I didn’t cry when the bullies took my sandals. I didn’t cry when they laughed at my torn thobe, the long shirt my mother patched again and again. But that night, when everyone had gone quiet and the stars blinked above our little tent, I sobbed into my pillow where no one could hear me — except Allah.
My name isn’t in any surah, and I wasn't known among my people for anything special. Just one among many orphans in a village not far from Mecca, the sacred city where the Kaaba — the house of Allah — stands. My father died when I was six, and my mother took whatever work she could find. Some nights, we went to sleep on bread and water. Many nights, not even that.
Still, every morning, I woke up early to fetch water, tear dry wood for the oven, and walk my little brother to the madrasa — the religious school where we learned the words of the Qur’an. There, our teacher once recited an ayah — a verse — that I could not forget. It comes from Surah Al-Zalzalah (The Earthquake): “So whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it, and whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Qur’an 99:7–8)
At the time, I didn’t think much of it. It felt far away from me and my tiny daily struggles.
One day, after class, I saw an old woman trying to lift her heavy basket of dates into her cart. People passed right by her. I hesitated. My arms were sore from morning chores, and I still had errands for my mother. But I turned back. Without a word, I lifted the basket and placed it gently in her cart.
She didn’t even smile — just nodded and walked away. I felt foolish for wasting time. No one saw. No reward. Just another small thing lost to the wind.
That night, I asked my mother, “Does Allah really see everything? Even things no one else sees?” She looked at me with tired eyes, brushing crumbs from the corner of our cloth mat.
“Yes,” she said. “Every tear, every kind word, every time you hold yourself back from doing wrong — Allah sees it all.”
That was when the verse from Surah Al-Zalzalah came back to me. An atom’s weight — such a tiny thing. Yet Allah promised we’d see the good, even if it felt invisible now.
Years later, when my younger brother grew strong and our house finally had walls of brick instead of cloth, I understood the truth in that ayah. The silent battles I fought — the times I chose patience over anger, kindness when I could’ve walked away — none of them were wasted.
So if you ever feel tired of trying, if it seems no one notices how hard you’re trying to be good, I want you to remember what I’ve learned: Allah never misses a thing. Not even an atom.
Inspired by Surah Al-Zalzalah (Qur’an 99:7–8)
I didn’t cry when the bullies took my sandals. I didn’t cry when they laughed at my torn thobe, the long shirt my mother patched again and again. But that night, when everyone had gone quiet and the stars blinked above our little tent, I sobbed into my pillow where no one could hear me — except Allah.
My name isn’t in any surah, and I wasn't known among my people for anything special. Just one among many orphans in a village not far from Mecca, the sacred city where the Kaaba — the house of Allah — stands. My father died when I was six, and my mother took whatever work she could find. Some nights, we went to sleep on bread and water. Many nights, not even that.
Still, every morning, I woke up early to fetch water, tear dry wood for the oven, and walk my little brother to the madrasa — the religious school where we learned the words of the Qur’an. There, our teacher once recited an ayah — a verse — that I could not forget. It comes from Surah Al-Zalzalah (The Earthquake): “So whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it, and whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Qur’an 99:7–8)
At the time, I didn’t think much of it. It felt far away from me and my tiny daily struggles.
One day, after class, I saw an old woman trying to lift her heavy basket of dates into her cart. People passed right by her. I hesitated. My arms were sore from morning chores, and I still had errands for my mother. But I turned back. Without a word, I lifted the basket and placed it gently in her cart.
She didn’t even smile — just nodded and walked away. I felt foolish for wasting time. No one saw. No reward. Just another small thing lost to the wind.
That night, I asked my mother, “Does Allah really see everything? Even things no one else sees?” She looked at me with tired eyes, brushing crumbs from the corner of our cloth mat.
“Yes,” she said. “Every tear, every kind word, every time you hold yourself back from doing wrong — Allah sees it all.”
That was when the verse from Surah Al-Zalzalah came back to me. An atom’s weight — such a tiny thing. Yet Allah promised we’d see the good, even if it felt invisible now.
Years later, when my younger brother grew strong and our house finally had walls of brick instead of cloth, I understood the truth in that ayah. The silent battles I fought — the times I chose patience over anger, kindness when I could’ve walked away — none of them were wasted.
So if you ever feel tired of trying, if it seems no one notices how hard you’re trying to be good, I want you to remember what I’ve learned: Allah never misses a thing. Not even an atom.
Inspired by Surah Al-Zalzalah (Qur’an 99:7–8)
