Desiccated by the merciless desert air, these seas of fire have dried to form black basalt plains, which
      stretch beyond the horizon. They are God’s defence of the city, whose glassy sharpness kept at bay the
      idolatrous invaders of Quraish, forcing them to confront the believers at their only point of access, at the
      Battle of the Trench. The desolation of this landscape of flat blackness, interrupted by dry sarha bushes,
      and, far away, the shapely profile of extinct volcanoes, gives the impact of arrival an extraordinary
      dramatic power.

      The proximity of the City, on the motorway inevitably dubbed the Hijra Highway, is first announced by
      the slip-road to Abyar Ali, the Wells of Ali. These are sweetwater sources much frequented by pilgrims,
      eager to benefit from the medicinal properties of these deep, cold wells once owned by the Blessed
      Prophet’s son-in-law. Pilgrims from the Subcontinent, in particular, flock here to catch the precious fluid
      in bottles, to be given to relatives on their return: a gift almost as welcome as the Water of Zamzam itself.

      Ten minutes drive, and Quba is reached. Here, the black barrenness of the harrat suddenly gives way to a
      verdant sea of green. Alfalfa, watermelons, cucumber and tomatoes grow here, between fruit trees and the
      ancient symbol of Madina, the date palm itself. In this prosperous suburb, now a place of coffee-shops and
      small parks, can still be found the Zarqa wells from which the Blessed Prophet drank when first he
      reached the City, and which are the secret of the land’s fertility. Here, too, the Madinan Muslims, and the
      penniless but radiant refugees from Makkan tyranny, patiently lined the walls and the high places, hoping
      for a glimpse of God’s Messenger and the faithful Abu Bakr, as they appeared as dots on the shimmering
      horizon.

      The mosque at Quba, the first place of worship founded in Islam, is impressive but sober. The 1986
      reconstruction retains the familiar features of Madinese architecture, which are ribbed white domes, and
      basalt facing over a modest exterior that recalls Madina’s primordial simplicity. The courtyard, screened
      overhead by day from the scorching heat, is flagged with black, red and white marble. Calligraphy by great
      Turkish masters soars overhead, proclaiming the uniqueness of this place. Arabesque latticework filters the
      light of the palm groves outside. Doves coo in the window-niches.

      Despite the sense of peace, few linger here. The pull of the Haram, the Sanctuary, is everywhere, and as
      the sun lowers in the west the pilgrims have thoughts only for the Prophet’s Mosque. At this time, there is
      only one destination for visitors and city-dwellers alike. In Ramadan, in this city, it would be possible to
      switch off the traffic lights in the late afternoon. Every road becomes a one-way street, pulling the visitor
      towards the cool, radiant heart of the city.

      Visitors who have not set foot in Madina before are often in tears by now. The blessings of a still, loving
      Presence can be breathed everywhere, softening hearts, and loosening tongues in dhikr. Shops and
      buildings pass by, but here the city itself is no more than a blur. Visitors come here for one place, and for
      one person alone.

      The road skirts the Manakha district, and passes the Mosque of Abu Bakr, its Ottoman minaret pointing to
      the clear, reddening sky. Then, the splendour of the Haram is suddenly revealed. A minaret, and then
      several more, sparkle in welcome. And then the adhan rises, piercing the warm air with its magnetic
      summons.

      A sea of quiet humanity pours into each of seventy gates. Many have removed their sandals long
      beforehand, out of respect for the ground, which holds the Messenger in its embrace. Within, there is clear
      light, carpets, water-barrels, and an extraordinary dynamic which draws the visitor on, and in, until at last
      the courtyard is reached, and the pilgrim stands in the presence of the Best of Creation.

      Hundreds of thousands are being fed. These guests of the Prophet sit, while those honoured with this
      service circulate, smilingly handing out dates, or small containers of yoghurt. In this palace of the Prophet,
      no-one, however poor, goes hungry when the time of the fast is ended. Children tumble on the carpets,
      laughing with delight at the experience of the endless sanctuary. There is a murmur of grateful
      conversation, and of prayer.

      The space is articulated with supreme genius. To one side is the Gate of Gabriel, leading on, and in, to the
      Rawda, and to the mihrab in which the Messenger himself laid his forehead on the earth in adoration of
      God. On one side is the dakka, the carved marble platform on which the muezzin and his assistants await
      the appointed time. On the other rises the gold grille beyond which lies the cool and shaded silence
      beneath the great dome. The air here is perfumed by the rarest of incense and musk, announcing the
      presence, beneath the flagstones, of the Best of Creation, and Abu Bakr and Umar, his closest
      companions.

