The adolescent years of Ibn ʿUmar unfolded under the shadow of the Kaʿbah. Even after embracing Islam, he spent seven years in Makkah — seven long years pierced with fear. Fear of the Quraysh. Fear of ambush. Fear born of faith.
His father, ʿUmar, was not one to tread lightly. His nature, bold and unyielding, often brought danger to their doorstep. With every rising threat, the city tightened its grip on those who believed. And finally, the Prophet ﷺ opened the door to Hijrah — migration.
“When the persecution grows, leave,” the Prophet ﷺ said. “God will grant you brothers in faith and a land where you may live without fear. Set out.”
Most believers left quietly, under the cover of night. Secrecy was their shield — for to leave openly was to court death.
But not ʿUmar. He did things differently.
Ibn ʿUmar, then a boy, remembered that day vividly:
“My father began preparing for the journey. He fastened his sword, picked up his bow and arrows, gripped a spear at his waist — and walked straight to the Kaʿbah.”
There, in the courtyard, sat groups of Quraysh men — eyes watching, tongues wagging.
ʿUmar ignored them all.
He circumambulated the Kaʿbah seven times. Then, he stood behind the Maqām Ibrāhīm — the stone that bore the imprint of Prophet Abraham’s feet — and performed two rakʿahs of prayer. After that, he turned.
He approached the gathering men — not sneaking past them, but walking right into their midst.
With calm fury, he declared: “Let your faces sink in shame!”
Then, with a voice that rang through the sacred precinct like thunder, he issued a challenge: “I am migrating. Anyone who wishes to make his mother weep, his children orphans, and his wife a widow — let him follow me beyond this valley. We’ll see what comes of it.” And then he walked off in dignity. With each step, the very ground of the Ḥaram seemed to tremble. Not one man dared to pursue him. Thus, the boy Ibn ʿUmar journeyed with his mother and father to Madinah.
Many years later, when the Caliph ʿUmar assigned pensions to the Muhājirūn — those who had made Hijrah — each received 4000 coins. But his own son, Abdullah, was given only 3500.
Someone asked, “Why the deduction?”
ʿUmar replied, “He made the migration with his parents. He didn’t undertake it on his own.”
That small detail — that difference of 500 — was ʿUmar’s way of reminding his son: the path of sacrifice must be walked, not inherited.
Yet for Ibn ʿUmar, the journey was more than physical. It was a tearing away. He had to leave behind the streets he played in, the friends he grew up with. That farewell etched a wound deep in his heart — one that time never fully healed.
Even years later, when Makkah was conquered and the Companions walked through its streets again, Ibn ʿUmar said: “I passed by our old homes, but I did not lift my eyes toward them. I shut my gaze, and walked on… weeping.”
Whether it was the ache of lost childhood or the silent protest against those who once expelled them — he never truly returned.
In later years, he instructed his son Sālim: “If I die — and my death is within the bounds of the Ḥaram — bury me outside it. Since I left Makkah in Hijrah, I do not feel I should rest eternally within it.”
He would often pray:“O Allah, do not let me die in Makkah.”
But this was no bitterness. No resentment toward the city. How could a scholar like Ibn ʿUmar — who understood its sanctity — ever scorn Makkah?
No, this was something else.
Perhaps it was the silent sorrow of a wish unfulfilled — the longing to one day return and remain, a longing God had gently denied.
Or perhaps it was humility — the quiet, aching thought that he was unworthy of such sacred soil.
Whichever it was, the man who once followed his father’s stride out of Makkah never truly returned to it — except with memory, tears, and prayer.
