The sun had barely begun to rise when my father woke me. His voice was soft but certain, and his eyes, though tired, were peaceful.
“Come with me,” he said, handing me my sandals. “We are going to visit the graves.”
I was twelve at the time and didn’t understand why anyone would choose to visit such a place so early — or at all. I had only ever been to the graveyard once, when my grandmother passed away. That day was full of tears and heavy silence. But when I looked at my father now, I didn’t see sadness — I saw a quiet strength.
We walked in silence, the city still asleep. As we reached the edge of the graveyard, the wind carried the soft rustling of the trees. Rows of simple stones stretched across the land. My father stepped forward and gave the salam: “Peace be upon you, O people of the graves. You have reached what we are still promised. If Allah wills, we too shall join you.”
He had taught me those words before, but this time they felt heavier. Realer.
“My son,” he said, lowering himself beside one of the headstones, “do you know why our beloved Prophet ﷺ encouraged us to visit the graves?”
I shook my head. My father was a humble carpenter. He wasn’t a scholar, but everything he taught me came from the way he lived.
“Because it reminds us of the akhirah — the life after this one,” he said quietly. “There was a time when the Prophet ﷺ had forbidden people from visiting graves, but later, he ﷺ said, ‘Visit the graves, for they remind you of death.’”
That hadith — a saying of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ recorded by his companions — is found in the books of Muslim and Abu Dawood. I didn’t know that then. But as my father spoke, something inside me shifted.
We sat there for a long time. I read the names on the stones near us. Most were worn away. One of them was a boy just a little older than me. Another was a woman who had died while giving birth.
“These people once ate, laughed, cried, prayed,” my father continued, “just like us. Now, they wait. Wait for the Day when Allah will raise them again.”
I had always thought of death as something to fear — something dark and far away. But that morning, as the sky turned pink and the light washed over the graves, I felt something else: a quiet truth. Death wasn’t the end. It was the next door.
When we left, I kept looking back. Not out of fear, but out of respect. Those resting beneath the earth were no longer forgotten — not in my heart.
Since that day, I’ve visited the graves often. Not to be sad. But to remember.
Because sometimes, it’s not the noise of the world that teaches you most — but the silence of those who’ve gone before.
Story Note: Inspired by the hadith in Sahih Muslim (976) and Sunan Abu Dawood (3234), where the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said: “I had previously forbidden you from visiting graves, but now you should visit them, for indeed they remind you of the Hereafter (akhirah).”
The sun had barely begun to rise when my father woke me. His voice was soft but certain, and his eyes, though tired, were peaceful.
“Come with me,” he said, handing me my sandals. “We are going to visit the graves.”
I was twelve at the time and didn’t understand why anyone would choose to visit such a place so early — or at all. I had only ever been to the graveyard once, when my grandmother passed away. That day was full of tears and heavy silence. But when I looked at my father now, I didn’t see sadness — I saw a quiet strength.
We walked in silence, the city still asleep. As we reached the edge of the graveyard, the wind carried the soft rustling of the trees. Rows of simple stones stretched across the land. My father stepped forward and gave the salam: “Peace be upon you, O people of the graves. You have reached what we are still promised. If Allah wills, we too shall join you.”
He had taught me those words before, but this time they felt heavier. Realer.
“My son,” he said, lowering himself beside one of the headstones, “do you know why our beloved Prophet ﷺ encouraged us to visit the graves?”
I shook my head. My father was a humble carpenter. He wasn’t a scholar, but everything he taught me came from the way he lived.
“Because it reminds us of the akhirah — the life after this one,” he said quietly. “There was a time when the Prophet ﷺ had forbidden people from visiting graves, but later, he ﷺ said, ‘Visit the graves, for they remind you of death.’”
That hadith — a saying of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ recorded by his companions — is found in the books of Muslim and Abu Dawood. I didn’t know that then. But as my father spoke, something inside me shifted.
We sat there for a long time. I read the names on the stones near us. Most were worn away. One of them was a boy just a little older than me. Another was a woman who had died while giving birth.
“These people once ate, laughed, cried, prayed,” my father continued, “just like us. Now, they wait. Wait for the Day when Allah will raise them again.”
I had always thought of death as something to fear — something dark and far away. But that morning, as the sky turned pink and the light washed over the graves, I felt something else: a quiet truth. Death wasn’t the end. It was the next door.
When we left, I kept looking back. Not out of fear, but out of respect. Those resting beneath the earth were no longer forgotten — not in my heart.
Since that day, I’ve visited the graves often. Not to be sad. But to remember.
Because sometimes, it’s not the noise of the world that teaches you most — but the silence of those who’ve gone before.
Story Note: Inspired by the hadith in Sahih Muslim (976) and Sunan Abu Dawood (3234), where the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said: “I had previously forbidden you from visiting graves, but now you should visit them, for indeed they remind you of the Hereafter (akhirah).”
