In this essay, we briefly examine, from several angles, the story of the Prophet Sâlih, without lingering on the outer shell of a historical narrative, through the contexts of blessing--trial, miracle--responsibility, power--morality, truth--escape, and arrogance--social destruction.
Our aim is not to watch a scene of destruction that remained in the past; it is to trace the laws operating within your present mental and social topography. For it is known that history from which no lesson is taken repeats itself anyway, indeed, each time with a more technical, more organized, and more persuasive guise.
The Prophet Sâlih was sent to the people of Thamud. We do not need to restate the story of Thamud; whoever wishes may read it from its original source, therefore.
We begin. First, Thamud was not a society of deprivation; let us begin here. Thamud, on the contrary, was surrounded by blessings. They possessed the technical power to carve the mountain, the architecture to develop the plain, and an order to share water. It was precisely at this point that they fell into the error into which many societies fall: they took the blessing for a reward. Yet blessing never comes alone; as it increases, it enlarges responsibility. For a society that cannot learn to carry the burden of blessing, abundance turns into the instrument of an accelerated dissolution. In this respect, the destruction of Thamud did not occur in a single day; their misreading of blessing established the architecture of destruction from within. In this regard, the address of the Prophet Sâlih to his people becomes decisive. He was not a figure coming from outside; he was a voice from within. Truth often comes like this: not in a foreign tongue, but from a familiar mouth. Yet familiarity does not guarantee acceptance. On the contrary, when the truth comes from within, the defenses of arrogance harden further. Because a voice from within breaks excuses, it narrows the routes of escape.
Further, the miracle stands at the center of the narrative. Contrary to what is commonly assumed, a miracle does not convince the stubborn heart. A miracle increases the one who seeks; it drives the one who does not seek into a more organized implied denial. The Thamudic trial with the she-camel is exactly this. Here, the miracle is not a tool of persuasion; it is evidence that lays a burden. And every piece of evidence comes with a cost. The she-camel came together with the sharing of water. Sharing here was not only an economic regulation but also a trial of justice. When the justice of sharing is disrupted, destruction will accelerate, because it will be shown that justice is the supporting pillar of social order.
Here we must pause and state this: power and technical progress cannot replace morality. Thamud knew how to carve rock, but they did not know how to carve the shell of the nafs. When the architecture of the psukhe (the field of spirit--mind) is neglected, external architecture turns into a spectacle. And spectacle feeds arrogance. In this story, arrogance is not an individual flaw but a cause of social destruction. Because arrogance produces a small number of but organized leaders. The structure of nine indicated in Sûrat an-Naml points to the danger of organization rather than quantity. For this reason, insolence at times is not nourished by crowds, but by coordination. Be that as it may, oppression is not limited solely to the deed of the one who commits it. Consent to oppression is as destructive as oppression itself. In Thamud, although the killing of the she-camel is narrated as the act of one person, the Qur'an attributes the deed to the society. Because consent multiplies the act. For this reason, the violation of the trust is not merely the killing of an animal; it is the violation of the divine order.
The expression "Allah's she-camel" therefore points, rather than to a symbolic sanctification, to the source of the trust. A society that violates such a trust has, in effect, targeted the order itself.
In this context, Thamud's labeling of truth as "bad omen" reveals an ancient route of escape. Truth disturbs, and what disturbs is declared ill-omened. Thus, the problem is shifted from internal decay to external factors. On the psychological plane, this is projection; on the social plane, it is the production of a scapegoat. The Prophet Sâlih and those who believed in him had become the targets of this mechanism. Yet truth is not a bad omen; it is a warning. A society that silences the warning hastens its own end. The most striking side of this trial is this: sometimes the trial comes from the place that seems simplest. Water. One day yours, one day his. Not a major technical problem, not a complex metaphysical demand. Simplicity. But this simplicity reveals the magnitude of the trial. Because coping with what is complex is, in fact, easier; obeying what is simple breaks the resistance of the nafs. Thamud lost here.
As we approach closing, the three-day respite announced by the Prophet Sâlih is the last mercy before punishment. Respite is not the postponement of destruction; it is the door of repentance. Yet repentance is possible not merely with time, but with a change of direction. When the direction does not change, respite only increases fear. Indeed, Thamud, instead of confronting, turned, in this period, toward more organized violence. Thus, destruction occurred not as a sudden event, but as the outward eruption of decay that began from within.
