I still remember how quiet the women’s courtyard grew when I opened my mouth.
I was only fourteen, the youngest in our little circle in Medina. My mother had asked me to deliver a plate of dates to Aunt Safiyya, and I had stayed, hoping to learn something from the older women. What I learned that day changed the way I use my tongue forever.
You won’t find my name in any hadith, but I lived during the time of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ — the final messenger of Allah, the one who brought us the Qur’an, our holy book. I was blessed to live in Medina, the city that welcomed him when he left Mecca, and I often heard his words passed from tongue to tongue.
That day, the conversation started off lightly — the latest market news, a baby’s first steps, a neighbor’s new dress. Then someone mentioned another woman who wasn’t there. “She always acts so proud,” one woman said, shaking her head. “You can see it even in the way she walks.”
Some laughed. I did too. Then I added something I had overheard, something unkind. It felt small — just a few words. But the air changed.
Aunt Safiyya turned to me, her face still but serious. “My dear,” she said gently, “have you ever eaten the flesh of your sister?”
My stomach turned. “No, of course not!” I said.
“Then do not speak behind her back. Allah warns us in the Qur’an — Surah Al-Hujurat, chapter 49, verse 12 — that backbiting is like eating the flesh of your dead brother.” She looked around. “He says, ‘Do not spy on one another, nor backbite. Would any of you like to eat the flesh of his dead brother? You would hate it.’”
The group fell silent. I felt a horrible warmth rise in my face. I hadn’t meant harm. But I did harm, didn’t I?
Another woman nodded. “And didn’t the Prophet ﷺ once say, when asked about backbiting, that it is to say about someone what they would not like? And when asked, ‘But what if it’s true?’ he replied: ‘If what you say is true, you have backbitten her. If it is not true, you have slandered her.’”
I remember that moment as if it’s etched in stone. I had thought speaking the truth — even a hurtful one — was okay if the person wasn’t there. But the Prophet ﷺ taught otherwise. Our scholars say this hadith is found in Sahih Muslim, a trusted collection of the Prophet’s sayings.
I went home shaken. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I asked Allah to forgive me, whispering sincere tawbah — the kind of repentance that comes from sorrow and the promise not to repeat the sin. I didn’t want to carry the weight of another person’s honor on my tongue again.
From that day, whenever I’m tempted to speak about someone who’s not present, I imagine: would I say this if they were here? Would I like these words to be said about me?
My heart found peace when my tongue learned silence.
Story note: Inspired by Qur’an 49:12 and Sahih Muslim 2589.
I still remember how quiet the women’s courtyard grew when I opened my mouth.
I was only fourteen, the youngest in our little circle in Medina. My mother had asked me to deliver a plate of dates to Aunt Safiyya, and I had stayed, hoping to learn something from the older women. What I learned that day changed the way I use my tongue forever.
You won’t find my name in any hadith, but I lived during the time of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ — the final messenger of Allah, the one who brought us the Qur’an, our holy book. I was blessed to live in Medina, the city that welcomed him when he left Mecca, and I often heard his words passed from tongue to tongue.
That day, the conversation started off lightly — the latest market news, a baby’s first steps, a neighbor’s new dress. Then someone mentioned another woman who wasn’t there. “She always acts so proud,” one woman said, shaking her head. “You can see it even in the way she walks.”
Some laughed. I did too. Then I added something I had overheard, something unkind. It felt small — just a few words. But the air changed.
Aunt Safiyya turned to me, her face still but serious. “My dear,” she said gently, “have you ever eaten the flesh of your sister?”
My stomach turned. “No, of course not!” I said.
“Then do not speak behind her back. Allah warns us in the Qur’an — Surah Al-Hujurat, chapter 49, verse 12 — that backbiting is like eating the flesh of your dead brother.” She looked around. “He says, ‘Do not spy on one another, nor backbite. Would any of you like to eat the flesh of his dead brother? You would hate it.’”
The group fell silent. I felt a horrible warmth rise in my face. I hadn’t meant harm. But I did harm, didn’t I?
Another woman nodded. “And didn’t the Prophet ﷺ once say, when asked about backbiting, that it is to say about someone what they would not like? And when asked, ‘But what if it’s true?’ he replied: ‘If what you say is true, you have backbitten her. If it is not true, you have slandered her.’”
I remember that moment as if it’s etched in stone. I had thought speaking the truth — even a hurtful one — was okay if the person wasn’t there. But the Prophet ﷺ taught otherwise. Our scholars say this hadith is found in Sahih Muslim, a trusted collection of the Prophet’s sayings.
I went home shaken. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I asked Allah to forgive me, whispering sincere tawbah — the kind of repentance that comes from sorrow and the promise not to repeat the sin. I didn’t want to carry the weight of another person’s honor on my tongue again.
From that day, whenever I’m tempted to speak about someone who’s not present, I imagine: would I say this if they were here? Would I like these words to be said about me?
My heart found peace when my tongue learned silence.
Story note: Inspired by Qur’an 49:12 and Sahih Muslim 2589.
