The Greatest Love Story in the Prophet’s Life

 

The Greatest Love Story in the Prophet’s Life

The Tale of Khadija’s Necklace and Aisha’s Jealousy… How Women Guided Hamza ibn Abdul-Muttalib and Umar ibn Al-Khattab to Faith 

 

Friday, 5th Ramadan 1440 AH – May 10, 2019 – Issue No. 48367** 

*By Dr. Muhammad Hussein Abul-Hasan* 

 

Women were the first believers, the first martyrs, and the builders of Islamic civilization… And "the fragile vessels" (a metaphor for women) are one of the keys to Paradise. 

 

How do extremists and "advocates of jihad al-nikah" (a distorted concept of marriage) contradict Islam’s teachings regarding women? 

 

 

An overwhelming silence, where one could almost hear the pulse of blood in the veins. A stillness wrapped in majesty inside a secluded cave atop a mountain. A descendant of Abraham, accustomed to living in purity, contemplating with patience, observing with insight, and worshipping in piety—a devoted man kept awake by longing and sleeplessness. Then, destiny whispered into the ear of the future. 

 

The heavenly messenger descended, carrying God’s light—a divine charter for humanity. The heavens proclaimed their chosen one. Muhammad ibn Abdullah became the Messenger of the Lord of the Worlds. Everything changed for eternity. The chemistry of time, of people, of life—faith surged forth in its blessed might, while disbelief staggered and falsehood crumbled. 

 

The "charge of light" from the Highest Heavens was overwhelming. Though the Chosen One had been prepared meticulously—destined by the Almighty to bring salvation to the world, to carry God’s word through righteous prophecy, irrefutable proof, and bestowed mercy—Muhammad’s encounter with the Trustworthy Gabriel was not easy. 

 

"Read," Gabriel said, embracing him tightly until he was utterly exhausted. (Note that the command was "Read," not "Pray" or "Fast." This was the beginning of a civilization founded on reading, knowledge, and learning.) The embrace was repeated three times, each time bringing him near death—so he could bear the weight of the message, the trials of struggle, and the divine power bestowed upon him. Then came the glad tidings: *"O Muhammad, you are the Messenger of God.

 

Overwhelmed, the Prophet trembled. The angel vanished. Muhammad staggered through the sand, reaching his home, collapsing into the arms of his wife, Khadija bint Khuwaylid. He told her what had happened. She went to her wise cousin, Waraqa ibn Nawfal, to verify the event, then returned to reassure her husband—affirming his radiant role in humanity’s future. *"You are the Messenger of God, like Moses and Jesus before you.

 

What Khadija did was worthy of a woman chosen by fate to be the companion of the Prophet. The renowned French Orientalist Emile Dermenghem, in his book *The Life of Muhammad*, elaborates on Khadija’s reaction when her husband returned from Cave Hira, frightened and shaken. She restored his calm, showering him with a lover’s tenderness, a wife’s devotion, and a mother’s care, embracing him and saying: 

 

You uphold kinship, bear others' burdens, assist the needy, honor guests, and stand for truth. God will never forsake you."* 

 

Khadija surpassed all men and women in faith. Her kindness remains a debt upon every Muslim until Judgment Day! 

 

Biographical accounts agree that she first employed young Muhammad in her trade. Witnessing his honesty, integrity, and trustworthiness, she married him despite his poverty—choosing him over Quraysh’s wealthy elites who sought her hand. Her admiration for him, as Al-Isfahani notes in *Proofs of Prophethood*, was profound. She was the first to believe in his message, before all others—supporting him when people denied him, sheltering him when they expelled him, and financing his mission when he dedicated himself to prophethood. 

 

Whenever grief weighed on him, she eased his heart. It was as if God created Muhammad and Khadija as a true love story—a model for all lovers, all spouses seeking righteousness and success. The Orientalist Margoliouth, in *Muhammad and the Rise of Islam*, even marks the Prophet’s life from the day he met Khadija, while dating his migration to Medina from the day Mecca lost her. 

