The Garden of Paradise: A Journey into the Heart of the Prophet’s Home
Before it was a city of light, it was an oasis of conflict. In the arid expanse of the Arabian peninsula, the city of Yathrib was a rare splash of green, a settlement nourished by underground wells and shaded by dense groves of date palms. Its air, however, was thick with the bitter legacy of tribal warfare. For generations, the two main Arab tribes, the Aws and the Khazraj, had been locked in a bloody cycle of vendetta and revenge known as the War of Bu’ath. Alongside them lived several learned Jewish tribes—the Banu Qaynuqa, Banu Nadir, and Banu Qurayza—who spoke of ancient prophecies, of a final messenger whose arrival was imminent. Yathrib was a city fractured by pride and weary of bloodshed, a land yearning for a peace it could not find within itself.
It was into this simmering cauldron of hope and despair that a small group of exhausted travelers arrived in the year 622 CE. They were the Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, and his closest companion, Abu Bakr al-Siddiq, having completed the perilous migration—the Hijra—from their persecuted home of Mecca. The arrival was not one of grand ceremony but of quiet, profound significance. As the Prophet entered the city on his camel, Qaswa, the chieftains of Yathrib lined the path, each hoping for the honor of hosting him. With gentle wisdom, the Prophet declined their invitations, stating, “Let her go, for she is under command.” The camel, guided by a divine will beyond human understanding, ambled through the dusty lanes until she finally knelt in a large, open courtyard. It was a humble plot of land, used for drying dates, containing a few palm trees, some scattered ruins, and the graves of polytheists. This unremarkable piece of earth was about to become the heart of a new world.
The Dawn of a New City
The land belonged to two young orphans, Sahl and Suhayl, who immediately offered it as a gift. The Prophet, in his profound fairness, insisted on purchasing it, establishing from the very first moment a foundation of justice and respect for property. On this newly acquired ground, the nascent Muslim community embarked on its first great public work: the construction of a mosque, Masjid an-Nabawi (the Prophet’s Mosque), and adjacent to it, a home for the Messenger of God. This was not a project delegated to laborers; it was a collective act of faith. The Prophet himself worked alongside his companions, the Muhajirun (emigrants from Mecca) and the Ansar (helpers from Medina), lifting heavy mud bricks and stones. As they worked, their voices rose in a rhythmic chant: “O Allah! There is no good except the good of the Hereafter, so help the Ansar and the Muhajirah.”
The structure that rose from the earth was a testament to a spiritual vision rooted in sublime simplicity. The walls were made of sun-dried mud bricks, the roof of palm fronds and leaves supported by pillars hewn from the trunks of date palms. The floor was simple packed earth, which would turn to mud when the rare rains fell. There was no ornate dome, no towering minaret, no lavish decoration. Its beauty lay not in its form but in its function: it was a center for prayer, a community hall, a school for learning, a seat of governance, and a shelter for the poor and weary. It was a space where the divine and the mundane met, where a king would sit on the floor with the most destitute of his followers, erasing all distinctions of status and wealth.
Adjacent to the eastern wall of this mosque, a series of simple, small chambers, known as the Hujurat, were built. These were the private dwellings for the Prophet and his family. Each chamber was barely large enough for one person to sleep stretched out, with low roofs one could touch with a raised hand. The walls were of the same humble mud brick, and the doors were often no more than heavy curtains. It was in one of these rooms, the chamber of his beloved wife Aisha, daughter of Abu Bakr, that the Prophet of God would spend most of his final years. This tiny dwelling, a space of profound love, simplicity, and divine revelation, was destined to become one of the most sacred spots on Earth.
A House of Light, A Garden of Paradise
Life within the Hujurat was a lesson in humility. Aisha would later recall that weeks would pass without a fire being lit in their home, their family subsisting on dates and water. The Prophet’s bed was a simple leather mattress stuffed with palm fiber, which would often leave marks on his side. Yet, this material poverty was eclipsed by an immense spiritual wealth. It was from these rooms that the light of his teachings radiated, where he would receive companions, share meals with the needy, and spend long nights in solitary prayer, his feet swelling from standing. It was a home where every action was a form of worship and every word a source of wisdom.
The sanctity of these private chambers was so profound that God revealed an entire chapter of the Quran named after them, Surah Al-Hujurat (The Chambers). It taught the believers the etiquette of interacting with the Prophet and his family: “O you who have believed, do not raise your voices above the voice of the Prophet or be loud to him in speech as you are loud to one another, lest your deeds become worthless while you perceive not.” This divine instruction cemented the reverence with which this physical space was to be treated, transforming its simple mud walls into a spiritual boundary of immense significance.
Within the adjoining mosque, the Prophet designated a specific area as a place of unique blessing. Standing at his pulpit, or Minbar, a simple structure of tamarisk wood from which he delivered his sermons, he declared a profound spiritual truth. He said, “Between my house and my pulpit is a garden from the gardens of Paradise (Rawda min Riyad al-Jannah).” This statement elevated a small patch of the earthen floor—the area stretching from the eastern wall of Aisha’s chamber to his Minbar—into a terrestrial echo of a heavenly reality. To pray upon this ground was, and still is, considered an act of immense virtue, a chance for a believer to place their forehead on a piece of earth that the Prophet himself identified with Paradise. This space, known as the Rawda ash-Sharifah, the Noble Garden, became the spiritual nucleus of the mosque, a destination of hope for millions.
