Qur’an (Mus’haf) Recommendation

Assalamu ‘alaikum folks,

I just wanted to tell you about this version of the Qur’an (or, Mus’haf the term we use for physical, written forms of the Qur’an). I have looked at many different versions of Qur’anic translation, and thus far have found this one to be the most comprehensive. It provides historical context for each Surah; includes some very nice summaries; divides the Qur’anic message into different themes, for ease of access and understanding.

I am really glad that I have a copy of this Mus’haf. On Amazon, the hardback copy costs around £20, and it. Is. Gorgeous. [See above. Matches my window stickers, too!] The paperback version costs around £8.

Previously, I had planned to research (and write about!) the meanings, and contextual backgrounds, of each Surah individually [and there are one-hundred-and-fourteen of them!]. Thankfully, the compiler of this version of the Qur’an has already done so for me.

The Qur’an is an Arabic text. Insha Allah, I do hope to develop my level of understanding in and of the Arabic language: this is undoubtedly the only way to truly come to appreciate the richness and profundity of the Holy Book. There are so many things to consider: syntax, morphology, contemporary uses of figurative language, the unique poetic styles of classical Arabic…

In the meantime, however, translations will have to suffice. Translators, especially in the case of attempting to translate the classical Arabic language into modern European ones, have to make choices. The specific translative choices made in ‘The Majestic Qur’an’ make for, in my opinion, an eloquent, highly accessible, comprehensive, and enjoyable read. A sense of flow is conveyed in the English parts, coupled with a good sense of flavour and feeling — and these, far more so, I think, than other translations into English that I have come across have managed to achieve.

In Arabic, the Qur’an is undeniably, inimitably beautiful. In Musharraf Hussain’s translation, the English is a thing of beauty, too; I think it feels far less disjointed, less somewhat-perplexing, than other translative attempts often do. Aesthetically, too. What a book to read from, in the earliest hours of the day, perhaps. To turn back to. A book for comfort, and for illumination. Knowledge, guidance; some much-needed reminders for us.

A potential downside, however: the Arabic in this Mus’haf is written in Urdu script, which might prove a little difficult to read, for some.


With Salaam, Sadia, 2021.

Dunya and Gratitude and Barakah

In the Islamic tradition, there is this idea that one is to be considered a ‘youth’ – a young person – until one reaches the age of forty.

Forty may therefore be seen as the ‘noontime’ of one’s life, so to speak. Before then, we are ‘young’: we are coming into being, into brightness. And after then, generally, (if we are permitted to live that long, that is) we come into ‘wisdom’. Our hair becomes grey; our faces marked with lines of experience: story-lines.

I am, at present, twenty years old. In temporal terms, I have an entire ‘nother lifetime to live, before I arrive at my ‘age of wisdom’. Until then, I must really think about how to spend this time, and the other resources, I have.

Recently I have been thinking much about the art of ‘making do’. The ‘Blitz Spirit’. Opening the cupboards; seeing what is there. And then, after a process of reasoning and of engaging one’s creative capacities: making the best of it. Make it beautiful, somehow.

This is a game my cousins and I used to play, when we were younger: the ‘Masterchef’ Game. Collecting a handful of ingredients that are already there, in the kitchen. Preferably, ingredients that are likely to otherwise go unused, to waste. Make it a little competition, to see who can produce the most tasty plate of food, and the one that is presented in the best, most aesthetic, way – under timed conditions.

An important Islamic principle to consider, in life, is the following: that, as humans, we are wanting creatures. But Allah promises to ‘increase in favour’ those of us who are grateful. Who love what they have; whatever is there. And I think this is the essence of ‘Barakah’. If you are from a Muslim country, have you ever come across a particular person, or a family of people, who live in such a way that may seem to be responded to with pity from those of us who live here in the West, but who actually, upon looking a little closer, seem to lead such Barakah-infused lives?

I know of a particular family who are like this, in Bangladesh. Here in London, very few people, I think, would aspire to live that kind of lifestyle. Tending to cows [sigh. I actually quite miss even the pungent stench of the cows!]; fishing in the village’s pond. Making soup over an open clay oven; going to work, during the day, ‘in town’; playing boardgames at night; dancing in delight under monsoon rains. What, to us, does it seem like they may be lacking?

In truth, they have Allah. And they have family, and fruits, and books, and rain. This is how they are living their temporary, directly-determining-of-how-they-will-spend-their-forthcoming-eternities, Dunya-based lives. They may not have all of those ‘shininesses’ that may immediately catch our eyes, here in this part of the world – and nor would they appear to care much for those things, anyway. But they sure do have that Barakah; that soul.

When my grandfather first arrived in this country, he lived in the same area that we still (Alhamdulillah) live in, today. I went to [secondary] school right near where he used to work. I currently work right near where he used to live, and near the mosque he used to attend. Recently, I believe the Imām of that masjid passed away. My uncle shared the following bit of writing, with me, which he had included as a caption under a post about the mosque, some five years ago:

“Prayed salat at my father’s masjid (mosque) after so long. Much has changed but the unconditional attachment of a small group of men to the masjid has not. Theirs is a silent and sincere yearning for the beauty of worship and the comfort of Allah’s home. Masjid, Salat, Qur’an, Du’ah. […] At one time I thought this meant so much else was missing, but only later did I realise this simplicity is what paves their short, unobstructed route to Allah. Their world extends little beyond the walls that call to worship. What space is there in that small world for anything other than what pleases Allah?”

