The Khabib Halal/Haraam Ratio: Good Character, Bad Sports, And The Conundrum of Muslim Representation

 The Muslim Ummah has spent the last several years celebrating the rise and success of MMA fighter Khabib Normagomedov, a Muslim Daghestanti fighter who emerged to become an undisputed victor. On the day of his 29th victory, he also announced his retirement from MMA, referencing a promise that he made to his mother.

Muslims went wild in their praises, showering him with adoration, expressing their admiration of his obedience to his mother, his public demonstrations of sajdah ash-shukr after every match, his humility and remembrance of Allah, and his lowering of the gaze around inappropriately dressed women at public events. Undoubtedly, these are all praiseworthy behaviours and characteristics that should be encouraged in all Muslims, especially Muslim men. 

However, there has been a near-deafening silence on the underlying problematic foundations of the entire phenomenon of Khabib Nurmagomedov and his popularity amongst Muslim men. 

Read more here at MuslimMatters.org!

Then and Now: Rereading Mohja Kahf’s “The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf”

 In 2007, at the brash, naive, and frankly moronic age of 16, I penned a scathing review of Mohja Kahf’s novel “The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf” for this very website, MuslimMatters.org. Thirteen years later, I read it again – only to find myself deeply, utterly in love with this book.

Khadra Shamy is the American daughter of Syrian immigrants, Wajdy and Ebtahaj, who dreamt of little more than dedicating themselves to the Da’wah in their tiny Muslim community in Indiana. Khadra grows up immersed in the culture of conservative da’wah: of the Deen being black and white, of certain rules followed scrupulously, of culture frowned upon in exchange for the purity of Islam. As she moves from a 10 year old child overwhelmed with guilt for accidentally eating gelatin-containing candy corn, to a black-clad, angry teenager who reads Qutb and supports the Iranian Revolution, to a college student who dutifully marries young, Khadra finds the foundations of her worldview slowly cracking. 

Going for Hajj was not spiritually revolutionary, but a dark glimpse of what Arab youth get up to in the heartland of Islam; after devoting herself to tajweed and hifdh, Khadra is told that she must stop reciting Qur’an in mixed gatherings and that Qur’an competitions are only open to men. Her ideal Islamic marriage begins to crumble when her husband evokes the Qawwam card to prohibit her from riding her bike in public – and when she gets pregnant, only to decide on an abortion, and then a divorce, Khadra creates a schism between herself, her community, and all that she has known. In the years that follow, Khadra breaks down and recreates her identity as a Muslim and her beliefs about Islam. 

In many ways, The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf is both a love letter and a breakup note to conservative Muslims. Kahf’s book traces, with intimate authenticity, what it is to be a Western-raised child of parents immersed in the Da’wah; our quirks and eccentricities and ties to a back home culture that we don’t always understand; our hidden hypocrisies and our secret shames. She breathes into words the tenderness of our bonds of faith, the flames of our religious passion, the complexities of our relationships. She knows who we are, how we are, and she speaks to us in our own words. Perhaps ahead of her time, she gently forces Muslim readers to confront the issues of intra-Muslim racism, of the history of Blackamerican Muslims, of the naive arrogance of immigrant Muslims, of the almost insurmountable distance between the theory of Islam for Muslim women, and the reality of what Muslim women experience.

Of course, it comes with a price. Kahf ends her novel by having Khadra follow the by-now-predictable trajectory that we have seen from many Muslims of a progressive bent: Sufism is the only acceptable fluffy-enough type of Islam; all paths, even outside of Islam, lead to God; conservative Muslims are embarrassing, suffocating, and are holding their communities back from true spiritual enlightenment. To be fair, Kahf doesn’t hold back from pointing out the hypocrisies of secular liberal types either, and she is far softer and more tender in her portrayals of conservatives as well. 

It is worth taking a closer look at how Kahf chose to take Khadra down the path of progressiveness. Khadra’s story is a mirror of so many true stories, of children from religious families whose resentment over their experiences pushed them to choose an easier way, one less rooted in following Shari’ah and more a vague idea of spirituality. This narrative portrays turning progressive as the only logical conclusion to such experiences, which is in itself deeply problematic. In truth, there are many Muslims – born Muslims and converts alike – who have suffered far worse than merely restrictive upbringings, or unhappy marriages, and who have chosen instead to commit themselves even more determinedly to orthodoxy. Spirituality is not the sole domain of Sufis or liberals; it is part and parcel of Islam itself, even in its most conservative form. To imply otherwise is a dishonesty that is found all too often amongst those who have their own biases and agendas against any form of Islam that does not feel flexible enough for their own tastes.

As a particularly ridiculous 16-year-old Salafi, I was too consumed in my outrage at Khadra leaving the aqeedah of Ahlus Sunnah wa’l Jamaa’ah, and too busy agreeing with her ex-husband on the inappropriateness of Muslim women riding bikes in public, to understand or appreciate this deeply emotional journey. Fast forward 13 years, and 29-year-old me identifies far more with Khadra than my past self could ever have imagined. Little had I known, that first time, that I too would experience what Khadra and so many other Muslim women have: the painfully cliche toxic marriage to controlling Muslim men who use Islam to suffocate our souls and our spirits. (But really, 16yo Zainab??? You legit thought that Khadra’s husband was justified in stopping her from riding her bike??? You almost deserved going through practically the same thing, you idiot.)

Rereading The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf as an adult, having lived through my own traumas and growth, through spiritual crisis and rediscovery, was a very different experience. My own upbringing was very similar to Khadra’s: in a religious da’wah bubble, surrounded by an insistence on Islamic ideals, blithely ignoring Muslim realities (and occasionally denying them outright). The self righteous ignorance in my 2007 review has me dying a thousand deaths of mortification, and I am all too aware of just how much like teenaged Khadra I was back then. Thirteen years later, my cynicism knows no bounds, my bitterness sours all idealism, and I feel a deep urge to slap my past self upside the head. There’s some Divine irony in all of this, I suppose; certainly, it is cause for reflection on the value of personal growth and maturity, of how the years and one’s experiences can turn one into the very person they once derided. I relate far more to Khadra today than my teenaged self could ever have imagined, and in many ways, I only wish that I could have retained the blithe innocence (if not the ignorance) that I once had in abundance. Following Khadra on her journey was to retrace my own steps, to remember precisely how and when I, too, made the choice to become someone new.

