by Mawlana Numaan Cheema, Yardley, PA

The sacred precinct of Madinah, much like its more rewarding counterpart in Makkah, serves as a refuge from the relentless worries of the world. Its pristine pillars, intricately crafted lamps, and centuries-old artwork, all woven together in a tapestry of elegance, offer a sanctuary for the weary soul. Despite the bustling crowds of eager lovers, yearning for a place in the Noble Piece of Paradise, there’s a familiar calm that permeates the air. It feels as though the entire space has absorbed the serenity and demeanor of the dweller beneath the iconic green dome.

Among the fortunate souls who serve in the Prophet’s mosque are the countless workers, clad in gray, blue, and beige, who move about silently—ensuring the water flows, the floors remain spotless, and, in my case, that lost shoes are found. Their faces often bear the marks of hard work, yet they remain welcoming to the millions they encounter every day.

At certain times, a section of the mosque is cordoned off to allow women easier access to the rawda and the opportunity to present their salām to the Blessed Messenger ﷺ and his two noble companions. When this time arrives, these humble, sometimes meek-looking workers swiftly move to unfold the barriers, creating a corridor for the women. Any men sitting in the newly designated area are asked to relocate, taking their belongings with them—for anything left behind may never be found again.

One such morning, lost in thought, I found myself gazing at the majestic Green Dome through the sun-shading umbrellas inside the masjid. My mind wandered to a time long gone, a time when there were no grand structures, only the dweller of that humble house. I couldn’t help but imagine what those gatherings must have been like:

I wish I could witness that moment, where the Prophet’s gathering was adorned,
The eyes of the Sahabah were filled with love, and mercy rained down from the heavens.

So engrossed was I in this vision that I failed to notice the workers stretching the barrier right next to me, cordoning off the area. By the time I came back to my senses, a sudden flicker of concern raced through my mind—my shoes! The Prophet’s mosque has thousands of shiny white shoe racks, placed strategically across the compound for ease. Thinking myself clever, I had placed my shoes at a nearby rack, which now lay behind the barrier, inaccessible.

This wasn’t the first time I’d lost track of my shoes in Madinah, nor, I suspect, would it be the last—if I am blessed to return. I mentally prepared myself to walk barefoot on the Arabian asphalt all the way to the nearest supermarket and then back to my hotel, imagining that I was, once again, imitating Imam Malik—not out of reverence this time, but out of sheer carelessness.

As I mapped out my route in my head, I approached one of the workers who was tying the barrier to a nearby pillar. His face was creased with effort as he stretched the straps to their limits, balancing the barrier’s cloth between his arms and shoulders. His beard, a mix of reddish-orange and gray, glistened in the midday light. When he saw me, he asked, in a heavy yet kind voice, if I needed anything. I explained my little saga about losing my shoes. Without a word, he finished his task and then motioned for me to follow him.

As we walked, I tried to make small talk, asking him where he was from and how he liked the work he did. His only reply was a single word, repeated over and over: “Alhamdulillah.” On our walk, we passed a grand stage that had been set up in the mosque overnight, with white-cloth-covered executive chairs and a media crew busy arranging A/V equipment. I asked him what the occasion was, to which he replied that a member of the Royal Family or a prince was coming, and they were preparing the area for his visit.

The stage and its adornments felt out of place in the elegant simplicity and serenity of the Prophet’s mosque. Sensing my disapproval, the worker paused for a moment, then uttered words that will forever echo in my heart. In Urdu, he said:

“ان کے شہزادے ہم پر جوتے پھینکتے ہیں، ہمارا صرف ایک شہزادہ ہے جو ہمارے جوتے اٹھاتا ہے۔”
“Their princes throw shoes at us. We have only one prince who picks up our shoes for us.”

I stood there, stunned by the devotion and love this humble worker had for the Messenger of Allah ﷺ. Before I could gather myself, he disappeared for a brief moment, only to reappear moments later, holding a pair of once-white, now sand-worn slippers—my shoes. Echoing his own words, I handed him whatever riyals I had in my pocket and whispered a heartfelt “Alhamdulillah.”

The poet’s words ring true: even after fourteen hundred years, the Prophet ﷺ continues to honor, inspire, and uplift all those around him.

مُحَمَّدٌ ضَاحِكٌ لِلضَّيْفِ مُكْرِمُهُ 

مُحَمَّدٌ جَارُهُ وَاللَّهِ لَمْ يُضَمِ 

Muhammad – smiling and cheerful with his guest to honor him, 

Muhammad – by God, no neighbor of his was ever wronged!

May Allah grant us the honor of being reunited with our beloved prince ﷺ, and bless us with the chance to serve at his feet.

مسجد نبوی میں کرتے سجدہ شکرانا ہم
شمع اقدس پے مرتے صورت پروانہ ہم

حجر اطہر سے باہر صحن میں رکھئے قدم
لے سکیں یوں بوسہ قدمین اقدس آج ہم

In the Prophet’s Mosque, we offer prostrations of gratitude,
We die at the Blessed Light like moths to a flame.

Step out, O Prophet, from your sacred abode into the open air,
That today we may be graced to kiss your blessed feet.