The Guided Path
Surah Al-Insan - Story Competition
2023 Winners
The Guided Path E-Book
In 2023, we at Bayyinah organized a Story Writing Competition,
inviting writers far and wide to craft fictional stories centered
around the theme of rediscovering one’s connection to Allah’s
chosen path, inspired by the verse from Surah Al-Insan:
Indeed, We guided him to the right path, whether he was grateful
or not. [76:3]
The theme of the competition was “The Guided Path.”
Alhamdulillah, we were overwhelmed by the number of creative
and captivating entries. After careful consideration, our esteemed
panel of judges selected the top 12 stories, which we have compiled for you below.
From tales of redemption to moments of profound realization,
each story offers insights into the struggles and triumphs of individuals as they navigate the complexities of life and spirituality
May Allah inspire and uplift you through these stories, guiding
you along the path of faith and illuminating the timeless wisdom
found within the Quran. Enjoy the journey!
2
Bismillahirrahmanirrahim, Assalamualaikum wrt wbh
As we step into the second decade of Warisan Ummah Ikhlas Foundation,
our commitment is unwavering, and our mission is crystal clear: to
humanize mankind through the profound teachings encapsulated in
Surah Al-Insan [76:1-31].
At the heart of our pursuit lies the vision of a Ummah #GrandReset - a
collective return to the timeless values of the Quran and the emulation of
the noble example set by Prophet Muhammad (PBUH).
Each year, the Ummah Ikhlas team immerses itself in the comprehensive
study of one chosen Surah, seamlessly woven into four pivotal events:
Malaysia #QuranHour, World #Quran Hour, Arafah #QuranHour, and the
World#QuranConvention.
Through this annual undertaking, we aspire to trigger a paradigm shift in
the global community of Quran enthusiasts, cultivating a genuine Muslim
character through profound engagement with the Surah, comprising
reading, understanding and implementing its wisdom.
The World #QuranConvention 4.0 in 2023 marks a special milestone
in our relentless endeavor. We launched a creative initiative: the Story
Writing Competition centering around Surah Al-Insan. This competition,
inspired by Ustadh Nouman Ali Khan in his role as the Director of
the World Quran Convention, aims to bring the Quran into everyday
narratives. The overwhelming global participation underscores a growing
fascination with exploring the Quran through the art of storytelling.
Our vision extends to fostering creative
adaptations of Quranic studies into cinematic
and film projects. My earnest prayer is
for the wisdom of the Quran to flourish
and permeate every corner of the globe,
giving rise to a World of Compassion.
This e-book reflects our journey, our
aspirations, and the everlasting beauty
embedded in the teaching of the Quran,
a testament to the enduring impact of our
shared exploration. Biidznillahi Allahu Akbar.
- Yb Senator Dato’ Setia
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Assalaamu Alaikum,
In today’s era of content creation, Muslims have a unique opportunity to
channel their creativity to share the profound messages of the Quran.
The Quran is the ultimate example of inspired storytelling, capturing the
imagination of its audience by connecting with their interests. Modern
trends like manga, anime and various film genres show that storytelling
remains a powerful tool to engage people worldwide.
Major production houses like Disney and Pixar often incorporate
elements from biblical and Quranic stories, highlighting the universal
appeal of these narratives. However, they usually miss the deeper
lessons. Muslim creatives can fill this gap by crafting stories that not
only draw from the Quran’s rich tradition but also convey its profound
wisdom.
Last year’s World Quran Convention focused on Surat Al-Insan and we
invited you all to create compelling stories based on one of its verses.
The best submissions were reviewed by professionals in the writing
industry, with the top entries turned into this e-book. Moreover, the top
winner was flown to Malaysia to attend the World Quran Convention,
celebrating this divinely inspired creativity.
There is a pressing need for creative media that subtly conveys powerful
messages without being overtly preachy, appealing to both Muslims and
non-Muslims alike. We envision a future where Islamic media includes
world-class creative content that competes on a global stage. By
nurturing and showcasing the creative talents within our community, we
can inspire and influence audiences far and wide.
The next generation’s creativity, harnessed
for divine inspiration, has the potential to
change lives and shape the future.
- Nouman Ali Khan
4
01
What Now?
By Nadia Limani, Canada
5
“There’s no purpose to life anyway…” he said it so casually I froze,
clenching my pencil, I stopped writing mid-sentence. The way it
instinctively rolled off his tongue troubled me.
“There’s no purpose?” I slowly repeated, trying to give him time to really
think over that ridiculous remark.
“That’s exactly what I said,” he replied. I dropped my pencil, pushed my
notebook away, and looked right at him. He remained unmoved, looking
through the microscope at our plant cell sample. The irony to say this in
a biology class of all places.
“My pencil has a purpose. This chair I’m using also has a purpose. Do I
have to spell it out for you? We are far more superior to a pencil or chair,
and you mean to tell me we do not have a purpose? Everything in this
universe was created with a purpose.” A scowl appeared on his face as he
lifted his head to look at me. I felt a lump in my throat. I couldn’t believe
I said that. This wasn’t the first time I had heard him say such a thing; it
was, however, the first time I found the courage to challenge him.
“Are you deaf? That’s exactly what I meant,” I was taken aback by his
response. I looked over to our teacher, seated at her desk, lost in a world of
her own. He scoffed and turned to me, his eyes probing. “Why are you so
worked up anyway? It’s not like you even believe in God or anything, right?
You don’t look religious at all.” His words hit me like an unexpected punch.
I couldn’t form a reply, feeling a pang of shame twist within me. His words
hinted at something I’d been grappling with for years – my appearance,
allowing me to blend in, to exist without being stereotyped or noticed as
Muslim. The truth was, I wasn’t ashamed of being Muslim, but I’d be lying
if I didn’t acknowledge the perks of looking racially and religiously ambiguous.
Perks that allowed me the liberty to move around freely. However, even
with that acknowledgment, I was always accompanied by a sense of guilt
and unease, understanding that many others didn’t have that luxury.
As his words lingered, a flood of painful, suppressed memories overwhelmed
me. I recalled walking through the mall with my mother confidently wearing
her hijab, unperturbed by the obviously judgmental gazes and whispered
comments, while I, in shame, felt their weight. Then, there were those
moments strolling beside my bearded father, his thobe drawing
uncomfortable reactions from passersby.
6
Witnessing classmates make cruel, derogatory remarks about other
hijab-wearing students, hurling words that sliced through the air with
casual cruelty: “Why would she wear that thing on her head? I wonder if
her parents forced her. She looked so much prettier before. Is she like
an extremist now?” These instances emphasized the stark contrast – my
ability to traverse life unnoticed brought a sense of security, shielding
me from the direct discrimination faced by those visibly practicing their
faith. Yet, amidst this safety, an insurmountable sense of shame swelled
within me, acknowledging that my appearance shielded me while others
confronted prejudice head-on. The remainder of class passed in a haze;
my mind was focused on everything but the task at hand.
The afternoon prayer brought no solace. Instead, it stirred a discomforting
realization within me. I gazed down at the white swirls circling the green
background of the prayer mat. ‘There’s no purpose to life anyway...’, his
words invaded my thoughts. Guilt fell upon me; I knew about Islam, and
yet I never really talked about it. I hid my Islamic identity. Out of fear? Shame?
Maybe both; I couldn’t stand out and have my peers think I was one of
those religious fanatics. I stood up from the prayer mat and glanced at the
mirror as my hand reached up, grabbing the fabric. I thought back to
whenever we would take trips to the city, I would see Muslim women,
admiring them from afar. I would tell myself that one day, I would find the
courage to wear it. I whispered in front of my reflection ‘I can’t. Not now.’
I took one last look at myself in my off-white prayer scarf before hastily
removing it. Spinning on my heels, I left the door behind me closed halfway.
Days later, a tragic news report flooded my feed. ‘Our unfolding story
tonight, at least five women have been brutally killed, as an unidentified
gunman opened fire on a mosque just outside the city center, in what
authorities are labeling a hate crime. Three people are currently in
hospital with critical injuries.’ My chest tightened as pictures of smiling
hijab-wearing Muslim women flashed on the screen.
In the following days, more information was released on the victims.
There were some who wrote duas, links for information on Islamophobia,
and, of course, hateful comments. I don’t recall how much time I spent
arched over my laptop, scrolling through the sea of posts. I decided to
take a mental health day off from school which did nothing but make my
mental state worse.
7
Logging off my social accounts, I allowed the couch to envelop me as I laid
back, attempting to take my mind off the headlines. I switched over to my
YouTube app, scrolling through my feed, trying to watch a few funny
videos before my eye caught something. ‘What now?’, my finger hovered
over the thumbnail for a few seconds before I finally decided to click on it.
‘There are many people out there who want us to be ashamed of our
Islam. They want us to hide, make it no more than a few cultural practices.
