reading to mama the chapter about her
The Fourteenth Day – Abwa
عن طلق بن علي قَالَ: سَمِعْتُ رَسُولَ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ يَقُولُ:
لَوْ أَدْرَكْتُ وَالِدَيَّ أَوْ أَحَدَهُمَا وَأَنَا فِي صَلاةِ الْعِشَاءِ،
الْكِتَابِ يُنَادِينِي: يَا مُحَمَّدُ؛ لأَجْبُتُه لَبَّيْكَ ِ وَقَدْ قَرَأْتُ فِيهَا بِفَاتِحَة
The Messenger of God (peace be upon him) said:
“If I were conscious of both my parents or one of them and I am in the prayer of Isha’
while I was reading (the Surah) Fateha of the Book and (one of them) call me saying,
‘Ya Muhammad!’
I answer the call (breaking the prayer), “I am present.”
It was on the journey from Mecca to Medina when the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) was six that his mother, Hazrat Bibi Amina (ratu), began to feel unwell. When she no longer had the strength to walk she lay down on the ground. They were near the village of Abwa. The Prophet (peace be upon him) and her were alone except for a servant, Umme Ayman, who was accompanying them.
When Hazrat Bibi Amina (ratu) understood that she would not survive she called her son gently towards her and said the following words to him:
If what I have seen in my dreams is true, then you will be sent as a Prophet by God to inform the sons of Adam of what is lawful and unlawful, and upon this, you will possess majesty and many gifts. You will be sent to complete the submission and religion of our forefather, Ibrahim (as). God is going to protect and withhold you and nations from idols and idol worshipping.
Every living being will die and everything new will wear out. Everyone who becomes old will disappear. Everything is fleeting, everything will leave. Yes, I am going to die as well. However, my name will remain forever because I have given birth to an immaculately pure child and am leaving a memorable and auspicious person behind me.
Moments later she passed away. Umme Ayman and the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) buried her, all the while his tears streaming endlessly down his face. Thus the little boy, who had hardly spent any time with his mother and who had never seen his father, became an orphan. From that moment on, Umme Ayman became the second mother of The Messenger (peace be upon him).
Once the Prophet (peace be upon him) heard one of the Companions call out to someone insultingly, “You who is the son of a black woman!”
In an impassioned tone the Prophet (peace be upon him) uttered the words, “No son of a fair woman holds any superiority over the one who is the son of a black woman, except due to piety. Without doubt, Muhammad is the son of a woman who was fair of skin and his upbringing was by his mother who was dark. So he is, at the same time, the son of both of them.”
On the last day in Mecca, I woke up early again and went to do a last tawaf before I left the city. It was extremely emotional walking around the Ka‘ba thinking about leaving it. In each round, my steps lost their pace more and more till I came down to what might have been a crawl. There were not many people so at one point I went right up to it and buried my face in the Black Cloth. I cried and took in deep breaths of a fragrance I would miss till I smelt it again. As I moved away to give my space to another, I saw a young girl writing with her fingers on the cloth. Like a message one writes in sand or in the air.
In her last touch I remembered a couplet Pir Sahib (ra) recited so beautifully, it was etched in my memory:
اس پردے میں پوشیدہ لیلائے دو عالم ہے
بے وجہ نہیں بیدم کعبے کی سیاہ پوشی
Veiled in this Veil is the Love of both the worlds,
It is not without purpose, O Bedum, that the Ka‘ba is draped in a black cloth.
After I checked out of the hotel I met my driver who had brought a friend to accompany him for the day. I told them that I wanted to go to Medina by way of Abwa to pay my respects to Hazrat Bibi Amina (ratu). The most important, intense and defining relationship of my life has been with my mother. My heart wanted to go here as much as it had wanted to go to Medina and Mecca.
I had been told that it was going to be a different route from the one that people generally take back to Medina from Mecca. I had also been warned that her blessed grave was on its own, not in a graveyard and therefore not easy to find. I wasn’t deterred by that. One of the drivers initially tried to convince me that she was buried in the graveyard near the haram, Jannat ul Maala, but I told him it was in Abwa. Neither of them knew how to get there so they started making some calls and got directions.
A couple of hours later we took an exit from the highway and turned towards where the village was going to be. There was no large collection of houses anywhere. There were no shops or restaurants. We needed directions as to where the grave was exactly but there was no one to ask. I told the driver to stop at someone’s house.
