I still remember the day the smoke rose from the center of the camp.
I was just a boy then—one of the children among the people of Bani Isra’il, the Children of Israel. You won’t find my name in any surah, but I was there when everything changed. Our Prophet, Musa—Moses, peace be upon him—had climbed Mount Sinai to receive guidance from Allah. We waited, watching the mountain from afar, counting the days.
But after a while, whispers began. “He’s gone too long,” some said. “Maybe he won’t return.” I didn’t understand why grown men looked so afraid when Allah had already parted the sea for us and drowned Pharaoh. But fear makes people forget. That’s when Samiri stepped forward.
Samiri was not a prophet or a leader, but he spoke with confidence. He said he had seen something. Something divine. He told the people to bring all their gold—bracelets, rings, whatever they had—and from it, he built a shape: a calf.
Not a real animal, of course. A golden statue. But when it was finished, he added something strange to it—some say it was dust he had taken from the place where the angel Jibreel (Gabriel) had passed. Then, somehow, the statue made a low sound. Like a living creature.
The people were amazed.
“This is your god,” Samiri shouted. “This is what you should worship!”
Some cheered. Some danced. Others bowed before the statue. My mother pulled me close, whispering that this was wrong, but her voice was drowned by the crowd. The golden calf stood shining in the sun, but it brought only darkness to our hearts.
Days later, Prophet Musa returned, carrying the tablets of guidance from Allah.
What happened next still echoes in my mind.
I saw his face—filled with sorrow and anger. He looked at the people bowing to the statue and dropped the tablets. His voice thundered across the camp as he questioned his brother, Prophet Harun—Aaron, peace be upon him—who had stayed behind. Harun tried to explain, saying he had feared a division among us. But Musa wasn’t just angry at him. He turned to the people, demanding, “What kept you back from following me? Were you so eager for ruin?”
Then he found Samiri.
His face grew harsher. He told Samiri that he was banished, that he would live alone for the rest of his life, saying, “Touch me not!”—he would be cut off, avoided. And the golden calf? It was burned and scattered into the sea.
As I watched the ashes drift into the water, I realized something for the first time: falsehood can be shiny, loud, and convincing—but it can never stand before truth. The golden calf made a noise, but it could not guide. It glittered, but it could not save.
That day, I learned that when we forget Allah, we fall for anything. But when we remember Him, we find our way again.
Even as a child, I knew then: Allah is One, and nothing—nothing—can take His place.
—
Inspired by Surah Ta-Ha (20:85–97) and traditional tafsir from scholars such as Ibn Kathir.
I still remember the day the smoke rose from the center of the camp.
I was just a boy then—one of the children among the people of Bani Isra’il, the Children of Israel. You won’t find my name in any surah, but I was there when everything changed. Our Prophet, Musa—Moses, peace be upon him—had climbed Mount Sinai to receive guidance from Allah. We waited, watching the mountain from afar, counting the days.
But after a while, whispers began. “He’s gone too long,” some said. “Maybe he won’t return.” I didn’t understand why grown men looked so afraid when Allah had already parted the sea for us and drowned Pharaoh. But fear makes people forget. That’s when Samiri stepped forward.
Samiri was not a prophet or a leader, but he spoke with confidence. He said he had seen something. Something divine. He told the people to bring all their gold—bracelets, rings, whatever they had—and from it, he built a shape: a calf.
Not a real animal, of course. A golden statue. But when it was finished, he added something strange to it—some say it was dust he had taken from the place where the angel Jibreel (Gabriel) had passed. Then, somehow, the statue made a low sound. Like a living creature.
The people were amazed.
“This is your god,” Samiri shouted. “This is what you should worship!”
Some cheered. Some danced. Others bowed before the statue. My mother pulled me close, whispering that this was wrong, but her voice was drowned by the crowd. The golden calf stood shining in the sun, but it brought only darkness to our hearts.
Days later, Prophet Musa returned, carrying the tablets of guidance from Allah.
What happened next still echoes in my mind.
I saw his face—filled with sorrow and anger. He looked at the people bowing to the statue and dropped the tablets. His voice thundered across the camp as he questioned his brother, Prophet Harun—Aaron, peace be upon him—who had stayed behind. Harun tried to explain, saying he had feared a division among us. But Musa wasn’t just angry at him. He turned to the people, demanding, “What kept you back from following me? Were you so eager for ruin?”
Then he found Samiri.
His face grew harsher. He told Samiri that he was banished, that he would live alone for the rest of his life, saying, “Touch me not!”—he would be cut off, avoided. And the golden calf? It was burned and scattered into the sea.
As I watched the ashes drift into the water, I realized something for the first time: falsehood can be shiny, loud, and convincing—but it can never stand before truth. The golden calf made a noise, but it could not guide. It glittered, but it could not save.
That day, I learned that when we forget Allah, we fall for anything. But when we remember Him, we find our way again.
Even as a child, I knew then: Allah is One, and nothing—nothing—can take His place.
—
Inspired by Surah Ta-Ha (20:85–97) and traditional tafsir from scholars such as Ibn Kathir.
