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“Sometimes, when Allah Subhanallah Wataala answers our prayers and grants us our wishes, He brings forth tests alongside those blessings. One could have prayed for a child for years, then Allah grants them one who is sickly or with special needs or very stubborn. Another could have prayed for a spouse, then they are granted one who really gets on their nerves or is poor. Another could have prayed for a chance to perform hajj or umrah, and then face many difficulties during the pilgrimage. Another could have prayed for a job, then got one with a merciless boss. Oftentimes, when this happens, we tend to focus on the challenges we are facing, forgetting it is a test from Allah.

Remember the words of Nabii Suleiman Aleyhi Ssalam when he said about the power and bounties granted upon him:

قَالَ هَٰذَا مِنْ فَضْلِ رَبِّي لِيَبْلُوَنِي أَأَشْكُرُ أَمْ أَكْفُرُ ۖ وَمَنْ شَكَرَ فَإِنَّمَا يَشْكُرُ لِنَفْسِهِ ۖ وَمَنْ كَفَرَ فَإِنَّ رَبِّي غَنِيٌّ كَرِيمٌ

“𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝑳𝒐𝒓𝒅 – 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍!

And whoever is grateful, truly, his gratitude is for himself; and whoever is ungrateful, certainly my Lord is Rich, Bountiful.”

Will you be grateful for the blessing? Will you be patient with the tests? Will you acknowledge Allah’s power and mercy in all that you have and do? Will you still praise Him? Will you remain steadfast and firm in your faith? Will you trust Allah’s plan?!

Indeed, we have so much to be thankful for.

Alhamdulilah for all that is gone. And all that we own. And all that is known and unknown.

الحمد لله حمدا كثيرا طيبا مباركا فيه.”

Just a couple of days ago, I wrote the above piece on my social media pages. It was just a random contemplation of life events. I didn’t expect that soon after I’ll meet the human manifestation of my post. And when I did, I was nothing short of stunned by the embodiment of patience right in front of my eyes.

Sister Zainab, just like any married woman, yearned to be a mother. She prayed for a child. She sought medical expertise on how to get a child. But she failed, again and again and again. Four years later, the Bushra came. By Allah’s mercy, she was finally pregnant. It only made sense that she would call her child Bushra- Glad Tidings, because that is what she was. Good news. A reward for her patience.

However, Zainab had such a complicated delivery that the child had to be pulled out of her womb. Bushra didn’t cry for hours. Zainab thought her baby was already lost, but Allah had other plans for her. She miraculously made it through, but there was more awaiting both mother and child…Bushra was born with severe Cerebral Palsy. 

Without knowing it, our sister’s life took a total turn after that. Her entire time and energy had to now revolve around her fragile baby who couldn’t see, move or communicate like other children. For years, Zainab carried her child everywhere. To the toilet, to the hospital, to therapy sessions, to Ruqya sessions…her life fully for her child.

Soon enough, rumours from relatives and neighbours emerged. Bushra was bewitched, she has been made a ‘kiti’ bla bla…The suggestions to visit a witch doctor to cure her child followed, while others slowly avoided her and her child entirely. Even when they would hear Bushra cry painfully, they would leave her mother to return to tend to her. It was only her mother, apart from her husband, who supported them greatly in raising Bushra. Despite having her own health complications, Bushra’s grandmother dedicated her life to helping her daughter and son-in-law. The three of them felt alienated and the stigma they have faced as a family has been real.

Being a believer, Zainab opted to put trust in her Lord and do what she knows best; pray and do more research. Zainab was always looking for ways to improve her child’s health. She attended any health seminar she heard of that was related to Bushra’s condition, and read books and research papers about it.

It is through her constant reading that she came across ‘Regenerative Brain Cell Therapy’ which has been able to assist those with severe conditions like Bushra. It gave her hope, yet it seemed like such a far-stretched option for her. She didn’t know where to start, whom to talk to, or even where she’d get the money for the treatment. Yet the thought of it lingered in her head for years, until one day when the specialists came from India to Mombasa and did a seminar about the therapy treatment. For Zainab, that was Allah making things easier and clearer for her. She was now more determined to find this treatment for Bushra, more than ever before. She thereafter travelled to Tanzania for an international health forum for ‘Autism and Neurodevelopmental disorders’ to learn more about regenerative brain cell treatment. 

You’d expect that for a woman like her, with all that she has been through, she’d be frustrated, miserable and sad. But the spirit of imaan in Allah glimmers in her eyes. She has so much belief that Allah will her through it all. That it shall get better. One thing she kept repeating to me was, ‘I have to have faith. There is no other way.’ And I’ve thought about that a lot ever since. Truly Allah does not burden a soul beyond what they can bear.

Here was a woman who could have chosen to just accept her daughter as she is and give her the medications to just manage her condition. Or she could have listened to those misguiding her into the desperation of seeking help from a witch doctor. Or worst of all, she could have abandoned or neglected the child, like other parents do. But here she was, doing everything possible in her power to make life for her daughter just a little more bearable, a little less painful, all the while seeking Allah’s pleasure.

Despite all the challenges, Allah Subhanahu Wataala never seized to bring good people to help them; sometimes financially, sometimes emotionally, sometimes with ideas, and sometimes even physically. There was especially one friend of Umm Bushra who would always look out for Bushra’s needs and help consistently. For this, Sister Zainab expressed her deep gratitude for Allah’s mercy, and sincere duas for everyone who has ever extended their kindness to them.

Throughout the one hour that we talked, Bushra was lying beside us with the sweetest smile, her dimples revealing, moving her limbs playfully. Sister Zainab says to me, “She loves smiling mashallah. Always smiling. I worry about her sometimes. Right now I can carry her around because she is still young, but she is growing older. She will become heavier and her needs will change. Sometimes she is bitten by an ant but since she can’t speak, she just cries so intensely, and I have to figure out what could be wrong. This Neuro Regenerative Rehabilitation Therapy is not a cure but it will help her move better. She’ll be able to at least sit up or perhaps walk, even if it is by stumbling. I have read deeply about this treatment, I know the pros and cons, and I want to tawakkal with it. The Indian doctors explained that the earlier she gets the treatment, the more effective it is. And because she is growing older each year (turning 7 this year) I really want us to travel this same year in shaa Allah.”

Here’s our beautiful, lovely Bushra. Allahumma Bareek

Umm Bushra needs to raise 2 million Kenyan shillings for the entire trip to India. From tickets to visas to accommodation and the treatment itself. Unfortunately, her husband is struggling financially with no stable job and Zainab has no other income since taking care of Bushra is a full-time job.

As a human being I look at that amount and think ‘Mahn, how will we raise that amount of money?’ but then I look at her patience and imaan and I remember that Allah is great and good, and very much capable of bringing miracles. 

Here’s a hopeful, devoted believer and mother seeking our help, I truly pray that we come through for her. Assist in any way you can, and please spread the word!

Let’s do this!!! Her hospital letter and donation details are below:

Abu Huraira reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “Whoever relieves the hardship of a believer in this world, Allah will relieve his hardship on the Day of Resurrection. Whoever helps ease one in difficulty, Allah will make it easy for him in this world and the Hereafter. Whoever conceals the faults of a Muslim, Allah will conceal his faults in this world and the Hereafter. Allah helps the servant as long as he helps his brother…” (Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim 2699)

The first time I ever laid my hand on anyone, I was about twelve years, six months old.

When it happened again, it was ten years later, only this time with blood on my hands.
*
“Una meno kama ya ngamia!” A burst of rising laughter emerged behind us.

“Your smile is disgusting!”
Hanaa’s hand clasped mine.

“You must be adopted. You’re darker than your whole family,” another chuckled.

“Do you hear that, Hanaa? You’re adopted!” One shouted.

We both continued looking ahead, my other hand clenched.

“Even your sister Sarah knows that you’re stupid, that’s why you’re always last in class!”

I stopped in my tracks. I could feel the heat rising in my face.

Hanaa pulled me forward with her tiny, bony hands. I didn’t budge for a minute.

I turned around just in time to see the smirk on Fatma’s face, the oldest and loudest of the group. Without thinking twice, I dashed to where she was and planted a hefty slap on her face. There was a gasp from her friends as Fatma felt her now red cheek. My heart still pounding, and before I could say anything, someone smacked my head from behind. For a moment, all I could hear was the ringing of my ears. With tears in my eyes, I looked up to see Fatma’s father and mzee Abubakar, one of our neighbours.

