Letter to the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ

"I realized that my sorrow for your sorrow was much greater than my sorrow for my own self."

Profuse thanks to H. Masud Taj for rendering the letter in beautiful calligraphic form.

Translated by

Sermons at the Court

[Dr. Farah El-Sharif]

To read the original Arabic letter, visit Sotour.net.

I bid good morning to your light that fills both my outer and inner being. On the day the fire of the Magi was extinguished, the fire of my resentment towards those who try to harm me was also extinguished.

And on the day the balconies of Khosrow fell, every balcony in my soul that did not overlook God alone, fell as well.

And on the day the sky adorned itself with your birth, my soul was adorned alongside you. My Lord hung millions of stars upon the sky, so when nights of absolute darkness would pass, my soul would still glow.

And when I was devoured by grief and worries, there was a lone star named ‘Muhammad’ whose light never faded from me, gently soothing all my wounds.

For this reason, I know full well that this is not the end for me, for the pain is temporary and fleeting, and the glimmer of hope is promised.

I bid you good morning, O Living Prophet.

I have chosen to attach the word "Living" to your name for a reason I know in my heart of hearts to be true. Every time I see the Qur’anic narrative insist that we should not believe in the permanent death of martyrs, or presume that they have died, I think to myself: how much more true this reality must be for the beloved Messenger of God, peace be upon him, who holds the highest, most noble, purest, and most exalted rank?

The constant feeling that you are alive and that you are able to hear me has helped me cope with the loss of my four children after they were killed in cold blood by the Zionist entity. This may seem like an insurmountable tragedy for any mother in the world, but my love for you saved me from this unspeakable loss.

I tell myself: “Listen, Alaa', they have not died; they have only moved to another place. And because this world is but a veil, you cannot see them. Just look at how you perceive the presence of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Perceive your kids in the same way, (that they too, are alive).”

The truth is, you have always aided me on this rugged path of life, my master, O Messenger of God, but this time, I am more grateful to you than ever. You transformed me from a heartbroken, grieving woman into a knowing, inspiring vessel of wisdom.

Through you, my immense grief has become a great teacher.

I came to realize this from the number of messages I receive daily from around the world—from people who tell me that my patience taught them so much, or that my brokenness supported them in their own times of hardship—which they now see as small compared to the magnitude of my pain. How does pain turn into a sagely, wise teacher and how does it transform into an eternal light that traverses the visible (thahir) and the hidden (batin)? This can only happen when one realizes that you ﷺ are the greatest teacher, the most perfect example, the highest model, and the closest beloved.

After a full year of genocide and tragedy in Gaza, I can finally say to you, good morning, O Messenger of God, for your beautiful Lord, who sent you to us, surely decrees nothing but goodness. The great principles of Islam—which you spent your entire life conveying to us—I personally cannot betray, because I feel ashamed before your presence. Everything that has happened to us is but a drop in the ocean of the great trials you experienced. I dispose my grief and patience for the sake of God, with the intention of bringing joy to you from but one woman from your nation, O Messenger of God.

Though we live in a time far from yours, we are living through conditions you have lived through yourself. I am not alone in this; all the people of Gaza are like this, my beloved. I have been forcibly removed from my home more than once, to the point that I wish my hands could go back and feel every wall, every seat, every tile in it.

What pained me most in my displacement, however, was thinking of you, because I thought of how you must have felt when your people expelled you from Mecca, my beloved. I realized that my sorrow for your sorrow was much greater than my sorrow for my own self. This is a matter I cannot explain through language, but it is something that only the soul can taste and its true meaning overwhelms, leaving me stunned before the expression of words.

But I am certain that you understand my heart’s song perfectly.

We were deprived of most foods. There were many days when we lacked bread, the water ran out, and we did not taste fruit for months. We were happy if we found a single piece of biscuit. But in every instance, I felt ashamed to complain because I remembered you. I would tell myself, “My stomach is not nobler than the stomach of the Messenger of God.” And the stone that my master, the Messenger of God, tied around his stomach during his hunger is more honored by God than this world and all it contains.

Oh, how I wished to be that stone on your stomach, my beloved. God allowed you to endure all these great trials while you were the most beloved of creation to Him, all for our sake; a group of people from your nation, in a distant time like ours, who would suffer all these calamities and persevere out of pure love for you. And because we humans like to anchor our understanding of the world in tangible, material ways, you were sent—fully human like us and endured more than we did—while being more beloved to God than us.

I want you to know that your humanness eases so much of the burden we carry. Not only that, but your noble family also completed their greatest of trials too, for what we read of them is that they too have mastered patience. The most inspiring lesson of patience comes through the story of my beloved mother, Lady Zainab, who said when she stood over the blood of her brother, our master Hussain, and her sons, “I saw nothing from God but beauty.”

Last year, I celebrated the occasion of your blessed birth with my children Yamen, Kinan, Orchida, and Carmel. We slaughtered a sheep in joy and distributed it, and we bought a lot of sweets and gave them out. They were so happy, and I looked at them with pride, waiting for the day when they would grow up, so I could tell them about you.

But they didn’t wait for me to do so. Two months later, they were all called to your embrace and hastened to join you. They are with you now, and that is the greatest consolation in this immense trial of mine. Should I ask them to send you my greetings, or should I ask you to send them my greetings?

Regardless, I will continue to celebrate you with them until the end of time, for I carry you all with me in my small heart forever.

This worldly tale will end one day soon, when our last breaths are drawn, but no one can kill your beautiful story or erase your impact on humankind, even after a million years. Praise be to God for you, O Messenger of God, and praise be to God for every part of you, for every breath, every word you spoke, every laugh you laughed, every gentleness you showed, every kindness you gave, every patience you bore, and every sacrifice you made.

All of this—all of you—helps carry us on through this grueling path. How could life not be difficult, for God created man in toil. But you ease this arduous toil, my beloved. Every great sorrow is eased by you, every heavy tear is lightened by you, and every distant hope is realized through you.

Peace and blessings be upon you, O beloved, close, sought-after, healing light that flows eternally within us, and upon your father Abdullah, your mother Amina, your son-in-law Ali, your daughter Fatima, your grandsons Hassan and Hussain, your companions, your wives, your descendants, and all those who pray for you.

Peace be upon you as many as the number of breaths taken from the beginning of time until its end.

From top left: Yamen, Kinan, Orchida, and Karmel