It had been a long, hot day in Ta’if — that city of stone hearts. I was only a boy, a water-carrier from a nearby village, sent to follow and watch over the stranger preaching in our streets. Not just any stranger — it was him. The one they called Muhammad ﷺ — the final Messenger of Allah.
You won't find my name in any surah or story, but I was there that day, holding a skin of water and a heart full of questions.
We had expected anger. The people of Ta’if had mocked him, rejected his words, and chased him out with stones. I saw it all — the dust on his clothes, the blood on his heels, trickling from wounds where sharp stones had torn his blessed skin. I ran after him as he escaped to the shade of a neglected orchard, his body shaking from exhaustion, but his lips still moving. Whispering. Praying.
Every part of me burned with fury. How could they do this to a man who had brought nothing but truth? Did he not have the right to call down punishment from Allah? I had heard whispers before — that the believers of old, like Prophet Nuh (Noah), had asked for their enemies to be destroyed. Was this not that moment?
I waited behind a tall fig tree, heart pounding, sure I would see the sky crack open. I imagined angels of fire raining punishment on those who had abused the Messenger of Allah ﷺ.
But then I heard his voice — soft, almost broken.
“O Allah,” he said, lifting his hands, “they do not know… So guide them. Perhaps from their children will come a people who believe in You.”
I dropped the water skin.
That was when I knew. He would not curse them. Not even now.
A man — wounded in body, rejected by his people, alone in a strange town — could have asked for the earth to swallow them whole. But instead, he prayed for their children to find the light.
I stood there, ashamed of my own heart. I had wanted vengeance. He wanted mercy.
Later, I would hear elders speak of this moment, found in the books of hadith — like Sahih Bukhari and Sahih Muslim — where the Prophet ﷺ refused to curse the people of Ta’if. He said, “I was not sent to curse people, but as a mercy to mankind.”
Years passed. And yes — the people of Ta’if became Muslims, many of them among the most faithful. I even married one of their daughters.
Now, when my children ask me why our Prophet ﷺ was different, I tell them this story. The day I saw the strongest man I’ve ever known, not raise his fist or voice, but his hands in du‘a’ — a prayer — asking Allah to bring goodness from cruelty.
That was the day I learned: True strength is not found in revenge.
It is found in mercy.
Story Note: Inspired by the story of Ta’if and the hadith in Sahih Bukhari 6030 and Sahih Muslim 2599, where the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ refused to curse his enemies after being mistreated.
It had been a long, hot day in Ta’if — that city of stone hearts. I was only a boy, a water-carrier from a nearby village, sent to follow and watch over the stranger preaching in our streets. Not just any stranger — it was him. The one they called Muhammad ﷺ — the final Messenger of Allah.
You won't find my name in any surah or story, but I was there that day, holding a skin of water and a heart full of questions.
We had expected anger. The people of Ta’if had mocked him, rejected his words, and chased him out with stones. I saw it all — the dust on his clothes, the blood on his heels, trickling from wounds where sharp stones had torn his blessed skin. I ran after him as he escaped to the shade of a neglected orchard, his body shaking from exhaustion, but his lips still moving. Whispering. Praying.
Every part of me burned with fury. How could they do this to a man who had brought nothing but truth? Did he not have the right to call down punishment from Allah? I had heard whispers before — that the believers of old, like Prophet Nuh (Noah), had asked for their enemies to be destroyed. Was this not that moment?
I waited behind a tall fig tree, heart pounding, sure I would see the sky crack open. I imagined angels of fire raining punishment on those who had abused the Messenger of Allah ﷺ.
But then I heard his voice — soft, almost broken.
“O Allah,” he said, lifting his hands, “they do not know… So guide them. Perhaps from their children will come a people who believe in You.”
I dropped the water skin.
That was when I knew. He would not curse them. Not even now.
A man — wounded in body, rejected by his people, alone in a strange town — could have asked for the earth to swallow them whole. But instead, he prayed for their children to find the light.
I stood there, ashamed of my own heart. I had wanted vengeance. He wanted mercy.
Later, I would hear elders speak of this moment, found in the books of hadith — like Sahih Bukhari and Sahih Muslim — where the Prophet ﷺ refused to curse the people of Ta’if. He said, “I was not sent to curse people, but as a mercy to mankind.”
Years passed. And yes — the people of Ta’if became Muslims, many of them among the most faithful. I even married one of their daughters.
Now, when my children ask me why our Prophet ﷺ was different, I tell them this story. The day I saw the strongest man I’ve ever known, not raise his fist or voice, but his hands in du‘a’ — a prayer — asking Allah to bring goodness from cruelty.
That was the day I learned: True strength is not found in revenge.
It is found in mercy.
Story Note: Inspired by the story of Ta’if and the hadith in Sahih Bukhari 6030 and Sahih Muslim 2599, where the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ refused to curse his enemies after being mistreated.