— M.A.

I think: to be a Muslim means to care. Deeply, tirelessly, truly. About trying. About speaking to, and calling upon, one’s Creator, for help, and for guidance. Giving charity, and helping others. Fasting. Qur’an. Family. Thanking Allah for rain. And for soup. And for our eyes, and our siblings, and our friends. Being Muslim means being given responsibilities: motherhood or fatherhood, a family member with a learning disability, a brother or a sister, marriage, a masjid, a student, a school. And honouring them with our lives.

Life, sin duda, is a test. Allah tells us in the Qur’an, in Surah Kahf:

“Verily, We have made that which is on Earth as an adornment (decoration, beautification) for it, in order that We may test them (mankind) as to which of them are best in deeds (works, actions)” [Qur’an, (18:7)]

In each of our metaphorical ‘cupboards’, we find there are different ingredients. Circumstances, blessings, difficulties. Daily struggles, daily blessings. And it is our job to use these lifetimes of ours to make something of them. Something beautiful, hopefully. But, necessarily, what we make of them will look and be different from what those around us make of them. We begin from different places and things; make different resulting choices; end up with different products, in the end.

What matters, at the end of these limited stretches of day, is… what we have done, with these lives of ours. And the intentions underlying our actions.

The majority of people may be living life in a particular way. They may perceive that the purpose, the point, of life, is this or that. What do you perceive the purpose of this life of yours, to be? And does the mentality you are currently, primarily operating under, align well with this life-view? Are certain things particularly difficult, for you, while others might feel like deep, quietly-flowing blessings?

Recently I shared, on this blog of mine, an article authored by my most favourite scholar ever: ‘Suffering as Surrender’, by Shaykh Hamza Yusuf. While reading it, I felt like I was shrouded with this unique sense of peace, Alhamdulillah. Sabr and Shukr: these are integral elements in the anatomy of the Muslim. The Muslim struggles; is tested, through his or her health, wealth, through other people, etc.

The Muslim is blessed. Lungs, limbs, water, chai, pillows, plants, and more. Still, though: the very point is to not get too comfortable here. What is it that we take, when we go?

Right now, it may feel like there is this great amount of social pressure on us. Here, in our twenties. To ‘be’ this, and this, and this, and that. To have this, and also that; to focus so much on collecting wealth, and to become super ‘educated’ and ‘cultured’ in a particular set of ways, physically brilliant, and more. Fair: as Muslims, we are not meant to extricate ourselves entirely from what is termed, in Al-Quran, as ‘The Life of Dunya’. However, at the same time, that is certainly not ‘all there is’. Nor is all that stuff the very point of life.

I guess, there is this more private-facing life we must tend to. Taking care of our relationships with our Creator; taking care of ourselves; taking care of our families. Yes, there are our more ‘public-facing’ considerations, too. There might be some pressure; some fear. But remember: many of these things are momentary. Tips of the iceberg, that some may see fleeting glimpses of. Your reality, and what comes after it, are what are truly True. What can either fulfil, or leave hungry, spiritually starving. What endures.

For some people, billionaires and tech moguls and such serve, in their minds, as their ultimate human role models. For others, individuals like Muhammad (SAW), Ibrahim (AS), Yusuf (AS), more so, are. Muhammad (SAW) lived in a very modest way. I cannot seem to find the exact Hadith right now, but, when asked why he lived in such a manner – sleeping, for instance, on mere palm leaves on the floor, sometimes – while Byzantine rulers, for example, enjoyed their palaces and worldly riches, Muhammad (SAW)’s response had been something along the lines of: their riches and such are theirs now, here in this world. Ours may not be here now, but wait for us, in the life after this one.

This is not to say that Muslims are barred, in Islam, from acquiring expensive possessions and such. A nice house, if you are able; a nice car. The point is: as Muslims, we are Muslim no matter what. If owning a Lamborghini and two hundred Gucci belts leads to your sinking so deeply into the temporary comforts of Dunya that you come to forget the life of your eternity: what have you really won?

Yusuf (AS), for example. Once thrown into a well, sold as a slave, in Egypt. Later, appointed as Egypt’s Minister of Finance. Consistent throughout, though: his recognition and remembrance of Truth.

These prophets had been human. They had families; specific difficulties – health issues, interpersonal conflicts and problems, and more. Examples for us to remember, and be comforted through the remembrance of. Examples for us to, in our own ways and in line with who we are and what our own present circumstances may be, follow. They had not, for example, been utterly ‘fearless’ individuals. The point is: at times, they had been deeply afraid, uncertain, upset by the maliciousness of certain people in their lives. They had felt the dark immensities of grief, heartbreak, worry in terms of how they would provide for their families, or about what ‘people’ had been saying about them.

Fear, grief. Deep, and human. You are not alone. Triumph, peace, friendship, and Īmān.