The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf is an iconic piece of work. It is both heartwarming and heartbreaking; utterly tender and yet unflinching from pain; brutally honest, authentic, and unapologetically Muslim. Kahf does not waste time explaining things to a non-Muslim audience, nor does she hold back from dishing out hard truths to Muslim readers. She knows us, inside and out, and it is this startling familiarity that pulls one in and doesn’t let go until we find ourselves shocked that we’ve reached the end of the book. In the era of #OwnVoices and #WeNeedDiverseBooks, Mohja Kahf was undoubtedly a pioneer in the field of diverse fiction.

The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf is a damned good book – one that will have you blinking away furious tears and lay awake at night, feeling your heart ache with unforgotten, unseen bruises.

Muslim Adulting 101: Tips And Tricks For Every Young (And Not So Young) Muslim Adult

 Social media is rife with complaints about how young Muslim men and women today aren’t ready for marriage, aren’t responsible enough for marriage, and are barely capable of keeping themselves alive without frantically calling their mothers or Googling how to make avocado toast. Having once been such a person (I got married at 18 and was incapable of making more than scrambled eggs), and having had around a decade’s worth of practise at adulting (I am now fully capable of making several egg dishes, though I have yet to achieve a round roti), it dawned upon me to help out the current generation of hapless almost-adults by providing a list of useful survival tips – not just for marriage preparation, but for life preparation.

I learned roughly half these things in the year before marriage, and the rest during first year of marriage. I do not claim to be an expert. I was married at 18, had a kid at 19, and was adulting at a semi proficient level by 20… although yes, I still frantically text my mother even now. I learned most of this while living in Egypt (with occasional stints in the village) and in Kuwait (as a broke non-Kuwaiti, not as a spoiled Khaleeji). You learn a lot of things the hard way, like how to toast bread on the stove when you can’t afford a toaster.)

Without further ado, here's a basic list of Muslim adulting skills!

Read more here at MuslimMatters.org!

Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas (book review)

 In the second decade of the 21st century in America, Muslims consider themselves “as American as apple pie,” don American-flag hijabs, and consider their presence and participation in American politics as a crowning achievement. There is little to no resemblance between the majority of the American Muslim population today, and the very first Muslims who landed in America – not as privileged individuals, but as enslaved people at the hands of vicious white colonizers who had already decimated the Indigenous population and who had no qualms about destroying the lives of their slaves. Dr Sylviane A. Diouf’s book “Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas” tracks the journeys and experiences of African Muslims who found themselves shipped aboard slave-trafficking vessels and taken to the other side of their known world. From their induction into the Transatlantic slave trade, to their determination to uphold the five pillars of Islam – regardless of their circumstances – to the structure of the enslaved Muslim community, their prized (and dangerous) literacy, and their never-ending resistance against slavery, Diouf illustrates in incredible detail the powerful and painful experiences of enslaved African Muslims, and the legacy that they left behind in the Americas.

This review of “Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas” will focus on the unique qualities and formidable faith of the very first Muslims in the Americas, and the legacy that they left for Muslims in the Americas today.

Read more here at MuslimMatters.org!

Women and Jannah

 "Are there more men or women in Jannah?" is a question that Muslims have been asking since the time of the Companions of RasulAllah (sallAllahu 'alayhi wa sallam). While Abu Hurayrah (radhiAllahu 'anhu) produced a narration which I would think would settle the debate quite easily, apparently there are too many people who would rather quibble on endlessly about how that can't be true because of other ahadith that say that there will be more women in Hell, and since those ahadith are quoted far more often (in almost every lecture reminding us of how women are the sources of almost all evil), then it should be obvious that most women are doomed to an eternity of hellish damnation... 

Academia, on the other hand, is little better; Aisha Geissinger's paper "Are Men the Majority in Paradise or Women?" almost gleefully seizes upon quotes from medieval Islamic scholars (and calls upon laughable ideas of masculinity and femininity medieval Islamo-Grecian philosophy to posit equally laughable ideas about how gender exists in Jannah) to seemingly insist that all Islamic thought portrays the concept of women in Jannah in a less than just manner.

Putting aside the ignorance, stupidity, and clearly twisted desire on the parts of such people to somehow present women as inherently evil creatures who should hold little hope of God's Mercy and reward, there is another, deeper issue that seems to underlie most discussions related to Muslim women and Jannah. Somehow, it seems that everyone is overlooking the fact that Muslim women lived Islam from its earliest days, pursued Jannah as a goal from the very beginning, and in fact, were promised Jannah as their ultimate reward for all their sacrifices.

Khadijah (radhiAllahu 'anha) was the very first believer, and received glad tidings from Jibreel ('alayhissalaam) of the incredible palace of Paradise in which she will reside; a place of peace, joy, tranquility, and safety, for all the torment, abuse, and harassment that she endured in this world. 

Sumayyah bint Khayyat (radhiAllahu 'anha), the elder African woman who was the first martyr of Islam, killed for her unyielding belief in Allah, was promised "Paradise will be your meeting place!" by the Messenger of Allah, who wept to see her tortured daily. 

Aasiyah, the wife of Pharoah, had her supplication immortalized in the Qur'an: "O Allah, build for me, close to You, a home in Paradise!" (Qur'an 66:11)

Umm Salamah (radhiAllahu 'anha) demanded to know why the Qur'an always specified men - "What about women?" she asked - and Allah revealed: "Indeed, the Muslim men and Muslim women, the believing men and believing women, the obedient men and obedient women, the truthful men and truthful women, the patient men and patient women, the humble men and humble women, the charitable men and charitable women, the fasting men and fasting women, the men who guard their private parts and the women who do so, and the men who remember Allah often and the women who do so - for them Allah has prepared forgiveness and a great reward." (Qur'an 33:35)

The believing women of the past were not passive women whose faith or spirituality was dictated by men around them. They engaged with the Qur'an and with God's Messenger directly; their belief was fervent, strong, and powerful; their intellect was wielded as a tool of faith, to seek knowledge, to gain deeper understanding. Jannah, to them, was not insignificant, nor were they unmotivated to pursue it. Jannah was not a distant idea; they did not feel that there was not enough incentive for them to seek its rewards; they believed, truly and deeply, in Allah's Promise that He would never withhold or shortchange any believer, man or woman, of their rewards in Paradise.

Fixating on questions of demographics or debating whether women matter in Jannah, or what we get vs men, is not only a waste of time and insulting to God's Justice, but is an insult to the believing women of the past - those who literally gave their lives for God, seeking His Love and His Reward. For us to frame Paradise as an academic exercise, or just another way to belittle women and exclude them from God's Mercy, is a perversion of what religious discourse should be. Indeed, it is precisely because of these types of discussions that so many Muslim women's faith has been harmed - because rather than referring to the Qur'an for breathtakingly beautiful descriptions of eternal joy, peace, and pleasure, some people prefer to invoke specific ahadith (usually out of context!) in order to insult, belittle, and put women down.

