Paradise Is Yours
A novel by: Mu’mina Al-Joukhi
In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, the Most Compassionate
Chapter One: The Missing Stone
Time: Early 1990s
Place: A mosque in Mecca
The teacher sat in the mosque, surrounded by young boys, like stars revolving in the orbit of knowledge.
Ghiyath wrote what he heard straight into his heart. Abdullah’s eyes sparkled with intelligence, and Othman’s dark-skinned face lit up every time he learned something new.
Khaldoun, however, was present in body but absent in mind. Born into one of Mecca’s wealthiest families, his father had placed him among the students in hopes he would become one of them.
The teacher spoke:
“The Prophet ﷺ stayed in Mecca calling his people to Islam, but received nothing from them but denial and harm. So he turned to the pilgrims who came to Mecca, hoping to find someone among them who would support him and carry the message of his Lord. This continued for years—without success.
Then, by Allah’s will, came a breakthrough. In the twelfth year of the Prophethood, the Prophet ﷺ met twelve pilgrims from the Khazraj tribe of Yathrib. He invited them to monotheism and to noble character. They responded and pledged to him their first allegiance, returning home to call their people.”
“This happened secretly, at the mountain pass of Aqabah, before dawn.”
Abdullah asked:
“Did they pledge allegiance a second time?”
The teacher replied:
“Yes, my son. The following year, at the same place and time, they gave the greater pledge of Aqabah—the pledge of support and obedience. It was the greatest pledge in the history of Islam. Around seventy men and two women participated. The Prophet ﷺ honored them by naming them the Ansar—the Helpers.”
Othman sighed with longing:
“If only we had been there to pledge allegiance to the Messenger of Allah ﷺ!”
The teacher smiled with contentment.
Abdullah asked:
“Where is the site of the pledge today?”
The teacher answered:
“It is still hidden from most eyes. A small mosque was built there 140 years later. Today, only those who seek it with their hearts will find it.”
Suddenly, the teacher stood and opened a cabinet. He pulled out a book and flipped through its yellowed pages, saying:
“Listen, my sons, to what the Makkan historian Abu al-Tayyib al-Fasi said about this mosque, about six hundred years ago:
‘This mosque is near the Aqabah that marks the boundary of Mina from the Meccan side, at the foot of Mount Thabeer, in the valley of Aqabah, on the left of those entering Mina. Two stones stand upon it; one is inscribed with the name of the first builder, Caliph Abu Ja‘far al-Mansur of the Abbasid dynasty. The second stone documents its construction in the year 144 AH. As for the third stone—it is missing, and no one knows where it remains…’”
Ghiyath, burning with curiosity, interrupted:
“Was the third stone ever found, teacher?”
The teacher replied:
“I don’t know, my son.”
Then he continued reading:
“The mosque had two arcades, each roofed with three domes, and behind them a courtyard. It had two doors on the northern side and two on the southern side…”
The boys didn’t listen to the rest. Their eyes met—and without uttering a single word, they silently resolved upon a course of action.
Chapter Two: The Mosque of the Pledge
Masjid al-Bay‘ah lies about five kilometers from the Grand Mosque in Mecca, just outside Mina, next to the Jamrat al-‘Aqabah. It sits quietly, hidden in a valley known as the Valley of the Ansar.
The three boys arrived at the mosque before dawn, after long effort and searching. Khaldoun was with them—not out of passion, but because his personal driver was unavailable at such a late hour, so he chose to wait in the car.
The area was empty of pilgrims, who were busy throwing stones at the second pillar not far away.
The mosque was small and forgotten, blending into the surrounding sands with its ashen color—almost invisible.
They circled around it, guided by the light of the full moon. On its western wall, they noticed the remnants of two of the stone plaques mentioned by the teacher.
One read:
“The Commander of the Faithful Abu Ja‘far al-Mansur ordered the construction of this mosque—Masjid al-Bay‘ah—where the Ansar gave their first pledge, arranged by al-‘Abbas ibn ‘Abd al-Muttalib.”
The second plaque bore the date of construction: 144 AH.
There was no sign of the third inscription.
The mosque had a single low door on the northern wall—nothing like the four doors described by al-Fasi.
They entered an arcade nestled between two walls, large enough for three rows of worshipers. The roof was on the verge of collapse, its domes worn and weary with time.
One wall had five arches overlooking the mosque’s rectangular courtyard.
