The Last Pagan Hajj

The dust of three hundred riders rises against the late-autumn sky as the caravan threads its way south from Medina toward the ancient Miqat at Dhul Hulaifa. At its head rides Abu Bakr al-Siddiq (may Allah be pleased with him), the most trusted man in the Prophet’s inner circle, entrusted now with a mission that will reshape the sacred landscape of Arabia forever. Behind him, twenty-five sacrificial camels sway under their loads, and three hundred Muslims — men who have survived Badr, Uhud, the Trench, Hudaybiyyah, and Tabuk — ride toward a Hajj unlike any before it. They do not yet know that within hours of their departure, revelation will descend that will send a lone horseman galloping after them with words that will sever the last threads binding Islam to the age of idolatry.

It is the ninth year of the Hijrah, and the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) has chosen not to go.

A Prophet’s Refusal

The decision is deliberate, and the reason is stated plainly. The Prophet tells Abu Bakr and others that he will not perform the Hajj so long as polytheists circumambulate the Ka’bah in a state of ritual nudity. The holiest site on earth, the House built by Ibrahim and Isma’il, is still host to practices that the Quran itself condemns as fahishah — obscenity.

To understand the weight of this refusal, one must understand the practice it rejects. The pre-Islamic Arabs had developed a theology of nakedness woven around the Tawaf. Their reasoning ran along two lines: first, that one should appear before God in the state in which one’s mother gave birth — pure, unadorned, “natural”; and second, that the very garments in which a person had sinned were unfit to be worn before the Sacred House. Both arguments carried the sheen of piety. Both were, in the Quranic assessment, perversions.

“And when they commit a fahishah, they say, ‘We found our fathers doing it, and Allah has commanded us to do it.’ Say, ‘Indeed, Allah does not command fahishah. Do you say about Allah that which you do not know?’” — Al-A’raf (7:28)

The Quran situates this verse within a broader passage about clothing itself — how Allah “sent down” garments upon the children of Adam, how Iblis had stripped Adam and Hawwa of their covering in the Garden, and how the descendants of Adam must not let Shaytan seduce them into the same exposure. Clothing, in this Quranic framework, is not merely cultural but divine in origin: “We have sent down upon you clothing” — a gift from heaven, not a barrier to holiness.

Scholarly Note

The identification of the fahishah in Al-A’raf (7:28) with the practice of naked Tawaf is found in the classical tafsir literature, including the works of Ibn Kathir, al-Tabari, and al-Qurtubi, who cite the interpretations of the Companions and Tabi’un. The two justifications for the practice — returning to one’s “natural state” and discarding “sinful garments” — are recorded in these same sources.

Not everyone participated in this practice. It was considered, paradoxically, a mark of heightened piety — something the especially devout would undertake, not the daily norm. And the Quraysh themselves were exempt by their own reckoning: as the custodians of the Haram, they considered themselves too elite to strip. The practice fell upon the non-Qurayshi pilgrims who flooded Mecca each Hajj season. There were escape routes — one could purchase new garments (conveniently from Meccan merchants) or borrow clothing from a Qurayshi, which was deemed “purified” by association with the sacred city.

Even women sometimes participated, though with a minimal covering and a recited verse meant to ward off stares: “Today all or some of my body is apparent, but whatever is apparent, I do not permit anyone to gaze upon.” Women more commonly performed this ritual at night, when there was no artificial lighting to betray them. The entire system was, in essence, a theological rationalization that served the economic and social interests of Mecca’s elite — they sold the garments, they were exempt from the humiliation, and they controlled the narrative of piety.

For fifty-three years, the Prophet had lived in this environment. Before prophethood, during the years of secret preaching, through the public da’wah and the persecution that followed — the practice continued around him. He lowered his gaze. He could not change what he had no power to change. But now, in the ninth year of the Hijrah, he holds the power of a consolidated state, and he will not set foot in the Hajj until the obscenity is eradicated.

Living Among Fahishah: A Prophetic Precedent

The Prophet’s fifty-three years in Mecca, during which these practices took place publicly, carries a significant jurisprudential implication. His presence in the city was not rendered impermissible by the existence of public indecency around the Ka’bah. When he lacked the power to change the situation, he remained, lowered his gaze, and fought his own spiritual battle. This precedent has been cited by scholars addressing the question of Muslims living in environments where public immorality is prevalent. The principle drawn is that merely being in an environment where fahishah occurs is not in itself prohibited, so long as one guards oneself to the greatest extent possible — as the Quran states: “Fear Allah as much as you are able” (Al-Taghabun, 64:16). The obligation shifts when one possesses the authority to change the situation, as the Prophet did in the ninth year.

