Atop a shaky mountain, I placed a burden.
Oh what a sin, what a sin I have done.
When will is weak and heart is hardened,
Back to my Lord must I run, shall I run.

Far in the distance, far from never ending toil,
Far into fields where no soul may find me,
I run unprepared, barefoot against damp soil,
Leaving the shaky mountain behind me.

On a twig, I stumble, I tumble, I fall
Face first into the dirt where I belong.
I cannot stop now, farther, farther I crawl
Away from everything I have done wrong.

I make my way to a stream to wash it away.
The water is clean, clear, and cool on my skin
As I avert my eyes from the crystal display,
From the reflection of one that has sinned.

Shame eats conscience which I cannot be rid;
My Lord, release me from this cage of rib.
I submerge my head underwater and scream.
My Lord, wake me up from this nightmarish dream.

Still the mountain stood, shaky as ever,
And for once, I stop running; I begin to consider
That searching for tranquility is an endless endeavor,
That perhaps taqwa is more than this fearful quiver.

***

Reported by Abdullah bin Masoud (r), the Prophet (s) has said, “The believer sees his sins as if he were sitting beneath a mountain which he fears is about to fall upon him, whereas the wicked sees his sins like a man who finds a fly settle upon his nose, so he does this [he brushes it away from his nose]” (Sahih Bukhari). 

This poem is about shame – shame that is the product of sin, hypocrisy, and neglect. The speaker has been away from Allah to the point where heedlessness prevails and mistakes are easily made, forming a mountain of sin. When the sins are recognized, she tries to run away from “the shaky mountain” but realizes that she cannot run away from herself. Nonetheless, she keeps running, afraid of being crushed underneath the mountain. She finds a stream and tries to wash the sins away, avoiding her reflection in the water due to her shame.

Towards the end, she prays for Allah to take her life. This is by no means what a believer should do when in this situation, but it illustrates our fear of coming to terms with the shameful things we do. It is the fear of the shaky mountains behind us – the sins that weigh us down, the sins that are so close to falling on us. She realizes at the end that her prayers were in vain. So, instead of physically distancing herself from the mountain, she must distance herself from it internally. Only then will she run to peace.

I walk not knowing where I am headed,
What lies in front of me, what path I’ve treaded.
Lost in the midst of a jungle, blinded by lush trees,
The thorns prick my feet, causing them to bleed.

Shall I detour from the trees to see what lies ahead of me?
Or shall I take a different path, and from this jungle be freed?
Or should I make for myself shoes to walk within it safely–
Shoes with soles of patience and heals of piety?

Should I walk alone or hold a hand lest I fall?
And where may I find a hand to get me through it all?
I seek a strong hand – firm and steady
With a resilient heart, fearless and ready.

As my feet bleed, my heart seeks
The One Who hears the words my heart speaks,
The One Who sees me and recompenses all that is gone,
The One Who will guide me as long as I hold on.

***

We all have moments when we feel like the whole world squeezes down on us, that we’re headed nowhere significant in life. Expectations in all aspects of life sometimes corner us into a wall of despair. However, whether we are physically free to make some decisions in life or not, whether things look like they are going somewhere or nowhere, what’s more important in the end is the bigger picture: As long as you have Allah SWT with you, you can make it through any hardship and learn to be content with the present and hopeful of the future.

Ibn Ata Allah Al-Iskandari once said: “What has he found, he who has lost God? And what has he lost, he who has found God?”

Continued from ‘Not Her Cup of Tea: Part I’

She was back in the rain- this time with a new purpose. She was still frowning, but her facial muscles were tensed with concentration, versus her previous hopelessness.

She was still Amaan with her tattered sneakers and tired eyes. But at the same time, she was not Amaan. She was not the same girl who was scared of her own emotions, numb with mourning, or too paralyzed to get up and act, change the world with her own hands.

Amaan’s arms were sore. She sifted through the ash once more, turning the dirt over and around. She was looking for something, anything, that she could take with her to hold on to her family. There, her eyes rested upon two soot-covered orbs, both slightly larger than the nail of her thumb. She pried them away from the earthen grit, using her fingertips to wipe the mud off two marbles.

Gazing thoughtfully into the insides of the amber-colored marbles, she noted how they were both depth-full yet somehow reflective. With a clink, she rotated them slowly. Sighing, she conceded within her foggy mind that the marbles were going to be her only souvenir, and perhaps it was best that they were pocket-sized. She slipped them into the warm pockets of her gray, knit sweater, keeping her hand inside so she could feel their cool exteriors as she trudged along the sidewalk.

Amaan ducked into a dreary alleyway with fallen beams and soggy cardboard boxes strewn across the cracked concrete. She carefully stepped over a pile of shattered window glass and into the abandoned shop she had grown accustomed to.

