Beloved children…
That’s how the master would always begin. His voice, stretched in sweetness, would soften the room even before his words arrived. Every syllable seemed wrapped in tenderness. The children would collect each word as if they were plucking petals. Such was the grace of his speech—simple, warm, unforgettable.
That day, the conversation turned to the duties of human life.
“Beloved children…Imagine you’re having your meal,” he said, eyes full of meaning. “Suddenly, you hear a baby crying next door. Don’t ignore that cry. Maybe the child is hungry. And don’t let your mind say: That’s not my neighbor, not my religion. Just go. Do what is needed. Feed the child.”
How gently, how powerfully he described the soul of neighborliness.
There was once a kind soul who tried to reconcile two families—neighbors who hadn’t spoken for years. What had broken them apart? A chicken. A chicken that wandered over and destroyed some chili plants.
Yes—such small things tear apart beautiful relationships, and sometimes, entire lifetimes.
Those with good hearts live in harmony not just with people, but with nature too. A word from them, a smile, is enough to touch the hearts of strangers. No one remembers them with bitterness.
Al-Fuḍayl (رحمه الله) once said:
“If a man treats his chickens without respect, even if he is polite in everything else, you still cannot call him a man of good character.”
It’s not a great thing to be kind to those who are kind to us. The true test is this: How do we respond to those who wrong us?
Take the example of al-Aḥnaf ibn Qays (رحمه الله).
Once, a man followed him around, hurling insults the whole way. When al-Aḥnaf reached the borders of his own town, he turned and said calmly:
“Young man, if you still have anything left to say, say it now. Once we enter this place, the people here might hear you—and if they do, I fear you’ll receive an answer in your own language.”
He didn’t retaliate. He protected the man from the wrath of others.
Sheikh Abū ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Sullamī (رحمه الله) once had a thief break into his home and steal everything. Later, he was walking through the marketplace and noticed his own cloak being auctioned. He looked away and kept walking.
He preferred to lose the cloak than lose his inner peace.
People who carry the lamp of goodness in their hearts don’t differentiate between slave and master. Everyone is a brother. Everyone is to be treated with dignity.
One day, ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib (رضي الله عنه) called his servant. No response.
He called again. Still silence.
After several tries, ʿAlī (رضي الله عنه) walked over and saw the servant lying down.
“You heard me calling, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Then why didn’t you reply?”
“Because I was sure you wouldn’t punish me,” the servant answered.
Such was the trust, such was the mercy in that house.
Those who build no walls around their hearts do not wait for apologies. They forgive even before the wound fully forms. They never carry anger from one hour to the next.
Abū al-Dardāʾ (رضي الله عنه), a Companion of the Prophet ﷺ, was once drawing water for his camel. A man came rushing past and deliberately struck the water vessel, spilling it all.
What did Abū al-Dardāʾ do?
He sat down.
Then, he lay down flat on the ground.
Someone later asked him why.
He answered, “This is what the Messenger ﷺ taught. When you feel anger, sit. If that doesn’t help, lie down—until the anger departs completely.”
This, then, is the retaliation of the noble-hearted. Not vengeance, but only the stillness and fragrance that emanate from it.
To live like this is not weakness.
It is strength dressed in gentleness.
It is power guided by mercy.
It is the kind of heart that breaks cycles, heals wounds, and makes the world whole again.
