It was a small room—only four companions had gathered there. But what a gathering it was: Musʿab ibn al-Zubayr, ʿUrwah ibn al-Zubayr, ʿAbd Allāh ibn al-Zubayr, and Ibn ʿUmar. These were not merely friends—they were scions of greatness.
They talked, they debated, and finally someone suggested: “Let each of us say what he truly desires most in life.”
ʿAbd Allāh ibn al-Zubayr said: “I desire the caliphate. Through it, I hope to serve the people and the faith.”
ʿUrwah said: “I wish to spread knowledge—that many will learn from me and grow in understanding.”
Musʿab said: “I wish for authority over Iraq, so that I might bring together the daughter of Ṭalḥah, ʿĀʾishah, and the daughter of Ḥusayn, Sakīnah, in harmony.”
When it was Ibn ʿUmar’s turn, he simply said: “My only desire is for the forgiveness of the Lord of all worlds.”
Years passed—and as fate would have it, each received what he asked for. And Ibn ʿUmar, too, received what he sought: Allāh’s forgiveness.
Even in his longings, Ibn ʿUmar was different. His aspiration was not crown or conquest, but divine pardon. For him, prayer was a constant companion. He would recall the words of the Prophet ﷺ:
“Supplication benefits against what has come and what has yet to come.”
Ibn ʿUmar made that saying his life’s rhythm. He used to say: “Whenever the Prophet ﷺ rose from any gathering, he would always say a hundred times: ‘Lord, forgive me. Accept my repentance. You are the Accepter of repentance, the Most Merciful.’”
Though he committed no visible wrongs, Ibn ʿUmar feared sin like a fire at his feet. He used to beseech: “O Allah, grant me the inner restraint that will keep me from wronging You.”
Once, he was heard praying: “O Allah, from all the good that You possess, grant me my share.”
People often gathered around him, hoping he would pray for them. But his humility would restrain him. He would whisper only a few words and send them on their way.
His heart was tender—so tender that Qurʾānic recitation would bring him to tears, sometimes uncontrollably. Once, while reciting ‘Has the time not come for the hearts of those who believe to humble themselves at the remembrance of Allah?’ he broke down and sobbed aloud. Another time, he read ‘On that Day, mankind will stand before the Lord of the worlds’—and collapsed from the sheer weight of that vision.
He would tremble at verses about divine judgment. The words would shake him. His beard would be soaked. His chest would heave. His shoulders would quake.
Even the Qurʾānic recitation of others stirred him. One day, he was handed a cup of cold water. As he drank, tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Someone asked: “Why are you crying?”
He replied: “A verse from the Book of Allah came to mind: ‘And between them and what they desire will be placed a barrier.’”
“It’s about the people of Hell,” he said. “They will cry for water—but it will be withheld. I saw them in my mind as I drank.”
The Prophet ﷺ once said: “Two eyes will never be touched by the fire: the eye that weeps out of fear of Allah, and the eye that keeps watch in the path of Allah.”
Ibn ʿUmar was blessed with both. In the battlefield, he had stood guard through long nights, for months on end. And when alone, he had wept rivers, fearing His Lord.
Even the stories of earlier generations moved him. Yūsuf ibn Māhak recalled: “I once visited the scholar ʿUbayd ibn ʿUmayr in the company of Ibn ʿUmar. He was narrating the stories of the righteous predecessors, and a group of listeners had gathered. I glanced at Ibn ʿUmar. His eyes had filled with tears. He was weeping silently, moved by the lives of those who had gone before.”
Yes, Ibn ʿUmar’s eyes had wept many times. And those eyes—by the promise of the Prophet ﷺ—shall never be touched by the fire.
