I used to be perfect:
Untouched, unblemished, undisturbed.
Yes, I was beautiful before you
Came and changed me.
You seem to forget that
I was made for you
But you were never made for me.

You broke me
The rain leaked
Down.
You started this.
You sent wire missiles, bullets of bricks,
Glass armies, cavalries of concrete .
And you say that I am yours.

The angels are healing me at dawn.
While you sleep, I lie awake
And remember what I was.
Perfect were the days before you,
Beautiful was the seed, the grass, the flower.

Soon enough, the sun sends me a ribbon
And you awake, as you always have,
Stretch, stand, sigh,
Spend another day thinking of anything
But always forgetting
What you are doing to me.

Treat me well, I am here for you
To live on, breathe on, die on, come back to
And leave for eternity.

My poem is about man’s relationship with the Earth and it is written in the voice of the Earth itself. People typically associate the voice of Earth and nature combined with the voice of a vulnerable female, so this is the type of voice that I naturally took, especially since my poem is about the negative effects that mankind can have on the environment. The fact that the narrator in the poem is a mixture of the Earth, nature and the environment may be a bit hard to notice, but the purpose of this is for the reader to pick up hints throughout the poem that allow them to deduce who the narrator truly is. (Don’t feel bad if you took a while to realize who the narrator is; it’s supposed to be a trick!). In a way, I have portrayed the relationship between man and the Earth as something more personal, which is why it is more riddle-like until perhaps the last two stanza. The main aim behind my poem is for people to learn that what we do in our everyday lives can have a long-term effect on the environment and that we ought to treat our ephemeral home with respect.

Intisar shut down her laptop, picked up her jacket and tucked a stray wisp of curly brown hair into her scarf. Picking up her bag, she walked to the door of her office and shut the light as she left.

“Leaving for the day, boss?” said a young writer Intisar recognized as Julia.

“Yes, Julia. When are you heading home?”

“Oh, not for a while. You assigned me that that story about the Richardson house, remember? Deadline’s next week.”

“Oh, yes! How is that coming?”

“Pretty good, actually. I just wanted to edit it a little more.”

“Glad to see you’re putting in the extra effort. Good night, Julia.”

“Good night, boss.”

A chorus of more “Good nights” and “See you tomorrows!” followed her to her car. Intisar smiled as she walked across the small parking lot in front of the building. She loved her job.

She approached her car – an electric blue Mustang. It stood out so much that she didn’t even notice the small black one parked beside it. As she reached to pull open her car door, she heard a soft sniffle. She looked up instinctively.

One of the older writers, Renee Thomas, stood by a small, black Nissan Altima, sobbing silently. Intisar hurried over, unable to leave her friend in such a state.

“What’s wrong, Renee?”

Renee looked up at Intisar, her tear streaked face coming into the light. She said only three words.

“My father died.”

Intisar reached out and held Renee, hearing sobs wreak her body, the silence and darkness of the night engulfing them completely.

******

The words spoken by Renee brought back memories for Intisar. She was trying her best to push them to the back of the mind. Driving along the crowded streets of Maytown, Intisar looked at the rush of people walking under the neon streetlights, trying to distract herself.

All kinds of people walked these streets. A young man flipping his dark hair out of his eyes. A little old lady wobbling along with a smile. A middle-aged man holding hands with a cheerful young girl. Intisar’s eyes stopped. And as the man she assumed was the little girl’s father laughed with her, Intisar’s mind went back to another time.

A blanket of silence hung over the field. A little girl stood by her mother, the green grass and blue sky sharply contrasting with the way she felt inside. A silent tear slid down her slightly pink cheek. She watched quietly as her father’s body was lowered into the ground…

“BEEP!” Intisar shook her head, turning her attention back to the road. She took left and slowed slightly as a squirrel ran across the street to safety. Intisar’s stomach grumbled. Her mind, however, overflowed with the incessant flood of memory.

11-year-old Intisar lay on her bed. Sleep was not coming to her, no matter how hard she tried. Her pillow was stained with dark, wet spots from the tears that had flowed so easily from her eyes. Now, her eyes were dry – there were no more tears left inside her. She hadn’t eaten anything but a cheese sandwich and some water for three days. No one had really cooked dinner. Her mother, she hadn’t been the same since. Since the accident.

Intisar took a right turn into her driveway, putting her car into park before sliding the keys out of the ignition. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of her car, locking it on her way into the house.

The door opened before she even got out her keys. Two small pairs of eyes peeked around the door before she opened it completely. Two identical faces, with two excited identical, mischievous smiles on them cooled her eyes. Seeing her sons, Intisar couldn’t help but smile too. They were adorable, Masha’Allah. She couldn’t ever thank Allah enough for them.

“Can I carry your bag, Ammu?” said a still-smiling Musa.

“No, I want it! Don’t give it to him Mommy. He always gets to help you!” retorted an exasperated Haroon.

“I don’t have any candy today guys.” Intisar smiled sadly, amused.

Not wanting to cause another argument between them, she kept her bag with her and took off her shoes, a smile still lingering on her calm face. Hearing footsteps, she looked up at her husband, her smile widening.