We’ll get there, Bi’ithnillah Ta’aala [with the permission of Allah, the Almighty].

The point is that our blessings lead us to thank our Lord, while our suffering makes us surrender to Him, more. We are always dependent on Him, and a truth we must never forget – until we die and meet the truth, unobstructed, for ourselves:

To our Lord we belong, [and He has Power and Control over all matters,] and to Him we shall return.

“Know that the life of Dunya is but amusement and diversion and adornment and boasting to one another and competition in increase of wealth and children.”

Qur’an, (57:20)


With Salaam, Sadia, 2021.

Life / Bleach

Yesterday, I decided to peruse over some of my old blog articles. There were some things I had written, which I had long since forgotten about. Some things that, today, make me truly cringe. Things that humour me. Sometimes I wonder if I should go back and delete some of those entries; go over my old journals and cross some things out, with a thick black marker pen.

But, no: truly, I appreciate those times and those experiences. Those days made me. Helped to shape me; I could not have been whom I am now, and know what I do, without them. Our cringe-worthy, awkward days: the ones we are prone to looking back on with equal amounts of fondness and warmth, and regret and “why, why, why?” — really and truly, they shaped us.

And I guess one of the weirdest things about reading over old writings is this: that others see, and saw, of those entries what they see/saw [Tangent time: why are see-saws called see-saws? Why are they not called up-downs or sit-sats?] and I, when reading over them… it’s like I get transported, almost, back to the times in which I had penned – or typed – them. I vividly recall the thoughts and feelings I had been experiencing. All of those former versions of my own headspace. Awesome.

[My childhood best friend and I have chosen to lovingly call these last five years or so of our lives our ‘Kind of just feel like an Idiot’ years. No real regrets, though. Just gratitude, (mutual cringing,) love.]

There are so many things that we may find, we take for granted, these days. Erstwhile experiences, journeys of learning. Fall down, graze your elbow, get back up, be kind and patient: let it heal. From the most elementary things (e.g. our abilities to sit and eat calmly, without getting baby gunk all over our faces, as well as our abilities to read words with ease. Long gone are the days of ‘robot phonics’; of forgetting how to spell ‘beautiful’ or ‘friend’). To other things. Like how to deal with our own mistakes. Feelings. And with failures.

Coming to know other people. The possibilities. How best to take care of ourselves and others when we are unwell. How to be kinder; a better friend. How to fit a duvet cover; how to choose what to repair, and what to leave alone.

The women and men we seek to be. The opportunity presented, within each and every moment, to go ahead be them!

I have a feeling that, in about five years or so, I may (Insha Allah) read over this very article. Recall what I had been going through here and now, at age twenty. I think I will likely half-cringe, half-be a little endeared, then, too.

I think one thing that had followed me throughout this past almost-decade is… caring too much – fearing, even – what other people think. At times, I have aligned my own judgements of myself, with other people’s (perceived) judgements of me. Not great. Arguably quite instinctive and ‘natural’, but, still… not great.

The strange thing is, I never used to care so much. As a child, I did my thing, and I loved doing it. Granted, there were some things that I had done/taken part in that were a little [childish and innocent, but… a little] crazy. [Perhaps I should substitute the c-word for the word ‘spirited’!] I cannot bring myself to regret those things very much at all. Childhood is for fun and exploration. For being you, and for being loved precisely for it.

Seven-year-old I, I suppose, had been… a younger version of whom I continue to be, today: life is sort of childhood continued, but with some additional things added to the grand, often-confusing, mix…

I guess, somewhere along the line, the expectations changed dramatically. And those expectations did not begin from whom I had been already. Abruptly stop, be something else: considerably different, I think, from whom I had organically been in the process of becoming. People expect girls to be [their fixed, superficial, unrealistic idea of] ‘perfect Muslims’, ‘perfect daughters’, perfect in domestic terms, perfect in social terms. We must always, always, be hyper-aware of how we… look.

And that, right there, I think, is the key word. Look. How things seem, often centrally at the expense of what things are. Perhaps, ‘ideally’, I would… wear a Selwar Kameez all the time; a neat, crease-less headscarf. Know when to speak; be neat, never slip up. Perfect grades, but no… opinions. Smile flawlessly for pictures. Creativity only in secret, perhaps. Be so instinctively great with screaming babies. Be social, but talk about a limited range of ‘acceptable’ things. [But the standards and goal-posts seem to always be shifting, changing!] Nothing ‘too much’. Maybe: how school is going. “Good”. How work is going. “Good”. How are we. “Fine”. Nothing that really makes you a person, but… some un-fault-able impression, a picture of one. Keep everything else hidden. Keep a house spotless. Faultless. Nothing that ‘people’ could ever single out and fault. I’m [not really] sorry, but:

Spotless things must be quite intrinsically unfortunate: they would appear to be devoid of what life is really, truly, all about. They do not exist. But if they did, I really do think they would be missing out. Growth, and learning, and trying, and failing. Stories can only really stem from things… happening. Taking place. One cannot have a cake without a(n at-least-somewhat) messy baking process. And even if we could be extremely neat and precise: I think the joy would be extracted from it all. Everything would be controlled and systemised. Predictable, and character-less. When everything blends in: nothing really stands out.