One of them kept saying that the clerics (muta’ali) of the area were very strict. In Saudi Arabia in general but specifically in Abwa. They did not like outsiders coming into the village to seek the grave because the Saudi clergy doesn’t believe in going to graves. Or some of them don’t and some of them do but in Abwa the unspoken rule was that if someone was caught giving directions to pilgrims, they would be punished for it. I don’t know what that meant for citizens but for the immigrants the punishment was plain: their Iqama (residency) would be revoked by being torn to shreds or confiscated there and then.
Needless to say both drivers seemed nervous. I was calm. When we stopped outside a random house I went and knocked on the door. I thought it might help if I asked as a woman. There was no reply so I tried another house. Again there was no reply. Next we stopped at a gas station. The attendant seemed to be African. We asked him about the grave. He looked fidgety and said he didn’t know where it was.
“Let’s move on,” I said. “We need to ask a local.”
A mile or so down the road, we saw a jeep coming our way on an otherwise deserted road. I told the driver to flag them down to ask them. There were two young men in it. They were Saudi and looked like they lived in the area. When the driver asked them about the location of the grave, they smiled mischievously. When the driver asked them again, they pointed at a small hill and muttered something about the grave being over it on the other side.
I asked the driver to take me to the bottom of it and park the car. Neither man seemed interested in coming with me so I told them to wait for me. It was about noon, the sun was sky high and hot. I climbed up the short hill and walked forward as much as I could but I didn’t see anything that looked like a grave. When I came back both drivers looked like they were ready to give up.
“No way,” I said with a confidence unshakeable. “Let’s keep going. We will find someone who will tell us.”
Next we came across a young man working in a brick kiln. The whole area had a look of desertion to it. There were no people anywhere. We pulled up the car to where he was and I rolled down my window to hear what the man’s reply would be.
“I cannot tell you,” he said at first. “I don’t know where it is.”
When I urged him again to guide us just a little, he looked at me closely then shrugged. The best he said he was willing to do was to draw us a map on the dirt road. I was grateful for even that. We all got out of the car so we could understand what he was saying. The map was very basic but it was something. I told the driver to find the first road he had drawn. When we got to it and went a mile down, there was nothing. The drivers again suggested gently that we give up and I ignored them with silence.
A little way ahead I saw a building surrounded by four walls and an older African man standing outside it. “Let’s ask him,” I said. “I will ask him.”
By the time we reached the house the man had gone inside the compound. The gate was open so we drove in. The space was empty and large with what looked like small housing quarters on the side. It too was a brick kiln. The gentleman was now sitting in a chair outside what might have been his rooms. We parked the car and I got out again. I spoke to him in Arabic.
“Sir, we are looking for the grave of the mother of Rasool Allah (peace be upon him),” I said. “We have been looking for a long time but nobody tells us where it is.” The desperation in my voice was palpable. He just shook his head indicating that he too was not going to help us. Just then I heard Urdu being spoken inside. A man in his 40s came out.
“Aap Pakistan se hain?” he asked. I wanted to hug him.
“Ji,” I said almost wailing. “Hum itni se der se Bibi Amna (ratu) ki qabr mubarak dhuund rahin hain aur koi bhi humain nahin batata.”
He smiled. Then he told us again what we already knew. The clerics were crazy and everyone was scared of losing their ability to live and work in the country if they were found giving directions.
“I will tell you though,” he said, undeterred by the consequences. “No, I will take you as far as I can. From there you will climb a small hill. The grave is at the top of the hill and is marked by a black spot where gasoline has been thrown. Your driver can bring me back and then go and wait for you there.”
“Sure,” I said, thanking him profusely over and over.
We drove into what was wilderness on a dirt road and then parked on a side. He pointed at the hill and told me to go up it. I got out of the car and told the driver that I would call him when I was done. He too wanted to wait in the house. The last thing he wanted was for his Iqama to be ripped before his eyes.
I went up the hill quickly reciting the Darood Shareef. I started crying as I climbed, the relief pouring out of my eyes that I had been able to make it. It was true. I was not going to leave Abwa without going to this grave but three hours into the find, I had finally asked the Prophet (peace be upon him) to intercede. And he had. I was there!