 

When relentless trials befell the Muslims, Khadija stood firm as a mountain—steadfast and resolute. God took her two young sons, Qasim and Abdullah, yet she endured with patience. She bid farewell to her daughter Ruqayya and son-in-law Uthman ibn Affan as they migrated to Abyssinia. She witnessed her husband’s unwavering commitment to truth, refusing to compromise even slightly. Alongside his uncle Abu Talib, she supported the Prophet with all her wealth, influence, and strength. 

 

Paganism was confounded. The disbelievers unleashed brutal torment upon the faithful. Quraysh boycotted the Muslims, besieging them—yet Khadija stood firm, abandoning her home to endure three years of hardship in the valley with her beloved Prophet (peace be upon him), suffering hunger, thirst, and poverty despite her noble wealth—until the siege collapsed. 

 

For her immense virtue, God Almighty granted her glad tidings of Paradise. Gabriel once told the Prophet: *"O Messenger of God, Khadija comes to you with a vessel of food. When she arrives, convey greetings from her Lord and from me, and give her the good news of a house in Paradise—a tranquil abode free from clamor and toil."* 

 

Khadija was Muhammad’s first love, a love that permeated his heart. She embodied the highest forms of devotion and sacrifice. The noble Prophet said of her: *"The best women of Paradise are Khadija bint Khuwaylid, Fatima bint Muhammad, Maryam bint Imran, and Asiya bint Muzahim, the wife of Pharaoh."* 

 

He married no other woman during her lifetime. The year of her death (along with Abu Talib’s) was named *"The Year of Sorrow."* He stood alone, grieving their separation—her memory an eternal flame in his heart. He often remembered her, favoring her above all his wives. 

 

Lady Aisha once said: *"I was never more jealous of any of the Prophet’s wives than I was of Khadija—though I never saw her. But he mentioned her so often, even slaughtering a sheep and distributing its meat among her friends."* Once, she remarked: *"It’s as if Khadija was the only woman in the world!"* The Prophet, still enamored, replied: *"She was indeed… and she bore me children."* Despite his deep love for Aisha, his love for Khadija surpassed all. Though she passed away, she never left his soul. 

 

After the Battle of Badr, when the polytheists sought to ransom their captives—including Al-As ibn Al-Rabi’, the husband of the Prophet’s daughter Zainab (though Islam had separated them)—Zainab sent a ransom with *Khadija’s necklace* included. When the Prophet saw it, his heart softened. He asked his companions: *"If you see fit to release her captive and return her wealth, do so."* They agreed. 

 

See how Khadija’s necklace stirred his emotions (peace be upon him)—how he pleaded for Zainab’s sake, and how his companions compassionately obliged. And why not? It was the necklace of the woman whose virtues left the Prophet in awe. She gave him everything—herself, her effort, her wealth, her home—yet never boasted. She became a role model for all women, earning God’s pleasure. 

 

Since the world was shaken by this *"Great News"* and Islam’s light illuminated the earth, Khadija remains a radiant spirit from the past—stirring emotions, inspiring awe at her wisdom and greatness. In her home, God’s light descended upon His Messenger’s heart, with Khadija as his shield against trials. A woman without equal, endowed with purity, faith, and readiness to embrace truth. 

 

In the eighth year after Hijra, the Prophet (peace be upon him) entered Mecca. At night, he did not stay in any companion’s home—instead, he pitched his tent beside Khadija’s grave, as if the conquest had unlocked springs of memory. Once, they were Islam’s only followers amidst a sea of disbelief. Now, the pain of separation mingled with the joy of victory, and the Prophet’s heart whispered: *"You were right, Khadija, when you said: 'God will never forsake you.'"* 

 

Many know famous love stories—Antara and Abla, Qays and Layla, Romeo and Juliet—but few recognize history’s greatest love story: Muhammad and Khadija. The Prophet’s actions show that Islam is not just laws, morals, and beliefs—but also a religion of love, peace, and mercy, elevating human emotions toward all creation, especially one’s beloved spouse. 

 

Yet extremists today forget this. Look at ISIS’s atrocities, degrading humanity—especially women—through practices like "jihad al-nikah." Some hardliners see women as inferior, forgetting that the first to bow to God after the Prophet was a woman (Khadija), the first martyr was a woman (Sumayya), and women were key to the conversion of Hamza ibn Abdul-Muttalib and Umar ibn Al-Khattab. 

