Story Name: Sailor

I am Saeed ibn al-Harith. No one knows me. History has not written me down, my name is not engraved in any palace, and I am not in any genealogy. But I was a sea-madman, a lover of the waters, a sailor whose heart sought the power of God in the roar of the waves.

The incident occurred at a time when Andalusia had lost its color, and the Muslim world was in deep trouble. The destruction of Baghdad by Hulagu Khan was still fresh in memory, and the Al-Azhar madrasa in Cairo was trying to raise its head anew. At that time I lived in Safi, a small town in Morocco, where the sea calls every morning and cries in the evening.

I was twenty years old. I was educated in Arabic, and I had read some old books of the House of Wisdom in the manuscripts left by my father. I was particularly drawn to the writings of Al-Beruni, Ibn Battuta, and Ibn Majid. And just then, one day, a gray-bearded old man came to the port, his name was Sheikh Marjuk, who had once been expelled from Al-Andalus and had taken refuge in Africa.

He called me and said, “O Saeed, do you know that there is a land across the Atlantic where the sun does not set easily, and the people have different faces, but their hearts still thirst for truth?”

I was amazed. This was the ancient story, the land that Ibn Majid had suspected, which many called “Al-Kharijah”—the unknown island. I said, “That is just a fantasy, Sheikh!”

Sheikh Marjuk said, “Ibn Majid did not say that it was impossible to reach. He only said, ‘If you cross the sea with faith and patience, perhaps Allah will deliver you to a people for whom you will be a light.’”

These words set my heart on fire. I built a ship. Some companions gathered—Muadh, a young doctor; Hamza, an experienced sailor; and an old boatman named Sulayman.

We set sail on the 8th of Sha’ban, 898 AH. We left behind our city, our family, and a familiar world. First we headed east, then southwest, and finally one day we entered the terrible depths of the Atlantic.

The days passed in reciting the Quran, counting the stars, and praying. At night Muadh would recite hadiths, Sulayman would tell stories about Andalusia. Sometimes there would be a storm, sometimes strange lights, sometimes birds would circle in the sky above our heads.

After 40 days, we reached an island. People around us, their appearance not like ours, but they were not afraid of us. We disembarked, and met the chief there.

He saw us and said, “Are you the people who look to the sky for guidance?”

I said, “We are Muslims. We look to the sky, but we find our guidance in the Quran.”

Then he said, “There is a book in your language that our ancestors heard about when a mysterious ship landed on this shore many centuries ago. They said, this book speaks of a light that shines brighter than the sun.”

I said, stunned, “Did they recite the Shahada?”

He said, “They taught some words—La ilaha illallah, Muhammadur Rasulullah. We lost them over time, but today it seems to have returned.”

That night we recited the Quran. They listened. Mu’adh taught them medicine, Hamzah taught them war, and I taught them prayer. We stayed for a few days, but it seemed that we had to reach those who were still waiting to wake up in the light on the other side of the world.

Before leaving, one of them asked me, “Will you come back?”

I said, “God willing, not us, but our children will come—and then only light will rain on this land.”

We set out to return, but our ship was lost in a storm. No one returned alive—only me.

Today I am old. Sitting on the coast of Morocco, I am writing about my last days, and about that unknown island, where perhaps God has brought His light through our silent efforts.

No one will write my name in history. I was not a general, nor a king, nor a scholar. I was a “sailor”—who searched the depths of the sea for the seeds of the resurrection of the Ummah.