My name is Bilaal. I used to sell dates near the sea, just outside the town of Nineveh. Back then, I never imagined I’d be telling you about a prophet, a storm, and something huge that lived beneath the waves.
Nineveh was loud, busy, and full of people who had forgotten their Lord. Prophet Yunus—peace be upon him—was sent to remind them. He warned us, kindly at first, but many of us mocked him. “Who’s afraid of some warning?” the grown-ups laughed. I was only eleven, but even I could see that the people didn’t want to listen.
Prophet Yunus became sad. He told us that Allah was displeased and that if we didn’t change, a punishment might come. But the townspeople only grew angrier. One morning, just as the sun rose over the marketplace, I saw Prophet Yunus walking away. He didn’t say a word. He was leaving Nineveh behind.
Later, when the sky turned grey and storm clouds rolled in like boiling smoke, my father’s voice trembled. “He was right,” he whispered. “We must repent.” That night, all of Nineveh—men, women, even animals—gathered on a stony hill outside town, crying and begging Allah for forgiveness. Allah heard our prayers. The air grew still. The angry sky rested. We had been saved.
But Prophet Yunus didn’t know that yet.
He had boarded a ship heading far from us. The sea was rough—waves as big as houses crashed into the sides of the boat. Everyone on board panicked. A heavy storm like that only meant one thing: someone had disobeyed Allah. They decided to draw lots—a kind of fair draw—to see which person should be thrown overboard to save the rest. Prophet Yunus’s name came up. Again and again.
He didn’t argue.
He knew this was from Allah. So he jumped into the roaring sea.
And then… the sea swallowed him.
No—not the sea. A giant fish. A creature created by Allah for this one task. It opened its mouth wide like the entrance to a cave and pulled him into darkness.
No one saw this happen. But we heard about it later, after Prophet Yunus returned. And I remember how quiet I felt when I first heard the story.
Inside the belly of the fish, there was no light. No warmth. No food or air. Just the pulsing beat of the creature’s insides, and waves crashing above. But Prophet Yunus knew this was not the end. This was his test.
He didn't cry for food. He didn't scream.
He whispered a prayer.
“La ilaha illa Anta, Subhanaka, inni kuntu minaz-zalimeen.”
There is no god but You. Glory be to You. I have truly done wrong.
That was the moment everything changed. Allah saw his sincere regret. This prayer—this dhikr, or remembrance—wasn’t just words. It meant that even in the pit of sadness, Prophet Yunus turned toward Allah, not away.
Day turned into night. Night into more nights. But the fish didn’t harm him. It held him gently—like a cradle made of waves.
Until one dawn, after who knows how many days, the fish swam to shore and released the prophet safely on a bed of wet sand. He was weak and ill. But Allah made a cool plant grow over him for shade and healing. Later, Prophet Yunus returned to Nineveh. And this time, when he shared the message of Allah, the people truly listened. All of them.
Even I shouted, "He’s back!" and ran through the streets. That day, we didn’t just welcome a prophet. We welcomed a second chance.
I still whisper his du’a when I feel lonely or ashamed. I know what it means now—to turn back to Allah, even if I’ve done wrong. Allah doesn’t throw you away. He brings you nearer.
When I stand by the sea these days, I think of the fish, the darkness, that sacred whisper—and how mercy came from a place no one expected.
We weren’t punished because Allah was angry. We were saved because one man remembered to repent—and because Allah’s mercy is bigger than the sea.
My name is Bilaal. I used to sell dates near the sea, just outside the town of Nineveh. Back then, I never imagined I’d be telling you about a prophet, a storm, and something huge that lived beneath the waves.
Nineveh was loud, busy, and full of people who had forgotten their Lord. Prophet Yunus—peace be upon him—was sent to remind them. He warned us, kindly at first, but many of us mocked him. “Who’s afraid of some warning?” the grown-ups laughed. I was only eleven, but even I could see that the people didn’t want to listen.
Prophet Yunus became sad. He told us that Allah was displeased and that if we didn’t change, a punishment might come. But the townspeople only grew angrier. One morning, just as the sun rose over the marketplace, I saw Prophet Yunus walking away. He didn’t say a word. He was leaving Nineveh behind.
Later, when the sky turned grey and storm clouds rolled in like boiling smoke, my father’s voice trembled. “He was right,” he whispered. “We must repent.” That night, all of Nineveh—men, women, even animals—gathered on a stony hill outside town, crying and begging Allah for forgiveness. Allah heard our prayers. The air grew still. The angry sky rested. We had been saved.
But Prophet Yunus didn’t know that yet.
He had boarded a ship heading far from us. The sea was rough—waves as big as houses crashed into the sides of the boat. Everyone on board panicked. A heavy storm like that only meant one thing: someone had disobeyed Allah. They decided to draw lots—a kind of fair draw—to see which person should be thrown overboard to save the rest. Prophet Yunus’s name came up. Again and again.
He didn’t argue.
He knew this was from Allah. So he jumped into the roaring sea.
And then… the sea swallowed him.
No—not the sea. A giant fish. A creature created by Allah for this one task. It opened its mouth wide like the entrance to a cave and pulled him into darkness.
No one saw this happen. But we heard about it later, after Prophet Yunus returned. And I remember how quiet I felt when I first heard the story.
Inside the belly of the fish, there was no light. No warmth. No food or air. Just the pulsing beat of the creature’s insides, and waves crashing above. But Prophet Yunus knew this was not the end. This was his test.
He didn't cry for food. He didn't scream.
He whispered a prayer.
“La ilaha illa Anta, Subhanaka, inni kuntu minaz-zalimeen.”
There is no god but You. Glory be to You. I have truly done wrong.
That was the moment everything changed. Allah saw his sincere regret. This prayer—this dhikr, or remembrance—wasn’t just words. It meant that even in the pit of sadness, Prophet Yunus turned toward Allah, not away.
Day turned into night. Night into more nights. But the fish didn’t harm him. It held him gently—like a cradle made of waves.
Until one dawn, after who knows how many days, the fish swam to shore and released the prophet safely on a bed of wet sand. He was weak and ill. But Allah made a cool plant grow over him for shade and healing. Later, Prophet Yunus returned to Nineveh. And this time, when he shared the message of Allah, the people truly listened. All of them.
Even I shouted, "He’s back!" and ran through the streets. That day, we didn’t just welcome a prophet. We welcomed a second chance.
I still whisper his du’a when I feel lonely or ashamed. I know what it means now—to turn back to Allah, even if I’ve done wrong. Allah doesn’t throw you away. He brings you nearer.
When I stand by the sea these days, I think of the fish, the darkness, that sacred whisper—and how mercy came from a place no one expected.
We weren’t punished because Allah was angry. We were saved because one man remembered to repent—and because Allah’s mercy is bigger than the sea.