Bleach is a chemical product that tends to leave things spotless. Faultless. So… clean. Bleach also happens to be a substance that effortlessly kills things that are organic, alive. Life. Is simply not meant to be so (to paraphrase something my friend said, which really stuck to my mind) efficient and sanitised.

I so love exploring the field of Child Psychology. Children, you see, come into the world telling us who they are. They cry: they (and we) need food, warmth, comfort, love. The first seven years of our lives tend to be when we express what our personalities are. Over time, personality is honed, moulded into character. First, this responsibility of nurture is placed, primarily, on the families that are entrusted with our upbringing and care. And then, when we reach an age of understanding, we acquire a personal responsibility. A duty of care over our own selves; our souls.

Ideas pertaining to innate personality are supported, for instance, by a particular Hadith, which informs us that the first seven years of a child’s life are to be dedicated to play. Through play, we get to clearly see that some children are more outgoing and imaginative. Make battle-ships out of see-saws [that word-of-mysterious-origins again, semi-deliberately re-employed]. Some children are very emotionally sensitive; need more hugs, more loving words, than others do. [And are so terribly sweet that it just makes your heart melt.] Some like to sit and play alone for hours on end: there are whole entire worlds, whirring away within their brilliant (and, also, highly impressionable) minds. Some children get a little kick out of using swear-words; want to feel all grown up. Lipstick and big words. Some love making others laugh. Some are so completely captivated by washing machines, cars, and Iron-Man. Some do not like to get their clothes dirty, and do not like to share. Some get socially drained very easily. [Why don’t we just let them, for example, have a rest and sleep, rather than making them feel bad for not being like this or not being like that?]

Yes, ultimately: perfection is not to be expected of anybody. Maybe it is something that we sometimes think we want, but not really. We have an objective moral code to follow. For example, Allah instructs us, in the Qur’an, time and time again, to not be arrogant. Do not act superior; like you are mighty — something you are fundamentally not. I think I would rather be exactly who I am (Alhamdulillah) than some delusional arrogant boaster who picks at others’ flaws, while overlooking my own. Convincing myself that I am… superior.

I really do believe in the inherent beauty of looking at – and loving – what is there, and not singling out and exaggerating what is not there: perceived faults and inadequacies. Watering those former flowers, instead of those latter…weeds. People are not problems. Every human being, complete with our own stories, strengths, weaknesses: is a blessing, a Divine gift.

Maybe if ‘perfect’ men existed, ‘perfect’ women would exist too. Maybe if the women who seem to expect us to be ‘perfect’ were ‘perfect’ themselves, we would have ‘better role models’ to take after… But they don’t; we don’t. We are real, and full; each of us is unique. We are too cold sometimes; we cry; we forget to do something; misplace our keys. Run into interpersonal frictions; get stressed; get insecure. Our houses are a bit more messy when we find ourselves a little more occupied with other things. We are former babies, with gunk everywhere, and then we learn, over time and with due patience, how to eat more neatly. Not robotically, though. Each person has a style: of writing, of eating, of speaking, of being. How to pronounce the word ‘scone’. How to write a polite email. We are not born knowing how to ride a bike; how to change a nappy; how to please the probing eyes of every insolent busybody with access to a phone line. How to stop being scared of things that need not be so scary any more.

We will run into shortcomings, mistakes, faults. We are designed to be able to work on things; learn, practise, fall again, get up again. I love, love, love this. It is not ‘perfect’. Thankfully, it is interesting, though. Fascinating, not some predictable conveyor-belt porcelain ‘picture-perfect’ straight line. So worthwhile, and deep, and unexpected, pleasure-and-pain, and complex.

This matters to me because, to me, it is life and death. And I need to know: it is not boring, character-less ‘perfection’ I ought to expect of myself, just so others do not talk; so that people do not express angry disapproval. Besides, how boring a thing to talk about: what appears to be ‘wrong’ with others and their lives. And, how indicative of self-delusion and arrogance!

Expectations of ‘perfection’ are sort of a ‘double-bind’ thing. You either become that quiet, ‘normal’, ‘perfect’, negligible character with nothing vaguely interesting to do or talk about. A walking picture-frame, trophy, silent-for-the-most-part accessory. Or, you understand that there is an innate you, a personality. A complete, living, breathing human being, within whose rib-cage is this wonderful beating heart, beating for life and for love.

A character you are going to, Insha Allah, work on, for the rest of this life of yours. You will be tested, over and over and over again; you will learn and grow and develop. Other people: I suppose you’ll continue to see who is good to hold, within your heart. And who… might not, so much, be. Let people approach you – from their own perspectives, biases, attitudes, values, demeanours. Alhamdulillah, we are mature enough to decide on things for ourselves. Commit to certain things; set our boundaries and make them clear; choose these things, or those. This whole entire thing: it is between you and the one in whose very Hand is your very soul; your whole entire being:

‘Quirks’, ‘flaws’, uniquenesses.