Discussions about Jannah should be about reminding believers, men and women, of all that awaits us for our lifetimes of faith and difficulty. Jannah, for women, is not just another place where we will face injustice - why then would we even want to be there?! 

This very subject is, perhaps, yet another reason that Muslim women need female scholars to turn to: that our faith and spirituality is bolstered by positive discussions of Jannah, that we may have conversations where our gender is not the focus of questions about our worthiness as humans and believers, where we are reminded, with love and joy, of God's Love for us, and of His Promised rewards. 

Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas (Book Review)

In the second decade of the 21st century in America, Muslims consider themselves “as American as apple pie,” don American-flag hijabs, and consider their presence and participation in American politics as a crowning achievement. There is little to no resemblance between the majority of the American Muslim population today, and the very first Muslims who landed in America - not as privileged individuals, but as slaves at the hands of vicious white colonizers who had already decimated the Indigenous population and who had no qualms about destroying the lives of their slaves. Sylviane A. Diouf’s book “Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas” tracks the journeys and experiences of African Muslims who found themselves shipped aboard slave-trafficking vessels and taken to the other side of their known world. From their induction into the Translatlantic slave trade, to their determination to uphold the five pillars of Islam - regardless of their circumstances - to the structure of the enslaved Muslim community, their prized (and dangerous) literacy, and their never-ending resistance against slavery, Diouf illustrates in incredible detail the powerful and painful experiences of enslaved African Muslims, and the legacy that they left behind in the Americas. This review of “Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas” will focus on the unique qualities and formidable faith of the very first Muslims in the Americas, and the legacy that they left for Muslims in the Americas today.

In Chapter One, Diouf begins by answering the very first question that arises when considering the path of enslaved African Muslims: how did they end up slaves in the first place? Slavery already existed as an institution in Africa, though vastly different from the horrifying standards of the European slavers. Between the existing slave trade, military conflicts that created prisoners-of-wars who were then sold as slaves, and the European propensity for kidnapping innocent people, many Muslims found themselves swept into the Translatlantic slave trade. These same Muslims were the ones who provided us with much of the knowledge that we have today regarding the American slave experience. Most African Muslims were literate, due to the religious and cultural importance of education; of those enslaved, many were religious scholars or students of knowledge. They described how they were captured, the torturous journey of the slave caravans across the continent, and the even more horrific experience of the slave ships themselves. These men also documented their lives as slaves, and indirectly, provided deep insight into their own inner nature.

Despite the intense pressure and demands on African slaves to renounce their ‘heathen faith’ and be inducted as Christians, African Muslims demonstrated a commitment to Islam that should cause modern Muslims today to feel deeply ashamed in comparison. The very first words that Job ben Solomon (Ayuba Suleyman Diallo) uttered, after running away and then being discovered in Pennsylvania, were the shahaadah; Omar ibn Sa’id wrote numerous Arabic manuscripts, in which the shahaadah was always found (Diouf, 2013, p. 72-73). When Catholic priests tried hard to educate slaves about Christianity as part of the conversion process, the African Muslims were both resistant and unimpressed; they were already familiar with many Biblical stories, thanks to their Qur’anic education. Of those who seemed to have accepted Christianity, many did so only outwardly, while confirming their belief in Allah and His Messenger in every aspect of their lives. Indeed, in Brazil and other areas where there were large concentrations of Muslim slaves, the Muslims established underground madaaris to maintain and pass on their Islamic knowledge and education. Muhammad Kaba Saghanughu was a man whom the missionaries had thought was successfully converted when he provided all the right answers to their pre-baptismal questions - eleven years later, in a Baptist Missionary Society notebook, he wrote a 50-page fiqh manual in Arabic that encompassed the rulings of salaah, marriage, and other topics.

Slavery did not stop the African Muslims from maintaining their salaah in whatever manner they could manage, considering their circumstances. Some did so in secret, while others insisted on upholding their salaah in public, to the extent that these incidents were recorded by the descendents of slaves and slaveholders alike. In Brazil, the African Muslim community - both enslaved and freed - held together so strongly that they were able to secretly establish Salatul Jumu’ah and attend gatherings of dhikr, even in the face of intense scrutiny (Diouf, 2013, p. 88-89).

Perhaps one of the most greatly moving examples of enslaved African Muslims’ dedication to their Islam was that even in the midst of the utter poverty of slavery, they found a way to uphold zakaah, sawm, and Hajj. In Brazil, it was recorded that the Muslims would end Ramadan with the exchanging of gifts, no matter how simple they were; in truth, these gifts were zakaatul fitr and zakaatul maal. In other areas, the descendents of Muslim slaves recalled that their parents and grandparents would make rice cakes called saraka at least once a year - saraka was a corruption of the Arabic word sadaqah, and the rice cakes were a Jumu’ah tradition in West Africa. (Diouf, 2013, p. 92-94) In Ramadan, many Muslims sought to fast; indeed, despite the incredible hardship and lack of nutritious food that the slaves already endured, there were those who fasted voluntarily outside of Ramadan as well, often by pretending to be ill. They knew that their situation meant that fasting - in Ramadan and outside of it - was not obligatory on them, and yet, to them, no circumstance was bad enough to warrant not even attempting to observe Ramadan. Hajj was another pillar of Islam that was both impossible and no longer obligatory on the enslaved Muslims; yet in Brazil, in a house that was used as a masjid, there were illustrated depictions of the Ka’bah - demonstrating the emotional bond that the African Muslims had with the Sacred House.

Throughout Diouf’s book, the overwhelming theme that arises is the fierce commitment that enslaved African Muslims had to Islam. It was not superficial, shallow, or easily shrugged away in the face of difficulty. Instead, the African Muslims held onto their belief in Allah and their daily, lived practise of Islam, even when they had every excuse to relax their obligations. They upheld their Islamic and cultural dress code, not just at its minimum standard of modesty, but in a way that clearly demonstrated their religious identity (Diouf, 2013, p. 101-110). They found ways to make prayer mats and dhikr beads; they gave their children Muslim names in secret, when they were expected to present themselves as Christians; they even strove to observe whatever they could of the Islamic dietary code, by refusing to drink alcohol or eat pork - Ayuba Diallo went so far as to only eat dhabiha meat that he himself slaughtered (Diouf, 2013, p. 119-122). The enslaved African Muslims valued their Islamic identity above all. Even in slavery, they knew that their ‘izzah came from their Deen - and so did those around them, who noted their unique bearing in the face of the horrors of slavery.

