I Meet My Younger Self for Coffee

I meet my younger self for coffee today.

She is insufferable, of course. 

So am I.

She has a teenage recklessness, which is fitting, because she is still a teenager - the sparkle in her eye is still naive, overconfident, so sure of the world while knowing nothing of it.

She meets my gaze, and her eyebrows rise at the cynicism in my eyes, the bitterness of the years between us, the fire that has muted into a more flickering ember, the hardened coal that pulses with banked fury instead of roaring freely.

Neither of us knows how to do small talk, still. She sees the ring on my left hand, and her eyebrows rise even higher. "A wedding ring? Imitating the kuffar?"

I laugh because I don't even disagree with her.

She leans forward eagerly. "So, did we do it? Study Arabic overseas? Become a student of knowledge? Am I a shaykha now?"

I don't want to tell her the truth; I want her to hold onto hope. I hesitate.

She can tell something is wrong.

"You do some Islamic diploma programs," I tell her, and see her bristle. It’s not the same thing, and we both know it. 

“Your qadr leads to other paths,” I say finally. “You’d be a terrible shaykha, anyway. You’re obnoxious and self-righteous and you don’t know how awful life can be for so many people and you wouldn’t be able to serve women as they need.”

She scowls. I ignore her. She needs to hear it. She doesn’t know that my harshness is actually a kindness, that I’m hiding the crucible of pain she will go through, how the self that emerges after will be both better and worse than who she is now. 

I relent, a little. 

“You’ll be a writer. You’re not half bad at it. You’re also not a terrible parent.”

Fear flashes in her eyes. Oops. 

“Just one kid! And she’s amazing. She’s sweet, and kind, and funny, and when you look at her, your heart will ache in the best way.”

I cast about for something else to tell her, something that doesn’t hint at the horrors scattered in her future, that doesn’t weigh her down with preemptive shame about her own terrible life choices, that doesn’t break her before she will be broken in the years to come, over and over again.

“You will have SO MANY BOOKS. People will send you their books FOR FREE. You get to read ALL THE TIME. Your house will be so full of books that your bookshelves will start sagging in the middle and you’ll have piles in every room and you’ll never run out of fun things to read. You’ll run a book club!” 

This catches her attention.

“You’ll get to travel and visit Muslim countries. You’ll walk through ancient souqs and even more ancient jungles. You’ll lean out the window and the desert wind will murmur the adhan to you, and you’ll get caught in a monsoon storm, and you’ll pray inside masajid built by women centuries ago.”

Her eyes are dreamy now, bright in a way that I miss so much, that makes a sob catch in my throat. 

She will have all those things, but at a price she cannot begin to fathom.

There’s so much I want to tell her, but I can’t. There is a path laid out for her, through shadows and thorns, and she will cut herself on every jagged edge, because she must. I cannot change her qadr.

“Hey… one more thing?”

She turns back to look at me. 

“Hug your mom more.” 

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.

The Softest Armour

The women of my family wear the softest armour: the most tender of cotton dresses, the most delicate chiffon scarves, the sweetest of smiles. The women of my family are the strongest women I have ever known - even the gentlest of aunties has a spine of unbent steel.

It is only when I visit first one, and then the other, of my elders in hospital that I see them terrifying vulnerable: their soft, impenetrable armour removed; their elegant dresses and beautiful scarves gone, leaving them defenseless in hospital gowns and worn pajamas.

I feel ashamed of myself, almost - I want to avert my eyes, to not see my elders so old, where once I had seen them as simply, eternally, elder without aging. Knuckles grown swollen from arthritis; wisps of hair, before always meticulously tucked away beneath their scarves, suddenly seen, wilted, falling out of cotton hair caps; shoulders trembling where once they were so firm; flashes of pain in eyes that I had only ever looked into and found beatific serenity.

The women of my family wear the softest armour, and I want nothing more than to drape them once again in their gentle glory - to be reassured by the whisper of silk against my skin when I bend to kiss their cheeks; to touch the dignified wool of their cardigans, embroidered with thread as strong as the unseen filaments of their own spider-silk wills - enduring with beauty no matter the decades of marriage, of children, of immigration, of losing and finding and building and slipping away and too many changes, too fast.

I wish I knew the women of my family better. I wish I knew their stories the way I know their food: pineapple steaks and spiced chicken pastries and strawberry butter scones and melting moments butter biscuits - family favourites flavoured by their histories, unknown to me.

I wish I knew what lay under their soft armour before age and illness lay them bare to me; I wish I knew what weapons they carried into their daily battles; I wish I knew what enemies they faced, within and without; I wish I knew how they became so soft and strong.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. I wonder if I will inherit their grace and their delicacy and their iron wills and gentle touches and their deft hands at making biryani and mithai and the memories of their homeland and family still so far away.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. I want to bury my face in their scarves, draw their dresses over my head, feel their steadfastness wrap gently around my bones, touch my fingertips to their grace and draw it in, inhale their dignity into my muscle memory.

My armour is hard and brittle, not spider-silk-soft or chiffon-kiss-gentle. My armour is stiff and dented and has the hard colours of too-bold-lipstick and dark-denim-jeans. My armour is biting humour and anger ill-contained.

The women of my family wear the softest armour. Perhaps, one day, my armour will soften too.

Sacred and Profane

(Fiction)

My bloodline is shot through with both the sacred and the profane - the people of my lineage have hearts that long for the Divine, even as our loins lust for earthly carnality.

We are neither saints nor mediocre sinners.

We are scholars of faith, filled with ferocity; prayers drop like pearls from our lips both in public and in private, whispered with anguished sincerity - no hypocrites we, but believers in truth, worshippers in earnest.
Even so, we are cursed with our own corruption: eyes that gaze too long at that which we know to be forbidden, mouths that brush against others' too closely to be chaste, fingers tracing too-sensual patterns on skin that is prohibited to us.

