Author: Bee

This morning I woke to the most heartbreaking news: my majah, the Supreme Leader of Iran, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, has been martyred. I woke, and I cannot stop crying. Even now, I sit clutching the book I had just begun reading, and the words on these pages feel different — alive, sacred, heavy with meaning I never fully understood before. Each line is a treasure I hold to my chest, each sentence a whisper of a life that shaped so many hearts.

He was a great man — a truly great man. Not in the way the world measures greatness, but in the way that counts before God. Gentle. Patient. Steadfast. Wise. His presence was not about power or authority, but about service, about faith, about guiding others to the truth. Everybody loved him, except those who could not stand against the light of Islam itself.

He taught us the most profound lesson: that we bow only to God. At eighty-six years old, when the rest of the Muslim ummah bowed to worldly powers, when pressures and alliances threatened to make compromise seem easy, he refused. He refused, not for pride, not for ego, but out of devotion, love, and courage. He stood firm, alone if necessary, and showed the world that integrity, faith, and God above all else are worth everything.

He lifted his country not with force, but with vision and heart. He raised the status of women, expanded education, and created opportunities where there had been none. Women in Iran now lead in science, medicine, and culture, walking paths that were once closed, thanks to the foundations he built. Critics may say otherwise — some may even feel relief at his passing, calling it liberation — but they do not see the reality: Iran has long struggled under severe sanctions, external pressures, and challenges meant to destabilize it. He guided his people through these storms, striving always to keep the nation’s head above water, while navigating life through the light of God, through Islam, and through faith.

This loss is not merely the passing of a leader; it is the departure of a soul who taught so many how to look at faith differently. In this moment of mourning, I grieve not only for what is lost, but for the beauty of what he gave — an example of faith unwavering, devotion unyielding, and love for God that transcends all else. I share in this grief, yes, but I also feel gratitude — gratitude for his teachings, his courage, and the way he shaped a generation of hearts to seek truth above all else.

Even as my tears flow, I hold his words, his life, his example close. I feel his guidance still, whispering in the pages of his book, in the lessons he gave, in the quiet insistence that integrity matters more than acclaim, that God’s truth is above all else. His life was a beacon of light, and though he has departed, the glow remains, inspiring devotion, courage, and steadfast faith.

I mourn, yes, but I also resolve — to carry forward his teachings, to live in a way that honors his life, to act with patience, integrity, and love. His life was not merely a life; it was a gift, a call, a reminder of what it means to be faithful, to be courageous, and to love God above all.

Now we observe a 40 day mourning period below is something to help support you through it

May Allah envelop him in mercy, honor his soul, and let his guidance continue to shine in the hearts of those who loved him

There is something subtle happening in our public conversations about hijab, and it deserves reflection.

In the West, hijab is often portrayed as a symbol of oppression. We know this narrative. It is shaped by political imagery, by cultural practices in certain regions, and by a broader misunderstanding of Islam.

But if we are honest, we must also look inward.

Increasingly, hijab is being framed — even by Muslim women — primarily as a tool of protection from men. We say: We wear it to protect ourselves from the male gaze. We say: It shields us. We say: It prevents objectification.

There is truth in these statements. Divine law contains wisdom. Modesty carries dignity.

But wisdom (ḥikmah) is not the same as obligation (farḍ).

The reason we wear hijab is not because men look.

The reason we wear hijab is because Allah commanded it.

If tomorrow there were no men on earth, the obligation would remain.

When protection becomes the primary narrative, the axis shifts. Hijab begins to sound like a reaction to male behavior instead of an act of devotion. It moves from worship to sociology. From obedience to explanation.

And that shift has consequences.

Externally, it reinforces the very critique used against us:

“If women must cover to protect themselves from men, then the burden is on women.”

Hijab becomes framed as defensive — something women must do because men cannot control themselves.

But hijab is not a response to men.

It is a response to Allah.

Internally, this framing creates confusion — especially for reverts and young Muslim women. When hijab is presented primarily as functional — protective, empowering, socially beneficial — it subtly becomes conditional. And anything conditional becomes negotiable.

But obligation is not negotiable.

Hijab is not worn because society is flawed.

Hijab is worn because Allah is worthy of obedience.

That obedience stands whether society understands it or not. Whether it is politically convenient or not. Whether it feels empowering in a given moment or not.

And What of “Hijab Is a Journey”?

Here we must speak carefully.

Struggle is real. Fear is real. Family pressure is real. Workplace discrimination is real. The vulnerability of new Muslims navigating identity shifts is real.

