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. 

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!

Ramadan Musings

It's interesting how, as a parent, I find myself realizing in real time what many ahadith mean and how they play out in life.

For example, the hadith of someone who teaches another person good, and that person goes on to teach others, and the accumulation of good deeds.

Tonight, after I finished taraweeh with 9yo, I hugged her, told her how proud I was of her for praying, and taught her the same hadith.

During every Ramadan of my growing up, my father would constantly recite and emphasize the hadith "Man saama/ man qaama Ramadanan emaanan wahtisaaban, ghufira lahu maa taqaddama min thambih."

Every Ramadan since then, I would hear his voice in my memory, and try a little harder to have emaan and ihtisaab in my fasting and my prayers.

I hope that when she grows older, she too hears my voice in her memory, and that every Ramadan, she recites this hadith with love for Allah, and tries that much harder to have emaan and ihtisaab in her fasting and prayers.

...

In these last 10 nights, wherein we are constantly begging Allah for His 'Afw, I find myself struggling with my own ability to forgive. I rarely take deep personal offence to things said or done to me, but when it comes to my family and family honour, it is difficult to let go.

With a family that has been involved in da'wah since I was born, it can be hard to distinguish between gheerah for the Deen and da'wah itself, and gheerah for one's family honour - and while both are necessary, sometimes one must learn to swallow repeated wounds to the latter and trust in Allah to take care of it.

I am, admittedly, rather bitter and cynical in many ways, and especially towards those who have attacked my family repeatedly. I pray that Allah grants me the wisdom to forgive in a manner that is appropriate, while never abandoning family honour.

The other great struggle with forgiveness is with regards to my past abuser. This is the most painful thing to grapple with - to still be experiencing and dealing with the wounds dealt to me, to asking myself whether my right to Divine Justice by praying against them will result in me losing Allah's 'Afw at a time when I need it most.

I am painfully aware of the ways in which I have transgressed, deeply at times, and I know that I should be doing everything I can to earn my Lord's forgiveness. Yet I cannot find it in myself to forgive the person who transgressed against me, in so many ways and so deeply. What does that make me, then? I really don't know. I know that my Lord's 'Afw is limitless; I know that mine is not.

...

I've always found that every Ramadan has a unique theme for me. This year, I've noticed a deeper awareness of the seriousness of parenting; an increased love and appreciation for my family and tradition; and the painful process of facing both one's greatest faults & greatest traumas.

As my daughter grows older and developing her love for Allah and desire to obey Him requires more than just bedtime stories; as my family heals from past rifts; as I seek to move forward from both within and without...

I suspect that Allah expects more from me now than ever before. I know that I have stumbled and failed before - often - I know that I have been blessed with more chances at redemption & change than I likely deserve. Recognizing this is both a blessing and a grave responsibility.

Allahumma innaka 'Afuwwun, tuhibb al-Afw, fa'fu'anni.

Torment, Tears, Tawbah

Tawbah is... hard. We talk about it a lot, especially in Ramadan, but the actual act of it? It's painful as hell. It's supposed to be. 

Tawbah - repentance - is more than some vague guilt, or an absent minded "dear God, please forgive me." It is a deeply uncomfortable, painful journey of the abyss of one's own nafs; staring hard at the parts of ourselves that are ugliest, that we usually do our best to hide from ourselves and others.

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. 

Sincere tawbah isn't a one-and-done deal, either. Truly sincere repentance is to consistently seek forgiveness, to embark on that inner journey over and over again.

The other day, my 8yo daughter rushed into my room, sobbing hysterically. Bewildered, I asked her what was wrong, and she broke down even more, finally confessing that she had remembered that she had done something really, really bad a few weeks ago and she now felt bad about it.

I coaxed her into telling me what it was, and she admitted all the gory details - what was, in essence, nothing very terrible at all, but mildly wrong at worst and really just a childish kind of thing to do to begin with.

Yet she sat on my lap, wracked with remorse, tears streaming down her face. "I feel so bad," she sobbed, "I know it was such a wrong thing to do! I'm so sorry!"

I hugged her, stroked her hair, and told her that it was okay, that I - and most importantly, Allah - still loved her. "You know," I told her, "Allah actually loves it when you say sorry to Him for anything bad that you did. It's good that you feel guilty, because it shows that you know the difference between right & wrong. The important thing to remember now is that Allah is the Most Merciful."

She remained quite emotional for a while, but eventually, as I reminded her that Allah is also the Most Loving and Most Forgiving, she slowly calmed down. "You won't tell anyone what I did, will you?" she asked anxiously.