They want us to act like them, talk like them, think like them. A sister
decides she wants to start wearing the hijab, a brother wants to start
regularly coming to Friday prayer. They will be faced with all kinds of
opposition, especially from those closest to them. I am reminded of the
famous words of Umar Ibn Al-Khattab, may Allah be pleased with him, that
Allah has honored us with Islam. What now, my brothers and sisters? What
are we going to do now? Are we going to hide deeper in our shells, or will
we grow and blossom from this heart-breaking event, becoming a source
of light for those around us? May Allah allow this trial to be one that
strengthens our connection with Him and with the Ummah as a whole.’
He finished, and as I sat motionless, I pondered. It felt as if the speaker
had been observing my actions and reading my thoughts for the past
few years. One thing became clear to me. I knew what I had to do.
By the time Monday rolled around, I felt incredibly nauseated. My mind,
abuzz with numerous anxiety-provoking thoughts. I glanced out my open
door to peer at the clock in the hallway. I had ten minutes left to leave. I
gulped and looked down at the fabric in my hands. The knot in my stomach
tightened, and panic was settling in. ‘Can I do this? I don’t think I can do
it. Oh gosh! I’m going to be late.’ The conversation with my family on the
weekend left me feeling distraught and overwhelmed. I knew they were
scared for me; I was too, but this was something I had to do.
My car’s tires came to a halt between the perpendicular yellow. Shutting
off the engine, I looked up at the large brick building. A sense of trepidation
washed over me as I reached over to unzip the front pocket of my bag
to grab a Quranic Ayah I had printed out this past weekend. It read, “We
guided him to the right path, whether he was grateful or ungrateful.” I
folded the paper and slipped the reminder back into my bag.
I stepped out of the car and whispered, “Bismillah.” A sudden wave of
relief washed over me as I took the first step on my newly guided path.
8
02
Rania and Her Many Wishes
by Sewera Quaisar from Pakistan
9
Rania awoke with an enormous smile adorning her innocent, youthful
face. Known for her free-spirited nature and wonder-filled outlook,
she typically greeted her mornings with joy. But today her smile was
especially wide: it was her 13th Eid celebration!
Rania, an orphan from Palestine, had been under the care of her
grandmother since an explosion in her home took away both her
parents and her sight. Through vibrant storytelling, Rania’s grandmother
breathed life into every character with her words, fostering Rania’s rich
and vivid imagination. Despite Rania’s blindness, her grandmother
diligently protected her from despondency, often telling her she was
“blessed with blindness.” She believed Rania’s unique circumstances
shielded her from the sins surrounding her and from the world’s
wrongdoings, potentially making her path on the Day of Judgment
easier.
Rania saw with her beautiful imagination what others could not perceive.
Affectionately termed a “Wonder Child,” Rania was known within her
community for this unique quality. But what made this Eid notably
special? What delightful fantasies were brewing in her imagination? It
was the prospect of meeting the Eid fairy after an anticipated wait of five
long years.
When Rania was 8 years old, she pleaded with the Eid fairy for “many,
many” wishes. Despite her persistent pleas, the fairy kindly yet firmly
explained that granting her so many wishes would be unfair to all
the other children. Being fair was a fundamental characteristic of this
fairy. However, Rania, strong-minded as ever, continued to insist,
and eventually, they came to an agreement. “Young lady!” The fairy
proclaimed, “if you conserve all your wishes and use them on a single
Eid, I can grant you all those wishes in one day. That is the only solution
I can offer you.” So, for the past five years, Rania diligently saved up all
her wishes. This Eid she was finally going to make five of her wishes
come true.
As the evening descended, the Eid fairy finally arrived, and Rania
eagerly made her first wish—a question addressed to the Sun: “Dear
Sun, do you ever get burnt out?”
The Sun responded, “Ever since it dawned on me that God is my Creator,
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I haven’t stopped beaming. I beam with happiness and gratitude. The
sheer knowledge that God created me is enough to keep me illuminated.
I shine in His mercy. Gratitude is my attitude.” Rania gasped in
amazement. “Wow! What an incredible answer!” she exclaimed.
For her second wish, Rania directed a question to a fish: “Dear Fish,
why do you get caught by bait? Didn’t your mommy advise you to not
trust strangers?”
The fish replied, “I am a creation of God, destined to be sustenance. As
long as God wills for me to live, nothing in the universe can harm me
unless it is by His will. When the time appointed by God arrives, I am
caught. My mother taught me to embrace my destiny with contentment.
I am forever thankful and satisfied with the will of my God, who is the
Most Wise and Gracious.” Rania exclaimed, “Subhan’Allah!” at the
beautiful response and the fish’s unwavering faith.
Her third wish was directed towards an angel of Paradise, and she
posed her question, “Dear Angel, when you see the worldly blessings,
don’t you ever wish to partake in the blessings humans so readily enjoy?
I’ve learned that angels do not even eat or drink!”
The angel replied, “We angels consume the remembrance of Allah. He
has honored us with the constant act of praising Him. What an incredible
honor it is to know God and continuously worship Him! Moreover, we
don’t possess desires akin to humans, nor do we have taste buds like
yours. Even if we desired to eat, we wouldn’t be able to taste it. While
God has created countless flavors for humans to enjoy, humankind often
displays ingratitude. We, on the other hand, are always grateful.”
“Hmm, so true,” Rania reflected, experiencing a blend of gratitude and
shame in that moment. The realization dawned that God had bestowed
infinite blessings upon mankind.
Enlightened by the wisdom gained from the previous three conversations,
Rania decided to speak with a raindrop next. With a sense of urgency
in the air, the raindrop whispered, “Be quick, it’s showtime. I’m about
to fall.” Amidst giggles, Rania inquired, “What’s your favorite aspect of
being a raindrop?”
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The raindrop replied passionately, “I adore the opportunity bestowed
upon me by God. As I fall upon the earth, He grants me the ability to
blend into the soil, rejuvenating it and bestowing new life. It’s akin to a
martyr sacrificing their life to save many. I merge with the earth, fostering
new life that sustains countless others.” As the raindrop descended,
leaving Rania speechless and deep in thought, the Eid fairy cleared her
throat, breaking the enchantment Rania was enveloped in. “Last wish of
the day, dear!” she reminded Rania.
With a mix of sadness and excitement, Rania expressed her final wish.
“I would like to speak to the bee,” Rania requested. Turning to the bee,
she posed her question, “People smoke or destroy your homes and
even try to kill you if you go near them, yet you continue making honey
for them. Why?”
The bee replied calmly, “What people do is not my concern; it should be
theirs. My focus lies solely on whether God is pleased with me or not. As
long as I serve the purpose for which I was created and as long as God
is content, I find my happiness. Just as the Prophet, peace be upon him,
mentioned in Taif after enduring much hardship, ‘Oh God, as long as
You are not displeased with me, I do not care what I face.’”
As the Eid fairy bid her farewell, Rania felt an immense feeling of joy,
having fulfilled all her wishes. Later that night, before retiring to bed, she
meticulously wrote about all her wonderful encounters in her journal. As
she reached for her Braille Quran to recite before sleeping, her fingers
traced the embossed letters:
“We have guided him to the right path,
whether he was grateful or not.”
“I will always be grateful, ya Rabb, always!” vowed Rania, embracing the
promise in her heart.
12
03
The Idol Worshipper
by SJ SK from India
13
Faraaz’s anxiety was palpable as he sat at his office table on the 26th
floor of the Bandra World One complex. Several people had unofficially
confirmed the news to him earlier that afternoon, but he needed to
hear it directly from Chris, the chairman of their board. The anticipation
weighed heavily on his shoulders, and every passing second felt like an
eternity.
Finally, the phone rang, breaking the silence in the room. Faraaz
hesitated for a moment, letting it ring, not wanting to appear too eager.
With a deep breath, he picked up the phone and heard Chris’s voice at
the other end. “Congratulations,” Chris said, his voice filled with a hint of
satisfaction. “The board has decided to promote you to the President of
Operations for the South Asia division.”
Faraaz’s heart swelled with pride, and a surge of excitement coursed
through his veins. He carefully composed himself and responded in
a moderated tone. “Thank you, Chris. I’m truly honored.” His voice
was laced with gratitude. However, Chris’s next words dampened
Faraaz’s enthusiasm. “The board has a small request before making the
official announcement to the press,” Chris explained, his tone slightly
uncomfortable.
“Go on...” Faraaz responded.
“The board requests that before you take charge, you pay a visit to one
of the local temples and do a photo op there. You can pick a temple of
your choice. Our PR guys think Siddheshwar temple will make the best
headline,” Chris rushed to clarify.
Faraaz felt a rush of confusion and frustration welling up within him. His
hands began to tremble involuntarily. “I don’t understand,” he responded.
Chris attempted to pacify him, explaining the rationale behind the
request. “You know, Faraaz, it is just so that the government there
recognizes that we’ve appointed someone who values the local culture
and religion. You know, a Muslim guy, but respectful towards all faiths
and all. You know how it is.”