“Assalamu alaykum! How was your day?”

Still smiling, she replied, “Awesome, Alhamdulillah. The two new writers are working hard.”

“That’s good news. You want to have dinner now?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome. Let me take that for you,” Siraaj said.

He took her bags and files and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. Placing her things on the table, he rounded up the twins to go wash their hands…

Intisar looked up from her textbook. She wasn’t really reading it anyway. She didn’t really feel like doing anything anymore. She heard a sudden “thump” come from her mother’s room, but she knew better than to go in there when her mother was angry. And she hadn’t stepped in there once since her funeral. Another crash. Sniffling and soft crying soon followed. “Maybe I should go…she sounds really upset,” she thought to herself. After all, she was her mom. Her footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as she made her way to her mother’s bedroom…

Intisar heard playful laughter coming from the kitchen.

“Don’t splash me!”

“You splashed me first!”

“Okay, you guys both have made my shirt completely wet! I’m gonna get you now!”

“No Abu!” the twins said together. Laughter echoed from the bathroom into the hallway.

Her father picked her up and threw her into the air, and then caught her again. They laughed. They always had so much fun together. Intisar sat on the swing, bracing herself. And with a sudden push, she was flying up, and falling back down again. Her scarf fluttered in the breeze and her father laughed at her excitement. Soon, it would be time for the picnic…

Intisar smiled, but it was a sad smile, remembering the last evening together she spent with her father. But she pushed away this memory too. She just couldn’t bear to think about it. Or rather, she couldn’t bear to think about what happened next…

Siraaj walked in carrying Haroon and holding Musa’s hand. Musa suddenly let go of his father’s hand and broke out running into the living room. Intisar caught him, the smile returned to her face.

“I’ll just change Haroon’s shirt and we’ll eat, ok?”

“Sure,” Intisar said.

But inside, she didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want her mind to be able to wander back. She didn’t want to think about her past.

“Careful, Musa! Don’t go near the bookcase!” The twins had bumped their heads on there too many times already.

“Careful Intisar,” came her father’s distant voice. “You shouldn’t run in the street.” But Intisar didn’t hear him, didn’t see the car coming. All she saw was her mother waving at her from across the street, the signal that the food was ready. She had looked forward to this picnic all day…

“Musa!” She said, as a small thump interrupted her thoughts.

Musa sat on the floor, looking startled. Intisar shook her head.

Suddenly, she was surrounded my blinding light. She heard her name being shouted, in a voice that could only be her father’s. And she was pushed out of the way, just in time. She was relieved, until she heard the crash, followed by her mother’s piercing scream…

“Mommy, why you crying?”

Intisar looked at her son, whose brown eyes were filled with concern. She couldn’t help but smile. She blinked, and the tears she didn’t know had gathered fell over the rim. She wiped them quickly, and gave Musa a hug.

In a dinner full of laughter, Intisar temporarily forgot about the thoughts that had been absorbing her mind since the meet with Renee. She laughed along with them, and after dinner, they had a lot of fun playing catch in the living room.

But later, after the fun had been had and the kids had been put to sleep, they came back. The house was quiet. Everyone was asleep, but the thoughts in her head rang louder than the toll of a thousand clanging bells.

The walk to her mother’s room wasn’t long, but to Intisar felt as if it took a thousand years. As she opened the door, she saw immediately how messy the room was. Clothes were strewn all about, and the desk was overturned. On one wall, there were two dents; and on the floor below a broken lamp and a vase, shattered. The source of the crashes. She looked around for her mom, and saw her lying on the bed. Before she could take another step, her mother screamed.

“You! Don’t you dare come near me! It’s your fault! It’s all your fault! He’s gone because of you!”

******

Intisar stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down. She didn’t even try to stop them. It had been so long since this memory came out of the shadows. So many times she had thought about this, so many times she had wondered if her mother was right. But, after that day, she promised herself one thing. She promised herself that no matter what happened, she wouldn’t let herself go like her mother had. She would stand through it all. She would be patient. She would accept it and go on with life. Thirteen years ago, that was the promise she had made. But what now?

“Ammu?” a small voice said from the darkness. Musa had entered her room, his face swept in fear.

“Yes, darling?”

“I had a bad dream, Ammu. Can I sleep with you tonight?” he asked, his lower lip trembling.

“Of course, my dear,” she said.

She set aside her comforters for her son and nestled next to his trembling little body. As she stroked his soft check, she realized patience was really the key.

That was why she had been successful all these years. She had kept that promise throughout high school, where she had to do everything by herself, and college, which she worked hard enough to get a scholarship for. And when she found Islam, her life had been enlightened.

That was how she had gotten from there to here.

She held her son in her eyes, realizing that indeed, with every hardship comes ease. And now, at the end of her hardship, she had finally found ease. She had a wonderful family, an amazing job, and a Deen that she loved more than anything else. She was complete.

Now, it was her turn to whisk away the nightmares of her children by letting go of her own. The present was waiting. She slid into her covers and closed her eyes. And to the haunting past, she whispered. “Goodnight.”