Further, it must be stated: destruction is never only an external catastrophe. A cry from the sky, a tremor rising from the ground, these are the final scenes. The real play begins much earlier, in an unseen place. The people of Thamud had consumed themselves before they were destroyed. Their mental topography had been corrupted; their relation to concepts had been distorted. They took power for measure, number for truth, technique for morality. For this reason, destruction did not come to them like a foreign event; on the contrary, it was the outward expression of an end they had inwardly been expecting. In this respect, one of the most noteworthy aspects of the story of the Prophet Sâlih is that, despite the warning lasting for a long time, no change of direction occurred. There was a warning, there was respite, there were miracles, but there was no discernment. Discernment is different from knowledge. Knowledge accumulates; discernment transforms. Thamud had knowledge: they knew they were not to touch the she-camel. They knew the rule of sharing water. They knew what the three-day respite meant. But what they knew did not go beyond being a means in their minds; it did not become an unmediated contact with the truth.
Here, there is a subtle form of arrogance. Arrogance does not always speak by shouting. Sometimes it uses an extremely calm, calculating, and technical language: "We can control it." "We can manage it." "We can stop this here." Thamud's killing of the she-camel was not a sudden outburst of anger; it was a planned decision. This shows us: insolence often does not produce chaos; it imitates order. The organization of the nine is the clearest example of this imitation of order. Few in number, but effective; without noise, yet destructive.
If it must be expressed, the guilt is not only in those nine persons. The silent majority that made them possible is the essential partner of destruction. Consent to oppression. This consent is not applause; it is silence. Consent is not holding the knife; it is looking at the moment the knife comes down and turning one's face away. Therefore, while the Qur'an attributes the deed to one person, it assigns the result to the society. When a society does not limit the evil within itself, that evil becomes central.
On this ground, the concept of "trust" (emanat) must be reconsidered. The she-camel was not merely an animal; it was the form of the trust. Trust is what does not belong to you but is entrusted to you. Thamud took possession of the property. And what they took for property, they disposed of. Yet trust is not something to be disposed of; it is something to be honored. The violation of the trust is not only a transgression of a boundary; it is an attack on the order itself. Therefore, when trust is corrupted, the bond between the divine and human orders is severed.
Nevertheless, Thamûd's greatest delusion does not end here either. They equated truth with a bad omen. Their saying to the Prophet Sâlih and to those who believed in him, "you have brought bad luck," is not merely an accusation; it is a psychological defense mechanism. Because the human being is inclined to invent an external cause rather than see one's own inner decay. When truth disturbs, it is branded "the cause of disaster." Thus, truth is silenced. Yet, alas, a society that silences truth also paralyzes its warning mechanism.
At this point, I must say this: the magnitude of a trial most often comes not from its complexity, but from its simplicity. One day the water is yours, one day it is his. That is all. No abstract philosophy, no ritual is difficult to solve. But precisely this simplicity reveals the nafs's resistance. Because the nafs loves to speak of great sacrifices, it belittles small obligations. This is where Thamûd fell. A small trial triggers a great collapse.
In the end, the matter of the three-day respite appears before us. This respite is not, as is assumed, a delay; it is the last mercy. Mercy, as is seen, does not always come as a soft feeling; sometimes it comes in the form of granting time. Time here is an opportunity. But opportunity does not automatically produce salvation. Opportunity opens a door for those who change direction. Thamûd did not change its direction. On the contrary, it devoted the remainder of its time to planning a deeper oppression. This made destruction inevitable.
In this context, destruction is not a sudden punishment. Destruction is the becoming visible of a structure that has already collapsed. From the outside: a cry, a tremor; from the inside: an order long since scattered. For this reason, the Qur'an says, "as though they had never lived there." Because what collapsed was not only buildings, but the ground of meaningfulness. When meaning collapses, the place collapses as well. It must be said plainly: the story of the Prophet Sâlih is not a moral tale that remained in the past. This story reveals an architecture that recurs across ages. The turning of blessing into trial, the miracle's becoming a burden, power crushing morality, arrogance organizing itself, the silent majority's complicity in crime, betrayal of the trust, and the branding of truth as a bad omen... These are narrated not because they remained in history, but because they are produced in every age.
Further, it is seen that the heaviest sentence of the story of the Prophet Sâlih is spoken after destruction: "I gave you counsel, but you did not love the counselors."