The Sacred Inheritance
As the years passed, the Prophet’s health began to fade. In his final illness, he sought permission from his other wives to be cared for in the home of Aisha, the chamber that opened directly into the mosque. It was here, his head resting in her lap, that his soul departed from this world. The grief that engulfed Medina was absolute. His companions were paralyzed with shock, with the formidable Umar ibn al-Khattab refusing to believe the news until Abu Bakr calmly and firmly recited the Quranic verse: “Muhammad is not but a messenger. [Other] messengers have passed on before him. So if he was to die or be killed, would you turn back on your heels?”
A new, critical question arose: where should the Prophet be buried? Some suggested Mecca, his birthplace. Others proposed the Baqi’ cemetery with his companions. It was Abu Bakr who once again provided the answer, recalling a teaching he had heard directly from the Messenger of God: “Allah does not take the soul of a Prophet except in the place where he would love to be buried.” And so, the decision was made. A grave was dug inside the very room where he had passed away. The Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, was laid to rest in the earth of Aisha’s small chamber, forever sanctifying the ground beneath her feet.
Years later, when Abu Bakr was on his deathbed, he made a simple request: to be buried next to his beloved friend. Aisha granted him this honor, and he was laid to rest just beside the Prophet. A decade after, as the second Caliph, Umar ibn al-Khattab, lay dying from an assassin’s blade, he sent his son to Aisha with one final, humble plea. Though he was the leader of a vast and powerful empire, he asked for her permission to be buried alongside his two companions. Aisha, who had reserved that final spot for herself, selflessly replied, “I used to want it for myself, but today I will give him preference over me.” Thus, Umar was buried in the third spot, completing the trio of luminaries resting within the sacred chamber.
The Enduring Legacy Through Centuries
As the Islamic world expanded, so did the Prophet’s Mosque. Each expansion was an act of devotion, yet it brought with it a profound dilemma: how to enlarge the space for a growing number of worshippers without encroaching upon the sanctity of the Prophet’s home and grave. For decades, the Caliphs built around the Hujurat, preserving their original mud-brick form as a tangible link to the Prophet’s life.
The most significant and emotionally charged transformation came during the reign of the Umayyad Caliph Al-Walid I in the early 8th century. He ordered a grand expansion of the mosque that would, for the first time, incorporate the Prophet’s chambers and grave into the main prayer hall. When the builders began to dismantle the simple mud walls of the Hujurat, the city of Medina wept. The people mourned the loss of these last physical vestiges of the Prophet’s simple life. Sa’id ibn al-Musayyib, a great scholar of the time, lamented, “By Allah, I wished that they had left them as they were, so that when the people of Medina and visitors from abroad came, they would see what the Prophet of Allah was content with in his life, and this would lead them to abstain from worldly competition and pride.” To ensure the grave site would never become an object of worship or circumambulation, the Caliph’s architects built an irregular, five-sided wall around it, with no doors, ensuring it could not be mistaken for the Kaaba in Mecca.
Over the centuries, further enhancements were made. The Mamluk Sultan Qalawun erected the first wooden dome over the chamber in 1279. This dome was rebuilt and renovated many times, but it was in the 19th century, under the rule of the Ottoman Sultan Mahmud II, that it was painted its iconic, vibrant green, becoming the Qubbat al-Khadra—the Green Dome. This dome is now the single most recognizable symbol of Medina, a beacon visible from miles away, signaling the location of the Prophet’s final resting place.
Today, the visitor to the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina steps into a space of breathtaking scale. A forest of columns stretches out beneath a roof of sliding domes, and the vast marble courtyard is shaded by giant, automated umbrellas. Yet, amidst this modern grandeur, the heart of every pilgrim is drawn to that one, sacred corner. They seek out the distinct green carpet that marks the boundaries of the Rawda ash-Sharifah, the Noble Garden. Here, in a space packed with worshippers from every corner of the globe, they try to find a small spot to offer two units of prayer, to connect with the promise of Paradise made fourteen centuries ago.
Then, they move slowly, with a mixture of awe and anticipation, towards the magnificent golden grille that encloses the sacred chamber. Through the intricate calligraphy, they can glimpse the darkness beyond, the resting place of the Prophet and his two great companions. Here, standing before the final earthly home of the man they love but have never seen, they lower their voices, just as the Quran commanded. They offer their salutations—“As-salamu alayka ya Rasul Allah” (Peace be upon you, O Messenger of Allah)—words that travel across time, a whisper of devotion from a grateful heart. In that moment, the long history of the oasis of Yathrib, the story of the mud-brick walls, and the legacy of the man who brought peace to a warring land coalesce into a single, profound, and deeply personal experience. It is a reminder that the most powerful legacies are not built from stone and gold, but from love, humility, and a light that time can never extinguish.
