I was just a cloth merchant’s apprentice in Mecca, too young to carry a sword but old enough to carry a grudge. My uncle had been killed in one of the early battles, and I had whispered bitter prayers for revenge. When the Muslims drew near in the year 8 after Hijrah — eight years after the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ and his followers had migrated to Madinah — many of us feared war. But I also hoped for it. I hoped they would pay.
Instead, they came quietly. No siege. No burning houses. The Prophet ﷺ, may peace and blessings be upon him, entered our city humbly on his camel. I watched from the roof of my master’s shop, expecting destruction — but what I saw confused me. He lowered his head in gratitude, so close to his camel’s back that I swore he was bowing.
Soldiers followed, calm but alert. I braced for looting. I kept close to the door, heart racing.
Then came the news: The Prophet ﷺ had gone to the Kaaba — the sacred house built by Prophet Ibrahim, known as Abraham — and ordered the idols destroyed. I felt my throat tighten. My father used to say those idols kept us safe. How could one man sweep away hundreds of years of gods?
But even more shocking than the idols falling, was what didn’t fall — us. The people. The city. Our homes. Our lives.
Later that afternoon, the Prophet ﷺ stood among us — thousands of us, some trembling, some angry, some ashamed. These were the very people who had fought him, driven him out, insulted him, and punished his companions. I saw leaders who once vowed to kill him now standing with lowered heads, waiting to hear his judgment.
He could have ordered executions. No one would have stopped him.
Instead, he asked, “What do you think I will do to you?”
Someone near me whispered, “This is the end.”
But then the Prophet ﷺ said, “Go. For you are free.”
I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I had wanted him to suffer for my uncle’s death. And here he was forgiving those who had tried to kill him.
That night, I sat alone by the Kaaba, the last traces of idols gone. I had always thought strength came from swords and revenge. But the Prophet ﷺ showed strength with mercy. He taught us what Prophet Yusuf — Joseph, the son of Yaqub (Jacob) — had said when he forgave his brothers: “No blame will be upon you today” (Qur’an 12:92).
Ma’an, a distant cousin of mine who had mocked the Muslims for years, wept openly and accepted Islam that very evening. And me — the apprentice with a grudge — I knew then that might does not make someone noble. Forgiveness does.
That day, I gave up my anger. And my heart felt lighter than it had in years.
—
Story Note: Inspired by the historical event of the Conquest of Mecca in Seerah and the Prophet Muhammad’s ﷺ forgiveness of his enemies, as recorded in authentic hadith and works like Ibn Kathir’s “The Life of the Prophet Muhammad.” The forgiveness echoed the words of Prophet Yusuf (Joseph) in Surah Yusuf (Qur’an 12:92).
I was just a cloth merchant’s apprentice in Mecca, too young to carry a sword but old enough to carry a grudge. My uncle had been killed in one of the early battles, and I had whispered bitter prayers for revenge. When the Muslims drew near in the year 8 after Hijrah — eight years after the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ and his followers had migrated to Madinah — many of us feared war. But I also hoped for it. I hoped they would pay.
Instead, they came quietly. No siege. No burning houses. The Prophet ﷺ, may peace and blessings be upon him, entered our city humbly on his camel. I watched from the roof of my master’s shop, expecting destruction — but what I saw confused me. He lowered his head in gratitude, so close to his camel’s back that I swore he was bowing.
Soldiers followed, calm but alert. I braced for looting. I kept close to the door, heart racing.
Then came the news: The Prophet ﷺ had gone to the Kaaba — the sacred house built by Prophet Ibrahim, known as Abraham — and ordered the idols destroyed. I felt my throat tighten. My father used to say those idols kept us safe. How could one man sweep away hundreds of years of gods?
But even more shocking than the idols falling, was what didn’t fall — us. The people. The city. Our homes. Our lives.
Later that afternoon, the Prophet ﷺ stood among us — thousands of us, some trembling, some angry, some ashamed. These were the very people who had fought him, driven him out, insulted him, and punished his companions. I saw leaders who once vowed to kill him now standing with lowered heads, waiting to hear his judgment.
He could have ordered executions. No one would have stopped him.
Instead, he asked, “What do you think I will do to you?”
Someone near me whispered, “This is the end.”
But then the Prophet ﷺ said, “Go. For you are free.”
I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I had wanted him to suffer for my uncle’s death. And here he was forgiving those who had tried to kill him.
That night, I sat alone by the Kaaba, the last traces of idols gone. I had always thought strength came from swords and revenge. But the Prophet ﷺ showed strength with mercy. He taught us what Prophet Yusuf — Joseph, the son of Yaqub (Jacob) — had said when he forgave his brothers: “No blame will be upon you today” (Qur’an 12:92).
Ma’an, a distant cousin of mine who had mocked the Muslims for years, wept openly and accepted Islam that very evening. And me — the apprentice with a grudge — I knew then that might does not make someone noble. Forgiveness does.
That day, I gave up my anger. And my heart felt lighter than it had in years.
—
Story Note: Inspired by the historical event of the Conquest of Mecca in Seerah and the Prophet Muhammad’s ﷺ forgiveness of his enemies, as recorded in authentic hadith and works like Ibn Kathir’s “The Life of the Prophet Muhammad.” The forgiveness echoed the words of Prophet Yusuf (Joseph) in Surah Yusuf (Qur’an 12:92).