This sentence does not belong to Thamûd alone. This sentence is the signature of every society that goes on the defensive when it encounters truth. Because truth does not add information to a human being, it changes one's place. A mind that does not want to change place fights with counsel. Counsel here is not advice; it is a call that disrupts order. And the one whose order is disrupted targets not the truth, but the one who gives counsel.
For this reason, the truth is often alone. Crowds gather not around truth, but around comfort. The notables of Thamûd did not discuss truth; they discredited it. The label "bad omen" served exactly this function. To falsify the truth is risky, but to declare truth a bad omen is safe. Because in that way the discussion is ended, reasoning is suspended, and the mind is soothed.
In this respect, it must be said: if an allergy has developed in a society against the one who gives counsel, decay has begun there. Counsel is a mirror. One who does not want to look in the mirror breaks the mirror. Thamûd broke the mirror. The modern human, however, covers the mirror with filters. He does not see what he does not want to see; he silences what he does not want to hear. But the silenced truth does not vanish; it only returns in a harsher form. Here, a very familiar mechanism of the modern world is revealed: substituting moral questioning with technical success. What Thamûd's carving of the rock is, the modern human's carving data is that. Both become intoxicated with the sentence "I can do it." Yet when the sentence "I can do it" represses the question "should I do it?", catastrophe too is only postponed. The moment brute power takes the place of morality, it becomes unaccountable.
It must be stated especially: narratives of destruction cannot be read with the simplicity of "the bad were punished." Destruction often accompanies the decay of the claim to goodness. Thamûd did not think it was evil. On the contrary, it saw itself as strong, civilized, and right. Here lies the danger. Evil often does not present itself as evil; it comes in the guise of righteousness, order, and stability. On this ground arrogance appears before us again, but this time not as an individual emotion, but as an institutionalized state. Institutional arrogance is closed to criticism. Institutional arrogance views warnings as threats. Institutional arrogance values its own continuity more than truth. Thamûd's organized structure of nine persons is an early and archetypal form of this arrogance.
Nevertheless, it is not only the oppressors who prepare destruction. The silent good are the most unsettling figures of this story. Silent goodness is not innocence. Silence is often the name of comfort. The sentence "I did not do it" covers the truth, "I did not prevent it." For this reason, consent to oppression is as destructive as oppression itself. Thamûd collapsed in the silence of those who watched the she-camel be slaughtered. Modern societies walk the same path that normalizes injustice.
In this context, the concept of "trial" must be reconsidered. Trial is won or lost not in moments of great crisis, but in everyday choices. The sharing of water is important precisely for this reason. When sharing breaks down, not only resources but also trust are exhausted. Where trust is exhausted, society ceases to be the sum of individuals; it becomes the sum of fears. And fear always calls violence.
If it must be expressed, in the story of the Prophet Sâlih, the miracle is not a last chance; it is a last burden. When the burden cannot be borne, even a miracle becomes an object of blame. "If only it had not come," is said. "If only we had not seen," is said. This sentence is the most naked confession of the human being who flees from truth. Because after the truth is seen, there is no excuse left.
In the end, destruction comes. But this destruction is not a catastrophe that happened only to Thamûd. Destruction is the inevitable end within every mind that constantly postpones truth. Sometimes a society collapses, sometimes an institution, sometimes a person. The scale changes; the law does not. Decay that begins from within inevitably finds a counterpart outside.
And the sentence the Prophet Sâlih left behind is therefore a simple mystery: "I gave you counsel." This sentence is being said today as well. Yet still the same question stands before us: Are we ready to love the one who gives counsel, or do we believe it is safer to silence him?
Further, we must say that destruction is not a fate reserved only for societies. While societies collapse, individuals collapse before them. The truly harsh side of the Thamûd story is also here: destruction is narrated in a crowded scene, but its roots lie in the inner world of individual people. Because what we call society is not the common architecture of a shared design, but the sum of shared inner distortions. On the individual level, destruction is rarely noticed. Because the individual assumes he is "living." Things go on, relationships continue, and the order appears standing. But inside, something is no longer functioning: the consciousness of trust. When a human being begins to appropriate what has been entrusted to him, dissolution begins. Reason, power, position, knowledge, even faith... while all of these are a trust, the moment they are taken as property, the inner order is disrupted.
For this reason, Thamûd's she-camel is not only a social symbol. The she-camel is the form of the "area that must not be touched" in the individual's inner world. Every human being has a she-camel. A boundary. A right. A line. The place that says, "If you touch here, you will be corrupted."
Every human being, at some phase of life, encounters that she-camel. Some show it respect; some think, "If I eliminate this, I will feel relieved."
To put it as it should be put, individual destruction most often begins with the desire for relief. The she-camel is in trouble. It is a responsibility. It requires balance. Eliminating it brings short-term ease. But in the long term, the ground of meaning collapses. What Thamûd experienced after slaughtering the she-camel was not remorse; it was emptiness. Emptiness is the state that a human being cannot endure for long. And when a human being falls into emptiness, he turns either to violence or to denial. At this point, the miracle takes on a new meaning on the individual plane. A human being already experiences "miracles" many times in life: unexpected opportunities, rescues, doors that open... But a miracle does not correct the inner misdirection of the individual. If there is misdirection, even the miracle becomes a burden. It even turns into something blamed: "If this opportunity had not existed, this would not have happened." Just as Thamûd felt when it looked at the she-camel.
In this context, arrogance manifests itself much more insidiously at the individual level. The individual does not shout arrogance as "I know"; he whispers it as "I can manage." This whisper distances the human being from counsel. Counsel here is not another person's word; it is the warning that comes from within the human being. The voice of conscience is therefore disturbing. To silence what disturbs, a person first discredits it. "You're exaggerating." "It's not that serious." "Everyone does this." These sentences are the threshold of individual destruction.
Nevertheless, in individual destruction, too, there is silent consent. A person recognizes their own wrongdoing but does not intervene. He realizes that he is being oppressed, but does not raise his voice. Because raising one's voice demands a cost. And cost disrupts comfort. For this reason, the individual consents to the slaughtering of the she-camel within him. Thus, oppression begins not from outside, but from within.
At this point, the concept of trial appears before us again. A trial is not the great decision others will see. Trial is the small choices that no one knows. The sharing of water here is this: time, attention, mercy, justice... Can you share these, or do you keep them all for yourself? Thamûd's water issue corresponds one-to-one with the modern individual's desire to monopolize resources. Thamud could not solve this issue. Ultimately, individual destruction was not sudden either. A person does not collapse all at once. First, he becomes numb. Then he begins to justify. Then he declares truth a bad omen. Finally, he covers his own collapse with fate by saying, "It was going to be like this anyway." Yet this is not fate; it is a process. Just like the destruction of Thamûd. And the most painful side of the matter is this: while a human being is experiencing his individual destruction, he can still think of himself as "good." Because evil does not always appear dark. Sometimes it appears extremely orderly, logical, and justified. That is why the story of the Prophet Sâlih must be told not only to societies but also to individuals, as with other Qur'anic stories.
Further, it must be said plainly: one of the greatest delusions of the modern human is to think of the miracle as independent of burden. A miracle is imagined as a saving moment, a relieving rupture, an effortless solution. Yet the story of the Prophet Sâlih shows the exact opposite: a miracle is the beginning of a heavier responsibility. The moment the she-camel appeared, Thamûd's burden increased. If they had not seen, their responsibility would have been lighter. They saw; they denied; they could not carry the burden. The modern individual is at the same point. He says, "Let there be a sign," "Let a door open," "Let me experience a miracle." But when the sign comes, when the door opens, when the miracle is experienced, this time he retreats. Because the miracle has now removed the excuse. Now he knows. Now he has seen. Now he cannot remain silent. Precisely at this point, the miracle is perceived as a threat. Just like the unease Thamûd felt while looking at the she-camel.
In this respect, the search for miracles is most often a cover for fleeing responsibility. A human being assumes that by waiting for a miracle, he will be freed from today's burden. Yet the miracle makes today heavier. Because there is now no longer any possibility of saying "I did not know." That is why truth increases the seeker, but drives the stubborn into a more organized denial.
Here, the difference between "I know" and "I am a trustee" becomes sharply clear. The mind that says "I know" appropriates power. The mind that says "I am a trustee" carries power. Appropriated power corrupts; carried power produces boundaries. Thamûd appropriated power. It attributed carving the mountain to itself. It took water as its own right. It assumed the miracle to be an object that could be controlled. This misreading undermined the order. The modern human repeats a similar mistake: he appropriates knowledge but lacks wisdom. He appropriates authority, but rejects responsibility. He appropriates possibility, but does not see the cost. Thus, everything is demanded as a right; nothing is protected as a trust.
