You won’t find my name in any surah, but I walked with them—those brave young men. I was the youngest among them, barely more than a boy when we fled the city. The others were older, stronger, and wiser. But they let me follow because I believed, even when everyone else bowed to statues and false kings.
Our city had forgotten Allah — the One God. They worshipped carved stones, painted faces, and rulers who claimed to be gods themselves. When we refused to bow, threats followed — prison… or worse. After many secret prayers, we decided to leave quietly, trusting Allah to guide us.
We traveled by night to avoid being seen. Every step away from the city felt like pulling off tight chains. Still, I was afraid. Would we starve? Be found? I thought of my mother’s last hug, her fearful eyes. I whispered, “O Allah, protect us.”
Then we found the cave.
It was empty, dark, and small — nothing like a home. My legs ached, and hunger burned in my belly. But one of the others, the one with the calmest voice, said, “This cave may seem small, but Allah’s mercy is greater.” We all nodded. That night, we prayed together under the stars, asking Allah to guide us and make us firm in our faith.
We woke to stillness. But something was different. Light had crept just barely into the cave, and dust lay on our cloaks. I reached for my waterskin — it was dry. Beside me, our old bread had crumbled into hard pieces. That’s when we realized… no sound came from outside. No birds, no wind. Just silence.
One of the brothers stepped out quietly… and returned with a look I didn’t understand. “The trees... they’ve changed,” he whispered.
He sent me to the town to buy food, giving me silver coins. “Don’t let anyone recognize you.” I pulled my hood low and walked quickly, though my knees trembled.
But when I reached the town, everything was strange. The buildings were different. New roads, new faces... even the clothes people wore were not like before. I gave a baker my coin. He looked at me, then at the coin, holding it like it belonged in a museum. He called others. They questioned me, not with anger — but wonder.
They thought I was from the past.
And I was.
We had slept in that cave for over 300 years.
That day, I learned what true faith meant. Not just the words we say when others listen, but the trust we carry when no one else believes with us — even over centuries. Allah had protected us, just as we’d asked Him. He had shown our story to the new people, so they might believe too.
I was just a boy who followed men of faith into a cave. But Allah made our story a sign — a reminder that He never forgets those who trust Him completely.
No matter how many years pass.
—
Inspired by Surah Al-Kahf (18:9–26) and classical tafsir by Ibn Kathir.
You won’t find my name in any surah, but I walked with them—those brave young men. I was the youngest among them, barely more than a boy when we fled the city. The others were older, stronger, and wiser. But they let me follow because I believed, even when everyone else bowed to statues and false kings.
Our city had forgotten Allah — the One God. They worshipped carved stones, painted faces, and rulers who claimed to be gods themselves. When we refused to bow, threats followed — prison… or worse. After many secret prayers, we decided to leave quietly, trusting Allah to guide us.
We traveled by night to avoid being seen. Every step away from the city felt like pulling off tight chains. Still, I was afraid. Would we starve? Be found? I thought of my mother’s last hug, her fearful eyes. I whispered, “O Allah, protect us.”
Then we found the cave.
It was empty, dark, and small — nothing like a home. My legs ached, and hunger burned in my belly. But one of the others, the one with the calmest voice, said, “This cave may seem small, but Allah’s mercy is greater.” We all nodded. That night, we prayed together under the stars, asking Allah to guide us and make us firm in our faith.
We woke to stillness. But something was different. Light had crept just barely into the cave, and dust lay on our cloaks. I reached for my waterskin — it was dry. Beside me, our old bread had crumbled into hard pieces. That’s when we realized… no sound came from outside. No birds, no wind. Just silence.
One of the brothers stepped out quietly… and returned with a look I didn’t understand. “The trees... they’ve changed,” he whispered.
He sent me to the town to buy food, giving me silver coins. “Don’t let anyone recognize you.” I pulled my hood low and walked quickly, though my knees trembled.
But when I reached the town, everything was strange. The buildings were different. New roads, new faces... even the clothes people wore were not like before. I gave a baker my coin. He looked at me, then at the coin, holding it like it belonged in a museum. He called others. They questioned me, not with anger — but wonder.
They thought I was from the past.
And I was.
We had slept in that cave for over 300 years.
That day, I learned what true faith meant. Not just the words we say when others listen, but the trust we carry when no one else believes with us — even over centuries. Allah had protected us, just as we’d asked Him. He had shown our story to the new people, so they might believe too.
I was just a boy who followed men of faith into a cave. But Allah made our story a sign — a reminder that He never forgets those who trust Him completely.
No matter how many years pass.
—
Inspired by Surah Al-Kahf (18:9–26) and classical tafsir by Ibn Kathir.
