The Endless Golden Dunes

Chapter 6: Hamza of Medina

After Makkah, one would almost always mention Medina. Why shouldn’t they? After all, most of the important things in the later history of Islam happened in Medina. The immigration, the Charter, most of the revelations, they were in Medina. Otherwise called the ‘City of the Prophet’, as he was buried there.
  
Medina was a rather peculiar city. It was a political location, but also a religious one. The people were mostly as sweet as dates, yet as stiff as mountains. In a peculiar city, there are peculiar people.
  
Hamza patrolled the streets, his scimitar on the left side. He had, as most would say, a handsome face. His wavy hair dropped on his sides, and Hamza had to tuck the rest behind his ear. His beard wasn’t one too long like a scholar’s, yet not too short as to be considered a stubble. He wore the usual black turban and black armor as the rest of the Abbasids do.
  
He wasn’t a soldier of war, but he had joined the army simply because he wanted to protect people. Any protests, he would be the one to go first and try to peacefully resolve them. But he never killed. He didn’t want to. That was contradicting his moral compass. Sure, he might try to break up fights, but kill? That was a word unknown to him.
  
When he would tell such to someone, they would ask him how it was possible for him to be a soldier and not kill. To that, Hamza might laugh and change the topic. At rare times, he would say: ‘If I kill one man, that would mean that I have killed the entirety of mankind.’, and that was something he learned from the Qur’an.
  
Hamza looked at a child playing with a couple of his friends. He smiled. The children noticed him and ran to him.
  
‘Hamza!’ they yelled, coming around him.
  
‘Tell us news that you have found!’ they said, grinning and laughing.
  
Hamza gave a chuckle.
  
‘I am no traveler, tufl,’ he said. ‘You are better off asking the cobbler where he has wandered.’
  
‘At least tell us where you have been.’ One of the children asked in desperation.
  
Hamza laughed.
  
‘All I saw were camels.’ He said.
  
‘What kind?’
  
‘You know that old merchant, Sufyan? He bought two red camels.’
  
Excited whispers ran through them. Hamza chuckled at it. Of course, it was a tradition for Sufyan to buy at least one red camel every three months, and the children knew it. Yet, there was something strange about them. They would get fascinated at the littlest of things, and Hamza thought that it was adorable.
  
‘Now run along, you don’t want your umu to see you talking to strangers.’
  
‘You are no stranger! My mother praises you.’
  
‘So she does,’ Hamza smiled. ‘Nevertheless, run along. I’ll make sure to get you some sweets when I come back. All right?’
  
The children nodded and went back to their work. Hamza smiled at them and continued his patrolling duties.
  
When someone would mention his name, people would bow in respect. He had gained quite a positive reputation with everyone. What was ironic about his thoughts was that he was named after the Prophet Muhammad’s uncle. In Makkah, he was known as a tough person, not afraid to fight and kill. One of the greatest warriors of the tribe of Quraish. Sure, Hamza was a warrior, but he would never kill. When someone pointed out that irony, Hamza just shrugged. He said that it was one of the peculiarities of life.