Torment, Tears, and Tawbah

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

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

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

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

It is a deeply unpleasant feeling.

It is also a very necessary one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Facing that reality can be a gruesome process. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make Haraam Policing Great Again

“Watch out for the Haraam Police!”

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

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

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

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

The Trauma of Motherhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

It was not an enjoyable reading experience.

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

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

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

Read more here.

Little Madrasah on the Island

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

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

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

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

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

#ValentinesDayIsHaraam

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

The Shards of Motherhood

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fog

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

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

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

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

My Muslim Shelf Space

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

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

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

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

The Fiqh of Marrying Mermaids

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madrasah Musings

eaching madrasah is not glamorous work.

Frankly, it can be tedious & exhausting.

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

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

Simple, no?

Hell no.

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

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

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

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

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

Will we succeed, or will we fail them?

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poly Q&A: How Can I Regain My Second Wife's Trust?

(Almost) every month, I have a q & a column with AboutIslam.net, under their Ask a Counselor section. Here's the latest (where I very nobly refrained from sharing my actual initial reaction):

Assalamu alaikum,

I had a wife in the past, but then I met a girl and fell in love with her. We became lovers soon after she told me she loves me. I told her that I have a wife, but that I want to end things with her soon. However, I couldn’t end things for 4 years and we had a baby together.

My second wife became angry and urged me to end things and I kept putting her off till one year became two. Eventually, last year I ended things with my first wife and tried to move closer to my second wife, but she says she can’t trust me and doesn’t have feelings for me.

I still love her a lot, and I’m ready to do anything she asks of me, but she doesn’t trust me. What should I do? How can I regain her trust and love? Please advise me on what I need to do.

Answer:

To begin with, I must say that your question is not an easy one to answer. Based on what you have said, I am unsure whether you had a haraam relationship with the second woman or not before you married her. I will assume that you married her before having a physical relationship with her.

The problem is far greater than simply winning back your second wife’s love and trust. The reality is that you have spent the past few years engaging in lies with both your first and second wives. You married your second wife before informing her about your first wife and then deceived her repeatedly by telling her that you would leave your first wife.

instead, for four years you not only remained married to your first wife, but had children with her!

Thus, the first thing for you to be made aware of is the extreme seriousness and sinfulness of lying in Islam:

Al-Bukhaari (6094) and Muslim (2607) narrated that Ibn Mas‘ood (may Allah be pleased with him) said: The Messenger of Allah (blessings and peace of Allah be upon him) said: “I enjoin you to be truthful, for truthfulness leads to righteousness and righteousness leads to Paradise. A man may continue to tell the truth and endeavour to be truthful until he is recorded with Allah as a speaker of truth. And beware of lying, for lying leads to wickedness and wickedness leads to Hell. A man may continue to tell lies and endeavour to tell lies, until he is recorded with Allah as a liar.”

The Prophet (blessings and peace of Allah be upon him) also said: “There are four characteristics, whoever has them all is a pure hypocrite, and whoever has one of them has one of the characteristics of hypocrisy, until he gives it up: when he is entrusted with something, he betrays that trust, when he speaks he lies, when he makes a covenant he betrays it, and when he disputes he resorts to obscene speech.” Narrated by al-Bukhaari (34) and Muslim (58).

If this is the severity of lying in general, how much worse is it to lie to your spouse - and in your case, not one, but both of them? Marriage is a sacred contract in which both partners are meant to be sources of comfort and tranquility to one another, not sources of deceit and harm.

Not only that, but you took it a step further by engaging in injustice between your two wives. Polygamy is permitted in Islam under strict conditions of justice, which it does not seem that you have abided by.

The Qur’an tells us:
{And if you fear that you will not deal justly with the orphan girls, then marry those that please you of [other] women, two or three or four. But if you fear that you will not be just, then [marry only] one or those your right hand possesses. That is more suitable that you may not incline [to injustice].} (Qur’an 4:3)

RasulAllah also said: “Whoever has two wives and favors one of them over the other, will come on the Day of Resurrection with one of his sides leaning.” (Tirmidhi)


There is no simple solution for your situation. When someone genuinely loves someone else, they show it through their actions by being honest and upright and consistent in their behaviour. You have done the opposite of that in all of these years, towards both of your wives. It is understandable that your second wife does not trust you or love you, when you have demonstrated dishonesty and false promises for so long.

