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The Olive Tree of Jerusalem

One night in the life of Salahuddin Ayyubi that changed the course of compassion in war.

By Sana UllahPublished 7 months ago 2 min read

The night air hung heavy over Jerusalem. The moon hovered above the ancient city like a silent witness to centuries of bloodshed and prayers. After months of siege, the city had fallen—not with the brutality that had marked its past, but with mercy. The people whispered in disbelief: “Salahuddin Ayyubi is not like the others.”

Wrapped in a simple cloak, Salahuddin walked the narrow stone alleys of the city—not as a sultan, but as a man. He had won back Jerusalem for Islam, yet his heart carried the weight of both victory and humanity.

He passed crumbled arches and shuttered windows, feeling the heartbeat of the city—tired, scared, but slowly returning to life. A faint weeping reached his ears, soft but steady. He turned and followed the sound, his steps echoing under the stars.

In a small courtyard, beside an old olive tree twisted with age, a woman sat hunched. Her clothes were worn and her face veiled in shadow, but her pain was clear. A lantern flickered by her feet, casting long shadows of her shaking frame.

Salahuddin approached gently. “Peace be upon you,” he said.

The woman startled, then bowed her head. “I have no peace,” she whispered, “and I am no one.”

He stepped closer. “No one who grieves is forgotten by God. Why do you cry here, mother?”

She looked up. Her face was worn, eyes swollen from tears. “This tree,” she said, touching its gnarled trunk, “is where my son would sit. He was a scribe in the church. When the Crusaders took the city, he became a soldier to defend it. He died... somewhere. I never found his body. I return here each night to remember him.”

Salahuddin was silent. In this moment, she was not a Christian, and he was not a conqueror. They were simply two people broken by war.

“Would you recognize him?” Salahuddin asked.

She nodded, barely.

He looked to one of his guards who had followed at a respectful distance. “Bring the records,” he ordered softly. “All fallen men, buried or found.”

The next morning, the woman was summoned to the gates. Wrapped carefully in a shroud lay her son’s body, found in the records and gently recovered. Salahuddin had ordered a Christian priest to offer prayers beside her.

Tears streamed down her face as she touched her son’s forehead one last time. “Why?” she asked, turning to Salahuddin. “Why would you do this for me? I am the mother of your enemy.”

He looked at her not with pride, but with deep sorrow. “Because the true enemy is hatred. And mercy is more powerful than swords.”

He reached into his robe and pulled out a small flask of oil. “This olive oil,” he said, “is from the tree under which your son sat. Plant it where he now rests, and let peace grow where war once stood.”

She bowed deeply, not as a subject, but as a soul finally given closure.

Years passed. The city changed hands again and again in history’s cruel tide, but that olive tree—its offspring planted by a mother’s love and a sultan’s compassion—remained.

Some say it still stands today, not far from the city walls, a quiet witness to a night when war paused for humanity.

And people still whisper, “Salahuddin Ayyubi was not like the others.”

Themes:

Mercy in leadership

Humanity over conflict

Faith crossing boundaries

The power of symbolic acts

World History

About the Creator

Sana Ullah

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