      The modern Egyptian poet al-Fayturi expresses the emotions of millions:

           Over the Prophet’s form every speck of dust

           is a pillar of light

           ascending from the dome of his tomb

           to the dome of the skies.

           And the awe that makes our foreheads bow

           draws its own horizon, and higher horizons,

           from hands and from lips -

           the road of ‘In the name of God.’

      The proximity is overwhelming for some pilgrims, whose humility and awe forces them to sit at a
      respectful distance, perhaps some way down the mosque. Others cannot sit too close. Everywhere, there is
      worship, bowing and prostration, the mellifluous murmuring of the Qur’an, and wordless contemplation.

      A hadith tells us that ‘Prayer in my mosque is a thousand times better than prayer in any other mosque,
      saving only the Sacred Mosque itself.’ As the iqama sounds, and half a million men and women rise with
      longing for the prayer, the calculation does not feel like an overstatement.

      Prayer in the Rawda is especially sought after. A hadith affirms that ‘the space between my grave and my
      pulpit is one of the Meadows of Paradise.’ Here, listening to the awesome gravity of God’s word, the
      continuity with the blessed past is felt intensely. The greatest saints and scholars of Islam have stood here:
      after the Companions came countless thousands: the Four Imams worshipped here, as did al-Shaybani, Ibn
      Jurayj, al-Zuhri, Sibawayh, Ibn Qutaybah, al-Ghazali, al-Nawawi, A’isha al-Ba‘uniyya, Ibn Khaldun: all the
      great souls of Islam have prayed here, humbled by the Prophetic presence.

      After the silent prayers of the day, the worshippers drink the words of the Qur’an thirstily. The greetings of
      peace are given, and the lines break up as they worship individually. Circles of remembrance form in the
      Rawda, as turbanned Turks repeat a litany, guided by their teacher, prayer-beads in hand. Nigerians,
      Uzbeks, Bangladeshis and a whole sea of Indonesians do likewise.

      A Baluchi folk-melody, ‘May I see the towers of Madina’, sings,

           On the tongues of this Rawda’s nightingales are words of wisdom,

           More beautifully coloured than all the flowers of Madina!

      Among the many Prophetic litanies which the careful ear may hear in this place, the most widely-used is
      the Dala’il al-Khayrat, the Indications of Blessings, by Imam al-Jazuli, whose tomb in far-off Marrakesh
      breathes something of the spirit of Madina. This great prayer begins with over two hundred Names of the
      Prophet, culled from the scriptures, and which may also be read in exquisite Naskh calligraphy above the
      green tiles on the qibla wall. Hundreds of names recall him: the Messenger of Mercy, the Emissary of
      Virtue, Reliant, the Beloved of God, Seal of the Prophets ...

      These pilgrims know that they are in the presence of the most influential man in history. He had found a
      people divided by the crudest pagan ignorance, and left them united in the purest and most exalted
      monotheism. Formerly they had denied life after death; twenty-three short years on, they lived with it
      constantly before their eyes. He had found them unable to rule themselves, torn by age-long vendettas,
      knowing no law other than the selfish interest of the tribe and the individual’s honour; and he left their
      hearts so united that they withstood the shock of his death, and went out to liberate the world.

      In this place, the Messenger guided his disciples. Here they learnt how to be still before their Lord, how to
      restrain their anger, to live for others, to show compassion to young and old. This was the crucible of a
      New World Order: the most effective school ever known.

      And presiding over it all, still, is the presence of the Prophet. His mission for the Muslim commonwealth
      awaits its final consummation, when, at the Resurrection, he shall appear with his name of Intercessor.
      There is no Muslim alive who does not hope for the honour of resurrection under his green Banner of
      Praise, and for the rapture of salvation through his pleading before his Lord. Adab, good manners in his
      presence, is hence passionately cultivated and prayed for. Those who respectfully move forwards, to stand
      before the gold of the Wajiha to greet him, are moved not only by love and gratitude for what he did, but
      by fervent hope for his prayers, help and pleading amid the terrors of the Apocalypse.

      He said: ‘No Muslim greets me but that Allah restores my spirit to me so that I am able to respond to him.’
      Five times a day, worshippers end their prayers by invoking blessings and peace upon his spirit. No human
      being, since the beginning of time, has been more blessed. And this reciprocal rite of taslim is the
      culmination of a lifetime of calling down God’s blessings upon him, a cosmic process in which God and
      the Angels themselves join. In the presence of his spirit, salat and salam come continuously. The entire
      mosque is filled with prayers for him; and this is the largest building in the world. Here, the existence of
      humanity finds its justification.