The story of the African Muslims who were enslaved and brought to the Americas is not merely a history lesson, or a token homage in honour of Black History Month. It is a story that echoes the persecution of the earliest Muslims in Makkah, and applicable to Muslims today. Muslim minorities in the West are often all too eager to complain of our difficulties and to seek religious exemptions for our minor inconveniences. Yet who are we in comparison to the earliest African-American Muslims, who endurable the unspeakable? Who are we, with our privileges, with our very freedom, in comparison to those Muslims who were stripped of everything and everyone they knew and loved, and who still held ever tighter to the Rope of Allah? One may say that it is unfair to compare us and them; that to recognize their struggles should not mean invalidating the challenges we face today. Certainly, we face numerous different fitan that are very different from what they experienced, but the truth is that we should compare our attitudes with those of our predecessors. We should be ashamed of our own weaknesses in times of privilege compared to their strength in times of oppression. More importantly, we must learn from them what it means to have such a relationship with our Creator and our Deen that we are capable of surviving and thriving in even the worst of circumstances.

May Allah have mercy on the enslaved African Muslims who endured one of this Ummah’s historic tragedies, and may He make us of those who demonstrate their strength of love for Him through every tragedy of our own.

Fractured Wombs: The Trauma of Motherhood

Motherhood is so beautiful, women are told, even before they have become women. Motherhood is what we are meant for. Motherhood is part and parcel of our womanhood. Motherhood will, sooner or later, define us.

What they do not tell us is that for so many of us, motherhood is trauma. It is the loss of ourselves as we are subsumed by the creature growing within us. It is the loss of control over our own bodies, the loss of sleep during pregnant days and colicky nights, the loss of our intimate selves in exchange for cracked nipples and wombs that never stop aching. It is the loss of safety in being able to confide to our loved ones, who stare at us in horror at our ugly confessions.

We are the walking wounded, the mothers with bleeding hearts and emptied wombs, the mothers whose minds are on the verge of breaking. We are the women whose souls are frozen in fear - for we are told that we are weak, impatient, failures as believing women.

Only Allah knows our agony, when everyone else refuses to see or hear our pain.

{And We have enjoined on humankind [goodness] to their parents. Their mothers bore them in weakness and hardship upon weakness and hardship, and their weaning takes two years. Give thanks to Me and to your parents, unto Me is the final destination.} (Qur'an 31:14)

{And We have enjoined upon humankind, to their parents, good treatment. Their mothers carried them with hardship and gave birth to them with hardship…} (Qur'an 46:15)

When the Qur'an speaks of motherhood, it is not with words of false sweetness, nor promises of unbridled joy. Instead, Allah speaks to us with the rawness of our own experiences: wahnun 3ala wahn; hamalat'hu karhan wa wadha3at'hu karhan… weakness and pain upon weakness and pain. The word "karhan" shares the same root as the word "karaaha" - something that is hated. The pain that a mother experiences is unimaginable, a pain that anyone would hate to experience - and yet, it is what women endure, over and over again.

The greatest of all women, Maryam bint Imraan ('alayhassalaam), cried out during labour, "Would that I had died before this, and had been forgotten and out of sight!" (Qur'an 19:23)

The burden placed on Muslim women to experience motherhood - to perform motherhood - as the completion of her feminine identity and epitome of self-worth, as the measure of her womanhood and of her spirituality, is a burden that we do not find in the Qur'an and Sunnah.

How then do we have the audacity to place this burden on women?

Read more: https://muslimmatters.org/2020/06/20/fractured-wombs/

Torment, Tears, and Tawbah

Have you ever had that moment where, all of a sudden, you remember something that you said or did in the past, the severity of which you only realized later on?

That sharp inhalation, shortness of breath, the flush of humiliation, the sick lurching in the pit of your stomach as you recall hurtful words, or an action that was so clearly displeasing to Allah... it is a very physical reaction, a recoiling from your own past deeds.

It may not even be the first time you think about those actions, it may not even be the first time to make istighfaar because of them... but sometimes, it may be the first time that you really and truly feel absolutely sickened at the realization of the gravity of it all. It might not even have been a 'big deal' - perhaps it was a cruel joke to a sensitive friend, or not having fulfilled a promise that was important to someone, or betraying a secret that you didn't think was all that serious.

And yet... and yet, at this moment, your memory of that action is stark and gut-wrenching.

It is a deeply unpleasant feeling.

It is also a very necessary one.

Tawbah - seeking forgiveness from Allah - is something that we speak about, especially in Ramadan, the month of forgiveness. However, it is also something that we tend to speak about in general terms, or write off as something simple - "Just say astaghfirAllah and don't do it again."

In truth, tawbah is about much more than muttering istighfaar under your breath. It is a process, an emotional experience, one that engages your memory, your soul, and your entire body.

The first step of tawbah is to recognize the sin - whether seemingly small or severe - and to understand just how wrong it was. Each and every one of our deeds is written in our book of deeds; each and every deed will be presented to us on the Day of Judgment for us to be held accountable for. There are times when we say things so casually that it doesn't even register to us

how we could be affecting the person we've spoken to.

As RasulAllah (sallAllahu 'alayhi wa sallam) once told A'ishah (radhiAllahu 'anha), "You have said a word which would change the sea (i.e. poison or contaminate it) if it were mixed in it." (Sunan Abi Dawud)

The second step is to feel true remorse. It's not enough to rationally acknowledge that action as being sinful; one must feel guilt, remorse, and grief over having committed it.

Tawbah is to feel that sucker-punch of humiliation and guilt as we recall our sins: not just the mildly awkward ones, like a petty fib or mild infraction, but the genuinely terrible parts of ourselves... ugly lies, vicious jealousy, violations against others' rights, abuse.

Some of us may be actual criminals - others of us may seem presentable on the outside, even religious, maybe even spiritual... and yet have violated others in terrible ways. Abuse comes in so many forms, and some of us are perpetrators, not just victims.

Facing that reality can be a gruesome process. 

It is a necessary process. Token words, glib recitation of spiritual formulae, those do not constitute tawbah in its entirety. Rather, it is a matter of owning up to our violations, experiencing genuine emotion over them - true humiliation, true regret - and striving not to be that person ever again. 

Much as we hate to admit it, we have our own fair share of red flags that we create and wave, even before we get into the nasty business of committing the worst of our sins. Tawbah isn't just feeling bad for those Big Sins - it's to recognize what led us to them to begin with.

It requires us to acknowledge our own flaws of character, of the ease with which we fall into certain behaviours, the way we justify the pursuit of our desires, the blindness we have to the worst parts of ourselves. Tawbah is to sit down and face all of it - and then to beg Allah, over and over, not just to forgive us and erase those specific actions, but to change us for the better. 

