The year Ibn al-Zubayr was martyred, Ibn ʿUmar also set out for Hajj. The brutal governor al-Ḥajjāj ibn Yūsuf was present in Makkah.
On the Day of ʿArafah, as noon approached, Ibn ʿUmar went to Ḥajjāj’s tent and said: “It’s time to go to ʿArafah.”
With him was his son Sālim. Ḥajjāj asked, “Is it already time?”
“Yes,” Ibn ʿUmar replied.
“Then give me a moment,” said Ḥajjāj. “Let me freshen up.” He went to wash himself and returned shortly.
At that point, Sālim turned to Ḥajjāj and said, “If you truly wish to follow the Sunnah of the Prophet ﷺ, then pray immediately and shorten the sermon.”
He said this while glancing at his father for approval.
Ibn ʿUmar affirmed with calm clarity: “What Sālim says is true.”
Ḥajjāj, who neither liked nor dared to oppose Ibn ʿUmar in matters of Hajj, accepted this—partly due to the Caliph’s instruction, and partly out of a deep-rooted fear of Ibn ʿUmar’s reverence among the people.
As they began to descend from ʿArafah, Ḥajjāj assigned one of his men to accompany the crowd with a spear—one said to be tipped with poison. Amidst the jostling, the spear struck Ibn ʿUmar’s leg and left a deep wound.
The injury worsened. Days passed in pain.
Sensing the nearness of death, Ibn ʿUmar turned to his son and said: “My son, when I pass, do not bury me in the sacred precinct (ḥaram). I have no wish to rest within its boundaries after fleeing from the chaos that befell it.”
Sālim hesitated: “Dear father, we will try—but only if it is within our means.”
That displeased Ibn ʿUmar. He responded sternly: “When I command you something, do you answer with ‘if possible’?”
Sālim clarified, “Ḥajjāj might not allow it. That’s what I meant.”
Ibn ʿUmar fell silent. He said nothing more. Ḥajjāj later came to visit the ailing scholar.
“If you can name the man who hurt you,” he offered, “I will punish him.”
Ibn ʿUmar looked at him and said: “It was the one who brought weapons into the ḥaram. He is the one who caused this wound.”
Ḥajjāj had nothing to say—for it was he who had armed the ḥaram.
Soon after, Ibn ʿUmar passed away. It was the year 73 AH. Three months had passed since the killing of Ibn al-Zubayr. He was 84 years old. It was the month of Dhū al-Ḥijjah.
His death left a silence in the soul of the Islamic world. A luminous age of knowledge and devotion had come to an end.
The tributes poured in.
ʿAbdullāh ibn Masʿūd once said, “I have never seen anyone more self-controlled than Ibn ʿUmar.”
Hudhayfah remarked, “He was a man who scrutinized his own shortcomings with the deepest sincerity.”
Rajāʾ ibn Ḥaywah remembered hearing the news while attending a lesson with Ibn Mihrān. As soon as the news broke, Ibn Mihrān said, “By God! The death of Ibn ʿUmar is a disaster for the people of this world. He was their protector.”
Earlier in life, Ibn ʿUmar had not been inclined to marry. It was his sister Ḥafṣah—wife of the Prophet ﷺ—who urged him: “If your children die, you will receive reward for patience. If they live, you will receive prayers from them.”
He eventually married and was blessed with many children: twelve sons and four daughters. Among his children from his wife Ṣafiyyah, the daughter of Abū ʿUbayd ibn Masʿūd al-Thaqafī, were:
– Abū Bakr
– Abū ʿUbayd
– Wāqid
– ʿAbdullāh
– ʿUmar
– Ḥafṣah
– Sawda
From Umm al-Qamā’ he had ʿAbd al-Raḥmān.
From slave-women, he had Sālim, ʿUbaydullāh, Ḥamzah, Zayd, ʿĀʾishah, Bilāl, Abū Salamah, and Khilābah.
But in the end, it wasn’t his lineage, his battles, or his knowledge that people remembered most. It was his quiet dignity. His God-consciousness. His humble servitude.
A ʿabdullāh in the truest sense—the servant of God.