"When you make mistakes like this, it's between you and Allah," I reassured her. "All you need to remember is to turn to Him and talk to Him in du'a. Shaytan wants you to feel so bad that you don't talk to Allah anymore, but Allah always love to see you asking for forgiveness."

In the end, she calmed down and resumed her day normally. I, on the other hand, have been mulling over the incident ever since it happened.

The whole scenario was a real-life playing out of the process of tawbah. How many of us commit sins and mistakes that we never even think about after they happen? Do we ever stop and remember what we did to someone else, or a sin that we committed secretly, and then feel overwhelmed with remorse? Do we channel that pain in the appropriate way, by remembering our Most Merciful, Loving, and Forgiving Creator?

Do we allow our guilt to push us away from Allah, or draw closer to Him? Do we remember to ask for His Forgiveness and sincerely resolve to refrain from that sin in the future? Do we remember how important it is for us to constantly talk to Allah?

It was certainly one of the more thought-provoking teachable parenting moments that I've had, less so for my daughter than for me.

It is in moments like these when the ayaat, ahadith, and scholarly reminders about the importance of spiritual repentance all become real and lived.

{Then Adam received from his Lord [some] words, and He accepted his repentance. Indeed, it is He who is the Accepting of repentance, the Merciful.} (Qur'an 2:37)

{Our Lord, and make us Muslims [in submission] to You and from our descendants a Muslim nation [in submission] to You. And show us our rites and accept our repentance. Indeed, You are the Accepting of repentance, the Merciful.} (2:128)

The mus'haf that I've had since I was 12, that my father brought back for me from one of his many Hajj trips, has finally fallen apart. The binding has loosened, pages falling out, and after years of insisting that it's "just fine," I finally conceded defeat.

I have a new one to replace it - a classic green-and-gold, the type that I've always liked best - but I already miss my old one.

That one has sticky notes all over the last 5 ajzaa', reminders of when I was a teenager and still had a real tajweed teacher to correct me; underlined aayaat to help me memorize the supplications of the Prophets and the pious ones - those like Aasiyah (as) and Maryam (as); little marks that make my heart twinge with nostalgia as I remember the two years I had spent dedicated to reviewing my hifdh and memorizing more.

This mus'haf accompanied me across the world, staying with me during my many lows and slowly increasing highs.
There were times when, I am ashamed to admit, I barely opened it; but every time I picked it up, it fit between my hands smoothly and lovingly, a steady comfort.

I can't bring myself to send it off to get recycled with other aged, fallen-apart masaahif. It's perched atop my bookshelf now, and I can see it even as I curl up on the couch with my crisp new mus'haf, and I can't help but feel an odd sense of loss.

I can only hope that I will soon develop an equally intimate relationship with my new mus'haf; that it, too, will have small stickies tucked inside to remind me how to pronounce a particularly tricky word, or underlining an especially meaningful du'a.

Just as my old mus'haf was my companion and witness to the ups and downs of life, and my relationship with the Qur'an, I hope that this one, too, will testify for me on the Day of Judgment - that I opened to its pages often, that I memorized the Divine Words contained within it.

I hope that years from now, whenever I touch it, I will remember the days that I sat in patches of sunlight with it on my lap, the glow of the sun's rays no match for Allah's Light; that I will summon its pages easily in my mind's eye, no longer struggling so hard to remember the verses that a younger me had once found so easy to recall; that in times of sorrow, its scent will bring me comfort; that in times of joy, I will turn to it and recite the Words of Allah in gratitude.

I pray that this Ramadan, we all find our hearts growing more attached to the Qur'an, opening to its guidance and blessings, acting upon it in our everyday lives.

May Allah make us amongst Ahlul Qur'an, those who will be raised on the Day of Judgment reciting His Words.

Divorce - a Spiritual and Emotional Journey

For a while now, quite a few people have asked me about divorce - especially the emotional process of deciding to get a divorce, and going through it. 

First of all, for women, there is this crazy ridiculous societal stigma against even *considering* divorce as an option. We are reminded so often about the hadith that a woman who asks for divorce for no reason will not smell the fragrance of Jannah, yet we overlook the fact that most women do *not* ask for divorce lightly - few women *want* to rip apart their entire lives, let alone those of their children, and the social consequences for being a divorcee do their part in further strongly discouraging women from seeking divorce.