We are reared on adoration of the Beloved and fear of Afterworldly punishment; our voices rise in sacred litanies and impassioned sermons and fierce debates. We believe every word, we speak with no forked tongues, we are inextricable from our convictions.
Even so, we are cursed with our own corruption: our voices dip sinfully low, throaty sighs tinged with transgression, whimpers of desire wrongfully fulfilled, arousal in our blood burning our veins, reminding us even in these moments of our belief in hellfire.

We fall to our knees in penitence, promising ourselves - never again - no more - please - no - it will end - and our prayer mats become worn from prostration and damp with our regrets -
We burn ourselves, over and over and over again.

Our bloodline is blessed and cursed, sacred and profane, holier than the laypeople, more corrupt than the average degenerate.

Just a Dress/ Homesick

I pulled out one of my Kuwaiti derraa3aa to wear today after having them shoved in my closet for ages, and I am struck by a completely irrational sense of homesickness for a place that was never really my home to begin with.

I miss Souq Mubarkiyyah and its treasures both expensive and simple. I miss the humid, hot air at night, the scented breeze that tugged at my belly. I miss the bukhoor at the masjid on Jumu'ah, the way I lingered a little longer in sajdah to enjoy the scent.

I miss the precious circle of Muslim expats whom I met every Tuesday for tafseer class in English; I miss the women who heard my story, understood my pain, loved me through my misery, celebrated my freedom when I left.

I miss the languid drawl of the Kuwaiti accent, even as I hated the arrogance in the eyes of those who immediately judged me not only as a foreigner, but a lowly one. I miss the late night excursions for greasy shawarma and piping hot fatayer.

I don't miss the loneliness of being a stranger to everyone, including my then-husband. I don't miss the emptiness of knowing that I wasn't good enough, that I would never be good enough. I don't miss the silent suffocation, the cold shoulder turned to me without explanation.

I don't miss laying in bed, curled up on myself with my infant tucked into me, next to a person who wanted nothing more than to erase my entire sense of self. I don't miss sobbing for hours, with only my child and the walls of my apartment as witness, knowing that I had no power over myself or my future.

I don't miss the eeriness of feeling more numb each day, of fading, of nodding in acquiescence and erasing my sharp edges into dull corners, of waking up with the taste of loss always on my tongue, no matter how much gahwa I choked down to mask it, no matter how much I sweetened my shai.

It was so long ago, and yet - wearing this innocuous derraa3aa, a simple, comfortable dress that I remember picking out and buying from an Afghani merchant who loved to tell stories - I feel dizzy with phantom heartache and hysteria and hollow grief.

I wish I could rescue myself sooner, before the bright spark in my grin was stamped out, before my hopefulness withered to bitterness, before I turned from lithe lioness-cub to limping gazelle, before I was too wounded to realize when I walked into a trap and thought it love.

Sometimes, I wish I could forget it all. Other times, I panic - that the memories have faded too much, that I will forget what happened to make me who I am today, that I will lose my connection to who I was then. Greedily, I want to cling to the tatters of myself.

I tell myself to breathe. That was then, and this is now. I am myself, now - mostly - almost. And this dress that I'm wearing... is just a dress.

I will wear it again next week, and the week after that, and again, and again, until it is just a dress again, mundane and faded, and my skin will stop prickling at the touch of fabric so steeped in sorrow and the salt of the ocean and desert air. It's just a dress, after all.

Maiden, Mother, Matron

My mother's kohl-lined eyes startle me and make my heart skip a beat, and I realize -
She is growing younger each day.

My mother, in my childhood memory, is wisps of herself: weary, hesitant, a child on each hip, good-wife, good-daughter-in-law, tired, obedient, and then, later, angry, frustrated, lost, sad in a way that made me feel ashamed, as if I was responsible for the trajectory of her life.

My mother, now, grows more real to me: her shoulders firmer, her back straighter, her laugh more quick to come at my silly jokes and naughty suggestions; she is stronger, more solid, pulling together the faded bits of herself and shaping herself into something more, into someone of her own.

My mother studies for exams and practises a new language she would never have considered; she leaves her house with a determined step even if it is only to go into the sun and read a book; she has learned to say "No," and it lends her strength

My mother belongs to herself, now, more than she ever did before. She is still wife, and mother, and daughter-in-law, but more than that, she is herself. She loves herself more, and I love her all the more for it - she is no longer the woman whose fate I feared for myself, but who has taken her fate and changed it to her own choosing.

One day, perhaps, I will be as strong as my mother, and take my own fate, and make it mine.

I Remember

Watching my child grow up is achingly painful. I look at old pictures and coo over how cute she was, but when I look at her wild hair and chubby cheeks, I remember so much more than how adorable she was back then.

I remember how much I was hurting.

I remember how I spent my pregnancy in the darkest of dark places, wishing that the parasite in my womb would kill me before it emerged.

I remember how I fumbled through her first few months, awkwardly trying to feel maternal but mostly just wondering why it was that she felt more like something that someone had shoved into my arms and told me to keep alive at all costs.

I remember trying to pretend that some part of me wasn't always detached from "motherhood."

I remember trying to remember who *I* was, as I struggled to be a good-enough-wife and not-horrible-mother.

I remember realizing how awful and wrong it was that my two year old was stroking my hair and patting and my back and telling me, "Mama, it's okay," while I sobbed to myself, claw marks on my arms as I tried to make my pain something that I could look at, even if only for a few minutes.

I remember trying to pretend that I wasn't completely changing her world, her life, by bringing her home - to my home - away from what she knew as home. Away from the man she still calls Baba, even though he doesn't call her, ever.

I remember telling myself that I was doing this for her, so that she could grow up healthier and happier, but knowing deep down that I was doing this for me. I was being selfish. I was doing this so that *I* would be happier.