The question that you should be asking is not how you can make your second wife trust and love you, but how you can make amends to both wives, how to uphold their Islamic rights, and how to hold yourself accountable for your wrongdoing for so many years.

First of all, you must turn to Allah in sincere repentance for your sins and injustice towards both women (and whomever else, such as your children, you may have impacted negatively through your actions). This repentance requires that you regret your behaviour, that you beg of Allah’s forgiveness, and that you commit never to repeat those actions or patterns of behaviour again.

The second part to seeking Allah’s forgiveness in this case requires you to seek the forgiveness of your wives as well.

Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) said, "Whoever has wronged their brother or sister [in Islam], should ask for his pardon (before his death), as (in the Hereafter) there will be neither a Dinar nor a Dirham. (He should secure pardon in this life) before some of his good deeds are taken and paid to his brother, or, if he has done no good deeds, some of the bad deeds of his brother are taken to be loaded on him (in the Hereafter).” (Sahih Bukhari)

This means that you approach both wives, admit to your wrongdoing, commit yourself to treating them both with justice and fairness, and then listening to each of them to know what you need to do to make things right with each of them. As well, I strongly recommend that you seek individual as well as marital/ family professional therapy and counseling to help accomplish the goals of repentance and accountability. What both your wives have had to endure is extremely painful and will not be ‘fixed’ very quickly. It will require many years of hard work on your end to help them heal, and it may even be that one or both of them may never completely forgive you or be able to move on from what you have done.

It is important for you to recognize the seriousness of your actions, and commit yourself to doing what is right, sincerely and for the Sake of Allah. So long as you maintain your sincerity, then inshaAllah things will either become easier for you and your family, or Allah will make a way for each person to receive the justice that they are due - whether in this world or in the Hereafter.

May Allah forgive you and may He guide you to doing that which is most pleasing to Him, ameen.

Patriarchs Past, Present, and Future

Since my grandfather passed away, I have watched my father step up into the role of family patriarch.
 
Though we still have some more elder male relatives, it is my father who sits at the head of the table at family dinners; my father who reminds my grandmother to call other relatives; my father who makes sure that household things are taken care of, quietly instructing my brothers to do the things he doesn't have the time or skills to take care of. Since he works remotely during the day, he comes to my grandmother's home after my aunt leaves for work and makes sure she's not alone. He checks her blood pressure and sugar levels, makes sure she's taking her medication at the right time, reads out the grocery advertisements to her, and turns the TV on for her favourite soap opera.

He usually hates socializing with more than a couple of people, but for the sake of family, he has become more at ease with it - his beard now as white as my grandfather's was, his laugh more similar, the stories he tells echoes of my grandfather's own tales.

Even as he steps into my grandfather's space, he leaves another space open - and I wonder who will take that spot in his stead. I have three brothers, but as yet too young and brash and often ridiculous; I wonder if I will be always be here to watch them, to see them grow into themselves and into their own roles as men of the family. The eldest is not inclined to marry (much to the increasing distress of my grandmother!), the second has no desire for children, and the third has yet to grow out of the most obnoxious state of adolescence.

Perhaps the three of them together will cobble together the parts needed to fill my father's stead in the future. Perhaps they will simply build themselves differently, growing into themselves with only wisps and glimpses of my father and grandfather in their beards and their voices.

I cling to the memories of my grandfather, and try to memorize every detail of my father now, and I search my brothers' faces for signs that they will become the patriarchs that my family has always had, and always needed, and whom I secretly want for my own daughter, and her children, and their children after that.

May there always be a smiling, storytelling, greybearded man at the head of our dinner table; may there always be the safety and security of their love and protection. 

Motherhood, At Last

After nearly a lifetime (hers) of me struggling with motherhood, of not "feeling like a mother," of having my attention pulled in too many directions, of my emotional energy exhausted by my own depression and trauma... I am discovering that finally, I think I feel like a mother.

It catches me off-guard: a sudden emotional blow to the gut as I look at 9yo and remember when her cheeks were toddler-chubby, and I didn't kiss and squeeze and bite them enough; my resolve to do so now, even if she wails and squirms away and declares that I'm embarrassing her.

The tug in my belly, the phantom umbilical cord that ties her to me more strongly now than when she was growing in my womb, to check on her, to watch her as she bends her head over her mus'haf or squints in concentration as she paints, to snuggle her at night and breathe her in.

