I still remember the sound of the wind. It wasn’t just any wind—it was angry, tearing through our valley like nothing I had ever heard before. But before that storm came, before our destruction began, there was a voice. And I heard it, though most didn’t listen.
You won’t find my name in any surah. I was just a boy from the tribe of ‘Aad, strong and proud people who built tall buildings and carved homes into mountains in a place called Al-Ahqaf—a vast region of sand and stone. My father always said we were the greatest people alive. We believed power came from our strength, and we worshipped many idols that we thought would protect us.
Then came Prophet Hud—peace be upon him. He was from our tribe, but he spoke words that many hated to hear.
“There is no god but Allah,” he would proclaim, raising his hands toward the sky. “Turn to Him alone and do not worship these lifeless stones!”
Some of us whispered that his words felt true, that a storm was coming. But most mocked him.
“Do you think your words will tear down our buildings?” one man laughed.
Another shouted, “We are stronger than any storm!”
Even my father turned away whenever Prophet Hud – a messenger chosen by Allah – passed by. My heart was unsure back then. I felt torn between fear and pride. How could our people, who were so powerful, be wrong?
But Hud never stopped pleading. His eyes held sadness, not anger. “O my people,” he said once, standing in the middle of the marketplace, “I do not ask you for any reward. My reward is only from Allah. I only want you to see the truth.”
Then came the warning. He told us that if we continued in pride and disbelief, a punishment would come—a mighty wind sent by Allah. Many laughed.
But the sky changed.
Clouds gathered, dark and heavy, and we thought rain would fall—so we cheered. Little did we know it wasn’t mercy. It was punishment.
The wind came by evening. At first, it knocked over tents. Then trees. Then houses. It didn’t stop—day after day, it screamed through our land, lifting men, animals, even stones into the air. People ran and cried, calling to their idols.
But the idols stood silent.
I saw with my own eyes our tallest tower crumble like it was made of sand. Everyone I knew—my uncles, neighbors, even my own father—was gone by the end. Only Prophet Hud and the few who believed with him survived.
That’s when I understood.
Our idols had no power. We had ignored the mercy of Allah. Hud tried to warn us with kindness and truth, but our pride was louder.
Now, years later, I sit under the open sky, surrounded by desert where once a city stood. I remember the Prophet’s words. I teach my children to worship only Allah—the Creator, the One who gives life and takes it.
Because I saw what happens when truth is ignored.
And I will never forget that storm.
—
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Hud 11:50–60 and classical tafsir sources such as the works of Ibn Kathir, which describe the story of Prophet Hud (peace be upon him) and the destruction of the people of ‘Aad by a furious wind after they stubbornly rejected Allah’s message.
I still remember the sound of the wind. It wasn’t just any wind—it was angry, tearing through our valley like nothing I had ever heard before. But before that storm came, before our destruction began, there was a voice. And I heard it, though most didn’t listen.
You won’t find my name in any surah. I was just a boy from the tribe of ‘Aad, strong and proud people who built tall buildings and carved homes into mountains in a place called Al-Ahqaf—a vast region of sand and stone. My father always said we were the greatest people alive. We believed power came from our strength, and we worshipped many idols that we thought would protect us.
Then came Prophet Hud—peace be upon him. He was from our tribe, but he spoke words that many hated to hear.
“There is no god but Allah,” he would proclaim, raising his hands toward the sky. “Turn to Him alone and do not worship these lifeless stones!”
Some of us whispered that his words felt true, that a storm was coming. But most mocked him.
“Do you think your words will tear down our buildings?” one man laughed.
Another shouted, “We are stronger than any storm!”
Even my father turned away whenever Prophet Hud – a messenger chosen by Allah – passed by. My heart was unsure back then. I felt torn between fear and pride. How could our people, who were so powerful, be wrong?
But Hud never stopped pleading. His eyes held sadness, not anger. “O my people,” he said once, standing in the middle of the marketplace, “I do not ask you for any reward. My reward is only from Allah. I only want you to see the truth.”
Then came the warning. He told us that if we continued in pride and disbelief, a punishment would come—a mighty wind sent by Allah. Many laughed.
But the sky changed.
Clouds gathered, dark and heavy, and we thought rain would fall—so we cheered. Little did we know it wasn’t mercy. It was punishment.
The wind came by evening. At first, it knocked over tents. Then trees. Then houses. It didn’t stop—day after day, it screamed through our land, lifting men, animals, even stones into the air. People ran and cried, calling to their idols.
But the idols stood silent.
I saw with my own eyes our tallest tower crumble like it was made of sand. Everyone I knew—my uncles, neighbors, even my own father—was gone by the end. Only Prophet Hud and the few who believed with him survived.
That’s when I understood.
Our idols had no power. We had ignored the mercy of Allah. Hud tried to warn us with kindness and truth, but our pride was louder.
Now, years later, I sit under the open sky, surrounded by desert where once a city stood. I remember the Prophet’s words. I teach my children to worship only Allah—the Creator, the One who gives life and takes it.
Because I saw what happens when truth is ignored.
And I will never forget that storm.
—
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Hud 11:50–60 and classical tafsir sources such as the works of Ibn Kathir, which describe the story of Prophet Hud (peace be upon him) and the destruction of the people of ‘Aad by a furious wind after they stubbornly rejected Allah’s message.