It’s quaint, old-fashioned. Almost like a rite of passage, I suppose, to have this insatiable need for the “fairytale ending,” the classic one where a beautiful girl is riding in a pretty horse-drawn carriage, accompanied by none other than her handsome prince. They’re both smiling – rigidly in that quintessential 50’s fashion – as they ride off into the sunset. Then, from what seems like thin air, two soaring birds trace words into the sky, leaving beautifully scripted letters, which read, “The End.”Sound familiar?

Now, before you admonish and tell me I’ve misconstrued the very notion of “fairytale,” please allow me to explain. As I crash into adulthood, I’ve become increasingly aware that such a fictional backdrop is not simply the fodder of little girls’ dreams. This idea of happily ever after has been the subject of blistering discussions, the fabric of goals, and the narrations of a countless number of novels and films. It’s becoming more and more difficult to maneuver myself through the labyrinth of the lovestruck. Questions buzz monotonously from hopeful lips and streamline through the air, “When will it happen? Why hasn’t it happened yet? Will it ever happen, and with who, when, where?” As I stand there and stare, bewildered, I notice myself being swallowed by questions that I, quite frankly, don’t have the answers to.

It seems that everyone is sprinting towards this abstracted beeline, this pathway of princes and carriages and princesses and happiness. There seems to be this “secret formula” of marriage, of finding “the One,” concocted using only the elements of ambition and age. It’s the classic adage, “If you can think it, you can make it so.” What’s frightening about this beeline to beloveds is hearing our Muslim brothers and sisters speak about themselves in a manner that is not in the least bit kind. They say that they are alone because of their looks or due to other irrelevant characteristics. Even worse, some state that Allah has abandoned and forgotten about them. It is simply heartbreaking to hear individuals utter such things, but what is even more depressing is to finally realize that we’ve lost sight of the power and strength of Allah’s plan. Marriage is much like anything in life; it is planned by Allah in the most meticulous and precise fashion. Why do we constantly submerge ourselves in the cloudiness of doubt?

Allah (subhanahu wa ta’ala), tells us: ”And to Allah belongs the Ghaib (unseen) of the heavens and the earth, and to Him return all affairs (for decision). So worship Him (O Muhammad) and put your trust in Him. And your Lord is not unaware of what you (people) do.” ¹

I’ve come to learn that there is a stark difference between being in pursuit of a perfect partner, and searching for the right one. This contrast simply says that no one is perfect, so why are we exhaustibly pooling our efforts chasing mere figments of our imagination ? More often than not, we are sorely mistaken about what it means to be the right one for someone else. We are too inclined to think that love or marriage can somehow solve all of our problems or serve as a solution for our difficulties that we are currently facing. The significance and bearing of marriage in our religion cannot be denied, but Allah (subhanahu wa ta’ala) created us in such a manner that we are meant to find tranquility and happiness in our spouses, not solely lust or faded dreams. The best fairytale is the one where a couple strives to lead their lives in such a manner that is most pleasing to Allah so that, bi’idhnillah, one day they can ride in beautiful carriages through “gardens beneath which rivers flow,” as princes and princesses of the land. ²

For all of us who are still unraveling our understanding of the labyrinth of the lovestruck, let’s take comfort in the words of Jane Austen, who writes –  “There are as many forms of love as there are moments in time.” Let’s find contentment in the loved ones that we have in our lives: our parents, our family, our friends, amd most importantly our Lord, Allah (subhanahu wa ta’ala), who loves us more than any prince or princess can  dare to fathom.

May Allah (subhanahu wa ta’ala) bestow enduring love between the hearts of our Ummah’s couples and may He unite our single brothers and sisters with their rightful and cherishing match. May the birds in the sky soar, weaving in and out of beautiful script on the edge of the horizon. Ameen.

I saw death coming right in front of me, and all I felt was fear. What will happen when it comes for me?

Or you?

* * *

She lay there, weak, taking the last breaths of her life. Her lungs were suffering to exchange oxygen, her body emaciated due to weight loss. Her hair was gone, leaving only a few strands, and her eyes were shut, as she escaped in her own mind.

I was thinking of how her soul would rise from her body, and prayed it would do so with ease. As she lay there, I started to wonder what she could see – perhaps the Angel of Death?

I asked myself, “Is she scared?” Even though her eyes were shut, Allah was preparing her for death. No pill, no IV tube, not even the best doctor in the world could stop her inevitable death from coming.

As everyone surrounded her, I knew the angels were there too, repeating “ameen” after the duas we were silently whispering.

I could not bear to look at her, my emotional stability quickly falling every moment. I thus went to another room to try and figure everything out and to look into duas and verses that should be recited at the time of death.

Time was flying by and death was near, but the only thing that kept on popping up in my mind was the degraded and obscene behavior of our ummah. I just couldn’t shake off that troubling feeling of seeing fellow Muslims making fun of one another, criticizing their own brothers and sisters, and saying that they love Allah but then contradicting that statement with their own actions. We keep complaining about the things we don’t have, don’t turn back to the things we do have, and so the never-ending list goes on.

