MACA – In a small town bathed in golden twilight skies, lived Alif Rahman, a 20-year-old known as the youngest and most gifted muezzin of Al-Hikmah Mosque. His handsome, poet-like face often left teenage girls in awe, yet Alif remained humble. Three years after graduating from Darussalam Islamic Boarding School in rural East Java, he had devoted himself fully to the mosque at the direct request of the local Governor, who had been captivated by a recording of his call to prayer circulating on social media.
Alif’s voice was not merely melodious—it seemed to carry the heavens to earth. A scholar once remarked, “His voice echoes Bilal ibn Rabah’s devotion, yet carries the finesse of an international vocalist.” No wonder that whenever his *azan* rang out, people paused, mesmerized. Even children joyfully mimicked his cadence, as if he were their idol.
Each day began with dawn prayers and heartfelt supplications. Before sunrise, Alif stood atop the mosque’s minaret, announcing the imsak time with gentle words that stirred souls. “Imsak begins. May we all be granted strength to fast,” he would say, followed by Quranic verses that left listeners in chills. At Maghrib, his call to prayer was always punctual, as though his internal clock harmonized with the cosmos.
His duties extended beyond the minaret. The Governor had appointed him as the mosque’s daily administrator, overseeing religious activities and serving as a backup imam. Yet amid his busy schedule, Alif never forgot the woman who shaped his life—his mother, Siti Aminah, living in a remote village near Mount Lawu. Every Friday night, her calls came without fail.
“Alif, when will you come home? It’s been three Eid celebrations without you,” she murmured in their latest conversation. Her voice cracked, not from age but longing. His heart ached. It was his mother who had sold her only jewelry to fund his Quranic education at the boarding school. Now, as he thrived in his role, distance kept them apart.
One night, after the Isha prayer, Alif sat on the mosque’s terrace, gazing at the full moon. Memories flooded back: his mother buying him a *tajweed* book, coaching him until his throat grew hoarse. “You must strive to be like Bilal. Your call will one day touch the heavens,” she had urged.
Yet now, her simple wish—to have him home for Eid—clashed with his obligations. The Governor had denied his request for extended leave, calling Alif’s voice a “regional treasure.” “This mosque needs you,” the Governor had said a year prior during negotiations. Alif’s heart split: duty to the community versus duty to his mother.
One evening, an official arrived with a letter from the Governor’s office. Alif trembled as he read it: “Granted five days of leave for Eid, provided pre-recorded Maghrib and Fajr calls are prepared.” A donor, it turned out, had secretly forwarded Alif’s plea to the Governor.
Tears streamed down his face. The next morning, he called his mother. “*Umi*, I’m coming home this Eid!” he exclaimed. Across the line, her cries of joy melted into laughter.
On his final day before the journey, Alif worked tirelessly. He recorded all prayer times and trained a junior from his alma mater as his temporary replacement. During his last Maghrib call, the mosque overflowed with congregants who knew they’d miss his golden voice.
“*Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…*”
His voice resonated deeper than ever, as though infused with longing for the mosque he’d temporarily leave. Afterward, an elderly woman clasped his hand. “Go, dear boy. Your mother needs you more. We’ll await your return.”
Home to the Embrace of Life’s First Teacher
The 12-hour journey to his village felt brief. Upon arrival, his mother waited at the road’s edge. Their embrace warmed the chilly dawn. News of his return spread swiftly. That night, villagers flocked to their home, begging him to perform Maghrib at the village prayer hall.
“Gladly, but on one condition: we pray together,” he said, smiling. His voice echoed through the mountains, even more soul-stirring than usual. His mother sat near the prayer niche, her eyes never leaving him—while village girls whispered, “If only he weren’t a muezzin, we’d propose!”
At Eid prayers the next morning, Alif led as imam. Afterward, he spoke briefly: “The beauty of the *azan* lies not just in its melody, but in sincerity. Thank you, *Umi*, for your prayers. I am here because of you.”
His mother’s smile outshone the morning sun.
Epilogue
Alif’s tale became legend. Now, every Eid, the Governor grants him leave. His voice still rings from Al-Hikmah Mosque, but with newfound wisdom: balance between duty and family. As for the girls who secretly adore him, Alif offers a gentle reply: “My heart belongs to the *azan* and my mother.”
His melodies continue to soar, reminding all that behind every success lies a mother’s prayers and devotion to a divine calling.***
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