The First Muslim Hajj and the Governor of Mecca

Before the ninth year’s pilgrimage, there is a quieter precedent that the books of history barely record. In the eighth year of the Hijrah — the year of the Conquest of Mecca — a small group of Muslims had performed Hajj under the leadership of Attab ibn Asid (may Allah be pleased with him), the young Qurayshi convert whom the Prophet had appointed as the first Muslim governor of Mecca.

This near-silence in the historical record is telling. None of the senior Companions were present. The Prophet himself did not attend. The Muhajirun — those who had emigrated from Mecca to Medina — were bound by the sacred covenant of their Hijrah: they had given up everything, and returning to reside in Mecca would nullify the very act that had earned them their honored title. This was not a general ruling for all time; it was specific to that generation of Muhajirun, whose sacrifice was total and irrevocable.

So the eighth-year Hajj was led by Meccans who had never left — new converts, still learning the contours of their faith, performing the pilgrimage in a city freshly cleansed of its 360 idols but still frequented by pagan pilgrims from across the peninsula. It was a beginning, but not yet the transformation the Prophet envisioned.

Scholarly Note

The historical sources provide minimal detail about the Hajj of the eighth year precisely because none of the major Companions whose lives are extensively documented were present. Attab ibn Asid’s leadership of this Hajj is mentioned in passing by the historians, but the event did not generate the kind of detailed narration that the presence of figures like Abu Bakr, Umar, or Ali would have prompted.

Abu Bakr Rides South

By the ninth year, the landscape has shifted. Tabuk is behind them. The Thaqif of Ta’if — that stubborn tribe who had initially bargained to keep their wine, their fornication, and their exemption from prayer — have finally submitted to Islam’s full demands. The delegations have been arriving in waves. But the Hajj remains an unresolved frontier: a shared ritual space where Muslims and polytheists still mingle, where the old customs persist alongside the new faith.

The Prophet chooses Abu Bakr to lead the official delegation. Three hundred Muslims. Twenty-five sacrificial animals. A clear mandate: lay the groundwork for the final Hajj — the Hajjat al-Wada’ — which must be a purely Islamic pilgrimage, free of every trace of idolatry.

Abu Bakr is the obvious choice. He is the man who believed without hesitation on the first day of revelation. He is the one who steadied Umar at Hudaybiyyah when the treaty’s terms seemed unbearable, the one who would steady the entire Ummah at the Prophet’s death. His temperament — at once gentle and immovable — is precisely what this mission requires: the authority to command, the wisdom to navigate, and the faith to execute without second-guessing.

The caravan departs Medina. Abu Bakr has barely reached Dhul Hulaifa — the Miqat, perhaps two hours’ ride from the city — when everything changes.

Revelation Without Bismillah

Within hours of Abu Bakr’s departure, the opening passages of Surah At-Tawbah descend upon the Prophet. These are among the very last major revelations of the Quran — some scholars hold that At-Tawbah is the final large Surah to be revealed, while others give that distinction to Surah Al-Ma’idah.

And At-Tawbah arrives unlike any other Surah in the Quran. It carries no Bismillah. No “In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.” Every other Surah in the Mushaf opens with this formula of mercy and covenant. Tawbah begins with a word that is its own kind of thunder:

“Bara’atun min Allahi wa Rasulihi ila alladhina ‘ahadtum min al-mushrikin.” “A declaration of dissociation from Allah and His Messenger to those with whom you had made treaties among the polytheists.” — At-Tawbah (9:1)

Bara’ah. Dissociation. Severance. The cutting of every remaining tie. There is no single English word that carries its force. It is the language of finality — not of war, but of the end of diplomatic patience.

Ali ibn Abi Talib (may Allah be pleased with him) was asked why this Surah alone lacks the Bismillah. His answer is elegant in its logic: the Bismillah is what you write at the head of a covenant of protection, of rahmah. But Surah At-Tawbah is about bara’ah — the dissolution of covenants. You do not begin a declaration of severance with an invocation of mercy and compassion. The content dictates the form.

A second explanation, recorded in a hadith narrated by Uthman ibn Affan (may Allah be pleased with him) in the Sunan of al-Tirmidhi, offers a more textual reason: At-Tawbah was revealed so late that the Companions were uncertain whether it constituted a separate Surah or a continuation of Surah Al-Anfal, which precedes it in the Mushaf. Because of this uncertainty, no Bismillah was inscribed. Uthman noted that the content of both Surahs — warfare, treaties, the dynamics of faith and hypocrisy — was thematically similar, even though Al-Anfal dates to the Battle of Badr in the second year while At-Tawbah belongs entirely to the ninth.