Setting the marbles down, she pulled a wad of US currency out of one of her many pockets. Her hollow-looking eyes swept over the room again. Moldy wallpaper, floorboards scattered randomly, and one hardly intact, cardboard box in which she stored anything she could call her own. Glancing back at the paper in her hands, she counted to ten. She had made a hundred dollars in the last week by cleaning people’s clogged gutters- only because they did not have the time or energy to do it themselves. So she spent her time scooping out moldy leaf-litter out of plastic pipes, all while balancing precociously on a creaky ladder.

No wonder my arms are so sore, Amaan thought. She stretched, stuffing the cash under everything else. She rolled over onto her pile of clothes, thinking she could really use a nice, warm cup of tea to help fall asleep.

She did not react as strongly to the thought as much as she would have- said three weeks ago. But the ropes that knotted in her stomach and the tension that grabbed at her throat were enough to keep her awake for longer than Amaan would have liked.
The night was long. When the stars, hidden behind a thick sheet of city smog, finally began to twinkle out, and the heavens lightened to a deep, royal, blue, she rose in relief, for her morning prayer.

Sometimes, she wondered if Allah had brought these trials upon her, not only as a test, but to bring her Iman up further than it had ever been. She could not recall ever waking up for Fajr on time before the incident. When brilliant magenta hues began to streak across the sky, she smiled, thinking that Allah always has a ray of sunshine waiting after darkness, after a storm.

In hindsight, she did not mind one bit. Every day she felt her regretful sorrows ebbed into life lessons, and her “Why me?”s into reverent gratitude for what she still possessed.

She slipped into the shadows, making her way between the cobblestone-walled alleyways, ducking under hanging shop signs. Hands in her pockets, she walked with her eyes downcast, trying to draw little attention to herself as possible. The air was thick with petrichor, pulling her backwards as she tried moving forward.

Amaan felt a presence behind her and glanced over her shoulder. A middle-age woman, perhaps once very beautiful but gone to seed, was struggling to hold both the hand of her child and several brown, paper, grocery bags. Without a moment’s hesitation, Amaan turned on her heel and walked over to help. “Here,” she breathed through her teeth, taking up two of the packages.
The child’s dark eyes wandered up to Amaan’s furrowed eyebrows. “Hi,” he voiced, his words curious and timid. “Thank you for helping my mommy.” She felt her lips curve into a small smile. “It’s only right that you help someone when they need it,” she said gently, kneeling to his level. “Remember that, okay? Always help your… mommy,” she said, tasting the word.

The mother swept a lock of graying hair behind her ear and grinned. “I’m so sorry, do you mind walking with us back to our apartment? I can’t carry my groceries very far.” It struck Amaan that with so many bags the mother must run a busy household. “Of course,” replied Amaan.

They said little as they walked. The child craned his neck to see the stranger helping his mother, eyes bright, gears whirring behind the little pools of spring-water. His chubby fingers laced in her larger hands, swinging rhythmically. Amaan took note of the band-aid on his elbow and the missing laces in his sneakers. There was a smudge of dirt on the tip of his tiny nose, and his eyelashes quivered with each blink.

The woman cleared her throat as she reached for her keys. “I’m Sarah,” she said, adjusting the grocery bag so it rested on her hip. “Please excuse the mess.”

Met by what was so much more than an ordinary mess, Amaan stepped over mismatched shoes and toy cars. She weaved through a narrow hallway, into a sitting room with a threadbare sofa in the corner and several children roaring in mock play. They pounced and leaped at each other, eyes alight with young innocence and wholehearted enjoyment.

Sarah released the six-year-old’s hand, and he waddled into the fray. Amaan grinned and followed the middle-aged woman into the kitchen, sorting cans and vegetables into their proper places. They remained silent with smiles were plastered from ear to ear as they watched the children engage in roughhousing. A minute later, they were sitting on the couch.

Cross legged, Amaan leaned forward to get a better look. “Are they all yours?” she blurted out rudely. They all were almost from different races.

Sarah sighed deeply and shook her head. “They were orphans from a young age- the best age to adopt, in my opinion,” she said, eyes closed. “That way, I can always teach them what it really means to be a family while crossing any boundaries of race and personal opinions. If it’s not obvious, they all love each other very much.” Amaan peered at the woman’s aging face. She had slightly plump, arched eyebrows and graying hair that came to her shoulders. “I can watch them anytime if you like,” Amaan said softly, her heart warming as she gazed at the children. “They’re wonderful.”

Sarah did not open her eyes. “I know,” she said. “And I would love that. I actually have a meeting tomorrow morning that I can’t miss.” Amaan nodded. “I can make it. But I should get going now if I want to get here early.” The foster mother’s eyelids slid back. “Thank you so much. See you tomorrow then”.

After a night of tossing and turning, Amaan carried her box out of the musty shop and entangled it in the thick ivy at the foot of Sarah’s apartment complex, completely invisible to anybody who did not know it was there.

She made her way up the second flight of stairs, sliding her dry-skinned hand over the cool, green railing. She hesitated before ringing the bell and then pressed the bell. There was a clamor of arguing children before the same child from the previous day, who opened the door and tilted his head all the way back in a mischievous grin. “She said you were coming again! I knew it!” he offered up his clammy little hand, and Amaan took it.