Sharpnesses, capabilities;

softnesses, fragilities;

thorough, undeniable humannesses —

life, unbleached — and all.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be you;
I don’t know what it’s like but I’m dying to


So tell me what’s inside of your head:

No matter what you say I won’t love you less” — S.M.


With Salaam, Sadia, 2021

Windows

“People are the best show in the world. And you don’t even [have to] pay for the ticket.” — Charles Bukowski

You find yourself gazing through some of their windows. Wondering: how on Earth do other people live? How do other people choose to live? Who are these people? Where – and whom – have they been? And where are they going? [And, who, what, when, where, why am I?]

Head resting upon hand, leaning over the table. Wide windows make for real-life television screens, almost. Sort of accidentally-on-purpose. Stage-curtains drawn, dynamically, apart. Or, via Instagram: individuals, and the art galleries they have curated for themselves. What do we come to make of it all?

A glimpse of them practising ballet in their front room, perhaps, canal-side. Painting a picture; carrying out their skincare routines. A selfie. Or, maybe ten. A new boxing hobby. Picking at their skin a little; pulling at their eyebrows. Stretching. Snacking. The ins and the outs, and every single passing moment.

The closer one gets, to a person, the more one tends to come to know, of them. How they might always obsess over the tiniest of details, or how they can so easily get swept up in day-dreams. What they do as soon as they wake up; their go-to composition for a lazy breakfast. The manner in which they come and sit down – or, melodramatically slump down – for lunch. How they prefer to sit, when watching TV. That far-away expression that paints their face, when they are lost – deep in thought. How – and when – they recite Qur’an. Their most favourite parts of their days. Why they may seem so certain, at certain times. And yet, so fragile and falling, almost, at others. [When? And… why?]

Working from home: her industrious typings at the dining-room table – and she also happens to be intermittently fasting – while his chosen space is on the middle floor, caught between two monitors. Phone in hand, spinning on chair. And maybe they have a small child, too. Napping on a sofa somewhere downstairs, for the time being, while Alexa is humming for her a lullaby. A view of picturesque, drizzly and grey England cuts right through their bedroom windows.

Pearl-white light.

Their laughter: four young daughters, playing. Pumpkin plant; apple tree; a cat that has given birth twice within the space of just over a year. The tree’s branches are bare for now, but it tends to come into fruition come late Spring. Equations, incomprehensible-seeming, scrawled across the window in whiteboard marker. The garden table; ceramic ashtray at its centre. You witness these auditory snapshots of their laughter. Hear snippets of heated arguments, too. The echoes that manage to emanate beyond high brick walls.

You’ll feel the good, and

you’ll have the bad too. Because we are made of dirt; of fertile, nourishing earth. Secrets, and laughter, monotony and sighs. Moments, and moments; how time is always passing, and how we spend each of our nights.

Today I learned that the word ‘human’ is thought to be derived from a (proto-Indo-European) word that meant ‘earthly being’. Human: a thing whose corporeal being comes from the earth. And also, back to the ground do our physical forms decay.

The word ‘humble’ is thought to stem from this same root, too. Since we are, each and every one of us, on the physical level, from and of and destined to return to the earth: what justifiable reason could any of us possibly have, to act with Istikbar – arrogance – as though we might be mighty and superior, somehow?

And worldly life is just that, usually: mundane. [From the Latin mundus, meaning ‘world’]. There are the shininesses; the dressing-things-up to show; the snapshots and the images. Zeena, in Arabic. And there are the more complete truths. What goes further than the mere surface level. What we know these lives of ours to be. Deeply, and truly, and in their relative entireties. But also,

Every single thing that you have: did you know that you are likely, in one way or another, enacting somebody else’s dream, right now? You have, for example, the sort of physical ability that they so sorely miss — the type that has long been left behind, to some aged, fading-in-memory days of youth. Back when their elbows and knees did not creak or groan so much; when a walk in the park had been just that. A walk in the park.

Food that fulfils. Rest that regenerates. Cushions for comfort.

Water that flows. Exactly who, and how, when and where, you are here, and now.

Every living, breathing moment. All that is calm, and all that is a little chaotic. The ways through which we learn things. Usually, from others. But in ways that speak best to whom we already intrinsically know ourselves to be.

Also: irrespective of how well-informed or put-together any fellow neighbour human being may appear… Remember that, just as this is your first (and last) time living this life; having this earthly experience… this is everyone else’s first (and last) time here, too. How tender; how actually-rather-reassuring, and conceptually uniting, a thing to think about. That we are all learning – and being – precisely as we are going along. All of us come from rich, humble earth. And, certainly this is where each and every one of us are headed back to.

To live, somehow, a life that does not feel superficially ‘shiny’ or constantly-sunny. And nor should we ever expect for it to. But, to take the necessary good, and the necessary bad. Write, somehow, right between each of these lines. The loops that go up; the curves that extend down. I hope, Insha Allah, that it is a thing of calligraphy that ensues.

I know all this might sound a little cheesy. But, no … all of it does not truly, neatly, ‘efficiently’, ‘make sense’ to me. And I genuinely love that. No two days – no two moments – are ever quite the same. Pouring bleach over all of this, so as to clean it… these beautiful things would also come to die, in the process.

