Not a religious blog just a revert and her struggles
Author: Sumayyah Hidayah
My name is Sumayyah Hidayah, and I’m a revert to Islam. I write about faith, growth, and navigating both struggle and guidance on this journey—sharing my personal experiences, not as a scholar, but as someone learning along the way
I’m lying in bed, eyes wide open, scrolling endlessly through every scrap of news I can find about my beloved Iran. The thunder outside crashes again, shaking the windows, and for a moment I can’t tell where the storm ends and where the war begins.
It’s that kind of night. The kind where the sky roars with the same rage that’s stirring across the region. A red flag has been hoisted over Karbala — a signal the world barely understands. But we do. It’s a symbol of revenge. Not petty vengeance, but righteous reckoning. The kind that calls back to the plains of Karbala, to the blood of Hussein, spilled but never silenced. That flag says we are not done yet. That flag says there is more to come.
And the ground beneath me — I can feel it humming, vibrating with something ancient and alive. We are standing on the edge of the sword. Between what was and what’s coming. Between memory and fire. There is a current running through everything right now — not just urgency, but inevitability. Something is shifting. The air knows it. The thunder knows it.
Iran has struck back. A quiet storm gathering for years now lashes out with lightning precision. Israel, so used to impunity, now finds itself touched by the storm it helped provoke. And while the world watches, unsure whether this is the beginning of World War III or just another long chapter in an already blood-soaked book, those of us with roots in the soil of resistance feel something else: clarity.
If Palestine has taught us anything, it’s this: sometimes, we are forced to sit and watch while the wheels of power turn over the bodies of the innocent. No matter how loudly we scream. No matter how often we protest. The world spins on.
And yet — just like the storm that rolls across the sky — maybe we, too, must roll with it. That doesn’t mean passivity. It means endurance. It means faith. It means that with thunder comes rain. And with rain comes cleansing. Something new is coming, even if it emerges from the ash of everything we know.
Tonight, my heart is with Iran. With her courage, that ancient Shiite courage that burns as fiercely as it did when Hussein stood, alone but unshaken, on the battlefield of Karbala. That kind of courage sounds like thunder — relentless, pure, echoing across generations. It doesn’t ask for approval. It doesn’t ask for survival. It stands for what is right. It stands for truth. It stands with integrity.
Today is Eid al-Adha. And today marks the fifth year I’ve spent Eid alone. No family to gather with. No invitations to accept. No dresses picked out for the day, no colourful gatherings, no plates shared, no henna drying overnight. And for many of us who came to Islam later in life, this story is far too familiar.
We are the Muslims practicing in private.
The Muslims who are the only ones in our households.
The Muslims who whisper “Allahu Akbar” alone at fajr, and break our fasts alone during Ramadan.
The Muslims who remember Eid… but don’t celebrate it.
And while the Ummah sends messages of “Eid Mubarak,” and asks kindly, “So what are you wearing today?” or “How are you celebrating?”—we often smile, we reply politely. But deep down, we feel the ache of absence. Because Islam may be for everyone, but the Ummah… it doesn’t always feel like it is.
I’ve lost count of how many Eids I’ve seen reverts post online about being alone. No plans. No invitations. Just a quiet day, and sometimes, quiet tears. And I’ve also lost count of how often I’ve seen the same well-meaning phrases shared:
“Come and spend it with my family!”
“You’re welcome anytime!”
“You don’t have to be alone!”
But these words often stay just that—words. Lip service for likes and spiritual currency online. Because the truth is, very few people actually follow through. And even fewer reverts feel comfortable enough, or safe enough, or mentally well enough, to say yes.
So no, telling someone to “just go to the masjid” isn’t always helpful. Some of us can’t. Some of us are still hiding our Islam. Some of us are caring for children, or elderly parents, or have chronic anxiety, depression, financial barriers, or broken ties. Some of us carry layers of life that make stepping into public Muslim spaces incredibly hard.
And no, I don’t need to get married just so I can have someone to celebrate Eid with. I need community. Real, welcoming, grounded community. One that sees me beyond my marital status or my “convert story.” One that sits beside me, not just preaches to me.