Without a word, Fatma’s father took her daughter and walked away to their house which was just a few steps away from where we were standing. What were the odds? I thought to myself, still standing at the same place.

Mzee Abubakar started patting my back as he requested I explain what just happened. In between loud sobs, I narrated my sister’s constant predicament with this specific group of girls. He continued wiping my tears until my breath returned normal, then he bent down close to my ears and whispered, “Don’t tell your mother about this incident. You wouldn’t want her to start a fight with mama and baba Fatma, would you?”

“But…”I said as I looked at Hanaa, whose trousers were now soiled with wetness.

“They are kids. You’re older than them so you understand they’re just being childish. Forgive them for now. Your mother needn’t know.”

Before I could say any other word, he was gone, and so were all the other kids. I looked over at Hanaa who was silently crying. I walked back to her and held her hand.

“Mama will be angry when she sees me,” she pointed to her trouser.

“She is at aunty Wahida’s place today. Let us rush and change before she gets back home.”

We started running quickly, hand in hand. But before we reached our doorstep, mama’s voice rang behind us. My blood froze. I could feel Hanaa’s hand tremble in mine. I turned to face mama as Hanaa quickly positioned herself behind me.

“Why are you late? Madrasa ended half an hour ago.”

We both looked down.

“Sarah, speak!”

“We met some friends on the way and got a bit distracted with some games,” I said, still looking at the ground.

“Mwataka kikoto sio?!”

We shook our heads quickly.

She clicked her tongue loudly, “I have a wedding to go to so I won’t let you ruin my evening. Get inside, your food is in the kitchen. Thereafter, make sure to do your homework.”

As they entered the house, mama turned around and faced Hanaa with scrutinizing eyes.

“Did you pee on yourself again?! What is that on your trousers?”

We remained silent. Mama looked at me.

“Uhh…we…we sort of got into a fight with Fatma and her friends…Hanaa got scared,” I whispered.

“Again?! What do those girls want? I will break their necks the next time I see them. What was the fight about?”

In a very low and shaky voice, I narrated to her what had occurred.

“Mama, please don’t start a fight with them. Mzee Abubakar said he will talk to her parents about her behaviour,” I lied.

“I am not stupid to go fight with those pigs. With one tackle they will break my bones. But I know what I shall do. Wataona!”

“Mama…please…”

“Hanaa, why would you pee on yourself while you weren’t even the one who was beaten huh?” Mama ignored me. “How many times have I told you, that you need to stand up for yourself? You think those girls will ever respect you if you keep peeing on yourself and bringing bad grades home?!”

Our eyes remained glued to the ground.

“Go on …go change. I will deal with this. And this should be the last time you pee on yourself! If you pee once more, ntakufunga jongoo waskia?” she threatened.

Hanaa nodded meekly.

Mama then stormed out of the house and I quickly followed her to Fatma’s home which was in the same neighbourhood.

“Mama Fatma! Fungua mlango!” Mama shouted outside their compound. “Mama Fatma!” she banged the door.

Mama Fatma slowly opened her door with a frown.

“Bismillah, kuna nini?”

“Do you want me to start telling your neighbours the truth about Fatma?!” she hissed with a murmur.

Mama Fatma’s eyes bulged, looked left and right then quickly pulled mama and me inside the house and closed the door behind us.

“Listen very carefully! Your child is a nuisance and we both know why that is. If you don’t want me to go around and inform people that she is a mwanaharamu, then you better discipline her. I don’t want her near my daughters ever again. And that husband of yours, if he ever raises his filthy hand on my daughter ever again, I will finish him with my own two hands!”

“Sawa mama Sarah. Sawa,” she said with a shaky voice. “I will talk to my daughter, I promise. Please stiri mambo yetu kama vile Mungu anavotustiri sote,” she pleaded.

“Before you mention God to me, teach your child manners first, waskia? Don’t make me do things I don’t want to.”

Before mama Fatma could respond, Mama took my hand and led me outside and we started walking back home.

“Is it true Ma?” I asked.

“What is true?”

“That Fatma is an illegitimate child?”

“I should never hear you say those words again, do you hear me?!”

I nodded quickly, and we didn’t say a word the rest of the way.

*
As the years went by, the bullying still went on. Despite mama’s threats, Fatma didn’t change at all. In fact, she seemed to attain more pleasure in picking on Hanaa. And because Hanaa didn’t want mama to make a fuss about it, even when mama asked her about Fatma and her friends, she said that everything had been good; they’d left her alone. I would often try to protect her, but we never brought the complaints to mama ever again.

The bed-wetting went on too until she was ten years old is when it finally stopped. Mama was so relieved; she almost thought Hanaa would still be peeing on herself even as a bride. However, her grades never got better and both mama and her teachers gave up on her. Hanaa slowly became invisible to them. All tasks at home were given to me because according to mama, Hanaa was useless like our father’s family. At school, the teachers praised my intelligence as they compared the two sisters in the staffroom.

As expected, Hanaa didn’t have any friends at school or madrasa and spent most of her time alone. She would join me for both break and lunch because I was the only one who would talk to her.

When I got into secondary school, it was very difficult for both of us. Students started picking on Hanaa again because I was no longer there. Many evenings, she came back home and went to bed without speaking a word. She was losing weight at a high speed and mama’s frustrations gave us an even rougher time. Sometimes I would awaken late at night and hear Hanaa sobbing silently into her pillow. My heart ached for her but I was mostly helpless to do anything.

A few years later, when Hanaa finally completed primary school after repeating two classes, mama didn’t even wait for the results to be out. She immediately found a groom for her. The man, who was twenty years older than Hanaa, was set to marry his bride as soon as she turned 17-only a few months later.

“Mama, how can you do this? You always complained about dad’s family pushing him to go for a second wife just because you’re not their choice. How are you okay with Hanaa being a second wife now?!” I protested when we were alone.

“It is not the same.”

“How is it not the same?!”

“This man is only marrying again because his first wife can’t conceive. That is a genuine reason. And mashallah he can afford to comfortably look after two wives.”

“Why have you given up on her so early?” tears started falling.

Mama sighed as she sat down on the mkeka, “You think I am happy sending away my child? Aren’t I a mother too? Don’t I want the best for all of you?”

I remained silent.

“Your sister is very slow and naïve and doesn’t even have extraordinary beauty to boost her prospects. Do you think life is easy? Look at me. Look at how miserable I am despite my beauty and brains. No one has ever helped me. And your father’s family never once asked about us or stepped into this house since he died. Despite their wealth, they never cared about the orphans he left behind, just because he refused to marry the woman of their choice.”

“So that’s your reason to get rid of her?”

“I just want her to be settled in her home before I leave this world. I am not so worried about you. I know you can face anything that comes your way…but Hanaa…she is too weak. Sometimes we have to help her in making decisions that will be good for her in the long run.” Her voice shook.

We sat there for a long time without saying anything, tears in our eyes.

*
Being a secondary school student, I was still powerless to do anything to help Hanaa. I had no one to turn to. Hanaa had given up on herself too. It seemed she had bought to mama’s belief that she had no prospects in life, so she readily followed mama around as they shopped for the upcoming wedding.

“At least I’ll be a mother. I’ll be useful for once,” she said to me one night as she stared at her green and white hijabi wedding gown.

“You’ve always been useful Hanaa. You’re kind and thoughtful and a great friend and sister. It just takes another kind heart to see that.”

She chuckled.

“You will be visiting me often, right?”

“At your palace you mean? Of course!” I laughed. “You always wanted to be a seamstress. I hope you still try it out. You have great ideas for clothes.”

“Haha, well, now it depends if Mr Husband lets me do it.”

“He better! Your talent shouldn’t go to waste. Once you become a mother in shaa Allah you’ll be the one to make pretty dresses and clothes for them.”

“And for your children too in shaa Allah,” she winked with a smile.

“I have a long way to go. I have to finish secondary first, then go to college, then find a job to help mama in shaa Allah.”

“Maybe then she’ll stop being so bitter,” She laughed quietly.

“You do know that she loves you right? She’s just had a very rough life…and baba who was her only support died so young. I am not justifying her actions of course, but never think that she doesn’t love you.”