 

They ignore the Prophet’s repeated commands to treat women well—calling them *"fragile vessels"* and honoring them: *"Whoever cares for three daughters, showing them kindness, mercy, and education, will enter Paradise."* When companions asked about two daughters, he said the same. Even for one daughter, the promise held. 

 

His final words before death were: *"Fear God regarding prayer, and treat women well."* He linked the two—because prayer reflects one’s bond with God, and kindness to women reflects strength and nobility. 

 

When the Prophet’s soul departed, it rose from the chest of a woman—Aisha. The first to join him after death was a woman—his daughter Fatima, six months later. 

 

Muhammad ignited the blessed flame, and God decreed its light would never fade. Among those who fanned that flame, none shone brighter than Khadija—his beloved wife. Their relationship exemplifies woman’s lofty status in Islam and love’s power to work miracles, guiding from darkness to light, from despair to hope. 

 

Why don’t we follow our noble Prophet’s example? Did God not say: You have in the Messenger of God an excellent example."* 

 

This translation preserves the original's poetic and historical nuances while making it accessible to English readers. Let me know if you'd like any refinements!

 

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The Redemption of a Broken Soul

 

: 

 

In the heart of a sprawling, decaying city, where the streets were lined with the remnants of forgotten lives, there lived a man named James. Once, he had been a man of promise, a man with dreams and aspirations. But life, as it often does, had other plans for him. James fell into the clutches of addiction, a cruel mistress who demanded everything and gave nothing in return. Over time, he lost his job, his home, and eventually, his dignity. He became a shadow of his former self, a ghost wandering the streets, his only shelter the tattered curtains he found in dumpsters, which he used to shield himself from the cold.

 

James's life was a monotonous cycle of despair and fleeting highs, each day blending into the next. He had long since given up on the idea of redemption, believing himself to be beyond saving. But fate, in its mysterious ways, had not yet finished with him.

 

One cold, gray morning, as James rummaged through a pile of garbage in search of something to eat, he heard a faint whimper. Following the sound, he found an old, sick dog lying in a heap of trash. The dog's fur was matted, its eyes clouded with pain, and its body emaciated. James felt a pang of something he hadn't felt in years—compassion. He knelt beside the dog, gently stroking its head. The dog looked up at him with eyes that seemed to understand the depth of his own suffering.

 

Without a second thought, James gathered the dog in his arms and carried it back to his makeshift shelter. He named the dog Max, and for the first time in years, he felt a sense of purpose. He scavenged for food, not just for himself, but for Max as well. He cleaned the dog's wounds, fed him what little he could find, and kept him warm at night. In Max, James found a companion, a reason to keep going.

 

But Max's condition was dire. Despite James's efforts, the dog grew weaker with each passing day. Desperate, James decided to take Max to a veterinarian, hoping against hope that there was still a chance to save him. He carried Max through the streets, his heart heavy with fear and determination. But when they finally reached the vet, it was too late. Max had succumbed to his illness, his body finally giving out after years of neglect and suffering.

 

James was devastated. He had lost the only thing that had given him hope, the only being that had shown him unconditional love. He buried Max in a quiet corner of the city, marking the spot with a small pile of stones. As he stood over the grave, tears streaming down his face, James felt something shift within him. The pain of losing Max was unbearable, but it also awakened something deep inside him—a desire to change, to break free from the chains of his addiction.

 

That night, as James lay in his shelter, he made a silent vow to himself. He would no longer be a slave to the drugs that had destroyed his life. He would find a way to reclaim what he had lost, to honor Max's memory by becoming the man he was meant to be.

 

But the road to redemption is never easy, and James's journey was no exception. The next morning, as he wandered the streets, lost in thought, he was approached by a man he recognized all too well—a drug dealer named Victor. Victor had been James's supplier for years, and he knew exactly how to manipulate him. He offered James a hit, promising it would take away the pain, if only for a little while.

 

For a moment, James was tempted. The familiar craving gnawed at him, threatening to pull him back into the abyss. But then he thought of Max, of the love and companionship the dog had given him, and he knew he couldn't go back. He shook his head, refusing the offer.