What we seem to deliberately overlook, however, is that woman-initiated divorce existed at the time of RasulAllah (sallAllahu 'alayhi wa sallam) and was not condemned - the famous hadith of the wife of Thabit ibn Qays cemented the concept of khul' and the understanding that incompatibility in a marriage is a legitimate reason for divorce, as was also the case of Zaid ibn Harith and Zaynab bint Jahsh.

Many women have asked me "when do I know for sure if I should get a divorce"? That is a question that no one can answer except yourself. My own personal barometer was the wife of Thabit ibn Qays, who said "I fear for myself kufr if I remain with him." Explanations of this hadith discuss how this meant that she was afraid that she would not be able to uphold his rights as a husband or deal with him justly. I truly believe that the way she expressed it was beautiful and reflective of a believer's attitude, with equal concern for the other party as well as for one's own spiritual well being.
And, of course, one must absolutely do research - both legal and Islamic - and consult with those of knowledge and good advice (because unfortunately common sense and wisdom isn't something everyone is blessed with not, not even shuyookh)... and finally, Salatul Istikhaarah. Reading and understanding the meaning of the du'a of Istikhaarah will really teach you what it means to have complete trust in Allah and His Qadr.

If you have finally made the choice to divorce, then be aware that it is going to HURT. It is going to hurt like hell. It doesn't matter if you are the one initiating it or not, divorce is agonizingly painful even as it can also feel like a blissful escape. Being married - whether for a year, four years, or fourteen years - is a unique experience that makes you bond with another individual in a way that is difficult to replicate in any other way. You sleep with them, you live with them, you witness their highs and their lows... you get to know that person in a very special way. And once you've decided to seek divorce - and I'll be honest, even before you make that final decision - you will likely spend nights sobbing yourself to sleep and feeling as though your world is crumbling around you. You may very well experience strong depression as well as guilt. You will find yourself slipping up and saying or doing things which you will be ashamed of later. You will make mistakes and you will experience heartbreak.
That's just how it is. Divorce sucks even when you actually need it.

Which leads to me to the most important point: There will be no one who truly understands what you are going through. Not even other divorcees will really 'get' you. Family and friends can sympathize but will have their own perspectives. But you know who WILL understand you better than you understand yourself? Your Creator.
Divorce and its accompanying challenges can be a catalyst for you as an individual to grow closer to Allah. It is the perfect time to increase your du'a, your dhikr, your sadaqah, and your qiyaam al-layl. It is the perfect time to acknowledge your weakness, recognize your own flaws and faults, and seek comfort and forgiveness and mercy from Al-Wadud, ash-Shaafi. You will discover the true extent of your own limitations and how none of us are perfect... not your ex-spouse, and not yourself. The only being who is perfect is the One Who created us all.

Divorce can make you become a better person - but it can also bring you down and tempt you into behaving in a less than graceful or mature manner. What's necessary to keep in mind is the amazing hadith:

"How amazing is the affair of the believer! There is good for him in everything and that is for no one but the believer. If good times come his way, he expresses gratitude to Allah and that is good for him, and if hardship comes his way, he endures it patiently and that is better for him.” (Muslim)

Raised in the West, it is all too easy for us 1st or 2nd generation kids of immigrants to feel frustrated with our parents and families, to spend much of our adolescence & even adulthood butting heads, clashing over culture & personal priorities.
It's all too easy for us to lose our tempers, for resentment to simmer, for family gatherings to feel tense and unpleasant.
But when that happens, we don't realize how much we are losing.

I'm not going to be cliche and say that since I've become a parent, I realize what parents go through - I'll be honest, I still fight with my family and we have our dramas. At the same time, though, I have never loved them more. I've never appreciated my dad's awful jokes more than I do now; I've never savoured teasing my mom and harassing her lovingly than I do now; I've never felt such a rush of sisterly protectiveness (and obnoxiousness) as I do now.
As much as I'll pretend to be annoyed, I treasure our weekly family dinners and missing one leaves an ache that won't leave until I see them again - in the meantime, I will harass them on our family group chat.

There is a reason that the ties of kinship are called Silat al Arhaam: we truly are connected by the wombs, & there is a tug in our blood that calls to us, the inclining of our hearts towards mercy even when we squabble and cry and argue and glare in steely silence.

All of this is to say: don't underestimate the importance of family. Don't devalue their love for you or your love for them. As much as they can feel like a source of strife, they are also a source of comfort and barakah. Parents and grandparents, siblings and aunts and uncles... they share something with us, blood and DNA if nothing else, but it is that which binds us more closely than we often realize.