We take the slightest thing for granted, and not once does it occur to us that we can die any second. When that happens, will we have time to fix our mistakes? Will we have time to ask all those that we hurt to forgive us? Unfortunately, due to many of us having high egos, we just can’t find ourselves saying sorry, especially since we feel it has always to be the other way around. But what if death just happened to chance upon us in that one instant of our many silent treatments? The next thing we know, the whole situation could be completely reversed on us. Everyone could be lowering us into the grave, not hearing a single scream or yell emanating from our lips.

All they would see is our dead body.

Thankfully, Allah is the most merciful, and it is by Allah’s blessing that He continues to forgive us and remind us in His unique and majestic way. It may be that a heavy burden, causing much pain and tears, is the very mercy from Allah to help us escape from the prison we constructed for ourselves. It could be only then that we open our eyes and see the world in its true color and form. That’s when we finally realize that what we have been doing is wrong and that we need to improve and ask Allah to forgive us. The most Wise, Allah (glorified and exalted be He) creates pain and tears for a reason. Pain is to make us realize that what we were doing wasn’t beneficial for us. Tears are a part of His mercy so that we may let out some of that pain that is flowing from our hearts.

These tears and pain, whether due to the loss of a loved one or otherwise, should continually remind us that we’re here for one purpose, and that is to be the best servant to our Lord, the High and Mighty Allah. Our goal should never be to impress others and have all the jewelry, the clothes, the fashion, the friends and the money. We should continually ask ourselves what is it in those clothes that will help us on the Day of Judgment – a day when we will be without any at all. We should carefully consider our use of time and spend less of it in the aim of money and luxury, especially since none of it will be of any help on that Last Day when we are all regretting and begging for another chance at life.

We aren’t perfect, and that is precisely why we need more constant reminders of who we really are and why we’re here. Death is one of these many reminders; it should make us really remember and understand “Inna lillahi wa inna ilahi raj’iun”: “To Allah we come from, and to Allah we will return”. Every single one of us. This should really reinforce our belief that everyday is a second chance at life. This could be the day that we finally take heed of these many reminders and make a change for the better.

I’m not perfect. No one is. However, if we can’t be perfect, we can try to be something close to it. Insha’Allah, this way, we will be rewarded by the Creator who observes and records all of our efforts. Glory be to Him.

I was no longer sure about the time of day.

Not a ray of sunlight was apparent to signify the morning, nor was there a sliver of moonlight to signify the night. All I was certain about was the opacity that engulfed the atmosphere I was trudging through. The air felt moist against my forehead as I blindly roamed on, and made me wonder if I was passing through a dark, dense fog. I wandered and wandered. The surface beneath my feet was rough and uneven. At one point I felt something sharp scratch the skin of my toes. The searing sensation was long gone, but the stickiness of the blood remained. Since I could not see anything, I just went with the hope that the blood had somehow stopped flowing, and instead clotted and dried up on the surface of my skin.

Was I looking for solace on this scant walk? I wasn’t even sure if that was possible. I was curious as to where my wandering would lead. Suddenly, my sticky toes encountered a gentle and meek texture. It felt damp and slightly ticklish.

Grass.

I scampered forward, forgetting the feelings of anxiety that had slithered down my spine. I was relieved that I didn’t have to blindly tread on rough ground anymore. I was foolish to think I would be welcome to even more open space when suddenly my body slammed into a hard object. I didn’t fall, but my right side throbbed. I felt around the object with my open palm and figured it was wood. I moved my hand around some more and felt something smooth and round. I turned it left and I turned it right, and pushed. A creaking sound broke the airy silence, and I jumped back, startled. The feeling of anxiety returned as I peered through the door, wondering what could possibly be beyond it.

A garden.

I was no longer squinting through pitch blackness, as my irises finally widened for my gaze to actually rest upon a view.

There was light.

Not enough to brighten a morning, but enough to see surroundings for taking a stroll at midnight. Vines of roses that rooted up from the ground and curved upward in an arch-like shape greeted me. I stepped through, onto what seemed to be a trail of compact soil with a brightly colored array of tulips growing on either side. Shuffling down the path, I wanted to see what the source of light was, and where it was coming from. As strange and unfamiliar the place may have been, my heart was at ease. The garden was comforting in a peculiar way, and allowed me to leave the anxiety not on my back, but in the unknown of the darkness I left behind.

At the end of the soil path were two great cherry blossom trees resting their trunks on the grass. At last, I had found the source of light, right in between the trees. I rushed over to take a look, to see a dainty woven basket harvesting the light. It was rectangular in shape, and carefully crafted. The golden color was crisp on the baleen material and was even more illuminated from the glow inside the basket. I noticed an etching on the side of it. There were three Arabic letters. A sheen, a haa, and a raa. I spelled it out.

“Shahara.”

Realizing the etching was pertaining to the glow emanating from the basket, I wondered if Shahara meant light. I looked at the garden around me; and thought how it seemed like it was nighttime with the only available light coming from the basket. Then it hit me. This glow was signifying the night. Shahara must mean moonlight. I was holding a basket of moonlight. It was as if someone had gathered handfuls of it from the sky and stuffed it in this basket.

