Ibn ʿUmar could not bring himself to eat if the poor were not present. Either he had to find the destitute or the orphan, or the food would remain untouched. Even during travels, it was the same—when it came time to eat or rest, he would gather every needy soul around and share the meal with them.
One day, while in Juhfa, he was sitting down to eat with some companions when a dark-skinned child ran up—naked, dusty, and hesitant. Ibn ʿUmar invited him to eat, but the child said, “There’s no space for me. Everyone is crowded around.”
Immediately, Ibn ʿUmar shifted backwards, drew the child close to his chest, and fed him beside him.
On another occasion, he sat down to eat and sent someone to bring an orphan boy. The child arrived late—by then, the food was finished. Ibn ʿUmar held in his hands a drink he especially loved, one he rarely went without. Just as he raised it to his lips, the boy walked in. Without pause, he handed it to him: “Son, drink this instead.”
This was Ibn ʿUmar’s norm. If he saw someone poor or dressed in worn clothes, he would call them over and make them sit with him. But he once remarked about a different pattern he observed in others: “They feed those who have no hunger and avoid those who are truly hungry. What kind of story is that?”
His generosity began to show in his body—he grew thinner and weaker from prioritizing others over himself. Relatives and friends began to complain—not to him, but to his wife.
“Use some cleverness,” they said, “Find a way to get him to eat properly!”
His wife tried. She prepared the food as always, but then quietly gave meals to everyone who usually waited along the way to be invited by Ibn ʿUmar. When he returned and began calling the names, she stopped him:
“No need to call anyone today. I already gave them all food—they won’t come.”
He looked at her and said gently: “So your wish is that I eat alone tonight? Then I will not eat at all.”
His stern commitment left her defeated. His emaciated body, they realized, was not her fault.
They began to advise him directly. Still, he remained unmoved.
Once, Ibn al-Mutīʿ visited and was shocked by Ibn ʿUmar’s condition—bones beneath skin. Turning to his wife, he said: “Lady, feed your husband! If he eats well, his strength will return!”
She replied: “I’ve tried everything. But he won’t eat unless he invites every soul he sees. That’s the problem. Maybe you can convince him.”
Ibn al-Mutīʿ tried. He said: “Dear one, if you eat, your strength will return.”
But Ibn ʿUmar only smiled and said: “It has been 18 years since I last filled my stomach. And now, I likely have no more than a donkey’s sip of life left. Why would I eat to my fill now?”
He saw feeding others as the greatest of deeds—but never once did he boast.
One day, he told his son to give a dinar in charity to a beggar. The son did so, then returned and said: “Father, may Allah accept it from you.”
Ibn ʿUmar responded at once: “If I knew with certainty that Allah had accepted even a single prostration of mine—or a single dirham of charity—there would be nothing in this life dearer to me than death. Do you know from whom Allah accepts? Only from the righteous.”