 

Victor, however, was not one to take no for an answer. He grabbed James by the arm, trying to force the drugs on him. But James fought back with a strength he didn't know he had. The two men struggled, their shouts drawing the attention of passersby. James's determination to stay clean gave him the upper hand, and he managed to overpower Victor, pinning him to the ground until the police arrived.

 

When the officers arrived, they found James standing over Victor, his face a mixture of anger and relief. He told them his story, of how he had lost everything to addiction, of how Max had given him a reason to live, and of how he had fought to stay clean. The police listened, their initial suspicion giving way to sympathy. They arrested Victor, and James was taken in for questioning.

 

But James's troubles were far from over. In prison, Victor sought revenge. He tried to attack James, but James, now more determined than ever, fought back. With the help of some fellow inmates who had also been victims of Victor's trade, James managed to turn the tables. In a twist of fate, they injected Victor with the very drugs he had peddled for so long, leaving him to experience the hell he had inflicted on so many others.

 

As James sat in his cell, reflecting on everything that had happened, he realized that he had been given a second chance. Max had come into his life to show him that there was still goodness in the world, that he was capable of love and compassion. And though the road ahead would be difficult, James knew that he had the strength to walk it.

 

In the end, James found redemption not through grand gestures or miraculous transformations, but through small acts of kindness and the determination to change. He had been broken, but he had also been rebuilt, piece by piece, by the love of a dog and the strength of his own will.

 

And so, James's story became a testament to the power of redemption, a reminder that no matter how far we fall, there is always a way back. It was a story of loss and pain, but also of hope and renewal. A story that, like James himself, was far from perfect, but beautiful in its imperfection.

the ball's curse Chapter4

 Chapter4

A Drop into Sadness

The youngsters, tormented, by murmurs on the breeze,

Of chuckling smothered, and the stirring of leaves.

They saw faces in shadows, heard voices in the evening,

The reverberations of youngsters, washed in spooky light.

Their dads, stupefied, watched with developing apprehension,

Their eyes spacey, their chuckling vanishing.

They discussed weird dreams, of terrains inconspicuous and obscure,

Of a chilling presence, a distressed, tormenting tone.

The ball, a pernicious soul, a consistent, inconspicuous danger,

Imparted a trepidation in their souls, that they couldn't neglect.

It moved through the rooms, a ghost, a phantom of fear,

Leaving a path of tumult, where euphoria whenever had reared.

One evening, the youngsters, attracted to the illegal,

Moved toward the cliff, where the ball had been covered up.

They looked past the brink, a chilling, ghostly sight,

The yard underneath, washed in the blurring light.

The ball, settled among the trash, a horrifying showcase,

Coaxed to them, a quiet, vindictive influence.

An unexpected whirlwind, sent it moving towards the edge,

Wavering unstably, on the incline's edge.

The youngsters, deadened with dread, watched with apprehension,

As the ball, opposing gravity, started to influence.

It rolled unyieldingly, towards the pit beneath,

A chilling plunge, a sluggish, anguishing stream.

Their dads, cautioned by their cries, raced to the scene,

Yet, it was past the point of no return, the ball had evaporated, inconspicuous.

They looked past the brink, a chilling, cold fear,

The patio underneath, where the ball had been driven.

The kids, sobbing, stuck to them despondently,

Tormented by the vision, the chilling, cold gaze.

The ball, a malicious power, had guaranteed another award,

Abandoning a void, a chilling, dull downfall.

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the cursed ball Chapter 3 The Round of Life, Blocked

 

Chapter 3

 

The Round of Life, Blocked

The sun, a fluid coin, plunged low in the west,

Making long concealed regions, investigating fears.

Nevertheless, here, in this dusty way, where stresses were very few,

Souls of Kids sought after shadows, a dynamic, cheerful gathering.

 

A terrible field, with stones for a goal,

Their laughing a tune, an ecstatic, crazy soul.

The ball, a worn out pal, a buddy as the years advanced,

A picture of chance, banishing fears.

 

With each kick, a surge of pure delight,

The breeze in their hair, washed in the obscuring light.

A tackle, a tumble, an underhanded grin,

The world dismissed, where the game could begin.

 

The air thick with dust, and the fragrance of sweet grass,

An outfit of development, a passing, cheery mass.

Each pass, an affiliation, a bond got it,

A concise depiction of ease, in this sun-doused wood.