The top of the hill was flat. There was no one around for miles it seemed. It was quiet and calm. There was no mound of the grave. Apparently it had been flattened. A large part of the area was doused in fuel. I sat nearby and read the Fateha, then prayed two nafal on the dry, rocky ground. I cried and remembered my mother and thought of the last time that the Prophet (peace be upon him) had been there.
Ibn e Saad narrates that when the Prophet (peace be upon him) was on his way for the Umra Al Hudaybia, he stopped at Abwa.
He said, “Verily Allah has granted me the permission to visit my mother’s grave.”
Upon reaching the grave he tidied it, then sat down and began to cry. The Companions upon seeing him also started to weep and asked, “Why do you cry, Ya Rasool Allah (peace be upon him)?”
He answered, “I remembered my mother’s affection and love so I cried.”
I think I cried harder there then I have ever cried at my own mother’s grave. When I visit it in our village where she is buried, more often than not I hardly cry at all. Usually I sprinkle rose petals over it and then just sit there and talk to her as if she is alive. Not that I can recall one thing I’ve said to her in all the years she has been gone. Then I just walk around the courtyard listlessly, pray for all the dead of our family and leave.
The Prophet (peace be upon him) remembered every single moment and every single place in Medina where he spent time with his mother and happily shared those memories with his Companions. For years after my mother passed, I couldn’t bring myself to think about her much less bring her up in conversation. Sometimes I think when I buried her I buried my heart alongside her too. But since my life continued, eventually I had to dig it back out.
The hadith about him being in prayer and breaking it to answer “I am present” to her call of his name was my most favourite. It created a connection between my Prophet (peace be upon him) and I, a Nisbat (attachment) based solely on that love that we shared for our mothers. That was the reason I had to come. I loved my mother deeply just like the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) loved his mother deeply. I couldn’t leave the country and not pay my respects to her.
Once I finished praying I called the driver. On the way down the hill I picked up two rocks. One for myself and one for my niece and put them carefully in my pocket. We went back to the house. I wanted to give some money to the Pakistani, who happened to be from Multan, for helping us but he wouldn’t take a cent. Instead he gave us tea and biscuits and set us off.
The drive back to Medina from this side was gorgeous. The sun was setting, the light was striking. We passed the mountains of Badr and the driver showed me an alternate road on the side.
“If you take this route, you drive through the mountains and you can see where the battle happened.”
Badr was the first battle of Islam fought on the 17th of Ramadan and was won by the Muslims who were 313 in number against the army of over 1,000 Kuffar from Mecca. They had two horses versus 300, 70 camels against 700. The Muslims took turns, two to three, to a camel. Each time it came the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) turn to disembark and walk, the others sharing the camel with him insisted he take their turns. Each time he refused. Everybody would have their rightful turn. I knew that must have been why the Caliph Umar (ratu) did not take his slave’s turn when he insisted upon it as they entered Jerusalem.
It was the battle before which the Prophet (peace be upon him) prayed all night for victory over the Infidels and got this answer from His Lord God:
إِذْ تَسْتَغِيثُونَ رَبَّكُمْ فَاسْتَجَابَ لَكُمْ أَنِّي مُمِدُّكُم بِأَلْفٍ مِّنَ الْمَلَائِكَةِ مُرْدِفِينَ
Lo! You were praying to your Sustainer for aid, whereupon He thus responded to you, "I shall, verily, aid you with a thousand angels following one upon another!"
And indeed Truth prevailed!
Unsurprisingly, war was unpleasant for the Messenger of God (peace be upon him). But it was prescribed upon him by God and Allah acknowledged this reluctance in the Quran:
كُتِبَ عَلَيْكُمُ الْقِتَالُ وَهُوَ كُرْهٌ لَّكُمْ ۖ
Fighting is ordained for you, even though it be hateful to you.
Was it any wonder that even the battles were many, with him as the commander the casualties were kept to a minimum unimaginable in any military conflict.
During the 23 years in which this revolution under the Prophet (peace be upon him) was completed, 80 military expeditions took place. Fewer than 20 expeditions actually involved any fighting. 259 Muslims and 759 non-Muslims died in these battles – a total of 1018 dead.
I wanted to ask the driver why we weren’t taking that road then but I think the four hours we had spent in Abwa had drained him. That drive clearly would have been longer but I could tell the scenery would also have been picturesque like little else.