Look at your parents and remember the times of silliness and joy and the way they stroked your hair when you were young and the way they constantly feed you and scold you and demand to know when you're getting married or having more kids... know that this is love.

Our families may not look like the ones on TV or in the movies, they may not be as prim and proper as we imagined others to be, but in the inevitable chaos of our in-between languages and cultures and ideas of education and career and marriage, lies indescribable beauty.

O Allah, have mercy on our parents, as they raised us when we were young.

A Day of Judgment and Justice

The Day of Judgment exists because justice is not always meted out in this world, and even when it is, it is carried out by human standards and it is rarely ever resolved in a manner that gives each person their absolute due.

On the Day of Judgment, no human being can plead with the judge or jury for sympathy or justify their actions or silence their opponents; on the Day of Judgment, there will only be Divine Justice against which none can utter a word of opposition.

Human transgressions against the rights of others are so easy to commit, so easy to justify, so easy to defend. If we do not hold ourselves accountable for them right now, know that there will be a Day when we will be held accountable by the Most Just. Even the animals on that Day will have their rights in this world avenged - how much more so, then, will the rights of other people be upheld and exacted?

" “Allaah will judge between His creation, jinn, men and animals. On that Day, Allaah will let the hornless animal settle its score with the horned until, when there is nothing left to be settled, Allaah will say to them, ‘Be dust.’" (Silsilat asSaheeha)

It was narrated from Abu Dharr that the Messenger of Allaah (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) was sitting, and two sheep locked horns until one of them defeated and subdued the other. The Messenger of Allaah (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) smiled and someone asked him, “Why are you smiling, O Messenger of Allaah?” He said, “It is amazing. By the One in Whose hand is my soul, their score will be settled on the Day of Resurrection.”

“O Abu Dharr, do you know what they are fighting over?” He said, “No.” He said, “But Allaah knows and He will judge between them.”

Indeed, God is with the Patient

When we think about the Saabireen, oftentimes we need look no further than our own parents or spouses or the masjid aunty/uncle we say salaam to every Jumu'ah.

People who are complete strangers to us and those whom we are closest to can be of those who endure trials and tribulations so difficult that we cannot possibly understand what they endure... and yet they do, with taqwa and smiles that mask all that they have to go through in life. Allah alone knows the true depths of patience they exhibit in moments of heart-wrenching agony.

Whether it's financial struggles, health issues, relationship difficulties, family matters, or any other type of personal and spiritual fitnah, the Saabireen are not those who find it easy to coast through these tests, but may in fact find it even more difficult to experience them and restrain their anger, frustration, and hurt. They are not necessarily perfect, they may well find themselves making mistakes that they regret with regards to how they react, but they are also the first to turn to Allah in repentance for their frustration and beg Him to make them stronger and able to pass His tests in a manner pleasing to Him.

The Saabireen are not merely those who spend their days in fasting and prayer and who display outward piety, but those who struggle within themselves during times of deep human pain and are able to - if only by a thread - control their words and their actions when others would find it easy to justify their rage.

And truly, for those who are able to accomplish such a feat, Allah has promised: {Indeed, the patient will be given their reward without account.}

Listening to my father reciting aloud in Salatul Maghrib and watching my daughter praying with him makes me feel dangerously sentimental.

For real, though - the simple act of a Muslim man leading his household in such a basic and fundamental act of worship is powerful. So is a Muslim woman leading her family's womenfolk in salah - for one's daughters to hear a woman's voice rise in the recitation of Qur'an.

It is so, so important for children to see & hear both parents/elders of both genders leading them in salah. It will impact them forever. On a spiritual and emotional level, the sight & sound of witnessing and participating in 'ebaadah together is indelible to a child's psyche.

You'd never guess which moments will stay with them forever... for me, it's the sound of my father reciting the last few ayaat of Surah YaSeen and Surah alQiyaamah in Isha, of hearing my grandmother complete her daily wird every day after Salatul Fajr, of seeing my mother cradling her mus'haf after Maghrib, of my grandfather's baritone rumbling with the Divine Words.

For my daughter, I hope that she too carries moments like these in her heart - that she remembers praying with her family, that she recalls her sujjaadah laid out next to mine, our feet nestled together, her purple prayer outfit swishing against the folds of my abayah, that her ears echo with the recitation of the Qur'an in the mornings and evenings.

Rabbi ij'alni muqeem assalaati wa min thurriyyati, Rabbana wa taqabbal du'a.

Barakah

How do you know if there is barakah in your life? So often, it seems to be an almost indescribable quality, a concept that's difficult to recognise due to it being so unquantifiable.

