Wrapped in the Whisper of the Cloak: A Mother’s Love, A Son’s Struggle, and the Purification of the Ahl al-Bayt

Today shook me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I sat beside my son, as he was put under anaesthetic, and it was like time stopped. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t there. It felt like life had been snatched away in an instant. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment—how fragile he looked, how helpless I felt. It was a stark reminder of how temporary everything really is. One breath, one heartbeat… and then silence.

As I watched him struggle to wake up, there was a moment where I thought as did the medical team that he wouldn’t and as I was rushed into recovery gowned I remember thinking ——I don’t think I could cope if he was ever in a coma. The thought alone was enough to shatter something inside of me—and it did. As I stood talking to him trying to get him to respond that very thought cracked through that quiet place where I keep my strength stored. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Like grief had settled itself in my chest without asking and I cried as I stood helplessly watching them trying to wake him.

And now that we are home, I know I just need to cry. I need to let it all out—the fear, the helplessness, the ache of being a mother holding everything together when inside, I’m breaking a little.

And yet know there’s so much love in these tears. So much of me pours out with them. It’s not weakness—it’s devotion. It’s the kind of love that hurts because it runs so deep.

And just when I felt like I was holding on by threads, something beautiful had arrived when I was at the hospital —unexpected and perfectly timed. A green pashmina shawl from Karbala gifted quietly, like a whisper from the unseen. I held it in my hands and felt something shift.

Green—the color of the Ahlul Bayt. The color of paradise. A symbol of sacred lineage, of faith, of mourning turned into strength. In Shia tradition, it’s worn with love, loyalty, and remembrance. It carries the legacy of Karbala, of Lady Zainab’s steadfastness, of Imam Hussain’s sacrifice. It represents resilience, truth, and hope—all the things I felt I had run out of today.

Receiving it on a day like this felt like more than coincidence. It felt like a sign. A message. A soft reminder that I am not alone in this. That even in my grief and exhaustion, I am being held by something far greater.

And although I was so tired tonight—bone-tired, soul-tired—I felt a desperate need to get up, to remake my wudu, and to pray. Just two raka’at. Just to thank Allah for being there with me today. And something clicked. For the first time, I truly understood: it’s not about feeling close to Allah. It’s about trusting that He is already close to us. We don’t have to chase the feeling—only hold onto the knowing.

As I prayed with that green scarf wrapped around me, I felt something profound. When I went into sujood, it was like my heart opened. I understood the Ayah of Purification—the moment in the Qur’an when the Prophet Muhammad placed his family beneath a cloak, his nearest and dearest, and Allah declared them purified. I saw it clearly tonight. Why it was them, specifically—the ones known as the Ahlul Bayt. Not the wives, but those souls closest in purity, in truth, in spirit.

And maybe… just maybe… this green cloak that came into my life today was a reminder of that purity. A reminder of that closeness. Of why family is so important. A thread that connects me—us—to something vast and sacred. A bond that runs so deep it carries no words for it needs none.

This scarf isn’t just fabric. It’s a balm. A covering for the heart. A quiet companion on the days I feel like falling apart. And tonight, I’ll keep it close—not just around my shoulders, but wrapped around my spirit too.

Because even on the hardest days… beauty finds a way in. And so does Allah.