Ibrahim and the River That Said Please

Behind Ibrahim's school, there was a river. It used to be the most exciting place in the world. Frogs! Fish! Once, a turtle the size of a dinner plate! But lately, Ibrahim noticed, the river was looking… tired. Plastic bottles bobbed along the surface. A torn shopping bag was caught in the reeds. The water smelled funny.

One Friday after school, Ibrahim sat at the edge of the river with his juice box. He took a sip and was about to toss the empty box in the water — like he had seen older boys do — when something made him stop. A soft, gurgly voice from the river whispered, 'Please don't.'

Ibrahim looked around. No one. 'Please don't,' said the river again. 'I'm so tired, little one.' Ibrahim's eyes got very big. 'Rivers can talk?' 'Everything that Allah made makes tasbeeh,' said the river. 'You just don't usually hear it. But today, I really needed you to.'

Ibrahim sat down properly. The river told him how it used to be clear, how kingfishers used to dive into it, how children used to wade in to catch tadpoles. 'Now,' the river sighed, 'I can barely breathe.' Ibrahim felt something hot prickle behind his eyes.

He went home and told his mother. He told his teacher. He told his cousins. He even told his cricket team. The next Saturday, twenty-two children showed up at the river with gloves and big black bags. They pulled out bottles. Bags. An entire broken chair (no one knew where it came from). They worked until their backs ached and their dua-bottles of water were empty.

When they were done, the river sparkled — not perfectly, but a lot more. A small frog hopped onto a rock and croaked at them, which Ibrahim was almost completely sure meant 'jazakallahu khairan.' Every Saturday after that, the children came back. The river never spoke to Ibrahim out loud again. But sometimes, when the wind was just right, he could hear it humming — quietly, gratefully, the way a happy thing hums.