I remember the exhilaration I felt, being away from him. I remember being so excited to take her to meet my friends, to go to the parks of my childhood, to pet the goats and have hot chocolate at Tim Horton's.

I remember still feeling guilty. Just a little.

I remember taking her to Malaysia, where we went to live with my parents.

I remember the highs - the daily happinesses of spending most nights snuggled between them, my daughter squishing herself in insistently, her little afro wilder than ever; our holidays to new places, our toes curling in the sand, my dad making her shriek with half-laughter, half-terror as he splashed water on her; our excursions to farmer's markets and local masaajid in Ramadan, my brothers keeping a watchful eye on her; when she would accompany me to my Islamic Studies classes and squeak shyly to Shaykh Isam; the blissfulness of being *me,* of having my family, of giving my child the security I once had.

I remember the lows. Arguments, tears, bitter words as I tried to make decisions for my - for her - future. Using her name as a defence, claiming that I wanted her to have something more than this unrealistic limbo. A part of me was still being selfish. A part of me believed it. Either way, there was too much anger, too many tears. I don't remember where she was, then. Probably safely playing with her toys, or splashing in the tub. I hope she doesn't remember my fights.

I remember the new chapter starting. Coming back to Canada, beginning anew. Rocky, at first - a flight that we were never allowed to board; a rush of panic; trying to find a place to live; the awkwardness of being a new wife, in unstable circumstances, with a child who didn't understand what was happening, not quite.

I remember that first apartment of my own. Our own. I cried a lot in those days, for different reasons. I hope she doesn't remember those tears, either.

I remember how we snuggled every night, just the two of us, her hair curling up into my nose.

I remember her cheerfulness every morning, her sternness over my wardrobe choices, her good-natured patience with my procrastination and fumbled attempts at adulting.

I remember the excitement of every Jumu'ah, as she and I burned bukhoor and ran out the door to catch the khutbah on time; the joy of seeing our friends at the masjid; the tradition we built for ourselves of bubble tea and treats and walking around downtown and then finally having dinner at my grandparents' house.

I remember how I would push her in the stroller, complaining about how heavy she was, trudging to the library. She ignored me and settled in even more firmly, smug in the knowledge that I would keep pushing.

I remember how I would jolt her out of that comfort and take her, for months at a time, to another country, another home. Another family. She liked her new siblings, mostly. She didn't like not being with me very much.

I remember desperately trying to figure things out, trying to impose my dream-ideas onto a very different reality - a confusing one, a frustrating one, a hurtful one, sometimes. It wasn't all bad, but it was new, and different, and I didn't really know what I was doing.

I remember not really being much of a mother. I remember more guilt, more knowledge that I was being selfish, more feelings of being too absorbed. Too many adult things happening. I hope she doesn't remember those days.

I remember the relief of going back to our apartment - and to our second one, after that. I remember she and I settling back in to our own rhythms, our back-and-forth banter, our almost-sibling sniping. I remember our baking - cupcakes and brownies and cookies. I remember Kindergarten and trying to feel like a Real Homeschooling Mom. I don't remember doing a very good job of it.

I remember putting her through more changes. More frustrations. More confusions. I was being selfish, I know. I hope she doesn't remember it.

I remember her first day of public school, my first day at work. More changes - not bad ones, necessarily. A new house - not just our apartment, now. She had full-time siblings now, and I had four more full-time children, and a full-time cowife. Not a full-time husband, though. A full-time struggle, not without its bright spots, but still.

I remember trying to learn how to be more of a mother to children who didn't see me as one. I remember my child's look of hurt as I doled out attempts at maternal affection and fairness to children who hadn't always been mine. I remember not knowing how to be the right kind of mother to anyone.

I remember slowly getting a grip on things - sometimes. I remember falling, many times. I remember my daughter saying, "I miss when it was just us and we lived by the ocean." I remember her saying, "You work too much." I remember her saying, "Do you love them more than me? You're always too busy."

I remember too many things that I wish I didn't.

But I also remember the other night, when she crawled into bed with me, and curled up around me, and I remembered maybe I can still make good memories. With her. For her.

Maybe when she grows up, and looks at the pictures, she'll remember me, being happy, with her.

I hope she remembers that.

A Father's Advice

In the days when the pious walked the streets hand-in-hand with the penitent; and men veiled their faces out of modesty, knowing that their majesty could oft be too much temptation for the lioness-women who loved them, a wise father sat with his son on the night before his marriage.

"My son," he said tenderly, his beard streaked grey with the wisdom of his years, "Were it were deemed unnecessary to give you this advice due to good manners and noble descent, then my words would be worthless, for you carry both within you. Yet this will serve as a reminder to those who are forgetful and provide wisdom to the foolish."

“My son, if a man were able to do without a wife by virtue of his mother's care and his need for his mother's love, then you of all men would be most able to do without a wife: but men were created for women, just as women were created for men."

“My son, you are about to leave the home in which you grew up, where you first learned to walk, to enter a new home, to a companion with whom you are unfamiliar. By marrying you, she has become your queen - so be like a noble attendant to her, and she will become a noble attendant to you."

"Take from me ten qualities, which will be a provision for you in times of need, and a blessing for you in times of joy:

The first and second of them are: be content in her company, and listen to and please her, for contentment brings peace of mind, and listening to and pleasing one's wife brings peace to one's heart.

The third and fourth of them are: make sure that you smell good and look good; she should not see anything ugly from you, and she should not smell anything but a pleasant smell from you. Kohl is the best most masculine of adornment to be found, and water is better than the rarest perfume.

The fifth and sixth of them are: provide her with food on time, and keep quiet when she is asleep, for raging hunger is like a burning flame, and disturbing her sleep will destroy her well-being.

