#33: The Day the Light Dimmed ...
And we rose to walk in his footsteps — and in the footsteps of Abū Bakr, ʿUmar, ʿUthmān, and ʿAlī — to care for those who are weak and downtrodden.
Sometimes, we are tested by Allah in ways that are clear — heavy, loud, undeniable.
The kind that shake the ground beneath us. And sometimes, the test comes quietly. Not with an explosion, but a slow erasure — where the presence of someone we love disappears into spaces we didn’t realize they filled.
The loss of a father, a mother, a loved one — it wounds us openly at first. But the deeper ache comes later.
Not the big occasions. But the small things that now carry the weight of everything.
A mother’s quiet smile while sitting with me for tea. A little argument with a sister that vanished within an hour. The lingering scent of a father’s perfume as he left for work. Or simply seeing him — seated in the masjid before anyone else.
These weren’t events.
They weren’t planned.
But they’re the ones that return.
And then — Allah, sometimes in His mercy, reunites us with them.
And in that moment, something inside us whispers:
“Isn’t this how we’ll meet again?
In the gardens of Paradise — face to face, hearts unburdened —
muttaqi’īna ʿalā rafrafin khuḍrin wa ʿuqb-in ḥisān.”
“…reclining on green cushions and beautiful fine carpets.”
(Ar-Raḥmān: 76)
It almost felt like a small preview — a quiet, worldly mercy that hints at the eternal one to come.
And for anyone who has ever felt that quiet grief — I write this with you in mind. But I dedicate it especially to the family of my beloved father-in-law, Yousuf. And to two men I consider my own brothers — Khurram and Imad.
Khurram, a friend and a pillar — quiet, patient, present when presence mattered most.
You are younger than me, but your deeds make you an elder. I have no doubt you will carry your father’s legacy forward — and beyond.
And Imad — I remember the first day I saw you. It was around 8 a.m. during the last ten nights of Ramaḍān, 22nd night, in 2004. A time when the muʿtakifīn would nap, and the masjid would fall into that deep, sacred silence. You wore a beautiful scarf.
And for some reason — when I looked at you, I felt as though I was seeing someone who would walk with me, for the rest of my life… and after. It was in that moment, perhaps, that Allah — through you — connected me to my soul mate.
And now, as I sit with all this — the presence, the loss, the quiet echoes —
I find myself turning to the Sīrah.
We say we read it, but really, we hear it.
Because it was never just written. It was spoken. It was lived. It was wept through. We imagine the Ṣaḥābah reciting these moments — not as historians, but as those who lived through the tremors. They didn’t just memorize the verses. They felt them. And when they told the story of one day in particular — they did not do so lightly.
It was the day that left even the bravest men in tears. The day when all of Madinah fell silent. The day the light dimmed.
And from here, I see myself in that moment…
From this point on, I want you — the reader — to place yourself there.
To see, to feel, to witness — as though it were unfolding before your eyes.
Because only by reliving these moments can we begin to heal from the agony of our own losses. Only by walking with those who walked through the greatest grief, can we find the strength to carry ours.… the day the light dimmed in Madinah.
The wind slowed.
The birds fell silent.
Even the trunks of the palm trees seemed to tremble.
Ibn Masʿūd once said,
“When we buried the Prophet ﷺ, it felt like the Medinan earth no longer recognized our footsteps.”
And I swear, it’s as if I can feel it now — the dust heavy in the air, the silence louder than any sound, as if even the stones knew what had just happened.
It was a Monday — the 12th of Rabīʿ al-Awwal. The sun had risen, but something brighter had been taken away.
In the house of ʿĀ’ishah,
the Messenger of Allah ﷺ lay weak —
his head resting between her chest and her neck.
His eyes looked upward,
and with the very last of his breath, he whispered:
"ar-Rafīq al-Aʿlā… ar-Rafīq al-Aʿlā…"
“The highest companion… the highest companion…”
And then — the veil was lifted.
The word did not spread in sentences.
It spread in gasps.
Whispers.
Eyes widened. Hands on chests.
From alley to alley, house to house:
“Rasūlullāh… Rasūlullāh…”
But no one could finish the sentence.
Because how do you say something that the soul refuses to hear?
In the Masjid, I see ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb — sword drawn, voice shaking between rage and refusal.
“He is not dead!
He has gone to meet his Lord like Mūsā went!
He will return — and cut off the hands of those who say he has died!”
It was not madness. It was love.
It was grief that couldn’t find words — so it found a blade.
Even those closest to him ﷺ couldn’t accept it.
