a story worth telling. I would rather return home with an empty memory card than create an image that has no meaning. Photography isn't about taking more photographs — it is about waiting for the right moment.

So it is actually quite hard to say which single image demanded the most time. But one that required a great deal of patience was my photograph of lightning over Makkah. I spent a lot of time watching the storm, waiting for everything to align. There was no guarantee the lightning would strike where I hoped, but eventually it did. That image reminded me that patience isn't only about technique or timing — it also requires trust, and sometimes a little luck. The greatest rewards often arrive when you least expect them.

— Wow, that is an amazing shoot. How was it done?

— I positioned myself at a high vantage point and used a time-lapse technique, because lightning lasts only a fraction of a second. The Clock Tower, being one of the tallest structures in the city, often attracts lightning during storms — so I waited, and eventually captured a bolt striking directly above the crescent.

When I first saw the image, I felt a real sense of awe. Moments like that remind us how small we are compared with the power and greatness of creation.

— Do people ever ask you to photograph them?

— Actually, it is almost the opposite. I rarely set anything up or wait for people to ask me to take their photograph. Instead, I wait for a story to unfold. You can't predict it, but you can be patient enough to recognise it when it appears.

Two of my favourite photographs are good examples. One shows two pilgrims helping another person during Hajj — the annual pilgrimage that Muslims make to the holy city. Another captures a son pushing his elderly mother in a wheelchair up a slope. The locations themselves are nothing unusual — anyone could stand there with a camera. What made those moments special wasn't where they happened, but what they revealed. Kindness, loyalty and compassion often appear in the smallest, quietest gestures.

I have always believed that the strongest photographs aren't necessarily the most dramatic ones. They are the ones that tell a story.

— The photograph that really went viral was the image of a woman sitting in the shade cast by her brother. Do you remember how it came about?

— Yes, I remember it like it was yesterday. It was around midday, sun beating down hard, barely any shade in sight. And she just found the one patch of it that existed, which happened to be right behind him. That was it, really.

But what stayed with me wasn't just how it looked in the frame. It was what that tiny, almost throwaway moment actually meant. He wasn't doing anything dramatic — he was just standing there. And yet, without a word, he was shielding her. In Arab culture that bond between siblings, that quiet kind of protection, it runs deep. And there it was, just happening naturally in front of me.

I never thought it would go as far as it did, honestly. That it would land with people so far away from that moment, from that place. But the thing that got me most? Finding out later that she had seen it. That she liked it. That meant more to me than any number the algorithm could throw at me — because she is the one who was actually there. She is the one it belongs to.

— Another photograph close to your heart is the elderly man reading the Quran with a young boy beside him. Did you know these people?

— No, never. And honestly, that is true of most of what I shoot — I don't know these people. I just happen to be there.

I saw them and something made me stop. There was this stillness to the whole scene. The boy was completely focused, and the old man was just guiding him, quietly, no rush at all. It didn't feel like a formal lesson. It felt like something being gently passed down — not just the words, but the meaning behind them. The care. The patience. The kind of thing you can only really learn by sitting next to someone who already carries it.

When I shared it, I wrote: "Teach your children the Quran, and the Quran will teach them everything else." I didn't overthink that line — it was just what the image made me feel. Like the photograph was already saying something, and I was just putting words to it.

— Take us through this one. What are we looking at, and how did you get the shot?

— This was taken at Jabal Al-Rahmah on the Day of Arafah — the most important day of Hajj, falling just before Eid al-Adha. It is the moment where millions of pilgrims gather on the Plain of Arafat, about 20 kilometres outside Makkah, and spend the afternoon in prayer, reflection and supplication. That ritual — known as Wuquf, the standing — is considered the very heart of the pilgrimage. Without it, there is no Hajj.

What struck me standing there was the sheer number of people spread across that rocky hillside, and yet each one completely inside their own moment. Their own prayer, their own silence, their own reason for making the journey. And then across all of that — these bursts of colour. Pilgrims wear white, but the umbrellas are bright, and they serve a real purpose: shelter from heat, and a way to spot your companions in a crowd of millions. From where I was standing, that contrast — vivid colour against all that white — created something that looked almost chaotic at first, but the longer you stayed with it, the more a quiet harmony came through. Like every one of those separate threads belonged to the same cloth.

That is what I wanted the photograph to hold — the scale and the intimacy, both at once. Because that is really what Hajj is. People from every corner of the world, every language, every background, arriving at the same place for the same reason. There is nothing else quite like it.

— What is happening in this photograph?

— This was taken on Al-Ghazzah Street, one of the main roads leading towards the Grand Mosque. During Hajj it comes alive with pilgrims, and this small market was right in the middle of that energy.

What caught my attention was the simplicity of the scene. Prayer beads might seem like a small purchase, but in Makkah they often carry much deeper meaning. People buy them as keepsakes, as gifts for loved ones or as something tangible to take home from a journey that is deeply personal. For many Muslims, simply reaching Makkah is the fulfilment of a lifelong dream. Hajj is something every Muslim hopes to perform, but it is required only once in a lifetime and only if they are physically and financially able to do so. For some people, saving for that journey takes decades, while others may only ever have this one opportunity to be here.

When I looked at that stall, I didn't just see rows of prayer beads. I saw thousands of personal stories. Every strand represented someone's prayer, someone's memory and someone's connection to this place.

I chose to photograph the scene from behind because I wanted the viewer to feel as though they were stepping into the market themselves rather than simply looking at it from the outside.

— Could you tell me the story behind this photograph as well? What is happening in the scene, and how did you capture it?

— This photograph was taken also near Al-Ghazzah Street. What first caught my eye was the mural itself. It was full of bold colours and geometric shapes, yet people walked past it without giving it much attention.

When I shared the photograph, I wrote that sometimes beauty lies in the simplest details, and that is exactly how I felt. The mural already had its own character, but I knew it needed a human element to complete the story. So I waited.

Eventually, two young men sat down in front of it, almost as though they had become part of the artwork itself. They weren't posing or even aware of the camera. They simply happened to be in exactly the right place at the right time, and suddenly the composition felt complete.

— Makkah has changed enormously over the years. Has that changed the way you photograph it?

— Makkah is home. It is where I was born, where I grew up and where so many of my memories were made. Like every great city, it continues to evolve. The skyline has changed, the infrastructure has grown and the way people move through the city is different from when I was a child.

But that has never really changed the way I photograph it. If anything, it has reminded me that I have only scratched the surface. Every street, every season and every gathering brings a different story. The buildings may change, but the emotions don't. Faith, kindness, family and human connection are still at the heart of Makkah, and those are the moments I find myself returning to again and again.

I think that is why the city continues to inspire me after all these years. In many ways, Makkah has been my greatest teacher. It has taught me patience, to slow down and to notice the stories hidden in the smallest moments. And no matter how much the city changes, those lessons never do.

— Is there one photograph that best represents what you are trying to say through your photography?

— Choosing just one photograph is almost impossible because every image tells a different story.

If I had to choose, it would be one of the photographs showing people helping one another. Kindness, compassion and quiet acts of support are what I am always searching for. For me, photography has never been about creating beautiful images alone. It is about finding meaning and telling stories that stay with people long after they have looked away.