[This narrative scene is excerpted from The Interrogation Vault trilogy. Set within a digital simulation of the first Hijrah to Abyssinia (Rajab, 5th year of the Prophetic mission), the story follows a protagonist and an extraterrestrial visitor as they analyze the strategic genius of the Prophet ﷺ. Together, they explore his mastery of ally selection, crisis management, and the crafting of ambassadors whose impact would echo through history.]
***
Rain fell softly.
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Not from the sky, but from the simulation—gentle drops projected across the chamber, rippling against the floor like tears returned to earth.
We stood at the edge of the Red Sea.
Dark waves kissed the hulls of two ships swaying in the wind, their sails taut, their ropes groaning under the weight of hope and grief.
Figures emerged through the mist—families cloaked in worn wool, clutching their few belongings. A mother adjusting her child’s headwrap. A father turning his face one last time toward the fading silhouette of Makkah.
The alien stood beside me in silence.
Then he spoke.
“Do you know what it means to leave everything behind, not for survival… but for belief?”
I said nothing.
Because no answer felt worthy.
The simulation shifted—bringing us closer.
I saw Ja‘far ibn Abi Talib—eyes steady, back straight, a gentle hand resting on his brother’s shoulder.
“They weren’t running,” the alien said. “They were relocating. Calculated. Ordered. The Prophet ﷺ chose who would go. Who would stay. When they would depart. This was not panic. This was strategy.”
I watched as the boats began to drift, wind filling their sails.
“And he didn’t send them to any land,” the alien continued. “He sent them to a Christian kingdom. To a just king. He knew Najāshi would listen.”
He turned to me.
“What does that tell you?”
“That he trusted justice wherever it was,” I replied.
“Yes,” the alien nodded. “But more than that—he understood diplomacy. He sought allies. Islam wasn’t retreating. It was extending.”
The scene shifted again.
We were in Abyssinia now—green hills rising above open plains, birds darting through eucalyptus groves. The Muslims stood before the throne of Najāshi, weary but dignified.
A hush fell over the court.
Then Ja‘far stepped forward.
And he spoke:
“We were a people in ignorance… until God sent us a messenger… who taught us to speak truth, to care for kin, to protect the weak…”
His voice echoed across the throne room like a prayer carried by wind.
I felt my throat tighten.
“He could have just recited theology,” the alien whispered. “Instead, he described transformation. The moral revolution that Islam was birthing.”
Then came the challenge.
Qurayshi envoys arrived—polished, persuasive, bearing bribes. “These are rebels,” they insisted. “Hand them over.”
Najāshi turned to the Muslims.
“Do you carry anything from what your Prophet has received?”
Ja‘far nodded.
And recited verses from Surah Maryam.
Tears shimmered down the king’s face. The simulation let us feel it—the hush of the court, the tremble of awe, the moment a Christian king defended Muslim refugees against his own nobles.
“These weren’t just migrants,” the alien said. “They were envoys. Their presence in Abyssinia laid the foundation for interfaith respect, for political leverage, for survival.”
I exhaled. “But it must have been… so hard.”
The alien gazed toward the hills.
“Fifteen years. Some never saw the Prophet ﷺ again. They missed Badr. Uhud. They prayed facing Jerusalem until word of the qiblah (direction) reached them months later.”
He paused.
“They were not forgotten. But they felt forgotten.”
The simulation pulled us into a quiet tent.
A woman wept silently as her child slept beside her.
“I miss him,” she whispered to no one. “I miss his voice.”
I felt a weight in my chest that no gravity could match.
“Why did they stay so long?” I asked.
“Because they understood that service to Islam isn’t always visible,” the alien replied. “Sometimes, it means guarding the future from afar. They were the insurance policy. The reserve. The seed in foreign soil.”
The scene faded.
“Today,” the alien said, “you remember Badr. Uhud. Khandaq. But do you remember the ones who left?”
I looked at the sea again.
“They didn’t fight with swords,” I said slowly. “But they fought with sacrifice.”
He nodded.
“And that is the harder jihad.”
He stepped forward.
“You call it Hijrah. But it was also Hikmah. Wisdom. Timing. Diplomacy. Trust. If Islam was only spiritual, none of this would have mattered. But it did. Because Islam was always a movement. And movements… must move.”
I didn’t speak.
The chamber was too full of farewells.
Too full of forgotten names who gave everything for a future they would never fully see.
Rain still fell.
But now I knew.
They weren’t drops.
They were prayers.
***
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