It was puzzling, finding such a thing. How odd to have a basket full of moonlight. As if hearing my thoughts, the glow blossomed into a more elegant beam, and washed over my face, causing me to close my eyelids. A wave of a sensation tumbled over me. As if the glow was trying to remind me of something.

Allah.

Shahara reminded me of Allah. The glow dimmed a bit, and just glistened modestly as it twinkled in my irises… By the ordinance of Allah, I reflected, the moon emerges from behind the clouds only in the evening. Its brilliance is revealed when the world is sleeping. It humbly lights the night sky enough for the few of those who are awake. I gazed at the glow from the basket and was reminded of how humbleness and modesty are essential components of iman.

Tears trickled down my cheek and dripped off my chin as I wept into the basket. Allah had mercy on me, and guided me to find Shahara, so I would no longer be lost. Seeing such moonlight is indeed a reminder of having faith in the One and Only Rabb, the Lord of such magnificence creations and controlling all of them to function and fill their purposes all at their designated times.

“The sun is running its course to its appointed place. That is the ordaining of the All-Mighty, the All-Knowing. We have appointed stages for the moon till it returns in the shape of a dry old branch of palm-tree. Neither does it lie in the sun’s power to overtake the moon nor can the night outstrip the day. All glide along, each in its own orbit” (Surah Yasin 36:38).

It was my designated time to encounter Shahara and be reminded of the essence in worshipping Allah. It was about time to fix the despair and overcome new obstacles in life with the remembrance of Allah, seeking refuge in Him.

I took the basket of moonlight with me on the way out of the garden, knowing it would help me face the opaqueness I had left behind on the other side of the wooden door. I no longer had the tingles of anxiety rushing down my back. I had more than a sliver of moonlight to signify the night and guide me back to the remembrance of Allah azza wa jal.

This piece is a story-like extended metaphor. In the beginning, the darkness that I am walking through is a metaphor representing my mind. It was during a time when my mind was filled with confusion and cluttered with worries and thoughts of unfortunate events. Finding the garden and feeling at ease is a metaphor of the time I was looking for a freshman student in the hallway when I was a junior in high school. I put all other thoughts of my own life aside, and instead focused on new thoughts of figuring out where and how I would find her in the school building to invite her to the first MSA (Muslim Students’ Association) meeting. The event of actually meeting her is represented by the metaphor of finding the basket. The moonlight itself is the metaphor of my newfound friend Shahara, of course, whose name means just that – “moonlight” in Arabic. Although she is younger than me, she has become a role model in my life of becoming a better Muslimah. Just like the way Allah has given an appointed time for the moon to emerge in the night sky, Allah had ordained an appointed time for me to meet Shahara during my junior year of high school. A time when I needed a friend to give me a fresh, new outlook of handling myself as a Muslim girl in this temporary life.

And of course, leaving the garden with the basket is the metaphor of going back out into the obstacles of my mind to solve my worries and anxieties with the friend who reminds me of Allah.

“Friends on that Day will be enemies one to another, except al-Muttaqoon (i.e. those who have Taqwa).”  (Surah Az-Zukhruf 43:67).

While we go about living our daily lives, caught up in the speed and realness of each moment, an occasional “oh my Allah!” moment interrupts, reminding us to step back and reassess our situation. Reality dawns upon us, and we suddenly find ourselves at a loss of hope because of our sins.

All of this is due to our choosing to live in the moment instead of living for this moment and all the rest. We find ourselves being lackadaisical and insincere when we want to repent. We begin to lose faith in Allah and His decree. We gradually slack off in our good deeds, and then finally come to the dismal conclusion that we’ve lurked too far in sins to return to guidance.

For those of us who share these same sentiments, here’s a divine message of hope and relief from our Master:

“‏واني لغفار لمن تاب وءامن وعمل صالحا ثم اهتدى”

“And indeed, I am the perpetual forgiver to whoever repented, had faith, and performed a righteous deed. Then he is guided.” (Surah Ţāhā 20:82).

In this one verse, we find so many lessons that have the potential to lift us from our prison of deviance and help us find the key to forgiveness. We only need to take heed.

When beginning the verse, Allah uses two forms of emphasis to show the importance of what He is about to say. He firstly uses inna (إنّ), which essentially means “most definitely, without a doubt!” He then uses lām al-ta’kīd (لام التأكيد), which conveys a similar meaning of inna (إنّ) and further emphasizes the ensuing message.

Allah then refers to Himself as Ghaffār (غفّار). Grammatically, Ghaffār (غفّار) is a hyperbolized noun, which denotes that Allah is perpetually and constantly forgiving and looking over faults. In the study of Qur’ānic rhetoric (balāghah), the use of a verb instead of a noun usually denotes an action which will eventually come to rest and subside. But when a word is used as a noun instead of as a verb, then it means it is constantly happening without any end. We sometimes forgive and we sometimes forget, but Allah forgives and forgives and forgives. The stem of His mercy is like water whose flow does not ebb.

Immediately after Allah mentions He is Ghaffār (غفّار), He explains who are eligible for His forgiveness: tāb (تاب – the one who has sincerely repented), āman (آمن – the one who believed), and lastly, ‘amal (عمل – performed an act of good). Allah finishes the verse by saying those are the ones who are guided.