Faraaz protested, “I still don’t understand. I’ve lived in this country my
whole life
14
Are you telling me I must visit a random temple to gain approval? From
whom? Some anonymous online trolls?”
Chris maintained a calm demeanor, his voice soothing. “Look, we’re just
trying to preempt and avoid any issues. Anything our employees say or
do can blow up on social media. It’s like walking on eggshells out there,
and we need to keep a tight grip on public perception. It’s not just about
the company; we’re looking out for you too. There’s already a level of
sensitivity that we need to navigate after Imran’s social media fiasco.”
Imran, the only other Muslim who had made it to a senior-level position
within the company, made headlines after he put out a video sharing
his personal political opinions. He had riled up enough people to put
his job on the line. The irony was that the video Imran made criticized a
company that had blatantly criticized Muslims. The company received
widespread appreciation for their brave expression of freedom of speech
and their right to offend, while Imran received disciplinary action. He had
somehow survived the ordeal, but the company was still picking up the
pieces.
Chris continued, “Consider this a strategic PR move. Besides, it’s not
like you are a practicing Muslim anyway, and your faith will not be
threatened by visiting a temple. All you need to do is walk in and go
through a few actions, and our PR team will spin it as the new incoming
President of Peabody-Cole being a true nationalist. No one will touch us
after that. C’mon, dude, you should know better.”
Faraaz took a deep breath, his initial joy extinguished by the conflicting
emotions he was experiencing. He felt hurt that he needed to put up a
performance of partaking in ritual acts of a foreign religion just to prevent
backlash that may or may not happen. In that moment, he almost
wished he had not been promoted so that he would not have to navigate
through these bureaucratic hoops.
However, would it not be foolish to give up such an opportunity simply
because he was hesitant to partake in a PR stunt? If a few staged
photos served the interests of his firm, he reasoned, then it would be
wiser to go through with it. The long-term potential benefit was also a
factor that could not be ignored. Beyond his role at the company, this
promotion would open doors in government and the private sector.
15
And being in that position could be of huge benefit to the Muslim community.
With a trepidant heart, he reluctantly agreed to think about it. “I knew
you’d come around. The company car will pick you up at 9,” Chris
responded before hanging up.
The weight of Chris’s words reverberated in his mind, causing a sharp
pang of anxiety. “You’re not a practicing Muslim anyway,” the statement
echoed, leaving Faraaz with a mix of confusion and indignation. While
Faraaz was born into a Muslim family, his connection to his faith was
limited. He often questioned the purpose of prayer and struggled to find
meaning in religious rituals. “Less than 10% of the people are practicing
Muslims, but the other 90% seem to be doing just fine,” he would often
retort to his mom. “Isn’t that the beauty of it? The fact that he guides the
90% should make us want to be a part of the 10%,” she would quip back
in response, trying to bring him into the fold.
The next morning, Faraaz found himself amidst the meticulously
arranged program for the temple visit organized by his firm. As he
arrived at the temple, a sense of trepidation made him restless. The
bustling crowd, the scent of incense, and the sight of the statues stirred
up an intense nausea in the pit of his stomach. He was guided through
the crowd, making his way towards the idols. The priest applied a tilak
on his forehead, and the bells rang in the background. The camera
crew captured the moment, freezing it in time. Faraaz’s heart sank as
he stood there, surrounded by the trappings of a faith that felt foreign
to him. Sweat trickled down his brow, mingling with the tears that
threatened to escape his eyes. A profound sense of guilt washed over
him. He knew that he was betraying himself, his mother, and his own
beliefs. He felt himself buckling under the weight of the situation, and he
longed for absolution.
The priest whispered something in his ear, his words lost in the cacophony
of emotions swirling within Faraaz. He was then led through a maze of
corridors, away from the prying eyes of the crowd and the camera crew.
Confusion clouded his thoughts as he entered an empty room, devoid
of any idols. The priest spoke, breaking the silence. “The Qibla is in that
direction. You can finish your prayers. I’ll be waiting outside.”
16
04
An Autumn Night
by Saliha Imran, Pakistan
17
Amidst the veil of a cloudy autumn night, the city stood poised, teeming
with fervent anticipation for the unveiling of the renowned artist’s exhibition.
The wind carried whispers of his arrival to each eager ear. This night was
going to fill the bleak sky with vivid, bold strokes of praise and admiration.
On this eagerly anticipated night, one of the world’s most acclaimed artists,
Arshad Quraishi, prepared to unveil his latest masterpieces at his highly
awaited art exhibition. Eager attendees flooded the venue, drawn not only
to admire the captivating pieces awaiting their gaze but also to catch a
coveted glimpse of the elusive genius behind these remarkable creations.
Who was this mysterious figure who sparked endless stories? Whose
every sweeping brushstroke seemed to promise the unveiling of an
entirely different realm, unfathomable to those imprisoned by narrow
perspectives? Who was this man whom many accused of harboring
arrogance toward his own artistic creations?
Who was this man? Who was this egotistical, yet talented man?
On that cloudy autumn night, as people flocked to witness Arshad
Quraishi’s paintings, there was a heaviness in the air. The exhibition
turned out to be a disappointing and disillusioning experience as the
audience collectively realized the famed artist’s penchant for arrogance
was on full display. He was reveling in the praise lavished upon him,
and this was evident in his lackluster artwork. This revelation left
them questioning the essence of his art. Was it truly worth hours of
contemplation, dissecting each color and detail in search of untold
stories? Did his creations possess the depth to narrate tales, or were
they merely strokes of vanity?
One could have asked that question directly to Arshad, but he was soon
nowhere to be found. Despite calling out his name and scouring the halls,
passing each uninspiring and lifeless painting, he was nowhere to be found.
It was on that rainy autumn night that Arshad stood outside amidst
the empty streets, having abandoned his own exhibition. Raindrops
saturated his once-impeccable new suit as he caught sight of a man he
had sworn never to encounter again.
18
“You don’t need to abandon your exhibition just to avoid me, Arshad,”
the man’s voice, gentle and consoling, pierced through the rainy silence,
causing a wave of humiliation to engulf Arshad. He stood motionless in
the downpour, grappling with how to respond. A part of him yearned to
flee, to keep running until the man stopped following him. However, he
realized the inevitability of this confrontation; after all, it had been nine
years since their last meeting.
“I admire your paintings,” the man remarked, still lingering in the shadows,
avoiding direct contact. “Honestly, they’re quite striking. But I always held
a preference for your earlier works.”
Arshad’s hands slowly curled into tight fists, the man’s words carrying a
harsh, furtive truth. “What... what brings you here?” Arshad asked. The
man cleared his throat and hesitantly replied, “I merely wished to admire
your art.” The man stepped closer, now coming into full view.
Guilt pierced Arshad like a dagger to the heart. The figure standing
before him bore little resemblance to the man he once knew. Time
had etched lines across his face, transforming his once-dark beard
into a salt-and-pepper mix. The once-imposing figure now appeared
weathered, shoulders slumped, voice weakened.
Have my actions led to this? Arshad’s heart shattered as he contemplated,
pondering whether he had reduced this man to a mere semblance of his
former self.
A whirlwind of thoughts surged within Arshad, yet no words found their
way out. They stood amidst the rain-soaked solitude, each falling droplet
a poignant reminder of what could have been had Arshad’s actions been
different.
“I just...” The man’s voice trailed off as he glanced down at his own
hands. It was only then that Arshad became aware of the flat object
cradled within his own, encased in layers of protective plastic. “I wanted
to return what is rightfully yours.”
The man extended the package, and in a daze, Arshad accepted it
without a second thought.
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“What’s this?” he mumbled, avoiding the man’s pensive gaze.
“It’s an unfinished piece of your work,” the man replied, tilting his head
slightly in reflection. “I believe it’s from eight years ago. I stumbled upon
it in the attic, and I felt it belonged to you.”
Dread engulfed Arshad, memories of his past flooding his mind in vivid
detail with each act, each regret crystal clear before him.
“No, no,” Arshad protested vigorously, attempting to return the package.
“Please, take it back. I can’t—”
“Arshad—”
“No, no!” His voice intensified, each word echoing like the rolling thunder
above. “I can’t take this back. You know I can’t, not after everything!”
Tears mingled with raindrops as Arshad’s voice wavered, emotions
cracking through. He found himself enveloped in the man’s embrace,
seeking solace in his father’s embrace. In that moment, the proud,
renowned artist crumbled.
“I’m sorry,” Arshad sobbed, his tears blending with the autumn rainfall. “I
can’t paint this. I don’t deserve to.”
“You can only move forward by forgiving your past self, Arshad,” his
father murmured tenderly, his voice a soothing counterpoint to the
thunderstorm’s unrest.
“But how?” Arshad’s sobs erupted, carrying the weight of immeasurable
guilt—for past transgressions, for unforgivable deeds, for abandoning
his father. “How can I, after all I’ve done?”