Right now, you see, there are all of these questions; this mystery. This is, kind of quietly, quite the adventure. And one ought to find peace in the fact that this was always meant to be a journey; this was never meant to be the Destination.

You are alive. Human; earthly being, and there is all this grass right there, at your very feet. It is, at once, blessing, and it is struggle: test. You may either stoop down and water it; tend, with due love, to your own garden. Or… you may spend your days imagining that greener grass must exist here atop earthly cradle, but… somewhere other than here or now, in some patch that is simply other than yours.


With Salaam, Sadia, 2021

Jordan Peterson: Career vs. Motherhood

Jordan Peterson: quite controversial a figure. I do find many of his talks and explanations thoroughly insightful.

Yes, I also scrolled down to the comments section for this one. Here is one comment that particularly stood out to me:

“Modern feminism has really been a punch in the gut to me. Raising children is not the honour it needs to be. I always felt that I was a burden even though my husband and family never made me feel that way. Grew up with a hardworking stay-at-home mom. When I went to work, the guilt and inability to juggle it all was unbearable. My family was not priority according to my work. I hope a new feminism brings back the mystery of women, the value of femininity and the strength of it in its own right. Also the value and the strength of masculinity.”

What matters? One’s health and wellbeing matter. One’s family. If you choose to work, your work may matter to you. Some people only partake in economic labour because they must, while others really only partake in it as a hobby thing: an enjoyable and productive way to pass time.

Some women get extremely bored and unhappy when they stay at home. Some women become extremely unwell when they commit to carrying out high-demand economic labour roles.

The most crucial considerations, I think, ought to be: what is truly, holistically good – best – for you? For the people you most deeply care about? For your Deen?

What ought not to play such a significant role: Mere appearances. What other (no offence, but for-the-most-part-irrelevant) people think. These people… will almost undoubtedly always be thoughtlessly ‘thinking’ things.

“She doesn’t work and only stays at home? Why doesn’t she do something useful with her life?”

“She’s only a pharmacist? Why isn’t she a doctor?”

“She works all day and sends her children to daycare?! How pitiable!”

“She earns more than her husband does? Ha!”

“Her husband’s an engineer and she doesn’t work? He should’ve married someone more educated!”

“Why is she tired all the time? Surely it isn’t that hard to have two young children and have a high-flying career?”

“Why can’t she go to work all day and clean the entire house top-to-bottom every day, by herself?”

“How dare she have her own opinions? The insolence! I should never have let my son marry her! She should just keep her mouth shut and cook and clean and say ‘Yes ma’am, whatever you say ma’am’ to everything I say!”

These busybodies, so violent with their words, necessarily a) only see the outermost parts of things, and b) have committed themselves to identifying the perceived negatives in lieu of the positives, so as to soothe themselves, and so as to entertain themselves through gossip. Have no fear, though: all they are really doing is depleting their own Ajr-ic [this should be a word. i.e. relating to Ajr] reservoirs, while contributing to their victims’…

You face your own reality. You know what it is like to be you.

The truth is, when you choose one thing, you necessarily forgo its alternatives. Life, and all of its various aspects: blessings and tests. Necessary upsides and downsides, to each part of it. You inherit a ‘good’ thing: you also inherit its unique ‘downsides’. Mutatis mutandis, ‘bad’ or difficult things, and their unique perks and ‘upsides’.

Ours is a world that finds itself marred by crises: of home; of family; of loneliness and hyper-‘individuality’. Of meaning; of mental wellbeing. It is also true: sacred things like marriage and motherhood are generally no longer looked upon with due sanctity and honour.

In any case, you are a being whose (limited) wealth is time. And health and energy; the ultimately finite amounts of attention you can give to different things. Family. Talents, skills, interests. Allah is Al-Mālik, and

you get to figure out what might be holistically best for you. Seek His guidance: sometimes certain things, decisions and such, may be hard, but

We submit to the Creator, and not to (the fleeting, incomplete, and often-exaggerated takes of) creation. Your life. Between you and your Lord, and also concerning the people whom you love.


With Salaam, Sadia, 2021

Hope and Snow

This morning, here in London (UK), we had woken up to heavy snowfall. Pellets of white, darting down from the sky. So graceful; so redolent of that fine word: hope.

Today, it is Sunday. A snow-day on a Sunday. On Friday, my brother and I went on a walk through our local area. The conversations he and I have together really do tend to be… something else. I am not sure if he sounds mature for his age, by consequence of living with three adults, or if I sound like an eight-year-old boy, by consequence of spending so much time with him… Probably a mixture of both.

I told him that I was a little sad that it did not snow this winter.

His response was quick and endearing, and said with conviction: “What do you mean? It could still snow this year!”

In my mind, I sort of dismissed this statement as a product of his ‘child-like optimism’. ‘Not rooted in reality’. It seemed to me as though the peak of wintertime had already come to an end: now was going to be that time when Winter begins to transition into Spring. Cold, golden, sunny days. Not snow.