      ‘Not one of you believes,’ says a hadith, ‘until I am dearer to him than his father, his son, and all mankind.’
      The power of this love detains many in the mosque. But the body has its rights, and others slowly leave, to
      find a place to eat in this crowded city. Restaurants of all kinds abound, and the air around the mosque
      loses its hint of musk and sandalwood, to become fragrant with the aroma of Turkish kebabs, Lebanese
      meze, Malaysian satay, Sudanese chicken and beans. In the darkness, street vendors offer the garments of
      fifty countries: Indonesian batik, Damascus muslin, Egyptian cotton, Moroccan chiffre. Prayer beads of
      olive pits, amber or ebony dangle from shelves. Women browse through jewellery, heaped high with no
      fear of thieves.

      The cheerful fellowship of the eating-houses is not the profane self-exaltation of the smart Western
      restaurant. Here, companionship is the main item on the menu. Struggling for words, Muslims of two
      hundred nationalities speak about their homes, about the troubles of the world, about their hopes for an
      end to the unbearable shallowness of the modern world, and a return to God.

      The air outside is now much cooler. Those who know the city may briefly visit some of its nearer shrines,
      such as the Mosque of the Two Qiblas, with its resonances of the lost Muslim city of Jerusalem, the Third
      Holy City. Unlike Madina, Jerusalem has been tragically desacralised in recent decades, with the
      introduction of night clubs, pornography, and every form of degradation. But Islam’s grasp on Madina is
      still strong. Such is God’s power in defence of His Messenger that no enemy army has succeeded in
      capturing it, since the dawn of Islam.

      The adhan sounds for isha, and the veins of the city pump back towards the mosque which is its heart.
      Grateful for God’s gift of food and drink, the pilgrims are eager for the prayer, followed by the Tarawih rite
      extending almost two hours into the night.

      Tarawih in Madina is one of the great spectacles of the world. Perhaps a million men, women and children,
      stand in neat lines in the mosque, on its roof, and in the marbled spaces nearby. Tarawih in Mecca is an
      experience of austere majesty; in Madina, it is characterised by delight and by love. To pray in the
      company of God’s Messenger, who rose through the seven heavens to bring to us the gift of prayer, and
      who will intercede for tides of humanity, is an almost inexpressible joy. Villagers from Pakistan,
      shopkeepers from Turkey, Nigerian businessmen, and Bosnian farmers, all stand together, their differences
      annihilated by the presence of the man whose mission was truly universal.

      In the Qur’an, there is nothing of Arab pride. Its original context in history was the Arab people, but it
      pays little attention to them. It is farsighted, affirming that each previous prophet had been sent only to his
      own people; but that now, a Prophet had come who was for all mankind. And here is the proof of that
      mission’s truth and of its success under God: a million human beings, outwardly diverse but of a single
      heart, basking in the glow of Madina.

      After Tarawih, it is tea-time. Midnight, under the arc-lamps of this warm city, is no time for sleep. Sufi
      fraternities meet in homes, and recall the glories of the Beloved of Madina. Hadith are read, in the
      sing-song style traditional in the city. Commentaries are given in the delightful Madina dialect, so rich in
      Syrian and Turkish words.

      Tahajjud prayers attract perhaps a quarter of a million, deep in the small hours. Others are sleeping in the
      streets, or in the hotels, which range from small Egyptian resthouses with doubtful stairs, to the five-star
      plushness of the Sheraton and the Green Palace. On the roofs of many hotels are small gardens, and here,
      even at this hour, the Sufi orders are again enjoying their fellowship in the spirit.

      The sunna recommends that at least some of the night be spent in sleep. Two hours before dawn, most of
      the city is silent. And then, the first adhan, more than an hour before the adhan for the prayer, rises into the
      black sky. The hotels serve a pre-dawn meal, but few linger until the last moment. An hour before the
      dawn prayer begins, the mosque is already full, the worshippers knowing by experience the value of this
      time. The Suffa, the small veranda attached to the Prophetic tomb, is crowded with turbaned men,
      prayer-beads in hand. Here lived the poorest of the Companions, those who were under the most intense
      spiritual guidance, who hungered, and lived in rags, and prayed.

      The final adhan sounds, and then the iqama. The prayer is said, followed by the atmosphere of peace and
      consummation which ends each prayer. Many remain until ishraq, the individual prayer said after sunrise.
      Others hail taxis, and visit the outlying shrines.