His father smiled, a bittersweet yet hopeful curve gracing his lips as he
spoke. “You begin with this,” he gestured towards the package tightly
held in Arshad’s hands.
It was on that tempestuous autumn night that Arshad Quraishi, once
celebrated as a self-centered and egotistical artist, stood vulnerable
before his father, transformed into a man in search of redemption from
the tumultuous path of his sinful past.
20
Back home, as he carefully unwrapped the package, a nervous smile
graced Arshad’s lips upon seeing the aged canvas. Before he had gone
astray, before he had succumbed to his ego, Arshad painted out of love,
not for the allure of wealth or recognition.
He reminisced about his calligraphies—elegant, cursive Arabic
words that entranced all who beheld them. Arshad pondered the
disappearance of his former self, the boy who infused each Quranic
verse with vibrant hues on a canvas eager for life.
Now, his gaze fixed on the incomplete Ayah, a verse that had intrigued
him. He had never finished it before, but the longing to do so welled up
within him.
Under the serene autumn night, Arshad Quraishi shed his arrogance,
replaced by a heart brimming with gratitude. With each stroke of the
brush, he began to complete the unfinished words:
Sneak peak from the upcoming story:
“But if you say they destroyed all religions, how are you here?
How did the Quran survive?”
21
“In every story lies a
profound lesson, a mirror
for us to reflect on our
own lives and choices.”
- Nouman Ali Khan
22
05
Finding Faith
by Bibi Ayesha Bismilla, South Africa
23
Mop, sweep, dust, align, repeat.
Every day was the same. Nothing had changed.
As Adam stepped into Aisle 3466 of the State Library, his eyes were
drawn to an interloper. Nestled haphazardly between its neighbors was
the most beautiful book he had ever seen. Clearly, someone wanted it
to be found since they had made no effort to line it up on the shelf. He
carefully removed it, gently brushing his fingertips around the embossed
leather. The gilded edges glimmered in the early morning sunshine.
He opened it and was even more intrigued. It was written in an elegant
script in a language he had never seen before.
He was tempted to take it to the head librarian, who would return it to
the correct aisle and section. But a little voice in his head argued against
that. After lengthy deliberation, he decided to copy just one word from
the book so he could search it up and find out about the language. He
opened the first page and chose a word at random: ‘
’.
He quickly closed the book, returned it to the shelf, and continued with
his shift.
Mop, sweep, dust, align, repeat.
Later that afternoon, as Adam traced the word ‘
’ onto his reference
tablet, little did he know that his seemingly innocent search would
lead him through an encrypted sensor network. An obscure website
materialized on his screen, hidden from the prying eyes of the State.
The language detected was Arabic, and the word meant ‘people.’ The
helpful assistant sounded it out for him, and his lips moved inadvertently,
forming the unfamiliar word.
A sense of unease settled over him. He had never committed any crime
before, yet the forbidden nature of the information he sought gnawed at
the edges of his conscience. What he was doing felt so right, but how
could it be if he was engaged in something possibly illegal? Wrestling
with conflicting emotions and morals, he quickly shut off the tablet and
pushed it away, the weight of secrecy weighing heavily on him.
For the rest of the week, his mind kept returning to the mysterious book.
24
It seemed out of place, kilometers away from the Arabic Building. He
wondered who wrote it, who wanted him to find it, and why? Like a
moth to a flame, he couldn’t stay away. As he delved deeper into dark
web searches, Adam uncovered that the mysterious word was part of
a sacred book called the Quran. The meaning of the word remained
elusive, yet an inexplicable force urged him to find out.
Despite a cautionary voice warning him of the dangers of navigating
the dark web, a louder and more persistent voice within pushed him to
understand why this book would be forbidden. The quest for knowledge
became a compelling force, driving Adam toward the mysterious and
forbidden depths of the encrypted network.
After a restless month, he requested a transfer to the Arabic department,
which went through without any fuss. He carefully smuggled the book
out with him and took to carrying it around every day, hoping to make
sense of it all. He started trying to learn Arabic, using reference books,
lists, and flashcards. It took him years to get to a point where he could
translate even a few words from the magical book, but nothing about its
style matched any of the books in the library.
Mop, sweep, dust, align, repeat.
And just like the blink of an eye, five years passed. Not a single day
went by without him paging through the book. It still made little sense to
him, even though he could now read it all. Through constant repetition,
he could even read many of the passages from memory, and often
found himself murmuring them under his breath while he cleaned. It
brought him comfort.
One day, as he walked down his driveway, ready to start another day, he
turned to find himself face to face with a man wearing the biggest smile
he had ever seen. “Assalamu alaikum, brother,” the man greeted him
cheerfully, “did you like my gift?”
Adam’s fear was etched on his face. “Don’t be scared, my man!
You’re not in danger. How far have you gotten with the Quran?” Adam
hesitated, a chill of apprehension running down his spine. “What’s the
Quran?” he asked cautiously. The stranger persisted, “The book, THE
BOOK, my dear Adam!
25
The one from Our Creator, the guiding light for Muslims! I know you
found it. We’ve been watching you and your efforts every single day. We
knew you’d recognize the truth when you saw it!”
Adam, although aware of the Quran’s existence, feigned innocence,
fearing the consequences of acknowledging his knowledge.
Sensing Adam’s fear, the man attempted to reassure him, “Okay, let’s
start from the beginning. Around 4,000 years ago, Allah, Our Creator
and the One Who created everything else, revealed His holy book, the
Quran, to our prophet, Muhammad SAW. Then, around 2,700 years
later, after one too many wars ravaged the planet, the world leaders
at the time got together and decided that religion—a belief in a higher
power—was the cause of this violence. So, they eradicated it. Killed
anyone suspected of believing in anything, redacted all mention of God
and religion from any literature they wanted to save, and destroyed the
rest.”
“Overnight, all borders were erased, and the whole world was governed
by the Central State. No countries survived, no religions, nothing. They
thought they could create a utopia where people were free to pursue
their passions, without that annoying religious fervor. They even spiked
our water and food supplies with a compound they created that would
suppress a person’s desire to find the truth and keep everyone mellow.”
Adam’s mind was reeling, and he was struggling to understand it all.
“But if you say they destroyed all religions, how are you here? How did
the Quran survive?” The man looked pleased. “I’m glad you’re paying
attention. Our religion has a long history of surviving underground.
People have been memorizing the Quran since it was revealed, which
made it easy to recreate from memory once the danger had passed.
We hid our faith, formed small communities that we could trust. I’m sure
other religions did too, but we haven’t searched. Regardless, the tides
are turning. For a thousand years, humanity has made incremental
progress, but no great leaps. The technology of today largely resembles
what existed when the State was first formed. They didn’t realize that
removing God from the equation would stifle people’s creativity and
drive! Yes, we work in fields that interest us, but somehow, we haven’t
managed to substantially advance those fields.”
26
They had reached the library. Adam had never been so happy and
sad to see it at the same time. He was still trying to make sense of
everything, but he couldn’t invite the man inside for fear of being
overheard. “Don’t worry, this is just the beginning. Come find me when
you’re ready.” He slipped him a card with an address and vanished
before Adam had a chance to ask for his name. But Adam was already
ready. He decided to go and find the man as soon as his shift ended. He
had to know more; he had to know the truth, despite the consequences.
He smiled.
Mop, sweep, dust, align, repeat.
Every day would be different. Everything had changed.
Sneak peak from the upcoming story:
Reciting the Quran and seeking Allah’s guidance became my
compass, guiding me through the labyrinth of life. With each
verse, the timeless wisdom of the Quran took on new depths.
27
06
Resilience in the Desert
by Naahid Nakidien, South Africa
28
In the scorching heat of the summer of 1998, the winds of fate swept
into my life, etching their presence not just on the pages of time but
carving deep into the depths of my soul. Cloaked in the identity of a
South African expatriate, I sought refuge amidst the vibrant tapestry
of Dubai’s cosmopolitan charm. Yet, beneath the glittering façade, a
profound transformation simmered—a silent tempest reshaping the
essence of my existence. It was amidst the golden dunes and the
ceaseless hum of the city that this seismic transformation took root,
altering the course of my life forever.
In the heart of the United Arab Emirates’ bustling business district, I
stood as a living testament to the changing times. A Muslim woman
holding the esteemed position of senior executive manager, I walked a
path predominantly trodden by men. Each day, I wrestled with a tangled
web of emotions as I ventured into boardrooms and offices inhabited
predominantly by the opposite sex.
Emotions twirled within me as I entered those rooms—a blend of pride
for my achievements and a brimming tension in navigating a patriarchal
society. Satisfaction coursed through me, an acknowledgment of my
journey and successes, yet apprehension lingered, a silent companion
in my pursuit of balance and acceptance in this corporate realm.
