Prof. Dr Faid Mohammed Said
Secretary-General of the High Council of Muslims in Europe
Nations are remembered not only by what they achieve, but by what they choose to remember.
Every civilisation selects a defining moment through which it tells its story. Some begin their historical calendar with a military triumph. Others commemorate the coronation of a monarch or the birth of a new political order. The dates a nation chooses to preserve are never arbitrary; they reveal the ideals it wishes to pass on from one generation to the next.
This raises a fascinating question.
Why did Muslims not begin their calendar with the Battle of Badr, the first great military victory in Islamic history? Why not with the peaceful conquest of Makkah, the moment that transformed the Arabian Peninsula? Why not with the birth of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, or the beginning of his prophethood, events whose spiritual significance is beyond comparison?
Instead, the Companions chose an altogether different moment.
They chose the Hijrah.
At first glance, migration appears far less dramatic than victory. There are no battlefields, no celebrations of conquest, no political spectacle. Yet in reality, the Hijrah proved to be the single most transformative event in shaping Islamic civilisation.
The Hijrah was never simply a journey from Makkah to Madinah. It marked the birth of an entirely new society—one founded upon faith, justice, mercy, human dignity, and mutual responsibility. It was the moment when a persecuted community became a confident moral society, capable of carrying a universal message without losing its ethical foundations.
For this reason, the Companions’ decision to make the Hijrah the beginning of the Islamic calendar was a profound act of civilisational insight. It conveyed a timeless lesson: nations do not rise merely because they possess power; they rise because they understand the purpose for which power should be used. In Islam, power is never an end in itself. It is a trust—one that exists to uphold justice, protect human dignity, and safeguard the common good.
Perhaps even more remarkable is the fact that the Hijrah itself did not take place in the month of Muharram. Yet Muharram was deliberately chosen as the opening of the Islamic year.
This was no coincidence.
Muharram follows the annual pilgrimage to Makkah, when believers return home spiritually renewed, having reaffirmed their covenant with God and begun a new chapter in their lives. It is as though the Islamic year does not begin with a change of numbers on a calendar, but with the renewal of the human heart.
In that sense, Muharram is far more than the first month of the year. It is an annual invitation to begin again—not by leaving one’s homeland, but by leaving behind one’s shortcomings; not by changing geography, but by transforming character.
Anyone who reflects upon the Prophet’s migration soon realises that it was never simply a search for safety, nor merely a move from one city to another. It represented a transition from one stage of history to another, from tribal loyalties to shared moral purpose, from a society governed by blood ties to one governed by enduring values.
It is therefore significant that the Prophet ﷺ did not begin his life in Madinah by constructing fortresses or assembling armies. His first priority was to build a mosque, establishing the spiritual heart of the community before its political or economic institutions. He then united the Emigrants (Muhājirūn) and the Helpers (Anṣār) in bonds of brotherhood that transcended tribe, ethnicity and social status. Soon afterwards came the Charter of Madinah, one of history’s earliest constitutional agreements, defining mutual rights and responsibilities among the city’s diverse religious and tribal communities, while affirming justice, cooperation and collective security as the foundations of public life.
The Hijrah, therefore, did not simply inaugurate a new political order. It gave birth to a new vision of society—one in which people were regarded as its greatest wealth, justice as the foundation of civilisation, and mercy not merely as a personal virtue but as the organising principle of public life.
The significance of the Hijrah becomes even clearer when we reflect on what the Prophet ﷺ actually did upon arriving in Madinah.
He did not begin by constructing fortifications or raising an army. He did not seek dominance over neighbouring tribes or consolidate political authority for its own sake. Instead, he began with people.
The first institution he established was the mosque—not simply as a place of worship, but as the spiritual and moral heart of the emerging community. It was there that faith nurtured character, knowledge shaped conduct, and worship inspired responsibility.
His next step was equally remarkable. He forged a bond of brotherhood between the Muhājirūn (the Emigrants) and the Anṣār (the Helpers), dissolving the divisions of tribe, lineage and social status that had long defined Arabian society. Loyalty would no longer be determined by blood or ancestry, but by shared faith, shared responsibility and shared humanity.