“Well, I just hope our children never grow up doubting our love for them.”

I moved to where she was seated and hugged her for a long time before we finally retired to sleep.

*
A few days later, a small, intimate nikah was performed at our house. The only people present were mum, our aunt who we rarely ever saw, and two of our neighbours who were friendly with mama. From the groom’s side were his elderly mother, his sister, and his two brothers. The ceremony was short and sweet. The visitors were glowing from all the gold they were wearing and all seemed jovial. Even mama shed some tears. We all had a buffet of a variety of Arab and Swahili dishes for lunch and there was laughter and merry in our small house. Hanaa looked like a midget seated next to the tall and built Ismail, her husband. She had a sweet smile and it was almost painful to look at her innocent face.

Before Hanaa left, mama took her most loved golden necklace and put it on her neck. I could see the surprise in Hanaa’s eyes, and the tears that followed shortly after that. We all then kissed her goodbye as her in-laws escorted her to her new home. I almost believed the wedding wasn’t such a bad idea after all…until several months later…

*
Being a bride looked good on Hanaa. Ismail was away most of the time and she enjoyed her freedom. She was living in a luxurious home and could afford most of what she wanted. The best of all was that Ismail allowed her to take up a sewing course at a nearby college. Soon enough, she had her butterfly sewing machine at her home, making cute tiny dresses as trials. I would visit her often enough whenever I knew Ismail wasn’t around. Even mama seemed happy visiting her, and sometimes, being mesmerized by all the kitchen equipment Hanaa had, mama would even offer to cook for her while there.

However, after a while, it became clear to me that Hanaa and Ismail never really had much love or affection for one another. Hanaa rarely mentioned Ismail unless necessary, and when she did, it was like she was referring to a neighbour she knew.

One time I asked her whether she was happy and her shoulders fell.

“It’s the same story, you know.”

“What same story?”

“Same cliche story we’ve heard over and over again. He loves his first wife very much. Even when with me, he still keeps calling her. I believe his family pressured him to marry a second wife just to get kids. It is clear I am only here as a birthing machine.”

“I am so sorry Hanaa,” I held her hand.

“But I am okay, don’t worry about me. He does fulfil his duties as a husband, at least the majority of them. Plus I am more at peace can’t you see? Mama is no longer stressed about my grades, Fatma and her gang are far away from me now, I am eating well plus I get to do this!” she pointed at a cute green and white dress she was still working on.

I sighed loudly.

I looked at the dress keenly and said, “You should start selling these you know? They’re too good to remain in suitcases under your bed.”

“I will! Let me perfect the art first,” she winked as she continued sewing.

*
Within the first year of marriage, Hanaa was selling elegant and stylish clothes to her neighbours. During the Eid and wedding seasons, she would get super busy with client orders. Ismail started getting frustrated with the frequent clients coming into their home. Moreover, Hanaa hadn’t conceived yet. The man was getting impatient.

Every month, Ismail diligently asked about her menses and would sometimes refuse to eat when Hanaa confirmed that she got her periods. Soon enough, he was breaking plates and cups at every minor mistake that Hanaa did and would disappear for more days than he did previously.

At the time, I had already started attending nursing classes. Every weekend I would visit Hanaa and find her trying out new recipes to win over her husband. But Ismail had become even more distant than before and his art of breaking cutlery was getting more intense by the day.

“I am unsettled about this man. What if he harms you?!” I exclaimed one evening as we shopped for new plates.

“Majaaliwa yangu.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You deserve better. And you need to stand for yourself now. Don’t just allow things to happen to you!”

“Mama shouldn’t know about this, please. She is already stressed that I am not yet pregnant.”

“I won’t. But maybe it is also for the best. You should enjoy your youth before you become a mother.”

“Enjoy what youth? I am already 18. I want to be a mother. That will be enjoyable for me.”

“That is because mama made you believe that is the only good thing you’re capable of. You’re more than that. For one, you’re a very talented seamstress!”

“Yeah well…”

“Hasn’t Ismail been tested? Doesn’t he know that everything has turned out clear for you?”

“He knows but I wouldn’t dare ask him. He could break a plate on my head. Plus the doctor will question him about me. How will he explain marrying a 17-year-old girl at this year and age, who could as well be his daughter?”

“That is a good question. I would love to hear the answer to that.”

“Must be painful for him to marry a girl he didn’t even want and couldn’t give him children either,” Hanaa looked down.

“Hey! Don’t allow that pity of a man to make you his punching bag! You are a dutiful wife and again, the doctor said nothing is wrong with you. If he really wants kids he should put his ego aside and get tested!”

“We’ll see about that in shaa Allah. Let’s get going. I have an engagement dress to make.”

“Oh look at you! Soon enough you’ll be selling wedding gowns as well!” We both laughed heartily.

*
The first time Hanaa suggested that Ismail should get tested, she was given a black eye and her sewing machine was taken away. The whole week she avoided my calls and kept excusing herself that she is busy with some orders. I had to pop up at her home unexpectedly on a Friday afternoon for me to find out what was going on.

She avoided eye contact the whole time I spoke to her and her voice was barely audible. Ismail hadn’t apologized and hadn’t been back since he had left.

“Please don’t tell mama.”

“That is your worry right now? We must tell mama. You should come home with me right away.”

“Come back and do what? Overwhelm mama once more with my presence? Our relationship has gotten better since I got married. I don’t want to go back to what we once were.”

“But…mama wouldn’t mind your return. It is still your home after all. You’re not safe here.”

“This is my home now Sarah. Ismail won’t do it again, don’t worry. All I have to do is avoid asking him about getting tested, khalas.”

Although I insisted, Hanaa refused to return home with me and made me promise to not tell mama.

However, despite Hanaa’s attempt to cover up for her husband by using make-up, mama finally noticed that something was up during our next visit. This time there was a fresh mark on her arm. Apparently, during one of his plate-breaking sprees, a piece of the glass mistakenly hit Hanaa’s arm.

“That is the fate of us women, my daughter. From birth we are made to carry the burdens of everyone; our parents, our children, our husbands, and our community. Subiri…just work harder at getting pregnant, he will be okay once he has a baby in his arms,” she said slowly as she looked outside the window.

“But Ma!!!” I exclaimed.

“We can’t get involved in matters between a husband and his wife. This is beyond me now,” she sighed.

“She doesn’t have to carry this burden. And she shouldn’t! Hanaa is still very young and beautiful. She can get her divorce and open her boutique. She can still get married when she is ready in the future.”

“Hmm, which world do you live in? Who will accept a divorcee who hasn’t even gone beyond primary education? Plus do you think it is easy to open a business?! Look at how we’ve struggled all our lives. We depended on well-wishers for your school fees throughout. We don’t have any savings at all. We can barely make ends meet.”

“Sarah, it is okay. Mama has a point. I’ll see a herbalist about the pregnancy issue, perhaps the outcome will be different this time.”

“In shaa Allah, and I am praying for you every day, that you may get a child and be happy in your marriage. Right now, he is blinded by his first wife’s love…but once the child arrives, he will finally appreciate you. That will be the game changer.” Mama said.

As we left that evening, I could feel a pinch in my heart as I saw the sadness lingering in Hannah’s eyes. When our eyes met, she spread her lips a bit and waved me goodbye.

*
Hanaa was now sleeping through the day and night. She had lost more weight than she had ever before. Ismail hadn’t been to her home for an entire month and when I’d visit, the entire house would be dark with no curtains or windows open. I’d be welcomed by the stench of dirty utensils, rotten food and body odour. When I realized that she was bed-wetting again, I packed her clothes and went with her home without informing mama.

When mama first saw Hanaa, she gasped but never said a word after that. I opened a warm water shower and let her inside. Hanaa was simply performing robotic movements and hadn’t said a word since I found her in her bed. After that, I made her some hot soup and fed her before laying her to rest in her old bed.

“My God! What should I do about Hanaa?! Ataniuaaa ataniua huyu mtoto.” Mama lamented when I finally sat down with her.

“You don’t have to do anything. I will take care of her, don’t worry. At least I will put my nursing skills to use.”

“That is not what I meant, come on. I can take care of her as well. I just don’t understand where I went wrong with her. Why is she so different from you?!”