My journey commenced with the echo of high heels clattering on the
polished marble floors of Dubai’s towering glass skyscrapers. It was a
world where business deals unfolded over lavish meals, golf courses,
and late-night gatherings at upscale restaurants.
Navigating the cultural nuances became a daily challenge. The subtle
glances and raised eyebrows I received when declining impromptu
business lunches, coupled with perplexed expressions during moments
of prayer in my office, served as constant reminders of the struggles
I confronted daily. In those moments, the thought of conforming to
the norms crossed my mind, wondering if it might be the easier path.
However, deep within, I recognized the importance of remaining true to
myself and the necessity of making a distinctive mark in my own way.
The inner battles raged relentlessly within me, anxiety and sleepless
nights becoming unwelcome companions as I navigated the intricacies
of this bustling world.
29
Despite the challenges, I cherished my work, determined to prove that
excellence could coexist with unwavering values and beliefs.
One fateful afternoon, following yet another harrowing business meeting,
I found myself standing by my office window, gazing at Dubai’s everchanging skyline. In that moment, I retraced the steps of my journey.
I was no longer the Bo-Kaap girl from Cape Town, deeply connected
to her traditions and beliefs. The beauty of Bo-Kaap transcended its
physical appearance; it was a place where the heart-warming aroma
of spices lingered in the air, a fragrant reminder of culinary traditions
passed down through generations. Bo-Kaap’s unique symphony, created
by the muezzin’s call to prayer five times a day, resonated throughout
the neighborhood. Religion was not just a belief system; it was a way of
life. My upbringing revolved around devoutly observing Islamic customs,
religious instruction, and learning the Quran.
Yet, despite this profound connection to my roots, I felt adrift, lost in
a mirage of worldly expectations. The corporate world, with its hustle
and bustle, had pulled me away from the serene and spiritually rich
existence I once cherished. I had unwittingly strayed from the teachings
that grounded me in my youth, leaving me feeling disconnected from my
roots and heritage.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I implored Allah to unlock the doors
to my heart, to draw me nearer to Him. I yearned to reconnect with the
beauty and essence of Bo-Kaap, to rediscover the sense of community
and spiritual fulfillment that had defined my upbringing.
The transformation unfolded gradually, my heart opening one verse at
a time. Reciting the Quran and seeking Allah’s guidance became my
compass, guiding me through the labyrinth of life. With each verse, the
timeless wisdom of the Quran took on new depths. The once ornamental
calligraphy and melodious recitations now reverberated within my soul,
touching the very essence of my being.
To be a Muslim woman standing out in a corporate world equating
success with conformity was a toilsome endeavor. Yet, I embraced
this challenge with unwavering resilience, armed with knowledge,
competence, and a reservoir of inner strength to overcome the hurdles
in my path.
30
My return to Allah SWT wasn’t solely through rituals; I found Him
in the depths of my heart and soul. My identity as a Muslim woman
transformed from a struggle into a wellspring of strength. In paving my
way, I dismantled barriers and shattered stereotypes, creating a path for
others to follow.
In the end, I understood that my journey was more than achieving
success in the corporate realm; it was about redefining what it meant
to be a Muslim woman in a modern, interconnected world. I seamlessly
blended my Cape Malay heritage with Dubai’s cosmopolitan culture,
weaving a unique tapestry. Through my experiences, I learned that
one could navigate the turbulent waters of change without losing their
essence, illuminating a path for others to follow, much like the winds of
fate illuminated my own journey.
31
07
Chocolate Candies
by Fatima Sherlyn Ismun, Philipines
32
In a vibrant elementary school classroom, the young teacher, Mozifa,
guided her bright students through the day’s lesson, which explored
the profound Quranic Ayah that resonated deeply within her: “If you are
grateful, I will certainly give you more.” Mozifa was incredibly inspired
by this Ayah and wanted her students to experience the essence of
the message. She dove into a deep discussion with her students. The
young, eager minds absorbed her words, and each young face was
ignited with curiosity and fervor.
As the discussion came to an end, an air of anticipation settled in. In
front of each student lay a blank canvas, awaiting an artistic touch
inspired by the divine words. The theme was clear: gratitude, expressed
through art. While every student focused on transforming the once
empty canvas in front of them, Mozifa strolled through the rows,
observing the budding creativity and ensuring each child was engaged.
With a tender smile, she discreetly placed chocolate candies upon their
desks at regular intervals.
When Aisha received her first candy, she immediately thanked her
teacher. Aisha continued to thank Mozifa as she received her second,
her third, and her last chocolate candy.
Raaniyah, who was sitting at the opposite desk, also thanked her
teacher immediately when given her first and second chocolate candy.
However, by the time she received her third candy, Raaniyah remained
silent, absorbed in her artwork. Despite her lack of verbal gratitude,
Raaniyah was still awarded a fourth piece of chocolate candy. This
pattern persisted, with Raaniyah collecting the remaining candies
without a word of thanks. She assumed the chocolates were simply
gifted to her, without acknowledging or being grateful to the hands that
offered them to her.
As the art activity ended, the class showcased their artistic creations.
Without a doubt, Raaniyah’s artwork stood out; her sophisticated
techniques and innate artistic talent were evident. She eagerly
anticipated receiving the highest praise and grade for her artistic
masterpiece. Everyone looking at her work expected the same.
However, Mozifa surprised everyone by awarding Aisha the top grade.
33
“But Raaniyah’s piece is more beautiful,” one classmate remarked, a
sentiment echoed by Raaniyah and even Aisha.
“Do you recall our lesson earlier today, Raaniyah?” Mozifa asked.
“Yes, teacher,” Raaniyah replied. “It was about the Ayah, ‘If you are
grateful, I will certainly give you more.’”
“Exactly,” Mozifa affirmed. “And Aisha applied that lesson impeccably.”
The students were confused. They compared Aisha and Raaniyah’s
artwork again and acknowledged Raaniyah’s artistic superiority.
“Remember what I was giving each of you during the art session?”
Mozifa prompted.
“Chocolate candies!” exclaimed a student.
“How many did each of you receive?” Mozifa questioned.
“Eight!” chorused the students after counting the candy wrappers on
their tables.
“Now, how many times did you thank me for each candy?” The
classroom fell silent, except for Aisha, who confidently stated, “Every
time!”
Realization dawned on the students as to why Aisha received the
highest grade.
“Gratitude” was our theme. While Raaniyah expressed it through
her art, Aisha applied it in her heart and life,” Mozifa explained. “The
candy wasn’t just a treat; it was a lesson. Aisha consistently expressed
gratitude for each candy, unlike the rest, whose gratitude diminished
over time.”
The students nodded in agreement while Miss Mozifa continued to explain
her reasoning. However, Raaniyah did not appear to hold the same level
of agreement and could not help but voice her thoughts, “But you continued
to give us more candies even when we stopped thanking you.”
34
Mozifa kindly smiled at Raaniyah and responded with a question, “Does
Allah stop providing to those who forget Him?” The class fell silent.
Mozifa continued, “Allah will always give abundantly whether we choose
to be grateful or ungrateful. But you see, Allah really does give more to
those who choose to be grateful, perhaps not in the form of candies or
any other tangible object, but in the form of comfort in the Hereafter. Our
real success lies in applying His teachings, not in the quantity of gifts
received. Just as Aisha learned of her achievement at the end of the
lesson, you too shall realize the extent of your rewards in the Hereafter.”
That day, the students of Mozifa learned a valuable lesson about
gratitude that would stay with them for the rest of their lives.
Like these students, we are often preoccupied with worldly gains, assuming
they determine our success. We care more about what we gain and lose
in this life and attribute it to how pleased Allah is with us. However, true
success lies not in what we accumulate in this life but in how faithfully
we apply His guidance and commandments in what we are gifted.
35
08
Rediscovering the Chosen
Path of Allah
by Abdullahi Sameerah, Nigeria
36
Within the vibrant core of a contemporary metropolis, where the
constant hum of traffic and the relentless frenzy of everyday existence
prevailed, resided a man named Samir. He was an inconspicuous figure,
dedicating his ceaseless efforts to the role of an IT consultant. However,
ensnared beneath the heavy layers of stress and the unrelenting
demands of his high-speed profession, Samir had gradually distanced
himself from the cherished faith that had once held profound significance
in his life.
Samir had been deeply devoted to his faith, especially under the
guidance of his Arab parents who instilled in him the rituals of prayer,
fasting, and adhkaar. However, with the transition to a new city for work,
away from the watchful eyes of his parents, the allure of worldly success
began to overshadow his spiritual devotion. The lucrative salary and the
thrill of corporate achievement seemed to diminish the significance of his
connection with Allah. Though he abstained from drinking, an unsettling
emptiness gradually gnawed at him, which was often ignored as he
buried himself in the pursuit of work and entertainment.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting day at the office, Samir
found himself walking through the city’s downtown district. He wandered
aimlessly, feeling a growing sense of emptiness within him. The towering
skyscrapers, their silhouettes etched against the dimming sky, seemed
to cast elongated shadows, mirroring the darkness clawing at his soul.
