I was on the way back from Damascus with my caravan after a thirty-day journey through the desert. The sunrise that day was magnificent. The celestial orb looked bigger and redder than usual and the mountainsides reflected the golden morning rays so intense in the Hijaz. Despite this luminous blaze, the atmosphere seemed serene and peaceful. The birds were singing, but their chirping was different, calmer, more orderly, as if no passerine wanted to be more conspicuous than the others. There was no morning breeze either, which was exceptional in this part of the desert. Nature was on hold. No roar of mountain lions could be heard. The camels got up without their usual protests, even when we attached the heavy loads of goods that always put them in a bad mood. The caravan for Mecca set off again amidst a feeling of stillness and calm, with no other noise than the footsteps and the breathing of camels. Eagles flew over the mountains high in the blue sky, seemingly pointing towards our destination.

When we arrived in Mecca, the children who would always run over to greet each new caravan, called out to me to head straight towards the Kaaba: “Your child has just been born,” they shouted.

The caravan hastened towards the Stone of Abraham. The camels found their way to the Kaaba all by themselves. When we arrived, all our mounts lay down in unison in front of the sacred enclosure and I alighted to enter the Kaaba as swiftly as I could. I then saw the newborn in the arms of Muhammad, who was giving him his first bath under the tender gaze of his mother and two aunts, Layla and Asma. They had rushed over when they had learned of the sudden and unexpected delivery in the sacred place where my wife had come to pray that very morning. Never before had anyone been born at the foot of the Black Stone.

Upon the suggestion of Muhammad, the child was named Ali, “the one who is elevated.”

It was the spring of the year 600.