Scholarly Note

The two explanations for the absence of the Bismillah before Surah At-Tawbah represent distinct scholarly traditions. Ali ibn Abi Talib’s explanation is thematic — the content of dissociation is incompatible with the formula of mercy. Uthman ibn Affan’s explanation, recorded in al-Tirmidhi, is textual-historical — uncertainty about whether At-Tawbah was an independent Surah led to the omission. Both opinions are widely cited in the literature of ‘Ulum al-Quran, and scholars have held each without contradiction, as they address different dimensions of the question.

The Horseman on the Prophet’s Camel

The verses are in the Prophet’s hands. Someone suggests sending them to Abu Bakr. The Prophet’s response is decisive: “No one shall convey these verses on my behalf other than someone from my own household.”

He summons Ali ibn Abi Talib — who had not been included in the original delegation of three hundred — and gives him the Prophet’s own personal camel. In the political language of seventh-century Arabia, this is unmistakable: the personal mount of the ruler, given to an envoy, is the ruler’s own seal of authority. It is the equivalent of a royal signet ring, a staff of office, a letter stamped with the sovereign’s mark.

Ali rides hard. He catches Abu Bakr at Dhul Hulaifa. And here, in this brief exchange on the road, we see the character of both men distilled to its essence.

Abu Bakr sees the Prophet’s camel approaching and immediately asks the question any leader would ask: “Have you been sent as commander over me, or am I still the commander?”

Ali’s answer is immediate and unequivocal: “No, you are still the commander. The Prophet did not send me to take over from you. I have been sent to recite Surah At-Tawbah.”

The caravan continues south. Abu Bakr remains the Amir — the overall leader of the Hajj. Ali serves under him, carrying a specific task: to announce the new revelation to the assembled pilgrims, Muslim and pagan alike, at Mina.

The Question of Ali's Mission and the Sunni-Shia Divergence

This incident is among the most discussed events in the broader Sunni-Shia discourse. Shia scholars cite the Prophet’s insistence that only a member of his household could convey the treaty-breaking revelation as evidence of Ali’s unique spiritual authority — and, by extension, his rightful claim to the Caliphate over Abu Bakr. It ranks among the top two or three evidences cited in Shia theology, alongside the Ghadir Khumm incident.

The Sunni interpretation, articulated by al-Baghawi and others, is grounded in the pre-Islamic Arabian custom of treaty diplomacy: when a chieftain wished to make or break a treaty, the envoy had to be a blood relative of the chieftain for the other party to accept the annulment as legitimate. Since the Prophet was dealing with Jahili Arabs still steeped in tribal custom — people for whom lineage was the ultimate credential — he sent Ali to ensure no pagan could dismiss the announcement by saying, “We will only accept this from the Prophet himself or his kinsman.”

Critically, Ali himself affirms Abu Bakr’s authority in the exchange at Dhul Hulaifa. He is not sent as the Amir; he is sent for a task. Both men serve in the same convoy, and the hierarchy is clear. For Sunni scholarship, this incident demonstrates the complementary honor of both Companions: Abu Bakr leads the Hajj, Ali carries the revelation — and neither role diminishes the other.

The Four Announcements at Mina

The ninth-year Hajj unfolds as the only pilgrimage in the history of Islam where Muslims and polytheists perform the rites simultaneously. Delegations have come from across the peninsula — tribes that have not yet converted, tribes in the process of converting, tribes that have signed treaties of varying durations. The valley of Mina is a mosaic of the old Arabia and the new.

Ali ibn Abi Talib, accompanied by Abu Hurayrah (may Allah be pleased with him), moves through the crowds at Mina and makes four proclamations that will echo across the centuries:

First: No one shall enter Paradise except a believer. No disbeliever shall enter Paradise.

Second: No one shall perform Tawaf around the Ka’bah in a state of nakedness. This prohibition is immediate and absolute — enforced that very year.

Third: No polytheist shall ever perform Hajj again after this year. The ninth year is the last year that any mushrik will set foot in the sacred rites.

Fourth: Any existing treaty with a pagan tribe that lacks a specific time clause is hereby given four months’ notice. After four months, it is void.