This experience is so much more powerful than a mere "I'm sorry," or "omg that was awful"; it is an act that embodies our submission to Allah because it requires us to make ourselves incredibly emotionally vulnerable, and in that moment, to experience a deep pain and acknowledge our wrongdoing. It is to hold your heart out to Allah and to beg Him, with every fiber of your being, with tears in your eyes, with a lump in your throat, wracked with regret, to please, please, please forgive you - because without it, without His Mercy and His Forgiveness and His Gentleness and His Love towards us, we have no hope and we will be utterly destroyed.

{Rabbanaa thalamnaa anfusanaa, wa illam taghfir lanaa wa tar'hamnaa, lanakunanna mina'l Khaasireen!}

{Our Lord, we have wronged ourselves, and if You do not forgive us and have mercy upon us, we will surely be among the losers!} (Qur'an 7:23)

This experience of tawbah is powerful, emotional, and heartbreaking. It is meant to be. It is a reminder to us of how truly dependent we are upon our Lord and our Creator, how nothing else in our lives can give us joy or a sense of peace if He is displeased with us. It is a reminder to us of how deeply we crave His Love, of how desperately we need it, of how His Pleasure is the ultimate goal of our existence.

Finally, there is the step of resolving never to commit that sin again, to redress the wrongs if possible, and to follow up the bad deed with a good one.

The vow is one we make to ourselves, asking Allah's help to uphold it - because we are incapable of doing anything at all without His Permission; the righting of wrongs is what we do to

correct our transgression against others' rights over us, although there are times when we may well be unable to seek another individual's forgiveness, whether because of distance, death, or

otherwise; and the good deeds to undertake as penance are numerous, whether they be sadaqah or increased 'ebaadah.

But it doesn't end there. And it never will.

Tawbah is not a once-in-a-lifetime event. It is not even a once-a-year event, or once a month, or once a week. It is meant to be a daily experience, a repeated occurrence, in the earliest hours of

the morning, in the depths of the last third of the night, during your lunch break or your daily commute or in the middle of a social gathering.

Tawbah is a lifelong journey, for who amongst us doesn't commit mistakes and errors every day?

All we can do is beg of Allah not only for His Forgiveness, but also:

{Allahumma ij'alnaa min at-tawwaabeen.} - O Allah, make us amongst those who are constantly engaging in repentance! Read and comment at MuslimMatters!

Make Haraam Policing Great Again

“Watch out for the Haraam Police!”

It’s only half a joke - where even just recently the term “haraam policing” applied to over-zealous masjid uncles and aunties, and obnoxious wallah bros, it is now the first thing hurled at anyone who dares remind anyone else that Islam does, in fact, consist of certain rules to follow and that there are indeed such things as ‘sins.’ Whether one is talking about LGBTQ issues, hijab, music, or mixed-gender relationships, it is no longer considered acceptable to bring up the fact that Islam itself is a faith that is very much structured based on what is and is not permissible according to our Creator. The call to enjoin the good and forbid the evil is repeated throughout the Qur’an, yet the second half of that prescription has been almost completely neglected today.

The consequences of not forbidding evil are clear today, most obviously amongst youth, and especially on social media. Islam itself is seen as a cultural identity marker, with even outward symbols such as hijab seen as almost entirely divorced from the concept of obedience to Allah and instead viewed as a form of identity politics, faux-rebellion, and interpreted “personally” in such a way as to make it spiritually meaningless. Salah itself has become the butt of TikTok jokes; calling out foul language, vulgar music, sexualized behaviour, and more is seen as laughable, because who cares anymore? None of that’s a big deal anymore, after all.

An extremely concerning aspect of all of this is not that those who are engaging in these spiritually damaging behaviour are merely ignorant laypeople; rather, is it that those who exhibit signs of some religious literacy, who have the outward signs of some religiosity, who do, in fact, engage in some level of religious learning or dialogue, are actively participating in these behaviours. It’s a matter of people who should know better - who do know better - and yet have chosen not to do better. For some, it may not be a deliberate choice to disobey Allah, but that the understanding of the limits of Allah’s boundaries has been so downplayed and undermined that it barely registers at all in one’s conscious decision-making. So many sinful actions have been normalized, to the extent that even those who would identify themselves as “religious” and “practising” find it difficult to be cognizant of just how seriously wrong those actions are, and what the deeper spiritual implications of those behaviours are.

Read more here: https://muslimmatters.org/2020/04/22/make-haram-policing-great-again-time-to-bring-back-some-good-ol-nahy-an-il-munkar/

The Trauma of Motherhood

Motherhood is so beautiful, women are told, even before they have become women. Motherhood is what we are meant for. Motherhood is part and parcel of our womanhood. Motherhood will, sooner or later, define us.

What they do not tell us is that for so many of us, motherhood is trauma. It is the loss of ourselves as we are subsumed by the creature growing within us. It is the loss of control over our own bodies, the loss of sleep during pregnant days and colicky nights, the loss of our intimate selves in exchange for cracked nipples and wombs that never stop aching. It is the loss of safety in being able to confide to our loved ones, who stare at us in horror at our ugly confessions.

We are the walking wounded, the mothers with bleeding hearts and emptied wombs, the mothers whose minds are on the verge of breaking. We are the women whose souls are frozen in fear - for we are told that we are weak, impatient, failures as believing women.

Only Allah knows our agony, when everyone else refuses to see or hear our pain.

{And We have enjoined on humankind [goodness] to their parents. Their mothers bore them in weakness and hardship upon weakness and hardship, and their weaning takes two years. Give thanks to Me and to your parents, unto Me is the final destination.} (Qur'an 31:14)

{And We have enjoined upon humankind, to their parents, good treatment. Their mothers carried them with hardship and gave birth to them with hardship…} (Qur'an 46:15)

When the Qur'an speaks of motherhood, it is not with words of false sweetness, nor promises of unbridled joy. Instead, Allah speaks to us with the rawness of our own experiences: wahnun 3ala wahn; hamalat'hu karhan wa wadha3at'hu karhan… weakness and pain upon weakness and pain. The word "karhan" shares the same root as the word "karaaha" - something that is hated. The pain that a mother experiences is unimaginable, a pain that anyone would hate to experience - and yet, it is what women endure, over and over again.

The greatest of all women, Maryam bint Imraan ('alayhassalaam), cried out during labour, "Would that I had died before this, and had been forgotten and out of sight!" (Qur'an 19:23)

The burden placed on Muslim women to experience motherhood - to perform motherhood - as the completion of her feminine identity and epitome of self-worth, as the measure of her womanhood and of her spirituality, is a burden that we do not find in the Qur'an and Sunnah.