Growth takes time. Implementation can require courage.

But we must distinguish between spiritual growth and redefining obligation.

It is one thing to say:

“I know this is an obligation, and I am striving toward it.”

It is another to say:

“It is not obligatory until I feel ready.”

The first is humility.

The second reshapes theology.

Calling hijab “a journey” should mean we are moving toward obedience — not that obedience itself is fluid.

We all fall short in different ways. Our shortcomings do not change what Allah has commanded.

Compassion must not blur clarity.

The Language We Use Matters

There is a deeper danger here.

When we rush to explain hijab in ways that are palatable to a Western audience, we subtly begin to center their comfort over our creed.

We start saying:

“It’s for protection.”

“It’s empowering.”

“It’s cultural.”

“It’s a personal choice.”

And while pieces of these statements may contain truth, they are not the foundation.

The foundation is obedience.

If our primary explanation avoids saying “because Allah commanded it,” then we have already shifted the center.

Islam does not require sociological justification to stand.

An obligation does not need to be marketed.

We do not soften divine law so that it is easier to defend in interviews or on social media reels.

We do not recalibrate farḍ to survive criticism.

And we certainly do not frame women’s obedience as a response to male weakness.

Hijab is not a negotiation with society.

It is an alignment with revelation.

And revelation does not bend to public opinion.

When we speak publicly, we are not only defending ourselves from critics. We are teaching. We are shaping how Islam is understood by reverts. We are forming the theological instincts of the next generation.

If we center hijab on male behavior, we hand critics a narrative that is easy to weaponize.

If we center hijab on ʿubūdiyyah, the conversation changes entirely.

We are not covering because we are afraid of men.

We are covering because we submit to Allah.

That submission is not weakness.

It is allegiance.

There is dignity in obedience.

There is stability in clarity.

And when the root is firm, the fruits will speak for themselves.

I am tired of the echoes.

One moment, one word, one glance—they reach into me and drag me back into a version of myself I no longer live in.

I have healed, I have grown, I have fought to rise and yet they see only the fall.

The slip. The “mistake.”

It is like a tide pulling me under,over and over, and I am gasping,and I have to remind myself I am not that girl anymore. I am here. I am now.

But the labels—they stick like mud.They cling.They suffocate.

How can they not see the struggle,the prayers I whisper, the nights I sit trembling, the courage it takes to walk this path,the hijab that is a shield against a world I once drowned in?

And yet, words come like blows.

Judgment delivered without pause, without reflection, without mercy.

My father, my family—they cannot see,cannot pause,cannot hold their tongues. And I am left with the bruises no one else can see.

I turn to Allah, to the Qur’an, and I see it reflected in every moment I endure. I am living the examples of patience, of steadfastness, of mercy, of endurance.

I am embodying the teachings of the Qur’an in the way I hold myself, in the way I rise again after each blow, in the way I protect my heart even when others cannot see. This is not just feeling—it is action, it is living, it is practice.I am walking the path it lays out,even when the world around me is harsh, even when judgment rains down, even when the ones I love cannot understand.

I am tired, and I am angry, and I am hurt,and yet I rise. I rise because my worth is not in their eyes.I rise because my path is mine alone.I rise because faith is not the absence of struggle,it is the hand that guides me through it.

Let the tide come, let the words crash,I will not drown. I will not be undone.

I am held. I am steady. I am enough,because Allah is my protector, my guide, my strength, and He does not leave me.

When I wrote the ramadan journal I wanted to something light and heartfelt to dip Into on the days when I needed a gentle reminder for my heart

I hope you find peace and healing this Ramadan

Well… that didn’t take long. It happened.

I woke up in the middle of the night and my body was in severe stress. Systemic stress. Severe inflammation triggered by dehydration. As someone with Crohn’s, I already live in a heightened state of inflammation, and my body requires more care and fluids than most. I tried to be brave this year. I truly believed I could fast… but I couldn’t.

Now, I’m in bed with what can only be described as fever, headache, nausea, stomach pain, and cramping. It’s the kind of exhaustion that makes you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck. My whole body is protesting. My head is pounding. My stomach is rebelling. Fatigue hits all at once. It’s overwhelming.

Last year this happened on day three. This year… day one. It’s a sign of just how intense the hidden inflammation in my body really is.

I won’t lie — I’m heartbroken. But I’ve had to accept that my health comes first. And that it doesn’t mean I cannot participate in Ramadan. Fasting is not just abstaining from food and water. Ramadan is about so much more — patience, reflection, discipline, gratitude, prayer, compassion, mindfulness, connection to Allah.