So maybe today, instead of celebrating, I reflect.
Because this is Eid al-Adha. The Eid of sacrifice.
The remembrance of Prophet Ibrahim (AS) and the son he was willing to give up in obedience to Allah. And of how, at the final moment, Allah spared him. Replaced sorrow with mercy. Delivered provision in place of pain.
As reverts, we know something about sacrifice.
We’ve lost family ties. Friendships. Acceptance.
We’ve given up traditions. Changed our wardrobes. Adjusted how we speak, eat, pray, think, live.
We’ve let go of who we were to become who Allah called us to be.
But just as Allah intervened for Ibrahim, we believe—He sees us too. He hears us. He knows our loneliness. And He is enough. Always enough.
So today, this message is for the reverts.
For those spending Eid in silence.
For those holding their faith close like a secret.
For those scrolling through photos of Eid gatherings, wondering when it will be their turn.
You are not forgotten. You are not less than.
You are not outside of the Ummah, even if it feels like the Ummah has forgotten you.
Your Eid may be quiet, but it is not empty. It is filled with every silent du’a you make. Every tear you cry in prostration. Every sacrifice you’ve made for the sake of Allah.
And maybe it’s time we build something real.
Not just passing words on a timeline, but actual gatherings, actual spaces, where reverts can meet, eat, talk, reflect—even if it’s just a small room in a library, or a pot of tea in someone’s flat. Because the Ummah isn’t always forthcoming. But maybe we can be, for each other.
If this is your Eid alone, know that I see you.
And if you have space in your life for a revert this Eid—or next Eid—don’t just say it. Mean it. Follow through. Open your door. Make room at your table.
Because hospitality is a Sunnah. And so is sincerity.
Eid doesn’t have to be about celebration. Sometimes, it’s about reflection.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most meaningful Eid of all.
Eid Mubarak. From one revert to another. May Allah never leave us lonely.
There are moments in life when we feel so far from Allah, we wonder if we even know how to come back. We hear the Adhan we hit it like a snooze button and turn over in bed.
We carry the heaviness of this dunya, the exhaustion, the grief, the guilt—and prayer becomes distant. Like something for someone stronger. Someone better.
But the truth is, Salah isn’t for the perfect. It’s for the broken. It’s for the weary. It’s for the hearts that ache with longing, even when they’ve been silent for too long.
Today, on the Day of Arafah, I returned.
In pain, physically and spiritually, I laid my prayer mat on the ground I placed my turbah on top and I stood before Allah—no grand gestures, no eloquence. Just a heart cracked open. Before I could even finish reciting Al-Fatiha, the tears began to fall. Not just one or two—waves of them.
And in each tear was a door.
A door to forgiveness.
A door to mercy.
A door to coming home.
It was as if the heavens opened in that moment—not because I was worthy—but because I was willing. Willing to turn back. Willing to say, “I need You, Ya Allah.”
There’s a sacred truth that lives in our faith:
“Whoever comes to Me walking, I will come to him running.”
— (Hadith Qudsi, Sahih Muslim)
And today, I saw that truth unfold with my own soul. I had taken only a step—but Allah met me with overwhelming mercy.
When we abandon Salah, we do not punish Allah—we punish ourselves. We carry the weight of disconnection and call it depression. We feel the ache of loneliness and call it failure. But the ache is simply the soul longing for its Creator.
Allah never moves away from us. We move away from Him. And yet, the instant we turn—even half a turn—He is already near. Closer than the pain, closer than the tears.
So if you are struggling… if your prayer mat has been untouched for days or weeks or even years—know this: it only takes one moment. One whisper. One tear.
Let your tears fall. Let them carry your pleas for forgiveness. Let each one become a door to something sacred. Allah is not waiting to punish you. He is waiting to embrace you.
Come back.
Come back to the One who has never turned away from you.
They wept when he wept, they shouted Allahu Akbar when he stood among them. And yet, before his blessed body was buried in the ground, they gathered without his family, without his cousin, his son-in-law, his appointed one, my father Ali — and they chose a successor.
Without consultation of those closest to him. Without the ones purified by Allah Himself.
“Indeed, Allah only intends to remove from you impurity, O people of the household, and to purify you with [extensive] purification.”
— Qur’an, Surah Al-Ahzab (33:33)
We, the purified ones — Ahl al-Bayt — were left behind. Forgotten in the shadow of politics dressed as unity.
What unity is this that was built on exclusion? What brotherhood chooses expedience over revelation?
My grand father had spoken at Ghadir Khumm, under the blazing sun, before thousands:
“Of whomsoever I am the Mawla, Ali is his Mawla.”
They heard it. Omar heard it. He was among the first to congratulate Ali. Yet days later, it was he who stood to give allegiance to Abu Bakr — swiftly, without Ali or Abbas, without my family present. It was he who declared, “The Prophet has died, and this affair must not be left leaderless.” And so a decision was made — one not guided by divine revelation, but by haste, by fear, by politics.
Do not tell me this was Shura. Do not tell me this was divine. If Allah had revealed that leaders should be elected, show me where. Show me where in the Qur’an the successor of a Prophet is chosen by men rather than appointed by God. Every Prophet left behind a successor — so why would the Seal of Prophets, my father, do otherwise?
They crowned Abu Bakr, but at what cost?
My mother, Fatima, the radiant one, came to claim what was hers — the land of Fadak, gifted to her by the Prophet in his lifetime. She brought testimony, evidence, her word — the word of the most truthful woman, of the leader of all women of Paradise.
And they denied her.
She who the Prophet stood for when she entered the room. She who he called part of himself:
“Fatima is a part of me. Whoever hurts her, hurts me.”
— [Sahih al-Bukhari]
But they hurt her. They rejected her. They broke her door.
They say this was unity. But it was unity built on silencing.
And then there was Aisha.
Yes, I will speak her name. I will not call her what they call her, for those titles demand respect earned through loyalty — and she, she rose an army against Ali.
She, the wife of my grand father, took up arms against his cousin, his chosen, his successor. Against my family. Against her own stepdaughter’s husband. My father. Against the very man who slept in the Prophet’s bed when he faced death. Against the one the Prophet declared the gate to knowledge.
What loyalty is this?
What love for the Prophet is this, when one disrespects his blood?
She rode into battle at Jamal, raising a standard not of faith, but of rebellion — and history remembers that day with sorrow. Blood was shed between Muslims, and the sword first rose against the rightful Imam.
She claimed it was ijtihad, a matter of conscience. But conscience does not rise against the one who was entrusted with the banner at Khaybar. Conscience does not ignore the command of the Prophet at Ghadir.
I say this now because I have seen the aftermath.
I watched my brother Hussain fall at Karbala. I saw the heads of my kin raised on spears. I carried the burden of silence and the pain of memory. And I will not let history forget what they did.
This was not just a political disagreement. This was betrayal. This was the hijacking of my father’s legacy.
They crowned Abu Bakr. They praised Omar. They empowered Uthman. But it was Ali who was left behind, Ali whose door they ignored, Ali who waited in patience while truth was turned into fable.
But history has witnesses. And I am one of them.
Do not ask me to forget. Do not ask me to soften truth for the sake of comfort.
I am Zaynab bint Ali. My blood is Hussain’s blood. My voice is the echo of Zahra’s cry.
In recent online conversations — especially among young reverts — I’ve seen a worrying trend: people declaring that forcing someone to accept or practice Islam takes you out of the fold of Islam. That doing so makes you a disbeliever.
That’s not just a critique. It’s takfir — the act of calling another Muslim a non-Muslim.
That’s a heavy, serious claim in our deen. And it requires us to slow down, step back, and assess with deep care.
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Islam Prohibits Compulsion — But That’s Not the Same as Takfir
Yes — Islam clearly prohibits compulsion. Allah says:
“There is no compulsion in religion.”
(Qur’an 2:256)
No Muslim denies this. The Prophet ﷺ never forced faith on anyone. Our religion is built on conviction, not coercion. But what’s happening today is something else entirely.
Here’s where things get dangerous: when someone takes that principle — “no compulsion in religion” — and stretches it to say that anyone who encourages, pressures, or pushes someone into Islam, or even reminds them to pray, is no longer Muslim themselves.