How then do we have the audacity to place this burden on women?

The trauma that so many Muslim women experience from motherhood is exacerbated by the lack of empathy, compassion, and mercy shown to them. There is a culture of romanticizing motherhood in a way that even our foremothers would not recognize - a demand that all pain be willed away, that no sign of discomfort be shown, that a mother should smile and express only joy and radiance.
There is no place for women who struggle with pregnancy, who spend each second overcome by sickness that is more than just physical; for women who find themselves impregnated against their wills, for women whose bodies treat the fetus within them as a parasite rather than a gift; for women who hold their newborn infants and feel nothing but emptiness; for women whose despair blocks out any other emotion.

In the face of this pressure, so many Muslim mothers find themselves even more overwhelmed than they already were. The struggle to perform motherhood 'the right way', when they don't have the basic support that they need, leads to trauma being magnified. Many mothers find themselves trapped with imposter syndrome, despairing at their lack of maternal competence, convinced that at any moment, the full extent of their perceived failures will be revealed - and their shame made public.

When women are going through wahnun 3ala wahn, our role is not to judge them, to shame them, or to tear them down. Our role - men and women alike - is to recognize in these struggling mothers the Words of Allah, to honour them, to support them, and to provide them what they need to regain their strength in every way. Our role is to be their awliyaa, their companions and their comfort; our role is to give them the love they so desperately need, in this time of pain and hardship and difficulty that we cannot even begin to fathom.

ArRahman recognizes the pain that every mother's rahm feels - and so should we.


In Canada, 23% of new mothers reported feelings consistent with either post-partum depression or an anxiety disorder. Those under the age of 25 had the highest rates of such feelings compared to any other age group. In various Asian countries, such as Pakistan, the percentage of mothers experiencing postpartum depression can be as high as 63%.


https://www150.statcan.gc.ca/n1/daily-quotidien/190624/dq190624b-eng.htm

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3939973/ 

Muslim Literature: The Pros, the Pitfalls, and the Progress

Once upon a time, it was extremely difficult for English-speaking Muslims to find good books – fiction and non-fiction alike – that was catered to their demographic. Fiction, in particular, was scarce, for both young children as well as teens. Much of it was poorly written, filled with atrocious spelling and grammar, and stilted from beginning to end.

It was not an enjoyable reading experience.

Alhamdulillah, the Muslim literary scene has evolved significantly since the early 90s. Today, we have award-winning Muslim authors such as Na’ima B. Robert, whose excellent YA novels have been published through mainstream publishers and numerous emerging writers whose debut novels are wonderful contributions to the existing body of modern Muslim literature.

Muslim publishers such as Kube Publishing, Daybreak Press, and Ruqaya’s Bookshelf are taking the lead in producing and distributing stories by and for Muslims. In addition, the publishing company Simon and Schuster launched an entire division dedicated to books by Muslim writers. Hena Khan, S. K. Ali, Karuna Riazi, and Mark Gonzales are just some of the authors whose Muslim-centered stories have been published through Salaam Reads and made accessible to schools, libraries, and the general public. The We Need Diverse Books movement has also played a significant role in promoting multicultural and marginalized voices within mainstream publishing, and the results are wonderful.

Within the Muslim community, however, work still needs to be done...

Read more here.

Little Madrasah on the Island

Last night, we held the first-ever student recognition ceremony for our madrasah - specifically, for the twenty kids who had made huge strides in the span of just under two years. We had children who came to us not even knowing their Arabic alphabets, and now, they’re already reading fluently from the mus’haf! Others came in having memorized only Surah al-Fatiha, if that; today, they have completed Juz ‘Ammah by heart and are well on their way to completing Juz Tabarak as well. Some of these kids are as young as six years old, while the older ones are around thirteen or fourteen. In every single case, it has been a journey of blood, sweat, and tears (and only the blood part is metaphorical!)... but also of laughter, pride, and affection for these kids. 

This student recognition ceremony was a historic moment for our small community, which has never before held such an event. My father, Shaykh Younus, first began teaching the children and adults of this community over 30 years ago - literally before I was born. Though my family came and went from Victoria several times since then, each time, we have found ourselves drawn back to what we consider a very basic community obligation: the duty of educating the younger generations of this Ummah, upon whose shoulders the future of this Ummah rests. It is an extremely unglamorous undertaking, without a fat paycheque to show for it, very little credit given, and more time and effort than one can imagine. Nonetheless, it is done for the Sake of Allah, and it is this alone that motivates every teacher who takes time every day to show up to our Islamic center and spend hours patiently teaching young children.

Seeing our students up on stage and demonstrating what they’ve learned over the last (almost) two years was more emotional than I expected. When we first told them that we were going to have a party for them, they were incredibly excited, and wouldn’t stop asking when the party was going to happen - and about the cupcakes that we’d promised them! Every week, they eagerly practised what they would be presenting. Indeed, just moments before they were to go up on stage, they huddled at their tables with their qaa’idah and their masaahif, heads bent as they practised intently. When they finally got up on stage, they did us proud - perhaps even prouder than their own parents were. For us as teachers, sitting with them for days every week, it was truly incredible to see them sitting with their heads held high and their voices unwavering as they recited the Words of Allah for the crowd. 

Witnessing the joy and excitement that our students had for this event, that was centered on them and their education as young Muslims, was inspiring to even the most grizzled of adults. As long as our children have the love of Allah and His Messenger in their hearts, our Ummah has not lost hope. 

(See our pictures here: https://www.instagram.com/p/B9QCwRvAGQI/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link )

#ValentinesDayIsHaraam

Roses are red, violets are blue,
You need to do wudhu.
Because you stink.
...
I dream about you every night...
When I forget to recite Ayatul Kursi to ward off Shaytan.
...
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Shaytaan disgusts me
And you do, too.
...
Whenever I see you, I lower my gaze
Because you're ugly and I don't want to do dhulm on myself.
...
Did you fall from Jannah?
Because boy, you look like Iblees.
...
I love you like Salafis love the Mawlid.
...
I love you like a Sufi loves reading Kitaab at-Tawheed.
...
I love you like a Sufi loves the three categories of Tawheed.
...
I love you like Jamaatis love cleaning up after themselves at a masjid.
...
I love you like desi aunties love hearing that their beti is going to marry a Black Muslim man.
...
I love you like Khaleejis love hearing that their beloved eldest son is marrying a desi girl.
...
I love you like converts love telling their conversion story to random strangers at the masjid.
...
I love you like Muslims love being "randomly selected" by airport security.
...
I love you like proggies love traditional Islamic scholarship on hijab, gender and sexuality.
...
I love you like masjid boards love having transparent, non-corrupt elections.
...
I love you like Madkhalis love hearing criticism of the Saudi government.
...

