I had never seen a sky like that before — endless blue stretched over the desert, as if Allah Himself had prepared the heavens for something great. I was a merchant’s helper then, just a youth among men, traveling north with a caravan out of Mecca — the sacred city where the Kaaba stands.
You won’t find my name in any hadith. I wasn’t anyone important. But that day, the day we met Bahira the monk, is burned into my memory like the desert sun.
We were many days into our journey toward Syria, loaded with goods. Among us traveled a boy not even twelve years old. He was from the Quraysh clan, kind and quiet, always helping, never complaining. His uncle watched him closely — I remember that well.
As we stopped near a grove outside the town of Busra, something odd happened. A Christian monk named Bahira lived nearby, and though caravans passed often, he never paid much attention — until that day.
He came to us smiling and offered us food, far more than he ever had for strangers. “Come, all of you, eat with me!” he said kindly. We accepted, of course. But oddly, Bahira kept looking past us, searching for someone.
He frowned. “Is this all? Isn’t there anyone you left behind?”
A few of our men glanced at one another. “Only the youngest among us. He’s minding the camels,” someone said.
“Bring him,” the monk said immediately, his voice now urgent. “I want to see him.”
When the boy entered, Bahira’s face changed completely. His eyes filled with wonder, as though a heavy truth had landed on him. He stared so intently I grew nervous. Then he began asking the boy questions — not unkindly, but seriously — about his life, his people, his dreams. The boy answered with the calmness of someone much older, and his manners were beautiful.
Then Bahira gently placed a hand between his shoulders — as if checking for something. I learned later that certain scriptures spoke of a mark between the shoulders of the final prophet, a seal.
Bahira turned pale. He stepped away and whispered to the boy’s uncle, his hands shaking slightly.
“Take him back,” he said. “Protect him from the Jews. If they see what I saw, they will harm him. For by Allah — the One God — he will be a Prophet to the people.”
That moment struck me deep. I had grown up around idols and false gods, but Bahira mentioned only one: Allah. And he was a scholar of his own religion!
On the journey home, I walked behind the boy, watching him. How he cared for the animals, how he helped the elders, how he spoke with grace. He was unlike any child I had known.
Years later, when he stood on Mount Safa in Mecca and said he had been sent by Allah — I knew. I knew before many others that what the monk had seen was true. Muhammad ibn Abdullah ﷺ was the Messenger of Allah. And I had walked beside him when he was still just a boy.
Inspired by the hadith in Tirmidhi 2676 and traditional seerah (Prophetic biography) sources, including accounts by Ibn Ishaq and Ibn Kathir.
I had never seen a sky like that before — endless blue stretched over the desert, as if Allah Himself had prepared the heavens for something great. I was a merchant’s helper then, just a youth among men, traveling north with a caravan out of Mecca — the sacred city where the Kaaba stands.
You won’t find my name in any hadith. I wasn’t anyone important. But that day, the day we met Bahira the monk, is burned into my memory like the desert sun.
We were many days into our journey toward Syria, loaded with goods. Among us traveled a boy not even twelve years old. He was from the Quraysh clan, kind and quiet, always helping, never complaining. His uncle watched him closely — I remember that well.
As we stopped near a grove outside the town of Busra, something odd happened. A Christian monk named Bahira lived nearby, and though caravans passed often, he never paid much attention — until that day.
He came to us smiling and offered us food, far more than he ever had for strangers. “Come, all of you, eat with me!” he said kindly. We accepted, of course. But oddly, Bahira kept looking past us, searching for someone.
He frowned. “Is this all? Isn’t there anyone you left behind?”
A few of our men glanced at one another. “Only the youngest among us. He’s minding the camels,” someone said.
“Bring him,” the monk said immediately, his voice now urgent. “I want to see him.”
When the boy entered, Bahira’s face changed completely. His eyes filled with wonder, as though a heavy truth had landed on him. He stared so intently I grew nervous. Then he began asking the boy questions — not unkindly, but seriously — about his life, his people, his dreams. The boy answered with the calmness of someone much older, and his manners were beautiful.
Then Bahira gently placed a hand between his shoulders — as if checking for something. I learned later that certain scriptures spoke of a mark between the shoulders of the final prophet, a seal.
Bahira turned pale. He stepped away and whispered to the boy’s uncle, his hands shaking slightly.
“Take him back,” he said. “Protect him from the Jews. If they see what I saw, they will harm him. For by Allah — the One God — he will be a Prophet to the people.”
That moment struck me deep. I had grown up around idols and false gods, but Bahira mentioned only one: Allah. And he was a scholar of his own religion!
On the journey home, I walked behind the boy, watching him. How he cared for the animals, how he helped the elders, how he spoke with grace. He was unlike any child I had known.
Years later, when he stood on Mount Safa in Mecca and said he had been sent by Allah — I knew. I knew before many others that what the monk had seen was true. Muhammad ibn Abdullah ﷺ was the Messenger of Allah. And I had walked beside him when he was still just a boy.
Inspired by the hadith in Tirmidhi 2676 and traditional seerah (Prophetic biography) sources, including accounts by Ibn Ishaq and Ibn Kathir.