I’ve been reflecting on the fact that our bodies are a trust from Allah (Amanah). They are sacred vessels. We are commanded to nurture, protect, and care for them. When fasting causes my body stress — when it pushes me beyond what it can safely handle — I am not honoring that trust. I’m doing the opposite of what Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala has commanded.

And you know what? That’s okay.

When your body tells you it cannot fast, when it says “I need more care, more gentleness”, that is mercy from Allah. It’s a reminder to practice self-love and self-care. And yes — it’s okay to feel frustrated, even angry, at your own body. I know how soul-destroying it can feel when the very vessel meant to carry you through life becomes the barrier to your worship.

But here’s the truth: this is not defeat. It’s redirection. Allah has reminded me — gently, through my body — that taking care of myself is part of worship. Respecting the limits He has set for me is obedience. Nourishing myself when I am weak is devotion. Caring for my body, my mind, and my spirit is part of my connection to Him.

Some may clutch their pearls, thinking fasting is a simple pillar to uphold. But not everyone can. Nobody raises an eyebrow when someone cannot perform Hajj because of finances — so why judge someone whose body cannot fast without harm? For some of us, fasting can trigger real physical complications. And that is okay.

This Ramadan, my focus is on finding peace, seeking forgiveness, drawing closer to Allah, tracing the Quran, understanding it on a deeper level, and praying Salah five times a day without fail. It’s about embodying Islam — living it fully — not just carrying it as a title or wearing it visibly.

To anyone else feeling defeated because they cannot fast: take a deep breath. You are not failing. This is not defeat. This is redirection. There is so much more to Ramadan than abstaining from food and drink. Your connection with Allah, your prayers, your reflection, your intentions — these are the heart of Ramadan.

Your body is a trust. Honor it. Care for it. Love it. And know that in doing so, you are worshipping too.

I recently stumbled across an idea and platform to create and wanted to give something back.

Having never created anything like this before I apologise in advance for its simplicity or any mistake I have made

May Allah bless us and guide us all this Ramadan with his Rahma

This week did not ask for permission. It arrived like wind through an open door —and by the time I realized what was happening,everything that was not anchored had been moved.

It has been a humbling week. A stripping week. A week of letting go with hands that did not want to open —and opening them anyway.

There have been personal changes,spiritual changes,physical changes. Rooms feel different.Silences feel different. Even my own reflection feels different.

It has been a clearing.

Not gentle spring cleaning —but the kind that empties shelves,removes what once felt essential, and leaves you standing in a space that echoes.

There has been guilt. Hurt. Resentment. The ache of being misunderstood. The sting of being accused. The sorrow of releasing what once felt woven into my daily life. There has been the kind of grief that doesn’t shout — but hums beneath everything.

And yet…

There has also been grounding. A coming back down to earth.

A realization that sometimes we are uprooted —not because we are being punished, but because we have outgrown the soil we were in. Sometimes we must be replanted in terrain we did not choose so that our roots can deepen in ways we never would have allowed.

This week I questioned everything.

Was this my fault? Was this consequence? Was this mercy in disguise? Was this the will of Allah?

And somewhere in the middle of the questioning,

I found myself returning — almost overnight —back to my faith with a force that startled me. Not dramatically. Not performatively. But deeply.

The Qur’an has not been a book on a shelf this week. It has been the rope of Allah — something to hold when the ground felt uncertain. In its words I felt reminded that Allah is gentle and subtle with His servants, providing in ways we do not always recognize at first (42:19). What I first experienced as loss began to feel like quiet rearrangement — provision disguised as subtraction.

I was reminded too that even those closest to revelation navigated human complexity — trust, discretion, misunderstanding — and that difficulty does not mean abandonment (66:3). Trial does not mean rejection.

And when I reached the words, “So remind — you are only a reminder. You are not over them a controller” (88:21–22), something inside me unclenched.

I am not in control of hearts. I am not in control of outcomes. I am responsible for my intention, my sincerity, my standing before Allah.

Nothing more. And that has brought a strange, steady peace.

Alhamdulillah.

Peace has become obvious. Not loud — but obvious.

In my home. In my breath. In the faces of those around me. In the quiet moments where I would once have spiraled.

Even my neshab — my small discipline, my return to prayer — has become an anchor. A rhythm. A steady reminder that I am held even when everything feels like it is shifting.

This week has brought me back down to reality — not the harsh kind, but the honest kind. The kind where you realize you cannot carry everything. The kind where you accept that some doors close because they must. The kind where forgiveness becomes lighter than resentment.