“Where’s your mommy?” Amaan asked, wondering if she had any special instructions. The child stared straight down the hallway, not making eye contact. “She said there’s tehlee-phone numbahs on the fridge,” he drawled, leading her over to the adjacent room’s floor. The other children all sat in a circle on the marker-stained carpet, giggling.

Amaan drew the familiar child on to her lap, bringing her chin to rest on his little shoulder. “What’s your name, little guy?” she wondered aloud. “Yusuf,” he replied, wriggling away from her. He pulled her closer to the other kids. She registered several details at once. An eight-year-old girl’s blonde pig tails. A two-year old Haitian boy’s glittering eyes. A Chinese boy’s mischievous grin. There were about seven children in all, most either rocking back and forth or telling someone else a story of castles and giant robots.
Yusuf eventually came back to her lap as she joined the children’s talk and play. Her animated stories and how she talked with her hands captured the emotions of the kids, who watched her- at first reproachfully, but then in awe.

The day went on. She fed them leftover clumpy macaroni and cheese from the fridge, cleaned up accidental spills, and helped them wash their hands after they used the bathroom.

When Sarah came home around seven, Amaan was tucking little Yusuf and the other children into bed. She pinched his nose gently. “Sweet dreams, little monster,” she cooed. He nodded. “Allahumma bi Ismaka amootu wa ahya…” he said, before closing his eyes. Amaan grinned, and turned off the lights before closing the door.

Sarah and Amaan sat for a cup of herbal tea. They talked longer than they had since they met. They discussed everything under the sun, including the children. Amaan felt the marbles grow cold in her pocket when Sarah informed her that Yusuf had lost his mother in a plane crash two years prior. He was a trouble child at first, but grew a little older to be kind and loving. He also, apparently, had always wanted an “awesome older sister”. This, Amaan thought, was definitely her cup of tea.

Trudging through the sodden dirt-path, the permanent frown on Amaan’s face deepened as she lost herself in thought. The mud streaked her tattered sneakers and seeped through the splitting seams.

Squelch. She could feel the wetness inside her shoes. Now her socks were soaked too.

She pulled the thick sweaters around her shoulders tighter, hugging her arms close. Amaan had always assumed the horrible stories about kids losing their families were simply melodramatic tales, used to frighten more well-off children into being thankful. Amaan had also thought that these things could possibly never happen to her. And yet they did.

Now, as she wandered aimlessly down the street, she regretted every single one of these skeptical assumptions, wishing no more than to have never allowed them to root themselves in her mind. Every morsel of her soul felt branded with the pain of loss and suffering, as “young and fresh” as she felt to be. Continuing down the unpaved sidewalk, another realization dawned upon her: Where am I even going?

With her home burned down to ashes on the muddy ground, and her family having recently reunited with the Lord, she had no place to call home. Her only known family lived in Palestine. She, of course, did not want to become a burden, and add to their already stressful lives.

She impatiently brushed the beginnings of tears from her eyes, swallowed the uprising hurt in her throat and looked around. The air carried a chill of what Amaan could only label as grief. Everywhere she looked, every slightest touch or sound, brought back her haunting past. She had become an overnight orphan. Her sense of purpose had fizzled out, that fire in her belly extinguished by the flames in her home.

The sharp creak of rusty hinges down the street behind her caught Amaan’s attention. She turned on her heel, facial expression as drained and tired as that of a porcelain doll.

An old woman with crinkles around her eyes from years of smiles stood on the weathered threshold before her and waved. “Good morning!” The woman’s frail voice split the chilly dawn air.

“…Morning,” Amaan grumbled after a few long, terse moments. The elderly woman’s smile grew larger still, her arms outstretched.
“Why, you look upset! Come in, come in. There’s always something to be happy about!”

Some hidden trait in the way these words flowed off of the woman’s tongue whisked Amaan back into the memory of her father’s rumbling chuckle. She bit her tongue. He was so close, yet so far.

Amaan tentatively stepped inside the house, allowing the woman to lead the way deeper in. The house was warm and inviting, the air thick with the scents of cinnamon and apple pie. She shrugged off the thick bundle of sweaters wrapped around her and reluctantly sat, teetering on the edge of a plump, cushioned chair.

The woman waddled forward on unsteady feet, clutching a small tray of cups and sugar. She set it down on the nutmeg-colored coffee table between them. “Tea, my dear?” the woman pointed to the cups and smiled, as warmly as the rich reds and browns that filled the room.

Amaan clamped down on her tongue to keep her composure in front of the hostess. Baba would have taken jasmine. Mama would’ve wanted something herbal…

The sixteen year old chanced a weak smile. “No thanks. It isn’t really… my cup of tea.” The old woman grinned at the pun and poured herself a steaming cup of earl grey. “It’s alright, my dear. I’m Mrs. Adams, by the way. But you can call me Dorothy if you’d like.” She nodded and took a few sips from her cup. Taking one more look at the frail Caucasian neighbor seated across from her, Amaan’s rough exterior melted away. I’ve got nowhere to be, no one to see. I might as well humor a lonely old woman.