“Next time!” I thought to myself. I always like to leave something not done so I have something to look forward to when I come back. I had been to Hazrat Bibi Amna’s (ratu) grave and said a very loving salam to her. The day was already made.
As I sat in the car taking in the receding light I thought about the grief of death. I had lost a mother and a sister at 26. Rasool Pak (peace be upon him) had lost his parents as well as his adoring grandfather by the age of 10. In his 40s, due to living under extremely harsh conditions imposed on his family and his followers by the Infidels, his guardian and doting uncle had passed away followed by his beloved wife, both of whom he had cared for deeply. His pain was so deep the year was given a title, Aam al Huzn, the Year of Grief. In his life he lost three infant sons and three daughters, and many Companions dear to him in war, including his adoring uncle, Hazrat Hamza (ratu).
He always acknowledged the losses, recorded his remembrance of his departed loved ones with sadness and tears. The recorded hadith when his son Ibrahim died is this:
عَنْ أَنَسٍ قَالَ: دَخَلْنَا مَعَ رَسُولِ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ عَلَى أَبِي سَيْفٍ الْقَيْنِ وَكَانَ ظِئْرًا لِإِبْرَاهِيمَ
فَأَخَذَ رَسُولُ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ إِبْرَاهِيمَ فَقَبَّلَهُ وَشَمَّهُ ثُمَّ دَخَلْنَا عَلَيْهِ بَعْدَ ذَلِكَ
وَإِبْرَاهِيمُ يَجُودُ بِنَفْسِهِ فَجَعَلَتْ عَيْنَا رَسُولِ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ تَذْرِفَانِ.
فَقَالَ لَهُ عَبْدُ الرَّحْمَنِ بْنُ عَوْفٍ: وَأَنْتَ يَا رَسُولَ اللَّهِ؟
فَقَالَ: يَا ابْنَ عَوْفٍ إِنَّهَا رَحْمَةٌ ثُمَّ أَتْبَعَهَا بِأُخْرَى
فَقَالَ: إِنَّ الْعَيْنَ تَدْمَعُ وَالْقَلْبَ يَحْزَنُ وَلَا نَقُولُ إِلَّا مَا يُرْضِي رَبَّنَا وَإِنَّا بِفِرَاقِك يَا إِبْرَاهِيم لَمَحْزُونُونَ
As narrated by Hazrat Anas Bin Malik (ratu):
We entered with the Prophet of God (peace be upon him) the house of Abi Saif whose wife had breastfed (his son), Ibrahim, the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) son. He took him to Ibrahim and the Prophet of God (peace be upon him) kissed him and smelt him. Then we went to him and Ibrahim was taking his last breaths and the eyes of the Prophet (peace be upon him) were flowing with tears.
Harzat Abdur Rahman (ratu) said to him, “You (are crying), Ya Rasool Allah (peace be upon you)?
He said, "O Ibn e Auf, This is mercy” and he started crying again.
Then he said, “Verily the eyes send their tears and the heart is saddened, but we do not say anything except that which pleases our Lord. Indeed, O Ibrahim, we are bereaved by your departure from us."
I wondered where I learned to suppress my sadness. Certainly not from my family. How had I come up with the tired old strategy of blocking pain as a means to “protect” myself instead of processing it? Only to find, of course, that it would blow up in my face time and again, wreaking havoc in my life, within and without. I wished I had known more about the Prophet (peace be upon him) sooner in life and it made me sigh deeply as I was reminded of the difference the path a life takes with or without a guide.
Rasool Allah (peace be upon him) shed tears and exercised patience. He surrendered to God’s Will absolutely and trusted that whatever He chose for him, whatever happened in his life was best. The deaths of loved ones didn’t harden his heart like they hardened mine, even if it was mostly towards my own self. He didn’t become indifferent to pain as I pretended to be. His heart only became softer.
This was the softness that caused everything inanimate in the Universe to be in prostration to him in constancy, that left humans in a state of wonder, whether they converted or not. And God, why would God then not continually gaze upon this Creation of His that manifested all of His Beauty in the most delicate manner.
وَاصْبِرْ لِحُكْمِ رَبِّكَ فَإِنَّكَ بِأَعْيُنِنَا
So be patient, for (the) Command (of) your Lord, for indeed, you (are) in Our Eyes.