Soon afterwards came the Charter of Madinah, one of history’s most remarkable constitutional documents. It established a framework in which different religious and tribal communities could live together under the rule of justice, mutual rights and shared civic responsibility. Diversity was not viewed as a threat to society but as a reality to be governed by fairness and protected through cooperation.
Seen from this perspective, the Hijrah was not merely the birth of a new political community. It marked the birth of a new moral civilisation.
Its greatest achievement was not territorial expansion but human transformation.
This explains why the Companions chose the Hijrah—not Badr or the Conquest of Makkah—as the point from which Islamic history would be measured. Military victories, however significant, are ultimately the fruits of something deeper. Civilisations are not built by armies alone; they are built by men and women whose character has first been shaped by enduring values.
For that reason, the Islamic calendar is far more than a chronological system. It is a continual reminder that the passage of time has little meaning unless it is accompanied by moral and spiritual growth. Every new Hijrī year quietly asks each believer not simply how many years have passed, but what kind of person those years have produced.
Perhaps this also explains why Muharram became the opening month of the Islamic year, even though the Hijrah itself occurred later. Coming immediately after the pilgrimage, Muharram follows a season of spiritual renewal, when believers return from Makkah with hearts purified, commitments renewed and lives redirected towards God. The Islamic year therefore begins, not with the turning of a calendar page, but with the possibility of becoming a better human being.
In this sense, Hijrah is no longer confined to a journey made fourteen centuries ago. It becomes a timeless principle.
The Prophet ﷺ himself expanded its meaning when he said:
“The true migrant is the one who abandons what God has forbidden.”
Migration, therefore, is not only about crossing geographical borders. It is about crossing moral boundaries—leaving behind arrogance for humility, injustice for justice, resentment for forgiveness, selfishness for service, and despair for hope.
This is why Islam does not ask believers to remain prisoners of history. Rather, it teaches them to transform history into wisdom.
The Qur’an recounts the stories of earlier prophets not to preserve historical detail for its own sake, but to cultivate conscience, strengthen faith and reveal the enduring moral laws that continue to shape human history. In the Qur’anic worldview, memory is never an archive of events alone; it is a school of character.
It is perhaps for this reason that Muharram occupies such a unique place in the Islamic calendar. Within a single month, it gathers together several of the most profound moral memories of the Muslim tradition, each pointing towards the same timeless truth: that genuine victory begins long before success appears in the world around us.
Among the many reasons why Muharram occupies such a special place in the Islamic calendar is that it preserves more than one chapter of the Muslim moral imagination.
On the Day of ʿĀshūrāʾ, Muslims remember the deliverance of Prophet Moses (peace be upon him). Yet they do so not simply because one nation triumphed over another, but because truth prevailed over tyranny, faith overcame despair, and trust in God proved stronger than worldly calculations.
Standing before the sea, with Pharaoh’s army closing in behind them, the Children of Israel saw no escape. “We are sure to be overtaken,” they cried.
Moses answered with words that have echoed through history ever since:
“No indeed! My Lord is with me; He will guide me.”
(Qur’an 26:62)
This was more than confidence in a moment of crisis. It was a declaration of one of history’s enduring truths: lasting victory is born first in the human heart. Nations do not prevail simply because they possess greater numbers or superior resources. They prevail when conviction becomes stronger than fear, when moral clarity outweighs uncertainty, and when hope refuses to surrender to oppression.
Yet Muharram carries another memory as well—one of profound sorrow.
It recalls the martyrdom of Imam al-Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī (may Allah be pleased with him), the beloved grandson of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, whose death at Karbala remains among the most painful chapters in Muslim history.
To honour al-Ḥusayn, however, is not merely to remember his suffering.
Nor is it just to allow history to remain imprisoned within its wounds.
Muslims cherish al-Ḥusayn because he grew up in the household of Prophethood and embodied courage, integrity, knowledge and unwavering devotion to principle. His martyrdom shook the conscience of the Muslim community, and its moral significance continues to resonate across the centuries.
Yet the lasting legacy of Karbala lies not in grief itself, but in the values for which al-Ḥusayn stood: the sanctity of human dignity, fidelity to principle, resistance to injustice and the willingness to sacrifice everything rather than compromise one’s conscience.
History, however, did not end at Karbala.
In many respects, one of its greatest lessons began afterwards.