Let’s be clear: what’s being described as “force” here often isn’t force at all. It’s a simple reminder — “Don’t forget to pray,” or “It’s Maghrib time.” That’s not coercion. That’s love. That’s community. That’s the Sunnah.
We need to be very clear about the lines we are crossing when sincere encouragement gets twisted into an accusation of disbelief. Because this is no small matter. It’s spiritual harm.
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What Actually Removes Someone from Islam?
Scholars from every school of thought — throughout Islamic history — have agreed that only specific, well-defined actions or beliefs remove a person from Islam. These include:
• Associating partners with Allah (shirk)
• Denying what is ma‘lum min al-din bid-darurah (known necessarily in the religion)
• Believing in false deities
• Rejecting clear verses of the Qur’an or an obligation such as prayer or fasting
• Mocking Allah, His Messenger ﷺ, or any fundamental element of the deen
These rulings are grounded in texts, not opinion. Not emotion. Not trauma. And they apply equally — regardless of background, sect, or level of knowledge.
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Not Every Sin Is Kufr
This is a foundational principle in Islam, emphasized by scholars such as:
• Ibn Taymiyyah
• Imam Nawawi
• Al-Ghazali
• Ibn Abidin
• and many more.
“Not every sin is kufr, and not every incorrect interpretation removes someone from the fold of Islam.”
Someone may be doing wrong. They might be overstepping. They might even be acting unjustly. But that does not mean they’ve left Islam — unless their actions or beliefs directly contradict the fundamentals of the deen.
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Where This Misunderstanding Comes From
And here’s the key: a lot of people making these claims are sincere. Especially among reverts, many of us come from backgrounds where religion was used as control. We carry trauma — and that can create sensitivity around any kind of pressure.
That reaction is valid. But when our response is to overstate the problem — to call a reminder “oppression” or label someone a “disbeliever” for encouraging prayer — we’re moving from sincerity into misguidance.
The Prophet ﷺ warned:
“Whoever interprets the Qur’an without knowledge, let him take his seat in the Fire.”
(Tirmidhi)
This isn’t about arrogance. It’s about the immense weight of this Book.
We can’t quote a verse without understanding its context, the legal reasoning (usul al-fiqh), and how scholars have applied it for centuries. The Qur’an isn’t meant to be a weapon. It’s meant to be guidance.
And just because someone brings in another verse that sounds similar or appears to support their position, that doesn’t make their argument correct.
Without proper grounding in tafsir and legal principles, quoting more verses doesn’t strengthen a flawed interpretation — it often just compounds the error.
Quantity doesn’t replace accuracy.
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When Ego Enters, Learning Stops
This is where things take another turn.
In discussions, when correction is offered gently, what sometimes comes back is defensiveness. It becomes about credentials:
“Well, I’m doing a Sunni diploma…”
As if that makes one immune to error.
But Islam is not about labels. It’s about humility. It’s about sincerity. It’s about being willing to say, “I might be wrong.”
Let me say this clearly:
It doesn’t matter whether you’re studying from a Sunni diploma or a Shia background — the Qur’an is the same.
The rules of kufr, iman, and valid interpretation don’t change based on sect. They are rooted in our shared foundations.
If you’re using sectarian identity to shut people down or elevate yourself, you’ve already missed the point.
That’s not ‘ilm. That’s ego.
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The Real Danger
Here’s the irony:
Those claiming that “forcing Islam on others makes you a disbeliever” are themselves engaging in a harmful act — because they are forcing their own misinterpretation on others, backed by the threat of kufr.
That’s not da’wah.
That’s not correction.
That’s not compassion.
That’s spiritual harm dressed up as piety.
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Final Thoughts
We all need to tread carefully. Because when ego enters, learning stops. When we elevate our feelings over the scholars, we cut ourselves off from the tradition. When we use verses to wound instead of heal, we’re misusing the very light we were given.
Let’s return to balance.
Let’s return to humility.
Let’s correct wrongs — yes — but let’s do so with adab, with precision, and with the understanding that none of us are beyond learning.