“Please let’s not talk about this. She might overhear you and she already has enough on her plate.”

“Fine. But what will we tell her husband when he comes searching for her?”

“Are you…are you afraid of him?!”

“No, but he is a noble man. We shouldn’t interfere in their marriage.”

“Noble because he comes from a known, rich family? What nobility is that? He and his family can all go to hell,” I said with finality as I went back to our room and closed the door.

*
Ismail turned up at our house one week later. In his hands were a bouquet and Hanaa’s butterfly machine.

Mama welcomed him with a nervous smile and explained to him that Hanaa had been unwell, that’s why she was brought home.

“I was worried about her. Her phone has been off. I figured she must be here. May I talk to her?”

“No, you may not and will not!” I interjected.

Ismail stood up with puzzlement.

“Hanaa is not your punching bag for your infertility. Go to a gym or go break all the remaining plates in your home if you want. But you’ll never see Hanaa ever again. You’ll never get the chance to harm her anymore!”

“What are you saying?! Hanaa is my wife!” he trembled with rage.

“And I am his sister.”

“Okay okay, let us calm down for a minute. Hanaa is unwell and we all care for her well-being. Let us talk calmly,” mama said.

“Watch your tongue young lady,” Ismail waved his finger at me.

“I want a divorce,” Hannah’s timid voice interrupted us.

We all turned around at once. She was standing in the hallway with messy hair and a flowery dera.

Mama gasped.

Ismail clenched his fist.

My heart was now drumming.

Ismail slowly approached Hanaa with an intense look on his face.

“What?!”

“You heard what I said. I am exhausted, I can’t do this anymore. I want my divorce right now.”

“Hanaa, you’re not thinking clearly right now. Let us go home and we can talk carefully.”

“No, I am sure this is what I want,” she said, still in a low voice.

“Did they…did they ask you to do this?!” Ismail pointed to mama and me.

“Ismail…” Mama started.

“This is purely my decision. I can’t give you a child so divorce me. Find another wife or adopt one with your riches if you want but if you were a real man, you’d seek treatment instead of dragging your wives into your misery.”

Ismail instantly grabbed Hanaa’s neck and pushed her to the wall, his grip tightening. “Did I not tell you to never mention this stupid treatment thing to me?! Are you still doubting my manhood?!”

“Ismail stop!!” Mama shouted. Both mama and I rushed to him and tried pulling him away. But both of us were two feeble women while he was a tall, built man. Mama was now crying as she cursed him. Hanaa was choking as she pushed her palms on his face.

Without thinking twice, I grabbed the nearest heavy pan from the kitchen and struck Ismail’s head. Within that split moment, and as his grip loosened around her neck, Hanaa shoved him.

The loud thud that followed startled us.

Still glued to the wall, Hanaa breathed heavily.

My entire body was shaking.

Mama’s mouth was wide open with tears in her eyes.

“There’s blood,” Hanaa murmured shakily.

We turned to where Ismail was lying still. His head had hit the edge of our glass dining table and a pool of blood was forming beneath him.

We stood silently in our places, only our heavy breathing could be heard.

“Sarah, do something!” Mama shouted.

I looked at her in a daze.

“You’re a nursing student, aren’t you?!” She continued.

Hanaa gave me a nudge and I cleared my throat uncomfortably. I slowly placed the pan on the floor and bent to where Ismail was lying and felt for his pulse.

“Bring a clean towel or cloth Hanaa. Quick!”

“Is he alive?”

“His pulse is weak but I think he is. Move!”

Hanaa brought a small clean towel which I pressed firmly on his head where the blood seemed to be coming from. But the blood kept coming and coming, and I kept adding more and more pieces of clothes. The blood just wouldn’t stop.

I looked at my trembling, bloodied hand.

“We have to call for an ambulance Ma. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know!” My voice broke.

“Haven’t…haven’t they taught you how to save people?”

“Ma! He will bleed to death! I am still very new to this! I don’t know what else to do!”

“They will arrest us,” Hanaa said, still holding the wall for support.

“Ma please do something!” My tears now mixed with the blood smeared all over my arms and clothes.

“Okay okay… Hanaa call the ambulance. Tell them there’s been an accident, he is bleeding heavily. Tell them to rush and give them our address. Don’t say anything more. Do you hear me?”

Hanaa nodded. I could see the wet patch on her dera, still frozen in her place.

She started sobbing loudly.

“Hanaa make the call!! He can’t die!”

“I don’t think he will survive this Ma…” Before I could finish my statement, Ismail’s body stiffened and started shaking violently, his arms and legs jerking repeatedly. Mama rushed to him and held his limbs down.

“Just make the damn call!” she shouted to Hanaa.

Startled by her voice, she rushed to the next room and talked in a shaky voice.

“Here’s what we will say,” mama said when Hannah joined us again. Ismail’s seizure had stopped but he was still unconscious.

“We will tell the truth from the beginning. Then we shall explain what he came to do here today and he tried to choke you when you demanded a divorce. You were struggling to breathe, I had to save you or else he would have ended your life. I am the one who hit him with the pan and pushed him away from Hanaa.”

She turned to me, “You were helping me stop the blood thus the mess on your clothes. Don’t say anything else.”

“You don’t have to do that Ma,” Hanaa cried.

“It was a matter of life and death. It can’t be that hard to convince the judges in court. They will understand, right?” She looked at me.

“Ma…”I quivered.

Mama slowly picked up the pan and wiped the handle with the leso she had on. She then held it with her free hand before placing it next to her.

“What are you doing Ma?” Hanaa stared.

“The pan handle has to have my fingerprints, no?”

Hanaa sat down on the floor, her hands on her head. I held mama’s left hand as her tears fell freely.

“I am sorry. I am very sorry…I was supposed to be your mother and protect you and be there for you, but I always failed. Please forgive me.” She cried, looking at Hanaa, then I.

My one hand still pressing on Ismail’s head, mama knelt and embraced me. She then signalled Hanaa to join us. So we sat there in the pool of blood, our heads close together, each one of us weeping.

Ismail’s limp body lay in front of us, with barely any sign of life. As we heard the sirens get closer, our crying became more vehement. Whichever way this went, we were doomed. We all knew it- our lives would never be the same again.

To read part 2, kindly click here.

Losing of loved ones

I am very familiar with grief. With its smell that lingers and its sour taste on the lips kissing you with every remembrance and every memory. It is something inevitable that each one of us will experience; whether it is separation in this world because of conflict or changes beyond our control, or because of death.

When it comes to worldly separation, we’ve seen families separate, take each other to court and some even kill each other because of wealth or other kinds of fitna. Sometimes beloved companions become detested enemies because of betrayal, envy, or revealed ill intentions. It truly breaks the heart when family or friends who were once closest to you are now the ones against you.

Yet despite all that, the loss through death is the one that hurts the most. It is inevitable. It is permanent. And death- you never really get used to it. There is no point where you can say you have lost enough people that it doesn’t hurt anymore. It hurts. It always will. This is why Allah Subhanahu Wataala gives glad tidings to those who are patient with such tests; their reward is going to be enormous in the hereafter.

"We will certainly test you with a touch of fear and famine and loss of property, life, and crops. Give good news to those who patiently endure."

Surat Al Baqarah, Verse 155

Naturally then, the fear of losing loved ones is so vivid within me. Whenever death struck and depending on the dearness of the person to me, it would last me many months and even years before I could even say I am over it. Yet the worst fear of all is losing my beloved parents. The dearest people to my heart. The two individuals that I am absolutely terrified to lose.

I grew up witnessing my parents struggle with major health complications for a big part of their lives that had both of them take pills like sweets to be devoured morning, noon, and night alhamdulillah. Yet whenever either of them got more ill, I would always think, ‘Is this it? Is this goodbye now?’ And my heart would remain in distress until I could finally see them better.

I remember during the Corona period, my mother lost two of her siblings to Corona in less than a year; one of whom was my favourite uncle. This was in addition to several other relatives who had also contracted the virus and had been very ill from it.

Within the months that followed our entire home was affected with flu, sore throat, and several other symptoms of Corona. My mother was the worst for she was really struggling to breathe and her coughing would be heard throughout the day and night. The initial tests she did stated that she had pneumonia with an indication of Corona. This was exactly what had happened to my uncle. My fear tripled and I spent my days crying endlessly. I really thought this is it. My parents having Corona and major health conditions? It was only by Allah’s mercy that they would survive. My tears would flow effortlessly and with no warning but I tried to hide them as much as I could.