@the.softest.heart
reading to mama the chapter about her
The Fourteenth Day – Abwa
عن طلق بن علي قَالَ: سَمِعْتُ رَسُولَ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ يَقُولُ:
لَوْ أَدْرَكْتُ وَالِدَيَّ أَوْ أَحَدَهُمَا وَأَنَا فِي صَلاةِ الْعِشَاءِ،
الْكِتَابِ يُنَادِينِي: يَا مُحَمَّدُ؛ لأَجْبُتُه لَبَّيْكَ ِ وَقَدْ قَرَأْتُ فِيهَا بِفَاتِحَة
The Messenger of God (peace be upon him) said:
“If I were conscious of both my parents or one of them and I am in the prayer of Isha’
while I was reading (the Surah) Fateha of the Book and (one of them) call me saying,
‘Ya Muhammad!’
I answer the call (breaking the prayer), “I am present.”
It was on the journey from Mecca to Medina when the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) was six that his mother, Hazrat Bibi Amina (ratu), began to feel unwell. When she no longer had the strength to walk she lay down on the ground. They were near the village of Abwa. The Prophet (peace be upon him) and her were alone except for a servant, Umme Ayman, who was accompanying them.
When Hazrat Bibi Amina (ratu) understood that she would not survive she called her son gently towards her and said the following words to him:
If what I have seen in my dreams is true, then you will be sent as a Prophet by God to inform the sons of Adam of what is lawful and unlawful, and upon this, you will possess majesty and many gifts. You will be sent to complete the submission and religion of our forefather, Ibrahim (as). God is going to protect and withhold you and nations from idols and idol worshipping.
Every living being will die and everything new will wear out. Everyone who becomes old will disappear. Everything is fleeting, everything will leave. Yes, I am going to die as well. However, my name will remain forever because I have given birth to an immaculately pure child and am leaving a memorable and auspicious person behind me.
Moments later she passed away. Umme Ayman and the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) buried her, all the while his tears streaming endlessly down his face. Thus the little boy, who had hardly spent any time with his mother and who had never seen his father, became an orphan. From that moment on, Umme Ayman became the second mother of The Messenger (peace be upon him).
Once the Prophet (peace be upon him) heard one of the Companions call out to someone insultingly, “You who is the son of a black woman!”
In an impassioned tone the Prophet (peace be upon him) uttered the words, “No son of a fair woman holds any superiority over the one who is the son of a black woman, except due to piety. Without doubt, Muhammad is the son of a woman who was fair of skin and his upbringing was by his mother who was dark. So he is, at the same time, the son of both of them.”
On the last day in Mecca, I woke up early again and went to do a last tawaf before I left the city. It was extremely emotional walking around the Ka‘ba thinking about leaving it. In each round, my steps lost their pace more and more till I came down to what might have been a crawl. There were not many people so at one point I went right up to it and buried my face in the Black Cloth. I cried and took in deep breaths of a fragrance I would miss till I smelt it again. As I moved away to give my space to another, I saw a young girl writing with her fingers on the cloth. Like a message one writes in sand or in the air.
In her last touch I remembered a couplet Pir Sahib (ra) recited so beautifully, it was etched in my memory:
اس پردے میں پوشیدہ لیلائے دو عالم ہے
بے وجہ نہیں بیدم کعبے کی سیاہ پوشی
Veiled in this Veil is the Love of both the worlds,
It is not without purpose, O Bedum, that the Ka‘ba is draped in a black cloth.
After I checked out of the hotel I met my driver who had brought a friend to accompany him for the day. I told them that I wanted to go to Medina by way of Abwa to pay my respects to Hazrat Bibi Amina (ratu). The most important, intense and defining relationship of my life has been with my mother. My heart wanted to go here as much as it had wanted to go to Medina and Mecca.
I had been told that it was going to be a different route from the one that people generally take back to Medina from Mecca. I had also been warned that her blessed grave was on its own, not in a graveyard and therefore not easy to find. I wasn’t deterred by that. One of the drivers initially tried to convince me that she was buried in the graveyard near the haram, Jannat ul Maala, but I told him it was in Abwa. Neither of them knew how to get there so they started making some calls and got directions.
A couple of hours later we took an exit from the highway and turned towards where the village was going to be. There was no large collection of houses anywhere. There were no shops or restaurants. We needed directions as to where the grave was exactly but there was no one to ask. I told the driver to stop at someone’s house.