They rattled out some small talk, the kettle of conversation beginning to heat They discussed the weather, the furniture, the difference between coffee and tea… time melted away into the clock above the mantelpiece. Tick. Tick.

A second kettle of tea came to a boil, as did their conversation and friendly chatter. Presenting Amaan with a cup of soothing tea (or as she jokingly called it, hot leaf juice), she innocently posed a question: “So… how’s your family doing?” It was typical, and it was expected. Everyone always had family in mind.

Amaan chewed her lip anxiously. I thought she knew. “Uh…” Amaan paused, feeling grief rise up again. She blinked back tears again. “They… they’re…” She lowered her eyes to the white porcelain teapot. “They are all in a better place now.”

Thick silence fogged the very air that had been cheerful and cozy mere moments ago. Amaan refused to meet her new companion’s gaze.

Dorothy , as she was named, quietly set her teacup and saucer down and slipped around the table. She slid a comforting arm around Amaan’s shoulder, words not able to form in her suddenly dry mouth. The two sat in silence, in remembrance of those they had lost. Dorothy rose shakily. “Just a moment,” she whispered.

Expecting some elderly-woman-type remedy, Amaan’s gut instinct forced her to her feet. Get out. Get out before you start crying. Minutes passed, or had they been seconds? Just moments. The girl’s mind could tell no difference. She grabbed her sweaters and began to tiptoe out the door.

“Amaan?” Dorothy returned her eyes wide and questioning. “I want to show you something.”

Amaan did not budge an inch, and Dorothy continued hesitantly. “Well, my cousin was Muslim. Like you. She wore a headscarf and everything.” Dorothy made circular motions around her face, smiling wryly, “She wanted me to become Muslim, too. But- she was- killed in a plane crash two years ago. I swore, if I met another Muslim, I would treat them with the very love I treated her with.”

Taking a step back, tears threatening to leak out, Amaan turned on her heel to hide her face. “Sorry. I have to leave,” she lied flatly, knowing she had nowhere to be, and nowhere to go. She slipped out, feeling the sharp raindrops rhythmically hitting her face. Something pulled her back in her subconscious, nagging her gut. She slowly extracted a napkin and 50 cent pen from her pocket and hastily scribbled a note.

“Thank…you…for…the….tea.” she recited to herself. In minuscule print at the bottom, she added- “You give me hope, Mrs. Adams.”

Amaan backed away. The deed was done. She couldn’t stay here. The shadows of her past would always come back to haunt her, casting darkness on the path before her. To avoid any tragedy, Amaan decided in a split second to not allow herself to get attached to anything, or anyone. She would not allow herself to be susceptible to the power of death, always bending her emotions to its will.

She could never return.

To be continued in ‘Not Her Cup of Tea: Part II’.

Numbness overcomes me once I finally see
That I beg for a savior, but it is in vain that I plea.
Storm clouds enshroud the sunrise
As we commence the unveiling of lies.

The pleasure some find in others’ pain
Is a cruelty by which the pretentious kings reign.
It is through the darkness of deceit, I perceive,
That they speak articulately, but only to deceive.

Anguish makes my throat constricted;
Let this be the last time our hearts are conflicted.
As the universe comes crashing to the ground,
Still in false thrones, they wear plastic crowns.

Fire and ice seal up my veins.
There’s a battle within me to keep myself sane.
Shutting our eyes won’t make it disappear;
The world’s overwhelmed with chaos and fear:

There isn’t a head that turns as I walk by,
No friendly smiles, just lonely cries.
Lost in speculation, unaware of the shadows,
Oblivious to the secrets that are hidden below.

Generations pass from the young to the younger,
While everything in this world remains a wonder.
Senses are heightened to the sharpest of sounds;
Their long-lost vows have caused this breakdown.

Surrounded by people yet so alone,
Our hearts transform to ice and stone.
Only As-Salaam can give me peace in my heart.
Ya Allah, don’t let this world tear us apart.

This morning, I try to open my eyes
To the blessings hidden, in disguise,
That reveal the truths that I blatantly deny.
Tears flow from my eyes as I realize:

In this world full of terror, darkness, and bliss,
Beauty and evil somehow coexist.
All praises to He for what we’re given today;
If He wills, tomorrow will be brighter than yesterday.

***

With the masses of turmoil and destruction that arise in the world, it is always reassuring to know that Allah is capable of making everything better. In the midst of a cycle of depression or a bout of worry, instead of turning to material things that can temporarily make us feel better, we fail to realize that there is something much powerful and more healing: hope.

