How Rules Are Easing the Pressure on Makkah

Each year, headlines declare that Saudi Arabia is “opening its doors” to more pilgrims for Hajj and Umrah. But what do those open doors actually look like, especially from inside Saudi Arabia?

Behind the announcements lies a dense web of regulation, permits, and policy that governs who can go, when, and how. So what does this new system really mean—for pilgrims abroad, and for ordinary Saudis living just a short drive from Makkah?

In Saudi Arabia, some of the most meaningful journeys begin without fanfare. Growing up in Jeddah, my family often decided to go to Makkah on a Friday afternoon, spontaneously, with no permit, no booking, and no second thought. It was part of our rhythm. But today, even for locals, that rhythm has been rewritten.

Saudi Arabia has reopened visa applications for Umrah 2025, just days after the conclusion of Hajj. The announcement was procedural, but the underlying system is not. Access to the holy cities—once shaped by habit and hospitality—is now managed by apps, permits, and biometric data. The question is not just who can go, but what these changes reveal about the evolving structure of Saudi society.

Historically, Umrah was accessible, particularly given it’s a pilgrimage which can be made at any time of the year. So while Hajj required quota systems and international coordination to prevent issues such as overcrowding, Umrah was more open-ended, especially for those already inside Saudi Arabia.

For residents of Jeddah, just 75 kilometres from Makkah, Umrah was almost an extension of city life. That ease was not limited to Saudis. Pilgrims from abroad would come for Umrah and often overstay, sometimes finding informal work in homes where domestic help was needed and official recruitment was expensive. It was an open secret. The state looked the other way, and society adapted around it.

That has changed. Post-pandemic, Saudi Arabia introduced a more controlled framework. Digital platforms like Nusuk now manage applications and scheduling. Entry to the Grand Mosque requires a QR code. Overstayers face legal consequences. For women from certain countries, travel may still require a Mahram. The rules apply to everyone, including Saudis.

The official justification is sound: crowd management, public safety, and service quality. But on a structural level, this is part of a broader shift in governance. Saudi Arabia is moving from informality to formalisation, replacing tradition-based access with system-based permission. Pilgrimage is not exempt.

For Jeddah, the changes are not just logistical. They’re cultural. The city has long been the Kingdom’s unofficial host for pilgrims, a port of entry and a place where the sacred and the social overlap. The rhythms of Umrah season once shaped everything from airport traffic to dinner conversations. It was common to host pilgrims, extend help, or offer a meal to someone who had stayed longer than planned.

These acts weren’t charity, they were part of being from Jeddah. Today, that space has narrowed. Hosting an overstayer comes with risk. Even local residents must plan their visits via apps, secure time slots, and sometimes wait weeks for approval. Makkah, though physically close, feels administratively distant.

To understand these changes only through the lens of religious tourism would be to miss the larger picture. What’s happening around Hajj and Umrah reflects a deeper recalibration of public life in Saudi Arabia. The state is refining how it governs movement, identity, and obligation. What was once mediated through community is now administered through platforms and policies.

This is not simply about control, it’s about redefining citizenship. The new system doesn't just filter who can enter Makkah. It also signals how the Kingdom now approaches participation: structured, tracked, and, above all, official.

“And proclaim the pilgrimage to the people,” the Qur’an instructs. “They will come from every distant pass.”
(Surah Al-Hajj, 22:27)

They still come. But fewer linger. And those of us who live nearby, who once took proximity as privilege, now move within the same framework as everyone else.

The pilgrimage continues. The devotion remains. But the context has shifted. For Jeddah, and for many Saudis, this is a quiet but profound change. What was once a fluid, familiar practice is now a regulated rite. It is not necessarily worse, just different. And in that difference lies a story not only about religion, but about the Saudi state’s evolving relationship with its people.

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