The day our Prophet sent a letter to the great Emperor of Persia, I was just a young scribe in the resting hall near the mosque in Medina. You won’t find my name in any surah or hadith, but I watched the messenger mount his camel, scroll sealed and tucked into his robe, and I felt something shift in my heart.
His name was ‘Abdullah ibn Hudhafah. He was chosen to carry the message. I think the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ saw something in him—courage, maybe. Everyone knew this ruler, known as Kisra, was powerful and proud. Persia was an empire of fire-worshippers—great cities, rich palaces, and kings who thought themselves gods. Who, in their world, had dared invite them to worship Allah alone?
But here, in our city of Medina—the place of the Prophet ﷺ and the early Muslim community—it was different. We were taught to love Allah, our Creator, and worship Him alone. When the Prophet ﷺ prayed, I could hear him from the other room. Once, I heard him say a du’a: “O Allah, guide the people of Persia…”
That prayer stuck with me. Not only because of his voice, but because he prayed for people who had mocked him, people who had tried to crush the truth. Who does that? Who hopes for the ones who might harm him? Only a prophet chosen by Allah.
Days passed after the letter was sent. We didn’t have messengers returning quickly, so all I knew was what people whispered in the marketplace: that Kisra had torn the letter in anger. That he had insulted our Prophet ﷺ. When news of that reached us, I looked at the Prophet’s face. He said calmly, “May Allah tear apart his kingdom.”
And that sent a chill through my spine—not because it sounded like a curse, but because he said it with such certainty. Not rage. Not revenge. Just truth.
Years later, I heard from merchants passing through Medina that Kisra was gone—his empire divided, his son murdered. Just as the Prophet ﷺ said.
But it wasn’t just about victory. That’s not what stayed with me.
What I remember most is that the Prophet ﷺ reached beyond the boundaries of fear. He dared send a letter of truth to the high and arrogant. Not with weapons. With words. With invitation. With du’a.
The Prophet’s daily prayers weren’t always silent. Sometimes they planted seeds. I didn’t understand that then. But I do now: faith is not just what we hold—it’s what we carry into the world. Even when the world rejects it.
And Persia—the proud fire-worshipping land—soon opened its doors to Islam. Not because an army arrived. But because long ago, a messenger delivered a letter made not of gold, but of guidance.
I still remember the prayer: “O Allah, guide the people of Persia…”
Some prayers don’t change the world in a moment.
But in time—they burn brighter than empires.
Story Note: Inspired by authentic hadith concerning the Prophet Muhammad’s du’a for the people of Persia (Sahih Muslim 2725) and the historical sending of letters to the rulers (as recorded in classical seerah sources such as al-Tabari and Ibn Kathir).
The day our Prophet sent a letter to the great Emperor of Persia, I was just a young scribe in the resting hall near the mosque in Medina. You won’t find my name in any surah or hadith, but I watched the messenger mount his camel, scroll sealed and tucked into his robe, and I felt something shift in my heart.
His name was ‘Abdullah ibn Hudhafah. He was chosen to carry the message. I think the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ saw something in him—courage, maybe. Everyone knew this ruler, known as Kisra, was powerful and proud. Persia was an empire of fire-worshippers—great cities, rich palaces, and kings who thought themselves gods. Who, in their world, had dared invite them to worship Allah alone?
But here, in our city of Medina—the place of the Prophet ﷺ and the early Muslim community—it was different. We were taught to love Allah, our Creator, and worship Him alone. When the Prophet ﷺ prayed, I could hear him from the other room. Once, I heard him say a du’a: “O Allah, guide the people of Persia…”
That prayer stuck with me. Not only because of his voice, but because he prayed for people who had mocked him, people who had tried to crush the truth. Who does that? Who hopes for the ones who might harm him? Only a prophet chosen by Allah.
Days passed after the letter was sent. We didn’t have messengers returning quickly, so all I knew was what people whispered in the marketplace: that Kisra had torn the letter in anger. That he had insulted our Prophet ﷺ. When news of that reached us, I looked at the Prophet’s face. He said calmly, “May Allah tear apart his kingdom.”
And that sent a chill through my spine—not because it sounded like a curse, but because he said it with such certainty. Not rage. Not revenge. Just truth.
Years later, I heard from merchants passing through Medina that Kisra was gone—his empire divided, his son murdered. Just as the Prophet ﷺ said.
But it wasn’t just about victory. That’s not what stayed with me.
What I remember most is that the Prophet ﷺ reached beyond the boundaries of fear. He dared send a letter of truth to the high and arrogant. Not with weapons. With words. With invitation. With du’a.
The Prophet’s daily prayers weren’t always silent. Sometimes they planted seeds. I didn’t understand that then. But I do now: faith is not just what we hold—it’s what we carry into the world. Even when the world rejects it.
And Persia—the proud fire-worshipping land—soon opened its doors to Islam. Not because an army arrived. But because long ago, a messenger delivered a letter made not of gold, but of guidance.
I still remember the prayer: “O Allah, guide the people of Persia…”
Some prayers don’t change the world in a moment.
But in time—they burn brighter than empires.
Story Note: Inspired by authentic hadith concerning the Prophet Muhammad’s du’a for the people of Persia (Sahih Muslim 2725) and the historical sending of letters to the rulers (as recorded in classical seerah sources such as al-Tabari and Ibn Kathir).