For a long time, because of the difficulties that had accumulated in my life, I lost hope in people, in humanity, and in myself. In doing so, I was losing faith in my Creator. Instead of questioning Him, I should have been submitting to Him. I was at a new school surrounded by very different people. I was trying to pave a lifestyle for myself contrary to the one I was previously engaged in. Alhamdulillah, after experiencing some eye-opening events, I managed to channel my emotions in a more positive direction. Rather than secluding myself and withdrawing from everyone, I aimed to represent Islam in a way that I wished others had done for me while I was experiencing hardship. Through becoming aware of my lack of humility and patience that was hindering me from accomplishment, and through the pain and the sacrifice, I realized that all it takes is a little bit of perseverance and a flicker of hope.

09:46 – I wasn’t getting any closer to my destination. I was still on the bus, stuck in traffic. I had left extra early to be on time but the lecture starts in less than 15 minutes. I started panicking, wondering whether I’d be able to make it on time.

As I waited in distress, it eventually dawned on me that I was worrying over something that was neither under my influence or control. I had jumped on the bus with a ticket of my own doing. Someone else had the wheel.

“That is Allah, your Lord. There is no god but Him, the Creator of everything. So worship Him. He is responsible for everything.” [6:102]

Outside free will, there are some things that we have no control over that have been planned by Allah to come onto our paths, whether it is situations, circumstances or even people we meet.

09:49 – I glanced at my watch again, realizing I had only moved a few metres. The line of cars ahead of me stretched further than I could see.

I was on the highway of highways, bound in an intricate connection of split-second decisions and shouldering  strangers, each in their own cars and on their own ways. Arriving on time depended on how many people decided to take that same route at that time, how quickly the traffic lights changed, whether there were any hurdles such as road works and how promptly my lecturer would start.

Although it was this network of decisions made by people that would affect the outcome of my journey, this scenario was a part of my destiny that had been planned and put into action by my Lord.

Knowing this fact allows us to not worry about what will happen if it is no longer in our hands; everything is left to Allah, the Greatest Planner, so why start panicking?

I rapped my feet against the solid black floor, waiting.

09:53 –I was anxious. At the rate I was travelling, I would reach my destination 20 minutes late.

I pressed my forehead against the cold window and stared into my reflection. My breath fogged up the glass.

They say Allah is not only the best of planners but also wishes the best for the believer at all times, putting our hearts at ease. Allah loves us more than our own parents, sends down blessings and even tests us, for which we will be greatly rewarded if we persevere with patience and dedication. And although turning up to a lecture late and risk getting told off may not seem like the best for me, maybe there was something more. Something like this ayah – “it may be that you hate a thing which is good for you, and it may be that you love a thing which his bad for you. Allah knows and you know not” [2:216].

Having this level of faith – one in which we fully trust and are thankful for everything that happens because it is for our best – is not necessarily an easy task but nevertheless it is an undeniable fact.

“Say: ‘Nothing can happen to us except what Allah has ordained for us. He is Our Master. It is in Allah that the believers should put their trust’” [9:51].

The knowledge that not only is Allah in control but that there is no one who loves us more than Him fuels us. We are able to accept these situations and become happier as a result.

So, I sat in the bus, waiting patiently. Somewhere in the red backlights, I knew that Allah intended for me to reach my destination when He thought best. A green light would bloom.

09:57 – I had accepted I would be late. Time told me.

Still, I thought about my options: I could either remain on the bus or get off and run the distance. It was a sizeable distance by foot  but I estimated that it would probably be faster, although very tiresome.

I asked the driver what he thought I should do. He suggested I get off the bus as the traffic was not moving at all.

At this point I realised that there are some situations where we do have some control. The Prophet (saw) has taught us, in these times to tie our camel and then put our trust in Allah. So even though I knew I would be late, perhaps there was an opportunity to do some damage control?

The traffic had tied my transportation option. So I ran.

09:58 –I ran as fast as I possibly could and I took a different, shorter route. The bus driver held the wheel before – I held my own.

10:09 – I could see my destination a hundred metres away. I was nearly there.

As I harnessed whatever was left of my energy for the final push, I saw the very bus I was sitting on only 10 minutes ago, drive past me. As I chuckled to myself, I saw the driver wave and smile as he went past. We both knew my efforts were in vain and that I could have reached my destination at the same time without all the sweating and breathlessness if I had stayed on the bus.

However, running the distance was neither the wrong choice at the time nor not putting my trust in Allah for I did have a choice, I was not entirely dependent on others. But it did make me appreciate that Allah is in control of all matters.

As the Quran says, “No misfortune can happen on earth or in your souls but is recorded in a decree before we bring it into existence: that is truly easy for Allah: in order that ye may not despair over matters that pass you by” [57:22-23].”

Time passed. Cars passed by. I had zoomed forward on my feet. The bus had stalled in a sea of red lights. We both made it.

Aamir Shamsi and Fatimah Waseem contributed to this short story.

My sister, know that only

a prayer keeps us afloat
for tomorrow:

pulling down, pushing
through the boarded window.

I pack three suitcases
for part two of the world:

sleeping in, cheap wine,
tax forms, sorority girls.

I will miss my little
brother calling adhan.

