I was only ten years old when I first heard the name “Harut and Marut.”
It was the day my older cousin brought strange scrolls from Babylon — the ancient city where we lived. His face was pale with excitement as he whispered, “These are secrets the angels taught the people.” I didn’t understand what he meant, but I followed him up the hill where the adult scribes met in shadowed corners and lit lamps just to read these scrolls.
But that day, something else happened. A man with a noble face and a warn voice came to the gathering. He introduced himself as Hamdan, a teacher of the Qur’an — the holy book revealed to the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. He asked us, “Do you know the story of Harut and Marut?”
We all shook our heads.
So he began — and I remember every word, even now.
Long ago, in Babylon, people had grown arrogant. Some thought they were wiser than angels, believing they could resist any sin. But when Allah — the Most Merciful — sent down two angels, Harut and Marut, He gave them knowledge as a test.
“According to the scholars,” Brother Hamdan told us, “Harut and Marut taught people about magic, but they warned everyone first — ‘We are only a test, so do not disbelieve.’”
The warning was clear. The knowledge they carried wasn’t meant to be used — only to show the difference between right and wrong. But many people did not listen. Some began using magic to break families apart or to gain unfair power. And so what was once a lesson became a curse for those who disobeyed.
My cousin laughed nervously. “It’s still magic, though. Doesn’t it give you power?”
Brother Hamdan looked him straight in the eyes, and his voice trembled slightly, not with fear, but with sorrow. “It separates you from Allah. That is the worst kind of loss. Magic gives only illusions, lies whispered by Shaytan — Satan — to turn hearts away from truth.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My cousin had taken one of the scrolls. I could hear him whispering to it in the dark. I sat up in bed and said, “The angels only taught it as a test.”
He scoffed, “Tests are meant to be passed. I want to know more.”
I felt something deep in my chest — like a rope being pulled tight. I wanted to know more too… But then I remembered the warning: “Do not disbelieve.”
I got out of bed, crept outside under the stars, and raised my hands. “O Allah,” I whispered, “keep my heart clean. Don’t let me take what You have forbidden.”
That was the first night I sought truth on my own. It wasn’t easy. But I learned that protecting your heart requires trust — trusting that what Allah has told us is enough.
Even today, I remember Harut and Marut. Not as storytellers of magic, but as reminders that every choice we make shapes the kind of heart we live with.
And I choose to believe.
—
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Al-Baqarah (2:102) and classical tafsirs including Ibn Kathir's account of Harut and Marut as a divine test.
I was only ten years old when I first heard the name “Harut and Marut.”
It was the day my older cousin brought strange scrolls from Babylon — the ancient city where we lived. His face was pale with excitement as he whispered, “These are secrets the angels taught the people.” I didn’t understand what he meant, but I followed him up the hill where the adult scribes met in shadowed corners and lit lamps just to read these scrolls.
But that day, something else happened. A man with a noble face and a warn voice came to the gathering. He introduced himself as Hamdan, a teacher of the Qur’an — the holy book revealed to the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. He asked us, “Do you know the story of Harut and Marut?”
We all shook our heads.
So he began — and I remember every word, even now.
Long ago, in Babylon, people had grown arrogant. Some thought they were wiser than angels, believing they could resist any sin. But when Allah — the Most Merciful — sent down two angels, Harut and Marut, He gave them knowledge as a test.
“According to the scholars,” Brother Hamdan told us, “Harut and Marut taught people about magic, but they warned everyone first — ‘We are only a test, so do not disbelieve.’”
The warning was clear. The knowledge they carried wasn’t meant to be used — only to show the difference between right and wrong. But many people did not listen. Some began using magic to break families apart or to gain unfair power. And so what was once a lesson became a curse for those who disobeyed.
My cousin laughed nervously. “It’s still magic, though. Doesn’t it give you power?”
Brother Hamdan looked him straight in the eyes, and his voice trembled slightly, not with fear, but with sorrow. “It separates you from Allah. That is the worst kind of loss. Magic gives only illusions, lies whispered by Shaytan — Satan — to turn hearts away from truth.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My cousin had taken one of the scrolls. I could hear him whispering to it in the dark. I sat up in bed and said, “The angels only taught it as a test.”
He scoffed, “Tests are meant to be passed. I want to know more.”
I felt something deep in my chest — like a rope being pulled tight. I wanted to know more too… But then I remembered the warning: “Do not disbelieve.”
I got out of bed, crept outside under the stars, and raised my hands. “O Allah,” I whispered, “keep my heart clean. Don’t let me take what You have forbidden.”
That was the first night I sought truth on my own. It wasn’t easy. But I learned that protecting your heart requires trust — trusting that what Allah has told us is enough.
Even today, I remember Harut and Marut. Not as storytellers of magic, but as reminders that every choice we make shapes the kind of heart we live with.
And I choose to believe.
—
Story Note: Inspired by Surah Al-Baqarah (2:102) and classical tafsirs including Ibn Kathir's account of Harut and Marut as a divine test.