The seventh and eight of them are: take care of her servants and children, and be grateful to her, for she bears your children, and she sacrifices her body to feed them and care for them. Taking care of her servants and children shows that you are responsible towards her, and expressing your gratefulness to her shows that you are appreciative to her for her heart and her body. 

The ninth and tenth of them are: never disclose any of her secrets, and never insult her or dismiss her; for if you disclose any of her secrets, you will never feel safe from her possible betrayal, and if you insult her, her heart will be filled with hatred towards you.

Be careful, my son, of showing joy in front of her when she is upset, and do not show sorrow in front of her when she is happy, because the former shows a lack of judgment whilst the latter will make her unhappy."

"Verily, these are the wisdoms passed down from father to son: the words which, if followed, make a boy into a man, a rash youth into a worthy husband. No home will rent asunder, nor heart feel distress, so long as the young warriors of our tribe take these words to their chests, held closer than armour, more precious than any spoils of war."

- Tuhfat al-Arees, Naseeha lil Shabaab

Who will write the love letters to our families?

Brown people in the West (okay, mostly desis) complaining about their families, about brown families, about the cultural drama and the marriage circus acts and the rest of it have become a staple of Brown People in the West narrative - sometimes accompanied by a dose of guilt-assuaging "but they were immigrants who worked so hard for us so here is a token note of appreciation, mostly about food because we're all still too lazy to learn our grandmothers' recipes."

We write angry hot takes about our racism (which is bad), our colourism (also bad), about arranged marriages and cultural expectations (although apparently arranged marriages are lowkey trendy now? I can't keep up tbh).

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I love my father's sarcasm and his tales of how he was of the first generations of Brown Kids Growing Up in the West; or:
My grandmother's blunt racist comments about our own people (and others) are horrifying but also contain an entire history lesson on Partition, Apartheid, and growing up Muslim in a non-Muslim land that was not in the West; or:
My mother's lingering FOB habits are still mildly annoying and occasionally cringe-worthy, but now I feel fiercely protective of the way she pronounces certain words and only I can laugh at her, but I never want her to stop being the way she is.

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: Tribalism is wrong, but I understand why people went to war over the blood they share between one another's veins.
The blood that flows between us is hot with our family pride; it is the blood that we have spilled between ourselves over inheritances and bitter marriages, but every drop is cherished.
Any outsider who dares prick one of us with shame or humiliation will die a thousand deaths from a war raged upon them by every one of us who shares blood and bonds of kinship.

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: When my cousin gives birth, her parents will fly from another country to this one; her mother will try to make her the same foods that she once consumed during her confinement, even though my cousin will insist on going for walks with the baby and sneaking some fast food.
When my cousin gives birth, her child will be precious, like mine is: we, this new generation, are reluctant to birth the four, five, six, seven children that our mothers and our grandmothers produced, and so our offspring are ever more carefully guarded.
When my cousin gives birth, her child and my child will the youngest of us, our blood shared in their veins; even now, we all feel the faint tug to cousins and second cousins and third cousins, and their children, despite the distances and the fact that we forget their names or that they even exist.

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I'm sorry you lost your inheritance to that other branch of the family, but thank you for the scandalous stories - of the aunty living under her dead co-wife's identity for over fifty years; of the distant cousins who allegedly committed murder most foul; of the great-aunt and great-uncle whose pot habit was just a matter of fact; of the grandmother's sister's husband, who refused to pray behind anyone else because "they know nothing about the religion!" (and who had a disturbing penchant for schoolgirls, because apparently he knew nothing about what religion had to say about that...).

Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I bear the scars of the time I was disowned, of the bitterness that never really went away after divorce, of the terse words and angry tears over a decision that no one will ever really forgive - but still, we are family;
Even when we are tense over certain topics, or barbed comments still slip from our tongues, or we forget sometimes to pretend that nothing really happened, and our voices rise, some shrill, some low, some sharp - still, we are family;
These tongues share the same sharpness, these voices carry the same tenors, these noises hold the same pride, these chins share the same stubbornness - these veins hold the same blood, and so: we are family.

We are bound by a love and loyalty that has no justification or explanation; it lays in the marrow of our bones and the flow of our blood.

Who will write the love letters to our families?

Good Muslim Women

Before you talk about the trauma of motherhood, or how your masjid deliberately excludes women, or how you have been preyed upon by marriage bandits or a superstar da'ee...

You must reassure the patriarchy that you are A Good Muslim Woman.

No, of course you're not a feminist. Of course you hphold Muslim male superiority. Of course you don't think that *all* men are bad. Of course they're not to blame.

Before you talk about being a woman, about what you were told womanhood meant, about becoming a woman...

You must reassure the patriarchy that you are A Good Muslim Woman.

No, of course you don't think that men are responsible for the oppression of women. Of course you think that men have it just as bad, if not worse. Of course you know how privileged women are in Islam.

Before you endure the catcalls you endure every time you walk out of the house, before you talk about the time you were raped, before you talk about being sexually assaulted in Hajj or Umrah, before you mention the abuse of women...

You must reassure the patriarchy that you are A Good Muslim Woman.

No, of course you don't deny the obligation of hijab. Of course you dress appropriately. Of course you were with your mahram. Of course you know that men are abused too.

Before you give a talk or write a book or stand up for a cause or walk into the masjid, before you dare to publicly exist -

You must reassure the patriarchy that you are A Good Muslim Woman.

