The first time I saw Qarun’s treasure chests, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was just a young servant boy in the city of Egypt—my name was Nafi'—and I worked in the marketplace sweeping dust and running errands. One morning, the streets filled with noise and chants. People rushed out of their homes, shouting, “Qarun is coming!”
Qarun—known in other traditions as Korah—was one of the richest men in Egypt. Some said he was from the people of Musa—the Prophet Moses, the one who led the Children of Israel—but that he had turned arrogant after becoming wealthy. I had heard people whisper that he learned some knowledge and used it to grow his wealth beyond anyone’s imagination. But he didn’t thank Allah. He thought he earned it all by himself.
That day, I squeezed through the crowd until I stood at the front. There he was—Qarun—dressed in fine robes that sparkled under the sun. Behind him, servants carried heavy chests tied with thick ropes. The keys alone, they said, were heavy enough that many strong men could barely lift them.
“Oh, if only we had what Qarun has,” a man beside me said, eyes wide with envy.
Even I felt it in my heart—a small wish that maybe, one day, I could have clothes like his or a servant to carry my shoes. But another voice rose behind us.
“Woe to you!” an elderly woman said. “The reward of Allah is better for whoever believes and does good. Don’t you see that Qarun has forgotten who gave him all this?”
I turned around, confused by her words. Why shouldn’t we want what he had? Wasn’t wealth a sign of being favored?
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about what she said.
A few days later, everything changed.
News spread that Qarun’s arrogance had grown worse. People tried reminding him, saying, “Don’t be arrogant, Qarun. Allah doesn’t like the proud.” But he only responded, “I earned this by my own knowledge.”
Then the earth trembled.
I felt it beneath my feet. The ground cracked open in the middle of the city. People screamed and ran, but the earth swallowed Qarun—him, his home, his wealth—everything disappeared into the ground. Just like that.
Silence filled the streets. The same mouths that had wished to be like him now whispered, “How thankful we are that Allah spared us.”
I stood still, my heart pounding. I remembered the old woman’s words. She was right. Wealth isn’t always a blessing. Sometimes, it’s a test.
That day, I made a promise. I would not wish for what others have without asking where it came from and where it led them. I would try to live with gratitude—for even the small things—and ask Allah to guide me.
Because now I knew: what rises with pride can fall in an instant.
And what stays with Allah lasts forever.
_
Story Note: Inspired by the Qur’anic account of Qarun (Korah) in Surah Al-Qasas (28:76–82), where Allah describes his wealth, his arrogance, and how the earth swallowed him as a warning to those who place their trust in worldly riches rather than in Allah.
The first time I saw Qarun’s treasure chests, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was just a young servant boy in the city of Egypt—my name was Nafi'—and I worked in the marketplace sweeping dust and running errands. One morning, the streets filled with noise and chants. People rushed out of their homes, shouting, “Qarun is coming!”
Qarun—known in other traditions as Korah—was one of the richest men in Egypt. Some said he was from the people of Musa—the Prophet Moses, the one who led the Children of Israel—but that he had turned arrogant after becoming wealthy. I had heard people whisper that he learned some knowledge and used it to grow his wealth beyond anyone’s imagination. But he didn’t thank Allah. He thought he earned it all by himself.
That day, I squeezed through the crowd until I stood at the front. There he was—Qarun—dressed in fine robes that sparkled under the sun. Behind him, servants carried heavy chests tied with thick ropes. The keys alone, they said, were heavy enough that many strong men could barely lift them.
“Oh, if only we had what Qarun has,” a man beside me said, eyes wide with envy.
Even I felt it in my heart—a small wish that maybe, one day, I could have clothes like his or a servant to carry my shoes. But another voice rose behind us.
“Woe to you!” an elderly woman said. “The reward of Allah is better for whoever believes and does good. Don’t you see that Qarun has forgotten who gave him all this?”
I turned around, confused by her words. Why shouldn’t we want what he had? Wasn’t wealth a sign of being favored?
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about what she said.
A few days later, everything changed.
News spread that Qarun’s arrogance had grown worse. People tried reminding him, saying, “Don’t be arrogant, Qarun. Allah doesn’t like the proud.” But he only responded, “I earned this by my own knowledge.”
Then the earth trembled.
I felt it beneath my feet. The ground cracked open in the middle of the city. People screamed and ran, but the earth swallowed Qarun—him, his home, his wealth—everything disappeared into the ground. Just like that.
Silence filled the streets. The same mouths that had wished to be like him now whispered, “How thankful we are that Allah spared us.”
I stood still, my heart pounding. I remembered the old woman’s words. She was right. Wealth isn’t always a blessing. Sometimes, it’s a test.
That day, I made a promise. I would not wish for what others have without asking where it came from and where it led them. I would try to live with gratitude—for even the small things—and ask Allah to guide me.
Because now I knew: what rises with pride can fall in an instant.
And what stays with Allah lasts forever.
_
Story Note: Inspired by the Qur’anic account of Qarun (Korah) in Surah Al-Qasas (28:76–82), where Allah describes his wealth, his arrogance, and how the earth swallowed him as a warning to those who place their trust in worldly riches rather than in Allah.
