I still remember the heat of the sun that morning — not from the sky, but from my own heart. My name is Samira. I was just a servant girl then, carrying water jugs between tents on the blessed plain of Arafat. That was the day I saw a farewell turn into a beginning.
The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ — the final messenger of Allah — had gathered over a hundred thousand people for Hajj, the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca. I was too young to recall all his teachings fully, but I knew this Hajj was unlike any before it. People whispered it would be his last. They called it the Farewell Pilgrimage.
I had not traveled with the pilgrims. My master had sent me ahead to help with preparations. On that day in Arafat — a wide, open plain just outside Mecca — I saw the Prophet ﷺ from a distance. I never dared come close. But I could hear his voice. It was calm, yet firm, like someone speaking in both love and farewell.
He spoke about the sacredness of life. He said, “Your blood, your property, and your honor are sacred, like this day, this month, and this city.” I looked around at the mountain, the crowds, the bright sky — and suddenly it felt like the earth itself was listening.
Then he reminded the people of something my mother had taught me as a little girl: that all Muslims are brothers and sisters. No Arab is better than a non-Arab, and no white person is better than a black person, except by how much they fear and obey Allah.
Those words made me stop in my tracks. I looked at my dark skin, at my worn clothes. I was a servant girl. In many places, people ignored me. But when I heard his words, I felt seen. I felt like I mattered.
Later that night, an older woman with laughing eyes found me weeping behind a tent.
“Why do you cry, child?” she asked.
“Because... I belong among the believers,” I whispered, “but I did not know it until today.”
She nodded. “Then know this: our Prophet ﷺ said today that he has left us the Qur’an and his teachings. If we hold to them, we’ll never be lost.”
That moment stayed with me. I learned later that many companions wept that day too, realizing that the Prophet ﷺ was saying goodbye.
One of them was Usama, the young son of Zayd ibn Harithah, who had once been adopted by the Prophet ﷺ before Allah later revealed verse 5 of Surah al-Ahzab, guiding us to call adopted children by their true fathers’ names. Usama had joined this final pilgrimage and stood quietly near the Prophet ﷺ, deeply affected by the moment.
Years passed, and I grew older. But every time I faced a hardship, I remembered the voice that rose over the plain of Arafat — reminding us of dignity, unity, and mercy. From that day on, I walked with my head a little higher, not in pride, but in hope.
Because the Farewell Pilgrimage was not just a goodbye.
It was a gift.
—
Story Note: Inspired by authentic narrations of the Prophet’s Farewell Sermon during Hajj, and the life of Zayd ibn Harithah as recorded in accepted Seerah and Hadith sources.
I still remember the heat of the sun that morning — not from the sky, but from my own heart. My name is Samira. I was just a servant girl then, carrying water jugs between tents on the blessed plain of Arafat. That was the day I saw a farewell turn into a beginning.
The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ — the final messenger of Allah — had gathered over a hundred thousand people for Hajj, the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca. I was too young to recall all his teachings fully, but I knew this Hajj was unlike any before it. People whispered it would be his last. They called it the Farewell Pilgrimage.
I had not traveled with the pilgrims. My master had sent me ahead to help with preparations. On that day in Arafat — a wide, open plain just outside Mecca — I saw the Prophet ﷺ from a distance. I never dared come close. But I could hear his voice. It was calm, yet firm, like someone speaking in both love and farewell.
He spoke about the sacredness of life. He said, “Your blood, your property, and your honor are sacred, like this day, this month, and this city.” I looked around at the mountain, the crowds, the bright sky — and suddenly it felt like the earth itself was listening.
Then he reminded the people of something my mother had taught me as a little girl: that all Muslims are brothers and sisters. No Arab is better than a non-Arab, and no white person is better than a black person, except by how much they fear and obey Allah.
Those words made me stop in my tracks. I looked at my dark skin, at my worn clothes. I was a servant girl. In many places, people ignored me. But when I heard his words, I felt seen. I felt like I mattered.
Later that night, an older woman with laughing eyes found me weeping behind a tent.
“Why do you cry, child?” she asked.
“Because... I belong among the believers,” I whispered, “but I did not know it until today.”
She nodded. “Then know this: our Prophet ﷺ said today that he has left us the Qur’an and his teachings. If we hold to them, we’ll never be lost.”
That moment stayed with me. I learned later that many companions wept that day too, realizing that the Prophet ﷺ was saying goodbye.
One of them was Usama, the young son of Zayd ibn Harithah, who had once been adopted by the Prophet ﷺ before Allah later revealed verse 5 of Surah al-Ahzab, guiding us to call adopted children by their true fathers’ names. Usama had joined this final pilgrimage and stood quietly near the Prophet ﷺ, deeply affected by the moment.
Years passed, and I grew older. But every time I faced a hardship, I remembered the voice that rose over the plain of Arafat — reminding us of dignity, unity, and mercy. From that day on, I walked with my head a little higher, not in pride, but in hope.
Because the Farewell Pilgrimage was not just a goodbye.
It was a gift.
—
Story Note: Inspired by authentic narrations of the Prophet’s Farewell Sermon during Hajj, and the life of Zayd ibn Harithah as recorded in accepted Seerah and Hadith sources.