But then one day it became too overwhelming for me to keep it to myself. I remembered mama two during her last days; how I stayed away because it was too painful to see her waste away. How that haunted me for many years after, because I kept thinking did she really understand I stayed away and couldn’t meet her eye to eye because I never wanted to lose her? And that I felt so helpless for I couldn’t take away her pain? Did she really know how much I loved her?’ Questions questions…

I, therefore, decided to talk to my mother about it. But when I got to her, I was weeping and the first thing that came out of my mouth was, ‘What if you die?’ In retrospect, I now realize how wrong that question was for it to be directed to a sick person. But in moments of weakness, we rarely think clearly before speaking. Now my father- who is such a firm and brave man- awoke from his sleep from my crying, thinking that someone had literally died. When he was told I was crying because I was worried about them, he clicked his tongue and went back to sleep 😂 (I love my dad because he reminds me of Umar Ibn Khattab; tough people with unwavering strength and perseverance. It is he who has taught me to never fear anyone or accept any kind of injustice. Whether I implement that is another story 😂) And even though he knows when to be gentle and merciful, I could sense that he expected better from me.

My mother on the other hand hugged me and she said, ‘Then we’d be dead. You must prepare yourself for it because it is inevitable. We’re all going to experience it sooner or later. You have to be strong.’ Then to comfort me, she went on to mention people we know who were (previously) critically ill yet still made it through and others who died for no other reason than that their time had arrived. She wanted me to be more hopeful of Allah’s mercy and keep making dua for them.

My elder sister, whom I consider the epitome of patience (Allah ybarik feeha) said, “It is like we’re all on a journey on a train. And at some point, different people will have to alight at different stages because their journey has come to an end. Yet that doesn’t mean the rest of us will come to a halt because someone alighted from the train. We go on with our journey regardless, because we haven’t yet reached our destination. We have no choice but to move on.”

I still marvel at their words because despite knowing the reality of death and what our Deen requires from us, I am in awe of their firm faith. With their strength. With their good expectations on acquiring better with Allah in the next life. Most times I wish I was as strong as they are.

I am still trying, and mostly failing at being that strong. My mother says she is most worried about me among her children (despite being a middle child) after they’re gone because of my fragility. And of course, it is something I will perhaps have to work on throughout my life yet I realize I should always seek Allah’s help through it all.

“The Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) said: ‘The strong believer is better and more beloved to Allah than the weak believer, although both are good. Strive for that which will benefit you, seek the help of Allah, and do not feel helpless. If anything befalls you, do not say, “if only I had done such and such” rather say “Qaddara Allahu wa ma sha’a fa’ala (Allah has decreed and whatever he wills, He does).” For (saying) ‘If’ opens (the door) to the deeds of Satan.'” (Sunan Ibn Majah 79)

I strive to be stronger with firmer faith. This is why I bring those fears to Allah Subhanahu Wataala. The only One with answers. The only One with relief. The only One who can really strengthen me.

For those who’ve died…

Ya Allah, Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim…there are people in the graves; people who loved us dearly and we loved them just as much. People who we continue to miss even years after their demise…Ya Allah, please forgive them. Please have mercy on them and make their graves to be beautiful gardens from the gardens of Paradise that are filled with wonderful scents never smelled before. Ya Allah please elevate their status, make them among those who will enter Jannah without accountability, and most importantly Ya Allah, reunite us with them beautifully in the highest level of Jannah, Ameen.

For our loved ones in this life…

Ya Allah, please protect our loved ones from all harm and evil of this world. Protect our bonds with them from betrayal, ill intentions, misguidance, envy, and any kind of fitna. Enrich our relationships with your love and nurture within us sincerity and compassion towards one another. Ya Allah, allow us to stay in good relations with them till our death and reunite us thereafter in your eternal paradise.

Ya Allah, when it is time for us or our loved ones to depart from this world, grant us (and them) the strength and patience to bear the loss. Grant us firm faith and comfort in the belief that we shall meet once again at a better place with better lives in your Jannah Ya Rab.

And Ya Allah, if anyone pretends to love us while they backbite/slander/envy/have ill intentions towards us, we seek your protection from them, Ya Allah. Grant us insight in recognizing them for who they really are and as early as possible, ameen.

For our parents…

Ya Rab, before you take away our parents grant us an opportunity to serve them, assist them, make them happy and make their dreams come true. Ya Allah, please grant them long, healthy lives filled with your love, mercy, and peace. Allow them to witness and be part of our success and prosperity in this life while in a good state of health and mind. Allow them to be present during milestones of our lives; career advancements, marriage, parenthood, and the growth of our connection with you. Guide us to serve them without any hesitation or complaints or exhaustion. Ya Rab, please bless us with an opportunity to visit your Holy Lands Makkah and Madina with them and all our siblings, while in good health and make us among those whose ibadat will be accepted. Ya Allah, protect us from being among those who neglect their parents during old age.

Ya Allah, when it is their time to depart from this world, please take them without testing them with illnesses that will humiliate or shame them before other people. Ya Allah, make them die gracefully without suffering or needing anyone but You. Only take them when they are very pleased with us and you are very pleased with them. Ya Allah, grant them and us, beautiful endings.

Oh Lord, for any good that we do, let them have a share of it for they have nurtured us in the best manner as you required of them. And when you do take them, grant us the strength, patience, and comfort to bear their loss. Guide us to remember them with dua and sadaqat after their departure and reunite us thereafter in your Jannah, in the most beautiful way. Ameen Ya Rabbal Alaameen!

*

Whenever calamity strikes and we lose one of our loved ones, may we always remember this hadith and may we be among those believing slaves, Ameen!

Abu Hurairah (May Allah be pleased with him) reported:The Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) said: “Allah, the Exalted, says: ‘I have no reward except Jannah for a believing slave of Mine who shows patience and anticipates My reward when I take away his favourite one from the inhabitants of the world.”‘ (Riyad as-Salihin 923)

***

P.S: Alhamdulilah my parents and family survived the Corona virus. Alhamdulilah. Please keep them in your duas.

That said, I am also kindly requesting that you make dua for one of my loved ones who’s been critically ill, admitted to the ICU for a couple of days now. I will realllyyy appreciate your duas.

Thank you so much for your time! May Allah accept our good deeds, strengthen our imaan and make us among His most beloved servants, ameen!

Kindly subscribe below to stay tuned with part 4 of this series: Broken Homes in Shaa Allah 🙂

Photo by Idina Risk from Pexels

I beseech Your aid

Oh God

For my heart has become a graveyard

with withered flowers

and weeds of undesirability

I can no longer bear the weight

of the caskets carrying

the deadness of my emotions

My doom-laden pillars crumbling

at the height of my anxiety

and my tombstone

displaying engravings

of all the letters

of pain

***

I invoke you

Ya Allah

This desolation

has brought me to my knees

My hands raised high

to the sky

Save me, Oh God

For my mind has become

a battle field of abrupt wars

and hostile armies

Only this time

I am both the ally

and the enemy

Corpses of my thoughts

lie around like hungry fleas

sucking the life

out of me.

***

I beg for mercy

My Lord,

This affliction

is wrecking my soul

An air hunger seizing my lungs

amid a thunderstorm of craze

A heavy downpour of anguish

floods my entire being

while the strong winds howl

at the loss

of my sanity

***

I implore you

My Creator

For a miracle

When everything seems impossible

Let your

Light

Beam through this shadow

Turn the valley of my wounds

Into river beds

Where your Mercy

Can flow through

If my soul is in the shade that pleases you

Then I ask,

O Maker of suns,

To show me how to bloom.

I pray.

I pray.

I pray.

Photo Courtesy: ‘Soul of Palestine’ on Facebook/Instagram

Whenever the sun sets and the thoughts set in, I ration my emotions into four

like the long-awaited hours of electricity.

180 megawatts of madness,

angst,

despair,

and frustration.

 Madness.

Sweat trickles down my back like the weak, slow drops of water from our shower. It reminds me of the last time I had a good bath. Proper bath. Clean bath. It was in a dream I had at 13 years old after hearing one of the American journalists who had come to our school answer curious Maryam’s question on whether they REALLY have electricity and water 24/7 in America.