Abu Bakr Shamsuddin alBaghdadi aka  Khayrunnisaa Gulfem Sultana

One of many princesses of the Ottoman sultanate's harem, Gulfem was an avid student of sacred knowledge in her brother's court.
At the age of twelve, she surpassed all the tutors the harem had to offer; by the age of fifteen, she was offering her brother political advice on how to negotiate the tensions between themselves and the Persian Safavid empire.
Gulfem had a great talent for poetry in particular, penning lyrical stanzas and witty sonnets in Farsi, Arabic, and Turkish alike. At times deeply religious and spiritual, at others cutting and sardonic, Gulfem's words were robustly enjoyed - but only within the harem walls. As a member of the royal blood rather than a jaariyah (slave girl), it was prohibited for her to mingle with the male masters of her art, to attend poetic salons freely, or even to publish her works and distribute them in her own name.

Frustrated by the lack of opportunity she had to share her writings, Gulfem realized that deception was her only option. She adopted the pen name Abu Bakr Shamsuddin alBaghdadi, an homage to her maternal grandfather, a respected 'aalim of Baghdad.
Unencumbered by the burdens of a feminine name, Gulfem's poetry became famed across the Ottoman empire and beyond. Such was her popularity that her works were compiled, published, and sold widely - referred to in shorthand as 'Shamsuddins.'

The true identity of the great poet Abu Bakr Shamsuddin alBaghdadi remained unknown and would have vanished from memory if not for one mere note recorded in the annals of history by Gulfem's loyal scribe and handmaiden, Hatice Begum.

...

If solitude is the succor of women and of saints,
Whence wisdom is found, honour preserved, and Divine Pleasure obtained
Should not the Sultan and his Viziers embrace the silence of the harem's walls for themselves?

- Abu Bakr Shamsuddin alBaghdadi, "Political Advice."
...
Wisdom, like youth and faith and the blossoms along the Bosphorus, oft withers as swiftly as it blooms.
...
Hands outstretched in supplication,
Begging for another morsel, another moment of munificence -
Who is the beggar, and who the benefactor?
...
If the proof for murder lies in the garnet drops upon the blade,
How then do we seek justice for the female minds sacrificed at the altar
...
In gardens of reverence,
The weeping of scholars perfumes their beards -
Love and tears more fragrant than jasmine and frankincence.
...
Verily, a vale of beauty unveiled is the likeness of the Greatest Beauty unveiled. 

They Call Us Weak...

"Women were created weak and emotional and irrational and that is why they cannot do XYZ..."

Aasiyah ('alayhassalaam) endured the worst torture that Pharoah could dream up, and the last words to leave her lips were a supplication to Allah that was eternally recorded and recited in the Qur'an.

Khadijah (radhiAllahu 'anha) lost her societal standing, her wealth, was exiled into a barren desert and starved to death for the sake of Islam.

Haajar ('alayhassalaam) was left in an empty desert devoid of water and all sustenance, with an infant in her arms, and did not utter a word of complaint because of her belief in Allah.

Sumayyah bint Khayyat was raped with a foreign object until she died from it, maintaining her testimony of faith while her husband and son, who suffered torture that was nowhere near as fatal, wept because their tongues renounced Islam.

Al-Ghaamidiyyah returned to RasulAllah, her child in her arms, begging over and over that he purify her of the sin of zina by establishing the Hadd punishment, while Maa'ez ran away in fear.

Umm Habibah left her homeland, impoverished and a stranger to the language and customs and environment of Abyssinia, a political and spiritual refugee and member of a tiny minority - and then watched in horror as her husband, also a Muslim, became an alcoholic and then left Islam entirely before dying an ignominous death. Entirely alone, Umm Habibah refused to compromise on her faith.

Thousands of Muslim women today face abuse, rape, isolation, domestic violence, crippling poverty, are ostracized from their communities, are slandered and defamed... and yet hold to Islam with every fibre of their being, their hearts raw and yet fused with Tawheed, firm in their belief even when they find themselves faltering in every other way.

The strength of women from the dawn of time is more than any man can imagine, more powerful than they can fathom, and in their fear and their ignorance, they call us weak.

Allah, the Witness over all things, is a Witness to the strength of women, and it is His Strength we call upon when the cruelty of men seeks to render us weak.

To Be My Father's Daughter

One of the oddest, and best, things about growing up is developing my relationship with my father. I had started life as a daddy's girl and then, predictably as puberty hit, warred with him constantly about... well, everything, lol. (And didn't help that I shared his short temper, stubbornness, and refusal to admit to being wrong. Heh.)

It was only later - in fact, just a year or so before I got married and left home - that I found myself actually *wanting* to have conversations with him and spend time around him. Once I'd gotten over how (and finally understand why) we spent so many years seeing him for so little time due to his work as a grassroots imam, I started to notice so many other things about him. His killer sense of snide humour, his deadpan sarcasm at the most unexpected of moments (like in the middle of teaching 'Aqeedah or 'Umdatul Ahkaam), his eye for fashion (for a man who wears dishdasha and ghutra, and hasn't worn Western clothing in two decades, he knows an awful lot about men's clothing), his outdated Canadian slang ("why are you such a hoser, eh?")

It's funny, but I can honestly say that my father is probably most responsible for my evolution as a Salafi feminist.
He is a Salafi of the old school, who still gives side-eye to pants below the ankles and has an epic beard that gets more comments than his actual work. Thankfully, he has none of the takfeeri tendencies and worst character traits of our ideological tribe. (The word "bid'ah" remains a favourite, however - I would mimic his "wa kulla bid'atin dalaalah, wa kulla dalaatin fin-naar!" on the ride back from Jumu'ah with gusto.) I make fun of all his ‪#‎VintageSalafi‬ moments and troll his FB page gleefully because it's just too hard to pass up all the opportunities to point out how he lives in a little Salafi bubble in his head.

