The Oasis of Sabr: Young Adult Fiction: Religious – Muslim, #2

By Farhan Malik

"The Oasis of Sabr: A Story of Patience and Hope" follows sixteen-year-old Amina Saeed, who moves with her family to the edge of the Rubʿ al-Khālī desert, feeling uprooted and uncertain. Guided by Qur'anic wisdom and the example of Prophet Ayyūb, Amina discovers that true patience (ṣabr) is both a test and a source of inner strength. Through challenges, friendships, and the mystical beauty of the desert, she learns that hope and resilience flourish when faith is nurtured. A story of courage, community, and the timeless reward of steadfastness in Allah's plan.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Faithful Reflections
• Release date: Sep 10, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232417499

Farhan Malik

Farhan Malik is a British-Pakistani writer and educator who focuses on young adult Muslim fiction that inspires reflection and empowerment. With a background in teaching Islamic studies, he writes stories that balance relatable teenage challenges with the beauty of Qur'anic guidance. His works aim to give Muslim youth characters they can see themselves in.  

Book preview

Chapter 1 – The Distant Mirage

The dawn sun stretched its golden fingers over the vast expanse of the Rubʿ al-Khālī—the Empty Quarter—and Amina Saeed pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the bedroom window, trying to trace its path from east to west. She’d grown up in bustling Cairo, where minarets punctuated the skyline and prayer calls echoed through narrow streets. Here, in the desert, the horizon was unbroken, unending. It felt as if the world had evaporated overnight, leaving only sands and sky.

A gentle breeze ruffled the thin curtain, carrying with it a whisper of warmth. Amina hooked her toes around the hem of her sock and let her gaze drift across the courtyard below. Her family’s new home—an adobe-walled compound with pale ochre walls—looked both foreign and familiar. Her father had spoken of trade opportunities at the desert edge; her mother had insisted on a simpler life, away from the city’s noise. For her part, Amina felt only dissonance: uprooted, untethered, uncertain.

She pressed her hands to her chest, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat. Change was supposed to be exciting—new schools, new friends. But excitement had evaded her. Instead, she felt hollow, like a well stripped of water. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, and reminded herself of what her grandmother in Cairo always said: Patience is more than waiting, my dear—it is trusting. Sabr. It was a word she had learned early, but had never really understood until now.

Below, her younger brother, Kareem, stomped across the courtyard chasing their small calico cat, Noura. The cat darted under a date palm, trailing sunlight on her striped fur. Kareem’s laughter was a bright note in the quiet morning; for a moment, Amina’s heart thawed. She ducked away from the window and fluffed her pillow, summoning courage for the day ahead. Today would be her first at Al-Badi’ Secondary School, and even though it sat only a short walk from their home, the journey felt like stepping into another world.

She pulled on her beige abaya and pinned her hijab carefully, smoothing the fabric around her face. Her mother had taught her how to pin it with a single straight line, a symbol of dignity and simplicity. Before she left the room, Amina bent low, kissed the marble windowsill, and whispered, O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with the patient. (Q 2:153). The verse felt heavy in her heart, its promise both a comfort and a challenge.

Stepping into the courtyard, she was greeted by the warm glow of morning light. The date palms cast long shadows across the sand, and the wind carried a faint hint of cinnamon—the spice dealers’ caravans, her father said, sometimes passed this way. She smiled at Kareem and offered him her hand to steady his tumble. He looked up at her with bright brown eyes, doleful eyelashes, and grinned.

Are you nervous? he teased, hopping to his feet. His cheeks still carried the flush of sleep.

Only about meeting my first new friend, she replied, ruffling his hair. She felt her lips curve into a genuine smile—simple siblings’ banter had that effect. You’ll be fine in fifth grade, she added, leaning down so her voice wouldn’t carry too far. Just don’t set the classroom on fire again.

Kareem’s grin faltered. That was an accident, he protested, though the memory of his stray sparkler and the comical scramble to stomp out embers on the school rug had already become family legend. He turned and chased Noura again, and Amina laughed aloud at his determination.

Their mother called them in hushed tones—soft-spoken but firm—and reminded them to carry water and keep their heads covered. Amina slung her satchel over her shoulder, the leather strap creaking gently. Inside lay her notebook, a pen, her prayer beads, and a small leather-bound Qur’an. Everything she owned felt new and heavy.

The walk to school took them through narrow sand-swept lanes between clay walls. Occasionally, a painted geometric pattern or an inscription from the Qur’an adorned a gate. Amina paused to trace her fingertip over the painted letters on one door: Indeed, Allah is with the patient. (Q 8:46). She pressed her palm against the cool stucco and whispered a silent prayer for courage. Each step felt like a promise she needed to keep.

Soon, the buildings of Al-Badi’ Secondary School rose before them—simple, boxy, but with tall arched windows that glowed in the midday sun. A low stone wall encircled the courtyard, and the gate stood open. A cluster of girls in navy abayas and white hijabs pressed close, pointing and whispering. Amina’s palms grew slick, and she stilled beside her mother as they approached.

Go on, Habiba, her mother urged in gentle encouragement. You’ll be fine. Allah goes with you.

Amina nodded, swallowed, and stepped inside. The girls parted, revealing corridors tiled in pale blue and white patterns. The scent of sandalwood incense drifted from a neighboring classroom where the teacher must have lit it for class. She inhaled slowly, trying to let the calmness replace her jitters.

A tall girl with dark braids and a bright grin stepped forward. Salam! she said, her tone warm. I’m Fatima. You must be the new student. She offered her hand.

Amina felt a flicker of relief. Wa-alaykum as-salam. I’m Amina.

Fatima’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. I saw you arrive with your family. Are you from Cairo?

Amina nodded. Yes. Her voice sounded smaller than she intended. My father does business here.

Welcome, then! Fatima linked arms with her. Come on, I’ll show you around. She introduced Amina to girls clustered by lockers—Laila, who loved poetry; Hana, who wore colorful bangles hidden beneath her sleeves; and Aisha, who carried a tiny sketchbook.

As they walked, Amina’s heart beat out a quiet rhythm of both excitement and unease. Each smile offered felt like a lifeline. Here, she could have friends again—but what if her accent gave her away? What if they thought her a city slicker, too soft for desert life?

Fatima led her to their first class—Arabic literature—and introduced her to the teacher, Mrs. Khalid. The woman’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she welcomed Amina and invited her to take a seat. Pencil and notebook poised, Amina listened as Mrs. Khalid read aloud from a poem about the desert’s beauty. The words painted dunes rippling like waves, and the sun’s glow turning sand to gold. Amina felt a stirring within her—as though her unease was part of the terrain she could learn to navigate.

The morning passed in a blur of lessons: