The Quran Reciter | قارئة القرآن
"She has the most beautiful Quran recitation in Indonesia. He's the record producer who wants to make her famous. Their collaboration becomes communion."
The Quran Reciter
قارئة القرآن
Her voice could make angels weep.
I heard it on a village recording—grainy quality, perfect tajweed. The most beautiful Quran recitation I'd ever heard.
I had to find her.
I'm Reza.
Forty-three, music producer in Jakarta. I've made stars. But none like her.
Siti lives in a village I'd never heard of.
She's thirty-eight.
Never married, never traveled. She's recited Quran since childhood—her gift, her calling.
"Why do you want to record me?"
"Because the world needs to hear you."
"The world hears Quran. Any mosque, any time."
"Not like this. Not you."
It takes three visits to convince her.
Her imam approves. Her family is suspicious. She's cautious of everything—especially me.
"I don't need fame."
"This isn't about fame. It's about dakwah. Spreading the message."
"Through music?"
"Through beauty. Isn't that Islamic too?"
She agrees to one recording.
We set up in a Jakarta studio. State-of-the-art equipment for a village reciter.
When she begins—
I forget to breathe.
"That was..." I search for words.
"Surah Ar-Rahman."
"I know. But the way you—" I stop. "You made me feel things I haven't felt since childhood."
"That's the Quran."
"That's you."
The recording goes viral.
Millions of streams. International attention. Every Islamic event wants her.
"I don't want this," she tells me.
"What do you want?"
"To recite. That's all. To feel Allah in my voice."
"Then we'll protect that. I'll protect you."
Protecting her becomes everything.
Managing requests, filtering interviews, ensuring her voice stays pure while the world clamors.
"Why do you do this?" she asks.
"Because you're sacred."
"The Quran is sacred. I'm just the vessel."
"The vessel matters too."
Our relationship deepens.
Not romantically—not at first. Just two people sharing something profound.
Then one night, after a recitation that left us both shaking—
"Siti—"
"I know." She doesn't let me finish. "I feel it too."
"This is complicated."
"Everything worth having is."
"I'm supposed to be protecting you."
"Who says you can't protect and love at the same time?"
The first kiss is after Fajr.
Her voice still echoing in my ears from the recording.
"Is this halal?" she asks.
"Marry me and find out."
We have nikah quietly.
Her village imam officiating. My Jakarta life adapting to include a woman who'd never seen a city until last year.
"Happy?" she asks.
"Blessed. Completely blessed."
Our wedding night is gentle.
She's inexperienced; I'm patient. Her voice—that sacred voice—making sounds I've never heard on any recording.
"Beautiful."
"Reza—"
"Let me worship you. The way I worship your voice."
Five years later
She's internationally known now.
But we've kept control. Only recitations she approves. Only events that honor the Quran.
"Best decision?" I ask.
"Coming to Jakarta."
"Second best?"
"Saying yes to you."
She recites for me privately.
In our bedroom, voice soft. The same Quran that changed everything, now part of our daily life.
"Bismillahirrahmanirrahim..."
Alhamdulillah.
For voices that heal.
For producers who protect.
For recitation that becomes love.
The End.