THE POWER OF WORDS
Hasan al-Basri (d. 110 AH), a renowned early Muslim scholar, and Hajjaj ibn Yusuf (d. 95 AH), the most prominent yet harsh governor of the Umayyad Caliphate, lived in the same era. Hasan al-Basri’s fearless truth-speaking deeply disturbed Hajjaj, who once resolved to have him killed. He summoned Hasan al-Basri to his court, having already decided that he would not leave alive.
Maymun ibn Mehran narrates that when Hasan al-Basri entered the court and stood before Hajjaj, the following conversation took place:
“O Hajjaj, how many generations lie between you and Adam?” Hajjaj replied, “Many.”
Hasan asked, “And where are they now?”
Hajjaj answered, “They are all dead.”
With just a few words, Hasan al-Basri reminded Hajjaj of his own mortality—that he too was swiftly approaching the same fate he wished to inflict upon Hasan. Though a tyrant, Hajjaj was so struck by these words that he lowered his head in silence. Hasan al-Basri walked out of the court unharmed. (Hilyat al-Awliya’ by Abu Nu‘aym al-Asfahani, Vol. 4, p. 88)
This Bridge or the Next
Malik Shah Seljuk, the third ruler of the Seljuk Empire from 1072 to 1092, was once crossing a bridge with his royal entourage when an elderly woman stopped him and called out, “O King, tell me—will justice between you and me be done on this bridge, or on that bridge?” (She was referring to the Bridge over Hell on Judgment Day.)
The king was shaken by her words. He dismounted and said,
“Mother, who can withstand judgment on that bridge? It’s better that we settle things right here.”
The woman explained that the king’s soldiers had taken and slaughtered her cow. Malik Shah remained there, investigated the matter, and upon confirming her complaint, punished the guilty on the spot. He then personally apologized to the woman and compensated her generously—far more than the cow’s worth.
Worse Than a Dog
After the Mongols overran the Abbasid Empire in Baghdad, many of them developed a sense of superiority over Muslims. One day, a Mongol prince was out hunting with his dog when he came across a Muslim elder. Mockingly, he called the man over and asked, “Tell me—are you better, or my dog?”
The Muslim replied calmly, “If I die with faith, then I am better. But if not, then your dog is better than me.”
The words struck the prince deeply. He was so moved that he began inquiring about this faith—the kind that could make a person better or worse than a dog. That journey of inquiry eventually led him to follow the same religion.
Sorrow Deepens a Soul
In another gathering, well-dressed and respected individuals were seated on fine carpets when a shabbily dressed man entered and sat down without invitation. Someone told him to leave. When he didn’t, they grabbed him and said, “Go on, mind your business.”
As he walked away, he quietly muttered, “We came through the same path, and we’ll leave through the same path.”
That one sentence cut through the room like a blade. The gathering fell silent. One by one, the people got up and quietly dispersed.
Sometimes, a sentence is not just a string of words. It becomes a blade that pierces straight into the heart. It strikes more deeply than arrows or swords. But such piercing words only come from those who themselves have been pierced first—those who have felt life’s deepest wounds.