Amidst this urban labyrinth, a mosque emerged, its minaret piercing the
skyline.
A compelling force nudged Samir towards its entrance. “Why not?” he
murmured to himself, a whisper swallowed by the urban cacophony.
“I should remember how to pray.” Taking a deep breath, he performed
wudu, surrendering to the familiar motions. As the night prayer’s Iqama
echoed within the mosque, the melodious recitation from the imam
unfolded like a soothing balm, touching a forgotten chord within Samir.
A whirlwind of emotions stirred—a combination of guilt for neglected
lessons in tajweed and an enigmatic tranquility sparked by the imam’s
echoing intonation. His heart bore the weight of remorse for forsaking
elements of his faith, yet the imam’s voice enveloped him in a familiar
and unexpected embrace of solace.
37
After the recitation of Surah Al-Fatiha, the imam began to recite Surah
Al-Insan. The words of the third verse echoed through the mosque’s
tranquil atmosphere, imprinting themselves upon Samir’s troubled soul.
The verse translated into: “We guided him to the right path, whether he
was grateful or not.” It felt like a stab in the heart. He was born an Arab
Muslim. Allah was talking to him directly and what had he done to be
grateful? Absolutely nothing.
Through the rhythmic motions of ruku and sujood, that verse lingered,
etching itself into the fabric of his thoughts. It was as though those
divine words were aimed directly at him—an unsettling revelation of his
ingratitude despite being born into the Muslim faith, bestowed with the
privilege of an Arab heritage. The weight of Allah’s direct communication
pierced through him, leaving a searing sense of guilt for his indifference
to the blessings bestowed upon him. As an Arab, Samir was fortunate to
have been nurtured in an environment immersed in the language of the
Quran. Raised within this cultural backdrop, he was inherently familiar
with the intricacies and beauty of Arabic, the language intricately woven
into the Quran’s verses. This linguistic advantage should have deepened
his connection with the sacred text. However, his neglect of this gift
added an extra layer of remorse to his growing guilt. He realized that the
resonance and eloquence of the divine message were meant to be not
just recited but also understood, cherished, and revered. His failure to
fully embrace this inherent bond with the Quran intensified his regret and
longing for a more profound connection.
After the prayer, he retreated to a secluded corner, tears streaming
down his cheeks. “Why am I crying?” he repeatedly questioned himself,
a whirlwind of emotions raging within. Despite the myriad of possible
answers, a definitive explanation eluded him.
That night, as he returned home, an inexplicable shift settled within
him, an indescribable transformation permeating his being. The Quran,
a cherished gift from his mother, lay untouched, veiled by a thin layer
of accumulating dust. “Shame on you,” he whispered to himself,
acknowledging the neglect he had shown towards this sacred book.
He turned directly to Surah Al-Insan, where the third verse held him
captive; tears blurred his vision, rendering the remaining verses
unreachable.
38
Clutching the Quran tightly, he wept—an uncharacteristic and cathartic
release of emotions that surprised him. “It was always there, Allah just
awakened it,” he reflected amidst tears, acknowledging the hidden depth
of his feelings.
Later, at home, he took a bath and began his prayers. The familiar
motions evoked memories of his family, their devout dedication during
the long taraweeh prayers. In the humility of his prostration, he implored
Allah for forgiveness, acknowledging the countless moments he
neglected Him despite the continuous provisions bestowed upon him.
That night, an otherworldly sense of tranquility enveloped him, a surreal
sense of peace that defied explanation settled within his soul.
The following day, a renewed sense of happiness accompanied Samir
as he ventured to work. For the first time in two years, he had awakened
to perform Fajr prayer—a tangible manifestation of the spiritual
reawakening within him.
Resigning from his job caught his boss by surprise. Inquiring about the
sudden decision, Samir simply stated, “I realized my priorities. Being
far from my parents, the distant mosque, and the influence of friends’
lifestyle, I find it challenging to uphold my beliefs here. I need to return
home to practice my faith properly.”
Respecting Samir’s decision, his boss reluctantly bid farewell to one
of their finest employees. Samir journeyed back home, where his
parents welcomed him with open arms. He detailed his transformative
experience, and together, they expressed gratitude to Allah for guiding
their son back to the righteous path.
At the age of twenty-seven, Samir embarked on relearning tajweed—a
challenging endeavor that often tempted him to abandon the pursuit.
Yet, driven by the promise of spiritual rewards, he persisted. Samir felt a
longing for missed opportunities in good deeds and set out to strengthen
his relationship with salah. His parents, advising patience and a gradual
approach, encouraged him to “slowly build your prayer muscles and fall
in love with the prayer.” He followed their guidance diligently, gradually
fostering an intimate connection with prayer—from the obligatory to the
voluntary prayers and eventually to tahajjud.
39
One day, sitting alongside his father, engrossed in the Quran, they
reached Surah Al-Insan. Samir recited the third verse with unequaled
eloquence, resonating with a beauty that seemed divinely inspired. In a
poignant moment, he peacefully departed this world while in prostration
beside his father, his last breath coinciding with the recitation of the
verse that had rekindled his return to Allah.
40
“Narratives shape our
understanding, guiding
us towards wisdom and
compassion.”
- Nouman Ali Khan
41
09
Once the Fog Clears
by Areeba Nadeem, Pakistan
42
Enveloped in the suffocating depths of a nightmare, I’m drowning within
the confines of my own body. Gasping for air, I claw at emptiness, my heart
racing like an untamed beast against the cage of my chest. Beads of sweat
cascade down my forehead, a relentless downpour. Just as I feel myself
slipping away, a resounding slam pierces the air from the neighbor’s door.
I jolt awake, disoriented, my bedroom enveloped in a sharp, unforgiving
sunlight. Relief floods through me as I manage to draw in a breath, the
air filling my lungs like a life-saving potion.
The weight of unshed tears threatens to consume me, emotions too
overwhelming to manage. They haunt my sleep, unrelenting. But there’s
no space to dwell on these thoughts. I gather myself, pushing back the
turmoil, and set about my morning rituals—cleaning up, dressing, and
preparing for the job that awaits.
The grocery store—a mundane refuge that pays the bills. As a cashier,
my world revolves around scanning items, bagging them, ringing up bills,
and offering thanks, a wearisome loop that spins endlessly. Scan. Bag.
Receipt. Thank. Scan, bag, receipt, thank. Scan, bag, receipt—
“Salam, brother Yusuf.” My loop is interrupted by someone’s voice. I
glance up to meet the gaze of a tall, bearded man, his smile warm. His
eyes lock onto my name tag: “Yusuf.” I nod in acknowledgment, puzzled.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” His words drift, but I stay silent, my thoughts
muddled. “Do you go to the mosque often?”
“Excuse me?” I respond, baffled by the intrusion.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep. I just meant to give you this.”
He hands me a flyer: “Special Friday Sermon at Masjid-un-Noor.” I set
it aside, intent on returning to the repetitive work at hand. However, he
persists, oblivious to my disinterest in engaging with him. “I’ll be there
tomorrow for the Friday sermon. It would be wonderful if you joined.”
“You don’t even know me,” I retort, my frustration palpable. “And yet you
call me ‘my brother.’ Quite peculiar, don’t you think?”
I rush his purchase and hand him the bags in haste.
43
“See you soon, Insha’Allah!” He exits with a smile, leaving me with
lingering bewilderment.
After the shift, I hurry home where I reheat some leftovers, savoring the
routine familiarity. A dinner, a smoke, and then surrender to the comfort
of my bed, sleep arriving swiftly.
‘Mama...Mama...Mama!’ I scream myself awake, the echo of her absence
piercing through my soul. It was just a dream. Reality dawns—the crushing
weight of her permanent absence. She’s really gone. I can’t deal with this
right now.
Seeking solace, I climb out of bed and make my way to the roof. As I pull
out my pack of cigarettes, the man’s flyer clung to it. While I study the
piece of paper, an unfamiliar urge tugs at me, a sensation that had laid
dormant for two long years.
Without thinking much, I find myself making my way towards the mosque.
A strange fear grips me as I approach the mosque. Doubt creeps in. ‘This
is scary. I could turn back. It’s not too late,’ I murmur, hesitating not too
far away from the destination.
Arriving at the mosque, a sudden haze clouds my vision. Fear paralyzes
me at the entrance. Time halts, darkness enveloping my surroundings.
To step inside feels like an insurmountable challenge, yet a voice within
urges me to be brave.
‘Brother Yusuf!’ His voice pierces through my internal turmoil once again.
‘I’m glad you came, and right on time!’ He gestures for me to come forward.
But my feet remain glued to the ground.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ he asks, concern etched on his face. ‘No,’ I
confess.He guides me gently to a nearby stool. My chest tightens, and
a lump forms in my throat. Unable to contain it any longer, tears stream
down my face, accompanied by choked sobs.