The second wall—the qiblah wall—held a large central prayer niche (mihrab), flanked by two smaller ones. All three were framed by a prominent stone arch. Beside them were two medium-sized niches, each pierced with an opening.
The early morning breeze brought with it the scent of the mountains. The full moon shimmered overhead.
A deep reverence settled upon the boys as they remembered the teacher’s words. It felt as though the Ansar were quietly sneaking through the shadows, whispering to the Prophet ﷺ and asking him:
“And what is our reward if we pledge to you and support you?”
He answered with the words every believer longs to hear:
“Paradise is yours.”
Silence engulfed the boys—until Abdullah suddenly said:
“Listen to me, my friends! Let us pledge allegiance to the Messenger of Allah ﷺ here—like the Ansar did!”
Othman replied:
“Us? Pledge allegiance?”
Abdullah answered:
“Yes! Just as he called them his Helpers, he called us his brothers—we believed in him without seeing him, and our hearts yearn for him as his yearn for us.”
A tear slipped from his eye, and soon tears flowed from his friends too. Without hesitation, they said:
“We pledge to you, O Messenger of Allah!”
The mosque fell silent once more, save for their quiet sobs.
Abdullah said with certainty:
“Insha’Allah, we will return to this mosque when we’re grown men—to renew our pledge.”
Ghiyath asked:
“Do you think we’ll recognize each other by then?”
Othman replied:
“Don’t worry, Ghiyath. Faces change, but souls do not.”
Khaldoun watched them out of the corner of his eye, then quickly turned and rushed to the car—wiping away a tear that had escaped down his cheek.
Chapter Three: The Saint
As the scorching sun set over a remote village in Africa, a tall, imposing man stepped out of a luxurious vehicle and walked toward a large gate. He asked the guard for permission to meet the sheikh who lived there.
The guard replied, “The sheikh closes his door after sunset.”
Ignoring him, the man raised his voice and called out, “O my master, Sheikh! The matter is urgent!”
The sheikh appeared at the window, and the man said, “Master, I’ve come on behalf of the leading livestock trader in the South. He has fallen ill with a disease that has left the doctors helpless. He sent me to you—after God, you are his only hope. His condition cannot wait.”
The sheikh rode with the man. The car sped along a road lined with towering mango trees on both sides. Soon the driver veered onto narrow paths winding through tangled branches that clawed at the vehicle as if trying to hold it back.
An hour passed in silence. The driver’s face was grim and expressionless. He neither spoke nor responded to any words, until fear crept into the sheikh’s heart. He huddled inward, whispering supplications for protection, not knowing where this man was taking him.
They arrived at a dark, secluded place where the thick trees had blocked even daylight. They entered a dim room, barely lit by a sliver of light. The man gestured toward some food and water, then turned and walked out—leaving the sheikh behind.
The sheikh called after him, pleading, but the man didn’t turn back.
Night fell. The stench of rot filled the air, and strange noises echoed from the dark jungle—intertwined with the rustling of trees and the moaning of the wind—deepening the sheikh’s dread.
He got up and lit a candle he found nearby. Then he sat on a rickety bed, covered with a filthy sheet, and recited the verses of the Qur’an that remained in his memory. It was his only comfort in the terrifying solitude.
Before this incident, the sheikh would awaken at dawn to the clamor of the village’s simple folk, pouring out their burdens and worries. One would complain of poverty, another sought healing for a loved one, and a woman would beg for her daughter to be married.
Their voices mingled with the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle—livestock brought along with their prayers to the doorstep of a man they believed was a gate to heaven: a saint of God. They believed that if he prayed, it would be answered; if he gestured, the sky would flash with light; if he laid a hand, pain would be healed.
They were told—and they believed—that God had bestowed a great favor upon them by returning one of their own as a noble sheikh, after he had studied religion at the holiest place on Earth.
And no matter how harsh the relentless African sun grew, the people would wait patiently—without complaint—until the sheikh emerged from his retreat and prayers. Then they would crowd his door, vying to be seen.
He would listen silently as someone spoke, never asking questions or replying. When the visitor finished, he might hand them a charm, or whisper incantations, or give them a drink.
His assistants swore he never accepted gifts in return for his advice—yet his house continued to expand, his vehicle was always upgraded, and his livestock pens were full.
These were the miracles of the saints, they said.
But on the morning after the incident—something strange happened. The sheikh’s door was empty of petitioners. Word had spread: the sheikh had left and not returned.