And yet, you will know when you have it.

When the food in your fridge comes together in a wholesome meal that satisfies the family; when your paycheque stretches more than you ever imagined it could; when being with your loved ones fills you with contentment; when you experience joy in the simplest of things; when your fears and worries no longer overwhelm you so much; when difficult times are bearable because you know that they're a means of bringing you closer to Allah; when you don't feel the gnawing urge to make more, spend more, accumulate more; when good things happen unexpectedly and you're eager to share the benefits with others; when you find yourself indifferent to shallow societal standards and are happy with living your life your own way... all of these are signs of barakah in your life.

Outward wealth or meeting arbitrary standards set by others are no marker of how blessed you are. How you feel about what you already have, however, most certainly is.

Verily, Allah is the source of all blessing and He is the Most Generous to His slaves.

...

I once wrote about how one can tell if there is barakah in their life - how one feels a sense of contentment, of richness and fullness in their lives even when things are, outwardly, difficult.

How, then, does one tell if we *don't* have barakah in our lives?

If barakah is blessing and spiritual fulfillment, then its opposite is its loss.

To be starved of barakah is to find oneself reluctant to pray even the briefest of voluntary rak'aat, to glance at one's mus'haf and think absently, "I'll read it later," only for the glossy emerald green cover and gilded script become dull beneath a thin veneer of dust.

To be starved of barakah is to feel restless and anxious, to feel a gnawing ache for more, to accumulate more, to demand more; to outwardly have all the trappings of success and privilege handed to you on a silver platter, yet there is no true joy or beauty in one's heart.

To be starved of barakah is to have one's bank account filled with wealth earned from haraam; to have debts both material and spiritual strangling one's sense of peace; to eat an extravagant meal that fails to abate the appetite; to constantly crave the next fix, the next big hit, unable to quell the yearning desire for something inexplicably just beyond our reach.

It is terrible and heartrending, a malady unrecognized by doctors or self-help books - but not without cure. Ash-Shaafi, the Healer is also al-Qareeb, the Ever-Close; He is Al-Mujeeb, the Ever Responsive to our calls - and He has promised us that there is always, always, a way out of the abyss.

{He who draws close to Me a hand's span, I will draw close to him an arm's length. And whoever draws near Me an arm's length, I will draw near him a fathom's length. And whoever comes to Me walking, I will go to him running. And whoever faces Me with sins nearly as great as the earth, I will meet him with forgiveness nearly as great as that, provided he does not worship something with me.} (Hadith Qudsi)

Bent Ribs

A hadith commonly quoted about women is the "bent rib" hadith - of which there are several variations.

An issue of note is the language often used to explain the hadith, which is often condescending & patronizing. Many times it comes off as men telling other men "women - you can't live with them, and you can't live without'em." It's a very wink-wink-nudge-nudge, women-are-so-emotional-&-immature, we just have to tolerate them... at least they're good for something, eh? - type of mentality.

And it made me think - just as the female scholars of old understood ayaat and ahadith to have certain wisdoms based on their own perspectives as women - how would women explain the bent rib hadith?

Ribs are part of the skeletal structure, created a very specific way so as to perform a specific function. A rib is not meant to do the same job as a kneecap, & isn't expected to. We recognize & admire the fact that we *have* ribs, that they are protecting some of our most vulnerable organs. A broken rib hurts like hell. We respect ribs, okay? We don't say, "Oh, well, look at this rib... can't do a femur's job & everyone knows a femur is more important than a rib, & look at how bent that rib is, ugh. Guess we may as well put up with it tho, it's not totally useless."

Terrible analogy aside, let's be real.We women were created by Al-Musawwir, the Fashioner, Who never creates anything half-heartedly or without reason. Does His creation not deserve respect, especially when His Messenger enjoined & emphasized our rights?

We acknowledge that all human beings have shortcomings - male & female. Neither gender is particularly better than the other. Yet in Islamic literature, we see that the language used to address women's 'shortcomings' has a very different tone to it.

"To break her is to divorce her" - such were RasulAllah's words, not to insult, but to warn men of the consequences of trying to force a woman into being someone that she is not. Ya3ni respect her as she is, warts & all, rather than trying to turn her into your personal Stepford wife. (Although that is *not* an excuse for women to avoid taking responsibility for their own actions or striving to improve oneself as a believer and a person.)