In summary, Allah’s mercy is so vast that He is capable of forgiving us no matter how much we may have sinned. Though we keep promising to Him that we’ll stop and yet persist in our vain desires, Allah (glorified and exalted be He) continues to shower us with his forgiveness. In fact, He wants us to repent even if we later end up committing that same sin again! Even if we had faith in Allah one day, and the next day it sort of faded out, Allah keeps on forgiving us. Even if we didn’t perform that many deeds, Allah continues to forgive us. At the end of the day, when we haphazardly demonstrate our insincere repentance, try to believe with our weak faith, and act with barely any good deeds, Allah still puts us on the path of guidance, subhānAllāh (glory be to Allah).

This is the essence of Allah being Ghaffār (غفّار) to us.

To add to this amazement, Allah mentioned the tribe of Isra’īl before this verse. In the Qur’ān, Allah dedicates most of the stories of revelation to them, their dealings with Musa, and the numerous crimes they committed. Besides Fir’awn and those like him, not a single nation’s mistakes are mentioned more than the tribe of Isra’īl. Even with a flawed record such as theirs, Allah mentioned this verse, demonstrating to us His mercy and how it was even shown to them!

Whether we may know it or not, Allah is more merciful to us than anybody else, even more so than our own loving mothers. When we made mistakes as children, our mothers smiled and kept giving us chance after chance. Allah’s capacity for forgiveness does not even compare. As long as we request, beg, and ask of Him continuously and constantly, we will always be under Allah’s guidance. All we have to do then, is try.
May Allah give us the ability to be better Muslims who will serve His religion in whatever capacity we can. May He give us the ability to turn to Him with sincere repentance, a strong heart devoted to loving and believing in Him, and actions which benefit us in the Hereafter. Āmīn.

Surraya uncrossed her feet and then crossed them again. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, her itchy freezing fingers in search of some warmth. Gosh, it was cold, she thought. She was sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting for her turn. Her throat wasn’t getting any better, and after a week of taking cough syrup, she was back with an even worse case of strep throat. These bloody doctors don’t care about a thing except their bank accounts, she fumed, as she rolled her eyes and slumped back in her chair. She had a sudden urge to strangle someone with a stethoscope.

Suddenly Amira walked into the waiting room and Surraya’s eyes widened. She watched as her neighbour booked her name at the reception desk and came to sit in an empty chair across the room. Surraya’s gaze ran down from Amira’s crumbled dupatta, to her ugly cotton clothes with the ancient design, to the flip flops on her feet. Her dark unkempt black hair was playing hide and seek, with curls popping out from beneath the cloth on her head. There were horrible black bags under her eyes. Her face looked worn and exhausted, as though her affair with sleep had ended years ago. Surraya’s scrutinizing study came down to pause at her neighbor’s bulging belly. She’d heard enough about Amira to know what kind of person she was.

Her husband worked all day, brought money home, and took the kids out on weekends. She used to watch them on Saturday afternoons from her living room window. They lived in the huge bungalow across from her, with the rose bushes and vegetable patch. She had what Surraya believed to be the perfect life, with everything a woman could ask for. Yet the woman always looked sad and depressed, messy and weak. She avoided conversation and if someone did happen to talk to her, she would just snap back or not even reply. People in the community often talked about her; some even said she was ‘a bit in the head’. At a mosque gathering, Naseem the tailor had shared that she had gone round to Amira’s house the day before. She had found the kitchen to be filled with dirty dishes and saw that the kids were in front of the telly, still in their pyjamas. They told her that their mother was asleep upstairs. “It was disgraceful!” she said, her eyes filled with disgust. “The lady was sleeping through the afternoon, she had probably missed her prayers too!” Saeeda, the madrassah teacher, had quickly interjected saying how Amira didn’t even come to the Tajweed classes. She stopped coming after the first few days, she told everyone else disapprovingly. Surraya had listened to all the talk, and for the remainder of that evening, they had giggled, laughed, made up all sorts of stories, and then left after praying salah.

Surraya’s thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a young handsome man who walked into the waiting room and came and sat next to Amira. He pocketed the car keys he’d been holding and leaned forward to say something to her. She whispered something back and then lifted her head to look up at him. Surraya had never seen this man before and instantly her heart was racing. Could this be what it looked like? She couldn’t believe it! The young man touched Amira’s hand, and with the other hand, he wiped the tears slowly falling from her eyes. Surraya’s eyes darted from the clutching hands to the pregnant belly and she heard herself gasp. Ya Allah.