All the light switches around the house are on as we wait for thee moment of truth. The moment we press ‘continue’ on our paused lives.

In my room, I sit and wait. Sit and wait. Sit and wait.

Half asleep. Half weighing my will to live.

And before my eyes adjust to the new light, a young boy shouts across the street in joy, “It is LIT! OUR HOUSE IS LIT! Is it lit at your home?!” Another happy voice shouts back, “IT IS!”

In less than a minute, the water pump is on.  

The oven is on.

The fridge is on.

The blender is on.

I put all the phones and laptop at their respective chargers.

My brother irons his school clothes.

My baby sister rushes to complete her university project.

Abu Eyad, my neighbour with an amputated leg, calls out to his son to charge his electric scooter after being stuck at home for an entire day.

I think of Sameera’s mother at the hospital who’s been waiting for electricity to get dialysis.

The entire street is busy. This is the only time we are over-joyed at any kind of commotion. This is the only time we don’t really mind the madness.

Angst.

My mother tells me of her brother who left home and never returned.

And of her uncle who returned and found no one left.

I imagine I will be martyred before I turn 30 because only the lucky live this long.  

At night, we huddle together in the darkness of the night; the shahada on our tongues and hijabs on our heads. Airstrikes showering the clouds, our emergency bags close to the door.

Rahaf’s smile still haunts me; delicate like her name, bright like the future she deserved. She was the kid next door until she wasn’t.

She really loved her hair; long like the history of Palestine, beautiful, like its people. Sometimes, she comes to my dreams the same way she came to me to comb her hair the morning of her death.

Who knew that her school was going to be her war field?

Frustration.

My other neighbour’s son, Shaker, has a daily morning routine to get angry at something, anything or everything at once and shout: “What kind of life is this?!”

And his mother, in a helpless state to make anything better for him, would always respond:
“أفلا تكون عبداً شكورا؟”
(“Wouldn’t you be a grateful servant?”)

He would then walk away; his tiny fist still clenched, his eyes still weeping, and his heart still heavy.

Like many other Palestinian children, Shaker has become the embodiment of trauma; broken limbs and broken hearts.

Despair.

After 2 years, 7 months, 11 days, and 696 minutes of waiting to get married to the love of her life, my cousin Ahlam arrived home from abroad to the news of the killing of her fiancé.

All dreams of 2 years, shattered within 2 seconds of utter brutality. In total silence, she stares at her red and silver wedding gown like the monument of her despair. In over 48 hours, her lips have not moved an inch.

I guess the Zionists have stolen her speech too.

***

Soon enough, darkness takes over, and the nakba that is our life continues.
Silence occupies the rubbles of our hearts and everything slows down.

Whenever the sun sets and the thoughts set in, I ration my emotions into four; plus one.

Faith.

Sometimes I want to mourn;

For my father who was shot 5 times at the back of his head in front of my mother

For my best friend who was found under her demolished home three days after a bomb blast,

For my classmate whose entire family of 14 people has been wiped out of this earth and the registry

For the teenage boy that I saw get arrested with his entire face full of bruises from beatings

For the young man whose extremely beautiful and dream photography studio got bombed 2 days before the official opening

For the young boy running to say goodbye to his father’s dead body during his funeral while crying out, ‘may Allah make it easy for you baba.’

For all the Palestinians still carrying keys of their stolen, occupied houses

For the 1000s of olive trees burnt down to ashes

Sometimes I want to weep;

For the constant grieving of martyrs that has literally become part of our cultural traditions. Deeply saddened by the loss of innocent souls to the oppressors, yet happy for the shuhadaa who’ve been promised Jannah by our Lord, we sing:

“Oh mother of Muhammad! Oh mother of Muhammad! Indeed you are blessed. Indeed you are blessed! I wish it was my mother in your place. I wish it was my mother in your place!”

Sometimes I want to cry;

For all the shattered dreams and tattered souls

For the millions and millions of us displaced, distressed and dispossessed

I want to cry for all those who lost their lives

But then I remember the words of Mustafa’s widow:
“We sacrifice ourselves for Al Aqsa. We sacrifice ourselves for you Ya Allah. We accept your decree, Oh Allah so be pleased with us. Take from our blood and wealth, until you are pleased.” 

So I swallow a bitter lump, raise my head to the sky, and mutter: “Indeed, sufficient for us is Allah. Indeed, sufficient for us is none but Allah!”

***

Please take a minute:

اللهُمَّ أَصْلِحْ أَحْوَالَ الفلسطينيين ، اللهُمَّ أَصْلِحْ أَحْوَالَ المُسْلِمِِينَ فِي فِلِسطِينَ وفي كُلِّ مَكَانٍ، يَا ذَا الجَلالِ وَالإِكْرِامِ

Allahumma aslih ahwaalal-filisteeniyin, Allahumma aslih ahwaalal-muslimeena fi filisteena wa fi kulli makaanin ya dhul-jalali wal-ikraam.

O Allah! Rectify the affairs of the Palestinians. O Allah! Rectify the affairs of the Muslims in Palestine and in every place, O Lord of Majesty and Bounty.

اللهُمَّ إِنَّهُمْ مَغْلُوبُونَ فَانْتَصِرْ لَهُمْ

Allahumma innahum maghloobuna fantasir lahum.

O Allah! They are helpless, so help them.

رَبَّنَا أَفْرِغْ عَلَيْهِمْ صَبْراً وَثَبِّتْ أَقْدَامَهُمْ وَانْصُرْهُمْ عَلَى القَوْمِ الكَافِرِينَ

Rabbana afrigh ‘alayhim sabran wa thabbit aqdamahum wansurhum ‘alal-qawmil- kafireen.

Our Lord! Pour upon them patience, make them steadfast, and grant them victory over the Disbelivers.

اللهُمَّ مَكِّرْ لَهُمْ، وَاكْفِهِمْ بِمَا شِئْتَ إِنْ تَنْصُرْهُمْ فَلا غَالِبَ لَهُمْ، وَإِنْتَخْذُلْهُمْ فَمَنْ ذَا الَّذي يَنْصُرهُمْ مِنْ بَعْدِكَ

Allahumma makkir lahum, wakfihim bimaa shi’t. In tansurhum falaa ghaliba lahum, wa in takhdhulhum fa man dhal-ladh’ yansurhum min ba’dika.

O Allah! Plot for them, and suffice them with what You please, if You support them then nobody can overpower them, and if You forsake them, then who will be able to support them after You?

لا إِلاَ إِلا اللهُ العَظيمُ الحَليم، لا إِلهَ إِلا اللهُ رَبَّ العَرْشِ العَظِيمِ، لاإلهَ إِلا اللهُ رَبُّ السَّمَاوَتِ وَرَبُّ الأَرْضِ وَرَبُّ العَرْشِ الكَرِيمِ

La ilaha illAllahul adhimul-haleem. La ilaha illAllahu, rabbul-arshil- adheem. La ilaha illAllahu rabbus-samawaati wa rabbul-ardi wa rabbul-arshil- kareem.

There is no God but Allah, the Mighty the Forbearing, there is no God but Allah, Lord of the Mighty Throne, There is no God but Allah, Lord of the Heavens and Lord of the Earth and Lord of the Noble Throne

اللهُمَّ مََنْ أَرادَنَا وَبِلادَنَا وَالمُسْلِمِينَ بِسُوءٍ فَأَشْغِلْهُ فِي نَفْسِهِ، وَاجْعَلْ كَيْدَهُ فِي نَحْرِهِ، وَاجْعَلْ تَدْبِيرَهُ تَدْمِيرَه

Allahumma man aradana wa biladina bi su’in fash-ghilhu fi nafsih, waj’al kaydahu fi nahrih, waj’al tadbirahu tadmeerah.

O Allah! Whoever wants to harm us and our lands and the Muslims, then keep them busy with their own troubles, and return their plots to their own necks, and make their plans the cause of their own destruction.

Ameen thumma Ameen.

Please never stop praying for the Palestinians and for all other countries that are facing war, oppression, and injustices. May Allah save them all, ameen.