May Allah guide us, correct us, and protect us from ever thinking we hold the truth so tightly that we forget how to carry it with mercy.
Lately, I’ve felt completely overwhelmed. Like I’m stuck in a fog I can’t quite name.
There’s been this pressure building behind my eyes, And a quiet, desperate wish that someone—anyone—would just take over for a while. That maybe I could stop being “strong” for everyone else.
And then yesterday… I witnessed something awful. Something I can’t unsee.
But in the middle of that shock and sorrow, i caught a glimpse—just a flicker—Of the woman I used to be. Or maybe the one I was always meant to be.
And I realized…
I’ve drifted so far from her. This rage I’ve been carrying, This grief that swells in silence, It’s not weakness.
It’s my nervous system finally saying:
“I wasn’t made to carry this much alone.”
And I believe now—God was listening. Not with judgment. Not with disappointment. But with this fierce, tender kind of mercy that whispered:
“You’ve done enough. Let Me take what was never yours to hold.”
Even the anger I’ve felt—At the world, At the pain, Sometimes even at Him—
It wasn’t rebellion. It was me waking up. Coming out of survival mode. Starting to feel again.
This isn’t a punishment. This is a return.
To softness.
To surrender.
To the truth I keep forgetting:
I was never meant to be the source for everyone else. I was meant to be held too.
And now I can feel it—
Everything that was built on over-functioning, On people-pleasing, On abandoning myself just to cope— It’s all being shaken loose.
It hurts. It feels like grief. Like rage.
Like I’m coming apart. Like someone’s holding me in place,
And I’m fighting to get away—
But gently, firmly, they won’t let go. It’s like being pinned by love that refuses to let me escape the truth I’ve been avoiding.
And maybe that’s exactly what it is. Maybe this is what it looks like
When God brings someone close—
Not with sweet comfort,
But with a grip that won’t let me flee until everything false, everything heavy, Everything I thought I needed to survive Starts to fall away.
It feels like too much. Like being broken open so something deeper can finally breathe.
But I’m starting to see…
This isn’t punishment.
This is mercy.
Because maybe I needed to be still long enough To remember who I am underneath all this pain.
I’m not broken.
I’m not behind.
I’m being refined.
So I’m exhaling now. Letting go. Letting myself unravel a little.
Because I know—
When I’m ready to rise,
God will still be here. He never left. He’s just been clearing space For me to return.
Today started like a beautiful Sunday morning should. My children and I had planned to see the Stitch movie together—a 10 a.m. showing we’d all been excited about. The film was brilliant, the kind that makes you laugh and feel good long after the credits roll. It was great family time. We were happy. Genuinely, peacefully happy.
On the way home, still smiling, we talked and laughed about the film and made plans to grab something to eat. We hit some traffic, so I decided to take a shortcut—one I’d driven before, familiar and quiet. But what we encountered next changed the course of our day in a way I never could have anticipated.
There, on the right side of the road, was a man lying on the ground. He was a cyclist, surrounded by what looked like his friends—perhaps fellow hobbyists or professionals out on a ride together. One of them was performing CPR. No police, no paramedics, no flashing lights. Just raw urgency, fear, and confusion. One person was guiding traffic. Another was on the phone, presumably calling for help. Someone else had gone into a nearby house, likely trying to get assistance.
As we waited for another car to pass us so we could move on, we were motionless—stuck not only in traffic, but in that moment. Watching a life hang in the balance.
My daughter, sitting next to me, whispered, “Is that… what I think it is?”
I said gently, “Yes, it is.”
I kicked into helper mode. I scanned the scene. I saw no emergency services yet, and I watched as the man giving CPR—bless him—tried his best, but from my experience, I could tell he wasn’t trained. And my own past suddenly caught up with me. I wound the window down and asked if help was needed. “Does he know what he’s doing?” I asked.
The friend replied, “Are you a medic?”
In my mind the words rang out
“That was many years ago. I’m no longer registered. I wouldn’t feel confident giving CPR now.”
