One day, Youssef’s mother fell ill. Fever burned her cheeks. There was no money for medicine. Youssef ran to the local pharmacy, but the man shook his head. “No money, no medicine, boy.”
Youssef’s father had passed away two years ago, leaving behind only two things: a worn-out copy of the Quran, and a small, black portable cassette player — hajm saghir , as they called it. It was no bigger than Youssef’s palm, its edges scratched, its battery cover held on by a piece of tape. thmyl-alqran-alkrym-bswt-abd-albast-abd-alsmd-bhjm-sghyr
“What do you have there, child?”
That night, after giving his mother the medicine, Youssef sat by her bedside. He placed the small player between them and pressed play. Surah Al-Inshirah began: One day, Youssef’s mother fell ill
Because from that tiny, humble device, he had learned the greatest lesson: that the voice of the Quran, even when it comes from something small , carries the vastness of the heavens. And the voice of Abd al-Basit Abd al-Samad was not just a recitation — it was a bridge between a boy’s broken world and the mercy of Ar-Rahman. Youssef ran to the local pharmacy, but the
“Keep it,” he said softly. “And take this.” He handed Youssef a small pouch of coins — enough for medicine and food.