It was the smell that I remembered most—smoke, burning fat, and the sharp scent of incense. That morning, like every other, my father led me through the crowds around the giant statue of Baal. They said Baal brought us rain and riches. But I never saw him move, never heard his voice. Just smoke and silence.
My name is Tamin. You won’t find it in the Qur’an, but I lived in the land where Prophet Ilyas—also known to many as Elias—stood alone against false gods. I was thirteen when everything changed.
I remembered it clearly. The people had gathered again to offer gifts to Baal. They danced and chanted like they always did, trying to please the statue made of stone. My father raised his hands and cried, “Baal, bring us rain!” But the skies above stayed dry, and the earth beneath us cracked with thirst.
Then I heard his voice—strong, calm, and clear: “Will you not fear Allah?” Everyone turned to see the man who spoke: a tall figure wrapped in a simple garment, his eyes filled with sorrow, not anger. “Do you call upon Baal and abandon the Best of Creators?”
I didn’t know it then, but this was the Prophet Ilyas (Elias), a messenger sent by Allah—God in Islam—to guide our people away from idol worship. He had come again after years of hiding, sent to remind us of the One true Lord. Some elders whispered his name with fear. Others spat at the ground and cursed him.
My father turned to me and whispered, “Do not listen.” But I couldn’t look away. The Prophet pointed at the idol. “This statue brings you nothing. Allah is the Lord of the heavens and the earth. Will you not return to Him?”
The crowd grew angry. Some threw stones. Others shouted, “You speak lies! Baal feeds us!” But the harvest had failed for years. Our animals grew thin. The rivers dried up.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing his words: “Will you not return to Him?” Then I remembered something my grandfather once told me: Long ago, the prophet Ibrahim—known to many as Abraham—also broke idols and taught people about the One God. Maybe this was the same truth, come back again.
The next day, I hid near the Prophet’s camp outside the village. I watched him pray to Allah alone. No statues, no fire, no noise—just quiet, humble prayer. I felt something strange and warm inside, like light after a long night.
Many still refused to believe. But I never went back to Baal again.
I began to pray in secret, my hands raised the way I had seen Ilyas do. I learned to say “La ilaha illallah”—There is no god but Allah. I never spoke to the Prophet directly, but he changed my heart forever.
I don’t know what happened to him in the end. Some say he was taken up, saved by Allah. But I know this: He left behind truth. And that truth broke my fear—just like it shattered the power of Baal.
Inspired by Surah As-Saffat (37:123–132) and classical tafsir traditions.
It was the smell that I remembered most—smoke, burning fat, and the sharp scent of incense. That morning, like every other, my father led me through the crowds around the giant statue of Baal. They said Baal brought us rain and riches. But I never saw him move, never heard his voice. Just smoke and silence.
My name is Tamin. You won’t find it in the Qur’an, but I lived in the land where Prophet Ilyas—also known to many as Elias—stood alone against false gods. I was thirteen when everything changed.
I remembered it clearly. The people had gathered again to offer gifts to Baal. They danced and chanted like they always did, trying to please the statue made of stone. My father raised his hands and cried, “Baal, bring us rain!” But the skies above stayed dry, and the earth beneath us cracked with thirst.
Then I heard his voice—strong, calm, and clear: “Will you not fear Allah?” Everyone turned to see the man who spoke: a tall figure wrapped in a simple garment, his eyes filled with sorrow, not anger. “Do you call upon Baal and abandon the Best of Creators?”
I didn’t know it then, but this was the Prophet Ilyas (Elias), a messenger sent by Allah—God in Islam—to guide our people away from idol worship. He had come again after years of hiding, sent to remind us of the One true Lord. Some elders whispered his name with fear. Others spat at the ground and cursed him.
My father turned to me and whispered, “Do not listen.” But I couldn’t look away. The Prophet pointed at the idol. “This statue brings you nothing. Allah is the Lord of the heavens and the earth. Will you not return to Him?”
The crowd grew angry. Some threw stones. Others shouted, “You speak lies! Baal feeds us!” But the harvest had failed for years. Our animals grew thin. The rivers dried up.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing his words: “Will you not return to Him?” Then I remembered something my grandfather once told me: Long ago, the prophet Ibrahim—known to many as Abraham—also broke idols and taught people about the One God. Maybe this was the same truth, come back again.
The next day, I hid near the Prophet’s camp outside the village. I watched him pray to Allah alone. No statues, no fire, no noise—just quiet, humble prayer. I felt something strange and warm inside, like light after a long night.
Many still refused to believe. But I never went back to Baal again.
I began to pray in secret, my hands raised the way I had seen Ilyas do. I learned to say “La ilaha illallah”—There is no god but Allah. I never spoke to the Prophet directly, but he changed my heart forever.
I don’t know what happened to him in the end. Some say he was taken up, saved by Allah. But I know this: He left behind truth. And that truth broke my fear—just like it shattered the power of Baal.
Inspired by Surah As-Saffat (37:123–132) and classical tafsir traditions.