Anas ibn Mālik said:
“I have never seen a day brighter than the day he entered Madinah,
and never a day darker than the day he left us.”
Then came Abū Bakr — walking into the silence like a man with a lamp in a tunnel.
His heart heavier than Uḥud.
But his soul — anchored in Qur’an.
He entered the house.
He removed the covering from the Prophet’s ﷺ face.
He kissed him between the eyes and said:
“You were beautiful in life, and beautiful in death.”
Then he stepped into the Masjid.
The people were broken.
They were shaking like leaves in a storm.
And he said:
“Whoever used to worship Muhammad — then know that Muhammad is dead.
But whoever worships Allah — then know that Allah is Ever-Living, never dies.”
And then — he recited what felt like the first words the Qur’an had ever spoken aloud:
"وَمَا مُحَمَّدٌ إِلَّا رَسُولٌ
قَدْ خَلَتْ مِن قَبْلِهِ الرُّسُلُ
أَفَإِيْن مَّاتَ أَوْ قُتِلَ ٱنقَلَبْتُمْ عَلَىٰ أَعْقَابِكُمْ
وَمَن يَنقَلِبْ عَلَىٰ عَقِبَيْهِ فَلَن يَضُرَّ ٱللَّهَ شَيْئًا
وَسَيَجْزِي ٱللَّهُ ٱلشَّـٰكِرِينَ"
(Āli ʿImrān: 144)“Muhammad is but a Messenger.
Messengers passed before him.
So if he dies or is killed, will you turn back on your heels?
Whoever turns back will not harm Allah in the least.
And Allah will reward the grateful.”
ʿUmar said later:
“It was as if the verse had been revealed that very moment. My knees buckled. I fell to the ground.”
I imagine … and tears roll down my eyes …
Then I remember the ḥadīth.
It reaches me now like a whisper from his grave:
“If one of you is struck by a calamity,
let him remember the calamity of losing me —
for it is the greatest calamity you will ever face.”
(Ibn Saʿd | Ḥasan)
And I cry. Because I recently lost my father-in-law — Yousuf — a man who was a shade for my soul. And something inside me still hasn’t recovered.
And I look at my own father — still alive — and already the dread of losing him one day
is splitting something deep inside me.
But even then,
as my tears fall,
as my heart weakens,
I remember:
This isn’t the first grief.
And it will not be the last.
But the first and greatest was this — when the Prophet ﷺ left this world.
So I ask myself:
Why do I continue?
Why do I rise again — to work, to strive, to write, to train, to serve — when the sweetness of this world has turned to ash in my mouth?
Why?
Because we do not continue for comfort. We do not continue for our names. We do not continue to build palaces in a world that is vanishing beneath our feet.
We continue because the Prophet ﷺ continued — after the death of Khadījah,
after Ṭāʾif, after burying his own children with his blessed hands. We continue because Abu Bakr, ʿUmar, ʿUthmān, and ʿAlī carried the flame — and passed it on with their tears, their blood, their duʿāʾ. We continue because this labour — this aching, beautiful, often unseen labour — is the work of the Prophets.
Not the work of kings. Not the work of empire. But the work done in hunger,
in prayer, in heartbreak — for no reward, except the pleasure of Allah.
"وَأَمَّا مَنْ خَافَ مَقَامَ رَبِّهِ
وَنَهَى ٱلنَّفْسَ عَنِ ٱلْهَوَىٰ
فَإِنَّ ٱلْجَنَّةَ هِىَ ٱلْمَأْوَىٰ"
(An-Nāziʿāt: 40–41)“But the one who feared standing before his Lord
and restrained his soul from its desires —
then indeed, Jannah is his home.”
So I talk to myself.
Quietly.
Broken, but trying.
“Rise.”
Because we are an orphaned ummah.
But we are not abandoned.
We might not have an Abū Bakr anymore.
Nor an ʿUmar. But each one of us has been made a shepherd over his family.
Each one of us carries a lamp — however small.
And maybe now — we must ask ourselves:
If the Prophet ﷺ wept for us without seeing us… Will we not walk for him without seeing him?
The world is yearning.
Yearning for mercy.
For someone to be like Rasūlullāh ﷺ.
For someone to place balm on their wounds.
That is why we must continue.
And I pray —
when the Day comes,
when the Prophet ﷺ stands at the ḥawḍ,
he sees us approaching,
dust-covered, but still walking.
And he smiles.
And says to the angels:
"هَٰؤُلَاءِ أُمَّتِي..."
“These are my ummah…”"لَن يَنقَلِبُوا عَلَىٰ أَعْقَابِهِمْ"
“They never turned back on their heels.”
Beauty Ali