When the consciousness of trust is lost, morality ceases to be an inner guide; it becomes an external ornament.
Nevertheless, the most dangerous form of fleeing responsibility is to mask it with moral justifications. Thamûd, while slaughtering the she-camel, saw itself as the side "that preserves order." Today, too, a person often does wrong in the name of "a greater good." At this point, evil does not feel guilty. On the contrary, it feels as though it is assigned. This state is the most silent beginning of destruction.
In this context, the concept of "trial" has ceased to be an external examination; it has become the mirror of the relationship a person establishes with himself. Trial is not what happens to you; it is your response to what happens to you. Thamûd's trial was not the she-camel; it was the decision they gave in the face of the she-camel. The modern individual's trial should likewise not be the crises he experiences, but the moral orientation he shows in the face of those crises.
In the end, destruction is not a result, but the inevitable manifestation of an incompatibility.
When harmony with truth is broken, life can still continue for a while. The system may appear to be functioning. A person laughs, produces, and earns. But inside, somewhere, there is now a crack. That crack grows. One day, a small tremor is enough. It has already collapsed from within.
And the story of the Prophet Sâlih begins here: the miracle comes. A warning is made. A respite is given. But if transformation does not occur, destruction comes.
That is why destruction is not, in itself, an oppression; it is only a result.
The notables of Thamûd saw themselves as the guarantors of the order. This is an illusion that repeats in every age. A structure that identifies itself with order perceives criticism as an existential threat. Thus, counsel is regarded as rebellion; warning is accepted as sabotage; truth is branded as instability. At this point, it is no longer the distinction between wrong--right, but the distinction between those of us--those not of us that comes into play. And the institutional threshold of destruction is exactly here.
In this respect, Thamûd's nine persons are not a number; they are a typology. They exist in every age. Their numbers change, their names change, their methods become refined; but their function is the same: to neutralize warning, to diffuse responsibility, to render guilt invisible. And what is most dangerous is this: the anonymization of guilt. No one feels responsible.
In modern orders, this mechanism has been refined. Here, sometimes the she-camel is not slaughtered, but the water is monopolized. Sharing is disrupted but legitimized through contracts. The trust is violated, but it is covered by the procedure. Thus, no one sees himself as an oppressor. Everyone is only "doing his job." Yet the story of Thamûd says exactly this: a functioning system may not be just.
Nevertheless, the strongest factor enabling this decay to continue is normalization. Things that disturb at the beginning become ordinary over time. A human being becomes accustomed to the wrong to which he is continuously exposed. The wrong that has become accustomed to no longer feels wrong. At this point, conscience is disabled; reasoning is dulled. And this state is already the final calm before destruction.
In this context, the three-day respite is not merely a historical duration given to Thamûd. Respite is the name of the final possibility given in every age. Societies, institutions, and individuals, when they recognize that they have become corrupted, still retain the possibility of transformation. But transformation does not happen with makeup. It does not happen by changing names, renewing slogans, or updating methods. Transformation requires a change of direction. Every reform whose direction does not change merely delays decay.
To put it as it must be put, the greatest delusion of the modern human is this: "We have not collapsed yet, therefore there is no problem." Yet Thamûd too had not collapsed until the moment of destruction. The houses were in place, power was in their hands, and the order was functioning. But inside, meaning had been exhausted.
For this reason, the story of the Prophet Sâlih is not a threat to the future; it is a diagnosis of today.
Ultimately, what must be understood is this: every blessing is also a trial. Every miracle brings a burden. Every power is tested by morality. Truth most often comes not from outside, but from inside. Arrogance is not an individual fault, but a cause of social destruction. Insolence is most often produced not by crowds, but by organized minorities. Consent to oppression is as destructive as oppression itself. Violating trust is a violation of the divine order. When the justice of sharing is disrupted, destruction accelerates. Branding truth as a bad omen is an ancient escape route of the human being. Trial sometimes comes from the place that seems simplest. The respite given for repentance is the last mercy before punishment. Destruction is not a sudden event; it is the outward eruption of decay that begins from within. History from which no lesson is taken repeats itself. And a society that does not love truth does not love the one who gives counsel either.
If, while reading this text, you are thinking of Thamûd, the story is still outside. But if, while reading this text, you are thinking of yourself, the order you live in, the places where you stayed silent, the wrongs to which you consented, then the story of the Prophet Sâlih has reached its place.
We stop here.