By Mawlana Numaan Cheema

As you walk into his unassuming tailor shop, you’re enveloped by the serenity that pervades the city of Madinah. The air here is different, carrying with it the echoes of prayers whispered through centuries. The city, bathed in a soft, golden light, seems to breathe in unison with the faithful who walk its sacred streets. You step inside, and the world outside seems to fade away.

The shop itself is barely 150 square feet, a humble space that holds more than just fabric and thread. Various shades of cloth are stacked, some neatly, others in a more haphazard fashion, as if they too have stories to tell. An old couch, worn and sagging, probably dates back a few decades, offering a place of rest for weary souls. The tiles on the floor are broken, the door squeaks with every movement, and the over-performing AC hums like a faithful companion, all of them silent witnesses to the passage of time.

Then there is Khalid. A weary old man whose hands, roughened by decades of delicate work, move with a grace that belies their weariness. His eyes, though clouded with age, still sparkle with the warmth of a man who has spent his life in service, not just to his craft, but to the people he loves. He greets every visitor like a long-lost friend, his smile as genuine as the love he pours into every stitch. This is Khalid.

Khalid has been a tailor in the illuminated city of Madinah^[1], in this very shop, for over 25 years. I’ve known Khalid for close to a decade now. Every time I come to Madinah, I make it a point to visit him, even if I don’t need anything tailored. There’s something about his beautifully welcoming nature, something that draws you in and makes you feel at home.

As the final days of our stay in Madinah approached, a familiar ache began to settle in my chest. It was the sorrow of parting, mingled with the yearning to belong to a place so rich in history; our history and love. Each visit to Khalid’s shop felt like grasping at the last moments of a handshake I wasn’t ready to let go of. The ironic dread of returning home began to loom, and I found myself clinging to anyone fortunate enough to have stayed in Madinah. Maybe I was looking for hope, maybe it was a sense of belonging, or maybe I was trying to live through their experiences.

On our last meeting, I asked Khalid a question that had been weighing on my mind: “It couldn’t have been easy being in Madinah as a non-Arab, living under the kafeel^[2] system. How do you do it? What kept you here?”

Khalid paused, his gaze dropping to the floor as if searching for the right words among the broken tiles. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of years spent in silent thought. “Whenever it got tough,” he began, “I went and complained to the Prophet ﷺ. I’d tell him about the days I had no customers but also when I had a lot of them. I didn’t complain to anyone else, just him.”

He paused again, a tender smile forming as he looked up, his eyes glistening with unspoken emotion. “You think I’d leave such a loyal master for anything?”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the kind of love that transcends most and is unfathomable except to the one in love. Not only was he living out the words ^[3] of the Prophet ﷺ, but the creed of Ahlus Sunnah is that the Prophets are alive in their graves, so there isn’t any credal issue nor any problematic statement in his complaining. It’s just love. That’s all.

As I left Khalid’s shop, I couldn’t help but marvel at the simplicity of his devotion. It was a love so pure, so unwavering, that it transcended the struggles of daily life. In that moment, the words of the Prophet ﷺ regarding Madinah rang in my ears^[4] that this wasn’t just a city—it was a furnace that purified the pure and expelled the filthy. Maybe I am the filth this city cleansers itself from and Khalid, the pure whose long stay is a testament to their inner purity.

I envy clouds formed from the seas 

That gave him cover from the heat 

Of a sun whose light could not compete^[5]

I envy Khalid and the countless others who’ve been accepted to live in the illuminated resting place of the Best of Creation ﷺ. I can only pray that I get the opportunity to complain to him as well.

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^[1] Although the term “munawwara” or illuminated isn’t explicitly stated in the Quran or Hadith, the city’s designation as that is reflected in its use in Islamic culture and literature as a sign of its revered status. 

^[2] The Kafeel system in Saudi Arabia is a sponsorship arrangement requiring foreign workers to be under the legal and administrative control of a Saudi sponsor (kafeel) who is responsible for their employment and residency status.

^[3]  “None from my Ummah will endure the hardships and difficulties of Medina except that I will be an intercessor for him on the Day of Judgment, or a martyr.” (Muslim)

^[4]  “It is the city of Medina, which expels the people (of evil) just as the bellows remove the impurities from iron.” (Muslim)

^[5] Springs Gift by Shaykh Hamza Yusuf