The mountain air was cold and dry, and the silence around us echoed louder than any storm. I remember trembling—not from the chill, but from fear. You won’t find my name in any surah, but I was there—one of the seventy elders chosen to ascend Mount Sinai with the Prophet Musa — known to you as Moses, the messenger who led the Children of Israel away from Pharaoh.
We had seen many miracles of Allah: the sea parting, the manna from the sky, the pillar of fire that guided our way. But still, doubt clung to some hearts, including mine. When Prophet Musa told us we would climb the mountain to witness a portion of Allah’s command, I felt honored. I thought, maybe now I’ll believe fully. Maybe my ears and eyes would finally be filled enough for my heart to trust without hesitation.
At the base of the mountain, the Prophet left the rest of the people behind. We seventy elders carefully followed him, careful not to speak, barely daring to breathe. The presence above felt heavy, but beautiful. The higher we climbed, the more I felt pulled between awe and fear.
When we reached the appointed place, Musa stepped ahead and called upon Allah. He spoke words I barely understood, like pouring water into a jar too small to catch it. And then the mountain trembled—the sky split with sound—I fell to my face.
In that moment, we were struck down.
I do not know for how long—seconds, an hour, maybe longer. All I know is we were lifeless. Some say it was a punishment, others say a test. Our scholars tell us that Allah caused us to die briefly, and then returned us to life so we would learn the weight of His mercy.
When I opened my eyes, the sky had calmed, and Prophet Musa stood weeping with his hands high above him. He was praying for us, pleading with Allah: “You are our Protector, so forgive us and have mercy on us, for You are the best of those who forgive.” That is part of what’s told in the Qur’an, in Surah Al-A’raf, verse 155.
I felt something shift inside me—a mixture of shame and gratitude. Allah had shown us His might. More importantly, He had shown us His mercy. He returned us to life not because we deserved it, but because He is Ar-Rahman, the Most Merciful.
From that day forward, I no longer waited for signs to believe. I no longer asked for more than what Allah had already given. Life itself, breath itself, the chance to turn back to Him—that was the gift.
We walked down the mountain different men. Some quiet, some weeping. I carried no stone tablets, no new law. But I carried something heavier: the clear knowledge that faith doesn’t come from seeing—it comes from remembering Who gives, Who forgives, and Who always guides us back when we forget.
—
Story Note:
Inspired by Surah Al-A’raf (7:155) and classical commentaries, including those of Ibn Kathir, which describe the episode of Prophet Musa and the seventy elders being struck down and revived as a test and sign of Allah’s mercy.
The mountain air was cold and dry, and the silence around us echoed louder than any storm. I remember trembling—not from the chill, but from fear. You won’t find my name in any surah, but I was there—one of the seventy elders chosen to ascend Mount Sinai with the Prophet Musa — known to you as Moses, the messenger who led the Children of Israel away from Pharaoh.
We had seen many miracles of Allah: the sea parting, the manna from the sky, the pillar of fire that guided our way. But still, doubt clung to some hearts, including mine. When Prophet Musa told us we would climb the mountain to witness a portion of Allah’s command, I felt honored. I thought, maybe now I’ll believe fully. Maybe my ears and eyes would finally be filled enough for my heart to trust without hesitation.
At the base of the mountain, the Prophet left the rest of the people behind. We seventy elders carefully followed him, careful not to speak, barely daring to breathe. The presence above felt heavy, but beautiful. The higher we climbed, the more I felt pulled between awe and fear.
When we reached the appointed place, Musa stepped ahead and called upon Allah. He spoke words I barely understood, like pouring water into a jar too small to catch it. And then the mountain trembled—the sky split with sound—I fell to my face.
In that moment, we were struck down.
I do not know for how long—seconds, an hour, maybe longer. All I know is we were lifeless. Some say it was a punishment, others say a test. Our scholars tell us that Allah caused us to die briefly, and then returned us to life so we would learn the weight of His mercy.
When I opened my eyes, the sky had calmed, and Prophet Musa stood weeping with his hands high above him. He was praying for us, pleading with Allah: “You are our Protector, so forgive us and have mercy on us, for You are the best of those who forgive.” That is part of what’s told in the Qur’an, in Surah Al-A’raf, verse 155.
I felt something shift inside me—a mixture of shame and gratitude. Allah had shown us His might. More importantly, He had shown us His mercy. He returned us to life not because we deserved it, but because He is Ar-Rahman, the Most Merciful.
From that day forward, I no longer waited for signs to believe. I no longer asked for more than what Allah had already given. Life itself, breath itself, the chance to turn back to Him—that was the gift.
We walked down the mountain different men. Some quiet, some weeping. I carried no stone tablets, no new law. But I carried something heavier: the clear knowledge that faith doesn’t come from seeing—it comes from remembering Who gives, Who forgives, and Who always guides us back when we forget.
—
Story Note:
Inspired by Surah Al-A’raf (7:155) and classical commentaries, including those of Ibn Kathir, which describe the episode of Prophet Musa and the seventy elders being struck down and revived as a test and sign of Allah’s mercy.
