Author: Bee

I haven’t yet performed Hajj or Umrah, but the idea of it holds a sacred place in my heart. As I prepare mentally and spiritually, there is one part of the pilgrimage I find especially difficult to understand—the requirement to remove my niqab during ihram, that state of ritual purity and consecration before entering the sacred rites.

For a long time, I struggled with this concept. The niqab is not just a piece of cloth to me—it is a shield, a source of protection and dignity. It guards my privacy and expresses my devotion. The thought of unveiling, even in Allah’s presence, unsettled me deeply. It felt like exposing my vulnerability in a way I wasn’t sure I could bear.

As a Muslim still relatively new to this path, over five years since I reverted , I’ve faced questions and doubts—not just from myself, but from others. People who seem to know “better,” who offer judgmental advice instead of gentle guidance. Their words often feel harsh and off-putting, as if the compassion that should accompany faith has been cast aside. Instead of support, I’ve encountered opposition and misunderstanding—sometimes even from within my own community.

It’s hard not to feel isolated when I ask these honest questions. When I admit I’m struggling, I’m met with impatience or criticism, rather than empathy. It makes the journey feel heavier, more confusing. But even amid that struggle, I keep seeking understanding.

And slowly, I’ve begun to grasp the wisdom behind this requirement. When a pilgrim enters ihram, they enter a state of complete humility and submission. Removing the niqab is part of shedding all barriers—external and internal—that separate us from pure connection with Allah. It is an act of surrender, showing that before the Creator, nothing is hidden, and nothing stands between us except sincere devotion.

This unveiling is not about exposure or weakness, but about trust—trusting that in Allah’s presence, I am safe, honored, and loved without the need for any veil. It is the ultimate protection, the highest form of dignity, to be seen fully and accepted completely by the One who knows all.

I understand now that the ihram state, with its simple clothing and uncovered face, strips away all worldly distinctions—wealth, status, even identity—and brings every soul to the same level of pure submission. It is a powerful reminder that true beauty and protection come not from what covers us, but from the surrender of our hearts to Allah.

Though I have not yet made this journey, this understanding brings me peace. It reassures me that when the time comes, I will step into ihram ready not just to remove my niqab, but to stand humbly, vulnerably, and fully present before my Lord. And in that moment of unveiling, I will find a new kind of strength—one born from trust, surrender, and the purest form of spiritual protection.

Until then, I hold onto my intention, despite the doubts and the judgments, trusting that Allah’s mercy and guidance will carry me through.

Today I took the first step into yet another round of treatment and surgery.

This time, I carried something I didn’t quite have before: Tawakkul — trust in Allah, trust in His plan. Not the kind of trust that waits for understanding, but the kind that surrenders without needing to know why.

This came at a time I didn’t want it to. Life had just begun to feel steady again — something I could finally build from. Maybe this too is something I can build from. But it’s teaching me something else. Before, I would try to read into it, to decode the lesson, to search for meaning in the pain. But now, I realise — you can’t always do that. Sometimes, the only thing you can do is trust. Not in the outcome. Just in Allah. As a whole in good and bad times in complete healing and not quite there healing. Today I trust that whatever this is, wherever it leads, it is already the best.

This morning I was anxious — truly anxious — before leaving, and even more so during the procedure. I found myself silently calling out: Ya Allah, Ya Allah… A call for ease. For it to pass. For the pain to be bearable.

And now I’m home. I changed, got into bed, and slept deeply for four hours. I tried to eat, just a few spoonfuls of soup, then took my medication again — antibiotics, painkillers — because I’m at high risk of sepsis. Higher than before. The fatality rate is 50/50. That’s not a figure that sits lightly. But even so — this pain too has a purpose, even if I don’t yet know what it is.

So tonight, as the children settle and I retreat from the noise of the world, I’ve chosen to sit in silence. No scrolling. No conversations. Just me and the Qur’an — the company of Allah’s words. What better comfort is there when you’re alone in pain, than the voice of the One who never leaves you?

How the birds sing when the skies have cried—

each chirp a hymn of shukr, each flutter a sujood.

The earth, softened by mercy, lifts its gifts:

worms rise, leaves glisten, the world breathes ease.

In the smallest of things, joy pours from His Rahmah.

Even the sparrow knows Who sent the rain.

How do we come together — as families, as communities, as an ummah — when our versions of the truth are different?

Not just different in interpretation, but in acknowledgment.

Not just different in emotion, but in fact.

It’s a question that haunts me — especially when the truths we disagree on are not abstract, but blood-stained.

