Compassion for the Enslaved

3
# Min Read

Hadith: Compassion to slaves, Bukhari 30, Muslim 1661

I hadn’t been in Madinah long when I first saw him. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ had just returned from a journey, and the whole city buzzed with joy. I was just a servant then—young and quiet, my name lost in the records of time. My master owned many like me, and we rarely spoke unless spoken to. But that day… that day was different.

My first sight of him was not from a distance. I was helping at the market when I saw a small crowd gather near the masjid—the mosque the Prophet built with his own hands. A man in a worn cloak stood before the Prophet ﷺ with his head bowed. I could tell from his expression and his trembling that he was afraid.

“This man mistreated his servant,” someone said beside me.

I froze. My heart beat differently whenever I heard those words. “Mistreated.” I'd seen pain—men punished for dropping a bowl, women slapped for speaking too softly. Sometimes the punishment was just hunger.

The Prophet ﷺ looked at the man kindly but firmly. His voice, gentle yet commanding, rose with justice.

“Your servants are your brothers,” he said. “Allah has placed them under your care. So feed them from what you eat, clothe them as you clothe yourselves, and do not burden them with what they cannot bear. And if you do, then help them.”

A silence fell over the crowd. I had never heard anyone speak like that before. A master and a servant… brothers?

I couldn’t stop looking at him. He didn’t just turn away after that. He stayed, speaking with the servant too. I saw it with my own eyes: he placed his blessed hand on the shoulder of the frightened man and spoke gently. The fear in the servant’s eyes faded into relief—and maybe even dignity.

That moment planted something deep inside me.

Days passed. One morning, after finishing my chores, I sat beneath a tree near the masjid. A boy next to me shared dates from his pouch. He wore simple clothes—nothing to show he came from a rich family. As we spoke, I learned he was free.

“But you play with us,” I said. “You don’t act like… them.”

He smiled. “The Prophet ﷺ said we’re all equal. The only thing that makes someone better is their taqwa—how much they fear and obey Allah.”

That stayed in my heart.

Later that year, my master unexpectedly freed me. I walked away barefoot, with nothing but freedom and those words I had heard. I went straight to the masjid, tears in my eyes, wondering if I had a place there.

No one turned me away.

I was embraced as a brother—just like the Prophet ﷺ had said.

Even now, so many years later, the memory burns bright. I had seen mercy—true mercy—free someone’s soul before it freed their body.

And because of him ﷺ, I knew I mattered. Because of his compassion, I believed that Allah saw me too.

Story Note: Inspired by authentic hadith from Sahih Bukhari (Vol. 1, Book 2, Hadith 30) and Sahih Muslim (Book 15, Hadith 1661), where the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ reminded the people to treat their servants like brothers, feed and clothe them equally, and not burden them beyond their capacity.

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I hadn’t been in Madinah long when I first saw him. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ had just returned from a journey, and the whole city buzzed with joy. I was just a servant then—young and quiet, my name lost in the records of time. My master owned many like me, and we rarely spoke unless spoken to. But that day… that day was different.

My first sight of him was not from a distance. I was helping at the market when I saw a small crowd gather near the masjid—the mosque the Prophet built with his own hands. A man in a worn cloak stood before the Prophet ﷺ with his head bowed. I could tell from his expression and his trembling that he was afraid.

“This man mistreated his servant,” someone said beside me.

I froze. My heart beat differently whenever I heard those words. “Mistreated.” I'd seen pain—men punished for dropping a bowl, women slapped for speaking too softly. Sometimes the punishment was just hunger.

The Prophet ﷺ looked at the man kindly but firmly. His voice, gentle yet commanding, rose with justice.

“Your servants are your brothers,” he said. “Allah has placed them under your care. So feed them from what you eat, clothe them as you clothe yourselves, and do not burden them with what they cannot bear. And if you do, then help them.”

A silence fell over the crowd. I had never heard anyone speak like that before. A master and a servant… brothers?

I couldn’t stop looking at him. He didn’t just turn away after that. He stayed, speaking with the servant too. I saw it with my own eyes: he placed his blessed hand on the shoulder of the frightened man and spoke gently. The fear in the servant’s eyes faded into relief—and maybe even dignity.

That moment planted something deep inside me.

Days passed. One morning, after finishing my chores, I sat beneath a tree near the masjid. A boy next to me shared dates from his pouch. He wore simple clothes—nothing to show he came from a rich family. As we spoke, I learned he was free.

“But you play with us,” I said. “You don’t act like… them.”

He smiled. “The Prophet ﷺ said we’re all equal. The only thing that makes someone better is their taqwa—how much they fear and obey Allah.”

That stayed in my heart.

Later that year, my master unexpectedly freed me. I walked away barefoot, with nothing but freedom and those words I had heard. I went straight to the masjid, tears in my eyes, wondering if I had a place there.

No one turned me away.

I was embraced as a brother—just like the Prophet ﷺ had said.

Even now, so many years later, the memory burns bright. I had seen mercy—true mercy—free someone’s soul before it freed their body.

And because of him ﷺ, I knew I mattered. Because of his compassion, I believed that Allah saw me too.

Story Note: Inspired by authentic hadith from Sahih Bukhari (Vol. 1, Book 2, Hadith 30) and Sahih Muslim (Book 15, Hadith 1661), where the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ reminded the people to treat their servants like brothers, feed and clothe them equally, and not burden them beyond their capacity.

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