#35: And You Did Not Kill Them...
A Reflection on Badr, Anfāl, and the Loss of Our Sujūd
I see them.
Not as lines on a page, not as names carved into memory. I see them — in the shimmer of heat rising off the desert, in the crunch of sand under worn feet, in the faces of men who had nothing but lā ilāha illā Allāh to stand on.
The Prophet ﷺ walks ahead. No banners. No fanfare. His blessed feet are caked with dust. His cloak hangs heavy. Behind him, a scattered group — not trained soldiers, not men of war. Farmers, merchants, freed slaves, boys barely men — armed with sticks, blades, whatever they could find.
They are hungry. Thirsty. Outnumbered three to one. The sun beats down like judgment. But their eyes? Their eyes carry a fire no army can replicate.
He stops. He turns to them.
Shūrā.
He asks them what they think — not because he doesn’t know, but because he wants them to know. That this is their path, their weight to carry. And they speak, one by one, voices trembling not with fear, but with longing. Sa‘d stands and says: “We will not say to you what the people of Mūsā said. We will not say: ‘Go, you and your Lord, and fight — we will sit here.’ We say: go, and we will fight with you, to the last breath.”
And something shifts.
Not in the sky. Not in the sand. But in the unseen — where angels are being readied.
The Prophet ﷺ falls into du‘ā. Arms raised, voice shaking. “O Allah, if this group is destroyed, You will not be worshipped on this earth again…”
This is Badr.
Not a battle. A prayer. A moment where the earth shook not from swords, but from sincerity.
And then I see them.
The clash begins. One by one, the veterans of Quraysh fall. Not to superior force — but to men who’d prayed through the night. Dust flies. Swords break. A handful of pebbles is thrown — and the sky shifts.
“And you did not throw when you threw, but Allah threw…”
وَمَا رَمَيْتَ إِذْ رَمَيْتَ وَلَـٰكِنَّ ٱللَّهَ رَمَىٰ
And when it ends… it ends not with celebration, but correction.
Surah Al-Anfāl descends not as a praise song — but as a rebuke.
The first verse? A check on greed:
“They ask you about the spoils…”
يَسْـَٔلُونَكَ عَنِ ٱلْأَنفَالِ
No, the spoils don’t belong to you. They belong to Allah and His Messenger.
Later, more:
“Do not be like those who came out boastfully from their homes…”
وَلَا تَكُونُوا كَٱلَّذِينَ خَرَجُوا۟ مِن دِيَـٰرِهِم بَطَرًۭا وَرِئَآءَ ٱلنَّاسِ
Do not be arrogant. Do not be vain. Do not strut with pride.
Even in victory, Allah disciplines the believers. Because it was never theirs. It was His.
They are told: Don’t dispute. Don’t turn your backs. Don’t think this was your doing.
وَمَا ٱلنَّصْرُ إِلَّا مِنْ عِندِ ٱللَّهِ
“Victory is only from Allah.”
And I sit with this... eyes closed
…
…And then I open my eyes.
And I see us.
A people who were meant to walk behind the Prophet ﷺ, barefoot if we had to, with tears in our eyes and Qur’an on our tongues — now standing on stages, puffed up with borrowed pride, mistaking noise for strength.
I see jets in the sky and slogans on screens, men in uniforms waving flags like idols — and all I can feel is shame.
Because we have forgotten.
We forgot Badr.
We forgot Anfāl.
We forgot that Allah did not praise the believers for their force — He rebuked them even in victory.
And yet here we are. Boosting. Days and days of boosting.
Boasting like Quraysh used to boast. Flaunting like Rome used to flaunt. Claiming glory for what was never ours.
We forget that Allah does not love the arrogant.
He does not love the boastful.
He does not love a tongue that says “we did it” when it should have been saying “O Allah, forgive us — for we know not how You saved us.”
I swear, it hurts.
It doesn’t make me angry. It makes me ache.
Because we were meant to be different.
We were meant to be hanīf — not always pure, but unwavering.
Bowed, yes — but only to Him.
Carved from the same resolute clay as Ibrāhīm (عليه السلام).
We were meant to look at the fire, and walk through it. Not become it.
The Prophet ﷺ warned us.
"You will follow those before you, handspan by handspan, arm’s length by arm’s length, until if one of them were to crawl into a lizard’s hole, you would follow them into it."
And we asked: "Do you mean the Jews and the Christians?"
And he said:
"Who else?"
(Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī, Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim)
And I look around now… and it’s not just the slogans or the parades.
It’s deeper.
It’s the soul of the ummah. Hollowed out.
Wearing someone else’s mask.
Celebrating like them. Posturing like them. Worshipping the illusion of control.
We forgot that this dīn does not rise on arrogance. It rises on submission.
We, Muslims, do not boost.
We bow.
We fall in sujūd.
We weep in gratitude.
We whisper lā ḥawla wa-lā quwwata illā bi-llāh even when the world is cheering.
Especially then.
We attribute nothing to ourselves.
Because we know — deep down — that whatever we have is only what He gave.
And whatever is taken was never ours.
So why are we clenching our fists and thumping our chests — when we were a people trained to raise our hands to the sky?
I sit with this. I choke on it.
And somewhere deep in me, a cry forms — not of rage, but of longing.
Where is our sujūd?
Where is our trembling?
Where is the nation that once stood in the night and cried until the earth beneath them grew wet?
We were not made for this noise.
We were not made to be conquerors of the airwaves.
We were made to be lovers of the unseen — men and women of du‘ā, not displays.
And so I write this not to scold — but because it hurts.
Wallāhi, it hurts.
Because I have seen their faces.
The ones at Badr.
I have walked behind them in my dreams.
I have stood at their graves and wept like a son who has lost his father.
And now, I look around… and I wonder:
Would they even recognize us?
Would they call us their ummah?
Or would they turn away — quietly —
and say: “These are not the ones we left our blood for.”
And then… silence.
The kind that falls when the angels withdraw their wings.
And the ummah that once shook the heavens...
…is left clapping for itself.