I so love that young children tend to be so deliberately hopeful. I think it is something of a tragedy, that many of us lose this sense of hope along the way. Scepticism’s tenacious fingers tend to, over time, establish this terrible stronghold within our hearts.

While on last Friday’s walk, my brother wanted to stop somewhere and sit down for a moment. He went and sat on a boulder. We had been talking about the significance of making Du’a, and he decided to sit down on a street-side boulder, in order to make Du’a, there and then, for… a horse. Strange child [but then again… he is my brother.]

Du’as do come true. I know this for certain. My brother himself: I see him as a product of Du’a. When I was younger, I prayed and prayed for a little brother. Someone to do cool things like karate with, and art and baking, and to take out to Nando’s after Parents’ Evenings, and to sort of spoil just a little. Some family members, back then, sort of dismissed my Du’as as childish, foolish optimism.

Since then, I have been well-acquainted with good reasons so as not to internalise others’ scepticism, but to… rely on my Lord, and to have hope and faith and trust in Him; in His supreme wisdom and ability. Even if you doubt and doubt: sometimes extremely ‘unlikely’ things happen, just like that.

It is so okay if other people doubt. So long as you have faith. Those things that you are praying for: know that if you are humble and sincere in your prayers… everything you are praying for is yours. It may take a little time: these things will come about in Allah’s faultless timing, not in ‘your own’. We must be consistent, hopeful, and know

That Allah (SWT) does not reject the Du’as of the sincere. You either get those things that you want, a little later (and there is Khayr in the delays). Or, you get them almost immediately. Or… you get something that is better [for you].

Hope-like snow. And eyes filled, at least at times, with wonder and fascination. It is not exclusively ‘childish’, but good and… human-ish. We need a little bit of sunshine, and a little bit of snow.

A little bit of rain, too… [This is how good things grow.]

We really must not lose hope, nor despair in the Rahma of our Lord. Faith and reason. Hope and rationality. Optimism and scepticism. Questioning things deeply, and having trust. Dichotomies, but actually, each one is ever-in need of its other.  

[And I really hope that, one day, I will get to see my little brother sitting on his own horse. I hope that I will be able to remind him of that fine Friday, in lockdown, 2021, when he sat down on a random boulder solely in order to make Du’a for it.]

.إِنَّ اللّهَ مَعَ الصَّابِرِينَ

“Indeed, Allah is with those who have Sabr*.” [Qur’an, (2:153)]

*Meaning: a mixture of patience, discipline, steadfastness, self-restraint, perseverance, endurance


With Salaam, Sadia, 2021

Friend,

An icy glass of water, held in hand. Decorated with water droplets. Both comfort and necessity. Friends are the ones who love you, in truth. And you love them too, and you love them in truth. [If you do not love a person in truth; if you are ‘friends’ with them as a result of shallow, or merely-circumstantial considerations, I do not think this counts as a friendship. But maybe the term ‘acquaintance’ sounds a little too harsh and devoid of any emotional attachment…]

            Truth: the truth is that we are in need and in want of nourishing, authentic friendships. As, and between, complete and complex, wonderful (and in certain parts, a little-at-times difficult) human beings.

And if a friend can be defined as someone who loves you in truth, then how wonderful a thing it is that sometimes people are friends with their siblings; with their parents; with their grandparents, or with their cousins. The best, most desirable, human relationships are necessarily centred upon friendship; for we Muslims, the best relationships are rooted in love, in truth, and towards and bound by Truth. Direction, and connection. How beautiful a thing is it, when some family members, we choose to take as friends, while some friends, over time and as a result of due presence, become family?

Some friends are here practically all the time, even when they are far away. Daily conversations – while others, one may only see or hear from once or twice a year. Cousins and siblings, though: these are the friends who cannot ever run away from you [Mwahahah].

Truly, I think the strongest bonds come about as a result of spending the later hours together, especially. When the defences come down; secrets are shared, ideas, laughter, food, downright idiocy. Those parts of one another that very few others will likely ever come to know. When it feels like the rest of the entire world is asleep, sapped of its energy, sort of far away. All that you have – what you are blessed enough to have – are a physical space, enclosed and, in that, quite freeing. Eyes that look like coming home. Food, and a night sky. No near-strangers to attempt to impress; nobody to only pretend that you are, or might be; nothing to prove, or disprove. Just real presence, (once again, downright idiocy,) and goodness. Nothing but everything.

            The things that make up my everything, I think, are: Islam, my friendships (which certainly include certain family members), my relationships with other human beings, my relationship with myself, and myself in relation to the [natural] world. What is mine, in this present universe; I, in continued conversation with each part, all of it. Spinning Earth, and my own world. And also, no: there is no ‘I’ without ‘we’. Not at all.

And there are, have always been, and will (Insha Allah) be moments of such unbridled joy. There will be witty exchanges, sarcasm, stepping on one another’s feet, sometimes. There will be spillages, misunderstandings, a few moments of tension, clashes. Stupid inside jokes; understandings, both of the spoken, and the more silent, sort. A national lockdown, or two. Or three. Things to get through, as friends, together.