One of them kept saying that the clerics (muta’ali) of the area were very strict. In Saudi Arabia in general but specifically in Abwa. They did not like outsiders coming into the village to seek the grave because the Saudi clergy doesn’t believe in going to graves. Or some of them don’t and some of them do but in Abwa the unspoken rule was that if someone was caught giving directions to pilgrims, they would be punished for it. I don’t know what that meant for citizens but for the immigrants the punishment was plain: their Iqama (residency) would be revoked by being torn to shreds or confiscated there and then.
Needless to say both drivers seemed nervous. I was calm. When we stopped outside a random house I went and knocked on the door. I thought it might help if I asked as a woman. There was no reply so I tried another house. Again there was no reply. Next we stopped at a gas station. The attendant seemed to be African. We asked him about the grave. He looked fidgety and said he didn’t know where it was.
“Let’s move on,” I said. “We need to ask a local.”
A mile or so down the road, we saw a jeep coming our way on an otherwise deserted road. I told the driver to flag them down to ask them. There were two young men in it. They were Saudi and looked like they lived in the area. When the driver asked them about the location of the grave, they smiled mischievously. When the driver asked them again, they pointed at a small hill and muttered something about the grave being over it on the other side.
I asked the driver to take me to the bottom of it and park the car. Neither man seemed interested in coming with me so I told them to wait for me. It was about noon, the sun was sky high and hot. I climbed up the short hill and walked forward as much as I could but I didn’t see anything that looked like a grave. When I came back both drivers looked like they were ready to give up.
“No way,” I said with a confidence unshakeable. “Let’s keep going. We will find someone who will tell us.”
Next we came across a young man working in a brick kiln. The whole area had a look of desertion to it. There were no people anywhere. We pulled up the car to where he was and I rolled down my window to hear what the man’s reply would be.
“I cannot tell you,” he said at first. “I don’t know where it is.”
When I urged him again to guide us just a little, he looked at me closely then shrugged. The best he said he was willing to do was to draw us a map on the dirt road. I was grateful for even that. We all got out of the car so we could understand what he was saying. The map was very basic but it was something. I told the driver to find the first road he had drawn. When we got to it and went a mile down, there was nothing. The drivers again suggested gently that we give up and I ignored them with silence.
A little way ahead I saw a building surrounded by four walls and an older African man standing outside it. “Let’s ask him,” I said. “I will ask him.”
By the time we reached the house the man had gone inside the compound. The gate was open so we drove in. The space was empty and large with what looked like small housing quarters on the side. It too was a brick kiln. The gentleman was now sitting in a chair outside what might have been his rooms. We parked the car and I got out again. I spoke to him in Arabic.
“Sir, we are looking for the grave of the mother of Rasool Allah (peace be upon him),” I said. “We have been looking for a long time but nobody tells us where it is.” The desperation in my voice was palpable. He just shook his head indicating that he too was not going to help us. Just then I heard Urdu being spoken inside. A man in his 40s came out.
“Aap Pakistan se hain?” he asked. I wanted to hug him.
“Ji,” I said almost wailing. “Hum itni se der se Bibi Amna (ratu) ki qabr mubarak dhuund rahin hain aur koi bhi humain nahin batata.”
He smiled. Then he told us again what we already knew. The clerics were crazy and everyone was scared of losing their ability to live and work in the country if they were found giving directions.
“I will tell you though,” he said, undeterred by the consequences. “No, I will take you as far as I can. From there you will climb a small hill. The grave is at the top of the hill and is marked by a black spot where gasoline has been thrown. Your driver can bring me back and then go and wait for you there.”
“Sure,” I said, thanking him profusely over and over.
We drove into what was wilderness on a dirt road and then parked on a side. He pointed at the hill and told me to go up it. I got out of the car and told the driver that I would call him when I was done. He too wanted to wait in the house. The last thing he wanted was for his Iqama to be ripped before his eyes.
I went up the hill quickly reciting the Darood Shareef. I started crying as I climbed, the relief pouring out of my eyes that I had been able to make it. It was true. I was not going to leave Abwa without going to this grave but three hours into the find, I had finally asked the Prophet (peace be upon him) to intercede. And he had. I was there!