***

Opposite Surraya, Amira sat with her brother, Malik, and angrily swept away the tears that were leaking from her already swollen and puffy eyes. Her body hurt, some from the bruises and scars her husband had gifted her the night before, and some from the pain and loneliness that was tearing her heart apart. Her skin condition wasn’t getting any better, forcing her to remain in old cotton dresses. She missed the days when she could wear anything from her wardrobe, from the sequined tops to the embroidered skirts. But now, they were brutal enemies to her. They burnt her skin and caused blazing forest fires to rage constantly throughout her body. Doctors had said it was a serious skin condition. She touched her swollen tummy, thinking about the innocence that lay inside, and suddenly her eyes were stung with fresh tears once more. How was she going to go through this again? She thought of her other three children, her precious little ones, and her mind raced to the horror and discomfort they witnessed a few times already. Their father’s angry beating and their mother’s heart-wrenching screams. Today, she had finally plucked up the courage to ring her brother who had flown in from Ireland. She was terrified about what her husband would do when he found out. She felt Malik squeeze her hand and she gripped onto it.

“It’s all going to be okay, Amira. Please don’t cry,” he whispered. The sight of his sister in so much pain was causing his blood to boil with rage and his anger to dance furiously in his body. He couldn’t wait to get his fingers round the throat of his brother-in-law, but his sister came first. So he sat there, wiping the tears slowly falling from her eyes.

Amira nodded, trying to calm herself. She kept her gaze lowered, and stared at her toes. She was terrified to look up and meet Surraya’s eyes. In her head, she could hear the sniggers, the whispered talk, and the stories she knew people published on living room walls and stolid park benches.

“All right, everyone. Let’s recite Surah Al-Asr before we finish class,” I announced to thirteen pairs of brown eyes staring up at me. In unison, the chorus of excited third-graders began to read the Surah. One little girl in a puffy white coat and gauzy blue hijab leapt up in excitement, waving her hands grandiosely as she recited the Surah. The boy sitting next to her saw this as a challenge; grinning, he increased his voice three octaves to try and overshadow her. By the time the Surah was over, their voices boomed throughout the masjid hall.

This was the essence of purity and beauty: the sound of joyful kids reciting the words of the Qur’an. It never failed to drown out worried thoughts that might have been preoccupying my mind before.

As class ended, the kids tramped out of the masjid, each clutching the arks they had colored after learning about the story of Prophet Nuh (may Allah’s peace be upon him). I stayed where I was, wearily resting my head on the graffiti-covered wooden table as the realities of the upcoming week slowly came back to me.

The night before, I had made a list of what I had to do in the next few days. College applications clamored for my attention, scholarship essays needed to be written, and then there was the daily routine of chemistry labs, English presentations, and calculus exams.

Everybody has weeks where they’re overwhelmed with work and lose all notion of time. This was mine. Hours melted into days and days rapidly deteriorated into weeks as I worked, worked, worked, and worked. The sands of time were running out of very my fingers as deadlines approached and the calmness of my mind disintegrated.

“Asalaamu ‘alaikum.” Another teacher’s friendly greeting roused me from my self-induced stupor of self-pity and panic.

“Wa ‘alaikumus salaam. I was actually going to come talk to you,” I answered slowly, “I won’t be able to teach next Sunday because I have two college applications due on Monday. I’ll get someone to cover for me, Insha’Allah. Is that okay?”

She shook her head, declaring emphatically, “No, you have to come next Sunday.”

I stared at her for a minute, unsure if she was serious. I had a legitimate reason! Didn’t she know that next week could possibly determine my future, while Sunday school would come again and again?

Unnerved by her refusal, I looked around the room, trying to regain my composure. The messy table with strewn crayons and sprawled books didn’t help, except to remind me of the unfinished work awaiting me at home.

“But…but, I have to,” I stuttered, starting to ramble. “My application is due on Monday and I can’t get any of it done before.”

She looked at me for a minute with a mother’s eyes.

“You think that if you skip class next week and stay at home, you’ll get more work done. But if you come to class, Allah will give you more barakah. You might have four fewer hours to do your work, but Insha’Allah, your work will be even more successful because you took the time to remember Allah and teach about Islam.”

Her brutally honest words made me feel instantly ashamed as it forced me to reevaluate my work and so-called ‘study habits’.

Wasn’t it true that when I had homework or cleaning or some other overbearing obligation, I pushed Islam off to a last priority? The sister’s words made me remember the time I stayed up all night studying for a chemistry midterm and put aside reading Qur’an because I hadn’t had time. There was the day I skipped hadith class because I had three essays to write and I thought I could just go again next week. How often had I put Islamic learning or reading Qur’an last on my to-do lists? I thought I was being more efficient, but I was really preventing barakah and the blessings of Allah from entering into my life.

Most people forget about reading Qur’an or learning new ahadith when they become very busy and stressed. The truth is that this is the time that we should remember Allah the most, for He is the one who makes our efforts successful and eases our trials. Barakah allows us to achieve more with few resources, complete a lot when we are most pressed for time, and make our efforts successful.

After all, Allah is Al-Mu’tee (The Giver), Al-Baasit (The Extender), and Ar-Razzaq (The Provider). Without Him, all of our efforts would be fruitless. As it says in the Qur’an, “And if any one puts his trust in Allah, sufficient is Allah for him. For Allah will surely accomplish his purpose” (Surah Al-Talaq 65:3).

Maybe the kids weren’t the only ones who needed to recite Surah Al-Asr.

Home. Where is home? I thought of this and only then was I faced with the inevitable.

“We’re going to move by the end of the year.” My father’s sudden words temporarily silenced me. I paused for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to feel.