The surge of protectiveness that leaps within me if I hear someone speak to her too sharply or if another child is too aggressive with her; struggling to know when I should let her handle her problems and when I should jump in, maternal Ursa instincts roaring.

Even my frustrations feel more maternal now, less existential crisis and more "Pay attention to your homework!" or "BRUSH YOUR TEETH before you eat breakfast!" An argument over her clothing is less likely to set me reeling backwards into self-doubt and resentment at my destiny.

I pretend to want her to grow up and be more responsible, but mostly I am all too glad to let her snuggle in bed with me at night, to rub her back and pull her closer, hating myself for the years I had lost sobbing myself to sleep instead of cradling her.

When she was younger - when I was younger - it was hard for me to remember that she was mine, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood; I felt vague guilt that I did not miss her absence the way other mothers did, that I was relieved of her burden.

Now, when she spends weekends with my parents, there is a sharp emptiness in the hollow of my belly, a tightness in my throat, that eases only when I hurry back from work and reassure myself that she is still here, still mine, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood.

"Is that your daughter?" other women would ask me politely, cooing over her curls and shy eyes. I would fumble over my answer - "Yes, I am her mother" felt like a lie on my tongue, even as my uterus tightened in memory of the hours I spent in labour, crying helplessly.

"Is that your sister?" people ask me now, and I shake my head, pull her close, and say, "No, this is my child." It still feels strange to claim motherhood, when for so many years, I questioned my own maternity. But then she says, "That's my mom!" and it feels, perhaps, true.

Other mothers complain about how suffocated they feel by their children, how much they long to get a break. I can understand - I would want a break from their kids too. But mine? I'm only just getting to love her as I should have all those years ago. I am greedy for my child.

She has always known that I never wanted children. She was, after all, the one who patted my face anxiously when she was two years old and I was too old to be sobbing hysterically at my then-husband's insistence on having another child.

"It's okay, Mama," she told me, "Stop crying, Mama." I couldn't stop crying, then, and it wasn't okay, then, but eventually, I did stop crying, and I made things almost-okay, for me and for her.

Now she knows that even if I never wanted her then, I want her now, more than anything and anyone. "Who loves you the most?" I ask her every night, and she says dutifully, "Allah!" "And then who loves you the most in the whole wide world?" "You do."
And I do.

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.

Noblewoman, Outcast, Queen: The Story of Khadijah (Part 5)

The first few days and months after the initial Revelation were full of wonder and awe for Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and Khadijah (may Allah be pleased with her). Eyes sparkling, hearts filled with faith, Khadijah and Muhammad (PBUH) woke up every morning with renewed purpose, a sense of clarity and inner peace.

However, they also knew that they could not keep this incredible message of beauty and spiritual revolution to themselves. “Yaa ayyuhal mudaththir! Qum fa anthir!” The Words of Allah were a clear command: “O you who covers himself, arise and warn!” (Qur’an 74:1-2)

Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and Khadijah (may Allah be pleased with her) knew that they had a great task ahead of them. Nonetheless, they also knew that they needed to be careful – though simple, the message of Islam was also one that would be extremely difficult for their society to accept.

Belief in Allah alone, worshiping Him alone and without partners, was what every soul inclined towards, but the people of Makkah – and indeed, all of Arabia, and the world at large – had been so spiritually corrupted that they would react with anger and violence in response.

The logical thing to do, then, would be to first approach those whom they knew would most recognize the truth of the message. Even in the spiritual wasteland that was Makkah, there were individuals who stood apart as those who found themselves averse to idol-worship. Of those people were, of course, their own family –their children.

Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and Khadijah gathered their daughters and spoke to them quietly of what had occurred – would they believe their father and worship their Lord with true sincerity and faith?

Without hesitation, Zaynab, Ruqayyah, Umm Kulthum, and even young Fatimah declared their belief in Allah as their only God, and Muhammad as His Messenger. Having grown up witnessing the excellence of their father’s character, and knowing within themselves that the idol worship around them was something they could never accept, they immediately accepted Islam.

Ali ibn Abi Talib and Zaid ibn al-Haarith, also members of Prophet Muhammad’s household, were also of the first people to say the shahaadah. They too had grown up watching him and Khadijah (may Allah be pleased with her), whether it was when they would seek solitude for worship in the cave of Hiraa, or when they spent their daily lives trying to improve the world around them.The message that Muhammad (PBUH) came with was clear, simple, and rang true: how could they deny it?