The first announcement is striking in its placement. Why, at a Hajj where the primary business is the annulment of treaties and the prohibition of pagan rites, does Ali begin with a theological declaration about the Hereafter? Because this is the final da’wah. These pagan pilgrims are hearing, perhaps for the last time, the most fundamental truth of Islam. Some of them will choose to leave Arabia forever rather than convert. Before they make that choice, they must hear this: there is no path to salvation except through La ilaha illa Allah.

The second announcement takes immediate effect. Even in this transitional year, no one circumambulates the Ka’bah naked. The age of “sacred nudity” ends on this day, in this valley, with these words.

The third announcement is the strategic heart of the mission. After this year, the Hajj belongs exclusively to Islam. The Ka’bah, the House of Ibrahim, will never again host the rituals of polytheism.

The fourth announcement is the legal mechanism. It is here that the opening verses of At-Tawbah find their practical application.

The Verse of the Sword in Context

“Then when the sacred months have passed, kill the polytheists wherever you find them, and capture them and besiege them and sit in wait for them at every place of ambush. But if they should repent, establish prayer, and give zakah, let them go on their way. Indeed, Allah is Forgiving and Merciful.” — At-Tawbah (9:5)

This is Ayat al-Sayf — the Verse of the Sword — and no verse in the Quran has been more consistently ripped from its context by those who wish to portray Islam as a religion of indiscriminate violence.

The context is everything. The “sacred months” referenced here are, according to the stronger scholarly opinion, the four months of grace just granted in verse two — not the traditional sacred months of the Hijri calendar. The verse addresses a specific situation: the Arabian Peninsula in the ninth year of the Hijrah, where polytheism is being formally eliminated from the sacred land. The options given to the pagan tribes are: accept Islam and remain, or depart. The four-month grace period ensures that no one is taken by surprise — treaties are honored, time is given to settle affairs, and the transition is orderly.

And the verse itself contains its own answer. In the very same breath that mentions fighting, it says: “But if they should repent, establish prayer, and give zakah, let them go on their way.” The goal is conversion, not extermination. And the very next verse, the sixth, goes further:

“And if any one of the polytheists seeks your protection, then grant him protection so that he may hear the words of Allah. Then deliver him to his place of safety.” — At-Tawbah (9:6)

Grant him protection. Let him hear the message. Escort him to safety. This is not the language of a carte blanche execution order.

And the historical record confirms the intent: not a single person was killed as a result of this verse. It was a threat — a deadline — and it worked exactly as intended. Paganism disappeared from Arabia. Tribes converted. Others departed. The transition was, by the standards of any civilization’s religious transformation, remarkably bloodless.

The Islamic position is clear and unapologetic: idolatry is not permitted in the Arabian Peninsula. This is a specific ruling for a specific land. Outside of Arabia, the historical record shows that every major Muslim dynasty — the Umayyads, the Abbasids, the Ottomans, the Mughals — tolerated non-Abrahamic religious communities. The Yazidis survived under centuries of Muslim rule. Hindu communities flourished under the Mughals. The verse of the sword governed Arabia; it did not govern the world.

The End of an Era

As the announcements ring through Mina, an entire civilization hears the clock begin its final countdown. Three thousand years of Arabian polytheism — the idols, the rituals, the pilgrimages of naked devotion, the elaborate theological justifications for every perversion — all of it has four months left to live.

The achievement is staggering in its scope. In barely twenty years, from the first whispered recitation in the Cave of Hira to this proclamation at Mina, a single man’s message has overturned the religious identity of an entire peninsula. Tribes that had worshipped al-Lat, al-‘Uzza, and Manat for generations are now praying toward the Ka’bah five times a day. The transformation is not merely political or military; it is civilizational. An entire people has changed what it believes about God, about the afterlife, about the meaning of human existence.

Abu Bakr performs the Hajj according to the rites as they were known — the pre-Islamic order of rituals that traced back, in corrupted form, to Ibrahim himself. The Prophet has not yet demonstrated the correct Islamic Hajj; that will come next year, in the tenth year, when he himself will lead the Hajjat al-Wada’ and show the Ummah, step by step, how the pilgrimage is to be performed until the Day of Judgment.

For now, the ninth-year Hajj serves its purpose: it is the bridge between the old world and the new. The pagans hear the announcement and carry it back to their tribes. The naked Tawaf ends forever. The countdown begins. And somewhere in Medina, the Prophet waits — planning, preparing, knowing that the next time he stands at Arafah, it will be for the last time, and the words he speaks there will be his final testament to humanity.

The stage is set for the Farewell Pilgrimage.