The man begins to recite in Arabic, a prayer, perhaps a dua, an attempt
to calm me down.
My cries only increase in volume, ringing in the hollow confines of the mosque.
44
He embraces me as my confession spills forth. ‘I don’t deserve to be
here,’ I gasp between sobs, drowning in self-condemnation.
‘Why would you say that?’ His voice held a soothing reassurance. ‘I’m
dirty. Filthy!’ The words escape me in a torrent, nearing a borderline
scream. ‘I can’t desecrate this place!’
Tears blur my vision as my heart’s turmoil becomes an uncontrollable
force, dictating my every word.
‘It is not you who’s bad; it is the sin,’ his voice, a gentle reassurance
amidst my anguish. I lay there, howling in his arms. ‘Being unclean
shouldn’t hinder you from seeking cleansing. It’s what you should yearn
for. Allah is compassionate. He forgives. You only need to ask. His love
knows no bounds.’
‘If God is so loving, so compassionate, why did He take my mother
away?! What wrong did she commit?’ Anger surges within me, quickly
giving way to remorse. ‘Ya Allah! I didn’t even pray at her funeral!’
The man responds to my brash question, ‘In failing to grasp the wisdom
behind something, we shouldn’t rush to criticize. Allah knows all, sees
all. He plans. To find peace, you must place trust in His plan. Once you
do, you’ll discover there’s no need for this turmoil within you.’
My pain disperses, replaced by a newfound sense of tranquility. I ponder
his words. Clarity isn’t a familiar concept but, in this moment, I find
myself at peace. After a while, I gaze up at him, finding my voice, ‘Shall
we go pray?’
He grins widely, giving me a nod. Together, we enter the mosque and
stand side by side facing the Qibla. As I bow into sujood, tears well up,
a yearning fulfilled after so long. During the sermon, the Imam’s words
deeply resonate within me, as if he were speaking directly to me. I sit in
quietude, tears flowing sporadically.
As the time comes to an end, I glance to my right, expecting to find the man.
Yet, to my surprise, an empty space remains—a void filled not with absence
but with lingering peace. Now I carry it with me, understanding the path
to tranquility, ready to embrace and practice it for the rest of my days.
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10
Stargazing
by Omer Farid, United States
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In the dead of the night, amidst the snowy landscape, I stood mesmerized
by the aurora borealis—a symphony of blue and green. The sheer beauty
petrified me, rendering me motionless, frozen in awe. Such beauty that
possesses an uncanny power; it immobilizes you where you stand.
Just as I dared to blink, a distant call disrupted the enchantment. ‘Bjorn!
What are you doing out here? Come back inside!’ my mother yelled in
the distance behind me. Reluctantly, I tore my gaze from the aurora and
trudged back towards the door, shedding the spellbinding hold it had on me.
I trudged through the snow like a baby penguin learning to waddle even
though I was no stranger to the snow. My entire life of fourteen years
had passed by in these snowy Norwegian terrains. We lived in a small
town atop the mountain. My mother and her parents before her had
lived in this town for generations. My father’s ancestors arrived from
someplace in the East long ago.
As I neared my mother, I could see her pink face flushed with concern.
She hugged me tightly, her warmth spreading into my body. Her long
blonde hair blanketed me against the howling wind. I apologized and
explained that I couldn’t resist stepping out. Such remarkable beauty
beckoned me. Her concern disappeared, and she smiled gently.
‘True beauty is what calls to you without a whisper. You’re attracted to
it without an invitation.’ As we entered our home, I could hear wolves
howling in the distance: the full moon was out tonight. Our home is
nested near the mountain peak, surrounded by distant forests, so we are
used to the wolves, and they’re far from terrifying. ‘They are the symbols
of fate,’ my mom would often say, ‘not something to fear.’
Once inside, kicking off our snowy boots and donning our furry socks—
mine orange, my mother’s pink, Mother began fixing us a meal in
the kitchen and I took my seat at the table, pressing my palms to my
cheeks. They were still a little cold, but the fireplace nearby sufficed in
keeping me warm. Not long after, my father entered the room to find
mother and I eating pancakes and drinking coffee.
‘Well, an early breakfast in the middle of the night never hurt anyone,’
he joked.
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He yawned and stretched his arms. Rubbing his tired eyes, he still
managed to smile and sit down with us at the table.
‘So, is someone going to explain why we’re having breakfast in the
middle of the night?’ ‘Bjorn has been stargazing,’ mother teased. ‘Is that
right?’ ‘Sure is,’ she confirmed. ‘Stargazing,’ father smiled, shaking his
head. ‘I went out to see the aurora borealis,’ I said, scarfing down my
pancake. ‘I see,’ father’s smile began to glow. ‘Do you know what makes
the aurora borealis special, Bjorn?’ He asked, rhetorically, dipping an
Italian biscuit into mother’s cup of coffee. ‘The lights aren’t concerned
with who’s watching them. See, anyone can pay attention to the stars or
the moon instead. Anyone can admire their beauty more, but it doesn’t
matter to the aurora borealis.’ He bit into his biscuit. ‘It doesn’t matter to
the moon or stars for that matter either,’ mother chimed in.
‘No, no it doesn’t,’ father agreed. ‘In other words, the aurora borealis knows
its worth and revels in that. It’s not jealous because the stars twinkle or the
moon shines. It knows its place. It knows what it brings to the table and
shares it selflessly. Same goes for the stars and the moon too.’
My father’s words reflected the values of our community. Our community
remains small and tight knit, which means that every person’s service is
needed to keep the town running. We share a strong belief in honoring
our individual talents. You need two different hands to clap. The same
two won’t cut it. Differences have value. Differences foster power.
It was at that precise moment that I felt something brush up against my
legs. ‘Frodie!’ Mother called, extending her hand to our cat. ‘Come here,
you little cutie!’ Frodie rushed to her side, purring as mother stroked his
head. He had a beautiful, furry mane for a Viking cat. He was one of the
few cats living in our town, but even he had a role to play. Frodie and the
others were mice hunters; they were a part of our pest control.
‘Frodie, Frodie, Frodie,’ father got up to stretch before picking up the ginger
cat. ‘How are you, my boy?’ He teased Frodie, holding him like a little baby.
Frodie ‘meowed,’ indicating that it was time to let him go. He scurried off
into my room; probably off to do his own stargazing or snow watching.
‘Well, Bjorn, it’s time to go back to bed,’ mother said as she finished
cleaning the table. She kissed me good night and put out the fire.
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‘Good night, kiddo,’ father added, giving me a pat on the back as he
turned off the lights, and we returned to our rooms.
Frodie was exactly where I pictured him: seated at my windowsill,
watching the snow. He didn’t even turn around when I walked in. I
slipped into my blanket and closed my eyes but had trouble sleeping.
It seems that everyone in my town knows what they’re good at. My
mother is a great cook, my father, an expert artisan, and my uncle Rollo
is a proud hunter with brilliant accuracy. Even Frodie knows that he’s
the best mouse catcher in town. But I don’t know what I’m good at, even
though I want to help. All I know is one thing that I heard from Ustadh
Nouman Ali Khan:
‘When you find yourself in a position to
help someone, be happy because Allah
is answering that person’s prayer
through you.’
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11
The Sailor’s Storm:
Lessons from the Sea
by Muhammad Sayed Rashad, Egypt
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Under the gathering blanket of dusk, Mousa approached his elderly
grandfather, Mohamed, whose silhouette melded seamlessly with
the porch under the darkening sky. The dwindling sunlight danced on
Mohamed’s wise face, its fading glow casting shadows brimming with
tales of yore.
Mousa had returned to his hometown only a week prior, marking
the start of his summer vacation. Despite his parents’ earnest
encouragements to seize the best out of his youth, he often occupied
his free time playing online games, sparking conflicts with his parents.
These disagreements were fueled by frustration, leading to repeated
squabbles where Mousa would always end up grieving his misfortune,
expressing the awfulness of his life and his inability to pursue his desires.
Mousa’s grandfather, Mohamed, an Arabic scholar currently enjoying
retirement, cherished this time of the year when he reunited with his
son’s family and his beloved grandson. Although Mousa’s love for
his grandpa’s stories was nothing compared to his passion for online
gaming, he never skipped a visit without requesting a new tale from his
beloved grandpa.
As the sun was about to set, and brimming with the boundless curiosity
of youth, Mousa broke the serene silence. ‘Grandpa, would you share a
story with me?’ His eyes sparkled with the innocent desire for a new tale.
Mohamed’s smile, slow and knowing, adorned his face. ‘Let me tell you
the story of Said the mighty Sailor,’ he began, his voice akin to a calm
river flowing from ancient springs.