The sheikh, meanwhile, spent another full day in that abandoned house. He dared not step beyond its threshold—beyond it was a terrifying jungle, hiding unknown dangers.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon again, the roar of a car reached his ears. The same man stood before him once more, motioning for him to get in.
The sheikh obeyed silently.
He was dropped at the edge of the village. Before the car sped off under the cover of darkness, the man slipped a paper into his pocket and drove away.
The sheikh stood there, unsure whether he had just woken from a nightmare.
He lingered a while, then slowly made his way home.
The people were overjoyed to see him return and flooded him with greetings and questions, distracting him from the note he’d been given.
Later, when he remembered, he pulled it from his pocket and read:
“O friend of God, knower of Him—
If you could not save yourself, then you are even less capable of saving others.
So fear God, and remember your pledge at the Mosque of the Pledge.”
The sheikh wept until his beard was soaked. He fell in prostration—repentant and humbled.
When he raised his head, a radiant light shone from his forehead unlike any seen before.
But questions still haunted him:
Who was that stranger?
And how did he know about his pledge?
That night, in a dream, he saw himself holding small pebbles—throwing them over and over, endlessly…
Chapter Four: A Stranger in His Homeland
In the stillness of early dawn, Ghiyath sat silently in the mihrab of Masjid al-Bay‘ah, his soul rising and falling with the silent prayers within him.
No one else was there—the dawn was drawing near, and the pilgrims were busy with their rites, leaving the place untouched.
In that sacred stillness, his heart’s memory unfolded, and with it came the image of the pledge he once made, right here, with his childhood friends. They had been nothing but innocent boys, imagining the world was as pure as their hearts.
How he longed for those pure hearts again.
They had gone their separate ways after high school, and life had thrown him into a land where—even though they called it his homeland—he felt like a stranger.
And how many are strangers in their own lands?
He had been born in the Kingdom and wished to remain there, but he had no say in the matter. He surrendered to his parents’ wishes, and to the insistence of his sister, who saw their home country as a cherished spring, filled with warmth and kinship.
He studied psychology—not by choice, but because his grades had handed him over to it. Then he found no work. And who, indeed, cares about one’s self?
He moved to the outskirts of the capital and worked in a factory, living alone. His speech carried a blended accent, so people regarded him with suspicion—like a man no longer recognizing his own face in the mirror.
He leaned back against the old mihrab wall of Masjid al-Bay‘ah and closed his eyes. Images of his past surged before him, playing like a tragic film of his life.
He saw people running—bullets flying behind them—and women screaming from the balconies, their cries rising into the sky.
He saw himself carrying a bag packed with all the canned food and hope he had left, making his way north—back to his parents and sister.
He had left during a ceasefire, after the siege, after starvation, when even air was bought and sold.
An old man warned him:
“Don’t go north. That country is no longer the same.”
But he returned anyway. His heart held only his family—how could he abandon his heart?
He entered a town that didn’t know him, and he didn’t know it. Fearful eyes, sunken faces, tiny hands begging for life. He handed out water… and the bag.
He bent down to unwrap a piece of candy for a small girl—when a thunderous explosion tore through the air. It was a sound like no other. Then, nothing.
In his sleep, he often heard a voice repeating:
“But he did not break through the difficult pass. And what will make you know what the difficult pass is?”
When he opened his eyes, he saw dismembered bodies—and a small severed hand still clutching the candy. A hand that had reached for sweetness… and lost life.
Later, in what resembled a hospital, he opened his eyes again. Strange faces surrounded him. He closed them, then opened them again—a third time—it was his father, mother, and sister. But their faces had changed.
He closed his eyes again and again, but each time he opened them, a more painful truth was revealed—until the truth hit its most brutal peak.
Now, leaning on the ancient wall of Masjid al-Bay‘ah, he struggled to stand. His limp was evident, but no one could see that one of his legs was prosthetic—hidden beneath the long white thobe he wore.
Everything had changed here in the sacred land. The old tents had become towering structures. The jamaraat were now high-rise complexes, connected by a massive bridge.
And yet—they had deliberately curved the bridge away… so as not to overrun the tiny Masjid al-Bay‘ah.
And now, this shy little mosque stood proudly visible—paved around with tiles, fenced in, and a signboard installed to introduce its name and history.
He looked and saw the two ancient inscriptions—now framed under glass. He walked around… and there—there it was—a third inscription!
Subhan Allah.
It was the lost stone.