Will I wake for
fajr, a pink dawn?

In a few months,
I will have all Ramadhan,

alone, to leash myself,
to work my way

through a plastic box
of Palestine’s sweetest

pitted dates.

This summer, I’ll be packing my bags and preparing to step into the real world and its temptations. This poem is about this transition to life as a college student, living away from family for the first time. As a Muslim, this comes with its own set of struggles: will I be able to uphold my Islamic identity and values without supervision? The temptations I’ve faced in my life in a small suburban Muslim household have been muted. A friend asking why I’m not planning to attend prom last week was enough to cause a small panic. But beyond that, there exists another world of “sleeping in, cheap wine, tax forms, frat girls.” When immersed in day-to-day worries about getting to work on time and chasing straight A’s, will I remember to wake up for Fajr and early Qur’an recitation without my mother there with her hawk-eyes?

“Mutual rivalry in seeking increase in worldly possessions diverts you from God,” we are told in Surah At-Takathur. How long until this trial ends? “Till you reach the graves.”

I know that Allah will always know what I am doing and what I am not doing. He knows whether what I do is for Him alone or not, but the fear remains. Without the bubble of an Islamic environment surrounding me, will I be able to commit to a full month of fasting during Ramadhan, as my roommates devour their fast food and I sit alone and study? Am I prepared for this? How can I be prepared for this? Can anyone be prepared for anything?

The Prophet of Allah (peace be upon him) has said, “Whoever says when he leaves his house, ‘In the name of Allah, I have relied on Allah and there is no power nor strength except by Allah’ will be told, ‘You have been guided, spared and protected,’ and Satan will be kept far from him.” And what was Satan’s response? “How can you get at a man who has been guided, spared and protected?” (Abu Dawud)

I began my poem with a reminder – Something we all know, but forget when we most need guidance: “only a prayer keeps us afloat for tomorrow.” Only Allah can protect us. Only he can guide us to the right path.

Nikah is the legal binding of a man and a woman in marriage. This relationship leaves deep impressions in the social life of the partners involved, their children, and the stability of the whole community through the institution of family. Therefore, choosing a spouse is one of the most important decisions we make in our lives. It is for this reason that Islam establishes this relationship to be a sacred bond that provides an individual with numerous things: a halal source of love, affection, sustenance, children, companionship and a path of trials and tribulations that ultimately ends with our Creator. Accordingly, in the Qur’an, it has been termed as a firm pledge:

“…And they (women) had taken from you a firm pledge.” (Al-Nisa 4:21)

Two key elements to any relationship, particularly in marriage, are trust and loyalty. Although we assume that the importance of these elements is ingrained in us through our upbringing, it is a topic that is losing ground in modern day societies. From my observations, I can say with certainty that the breaking of trust and loyalty leads to devastating effects for those involved.

The Prophet (may Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him) reported that Allah said, “Whenever I intend to gather the good of this world and the hereafter for a Muslim, I give him a heart which is humble [to Me], a tongue which praises [Me], a body which can bear [worldly] affliction and a believing wife who is a cause of his pleasure whenever he looks towards her and who protects herself and his property when he is absent.”

This is obviously a duty of the husband as well because trust is an essential constituent of love. When trust is betrayed and faith in one’s spouse is compromised, love loses its very essence. It is the duty of a spouse to remain loyal to their partner at all times, especially during times of difficulty. Although love may be temporarily lost, marriage remains a sacred tie. Every relationship is a profound emotional bond and it is universally acknowledged that being unfaithful is one of the worst crimes one can commit against their partner.

It is important that we conduct ourselves in a manner that is pleasing to Allah as well as an additional duty towards our partner. Eyes can wander and unnecessary interaction with non-mahrams has become the norm. Protecting ourselves from all forms of fitnah and keeping away from such a ‘norm’ is also a part of being loyal.

Harun Yahya once said, “Someone who loves his or her spouse for their belief and character will, in married life, be respectful, loyal, and decent. Losing one’s youth, health, or beauty will not affect the love and consideration among spouses for each other, and neither will losing one’s wealth or social status.” Thus real love between a husband and wife does not rest on material or superficial factors. No matter the circumstance, one should always remain loyal to their partner, even if their relationship may be coming to an end.

Acts of infidelity of every magnitude have become far too common and lost their gravity in today’s society. We see signs of adultery in many places, so much so that they have made their way into comic situations in the media and have slowly become a part of the norm. The days when adultery was considered illegal and punishable are gone. Islam protects communities from such an evil, but we are now facing a situation where infidelity is becoming widespread within the Muslim community as well, especially amongst the younger generations.

In addition to protecting ourselves from fitnah, loyalty entails keeping each other’s intimate affairs private, hiding your partner’s flaws, and not complaining about one’s spouse to others because this would cause great pain and tension between the husband and wife. It also includes, as was mentioned in the hadith, protecting one’s property in the spouse’s absence.