 

In any case, shadows expanded, a compromising tone,

The chuckling subsided, as a fear traversed.

Bootsteps significant, a melodic, foreboding beat,

The souls of children's down, a sensitive, transient treat.

 

A chilling calm, as the warriors appeared,

Their faces horrendous, their eyes cold and unfeared.

The souls of children froze, an unforeseen, chilling apprehension,

Their guiltlessness broke, their enjoyment generally got away.

 

The round of life, so carelessly played, they remembered

As of now changed into a terrible dream, a chilling demonstration.

Rifles raised high, a compromising sight,

The adolescents scattered, getting away from in the obscuring light.

 

Shots rang out, a terrible, shaking tune,

The air thick with smoke, where they once had a spot.

Bodies collapsed, a horrible, terrible scene,

The laughing replaced by a tragic, chilling sharp.

 

They remembered that awful moments

The soldiers came and did, the worst

Killing every moving creatures

Their blood was covering all sides

 

The buildup as of now stained, not with splendid bars,

Nevertheless, red colors, in a stunning, disgusting dimness.

The resonations paused, a scary refrain,

Of guiltlessness broke, and adolescents killed.

 

 

 

They remembered the sad mothers

Who was prevented of getting corpses of their kids

Their screamed which turned the world

And the world could not listen, see or speak

 

They recognized that the world feared from bad monster

Which appeared to prevent any word

Against Sami which governed the liar world

They travelled all lands

They visited every library, look at books

Discovered, Sami covered Arab, Jews and all sons of Ibrahim

 

They hugged from horrors

As they saw the worst troopers

They were trembled in fear

One of soul got great courage

 

Let us make a good plan to defeat the devil 

He told them and gathered their word

To revenge of those crowds

The plan was accepted from all sides

 

 

The ball, when a picture of joy and delight,

As of now stained with trouble, a horrible, chilling sight.

An eyewitness calm to the senseless deed,

An unpleasant indication of the sad seed.

 

The round of life, so callously reduced,

A horrendous indication of the world's

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the cursed ball e book Chapter 2

 the cursed ball e book “at Amazon”

Chapter 2

The battle

The soldiers went to see

Some took photos and videos

: An Endowment of Death

The trooper, troubling confronted, brought the ball home,

A prize of war, a horrifying book.

He gave it to his youngsters, an intriguing, kind deed,

Their eyes illuminated with euphoria, a happy seed.

They got insured, they will destroy land

But there was a strong land

Called Gaza

Stayed and will stay for long

Its land gets lions every second

They skipped and they kicked, a joyful pleasure,

The ball, an unusual presence, both dull and brilliant.

A chilling sensation, a shudder down their spine,

As the ball rolled unpredictably, a vindictive sign.

It appeared to have a daily existence, a will of its own,

Resisting their control, a chilling, ghostly tone.

A weird, frigid briskness, radiating from its center,

Making their blood run cold, forevermore.

One game changing night, the ball rolled excessively close,

To the edge of the structure, where risk moved close.

They pursued it wildly, a frantic, frenzied request,

However, the ball, taunting their endeavors, fell quietly.

It evaporated into the murkiness, a chilling, inconspicuous predicament,

Leaving the youngsters shaking, washed in the pale evening glow.

Their dads, concerned, looked to no end,

In any case, the yard underneath, offered no comfort, no addition.

That evening, rest escaped, a torturing refrain,

The youngsters anxious, tormented by the concealed agony.

The dad, tortured, paced the floor in fear,

The picture of the ball, perpetually ahead.

The following morning, the ball returned,

Settled among the deny, a chilling, dull trepidation.

Its surface clammy and cool, an unearthly, chilling sight,

A harbinger of destruction, in the blurring light.

The kids drew nearer, reluctant and slow,

A chilling sensation, as though they definitely knew.

They contacted its surface, a confounding, chilling influence,

Their vision obscured, as though disappearing.

The ball, a malignant power, had started to grab hold,

A chilling hold fixing, a story yet untold.

The youngsters, captured, by a destiny unanticipated,

Were caught in its grip, a chilling, shocking scene.