He rushed toward it and read:
“Ordered rebuilt by our lord, the rightful Imam, al-Mustansir Billah—may Allah grant victory to his supporters and elevate his status—in the year 625 AH.”
He stared at the inscription, wondering:
How was it found?
A gentle hand touched his shoulder. He turned to see a radiant, dark-skinned man, his beard streaked with white, and a bright smile on his face.
Ghiyath gasped, breaking the silence:
“Othman?!”
He embraced him like dry earth embracing rain.
And not long after, another man approached—tall, radiant, with the innocence of childhood still shining in his eyes, but the maturity of manhood carved into his features.
They saw him and knew him instantly. And he knew them.
It was Abdullah.
The embrace was renewed—not of bodies—but of souls.
Othman said, smiling:
“Didn’t I once tell you… that souls never change?”
They sat, compressing long years into brief words—recalling all that had passed, and pondering the pledge they had made together in this very place.
Othman said with sorrow:
“Satan deceived me with the knowledge of religion I had gained—he made me see myself as a saint. O Allah, forgive me for breaking my pledge.”
Ghiyath said:
“I lived among orphans and amputees in the camps. Their tiny hands became the keys to my happiness. But I never answered my elderly parents’ pleas to return to the Kingdom. O Allah, forgive me for abandoning them.”
Abdullah sighed and said:
“As for me… the one who reminded me of my pledge… was the one I should have reminded.”
“Sit, and let me tell you…”
Chapter Five: A Pledge and a Pledge
Abdullah said:
My father saw in my academic success in high school signs of intelligence and promise, so he sent me to a university in a Western country.
I was shocked to see boys and girls sitting together with no boundaries, no sense of modesty.
Among us was a dark-skinned girl from South America. She dressed without restraint, spoke to every young man—except me. She would talk about her father’s wealth, his palaces and estates, with utter frankness.
Perhaps my silence stirred in her something words couldn’t. She kept directing questions at me in class, and I would answer without ever raising my eyes. Then one day, she asked me directly:
“Do you despise me?”
I replied, “On the contrary, I honor you. I speak to your mind, and your body has a sanctity I am not permitted, in my faith, to violate.”
My words pierced her heart, tearing the veils of heedlessness. She began asking many questions about my religion. She started reading the meanings of the Qur’an, contemplating especially the verses about Jesus (peace be upon him), and was amazed.
Not long after, I noticed her growing interest—I wasn’t sure if it was toward the truth or toward me.
Then she came to me, eyes sparkling with a strange light, and said plainly,
“I want to become a Muslim.”
I felt a joy I had never felt before. I congratulated her and took her to the Islamic center.
There, the sheikh asked her to repeat after him:
“I bear witness that there is no god but Allah.” She did.
Then he said:
“And I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.”
But she paused.
She said:
“I cannot bear witness to a man I do not know. I bear witness to Jesus—I know and believe in him.”
The sheikh gently told her:
“Your testimony is not complete without this. Read the biography of your Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, and know him as you have come to know Jesus.”
He gave her books and pamphlets, and I became her teacher. I explained what was difficult for her, and we read through the Prophet’s ﷺ life and qualities—unmatched by any man.
When we came to the story of the Pledge, I told her about the pledge the three of us—my friends and I—made in the Mosque of the Pledge.
She burst into warm tears and said:
“I bear witness that he is the Messenger of Allah, and I pledge myself to what you pledged.”
In no time, her faith deepened like that of the early companions—obedient, sincere, devoted, and loving.
But when her father found out, he was furious. He sent a lawyer to warn her: if she didn’t return, she would be disinherited and cut off financially.
But she firmly replied,
“By God, no! I have pledged, and I will never break my promise!”
Abdullah continued:
We had to part ways—there was no lawful bond between us yet.
Then, in her usual direct way, she proposed to me.
I did not hesitate. I married her for the smallest dowry and the greatest love—love for the sake of Allah.
She came with me on a visit to my country, but my mother did not bless our marriage. My father threatened to cut off my university expenses as long as she remained my wife.
They had already chosen a cousin for me—more beautiful, from a higher lineage. But I loved her. No one listened.
I returned to her, distressed and burdened. She understood, insisted I divorce her. When I finally did… she vanished.
In a dream, I saw her cutting a lock of her hair and giving it to me… then disappearing.
A feeling haunted me—what if she abandoned Islam, hurt by the harshness of those who claimed to follow it? I blamed myself deeply.