It is almost Ramadan. And instead of entering it cluttered, I am entering it emptied.

Not empty of feeling —but empty of illusion.

There is grief here. There is tenderness. There is acceptance forming where resistance used to live. And over all of it rests this truth that now feels written across my entire week:

Perhaps you dislike something and it is good for you, and perhaps you love something and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you do not know. (2:216)

Allah knows. Even when I do not. Especially when I do not. And so I step toward Ramadan humbled, replanted, cleared out, and quietly at peace.

Alhamdulillah.

Five years ago — maybe slightly longer — I took my Shahada, declaring my faith in Allah, Subḥānahu wa Ta‘ālā. I entered Islam as a revert, and like many of us, I believed that the only way to practice was to follow what I had been shown at the start: the Sunni practices, the hadith collections, the rules everyone seemed to adhere to. I thought this was the path — the one true way — and I clung to it because I was afraid. Afraid of standing out, of being called a Kāfir or a Munāfiq, afraid that to question or to explore would mean rejecting Islam itself.

For years, I followed the herd. I ran with the crowd. I obeyed not always because I understood or felt it in my heart, but because the fear of judgment loomed larger than the call of truth within me. But the Qur’an itself reminds us that we must not simply accept things blindly. Allah Subḥānahu wa Ta‘ālā commands us to seek knowledge — ʿilm — and to reflect, to ask, to question, and to understand:

“Say, ‘Are those who know equal to those who do not know?’ Only they will remember [who are] people of understanding.” (Qur’an 39:9)

It is ḥalāl and encouraged in Islam to seek knowledge, to ponder, and to discover the truth for oneself. And it is this pursuit of ʿilm — this flow of learning, reflection, and honest self-inquiry — that has carried me over the past six months into the depths of my own understanding. It has been a slow, sometimes frightening, but ultimately liberating process of self-discovery.

Through this journey, I realized that it is very easy to follow the crowd. To conform. To accept without questioning. And it can be dangerous for some reverts; some may cling so tightly to a single path that they never stop to wonder if it aligns with their conscience, with their heart, with their understanding of the Qur’an. But I could not stay silent with myself. I could not simply repeat practices that felt hollow or disconnected from my soul. I had to be authentic — honest — in what I believed, in what resonated, in what connected me to Allah.

Even the simplest acts of worship, the things I had always struggled to make sense of, became clearer in this exploration. For years, I could never fully grasp the logic or meaning of some Sunni wudu practices. Repetition felt mechanical, and certain steps seemed confusing or disconnected. But over time, I realized that the ways I naturally performed these acts — guided by my heart, by sincerity, by reflection — had a place. Only today did I discover that these practices align beautifully with the Jaʿfarī school of thought. Everything I had been doing intuitively, from a heartfelt point of view, has a home within this tradition. That realization was profoundly validating: my inner compass, my natural spiritual inclinations, were not random or wrong — they were part of a living, thoughtful, and deeply ethical school of Islamic practice.

Around the year 2024/5, I discovered Shi‘ism and began to follow the Shia path. Everything started to align and fall into place, even my ability to speak my prayers in Arabic. I remember vividly: where previously I had not been able to speak a word of Arabic as a Sunni, suddenly I could recite my prayers in the language of the Qur’an with connection and sincerity. And now, today, to realize that all the natural practices I had been following over the last five years aligned with a school of thought and a marjaʿ — a guiding figure — gave me such an incredible sense of belonging, of anchoring. This anchoring does not rigidly dictate my faith; rather, it strengthens it, giving me confidence, direction, and a home within Islam that resonates with the way my heart and conscience naturally operate.

The very name, Jaʿfarī, speaks to me: it means “flowing stream” — a river, always moving, always alive, never stagnant. That is exactly how I have felt on this journey. My faith has not been fixed in one rigid channel; it has moved, it has flowed, it has explored, and now, seeing that it has a home within the Jaʿfarī tradition, it has returned to the Source — Allah, Subḥānahu wa Ta‘ālā.

The Jaʿfarī approach is, in many ways, like myself. It is quieter, inward, reflective. Ethical, intentional, and thoughtful. Less obsessed with surface conformity or performing rituals for the approval of others. It emphasizes understanding, reason (ʿaql), and the teachings of the Ahl al-Bayt, rather than the pressure of habit or inherited cultural expectation. In finding that my practices naturally fit here, I have found a mirror of my own spiritual self: contemplative, seeking, flowing, alive.