Said, a sailor with a spirit as restless as the gale over open waters,
yearned for a life beyond the horizon, a longing that was mirrored in the
endless expanse of the sea. Day in, day out, his life was the same. He
often vented his frustrations into the sea, treating it as a vessel for his
discontent. Said frequently complained about his perceived misfortunes,
comparing his life unfavorably to other sailors in his village.
One day as he was sailing, he noticed the skies turning ominously. Said,
with a heart swollen with defiance, dared to confront the storm’s wrath.
The sea, both judge and jury, unleashed its lesson in gratitude through
nature’s stern decree.
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His boat battled furious waves that crashed like thunder; the wind’s
howling pierced his ears, and the rain battered his flesh like a relentless
barrage of needles.
Amidst this chaos, Said’s heart, once thirsting for extraordinary adventures,
now ached for the peaceful days in his village that he had dismissed.
When a monstrous wave capsized his boat, casting him into the heart of
the raging sea, his entire perception of life was violently upended.
Cast onto the deserted island by the hands of destiny, Said found himself
beneath a blanket of stars, a celestial canvas stretching endlessly above
him. Recalling the Quranic verse his grandfather once recited, ‘We
guided him to the right path, whether he was grateful or not.’ (Surah
Al-Insan 76:3). With newfound clarity, he realized the profound value of
life’s simplest treasures.
Isolation became Said’s crucible. A transformative forge reshaping his
very essence. He adapted to the island’s rhythms, drawing sustenance
from its meager offerings, and finding solace amidst the grandeur of
solitude. Gratitude, once a foreign concept, now flowed effortlessly from
his being. He crafted a life steeped in simplicity, where the pursuit of
complexity had once clouded his vision.
As unexpectedly as his adventure had begun, it drew to an abrupt end.
A distant ship on the horizon beckoned Said back to the world he once
knew, but now viewed through the lens of profound appreciation.
When Said once again set foot in his homeland, every aspect of his
former existence resonated with gratitude. The gentle caress of the
breeze became a soothing melody, the hugs of friends felt like a warm
embrace from the universe, and the laughter echoing through the streets
created a symphony of joy in his heart.
Mousa, deeply moved by the tale, gazed at his grandfather with wide,
thoughtful eyes. ‘Did Said remember to be thankful?’ he asked earnestly.
Mohamed’s gaze met the boy’s, laden with the gravity of the imparted
wisdom. ‘He did, Mousa.
Said understood that gratitude isn’t merely a response to hardships;
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it’s a path we choose to tread in every moment of our lives. Just as Said
learned from the divine verse of the Quran.’
Mousa felt the weight and the gentle warmth of the story embracing
him. He recognized that stories like these were more than mere
echoes of the past but beacons illuminating life’s intricate journey. This
particular tale, intertwined with divine verses, served as a reminder that
life’s greatest wisdom often evolves from the journey of ingratitude to
thankfulness.
The stars shimmered with a brilliance that seemed to affirm the night’s
teachings. Amidst the tranquil companionship of his grandfather, Mousa
understood that Said’s story was a cartography guiding the transition
from entitlement to appreciation, a journey spanning a thousand steps,
where each step was a word, and each word a universe unto itself.
The hours waned, the old and the young figures sat together in serene
harmony. The tale of Said, echoing the teachings of the Quran, intricately
weaved its narrative into the tapestry of the night. In his heart, Mousa felt
the stirrings of understanding. This specific story, heard on this precise
day, emerged as a guiding star illuminating the journey of a lifetime.
And so, beneath the canopy of the cosmos, Mousa learned that is not
just a momentary sentiment but a guiding principle, as enduring as the
verses that traverse through ages. The night deepened, and the stars,
like whispered secrets, carried forth the story of Said the mighty Sailor,
infused with ancient wisdom, anchoring itself in the harbor of the boy’s soul.
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12
The Guided Path
by Aina Maqsood, Pakistan
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This is the tale of Sheharzaad Latif, a naive ten-year-old girl, whose
innocent eyes bore the weight of the entire world. Her tender existence
had weathered a tempestuous storm, leaving her shattered and bearing
a burden that showed no sign of relenting. No one could look upon her
and confidently assert that she had ever known a life replete with abundance.
In her formative years, her father was an army medical officer. However,
by the time she reached the age of eight, her father was arrested for
unknown reasons. She and her mother were compelled to return to their
rural homeland distraught with grief and worry. Before their return to the
village, she, along with her mother, sought to meet her father. The sight
of her father’s destitution had shattered her. During the meeting, her
father held her hand and uttered just one phrase:
‘Allah Almighty decrees in the Quran that indeed we have shown
mankind the path of good and evil, and one chooses whether to be
grateful or ungrateful. My child, become one of the grateful and stay
clear of ingratitude.’
A year had passed since that momentous meeting, and Sheharzaad
hadn’t seen her father since. The memory of their last meeting and the
Quranic verse lingered, etched indelibly in her mind. But in that ensuing
year, she struggled with ingratitude, rebelling against her faith. She
couldn’t shake the questions of why Allah had separated her from her
father, causing her to rebel against her Creator.
Two years passed, and she came to accept that her father might never
return. Yet she soon discovered the miraculous nature of Allah’s decree.
Her father did indeed return. However, witnessing his transformed
state shocked her; the frailty and vulnerability from two years ago
had vanished, replaced by a regained dignity. She felt happiness but
remained devoid of gratitude.
Relocating to a small town in Sindh for Sheharzaad’s education, life
gradually found its rhythm once again. However, despite the smoother
flow of life, Sheharzaad clung onto her prosperous past, an unrepentant
rebel at heart. Her lingering grievance lay with the Almighty, questioning
the reasons behind the immense sorrow bestowed upon them.
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During that time, Sheharzaad forged a friendship with her classmate,
Emaan Ali, a devout young girl, steadfast in her prayer and worship.
Sheharzaad typically didn’t connect with religious individuals, but there
was something unique about Emaan. She never asked Sheharzaad
about her lack of prayer. But one day, curiosity got the better of
Emaan, and she finally asked Sheharzaad why she didn’t pray. At first,
Sheharzaad reacted defensively with anger but soon composed herself.
Seated in silence, tears welled in her eyes as she spoke.
‘I’m scared of Allah. He has caused me so much pain.’ Hearing this,
Emaan smiled gently and responded, ‘In everything, there’s a divine
purpose. Allah has bestowed humans’ intelligence and guided them to
the path of good and evil. If one lacks gratitude, it’s their responsibility,
as the choices between good and evil reside in their own minds.’ The
words ‘good’ and ‘evil’ stuck in Sheharzaad’s mind; Emaan’s words
resonated in Sheharzaad’s ears, echoing her father’s teachings.
Upon returning home, Sheharzaad witnessed her father immersed in
prayer. After completing his prayer, she approached him, questioning,
‘Why do you pray?’ With a gentle smile, her father knelt before her,
explaining, ‘Because Allah has shown us the path of good and evil and
protected us from hardships.’
‘But He’s the one who put us in such situations!’ she cried out. Her
father, taken aback by her reaction, admitted, ‘It was my mistake. I
engaged in unlawful earnings, setting foot in the dark world of unlawful
wealth. If not for being imprisoned, I would have spiraled deeper into the
darkness leading only to hell.’
Sheharzaad was stunned. Years of rebellion had blinded her from reality
and her father’s teachings. She realized that Allah had separated her
from her father for two years so she could seek guidance, but she had
been steering towards a darker path. She didn’t understand Allah. She
had wronged herself in her eyes. She grappled with the weight of her
sins, filled with remorse, unsure of how to seek redemption. Fear and
sorrow weighed heavily on her heart.
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Fifteen years passed and now Sheharzaad stood before an audience,
passionately discussing her academic initiatives aimed at promoting
women’s education. In a society where religious education for women
was uncommon, she ventured into the realm of educating them in
matters of faith. Allah had lifted her from the depths of despair to the
pinnacle of success.
She vividly recalls the time when her heart had been drowning in fear;
fifteen years ago, when Allah took her heart into His protection and
when her journey towards guidance had begun. That single revelation
had rewritten an entire chapter of her life culminating in her present role
as a beacon of light and gratitude. Now, having evolved into a resilient
and patient individual, she was actively reshaping society by passing
on the mantle of hope and gratitude. She had transformed into one who
embraced gratitude and had become a source of inspiration for others.
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As we conclude this journey through "The Guided Path"
e-book, we extend our heartfelt gratitude to all the
writers who shared their creativity and insight with us.
Your stories have truly illuminated the theme of
rediscovering one's connection to Allah's chosen path,
inspiring readers far and wide.
We invite you to stay connected with Bayyinah for more
enriching experiences and opportunities to engage with
our community.
Be the first to know about our upcoming creative
contests, events and resources by signing up for our
newsletter at bayyinah.com.
Together, let's continue to explore the beauty of faith and
the guidance found within the Quran.
May Allah bless you abundantly and guide you always.
Team Bayyinah
Bayyinah Official
noumanalikhan.bayyinah
Bayyinah
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