That lesson is embodied in the life of Imam ʿAlī ibn al-Ḥusayn, known to history as Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn.
He emerged from Karbala carrying wounds that few human beings could have endured. He had witnessed the destruction of his family and the suffering of those dearest to him. Yet he refused to allow that tragedy to become the beginning of an endless cycle of vengeance.
He could have devoted his life to preserving anger.
Instead, he devoted it to preserving faith.
He turned towards worship, scholarship, education and the purification of hearts until he became recognised as one of the great scholars and spiritual masters of the early Muslim community.
This was not an escape from history.
It was history’s highest moral victory.
Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn understood that rebuilding human beings is ultimately more transformative than defeating one’s opponents, and that healing wounded hearts leaves a far deeper legacy than inflaming wounded memories.
Here we discover one of the defining characteristics of the Islamic understanding of history.
Its purpose is never to imprison people within the past.
Rather, it seeks to transform memory into moral wisdom.
Muslims remember Moses to learn how faith confronts tyranny.
They remember the Hijrah to understand how ethical societies are built.
They remember al-Ḥusayn to recognise that principles are more precious than worldly gain.
And they remember Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn to learn that even the deepest wounds must never become an inheritance of hatred, but instead a source of renewal, reconciliation and hope.
Perhaps this is one of the greatest lessons our own age urgently needs.
Societies are rarely divided simply because they remember history differently. More often, they are divided because they cannot rise above it.
Living civilisations preserve memory, yet refuse to become prisoners of memory. They transform the past into wisdom, wisdom into renewal, and renewal into a better future.
At this point, a deeper truth begins to emerge.
Many people mistakenly imagine that migration and victory represent two different paths. In reality, the Hijrah was never an alternative to victory; it was the path that made victory possible.
There could have been no Badr without the Hijrah. There could have been no peaceful conquest of Makkah without the society first nurtured in Madinah. Every lasting achievement in history begins with an inner transformation before it becomes an external success. Moral renewal always precedes political renewal, just as the formation of character precedes the rise of civilisation.
This is precisely why the Companions chose the Hijrah as the opening chapter of Islamic history. Their decision was not intended to diminish the significance of military victories. Rather, it affirmed a timeless principle: genuine victory is not born on the battlefield. It is born in the human conscience, cultivated within families, strengthened in communities, and only then manifested in history.
The Qur’an consistently draws our attention to this pattern. Divine victory is never promised merely on the basis of religious identity. It is linked instead to faith, perseverance, unity, justice and moral responsibility. Results are the fruit of causes; they never replace them. The Hijrah represented the greatest of those causes because it shaped the kind of human being capable of shaping civilisation.
This is why every new Hijrī year is not simply an invitation to remember the past, but an invitation to shape the future.
Each Muharram quietly asks every believer:
What is your Hijrah this year?
What weakness must you leave behind?
What virtue must you cultivate?
What injustice must you confront within yourself before confronting it in the world around you?
What good can you contribute to your family, your community, your country and humanity as a whole?
For the Prophet ﷺ transformed the meaning of migration forever when he said:
“The true migrant is the one who abandons what God has forbidden.”
Migration therefore became far more than a physical journey. It became a lifelong ethical project—a continual movement away from selfishness towards service, from resentment towards forgiveness, from complacency towards responsibility, and from despair towards hope.
Seen through this lens, the seemingly diverse memories of Muharram form one coherent moral vision.
Moses teaches us that faith is stronger than tyranny.
The Hijrah teaches us that building people comes before building power.
Al-Ḥusayn teaches us that principles are never commodities to be traded, however great the sacrifice.
Zayn al-ʿĀbidīn teaches us that the noblest victory is the victory over hatred itself—the ability to transform suffering into wisdom, memory into compassion, and grief into a renewed commitment to rebuilding human beings.
Perhaps this is the profound message the Companions wished to preserve for every generation when they chose the Hijrah as the beginning of the Islamic calendar.
They did not want the Muslim story to begin with the day an army defeated another army.
They wanted it to begin with the day a new human being began to emerge.
For armies may win battles.
States may expand their borders.
Empires may rise and fall.
But it is only transformed human beings who build enduring civilisations.
And that is why the Muslim Ummah begins its year not with victory, but with the Hijrah.
Because every true victory begins with the migration of the human heart.