Loyalty is a cause and result of the ideal marital relationship that existed between the Prophet (may Allah’s peace and blessings be upon him) and his wives (may Allah be pleased with them). We need not look further than the example of our Prophet and the Mothers of the Believers to learn how to be a good husband/wife through the stories of untainted love, honesty and sincerity.

Additionally, loyalty can involve keeping a positive attitude among partners. This can be expressed through various ways that provide continuous nourishment and life to the relationship. This is why Islam puts much importance on maintaining a healthy relationship with your partner through kind words, appreciation and affection. Islam truly beautifies marriage and upholds its laws which ensure both partners enjoyment of the wonderful blessing of companionship provided by Allah.

Trust in marriage has a special place. Unlike other relationships that tend to require more time and patience for trust to develop, the one between a man and a woman naturally escalates quickly and strongly. Marriage is the closest bond that one can have with another person. It is one where two people share their joys, their sorrows, their desires, their goals, their highs and their lows with each other. The support, patience, beauty and peace that one finds in marriage are unmatched with any other relationship. A relationship built on the foundations of trust and loyalty will blossom into the most beautiful emotion we can experience: love.

May Allah grant us all a righteous partner who will forever remain loyal, be the coolness of our eyes, the tranquility in our soul and a means by which we can gain the pleasure of Allah and fulfill our duties to Allah.

I would like to end with these words I heard from a sister that summarize the concept of loyalty in love: “Love is honesty without cruelty and loyalty without compromise.”

He gently laid the dried petals into the potpourri vase and swirled through them slightly. As the faint fragrance rose and wafted through the air, his mind drifted back to beloved memories of his childhood. He remembered his parents and how every week his father would bring a bouquet of fresh flowers for his mother. With a smile reserved only for his father, she would gingerly accept them and place them into her favorite vase atop the dining table. For the next week or so, the ornate vase and its encased flowers would serve as the centerpiece of all activity at home. On quiet mornings, he occasionally found his mother seated there, stroking the delicate petals, lost in her reverie.

Ever so often, she would take stems from the vase and place them in other vases and glass cups throughout the house. She would take petals and tie them into her long, flowing hair, use them as ingredients for afternoon tea, and place them secretly into his father’s favorite books and forgotten bills. If any waned in color or life, she would weave those petals into decorations or dry them to make scented potpourri. In the evenings, she would blush when his father came home and cupped her hands with his flower-held ones, entreating her for a leisurely stroll with him through the back garden.

His father loved to surprise his mother with new assortments of flowers from other countries and seasons. Despite her halfhearted protests, he always shared sweet nothings and silly couplets with the family along with the gifted posy, likening a quality he admired in her with the particular flower he brought. On special occasions, his father would pin a boutonnière to his suit, and unbeknownst to anyone outside the family, his mother would wear a matching corsage under her jilbab sleeve after having crafted it the night before.

Flowers truly served an integral part of his family’s life, he reflected, as he closed the lid of the potpourri vase and stepped away. Regrettably, those flowers had not bloomed in his own life and marriage in the same way. It wasn’t that his wife didn’t love flowers; on the contrary, that’s what had brought him and her – the florist’s daughter – together in the first place. No, it was that he found that flowers held a different place in her heart than it did in his. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it though he felt as if the flower served not as an expression of love for her, but life itself.

He didn’t quite notice it in the beginning while the flowers carried them through their wedding and early-married life. During the ceremonies, they were gifted with garlands of gardenias, fountains rung with rows of rosemaries, a honeymoon suite peppered with petals of periwinkles, and a ride home in an auto veiled within vines of violets. When they got around to discussing children names, they went through many glossaries of flowery names. They finally agreed on ‘Zahr’ for a boy and ‘Zahrah’ for a girl as both names meant ‘flower’ in Arabic at their root level.

As the days matured into new seasons, flowers continued to scent their lives throughout. He too matured, beginning to notice that they both carried their own floral perspective. His wife was raised in a background where flowers were not just a nice afterthought but the business of the day. He knew that over the years she helped out at her father’s boutique, her knowledge of flowers had really blossomed. By the time they were married, she was already well versed in flowers’ varieties, their scientific names and compositions, their arrangements and complements, and much more in the lore of flora. After marriage, she continued to work part-time at the boutique due to her sustained passion for these flowers.

As a result of all this, he soon realized that her relationship with flowers was far more transactional and commonplace than it had ever been for him. This led to repeated, heated rows between them and a disregard for each other’s floriated gifts. It was a low point in their marriage as both were regularly left feeling hurt and anguished. She’d end up in tears, and he’d end up in exasperation. Both often questioned if they made the right choice in marrying the other.

For her, she knew no world devoid of flowers. For him, flowers filled the void of his world.