It worries me when I see the advice being peddled as "women are crooked/inferior, so just tolerate them as they are." I'm pretty sure that RasulAllah (sallAllahu 'alayhi wa sallam) treated his wives - & all women - with more than just condescending tolerance. It may seem to be a minor thing to quibble over, but language is powerful & influences attitudes & mentalities at a very deep, almost subconscious level.

So many women have told me that they've had fathers or husbands belittle & humiliate them using ahadith such as the bent rib one - which is horrific. How can one use the words of Allah's Messenger, the Mercy to Mankind, as a means of causing pain to another believer? But this is precisely the reality that so many of us experience, directly as a result of the way these ahadith are taught & explained.

The Qur'an tells us: {The believing men and believing women are allies of one another.} (Qur'an 9:71)

How can we be awliyaa' of each other when we have such negative attitudes towards half of our Ummah? More than ever, we need to change how we teach the words of Allah and His Messenger in order to reflect the true spirit of respect and love for the Sake of Allah that we are commanded to have for one another, male and female alike.

My Khul', My Freedom

Almost three years ago today, I fought for my right to receive a khul’… and received it. It was painful and exhilarating all at once; I was twenty-two years old, I had been married for almost four and a half years, and I had a three-year-old daughter. I had asked for khul’ three times in the span of about a year, and each time I had been denied.

This last time, I stood my ground – and finally received what I knew to be my Shari’ah right.

The ‘iddah (or waiting period before being permitted to re-marry) of khul’ is only one menstrual cycle, unlike that of talaq or widowhood. Whereas a woman who has been given a talaq is obliged to stay within her husband’s home, I– being a woman who had chosen to leave the marriage– left my then-husband’s home as well, and spent that time with my family instead.

The night I received my khul’’, my tears were of relief, excitement, and joy. The next morning, as I sailed on the ferry that would take me back to my grandparents’ home, I buried my face in my best friend’s shoulder and wept for all that had passed.

My ‘iddah lasted all of two weeks, and it was a period of time marked by numerous emotions, a flash flood of exhilaration and anger, sorrow and jubilance, shattering uncertainty about the future, and a sense of renewal for my life. Every sajdah was filled with an overflowing sense of gratefulness that I had been given this opportunity that so many other women are denied; every rak’ah was performed with an aching heart and guilt at what I had chosen to do.

I wish I could say that I used my ‘iddah as a time of thoughtfulness and reflection, of heightened spirituality and increased maturity, but to be honest… to be honest, I was mostly just giddy with excitement. After four and a half years, it was a huge relief to be able to be myself again; to be able to laugh out loud, to wear a pair of shoes I liked, to be able to speak my own opinions without being censured or punished for being ‘a bad wife.’

For those two weeks, though I chafed at being kept indoors by my family, I spent a significant portion of my time simply making lists of all the things I couldn’t wait to do as soon as my ‘iddah was over.

My ‘iddah was a time where I felt like I was able to rediscover myself: remembering the person I really was behind the layers of anxiety and depression and the innumerable restrictions that had been placed on my own personality. I was able to write freely again, as though someone had removed a muzzle from my heart and mind; I could speak with honesty, instead of choosing my words based on what a certain individual wanted to hear; I could finally make choices for myself again, as a grown woman, and not someone whose existence was tied to the demands of someone else.

My identity as a Muslim woman was no longer dependent on being someone’s obedient wife; my future in the Hereafter was not hinged on another human being’s mood swings. I was, for the first time in my life (or so it felt), a grown woman whose spiritual status was a matter solely between herself and her Lord.

It was divorce, not marriage, which brought me closer to Allah and filled me with a strength of sincerity that I had not experienced in a long, long time.

When my ‘iddah ended, the first thing I did was go for a walk, hand in hand with my three-year-old daughter, retracing the neighborhood steps of my childhood and adolescence. It was here that I felt my life had come almost full-circle; here was the place that I had always felt happiest, where I had anticipated my future with eagerness, where I had experienced the early, simple struggles of adolescence and felt myself growing into the type of person I hoped to be. Now, once again, I felt the same joy and excitement, the same growing pains and the sense of discomfort that accompanies true change.

I tipped my head back towards the sun, and smiled.

{So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?} (Qur’an 55:13)

Zainab Bint Younus (the Salafi Feminist) is a Canadian Muslim woman who tries to write thoughtfully about women of Islamic history and positive polygyny when not ranting against the patriarchy. Having sought divorce at the age of 22, she maintains that it was one of the best decisions of her life (tied with her choice to enter into polygyny and live happily ever after with her husband and best friend).

"Jannah lies under her feet..."

The reason that Jannah lies under the feet of mothers isn't because it's easy or because our 'feminine natures' simply incline towards it.