      The most important of these is Mount Uhud. The Blessed Prophet proclaimed it as ‘a mountain which
      loves us, and which we love’. Its mysterious quality has been reinforced by aerial photographs, which show
      that the mountain spells the Arabic name of Allah. To walk in its dry valleys is to encounter solitary
      pilgrims, meditating on the evanescence of life. Occasionally a qalandar is seen, with untidy hair, fingers
      heavy with brass rings, his eyes disquietingly bright. Some live in this hill throughout their visit, descending
      to the valley to pray.

      Ramadan is a time of renunciation. Although the morning air is still cool, the sense of detachment granted
      by the fast has sobered the crowds, and focussed their minds. The pilgrims clustered around the iron grille
      which allows them to view the graves of the Martyrs of Uhud read from prayerbooks, or repeat the words
      of the muzawwir, the official guide. ‘Peace be upon you, Hamza, the Lion of God, the uncle of God’s Messenger!
      Peace be upon you, Mus‘ab, hero of the Companions!’ Beside the cemetery, the authorities have constructed a
      mosque for those who wish to pray in this place.

      The great cemetery of Madina, however, is al-Baqi‘. This lies near the Prophet’s tomb, from which it was
      until recently separated by one of the gates of the walled city, the Bab al-Baqi‘. The cemetery has many
      names, including Jannat al-Baqi‘ (The Garden of Baqi‘), and Baqi‘ al-Gharqad, a reference to the brambles
      (gharqad) which covered it when Islam first arrived. In the fifth year of the Hijra, the Companion Uthman
      ibn Maz‘un died, and was buried here, and on the Blessed Prophet’s instructions the area was cleared of
      brambles and became the last resting place of the Companions.

      Today, Baqi‘ is the most visited graveyard in the world. Until recently rough cement walls surrounded it,
      but in 1996 the authorities replaced these with fine granite, pierced with large iron and brass grilles, to
      commemorate and honour this place. Some pilgrims stand by the grilles, but others, particularly in the cool
      hour after dawn, venture in by the splendid new gates.

      To facilitate circulation, the authorities have established cement pathways throughout the cemetery.
      Guidebooks provide detailed maps of the plots, naming hundreds of the individuals who are buried here.
      Hence the pilgrims, guided by their muzawwirs, stand, or crouch, before the tombs of the Mothers of the
      Believers: A‘isha, Hafsa, Umm Habiba and the others. Nearby is the Blessed Prophet’s infant son, the two
      year old Ibrahim, whose death caused the Prophet such pain. The pilgrims move on to salute Uthman, the
      third Caliph, and then Imam Malik and his teacher Nafi‘. Al-Abbas, the Prophet’s uncle, is here. So too is
      Halima al-Sa‘diyya, the nurse whose dry breasts miraculously flowed with milk when the infant
      Muhammad was set to them. To one side is the grave of Imam Shamyl, the nineteenth-century hero of the
      Caucasus, visited by Chechen and Daghistani pilgrims to this day.

      Al-Baqi‘ is a powerful place. Other cities consider it their pride to host a single saint; but here there are
      hundreds. All around lie at rest the men and women who heard the Prophet’s summons, and broke the
      idols of their forefathers, and gave their lives to his cause. To this blessed ambience is added the baraka of
      Ramadan, and as the days pass, this too gains in power.

      The fasting city of Madina has other wonders, although not all are as spectacular as the Haram and
      al-Baqi‘. There is one mosque no bigger than a prayer-mat, surrounded by two layers of bricks, which
      marks the spot where the Blessed Prophet once prayed. An elderly man lives nearby, and sweeps the tiny
      mosque daily, dispensing prayers and teaching-stories to the visitors.

      The tribes of Aws and Khazraj, who welcomed the Prophet and his teaching, still live in Madina, retaining
      their traditions of courtesy and hospitality. The basalt homes in which they once lived: the traditional
      Madinese bayt al-bi’r, built around a courtyard which was often covered with a net and filled with tropical
      birds, are now mostly gone. Yet otherwise, not much has changed in fourteen hundred years. Pernicious
      and cheapening influences from the world outside are successfully excluded.

      Madina shows the truth of the hadith that ‘Madina expels impurities as a furnace expels impurities from
      iron.’ The form of the city has changed, but the heart is immutable. In Ramadan, more than at any other
      time, the continued strength of Islam is manifest here. The city is well-defended; as a hadith recorded by
      Imam Muslim states, the Antichrist cannot enter it, but will be driven away on the lava-plains by al-Khidr
      himself. In this city, and in this month, the Muslims are at home.