Assalam aleykum good people,

It’s story time! Have a seat cause it will be a long one…

I first understood about the wars in Falastin (Palestine) when I was about 10/11 years. Even at that tender age, the thought of war and the atrocities that come with it, weighed so heavily on me and it broke my heart too many times. Growing up, I always wished to go to Palestine and get a job as a humanitarian and help the people there. I had and still have such a soft spot for them because of their bravery, their courage, their strong Imaan, their resilience subhanallah…

With time, I got exposed to what is happening in Syria, Yemen, Iraq and many other countries. And just like Palestinians, they too stole my heart for how brave and patient they are. And I really really love them for the qualities they have and what they are. It has been and still is, my long time dream to help them.

So on Thursday, when someone (I can’t thank them enough!) called me to tell me there are Palestinian refugees from Syria that are stranded and needed help, I was too excited. Not because of their situation of course but I was soooo thrilled because like ‘Allah, you didn’t take me to Palestine to help but you brought me an opportunity to help Palestinian refugees!!!’ You guys, I could barely sleep that night due to the excitement lol

The next day I got to hear from one of the sons their life journey briefly, and that night, I cried and cried and cried 
Today we went to meet them alhamdulilah and wallahy, we laughed and laughed and laughed. They were so jovial and optimistic, you would never think they are refugees stranded in a foreign country subhanallah. 

I was so moved and I thought ‘Subhanallah, Allah never burdens a soul beyond what they can handle’ Because how else could I explain how this man, making the most jokes, had lost his wife to the war and left a young boy with him? Or this elderly mother with a spinal condition that needs surgery, 3 of her houses bombed, one of her children got lost and they’re unsure whether he is alive or not, or of her ex-husband, the father of her children, who is suffering from cancer, still soldiers on every day? Or this young man who had to stop studying cause of the war, separated from his wife and child because he couldn’t bring them with him, can still smile despite it all?

Good people, I know that we’re currently doing a fundraising for Yemen, but I CANNOT let this opportunity go. This is a dream for me ;( I need to do it wallahy. So kindly, I am requesting that as from this evening, we will pause the Yemen fundraising until further notice in shaa Allah (we’re currently at 64,044/=) and help this family, for their situation s more dire.

Long story short: This Palestinian family are refugees who were living in Syria. Because the war in Syria has worsened, they decided to leave, with the hope of establishing a new life at a better place. However, the different countries they tried to enter, denied them access because their passports say ‘Palestinian refugees’. It is only Kenya that allowed them entry. When they got here, they realized Kenya is way expensive than they expected and for the past month they’ve been here, they tried to find jobs but to no avail. This is because they only know Arabic and no one could hire them cause of the language barrier. As such, they have decided to go to Lebanon, with the hope that they can settle there. They didn’t initially go to Lebanon because Lebanon itself is not stable either and is in turmoil. But since Kenya didn’t work out for them, they have to go back.

The kind of help needed is the following:

1.Accommodation: They are currently living at a one-room guest house that charges them 10 dollars per night. We are looking for people who can give them a place to live (preferably at a place that has beds and utensils, so they can be comfortable) for the 2 months they’ll be here, or that someone pays directly at the guest house for them for the time they will be here.

2. The two young men need jobs to sustain themselves in the mean time. Any kind of job that will not need them to communicate to customers since they only know Arabic.

3. Their mother has a spinal condition called L5/S1 spondylosis. She needs an operation but she says the cost in Lebanon is much cheaper, so she will wait till they get there. In the meantime, she needs medicines that will push her for a while. The total cost as originally indicated by the doctor was 48,490/=. However, we are currently searching for cheaper options at wholesale chemists or generic ones, in shaa Allah kheyr.

4. They need to go back home before their 2 month visa ends. So whatever we can collect will be of very great help to get them to Lebanon and hopefully assist them when they get there.

Have I said that helping refugees from war countries is a dream?

Guys, please help me help them. This is very important to me and I really really really want this to work out in the best scenario possible.

The Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The most beloved people to Allah are those who are most beneficial to people. The most beloved deed to Allah is to make a Muslim happy, or to remove one of his troubles, or to forgive his debt, or to feed his hunger. That I walk with a brother regarding a need is more beloved to me than that I seclude myself in this mosque in Medina for a month. Whoever swallows his anger, then Allah will conceal his faults. Whoever suppresses his rage, even though he could fulfill his anger if he wished, then Allah will secure his heart on the Day of Resurrection. Whoever walks with his brother regarding a need until he secures it for him, then Allah Almighty will make his footing firm across the bridge on the day when the footings are shaken.” [Grade: Sahih (authentic) according to Al-Albani]

Don’t we want to be among the most beloved people to Allah? Don’t we want to do deeds that Allah loves the most? Don’t we want to have a firm footing on the bridge on the day of judgment? Here’s an opportunity for me and you, and we know the reward of charity in Ramadhan is way more than normal days. So let’s do this!

Just a humble reminder: This family does qualify for zakat because they are both needy and stranded travellers/wayfarers. So you can send your Zakat too.

Please send whatever you can, help whichever way you can and please share!

Mpesa: 0704 731 560 (Lubnah)

May Allah bless you all and may He protect all those in war countries. Ameen.

Here are the mother’s hospital reports:

And below is an appeal for their father who is suffering from blood cancer and also needs financial assistance:

You are standing by the window, watching the raindrops hit your windowpane before touching the ground. The rain is rhythmic; you love its predictability, unlike your life. Your life needs a Sherlock Holmes to solve the unending mystery. Every other day, you seem to have a surprise stored for you. It makes you wonder whether you are a guinea pig of a social experiment. Perhaps some scientists just want to find out how much can a human being handle when in distress. You can almost hear their voices on the opposite side of the windowpane. They are using a lot of scientific jargon and psychological terms as they scrutinize you. You don’t really understand what they are saying but you know you are the subject of interest. Perhaps if this experiment and the theory works, you’ll become rich from what they’ll pay you. A happy guinea pig. You smile then sigh.

From afar, you hear your neighbour sobbing. There is a lot of commotion and shouting going on. Her husband is beating her up. Your heart aches a little more. Then you sigh again. Life is miserable, you think. They had been married for ten years; happy and blessed with six children. Then he re-married and boom! everything shattered. It wasn’t the re-marrying that brought the problems per se, it was the attitude towards his family. Life is scary like that. People change, love fades off, evil is real and the world is yet to end. Or you are the one who can’t wait for your own end.

Your father left your mother while you were two months old and she was critically ill. You are lucky to be here. There was a time you almost became homeless, you almost dropped out of school, you almost became malnourished, your mother almost died, YOU almost died; twice in fact. You look at the marks of the razor that went through your hand skin. You look at the scars skillfully and very carefully hidden under the famous Kenyan flag bracelet. You are lucky to be alive, with your mother and under a roof. You seem to have the nine lives of a cat or is it just life that loves you? Perhaps it is the scientists, pumping oxygen forcefully into you. They can’t lose their guinea pig.

‘I don’t want to be part of this social experiment anymore,’ you whisper to the virtual scientists. They look at you like you’re crazy. Like they want to shout on your face, ‘Do you know how much we’ve spent on you?! On this experiment?!’

You feel the burning sensation in your eyes. You force back the tears. ‘Wanaume hawalii’ (Men don’t cry) they say. You ask who? People. In the streets, the wazee in their barazas, youth on their Facebook posts. Real men don’t cry. You are tempted to ask how much tears can a man shed before he is regarded as ‘a useless man’ or even told, ‘You are no different from a woman’ Like a woman is a bad person. But you can’t ask because then, they’ll doubt your manhood.

You hear your mother groan in pain inside. It turns out she has leukemia. You’ve been jobless for the past five months. She’s been strong all along but strength at this point isn’t enough without the ridiculously expensive treatment she needs.

‘God? Can you hear me?’ You look up to the sky and gaze at it. Like you are waiting for a response from God. You and God, you have a strange relationship. Some nights, you stay up throughout, kneeling, begging, praying, crying in silence and talking to Him one on one. And sometimes, some days pass without saying a word to Him. Those days when you feel like He has abandoned you. When you feel like He doesn’t care about you. You get angry and ignore Him like a disappointed lover.

‘God, can you hear me?’ This time, you let the tears flow. It is night, no one will see your tears anyway. Your eyes have now become the Niagara falls. You had missed this. Talking to Him.