The reason Jannah lies under the feet of mothers is because it is one of the most painful and unpleasant jobs in the world.

From pregnancy and its assorted conditions - everything from morning sickness to gestational diabetes to depression so severe that it leads to suicidal thoughts or impulses - to the first few months of sleep deprivation, the agonies of breastfeeding, post partum depression; from the toddler years of having a child drain you of your bodily fluids, waking you up every night and at monstrous hours of the early morning clawing at your face or screaming for inexplicable reasons (and no, children don't only cry because they're hungry, sick, or need a diaper change; very often they cry because they want nothing but your undivided attention for absolutely no reason other than to sadistically test your sanity); to the years when you must spend each day grimly trying to educate them and raise them as well-mannered and respectful human beings despite their insistence on acting like ungrateful brats...

THAT is mothering. That is the daily reality - and it is not to be glossed over or shrugged off or required for us to hastily add, "But of course I love my kids and it's very rewarding."

For some people, sure, motherhood is fabulous and all they've dreamed of from life. And that's great... for them.
For so many others, especially Muslim women who have had it drilled into them that motherhood is their ultimate spiritual accomplishment, it is absolutely not fun. You don't get a daily spiritual rush or spiritual growth on a regular basis simply by keeping your spawn alive. You just don't.

So please, for the love of God, can we stop romanticizing motherhood?

It has become so painfully cliche in talks and lectures and workshops to celebrate motherhood, to revere it, to speak about every woman's maternal instinct as a gift and blessing from God and that being a loving mother is how we shall earn His Pleasure... to the point that when Muslim mothers do finally break down and confess that there are days, weeks, even months that they hate it with a passion - they are vilified for being unnatural or damaged or corrupted, they are told that they are less than good Muslim women, that they are severely lacking in faith and fitrah.

Enough of it.

Our motherhood should be celebrated not only in terms of the perceived "joys" and "beauties" of having children, but because of the sheer agony of it. Our pain needs to be recognized and acknowledged in terms of more than "your kids can't pay you back for even one contraction from labour." Such phrases lose meaning when in the next breath, mothers are berated for not being absolutely perfect, for not being sacrificing more of themselves (for either their children or their husbands), for wanting *more* from their lives than motherhood.

Jannes lies under the feet of mothers not because motherhood is wonderful, but because most of the time, it's not.
And there is nothing wrong with saying that.

A Parent's Prayer

One thing I picked up from some really great women I met in Kuwait was how whenever they'd address their kids affectionately, they'd make dua at the same time - for example, "Habibi, Allah yahfadh'ak" or "Galbi, Allah ya3teech al3afiyah."
(Translation: My love, may Allah preserve you; my heart, may Allah give you health/security from illness & grief.)

And when praising them, whether for worldly achievements or otherwise, always following up with du'a - may Allah increase you in good etc.
It's a really great way to remind ourselves as parents that Allah is the One Who can make our kids better; & taking advantage of a parent's accepted du'a as well. It's far better than fawning over our kids with hollow words that may or may not be true.

The same of course applies to when we as parents are frustrated as well - never once did I hear these women, even if they were upset or disappointed by something their children said or did, become angry and start making it all about how their children were failures or doomed or somesuch.
Rather, they would always make du'a for them: "Allah yesleh7aalhum" - may Allah correct their affairs, and even acknowledge that perhaps they were emotionally blind to something which was in fact a source of khayr.

Although those women were not shaykhas or aalimahs, although they did not teach parenting courses or lifecoaching workshops, they taught me in our various interactions what it meant to be a genuinely outstanding parent: understanding that all power is with Allah, and utilizing the gift of du'a in the most effective and consistent manner possible.
Though they obviously experienced many emotions with regards to their children, they had the presence of mind to step away and understand that their view of the matter was not the only one or even the right one; they always turned back to Allah and prayed that whatever their child's Qadr was, it was one of good and guidance.

As parents, we should consider every moment of pleasure or frustration with our children as moments of du'a for them. Make it a habit to let them hear you make du'a for their good character, their health, their success in this world and the Hereafter. Let them associate you mentioning their names, with calling upon Allah and relying upon Him alone, seeking only goodness for them.

Rabbana hab lana min azwaajinaa wa thurriyyaatinaa qurrata a'yun, waj3alnaa lil muttaqina imaama.