He also bought me my first (and currently, only) motorcycle - a battery-operated Fisher-Price Harley Davidson - and my first biker jacket. He took it as a given that I would study Islamic Studies (but forgot to tell me that the Islamic University of Medinah doesn't accept female students).
When I was a toddler, he used to take me with him to Masjid anNabawi, where he used to spend time with his friends and fellow students of the Islamic university; up until I hit 13, I used to accompany him everywhere - grocery shopping, Islamic classes, distributing sadaqah (charity) bags for the Muslim food bank he'd started. I listened to him, and watched him, and learned from him.
More than anything else, he ingrained in me the importance of grassroots da'wah: the importance of connecting to individuals and families, the power of a sincere smile and 'as-salaamu 'alaikum', the necessity of putting aside personal free time for the sake of Allah, the ability to develop a thick skin because in da'wah, appreciation is not something we should ever expect.

At the age of 14, I started writing articles for our local Muslim newspaper; I was outraged and offended when people would ask if there was a misprinting of names and if he were the actual author. I quickly realized that it was actually a compliment of sorts, if still offensive due to the sexist assumptions.
The more I learned about feminism and realized how strongly I identified with it, the more I spoke about it, and the more he would snort in annoyance and then say dumb things to make me mad. It took me a little too long to catch on and just roll my eyes at him. What he would never admit, though, is that occasionally I've managed to convince him of my own positions and prove that I'm right ;)

When I moved to Malaysia to live with my parents after my divorce, one of my first goals was to *finally* do Islamic Studies in some kind of formal capacity. My dad was the one who drove me for an hour to get to the Islamic center where Sh. Isam Rajab was teaching his first Diploma class, and drove back another hour to get home - 4 days a week, on top of his full-time job and his many other responsibilities.
During car rides, and before going to bed, I'd spend hours hanging out with my dad, making stupid jokes, showing him random stuff on the Internet, and talking about all the latest issues on the Muslim cyberscen and da'wah circles. I'd argue with him about women's issues, unsatisfied with the typical imam answers he'd give me; then he'd help me do the research for my next fiery Salafi feminist article and never admit that he was involved. (He'll forever deny that he has anything to do with my rants, but will tell me about how he has friends who read them.)
On road trips and visa runs to Thailand, Indonesia, and elsewhere, he and I would make a beeline for the malls and local markets, excited about all the fun stuff. My mom would trail behind us, complaining that she wanted to see nature, not do more shopping. Even now, he sends me pictures of all the things he knows I love and tell me that it's my mom who won't let him buy it for me.

Even during strained and tense moments - and there certainly been a fair amount of them - I find myself unable to stay furious at him.
Out of myself and my three younger brothers, we all know that I am the one most closely following in his footsteps (even if I don't have the male privilege he does when it comes to studying and opportunities lol). When he Skypes every day, sometimes twice a day, and says he really just called to speak to the Mouseling, she's the first one to point out that we're talking over her and not letting her speak. Oddly, I feel protective over him; I'd long ago developed a strong sense of gheerah for him, staring down women whom I felt were inappropriate in their interactions with him, and I have no problem sending a pointed FB message to anyone who takes their joking with him on his FB page a little too far.

I have been described as my father's daughter more than once - by masjid aunties pinching my cheeks; by my ex-husband, telling me that I'm a woman and can't get away with being as outspoken and stubborn.
Once, it used to bother me - I wanted an identity that was more than just "the shaykh's daughter" - but now, having established that individual identity of my own, I'm proud to hear those words. I know that I come nowhere close to him in the impact he has had on people's lives, that I know nothing in comparison to his Islamic knowledge, but I pray that one day, I can at least come close to it.

May Allah protect our fathers, increase them in good, forgive them their faults, and bring us all together in Jannah, ameen.

‪#‎radbrowndads‬
‪#‎evenSalafidadscanbeawesome‬

Just Enough

We are the daughters who spent our girlhoods watching our mothers teach us what it meant to be women:

Pretty (enough so that mothers-in-law can preen over their collection of aesthetically pleasing daghters-in-law; but not enough to be beautiful, lest she be accused of vanity)

Smart (enough to raise four children, to care for them and teach them, to learn the cruel lessons of the real world; but not enough to be educated, to ever have hope of sitting in a classroom and delight in debates on history and sociology and art and science)

Strong (enough to not cry when they left home for a new country of strangers; enough to give birth to one, two, three children alone; enough to not flinch at the casual callousness and unintentional cruelty of husbands; but not enough to say no, not enough to raise her voice, not enough to be her own champion)

Patient (enough to endure years of being taken for granted, enough to bear the burdens of everyone else around her; enough to be a loyal and faithful wife; but not enough to keep the taste of bitterness out of her tea and off her tongue, not enough to keep hope in herself alive, not enough to remember that patience doesn't always mean suffering)

We are the girls who watched our mothers and learned that to be a woman meant to be just pretty enough, just smart enough, just strong enough, just patient enough... but never more than that.

After all, a woman who is more than pretty and more than smart and more than strong and more than patient is no longer a woman - she is more than a woman, and for all that our mothers love us, they fear their daughters becoming more than the women they were themselves.

Remember, daughters: be just enough, and never more, lest you betray your mothers' sacrifices.

...

My mother wonders why I do not write about her, why I tell no stories of adventure or maternal bonding; she resents my silence when I am otherwise so loud.

How do I tell my mother that she taught me everything I know; that from her, I learned who I am not, amd whom I refuse to be?

My mother taught me how bitter the word "sacrifice" tastes; how "loyalty" is a synonym for "doormat"; how the good wife is never really good enough for men who will always feel entitled to more.

My mother taught me what a woman unfulfilled looks like: the gangly awkwardness of leftover adolescence, set even more off balance by the weight of an infant on each hip; the tightness of lips pressed together, holding back homesickness and heartache and hopes that would be dashed before she could speak them.

My mother taught me how easy it is for a woman to lose herself, and how impossible it is to remember the colour of your own soul when others have bleached it bone-white.