Thus began the time of the ‘secret’ da’wah – when Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and Khadijah (may Allah be pleased with her), began to speak to those closest to them about the radically beautiful message of Tawheed (oneness of God).

In small, quiet gatherings in their homes, the first group of believers submitted themselves to their Lord, seeking His pleasure and living in obedience to Him. Abu Bakr, Lubabah bint al-Haarith, Bilal ibn Rabah, Sumayyah bint Khabbaab – these were just some of the earliest believers, those whose hearts were already inclined towards the truth, who found inward serenity and strength in their belief in Allah alone.

Meanwhile, , the great angel Jibreel) himself came to Muhammad (PBUH) to teach him: to reveal the Divine Guidance, to provide spiritual comfort, to purify himself physically and to rise, bow, and prostrate in the most perfect form of worship ever to be taught to humankind… and the first person to hear the words of Allah being recited in the voice of His Messenger, with his strength and faith, with his beauty and conviction, was Khadijah (may Allah be pleased with her).

Noblewoman, Outcast, Queen: The Story of Khadijah (Part 4)

“Read!”

An otherworldly voice thundered, calling into Mount Hiraa’ – where Muhammad (PBUH) raised his head in shock and terror to bear witness to that which only a select few had ever seen before.

“Read!” Six hundred wings buffeted the horizon, fashioned from pure Noor (light), almost too beautiful and too overwhelming to look at directly.

“Read! Read, in the Name of your Lord!” A powerful command from above the seven heavens, impossible to resist, demanding submission from the most perfect of all Allah’s Creation, he who was created solely to obey and to guide others to obedience.

With these words brought from the Lord of the Worlds by His angelic messenger Jibreel (peace be upon him) to the most perfect of all creation, Muhammad ibn Abdullah was transformed into the Seal of Prophethood.

And yet… and yet, he was still human.

His entire body trembling with the weight of Divine Revelation, Prophet Muhammad sought sanctuary in the home and arms of his beloved. “Zammilooni, zammilooni!” he called out to Khadijah . “Cover me up!”

Immediately perceptive, Khadijah wrapped him in a cloak and held him until his shaking ceased. Desperately, he told her what had just transpired, his eyes dark with anxiety over his own sanity.

Khadijah’s steadiness never wavered. “No, by Allah!” she said fiercely. “Rejoice! Allah will never disgrace you, for you uphold the ties of kinship, you speak only the truth, you protect the poor and the destitute, host your guests with generosity, and support those who have been struck by calamity.”

Her words, though merely human and not divine, were both comforting and reassuring. Nor were her statements hollow – as the single person who knew Muhammad (PBUH) best, who lived with him during times of both ease and hardship, she spoke only with the utmost honesty.

It was Khadijah (May Allah be pleased with her) who took the initiative to seek further answers to the questions raised by this extraordinary incident. Who was the otherworldly creature? What was the meaning of his visit?

She knew that the best person to ask would be her elderly relative, Waraqah ibn Nawfal – the monotheistic scholar with whom she had previously studied. Despite his blindness and old age, his mind was as sharp as ever. Listening to Muhammad relate his story in detail, Waraqah nodded in recognition.

“Indeed, this is the same angel who used to visit Musa (peace be upon him),” he confirmed. “Would that I were stronger, and that I would live to see the day your people drive you out.”

“They would drive me out?” Muhammad (PBUH) questioned in disbelief. Waraqah nodded again. “Yes. Whomsoever has brought forward a message such as yours in the past was treated with hostility and hardship. Should I live to witness the day that you declare your Prophethood, I will be of those who stands with you and supports you.”

Muhammad (PBUH) himself could scarcely believe that he had been visited by the ethereal messenger of Allah; truthfully, he doubted his own sanity. Seeing the uncertainty in his eyes, Khadijah clasped his hands in her own and said, “I swear by Allah that you are the Messenger of Allah.”

Laa ilaaha illAllah, Muhammadun RasulAllah. (There is no God but Allah, Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah).

In a humble home in Makkah, between husband and wife, the nubuwwah (prophethood) was established upon the greatest man to ever live; first shahaadah was declared upon the tongue of one of the greatest women… and thus began a new era that would forever change the world.