And those words stung more than I expected so I simply replied “no sorry”
I drove on, because I couldn’t do more. And as we pulled away, I was overwhelmed. I felt helpless. Useless. Worthless. I knew what to do once. I had been in that position before. But today, I couldn’t help, and that broke something open in me.
Tears came—mine and my daughter’s. She saw what I saw: a man possibly taking his last breaths, and people doing all they could to hold him here.
Not even five minutes later, police cars began to rush past us—sirens blazing, clearly in emergency mode, driving at terrifying speeds. My daughter said, “But they’re not paramedics.”
“No,” I told her, “but they’re first responders. They’ll know what to do.”
Later, we heard an air ambulance had come. That’s how serious it was.
All of this has made me reflect—deeply. On how quickly life can change. On how we can be laughing one minute and praying silently the next. On how fragile we all are.
It brought up old memories I thought I had buried. Medical PTSD from my own time in intensive care. From being resuscitated myself. From being the one giving chest compressions in years gone by.
I thought that chapter of my life was closed. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe this moment, painful as it was, was also an opening. Maybe it’s time to explore whether there’s still a role for me to play—some way to never feel that helpless again. Even if I never go back fully, perhaps there’s something I can do. Something I can learn again. Or something I can teach.
But not today. Today I grieve what we saw. I hold my children close. I let the tears come. I let the shock settle.
And I honour the man whose life was fought for on a quiet Sunday road.
Whoever you were, wherever you are now, may peace find you.
There is a stillness that finds you in your fifties, a hush after the whirlwind of years. And for some of us — the late-bloomers, the quiet returners, the women who discovered Islam not in our youth but in our weathered, knowing years — we find ourselves walking a path so few speak of, and even fewer understand.
It is not rebellion. It is not bitterness.
It is not, as they often accuse, feminism or trauma or “Western thinking.”
It is devotion.
It is choice.
It is finally — freedom.
After a lifetime of giving — to children, to partners, to families who sometimes loved us less than they loved control — we chose to give the rest of our lives to Allah. And somehow, that unsettles people.
“Why aren’t you married?”
“Why would you refuse him?”
“How can you be Muslim and single by choice?”
The questions come wrapped in piety, dipped in concern, but often laced with judgement. And then come the messages — from men half our age, from distant lands, offering to fulfill our deen with soft words and half-baked intentions. They arrive in DMs like offerings — sometimes sweet, sometimes predatory, rarely appropriate.
And when we decline, when we say “No,” or simply “Not for me,” the mask often slips.
What follows isn’t kindness or understanding.
It’s insult. Dismissal. Sometimes even cruelty.
To the women who know this experience — born Muslim or reverted — I see you.
Especially those of us without a wali.
Especially those of us told we’re “part of the ummah now” only to find ourselves entirely alone after Shahada.
The family we were promised? It is often a beautiful illusion.
The real support comes from the few — often other reverts — who understand what it means to rebuild your life from the ground up, sometimes with no masjid to turn to, no mother to cry with, no father to stand behind you.
And yet, in this loneliness, we find something divine.
A closeness to Allah that marriage never brought.
A stillness in the tahajjud hours.
A satisfaction in solitude that the world cannot comprehend.
We are not half a deen waiting to be completed.
We are entire hearts devoted to their Lord.
And no, not every Muslim woman must marry. History holds room for us.
Lady Nafisah bint Al-Hasan — scholar, devout, celibate — chose a life of worship, never touched by marriage. Her home became a sanctuary of knowledge. Her grave, a place of answered du’as.
Rabia al-Adawiyya — revered by scholars and mystics — lived unmarried, burning with love for Allah alone. She said,
“O Allah! If I worship You for fear of Hell, burn me in Hell,
And if I worship You in hope of Paradise, exclude me from Paradise.
But if I worship You for Your Own sake,
Do not withhold from me Your Eternal Beauty.”
To the women who live in this quiet resistance — you are not strange.
You are walking a path that the world may never celebrate, but the angels do.
You are not “less than.” You are not “failing.”
You are free.
And for those who question, those who jeer, those who cannot fathom this clarity — perhaps this ayah is our shield:
“Say: Verily, my prayer, my sacrifice, my living and my dying are for Allah, the Lord of the worlds.”