The top of the hill was flat. There was no one around for miles it seemed. It was quiet and calm. There was no mound of the grave. Apparently it had been flattened. A large part of the area was doused in fuel. I sat nearby and read the Fateha, then prayed two nafal on the dry, rocky ground. I cried and remembered my mother and thought of the last time that the Prophet (peace be upon him) had been there.
Ibn e Saad narrates that when the Prophet (peace be upon him) was on his way for the Umra Al Hudaybia, he stopped at Abwa.
He said, “Verily Allah has granted me the permission to visit my mother’s grave.”
Upon reaching the grave he tidied it, then sat down and began to cry. The Companions upon seeing him also started to weep and asked, “Why do you cry, Ya Rasool Allah (peace be upon him)?”
He answered, “I remembered my mother’s affection and love so I cried.”
I think I cried harder there then I have ever cried at my own mother’s grave. When I visit it in our village where she is buried, more often than not I hardly cry at all. Usually I sprinkle rose petals over it and then just sit there and talk to her as if she is alive. Not that I can recall one thing I’ve said to her in all the years she has been gone. Then I just walk around the courtyard listlessly, pray for all the dead of our family and leave.
The Prophet (peace be upon him) remembered every single moment and every single place in Medina where he spent time with his mother and happily shared those memories with his Companions. For years after my mother passed, I couldn’t bring myself to think about her much less bring her up in conversation. Sometimes I think when I buried her I buried my heart alongside her too. But since my life continued, eventually I had to dig it back out.
The hadith about him being in prayer and breaking it to answer “I am present” to her call of his name was my most favourite. It created a connection between my Prophet (peace be upon him) and I, a Nisbat (attachment) based solely on that love that we shared for our mothers. That was the reason I had to come. I loved my mother deeply just like the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) loved his mother deeply. I couldn’t leave the country and not pay my respects to her.
Once I finished praying I called the driver. On the way down the hill I picked up two rocks. One for myself and one for my niece and put them carefully in my pocket. We went back to the house. I wanted to give some money to the Pakistani, who happened to be from Multan, for helping us but he wouldn’t take a cent. Instead he gave us tea and biscuits and set us off.
The drive back to Medina from this side was gorgeous. The sun was setting, the light was striking. We passed the mountains of Badr and the driver showed me an alternate road on the side.
“If you take this route, you drive through the mountains and you can see where the battle happened.”
Badr was the first battle of Islam fought on the 17th of Ramadan and was won by the Muslims who were 313 in number against the army of over 1,000 Kuffar from Mecca. They had two horses versus 300, 70 camels against 700. The Muslims took turns, two to three, to a camel. Each time it came the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) turn to disembark and walk, the others sharing the camel with him insisted he take their turns. Each time he refused. Everybody would have their rightful turn. I knew that must have been why the Caliph Umar (ratu) did not take his slave’s turn when he insisted upon it as they entered Jerusalem.
It was the battle before which the Prophet (peace be upon him) prayed all night for victory over the Infidels and got this answer from His Lord God:
إِذْ تَسْتَغِيثُونَ رَبَّكُمْ فَاسْتَجَابَ لَكُمْ أَنِّي مُمِدُّكُم بِأَلْفٍ مِّنَ الْمَلَائِكَةِ مُرْدِفِينَ
Lo! You were praying to your Sustainer for aid, whereupon He thus responded to you, "I shall, verily, aid you with a thousand angels following one upon another!"
And indeed Truth prevailed!
Unsurprisingly, war was unpleasant for the Messenger of God (peace be upon him). But it was prescribed upon him by God and Allah acknowledged this reluctance in the Quran:
كُتِبَ عَلَيْكُمُ الْقِتَالُ وَهُوَ كُرْهٌ لَّكُمْ ۖ
Fighting is ordained for you, even though it be hateful to you.
Was it any wonder that even the battles were many, with him as the commander the casualties were kept to a minimum unimaginable in any military conflict.
During the 23 years in which this revolution under the Prophet (peace be upon him) was completed, 80 military expeditions took place. Fewer than 20 expeditions actually involved any fighting. 259 Muslims and 759 non-Muslims died in these battles – a total of 1018 dead.
I wanted to ask the driver why we weren’t taking that road then but I think the four hours we had spent in Abwa had drained him. That drive clearly would have been longer but I could tell the scenery would also have been picturesque like little else.
