The day they harmed him was the day I finally understood who he truly was.
You won’t find my name in any hadith, but I lived in Madinah during the Prophet Muhammad’s ﷺ final days. I was an apprentice in the marketplace—just a teenage boy who delivered firewood and helped traders count their coins. I never imagined that I would live through moments that would teach me about true mercy—not just the kind you speak about, but the kind you see with your eyes and feel in your bones.
It happened weeks before his ﷺ passing. Some travelers approached from the direction of Najd—a desert region far from our city. They were not respectful; their leader, a man I had never seen before, stood in front of the Prophet ﷺ and pulled harshly at his cloak. So hard that it left a red mark on his neck. He demanded, “Give me from what Allah has given you.”
I wanted someone to stop him. Anger burned in my chest. How could anyone speak to the Prophet ﷺ like that? This wasn’t just our leader—he was the one who had led us out of ignorance, who woke every night to pray for us. Even when we wronged ourselves, he ﷺ asked Allah to forgive us.
But the Prophet ﷺ didn’t react in anger. His eyes met the man’s, calm and clear. He ordered that the man be given what he needed.
That moment stayed in my head. I thought about it for days afterward.
And then came the last sermon. Thousands gathered around him ﷺ on the mount, and I was there among them, standing between two elders. His voice called out over the valley with strength and mercy.
“Do not oppress one another.”
I wept, even as I tried to hide my tears. This was the man they tried to kill in Mecca—the one whose family was driven out in the middle of the night, whose followers were tortured, whose face had bled at Uhud when they broke his tooth.
And yet—he still prayed for them. Our teachers said that at Ta’if, when the people stoned him and his body dripped with blood, the angel Jibril — the same angel who brought down the Qur’an — offered to crush them with the mountains.
But the Prophet ﷺ refused.
He made dua—supplication—for them instead.
Not for their destruction, but for their guidance.
“Perhaps their children will believe,” he had said.
That was when I realized: his mission was not revenge; it was mercy.
He ﷺ did not see enemies the way I did. Where I saw insult, he saw potential. Where I saw hatred, he saw hearts that could one day turn to Allah.
I remember his burial. The streets were silent. The world felt different without him. And yet, his teachings remained. I walk past the market now and still hear stories—how even those who once harmed him later accepted Islam.
Because someone, a long time ago, made dua for them.
Someone who loved mercy more than victory.
Someone who loved us more than we love ourselves.
— Inspired by Hadith Bukhari 4460 and authentic seerah traditions —
The day they harmed him was the day I finally understood who he truly was.
You won’t find my name in any hadith, but I lived in Madinah during the Prophet Muhammad’s ﷺ final days. I was an apprentice in the marketplace—just a teenage boy who delivered firewood and helped traders count their coins. I never imagined that I would live through moments that would teach me about true mercy—not just the kind you speak about, but the kind you see with your eyes and feel in your bones.
It happened weeks before his ﷺ passing. Some travelers approached from the direction of Najd—a desert region far from our city. They were not respectful; their leader, a man I had never seen before, stood in front of the Prophet ﷺ and pulled harshly at his cloak. So hard that it left a red mark on his neck. He demanded, “Give me from what Allah has given you.”
I wanted someone to stop him. Anger burned in my chest. How could anyone speak to the Prophet ﷺ like that? This wasn’t just our leader—he was the one who had led us out of ignorance, who woke every night to pray for us. Even when we wronged ourselves, he ﷺ asked Allah to forgive us.
But the Prophet ﷺ didn’t react in anger. His eyes met the man’s, calm and clear. He ordered that the man be given what he needed.
That moment stayed in my head. I thought about it for days afterward.
And then came the last sermon. Thousands gathered around him ﷺ on the mount, and I was there among them, standing between two elders. His voice called out over the valley with strength and mercy.
“Do not oppress one another.”
I wept, even as I tried to hide my tears. This was the man they tried to kill in Mecca—the one whose family was driven out in the middle of the night, whose followers were tortured, whose face had bled at Uhud when they broke his tooth.
And yet—he still prayed for them. Our teachers said that at Ta’if, when the people stoned him and his body dripped with blood, the angel Jibril — the same angel who brought down the Qur’an — offered to crush them with the mountains.
But the Prophet ﷺ refused.
He made dua—supplication—for them instead.
Not for their destruction, but for their guidance.
“Perhaps their children will believe,” he had said.
That was when I realized: his mission was not revenge; it was mercy.
He ﷺ did not see enemies the way I did. Where I saw insult, he saw potential. Where I saw hatred, he saw hearts that could one day turn to Allah.
I remember his burial. The streets were silent. The world felt different without him. And yet, his teachings remained. I walk past the market now and still hear stories—how even those who once harmed him later accepted Islam.
Because someone, a long time ago, made dua for them.
Someone who loved mercy more than victory.
Someone who loved us more than we love ourselves.
— Inspired by Hadith Bukhari 4460 and authentic seerah traditions —