            We do each have our own lives. Obligations. Streams and streams of things to do. And I do not ever want to forget what is truly important. The bulk of what I do must be intentional. As much as possible, directed towards those very things that matter. As much as possible, organically connected. Water good things; know that they will not grow in straight lines, ‘perfectly’. And there is too much beauty in precisely these facts of present ruggedness. We are not alone, and we are not ultimately in control. And things may be right, and then go a little wrong. And wrongs can be worked on; put right. This life would be quite pointless indeed, without all of its wildflowers.

            I love how many examples, similitudes, one can find upon the Earth that Allah has created for us. Sometimes, as a result of distance, perhaps, some friendships, for example, can feel a little frayed. But, in the end, things become okay. Things can be revived; can regrow. With the things that matter, there will be wounds and obstacles and difficulty. Little fall-outs, perhaps, among other things. But wherever the wound occurs: these tend to be the places from which new sprouts emerge. From the same space, and yet, more alive, almost. Stronger. Adaptable, and adapted. To varying circumstances, places, added considerations, and times.

Some friends have been there, in chronological terms, from the very start. And they are still here, Alhamdulillah. Some come along a little later, but this fact does not, in any way, detract from the value of their present presence. Some friends, one can be apart from for an entire year, and yet, when you see one another, it feels like an effortless continuation. A comfort of being, and of blooming. And some good friends: [how strange a thought,] we do not, at present, know. Elements of Allah’s plan for us, whom we are yet to meet.


With Salaam, Sadia, 2021

Life, Death, Happiness, Meaning, Purpose, etc.

TW: Some people simply cannot bear to think about, or talk about, death — and that is understandable. But if this is you, dear reader, then… you may wish to stop reading, here. I think about, and talk about, and write about, death — and life in relation to it — quite a lot.

[Truly: if talking about death makes you uncomfortable and/or anxious, please don’t continue reading]

Death scares us because it is the necessary point at which certain worldly things that we may have cared much about – or, had invested much of our time and energies into, obsessed over, perhaps – come to an end. The unwinding miracle of life, and it is constantly coming undone. It is inescapable and inevitable:

“Every soul shall taste death” [Qur’an, (3:185)]

The more one explores the Qur’an, the more one comes to understand. The life of this Dunya really is little more than “play and amusement and decoration/adornment and boasting to one another, and competition in increase in wealth and [in terms of your] children, amongst you”. [Qur’an, (57:20)]

Some of us are known to (attempt to) invest so deeply in an abode in which we are – and we know we are – only passing travellers.

Are you prepared for death? If you were to die right now, would you have any regrets? Do you think you are worthy of Jannah?

Death. Sometimes it is a mere ‘theme’, which often finds itself being trivialised in works of fiction. We also hear of deaths as numbers: statistics. When one hears of passings-away in the news, we hear of mere numerical figures, in the dozens, hundreds, thousands. Anonymised. [We are a little desensitised.]

You, also, dear reader, are going to die. If Allah has decreed that you, for example, are going to die of ‘natural causes’, then… if, like me, you are in your twenties, you have already lived through about a[n entire] quarter of the time that Allah has allocated to you. And that is only if you are to die of senescent causes. People can go, though, in so many different, and unexpected, ways. Accidents, viruses, aneurysms… Here one day, and gone, the next.

The Truth is, we were created; we were born. We live: we have some time. And these bodies and minds and hearts and souls of ours. How do you make life count, then? Well, it depends on what you come to accept that life – or, if you are an existentialist, perhaps: ‘your life’ – is for. And what death is. A passing-on? Or are our cells, collectively, our respective existences, in and of themselves?

The different parts of you that make up you. We know that we are brilliantly complex in nature; we know that the different (material) parts of ourselves are in constant (awe-inspiring) communication with each other. You either believe in One God. Or, in billions and billions of them: little atoms, with self-sovereignty and intelligence and will and ability, coming together to produce you.

“But, I’ve got time,” we think. We plan for our ‘futures’. Dream of beautiful things; dream of them lasting. Give the majority of our lives to certain things, without due consideration of the Divine. Yes, you might get those beautiful things you may be seeking. An excellent job, a wonderful family, lovely group of friends. Social prestige, maybe, and other things. But you, as well as every other human being upon this Earth, must – and will – die. You will have to part from those things. This is not Home. This is… we are… camping, for a while – for a given time.

The things that remain: your deeds (what you have done with your time — with your life) as well as the fellow sempiternal souls of your loved ones. In life, you make choices. There are the forces and influences of environment, upbringing, circumstance: all these other things at play. And there is you, intelligent and capable of choosing from a given range of options. Do this, or do that? Take this person as a close friend/role model, or that person? Carry on with this particular vice, or work on it, in tandem with making Du’a?

The following video is one that I had come across after seeing the ‘Happiness’ video come up a number of times, on my YouTube homepage. This is a reaction video to it, by the Deen Show [I’m not sure what his actual name is, but his videos are truly engaging and insightful] [Update: his name is Eddie]

Life, death, happiness, meaning, purpose. Time, reality. And more of all that good stuff. Earlier today, I had come across this snippet of Qur’anic recitation (with translation) which links to these themes.


With Salaam, Sadia, 2021