“Next time!” I thought to myself. I always like to leave something not done so I have something to look forward to when I come back. I had been to Hazrat Bibi Amna’s (ratu) grave and said a very loving salam to her. The day was already made.
As I sat in the car taking in the receding light I thought about the grief of death. I had lost a mother and a sister at 26. Rasool Pak (peace be upon him) had lost his parents as well as his adoring grandfather by the age of 10. In his 40s, due to living under extremely harsh conditions imposed on his family and his followers by the Infidels, his guardian and doting uncle had passed away followed by his beloved wife, both of whom he had cared for deeply. His pain was so deep the year was given a title, Aam al Huzn, the Year of Grief. In his life he lost three infant sons and three daughters, and many Companions dear to him in war, including his adoring uncle, Hazrat Hamza (ratu).
He always acknowledged the losses, recorded his remembrance of his departed loved ones with sadness and tears. The recorded hadith when his son Ibrahim died is this:
عَنْ أَنَسٍ قَالَ: دَخَلْنَا مَعَ رَسُولِ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ عَلَى أَبِي سَيْفٍ الْقَيْنِ وَكَانَ ظِئْرًا لِإِبْرَاهِيمَ
فَأَخَذَ رَسُولُ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ إِبْرَاهِيمَ فَقَبَّلَهُ وَشَمَّهُ ثُمَّ دَخَلْنَا عَلَيْهِ بَعْدَ ذَلِكَ
وَإِبْرَاهِيمُ يَجُودُ بِنَفْسِهِ فَجَعَلَتْ عَيْنَا رَسُولِ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ تَذْرِفَانِ.
فَقَالَ لَهُ عَبْدُ الرَّحْمَنِ بْنُ عَوْفٍ: وَأَنْتَ يَا رَسُولَ اللَّهِ؟
فَقَالَ: يَا ابْنَ عَوْفٍ إِنَّهَا رَحْمَةٌ ثُمَّ أَتْبَعَهَا بِأُخْرَى
فَقَالَ: إِنَّ الْعَيْنَ تَدْمَعُ وَالْقَلْبَ يَحْزَنُ وَلَا نَقُولُ إِلَّا مَا يُرْضِي رَبَّنَا وَإِنَّا بِفِرَاقِك يَا إِبْرَاهِيم لَمَحْزُونُونَ
As narrated by Hazrat Anas Bin Malik (ratu):
We entered with the Prophet of God (peace be upon him) the house of Abi Saif whose wife had breastfed (his son), Ibrahim, the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) son. He took him to Ibrahim and the Prophet of God (peace be upon him) kissed him and smelt him. Then we went to him and Ibrahim was taking his last breaths and the eyes of the Prophet (peace be upon him) were flowing with tears.
Harzat Abdur Rahman (ratu) said to him, “You (are crying), Ya Rasool Allah (peace be upon you)?
He said, "O Ibn e Auf, This is mercy” and he started crying again.
Then he said, “Verily the eyes send their tears and the heart is saddened, but we do not say anything except that which pleases our Lord. Indeed, O Ibrahim, we are bereaved by your departure from us."
I wondered where I learned to suppress my sadness. Certainly not from my family. How had I come up with the tired old strategy of blocking pain as a means to “protect” myself instead of processing it? Only to find, of course, that it would blow up in my face time and again, wreaking havoc in my life, within and without. I wished I had known more about the Prophet (peace be upon him) sooner in life and it made me sigh deeply as I was reminded of the difference the path a life takes with or without a guide.
Rasool Allah (peace be upon him) shed tears and exercised patience. He surrendered to God’s Will absolutely and trusted that whatever He chose for him, whatever happened in his life was best. The deaths of loved ones didn’t harden his heart like they hardened mine, even if it was mostly towards my own self. He didn’t become indifferent to pain as I pretended to be. His heart only became softer.
This was the softness that caused everything inanimate in the Universe to be in prostration to him in constancy, that left humans in a state of wonder, whether they converted or not. And God, why would God then not continually gaze upon this Creation of His that manifested all of His Beauty in the most delicate manner.
وَاصْبِرْ لِحُكْمِ رَبِّكَ فَإِنَّكَ بِأَعْيُنِنَا
So be patient, for (the) Command (of) your Lord, for indeed, you (are) in Our Eyes.
@the.softest.heart