The Shards of Motherhood

Over the last year, I have finally been slipping into motherhood proper, the term feeling less awkward, my heart feeling surer about itself, aware of my child and attuned in a way that I had struggled to achieve for years.

It is a relief to feel this; I no longer feel fraudulent when declaring my maternal relationship to the bright-eyed, startlingly sarcastic girl whom most assume to be my younger sister.

And yet.

And yet, these days, even as I am more fiercely dedicated to doing motherhood right, even as I feel the tug of her flesh and blood to my own, I struggle.

I struggle with my own memories, my own shame, with the panic and fear and pain that swamped the earliest days of her existence and lasted for years later, clouding my heart and my mind.

I flinch at the memories of my own selfishness, of the overwhelming loss of myself, of the strangeness that I felt between her tiny body and my own. I feel sick, often, remembering the twisting of my womb, of how horrified I was at what grew within me. I feel even more sick remembering who I was after she was born, of my weakness, of the tears she wiped away with toddler hands, of the emptiness I felt in place of maternal instinct, of my sharp words borne of frustration at her very existence.

I hate remembering my own thoughtlessness, and worse still, the lack of remembrance of most of her earliest years. I cannot remember the day she first called out for me clearly, or what she looked like fresh out of the bath. I look through pictures of her, often, and desperately grasp at wisps of recollection, unsure of what is true maternal memory and what is a clumsily constructed history.

I am ashamed of who I was, of whom I have been for so long.

It is hard not to want to undo it all, to take it all back, to create a better story of motherhood than the lopsided, rough pieces I hold within me now.

She deserves better, I tell myself, but uneasily, I wonder if I mean that *I* deserved better. I don't know if I will ever know the real answer to either thought.

For now, I try to swallow back the shards of past memories, and curl my fingers around the softer memories that I have created today.

Fog

Some days, I wake with fire in my bones and on my tongue, words crackling like sparks ready to burst into flame, and revolution is at my fingertips.

Some days, I wake and find my words smothered and muffled, wrapped in a fog that I struggle to make sense of. My words feel trapped, hidden somewhere that I cannot reach; the embers inside me have gone cold, and my fingers are clumsy, stilled by the frost that has leached into my mind.

These are the days that I reach out blindly and greedily seek others' words instead, desperate for second-hand heat, hoping that I will find tinder and kindling to set me ablaze once more.

I miss my own words. I don't know where to find them, or how. The fog is too thick, and I am too tired to burn it away.

My Muslim Shelf Space

A list of Muslamic fiction (and some non-fiction) recommendations from yours truly!

Alif the Unseen
The Bird King
The Night Counter
The Ruins of Us
The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters
The Lover (by Laury Silvers)
The Map of Salt and Stars
The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories
The Reluctant Fundamentalist
Exit West
A Dead Djinn in Cairo
Sofia Khan is Not Obliged
Painted Hands
Ayesha At Last
American Dervish
The Pearl That Broke Its Shell
The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye and Other Stories

YA:
Saints and Misfits
Love from A to Z
Muslim Girl
When Wings Expand
All YA by Na'ima B Robert
An Acquaintance
Finding Jamila and the Story of Yusuf

The Butterfly Mosque
Love in a Headscarf
Love, Inshallah
Salaam, Love
From My Sisters' Lips
At the Drop of a Veil

The Fiqh of Marrying Mermaids

“Bismillaahir’Rahmaan arRaheem… Ithaa waqa’ati’l waaqi’ah…”

On a small boat in the ocean, a lone man stood in prayer, bearded and regal even in the depths of the night. His voice fell and rose with the cadence of Divine Words, echoing across the sea. “Wa hoorin ‘ayn, ka amthaalin lu’lu’…” he faltered for a moment, trying to recall the description of the heavenly handmaidens.

“Ka amthaalil lu’lu’ il-maknoon,” a husky female voice corrected him helpfully.
“Ka amthaalil lu’lu’ il-maknoon,” he intoned, and then jolted in shock, swinging around wild-eyed for the source of the Qur’anic correction.

His gaze fell upon a pair of eyes, startlingly bright in the darkness – amber, with the same reflective quality of a cat.
It was certainly no cat that stared back at him, however. Two very human (though slightly phosphorescent) arms nestled on the rails of the boat’s deck, hoisting a very human torso and – he yelped and jumped back – a very inhuman tail from the waist down, featuring darkly glimmering scales of blue-black and ending in translucent fins that draped daintily over the deck.

For a wild moment, all he could think was, “She has no seashell bra!” – for yes, the creature had a distinctly feminine face, framed by what appeared to be a swathe of silky seaweed that draped over her shoulders and body. Then he blushed, because he shouldn’t have been thinking of seashell bras (AstaghfirAllah! He repented hastily), and then he choked back another yelp and coughed out, “Who are you? What are you?”

The creature tsked disapprovingly. “You broke your salah. Not supposed to do that.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “I am a Hoor.”

He definitely needed to sit down for this. “A… Hoor…” he echoed faintly. She laughed, a sound that evoked high tide rushing in, and treacherous whirlpools that tugged you into the current, and promises of buried treasure.

“I am of the Hooriyat al-Bahr,” she said, still laughing at him. “Not quite the ones described in the Divine Verses, but,” she preened, the powerful muscle of her tail flexing, “not too far off, either.”

He caught himself looking at her again, and quickly lowered his gaze.
“You know the Qur’an?” He asked dazedly.

“Better than you,” she sniped back. “I am haafidhah, after all.” She tossed her head, and he caught glimpses of tarnished coin and polished seashells in the netting that covered her hair.
“So you’re… Muslim… then?”

She looked at him disdainfully. “Of course I’m Muslim,” she snapped. “The Mer, as the Faranji call us, have always been believers in the One True God – or at least, most of us are. Do you not know that Prophet Sulayman spoke the languages of all creatures? If he could speak to the ants, it is only obvious that he would speak to the Mer.”

“But how do you -” he gestured to her tail, which she deliberately slapped into the water, splashing him. “How do you pray?”

“You humans really are stupid,” she remarked. “Do you think that the Ghayb operates according to your rules? ‘Wa maa khalaqtal jinna wa’l insa illa liya’budoon.’ Do you think our Lord created us to worship Him only to leave us ignorant of how to do so?”
She snorted derisively. “Next you’ll be asking if we have to do wudhu,” she said mockingly, and he flushed in embarassment because he *was* about to ask that very question.
He knew it was a bad idea even before he blurted out the next question. “Are you halal to eat?”

