Once, someone very dear to Ibn ʿUmar arrived from Iraq. After the greetings and warm embraces, the guest said,
“I’ve brought you something special.”
“What is it?” asked Ibn ʿUmar.
“Jawārish,” he replied.
“Jawārish? What is that?”
“It’s a herbal elixir that helps digest heavy meals quickly.”
Ibn ʿUmar smiled. “For the past forty years,” he said, “I have not eaten to my fill. Why would I need such a thing?”
Such was Ibn ʿUmar. In every matter, he chose moderation—and often descended to the lowest rung in material things. He lived with visible renunciation. Cravings for food were alien to him. He never demanded luxurious meals from his family. Meat? Perhaps once a month.
One night, a platter was laid out with food. Just then, a beggar’s voice echoed from the street. Ibn ʿUmar rose, picked up the bread and meat from his own plate, and gave it away. When he returned, the tray had been cleared. But his face remained calm, untouched by disappointment.
The next morning, he began his day fasting.
Once, in a single sitting, he distributed thirty thousand silver coins to the poor. That entire month, he didn’t taste even a morsel of meat.
“I haven’t eaten to my fill since embracing Islam,” he would say.
He wore coarse garments. Khassʿa once said, “I saw Ibn ʿUmar wearing a thick, rough robe. I said, ‘Let me bring you something better from Khurāsān, something fine. It would make me happy to see you in it. This cloth you’re wearing is so rough!’”
Ibn ʿUmar replied, “Very well. Bring it, and I’ll have a look.”
When it was brought, he touched it and asked, “Is this silk?”
“No,” said the companion. “It’s cotton.”
“I’m still afraid to wear it,” he replied. “I fear I might become proud or arrogant. And Allah does not love the arrogant.”
Once someone asked, “What kind of clothing should a person wear?”
Ibn ʿUmar responded, “Something simple—neither mocked by the wise nor admired by the vain.”
“And how much should it cost?”
“Between five and twenty dirhams,” he said.
When a young man refused to patch a torn garment and wore flashy clothes instead, Ibn ʿUmar corrected him sternly: “What’s with you, boy? Fear Allah. Don’t become one of those whose skin glows with luxury while their hearts rot from pride.”
Ibn ʿUmar’s renunciation wasn’t because of poverty or miserliness—it stemmed from a deep, trembling fear of the Hereafter. He always saw himself as a traveller in this world.
Even his home reflected this. Bare and simple—only the essentials. Maymūn ibn Mihrān once visited and said, “Even my Turkish slave lives in a house better equipped than his.”
When Muʿāwiyah offered him wealth to set aside for his family’s future, Ibn ʿUmar replied: “Do you really think I would sell my dīn for gold and silver? I want to depart from this world with hands as clean as the day I entered it.”
He even avoided going to Bayt al-Maqdis, fearing that Muʿāwiyah might extend his royal hospitality upon him.
The caliphate? He rejected it multiple times.
The judgeship? He refused that too.
It was Caliph ʿUthmān who once offered him the position of judge. Ibn ʿUmar replied, “I will not govern between two people.”
ʿUthmān pressed him: “Are you refusing my command?”
“Never,” said Ibn ʿUmar. “But I have heard about three types of judges: One who is ignorant—he judges, and ends up in Hell.
Another who knows the truth but follows his own desires—he too enters Hell.
The third seeks the truth and judges fairly—he’s safe. But he gains neither sin nor reward. Why should I take on a role with such risk and no reward?”
ʿUthmān then said, “But your father, ʿUmar, used to judge!”
Ibn ʿUmar answered, “Yes, and when he doubted something, he asked the Prophet ﷺ. And the Prophet ﷺ could ask Jibrīl. But who will I ask?”
He always had a reason—clear, wise, sincere—for why he stepped away from power.
And perhaps, that is what made him the most powerful.