“Do I have a choice?” I asked, afraid of what I knew he was going to say.

“No,” he said quietly. He sensed my pain. He’s seen this look on my face before. But he too, had no choice.

I tried to comfort myself, but the recurring thought of moving over 1,400 miles away from my closest friends and family wasn’t helping. I reminisced on the last time I moved, which was four long years ago. How did I handle that? Not well. My eyes began to water as I recollected thoughts of suicide, hopelessness, and fear. Four years ago, I was hardly a practicing Muslim; I was a naïve thirteen-year-old completely and utterly lost in this world. I wasn’t too keen on staying with my previous circle of friends, but it was the abrupt change and fear of the unknown future that frightened me. I was afraid of leaving what I assumed to be my home.

“Where is home?” I remember asking myself.

“Home is Riyadh, Saudi Arabia,” I answered without a second thought. Internally, I was dissatisfied with that answer, and I sought further reasoning.

“Why?”

“Because it’s where I spent my childhood.” 

I left it at that. But I knew I didn’t belong there. Spiritually, I was still searching for the answer.

So I ask myself, now, four years later: “Where is home?”

Before I can answer “Home is Springfield, Virginia”, a part of me takes a step back – a step back from the present moment, from this temporary, petty term of our existence. I had to think about this in terms of my deen, in terms of the totality of my life. There is a place I seek, something I long for. No, Some One. I long for the closeness to my Lord. I long for spiritual peace from the only Source of Peace. It was then that I realize that the only comfort is with the Source of Comfort Himself.

I was reminded of a few ahadith I heard recently in a lecture:

The Prophet Muhammad (may Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him) said, ”By Him in Whose Hands my life is, everybody will recognize his dwelling in Paradise better than he recognizes his dwelling in this world” [Bukhari]. He (may Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him) also said, “Live in this world as (if you are) a wayfarer or a stranger” [Bukhari, Tirmidhi].

I sighed, relieved. I had an answer. We are all just on our journey home. This life is just one thing: a journey. I could live in Saudi Arabia, I could live in Virginia, but none of those were the right places. There is only one objective: to please Allah. There is only one destination: a home, promised to those who sincerely struggle to please their Lord. A home that is light years further than 1,400 miles.

“O mankind, indeed you are laboring toward your Lord with [great] exertion and will meet it” (Surah Al-Inshiqāq 84:6).

As the well-known saying goes, ‘Home is where the heart is’. I know now that my heart solely belongs to Allah. My home is in His Grace, and my home is in Jannah, Insha’Allah.

May Allah accept our efforts and make us among those whose true home awaits them in Jannah. Ameen.

Become one with the earth.
Lay upon the dirt from which you came.
Sinking, melting,
Streaming down the crevices
Cracks, slipping further.
We return to the earth, don’t we?
Go, return to your Lord.
Creator.
Guardian.

Let the sun wash over your skin.
Bask in the beams of mercy,
A gift from your Lord
Calling to you
Pray
Beg
Bathe in the sheets of noor
Filling every pore, hole, void,
With longing
To glide along the bridges threading from sky to earth.

Crystal droplets, dancing
Sloshing, swishing
Flowing down the banks
Bubbling, gurgling
Rushing foam
A gift to your parched throat.
Sliding down the tunnel
Moistening your cracked lips.

Rustling blades of grass
Crushed against your body
Crumpled, springy
Dewdrops, beads resting atop these towers,
Creased, crunched
Rustling
Waving in the breeze.

Timeless silence.
Can you paint with the colors of the wind?
Wavering
Swaying
Gliding
Persuasive gusts of incessant beauty.

Endless blue
Stretching across the heavens
Flexing to match the mold of the sky
Soft to the touch, clouds
Scattered, peppered,
Dotting the skies of great depth.

A crack, a hiss
The sound of a shattered soul
Pain, loss,
Spreading, filling every gap.
Bursting at the seams of gentle skins.

Covering
Smothering
Begging to escape
To leave your crushed body
Impossible, inescapable,
Leaking from the ducts that corner the gateways to your soul
Streaming down your face
Dripping into the ground
Soaking the earth.
Every drop
Hungry, ravenous
To leech away the pain.

Become one with the earth
Lay upon the dirt from which you came
Sinking, melting,
Streaming down the crevices
Cracks, slipping further
Little by little, bit at a time
Slowly
Go, return to your Lord.

There are times in life which every human being capable of emotion is able to relate to. A moment where you feel the power of utter vulnerability, when the spiderwebs of familiarity you have woven around you over the course of years – even decades – are ripped away, when you feel like one of the hollow sea shells drifting along the foamy seas…

There are times when every morsel of your body yearns to melt into the earth, to vanish completely. When you want to run away so nobody can ever find you again.

Allah (Glorified and Exalted be He) says that man was created weak, that we need to have a Lord to return to in these times of plight.

Every human is subject to these moments of hopelessness. The solution then, is to return to Allah, to yearn and ask for His Mercy.

Because of course, ‘in the remembrance of Allah do the hearts find rest’ (Surah Ar-Ra’d 13:28).