My mother taught me that to fill your womb with a child leaves an even greater void within; my daughters me as I hold myself, uterus aching with the loss of my self, and I wonder at how my mother caries of chasm of emptiness in her once-fruitful belly.

My mother taught me not strength, but survival: how to close yourself off, how to bury your heart alive so that you forget it is bleeding.

My mother taught me everything I know: from her, I learned who I am not, and whom I refuse to be.

Fridays

Fridays:
My mother, yanking us out of bed and laying out our best clothing - my brother's thawbs, my own jalabiyyas brought back from Hajj, and my favourite abaya stitched with little sparkling jet-black beads.
My father at the dining room table listening to his Arabic cassettes, a book or two from his massive collection laid out in front of him, notecards haphazardly scattered around him while he mumbled to himself in Arabic and scribbled out his khutbah.

My mother, asking us what we wanted to eat for Jumu'ah lunch, preparing biryani or daal and rice or ruz bukhaari or butter chicken - our favourites, reserved for only this one day of the week.
My father, wandering around the house with his mus'haf reciting Suratul Kahf, his beard still damp from wudhu, while my brothers and I tried to get out of doing the few chores we were expected to finish before going for salah.

My mother, opening the windows to let out the cooking smells, straightening the cushions on the sofa, lighting the bukhoor to waft around the house and playing Suratul Kahf in the background as she worked.
My father, lining up my brothers in their matching white thawbs, carefully choosing an 'itr from his collection, showing them how to rub the oil between their wrists and then wiping it over their hair and clothing, combing it into his beard.

Us children, piling into the car, dutifully reciting salawaat upon RasulAllah (sallAllahu 'alayhi wa sallam), then loudly practising our own khutbah-giving skills, proclaiming with great emphasis, "Wa kulla bid'atin dalalah, wa kulla dalaalatin fin naar!"

Scattering to our places, sitting down to listen to our father's khutbah, trying not to nod off as he went on and on and on... jumping up to pray Salatul Jumu'ah, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot with our elders; excitedly saying salaam to the masjid uncles and aunties afterwards, patiently putting up with pinched cheeks in exchange for little treats, happily throwing our arms around our favourite people, waiting impatiently while our father finished talking to what seemed like every person in attendance, and then scampering off back to the car where we would chatter about who we saw and how many people were there and what so and so said to us.

Coming home to find the dining table set with our favourite meal, catching a glimpse of dessert in the fridge, my mother dressed up in her own Jumu'ah finest, my brothers and I nudging each other happily that she was wearing the jewelry we'd bought her last 'Eid.

Going to the Islamic center for Arabic classes in the evening, wandering in and out of the men and women's musallas, fetching things and passing messages between husbands and wives, gleefully getting our hands sticky with treats from our "almost-grandmother" Umm Hussam, talking too much and getting too excited until quelled by a warning look from either of our parents - but only until the next aunty or uncle stopped to laugh with us.

Dozing off in the car on the way home, grumbling a little about how long our father took, but sleepy and satisfied and wrapped in the security of knowing that next Friday would be just like this night, and the Friday after that, and the Friday after that.

{“This is a day of ‘Eid that Allah has ordained for the Muslims, so whoever comes to Jumu‘ah, let him do ghusl, and if he has any perfume let him put some on, and you should use the miswaak.” Narrated by Ibn Maajah, 1098; classed as hasan by al-Albaani in Saheeh Ibn Maajah.}

‪#‎JustJumuahThings‬

A Muslim Woman's Grief

We Muslim women, we grieve for our men, we mourn them while they still live.

We grieve for the father who held us close in our infancy, in our toddlerhood, who twirled us around and called us his princess... and then who faded away as we grew gangly and got acne and began to slam doors behind which we sobbed, grieving the loss of a father who still lived.

We mourn for the father who comes home from work, face drawn and pinched, shoulders bowed from the weight of being called 'terrorist' by co-workers, eyes burning from being pulled over by cops for 'looking like Usama', wrists raw and chafed from Homeland Security dragging him away in handcuffs to be 'interviewed' at their airport, making him miss his flight to visit his dying mother.

We grieve for the brother who used to heckle us, who used to squabble over cheese and crackers and chocolate chip cookies, who used to stand up for us against the bullies at Madrasah, watchfully ensuring that our recess at the playground passed uneventfully... and then who faded away, growing angry and snappish, withdrawing into a bedroom with video games and emerging with dark circles under his eyes, ignoring us until our hearts break with grief for the loss of a brother who still lived.

We mourn for the brother who grows a beard, who is awkward but proud of his struggle to be a practicing Muslim, who carefully tucks a prayer mat into his backpack; who watches the news with horrified eyes as he watches men and women and children who share his skin colour, his curly hair, his impish smile, being blown to bits by the government of the country which he lives in, who is approached by venomously smiling spies trying to twist his words of grief into grandiose statements of terrorism, who wonders if he is truly as alone in this world as he feels.

We grieve for the greybeard masjid uncles who used to ruffle our hair and give us sweets after Jumu'ah, but whose smiles turned to frowns as we grew too old to venture into the men's musalla; who forgot that even as we were shunted into musty smelling broom closets, we still remembered the clean, open space of the men's hall; who started referring to us as 'fitnah' when only a few years ago they used to give us piggyback rides and teach us the alphabet.

We mourn for the masjid uncles who find themselves on TV when reporters barge into the masjid, demanding condemnations and explanations, who blink in confusion and try to be confident but whose tongues, trained in the professional languages of lawyers and doctors and engineers, slip from the stress and slip back into Arabic-tinged and Urdu-lilted quirks of speech; who find their pictures splashed on the front page of the newspaper, turned into bogeymen, mocked as illiterate foreigners.

We grieve for the husband who would walk in through the door with flowers, his beard unable to hide his smile, his eyes brighter than the fireworks he takes us as a late night surprise when we thought he'd be busy at work... and then whose face grew lined not with laughter, but weariness, whose sweet nothings in our ears slur into exhausted murmurs, then silence.