And that is the beauty of this journey. Islam is not one river, nor one rigid channel. It is a multiplicity of streams, all flowing back to the One God, Allah Subḥānahu wa Ta‘ālā. And it is a profound gift to be able, as a human being, to explore the variations within Islam, to navigate these streams, to find the channel that nurtures your soul while keeping your heart rooted in the Qur’an, in sincerity, and in love for Allah.

I cannot help but think: if more Muslims were allowed — even encouraged — to seek their own path to Allah, to explore, to question, to reflect, there would be far less struggle, far less fear, and far more connection to the Divine. There would be less worry about fitting in, about performing, about being judged. There would be more peace, more authenticity, more rivers flowing freely toward the Source.

And so here I am, 5/6 years after my Shahada, standing in the stream I have discovered for myself. It is quiet, it is reflective, it is alive. It is my faith — flowing, moving, reaching toward Allah, Subḥānahu wa Ta‘ālā, with sincerity, intention, and ʿilm. And I am learning, every day, to flow with it, to embrace it, and to trust in the mercy and guidance of Allah, the Most High.

Once, feminism was simple in its promise: equality, autonomy, and the right to choose. Women should have the freedom to live, to think, to speak, and to dress as they wish — without coercion, without judgment, without interference. That was the meaning. That was the point.

But today, something has shifted. Western feminism has become a double-edged sword. It preaches liberation — loudly, performatively, selectively — but it rarely asks the people it claims to champion whether they actually want saving. It rarely asks if they feel oppressed. It rarely listens.

Take the hijab in Iran. Overnight, Western feminists scream about oppression, framing it as the ultimate symbol of female subjugation. Yet the women in Iran are not protesting the hijab as an obligation to God. They are protesting state enforcement by men, the policing of their bodies, and the criminalization of choice. Muslim women understand the hijab as a religious practice — an obligation to God, not man. The problem begins when man enforces it, and that is what Iranian women are resisting.

Even when choice is at the center, Western narratives erase it. Many Iranian women wear the hijab or niqab by choice, exercising autonomy in a society that still limits them in countless other ways. Their voices are overpowered by stories that demand oppression where it might not exist — or where it is complex, layered, and self-defined.

Meanwhile, Western feminists are silent about Palestinian women navigating occupation, surveillance, and militarized violence daily. Afghan women forced into the burqa are abstracted into hashtags, their experiences flattened into a single narrative of oppression. Worst-case scenarios are presented as universal, as if they define the lives of all women in a country. Afghan women in regions not under Taliban control, or Muslim women choosing to wear the hijab as a matter of faith, are erased. Hijab-wearing women are portrayed as universally oppressed, when in fact many understand it as a religious obligation to God — a choice, not submission to men.

Closer to home, in Europe, women who choose to wear the burqa or niqab are vilified, legally restricted, and socially shamed. Where is their freedom of choice? Where are the feminist voices defending them? Choice, it seems, only matters when it fits a preferred narrative. Western feminism assumes its standards — nakedness, hypersexualized visibility, rebellion, and indulgence — are the universal measure of liberation, erasing the autonomy of women who choose modesty, privacy, or observance of faith.

Worse still, freedom has been reduced to exposure and excess. Liberation is celebrated as being naked, hypersexualized, publicly performing private acts, drinking, taking drugs, rebelling without restraint. Modesty, self-restraint, and moral accountability are dismissed as oppression, while indulgence and exhibition are glorified as liberation. Freedom without discipline, autonomy without responsibility, becomes a rebellion that mirrors a perpetual teenager screaming against authority. True freedom is not measured by exposure or indulgence; it is the ability to choose what to reveal, how to act, and how to move through the world with integrity.

This is the hypocrisy: feminism now screams for liberation in places it can romanticize, moralize, and perform for, but ignores the autonomy of women who make different choices. Feminism has become a theatre of judgment, not a movement for equality. It has lost its meaning — it has lost the principle that made it radical: the right of every woman to decide for herself.

The niqab, the hijab, the veil — whatever you call it — is a double-edged act. A woman who sees but cannot be seen frustrates the coloniser, asserts power quietly, and preserves her own autonomy. That choice is real freedom. Western moralizing, hashtags, and performative outrage? That is not freedom. That is hypocrisy.

Feminism should be about listening before screaming. About supporting before judging. About amplifying voices, not replacing them. About teaching women how to own themselves, not how to expose themselves or indulge without boundaries. About recognizing that autonomy, modesty, and faith are choices too. The movement that once demanded equality must return to its first principle: women must have the right to choose — even if their choices don’t fit your narrative of liberation. Anything less is not feminism — it is colonialism dressed as concern.