(Surah Al-An’am, 6:162)
Or this:
“Indeed, those who have said, ‘Our Lord is Allah’ and then remained steadfast — the angels will descend upon them, saying, ‘Do not fear and do not grieve but receive good tidings of Paradise, which you were promised.’”
(Surah Fussilat, 41:30)
To the sisters standing alone in the eyes of the world — but never alone before Allah —
Being a writer is not a steady stream — it’s a storm system.
Some days, silence. Other days, eruption.
There are moments where inspiration lies dormant, and then suddenly, it rises — unrelenting, urgent — like a volcano that’s been rumbling beneath the surface for weeks. And when it explodes, the words pour out of you as if you’ve been holding your breath under water.
It’s not always poetic.
Sometimes, it’s painful.
Carrying around this weight of emotion, these unspoken thoughts, this aching need to say something — it can feel like dragging around fire with no safe place to put it.
And when we finally do speak, when we finally write — often after years of hesitation, of building courage — we are met not with soft hands or open hearts, but with walls. With resistance. With venom.
People say they want truth — until it makes them uncomfortable.
They want stories — until those stories challenge their own narratives.
And for us writers, who are often sensitive by nature, this lands like a punch to the spirit.
It’s taken years for some of us just to find the strength to publish a single piece. To say, this is what I think, this is what I feel. And in return, we are told: Be quiet. Sit down. Who do you think you are?
Because writing isn’t just about expression — it’s about confrontation.
To write honestly is to challenge. And to challenge is to awaken.
But waking people from comfort comes with backlash — their fight-or-flight kicks in, and often, it’s fight.
We write anyway.
We bleed anyway.
We erupt anyway.
Because this is what writing is.
It is not just art — it is resistance.
It is not just therapy — it is truth-seeking.
It is not always welcome — but it is necessary.
We are not here to be palatable.
We are here to be real.
We write because we carry something heavy that needs to be freed.
We write because maybe, just maybe, our eruption might soften someone else’s ground.
We write in the hope that someone out there is ready — truly ready — to receive what we’ve been aching to say.
The price of your awakening was paid in Gaza’s blood. Don’t you dare forget that.
These words has sliced through me today as once again I opened my laptop to be faced with overwhelming ignorance from people claiming to be woke. I honestly didnt know that after all the exposure, after 589 days of Genocide that people could still be blind to what is unfolding live right in front of their eyes.
Yet as the rest of the world blinked open its eyes to the machinery of empire, to the savage clarity of colonialism laid bare, it was Gaza who paid the toll. Gaza — not just a place, but a people, a breath, a prayer buried beneath rubble — handed you the gift of sight. You didn’t wake up on your own. You were dragged, screaming or silent, into awareness by the sound of children being obliterated on livestream.
And yet.
There are still people pretending to be awake.Still trying to intellectualise their cowardice, still preaching nuance while bodies are turned to dust.
Still speaking of Hamas as though resistance is terrorism, as though occupied people owe their colonisers compliance. Still choosing the side of genocide while wearing the mask of enlightenment.
This did not begin on October 7th. That date is not the start of anything but your discomfort. Gaza’s struggle, Palestine’s pain, predates your timeline. It is layered with decades of theft, murder, humiliation, and siege — of a people imprisoned in their own land, punished for refusing to die quietly.
You talk about humanity, but only when it serves your politics.
You cry for peace, but only when the oppressed raise their fists.
You condemn “both sides,” but only when the side resisting dares to survive.
This isn’t awakening. This is performance.
Real awakening means rupture. Grief. Accountability.
It means recognising that what you now know came at the cost of a child’s life, a mother’s scream, a city flattened.
And that you owe them — not your pity, but your voice. Your alignment. Your truth.
Because yes, the price of your awakening was paid by Gaza in blood.
But the price of your silence — your ignorance, your willful blindness — will be paid by your soul on the Day of Judgment.
May you not be among the liars who claim they didn’t know.
May you not be among the cowards who claimed neutrality while genocide marched on.
And may you remember — every time you speak, every time you post, every time you choose sides — that someone else died to show you the truth.
Seeking Sakina 