“And this,” the Hoori said loudly to the dark water surrounding them, “is why my ancestresses drowned sailors so regularly. Every time these human men open their mouths, their stupidity merely increases.”

He sighed, suddenly weary. “Why are you here?” He asked her. “What do you want from me?”

Her gaze sharpened, turned hungry. “Finally,” she said with satisfaction. “An intelligent question.” She leaned forward, and her voice filled with longing. “I want – I *need* – to be a part of your world. There is so much that I need to know, so much that I need to learn, and the knowledge I seek is only on land. I cannot become the scholar I wish to be trapped within the ocean.”

“What am I supposed to do about that?” he demanded.
She fixed him with a stare. “Marry me.”
He spluttered. “What – why – why me?”
She looked insulted. “Why not?”
“I mean… why do you have to get married to do whatever it is you want to do?”

She made a noise of disgust. “Patriarchy. Fiqh of the sea. Can’t transform unless one is married to a human man. Need a mahram to travel on land.” She waved a hand dismissively. “So. Will you do it?”

He looked at her for a long while. “What is your mahr?” he asked finally.
“Freedom,” she said promptly. “And in return, you’ll be married to a mermaid.”
“We need a wali, and witnesses.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Wait, aren’t I supposed to propose to you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Ever heard of Umm al-Mu’mineen Khadijah?”
He looked sheepish. “Well… yes, then.”
Her voice deepened in sudden seriousness. “This is a binding oath, across land and sea, of marriage, of freedom, of knowledge. Do you accept this vow as your own?”
He surprised himself by answering gravely. “I do.”
A smile flickered over her face, a true smile, devoid of sarcasm, and he found himself smiling back, his heart inexplicably light.
“So are we getting that wali, or what?” he asked, and she grinned.
“Stay put,” she said, uncoiling her tail from its hold on the rails. “And don’t marry any other mermaids while I’m gone.”
“I’ll try,” he said drily.

With a smooth twist of her body, the Hoori launched herself back into the ocean, the obsidian scales of her tail gleaming in the moonlight.
It was only after she disappeared completely beneath the waves, leaving behind only swiftly fading ripples, that he realized that he did not know his Hoori’s name.

Madrasah Musings

eaching madrasah is not glamorous work.

Frankly, it can be tedious & exhausting.

It is also deeply emotional - a wild ride of being invested in children who are not your own flesh & blood, & yet whom you find yourself loving & being irritated at & being hopeful for & being disappointed in.

If you walk into one of our classes, it won't seem like much. Circles of children learning to read Arabic from the qaa'idah & beginning their hifdh. Story times, discussions with the shaykh about loving Allah & His Messenger, understanding salah, obedience to parents, Islamic identity. We teach them what to say when they wake up & go to bed; how to use the bathroom; what it means to be a Muslim.

Simple, no?

Hell no.

We've been at this for a long time - years of it. We find ourselves caught between hope in the newer generations & praying that they live the lessons they're learning from us, & heartbreak when years pass & we see those whom we once taught as young adults, all too often having lost their way.

We celebrate each child's progress, tsking with regret at the ones whose parents clearly do not prioritize practicing at home. We speak excitedly of the children who come to class with sparkling eyes & eager voices; frustrated at those who make no effort & display constant disrespect.

Each day that we sit down with our students, we wonder: who amongst them will still be praying five times a day, every day, in another year? In five years? In ten years? Will any of them continue to recite the the Qur’an they so painstaking memorize today? Will they be confident in their Islam, dynamic in seeking knowledge? Or will they have lost everything but the barest wisps of memory, of Islam as little more than a cultural quirk?

There's only so much we can do in a few hours a week; we can only hope that the parents won't undo it.

These children mean so much more to us than just passing students. They are the lifeblood of this Ummah, & it is a privilege & a responsibility on us all to raise them to be the best generation to come.

Will we succeed, or will we fail them?

We'll find out on the Day of Judgment, I suppose.

...

Y'all don't understand (or maybe you do!). My family has spent a long, looong, looooong time doing it - literally since I was a child. I got conscripted as a teacher at the age of 15, tasked with helping kids learn the Arabic alphabet and their first surahs in Juz 'Ammah (except I'm awful at teaching little kids, and got bumped up to teach the intermediate class with slightly older kids who didn't cry as much when I was in Scary Teacher Mode).

When I first left home, I was actually relieved that I wouldn't have to teach anymore... until I realized how much I missed it. In Kuwait, I found myself leaping at the opportunity to teach again, and when I moved back to Canada, I jumped back into it. Now, my parents and I teach again on a weekly basis, and with it has returned All The Feels.

It's not just about showing up and teaching kids for an hour or so and then packing up and going home.

It's spending hours every week with children at different levels and different paces of learning; exulting in their progress, groaning at setbacks, pouring our blood, sweat, and tears into every day and every child.

It's drinking a stiff cup of coffee before every class, wondering why we put ourselves through this agony every week, and sighing with exhaustion at the end of every class, comparing notes on who got ahead and who fell behind and who is still struggling with their current lessons.

It's getting excited planning a graduation ceremony for the kids we've managed to get through the qaa'idah and who have begun reading from the mus'haf itself and who have memorized their first Juz.

It's finding ourselves sitting at the dinner table or driving to do groceries and somehow we end up talking about "our kids" again - both past and present students.

It's stalking our old students online to see what they're up to and what paths they've taken in life and whether they ever remember what they learned with us.

It's wondering aloud about our current students and hoping that they make better life choices than some of their predecessors and desperately praying that they continue to read and recite the Qur'an throughout their lives... and selfishly hoping that we continue to receive ajr for every letter of the Qur'an that they utter.

In the end, that's what it is really about: dedicating ourselves to the inglorious, grueling, painful, exhilarating, and deeply emotional cause of teaching Muslim children the very basics of their faith, solely for the Sake of Allah. (We sure as heck aren't making much of a career out of it!)

We know that we have an obligation to this Ummah, and we have no choice but to fulfill it. We only pray that Allah accepts our work, and blesses it, and makes the fruits of our labour last long after we pass away.

{Say: "Verily, my Salat (prayer), my sacrifice, my living, and my dying are for Allah, the Lord of the Worlds.} (Qur'an 6:162)

The Messenger of Allah said: "Whoever teaches some knowledge will have the reward of the one who acts upon it, without that detracting from his reward in the slightest." [ibn Majah]