{Our Lord, grant us from among our spouses and offspring comfort to our eyes and make us an example for the righteous.}

A Lesson in Ikhlas & Ihsan from the Outwardly 'Flawed'

While we 'religious' folk like to talk a lot these days about warm fuzzy spiritual stuff, we also tend to have a rather narrow and contrived ideas of how 'spiritual' people should be or look like. We figure that those who perform great acts of 3ebadah (worship) with ikhlaas (sincerity) are most likely to fit a certain mold - those who spend a lot of time studying the Deen, for example, even if they're not shaykhas and aalimahs per se; or those who noticeably recite a great deal of Quran on a regular basis; or those who exhibit an almost otherworldly serenity, a sakeenah, in the face of difficulty. Certainly, those people exist and are undoubtedly of those who are pleasing Allah, but we tend to overlook other types of people who may also be beloved to their Lord.

These are the people who may seem to have obvious flaws or shortcomings - a tendency to use somewhat, ahem, colourful language; or may know that a certain action is haraam but find it difficult to stop; or they may just not be as knowledgeable about Islam as we think we are.

Those from the second group may be struggling hugely: divorcees, single moms, financially insecure, students... or even all of the above. They might be going through numerous tests and challenges in their lives, but they are also sometimes the first people to come to your aid: to show up and help you when you are in dire straits, even if you haven't known them for very long; to babysit your child on short notice; to take you on grocery shopping runs every so often because you have no car; to take you to the hospital to visit ailing family members or help you move to a new apartment. They are always ready to help and show up with a grin and a lending hand, without complaint or expectation of reward or favours returned.

The difference is that when outwardly pious people do acts of good character, we chalk it up to their religiosity (which may be true) - but we rarely to stop to think about, or appreciate, latter category in such terms. So many of us have developed the unhealthy habit of subconsciously judging and chronicling others' mistakes that we don't stop to truly appreciate the depth of their gifts to us.
It is these people, whom we criticize or underestimate, who truly embody the spirit of Ikhlaas (sincerity) and Ihsaan (excellence) - because though they have shortcomings (just as the rest of us do), they are also honest in their sincerity, whereas we lack the same.

It is these people who are amongst the ‪#‎ForgottenHeroines‬ and‪#‎ForgottenHeroes‬ of our Ummah, ignored and underappreciated and even at times belittled. But it is these people who demonstrate what love for the sake of Allah entails, and I pray that for that person in my life - and those undoubtedly in yours - that they be of those beloved to Allah, and shaded on that Day when there will be no shade except for that which He provides.

The Queen of Sheba

The story of Sulayman ('alayhissalaam) and the Queen of Sheba ('alayhassalaam) stands out in my mind because of how beautifully she is described in the Qur'an and how dignified the interaction between her and Sulayman is. Bilqees' intellect, wisdom, and quick wit are highlighted - as is her willingness to accept truth.

What really catches my attention is that when she declares her Islam, she says it in the following terms: {"My Lord, indeed I have wronged myself, and I submit with Solomon to Allah, Lord of the worlds."}
There is no arrogance whatsoever - no stubbornness or reluctance to admitting previous wrongdoing, just honesty. As well, she submits with Sulayman ('alayhissalaam) to Allah - the submission of equals before their Lord. There is a sense of dignity to it all, a powerful aura of respect.

What's really amazing about how Allah tells the story in the Qur'an is that it ends with her declaration of faith in Him, with such grace. A lot of people turn it into a romance story or argue that she gave up her queendom to Sulayman, but none of that is even hinted at in the ayaat that speak about her.

Allah so clearly brings our attention to a woman who had both power & wisdom; who didn't allow herself to be swayed by fear, but who was determined to make her decisions based upon actual experience. She demonstrates to us the attitude that we should all have - a willingness to go out there and seek knowledge and experience for ourselves; to be cautious but not stubborn; open-minded but not easily dazzled... and above all, the ability to acknowledge that we have done wrong, and to turn to Allah with a heart full of faith and repentance - and dignity.

The Queen of Sheba is the perfect example of how submitting ourselves to Allah does not bring us down, but simply raises us higher.

The relationship between Sulayman (as) and Bilqees (as), as hinted at from that final declaration of Bilqees, also encapsulates (to me) the ideal relationship between men and women; that they both be seen as individuals capable of authority, and of humility at the same time. Most importantly, that each party respects the other - acknowledging their strengths and seeking only to assist each other in improving as human beings, and above all, to support each other in turning to Allah and worshiping Him alone.

The image we are left with in the Quran is that of Sulayman & Bilqees, king and queen, submitting themselves equally as slaves to Allah alone. How much more beautiful could their relationship be?