As the wintery seasons cycled into warmer times, their showers of grief subsided and eventually brought forth flowers of love and mercy. The change began for him soon after he ceased comparing his parents’ relationship to his own. He recognized that their lives and situations were different from that of his and his wife’s, and thus attempted to instead appreciate his wife for who she was and what she went through. He delved into botany, assisted his wife and father-in-law at the boutique, and even contrived his own trademark arrangements. Likewise, she endeavored to better understand him and his experiences, and soon discovered his penchant for subtlety. And so, at times when he’d least expect it, she’d trace a flower into the palm of his hands, wake him to the aroma of vivid flowers, pack hand-written messages on petals into his lunch, and even serve him eggs flower side up. In this way, she deftly weaved flowers into their time together that conveyed her love for him over anything material.

Years later, he smiled as he swirled and reminisced over another set of petals in a potpourri vase, but this time in a resort at the Valley of Flowers in India. He had just gifted his wife an arrangement of the most exotic flowers he could gather in the Himalayas, and in return, she had granted him a smile reserved only for him. After all of their years together, her smile still disarmed him and caused him to just stand there, momentarily dazed. She giggled at his reaction and gave him an exaggerated parting wave as she stepped out of the room to ready their baby twins, Zahr and Zahrah, for the trip home. Having recovered slightly, he began to clean up and pack their belongings, still beaming from ear to ear.

He paused when he came upon his final item to pack. He held his mother’s ornate vase in his hands for some time, recalling how she had gifted this to him in the past year. The memory was fresh in his mind. They were at her house for a visit, and after she amused her grandchildren with all sorts of flowered contrivances and tucked them into her bed for a nap, she called him to the dining table. When he arrived, she simply handed the vase to him without saying a word and gingerly clasped his hands with her own flower-held ones. He hugged her tightly, his eyes filling with tears as he realized what this meant.

He softly closed the vase’s lid and stared reflectively at the flower vase, quietly thanking Allah, the Most Beautiful, for having blessed him with remarkable parents and for creating such beauty in the world – from his parents to his wife, and from his children to every flower. He then wrapped the vase in earthy-brown paper and tucked it away in the folds of his wife’s clothes. With the scent of resolve strong in the air, he stepped out of the room, rejoined his family, and soon flew out of the Valley of Flowers.

I.
I walk upon what ceases to remain,
Where neither wall nor beam was spared.
I walk on broken glass of windowpanes
On a night when no one else seems to care.
I cannot tell a soul to protect my name,
This house holds with it a burden of shame.
I recount many a dream of this day,
This rubble, this pungent smell in the air
Of rage, agony, and sullen clouds of grey.
I witness the aftermath of my nightmare.

As I walk through the remnants and traces,
Something ‘neath  the ruin catches my eye,
So I dust off the surface of familiar faces,
Of whom I do not care to tell good bye.

II.
For years have I dreamt that you’d be gone,
Since you first wreaked havoc in this abode,
Such an adieu you have only prolonged,
Destroying this mediocre excuse for a home.
At this thought, I cringe; I fall to my knees,
Onto a ground of wooden shards and nails
That swiftly scrape my skin; I bleed, I bleed,
I bleed out the evil that has since prevailed.

I watched as the devil led my brother astray,
As he deluded himself, sin after sin,
I hadn’t an ounce of pity when he went his way,
As I bled the blood that bound me to him.

I bury my face in my hands as reality sets in,
Foolish man, how dare you let the devil win?

III.
Screams still echo off nonexistent walls,
I cover my ears as they shout their lies.
From a broken phone, my father calls.
Behind a slammed door, my mother cries.
“When will peace befall? When will grief subside?”
I whisper to the old picture in my hands:
A picture of smiling toddlers, side by side,
Of which one grew to be a wicked, wicked man.

Shaking, I grasp a matchbox within my reach;
I strike a match to burn away the memories,
To burn broken promises and false speech,
To burn this ever-looming melancholy.

Then I press my forehead against the ground,
I pray for a new home, for a family sound.

This piece is about a broken family symbolized by a broken house. It’s written in three sonnets to illustrate the narrator’s train of thought. The first sonnet is a description of what the narrator sees, which leaves her in shock as she connects with the dreams she’s had. Accordingly, towards the end of the first sonnet when she dusts off the surface of “familiar faces”, there is a play on the words ‘familiar’ and ‘family’. The second sonnet is about her trying to come to terms with the bittersweet reality. It’s sweet because her brother is gone, but bitter because he destroyed the house before he left. The third sonnet is about burning the past and trying to move on with her life, asking Allah “for a new home, for a family sound.”

The inspiration for this piece came from actual dreams, personal experiences, and emotions that I kept locked away for far too long. This is for everyone who had to lay awake at night, trying to fall asleep amidst yelling and screaming. This is for everyone who has no shoulder to cry on, no one to tell, only Allah. This is for everyone who wishes for a peaceful family over everything, but for one reason or another cannot have one. Turn to Allah and be patient.

“…Give good tidings to the patient, who, when disaster strikes them, say, ‘Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return’” (Surah Al-Baqarah: 155-156).

Remember the stories of the prophets (‘alayhim as-salam) – stories of men who went through tests of family. In those moments, they had no one to turn to but Allah. Allah was sufficient for them. He too is sufficient for you.