We mourn for the husband who teaches young children at the masjid, who shoots hoops with the teens in the driveways and mentors them with Qur'anic verses and Prophetic sayings; who looks over his shoulder warily, never sure which alphabet soup agency is watching him, who hesitates before sending every email, unsure of whether his words could land him in jail, who has been betrayed by the country he lives in, works in, used to dream of his future in, who is haunted by images of his brothers in faith being held in iron cages, who knows that somewhere out there, is a cage waiting for him.

We have lost the men we love, not through death, but through life.

We Muslim women, we grieve for our men, we mourn them while they still live.

(Copyright BintYounus)

Once, They Were Lovers

His dark eyes watched her from afar as she walked through the date orchard, his eyes shining with ardour, memorising every move. A small sigh escaped his lips, his beard rustling, a murmur of adoration. His heart ached, full and fierce, and he felt almost overpowered by his love for his wife.

He loved her.

She could feel his gaze on her, could feel the tug of his love for her; she lifted a shoulder in irritation, as though to shrug off the weight of his devotion the way she would brush off a fly.

She did not love him.

He could feel her shudder of distaste when he brushed his fingertips along her skin, knew that she endured his embrace only out of dutifulness, but he couldn’t stop loving her.

He loved her.

She had once loved him, long ago, but she didn’t know when it had faded to tolerance, then irritation, then something akin to hatred. His tenderness grated at her nerves; every glance, every caress, every word of love was a chain of slavery.

She did not love him.

He clung to the long-ago memories of reciprocated love, of sweetness shared, of blissful moments. The words she spoke now, the disinterest of her gaze, the forced obedience of her actions, did not matter. All that mattered was that, once upon a time, she had loved him.

He loved her.

She did not loathe him; she pitied him for the helplessness of his love. She wished that his gaze would stray, that some other woman would snare his affection, be his wife in the way that he deserved.

She did not love him.

Freedom. Finally. She rejoiced, rushing towards it with fervour and gratitude, without a moment’s backward glance at the man who adored her more than any other man could or ever would. She
didn’t care.

She was free.

His heart was broken, destroyed. His feet followed only her footsteps; his eyes saw only the woman who had been his wife, his beloved, even as she forsook him joyfully.

He still loved her.

Ibn ‘Abbas narrated:
Barirah's husband was a slave, who was known as Mughith. I can almost see him, running after her and weeping, with tears running down onto his beard. The Prophet said to `Abbas: `O `Abbas, do you not find it strange, how much Mugith loves Barirah and how much Barirah hates Mughith?'
The Prophet said (to Barirah), `Why do you not go back to him?'
She said, `O Messenger of Allah, are you commanding me to do so?'
He said, `I am merely trying to intervene on his behalf.'
She said, `I have no need of him.'" 
(Sahih Bukhari)

Zainab bint Younus (AnonyMouse) is a hopeless romantic who, ironically enough, knows how Barirah must have felt like. When not brooding over the meaning of love and reading tragic romances of the historical kind, Zainab blogs at www.TheSalafiFeminist.blogspot.com.

A Tribute to the Unsung Muslimah

She is the sheikh’s wife, who takes your questions to her husband to answer because you are too shy to ask him yourself. She is the one you blame for denying women direct access to the sources of knowledge; whom you accuse of being jealous and possessive, afraid that her husband will want to marry you. She is the one who lovingly presses that piece of paper of yours into her husband’s hands, who encourages him to take ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour longer away from his time with her, to solve your problems.

She is an unsung Muslimah.

She is the immigrant sister from an Arab country, struggling to speak English yet gladly giving up her Saturday mornings to sit in the masjid and try to teach you the complex rules of Tajweed. She is the one you grumble about, whom you make a face at behind her back, because you think her correction of your recitation is harsh criticism. She is the one you accuse of making the Qur’an “dry” and “boring” and makes you lose interest in it. She is the one who labours hard every week, praying to Allah that He uses her as a means of you recognizing the deep beauty of the Qur’an and drawing closer to Him.

She is an unsung Muslimah.

She is the kindly Indian aunty who labours over her stove to cook up some of her delicious chicken curry, to be served with sunny basmati rice with lentils, for the iftaar at the Masjid. She is the one you complain smells of sweat all the time, who carries with her an air of masaalah that follows her more strongly than any of the perfumes you spray on before you leave home. She is the one you accuse of stinking up the masjid. She is the one whose hard work and lovingly concocted delicacy you pick at, saying that you can’t stand the greasy sauce. She is the one who spent her precious, dwindling stock of money on the ingredients for that dish, so that she could have the reward of feeding the fasting Muslim.

She is an unsung Muslimah.

She is that young teenage Muslimah who cheerfully rounds up your kids at the masjid and tries to entertain them while you pray Taraweeh or listen to the halaqah. She is the one you scold for making the kids too excited and causing them to make noise. She is the one you harshly reprimand for allowing your precious son to have his toy taken away, making him come running to you crying. She is the one patiently controlling her temper with the little ones, when all she really wants is to listen to the same imam you are falling asleep listening to.

She is an unsung Muslimah.

She is the one who wants to make Eid fun for your kids and decides to throw an Eid party at the Islamic centre. She is the one whom you criticize for the hall being too crowded, the food too little, the children too noisy. She is the one you scream at for not controlling the children on the games, while you demand that your ickle wee Aboodi be allowed to go first on the ride. She is the one whom you forget to give your event ticket too, and she is the one who silently pays out of her own pocket to cover the cost. She is the one whose time, money, and frayed nerves she is spending for the Sake of Allah.

She is an unsung Muslimah.

(Copyright Zainab bint Younus aka AnonyMouse)