I graduated and returned home. I had lost all desire to marry—or even to live. I was crushed by a heavy depression for many months. My parents grieved for me and regretted everything.
Then one day—one of the happiest of my life—a woman entered my office at the university. She uncovered her face… my heart raced. It was her.
She said calmly:
“I realized our divorce was a test of my faith—had I converted for you or for the truth? It only made me more steadfast in my religion. God rewarded me with a scholarship, and then a job at an Islamic university. Alhamdulillah.”
Then she added:
“I was later told of your condition… I learned you were forced to divorce me.”
Then she looked me in the eye and said:
“So now, I ask you: Will you take me back as your wife?”
Just like that, she returned to me—as I had always known her—candid, sincere, and faithful.
I told her about the dream I had, and she interpreted it as a sign of release, like exiting from a state of consecration (ihram).
And indeed, Allah granted us the ability to perform Hajj this year—praise be to Him.
Abdullah pointed to the mihrab in the Mosque of the Pledge and said:
“That’s where I left my wife—renewing a pledge she never once broke. If only I had been as faithful as she.”
His friends recalled their dreams too, and sought to interpret them.
Othman said:
“Perhaps the stones in my dream signify stoning the devil—my enemy who tempted me with claims of sainthood.”
Ghiyath said:
“Maybe the verse ‘But he has not broken through the difficult pass’ (Qur’an 90:11) in my dream was calling me back—to the Mosque of al-‘Aqabah.”
They cried out in unison:
“Allahu Akbar!”
The echo rang through the Mosque of the Pledge… but didn’t go beyond its walls, for the mosque has no minaret.
Chapter Six: The Prince
The friends began to wonder:
How had they all gathered at the Mosque of the Pledge, after twenty-five years? Was it mere coincidence?
Othman said:
“As for me, I received a special invitation to perform Hajj—a royal gift from a prince I do not know. Without it, I could not have made the journey.”
His friends looked at each other in surprise. They, too, had come on the same kind of invitation!
While they were still speaking, they heard a calm, warm voice greeting them.
A man approached—on a wheelchair. His face radiated peace; his garments spoke of dignity and honor.
As he drew closer, they recognized him. The three of them cried out:
“Khaldoun!”
He said:
“Yes, it’s me— a prince… in a wheelchair.”
A heavy silence followed until Khaldoun broke it with words of love and longing.
Then he said:
“I remained as you knew me—proud of my family’s wealth. I rose through the ranks of privilege until I became a prince. But pride turned to arrogance.”
He added with sorrow:
“A painful accident left me unable to walk. That’s when God showed me my weakness… and brought me back to Him, repentant.”
“So I resolved to devote the rest of my life—and all that God granted me—toward acts of goodness.”
“I thought about who deserved my care the most… and it was you. I have no family or children. I watched over you all from afar… helped you in ways you never knew.”
Abdullah, eyes welling with tears, said:
“So it was you who paid for my treatment—and gave me the leg with which I stand in prayer and walk through life?”
Othman said:
“And the stranger who left me to reflect on my weakness… was he from you?”
Ghiyath, moved, added:
“And the one who told my wife of my suffering and convinced her to return to me—was that also you?”
Khaldoun smiled, lowered his gaze, and said modestly:
“That was by the grace of God—praise belongs to Him alone.”
He turned toward the Mosque of the Pledge and pointed to the third inscription on its wall:
“I hired skilled researchers to excavate the wall. They found this inscription buried under mud and lime. Maybe an enemy of al-Mustansir hid it… or maybe time was the enemy.”
He stared at the mosque and said:
“Here, men pledged themselves to God—and were true. O Allah, make us among them.”
Abdullah said:
“Let’s renew our pledge—and resolve as men to be faithful, as they were!”
But Khaldoun replied firmly:
“No.”
They turned to him, recalling the Khaldoun they once knew.
He smiled, his features glowing, and explained:
“My brothers, the covenant with God is not bound to a place.
A Muslim renews his pledge every time he says in prayer: ‘You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help.’
Every time he recites the remembrance: ‘I am upon Your covenant and promise as much as I am able.’
In every act of obedience—and every sin he avoids—he renews his pledge.”
“Visiting sacred sites reminds us of great moments… but the true covenant resides in the heart.”
The men left the Mosque of the Pledge to complete their Hajj.
Afterward, they visited their old teacher, who still sat in his circle in Mecca—teaching the young boys…
The End.