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the cursed ball Chapter 2 The battle

 

the cursed ball

Chapter 2

The battle

The soldiers went to see

Some took photos and videos

: An Endowment of Death

The trooper, troubling confronted, brought the ball home,

A prize of war, a horrifying book.

He gave it to his youngsters, an intriguing, kind deed,

Their eyes illuminated with euphoria, a happy seed.

They got insured, they will destroy land

But there was a strong land

Called Gaza

Stayed and will stay for long

Its land gets lions every second

They skipped and they kicked, a joyful pleasure,

The ball, an unusual presence, both dull and brilliant.

A chilling sensation, a shudder down their spine,

As the ball rolled unpredictably, a vindictive sign.

It appeared to have a daily existence, a will of its own,

Resisting their control, a chilling, ghostly tone.

A weird, frigid briskness, radiating from its center,

Making their blood run cold, forevermore.

One game changing night, the ball rolled excessively close,

To the edge of the structure, where risk moved close.

They pursued it wildly, a frantic, frenzied request,

However, the ball, taunting their endeavors, fell quietly.

It evaporated into the murkiness, a chilling, inconspicuous predicament,

Leaving the youngsters shaking, washed in the pale evening glow.

Their dad, concerned, looked to no end,

In any case, the yard underneath, offered no comfort, no addition.

That evening, rest escaped, a torturing refrain,

The youngsters anxious, tormented by the concealed agony.

The dad, tortured, paced the floor in fear,

The picture of the ball, perpetually ahead.

The following morning, the ball returned,

Settled among the deny, a chilling, dull trepidation.

Its surface clammy and cool, an unearthly, chilling sight,

A harbinger of destruction, in the blurring light.

The kids drew nearer, reluctant and slow,

A chilling sensation, as though they definitely knew.

They contacted its surface, a confounding, chilling influence,

Their vision obscured, as though disappearing.

The ball, a malignant power, had started to grab hold,

A chilling hold fixing, a story yet untold.

The youngsters, captured, by a destiny unanticipated,

Were caught in its grip, a chilling, shocking scene.

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The cursed ball 1.The Round of Life, Hindered

 The cursed ball

1.The Round of Life, Hindered

The sun, a liquid coin, plunged low in the west,

Creating long shaded areas, scrutinizing fears.

Be that as it may, here, in this dusty path, where stresses were not many,

Kids pursued shadows, a dynamic, lighthearted group.

A shoddy field, with stones for an objective,

Their chuckling a tune, a blissful, out of control soul.

The ball, a ragged buddy, a companion as the years progressed,

An image of opportunity, banishing fears.

With each kick, a flood of unadulterated joy,

The breeze in their hair, washed in the blurring light.

A tackle, a tumble, a naughty smile,

The world neglected, where the game could start.

The air thick with dust, and the aroma of sweet grass,

An ensemble of movement, a passing, upbeat mass.

Each pass, an association, a bond got it,

A brief snapshot of effortlessness, in this sun-soaked wood.

Be that as it may, shadows extended, a threatening tone,

The giggling died down, as a trepidation got through.

Bootsteps weighty, a musical, unpropitious beat,

The kids' down, a delicate, transient treat.

A chilling quiet, as the fighters showed up,

Their countenances terrible, their eyes cold and unfeared.

The kids froze, an unexpected, chilling fear,

Their guiltlessness broke, their delight always escaped.

The round of life, so indiscreetly played,

Presently transformed into a bad dream, a chilling act.

Rifles raised high, a threatening sight,

The youngsters dispersed, escaping in the blurring light.

Shots rang out, a horrible, shaking tune,

The air thick with smoke, where they once had a place.

Bodies folded, a terrible, grim scene,

The giggling supplanted by a sorrowful, chilling sharp.

The residue presently stained, not with brilliant beams,

Be that as it may, red tints, in a shocking, nauseating murkiness.

The reverberations waited, an eerie refrain,

Of guiltlessness broke, and youngsters killed.

The ball, when an image of happiness and enjoyment,

Presently stained with distress, a ghastly, chilling sight.

An observer quiet to the silly deed,

A frightful sign of the unfortunate seed.

The round of life, so remorselessly diminished,

A horrible sign of the world's dim shroud.

Where euphoria was once conceived, presently just depression,

A quiet demonstration of the detestations they bear.

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