You remember this old man in your neighbourhood, he once told you, ‘Snap out of it; the self-pity. God is always there for everyone and anyone who calls out to Him.’ You slowly wipe the tears as you remember his most famous story that he narrates to you: ‘Job (Nabii Ayub A.S) didn’t die despite his severe illness. Abraham (Nabii Ibrahim) didn’t die despite being thrown into the fire.  Jonah (Nabii Yunus) didn’t die despite being swallowed by the whale. Joseph (Nabii Yusuf) didn’t die despite being thrown into the well. Jacob (Nabii Ya’qub) survived despite losing his son and his sight. And Ishmael (Nabii Ismael) survived despite the order that he is to be slaughtered. Whatever the test and turmoil you are in right now, God has a plan for you. Don’t give up on His mercy.’

You stare at the clear sky. It has stopped raining now and once again you call out, ‘God?’ Suddenly, you see a star, it twinkles. With tears in your eyes, you smile.

‘He is listening. God is listening!’

Photo Courtesy: pinterest.com

My friends and I talk about anxiety in hushed tones,
in desperate volumes,
in late night texts of hopelessness,
“You too?”
she asks as if we are a team,
like we are a bandwagon,
a secret group full of emotion jargon
like we are some sort of cult,
clutched in the hands of our feelings
that we can’t bring to a halt.
“I’m overthinking,” he says
“I’m overthinking about my overthinking,
about my edginess,
my restlessness,
my helplessness,
my breathlessness.
***sigh***
“Shhh!!” she says
they shouldn’t know
you should just lay low.
They shouldn’t notice any more
lest they call you weak
they’ll call you sensitive
an attention seeker
or perhaps an emotional speaker!
sshhh!
Conceal, don’t feel
Don’t let your joy seem so real
or show your over-flowing tears in the name of ‘I want to heal’
They don’t understand how you can laugh so whole-heartedly about a silly pun that’s not even fun,
or how you passionately cry about a video you watched on whatsapp.
They’ll say, ‘You’re too much’
like too much of anything is really poisonous.
They speak as if they know the itchiness beneath your skin
like insects having a party within.
As if they know of the noise in your head,
of the demons you carry on your back,
of the weight of the world you carry on you like you just became a truck!
No. They have no idea,
They have not a single bit of an idea of how it feels to have a super-power of feeling,
of feeling things unfelt, untouched, unseen.
They have no idea,
that’s why I keep feeling.

***Dear, you are never alone…

By: Nilu Bachani

There’s the image of fire reflecting through my eyes
Flames burning little children as they cry.
With that, innocence is turning to bones and ash
Syria is falling, on its way to crash
Oppressors think they’re winning
But Allah, we all know He is watching
The world has turned to a blind eye
Ignorant and nonchalant, with no reply
People are always fighting for what’s happening on the other side
Yet, here everyone has closed their ears, their mouths, their eyes
to something I call a genocide
Each tear, each scar, every drop of blood of an innocent soul is nullified
This is inhumane and atrocious
Yet with blood all over them
every whisper consists of His name
Al-aziz, The Victorious
They lost hope in the world, but they know who to fear
Despite knowing that death might be near
Fathers mothers brothers sisters constantly weeping with the words inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiuun.
More bodies are piling up, praying that all this will go away soon
Aleppo, oh Aleppo, how can I be silent Aleppo
Ya Allah bring the Ummah together, to fight for their tomorrow…
understanding why the Prophet cried for us so much
women pick death rather than being raped, over my stomach my hands clutch.
Yet here I am envisioning it
while they’re actually going through it
thinking how unbearable the screeching of their screams must be
Feeling helpless, as I prostrate towards Allah accepting reality
That this is cruelty
and I question have we forgotten humanity?
But with guilt inside me I pray for forgiveness that all the damage that’s done is because I was silent all along
I, another human watching more blood being shed, seeing that it’s all wrong.
Tick Tock, look at all the time that’s been gone.
Tick Tock, now all their flesh is bone….

——————————————————————————————————————

Nilu recited her poem after the prayers for Aleppo on Thursday (and it honestly gave me a chill). She was also one of the organizers of the event.

Alhamdulilah the turn out was not bad. Around 100 people (both men and woman) attended while the organizers reported to have collected around 130, 000 Kshs which they are still collecting until Monday then send the money in shaa Allah. May Allah bless the organizers and all those who participated in one way or another, the ones who attended from far and near, and even those who wished to be present but couldn’t; may God grant you well in dunya and akhera. I hope we can do better than this next time because I believe we CAN DO better. Alhamdulilah ala kul hal. Let us keep praying for Syria, for Yemen, Palestine, Burma…all the countries suffering. May Allah grant them victory. Ameen ya Rab!

Photo Courtesy: http://cbsnews2.cbsistatic.com/

WARNING: THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS VERY DISTURBING CONTENT

For those who know me well enough, they’d tell you you’d rarely see me in the middle of a crowd. It makes my head spin. In any event or occasion i’d either be within the two/three rows and most probably at the side-end of the line. It is always easier to get away you know. The nearer to the door, the better. So yesterday I was at the Iqra Youth foundation seminar and they had us to follow the lines. I ended up right at the middle of the third line. So before the event started, we had almost two hours. There were some nasheeds being played. One of the songs was one of the songs my late Mama two loved. Immediately upon hearing it, I could feel her face right in front of me. The memories, the laughter, her jokes…I started crying. I thought it would just a be a tear or two but then it almost became like an outburst of a spring. I was nervously and anxiously searching for my handkerchief in my bag with my head bowed so down almost getting buried in the bag. Obviously I didn’t want anyone see me cry. It was too early in the morning for anyone to be seen crying. I could’t find my hanky so I just used my hijab to wipe the over-streaming tears. My younger sister was seated next to me, I could see how deep in thoughts she was. I guessed that she probably was thinking about her too but no, I wasn’t about to let her see me in tears and make her cry too. I am the older sister remember? In that roller coaster of thoughts, my mind replayed all those depressing videos I had seen the previous night of Aleppo. I started crying even more. Here I am crying for losing one important person what about them?! Losing everything all at once; homes, schools, hospitals, families…Seeing your sisters being gang raped right in front of their eyes…God! It made me feel miserable. The helplessness, the burning feeling…God knows how many times I kept my head bowed down in my bag, pretending to still be searching for the hanky. Looking behind after every two minutes to check whether my best friend had arrived to my rescue. My head was spinning, I could hear the laughter around, people busy chattering away, heads bowed down to their phones with no easy exit to the washroom so I stayed put, had a monologue trying to stay calm while taking deep breaths. God knows how many times I’ve wanted to disappear in such situations; be invisible, dissipate totally if possible. That is what helplessness does to us. Makes one angry, stressed, sad, frustrated all at the same time. It makes one question humanity, question God, question so many things…

This is perhaps one of the worst times to live in, one of the worst centuries to exist in. You see the humanity burn away into ashes. You see misery. You see rivers of blood flowing in a river-less town. You see children being tortured. You see women being raped. You witness a lot while you can do NOTHING about it. NOTHING.

But then this isn’t about Aleppo or Syria only. This is not about religion, race or politics. It is about the lives of innocent people. This is about Yemen, Palestine, Burma and many MANY other places around the world. It is about humanity. It is about the universe.

They cry, they scream, they die. They are calling unto us? Where are we?! Where are we in helping them? As much as we keep tweeting, updating, blogging, instagraming about them, we have to REALLY ACTUALLY LITERALLY pray for them. Let us not just say, ‘let us pray for them.’ We need to take action NOW! We need to organize protests. We need to organize tahajjud for prayers for the whole world. We need to go back to Allah because He? He is the only one who can help them.

I am not trying to torture you too with these videos. I hope you can see the importance of your prayers and protests at this moment, to see the blessings in your life that you barely thank God for…to see how much privileged you are. Alhamdulilah ala kul hal.

Take heart people. God is seeing this all. He is watching and He is preparing great reward for all these people. Take heart that God has a greater plan. That He is still in control; always has been, always will be. Let’s all turn towards Him. Let’s complain to Him. Let us beg Him. Let us PRAY PRAY PRAY! Let us pray for the sake of all those who are gone and those still clutching onto the feeble straws 🙁

Ameen thumma ameen! ;(