Like the killing of the Prophet’s ﷺ family.

Like the battles waged against Ahl al-Bayt.

Like the silencing of their grief and the rewriting of their sacrifice.

How can unity be built on truth, when even the truth is contested?

And it is. Deeply. Painfully.

Ask a Sunni Muslim about the Battle of Jamal, and most will hesitate. Ask about the killing of Imam Hussain (رضي الله عنه), and they will mourn the tragedy — but avoid the names. The questions. The accountability.

We’re told not to look too deeply. Not to “cause division.”

Not to “speak ill” of companions.

But at what cost?

The truth is: we can’t rewrite history just to make it easier to live with ourselves.

We can’t erase the blood of the Prophet’s grandsons and still claim to love him fully.

We can’t selectively honour Ahl al-Bayt while ignoring the pain they bore at the hands of our own ummah.

This is not a sectarian issue. This is a moral one.

So why the denial?

Part of it is fear — fear of being “divisive,” fear of being called Shia, fear of questioning what we’ve been taught.

Part of it is inherited bias — an unwillingness to hold revered figures to account.

And part of it is simply spiritual dissonance — because to admit the truth would demand a reckoning.

It would mean acknowledging that our ummah has wounds we’ve never healed — because we’ve never even admitted they exist.

It would mean accepting that not all companions were infallible. That power corrupted some. That women — even beloved wives of the Prophet ﷺ — were capable of grave misjudgment.

That political ambition, jealousy, and tribalism tore through our early history, just as it tears through our present.

And yet — here is the tension:

If we want true unity, it cannot be built on silence.

It cannot be built on the erasure of sacred suffering.

It must begin with truth — even if that truth is uncomfortable.

So where do we go from here?

We begin with honesty.

We allow space for multiple voices — and we listen, not just to scholars of one tradition, but to the descendants of the Prophet ﷺ themselves.

We read. We research. We ask. We sit in the discomfort.

Because the killing of the Prophet’s family should be something that unites every Muslim — not divides us.

If we truly love the Prophet ﷺ, then our hearts should break for the injustice faced by Ali, Fatima, Hassan, and Hussain.

If we claim to follow the Sunnah, then we must follow it all the way to Karbala — and stand with the oppressed, even if it means questioning those in power.

And no, unity doesn’t mean we’ll all agree on every detail.

But unity can mean we agree on what is sacred.

We don’t need to have identical opinions to have collective compassion.

But we cannot have selective truth and expect collective healing.

Families fall apart over these same tensions. Some members hold truth in their bones; others hold fear in their silence. But even here, the path forward is the same: truth, with compassion. Justice, with gentleness. The courage to speak — and the humility to listen.

And most of all, the refusal to call betrayal unity.

Because if we unite by ignoring injustice, then we are not united — we are just avoiding each other.

The Prophet ﷺ warned us of this. He left behind two things: the Qur’an and his Ahl al-Bayt. Not one. But both. If our love for him does not extend to defending their honour, mourning their pain, and amplifying their legacy — then what kind of love is it?

So I return to the question I began with:

If the price of unity is betrayal, then what are we uniting upon?

And maybe the answer is this:

True unity isn’t avoiding the truth.

True unity is returning to it — together.

“If the price of unity is betrayal, then what are we uniting upon?”

It’s a question that came to me like a quiet interruption — the kind that doesn’t just echo in your mind but settles in your chest. We speak so often about unity in our communities, our ummah, our families. We are taught that unity is sacred, that it is a strength, a mercy, a protection. And it is. But like anything, when misunderstood, unity can become a shield that hides deep fractures — and sometimes even justifies them.

Because what are we calling unity when it demands silence in the face of oppression? What are we defending when “getting along” requires that we ignore harm, abandon truth, or betray the very values that are meant to hold us together?

Unity is a noble goal. But unity built on fear, coercion, or denial is not unity — it is conformity. And conformity at the expense of integrity will always collapse. Eventually.

Sometimes, we are asked to “not make waves,” to “keep the peace,” to “let it go — for the sake of unity.” But peace that demands injustice is not peace. It’s just a quieter form of violence. A betrayal dressed up as harmony.

Whether it’s within the ummah, within families, or within ourselves — the call to unity must never override the call to truth.

Because real unity is not built on erasing difference, or tolerating injustice, or pretending harm hasn’t been done. Real unity is built on accountability. On shared values. On a commitment to something higher than ego, reputation, or comfort. It is built when we can say: this was wrong — and still remain in each other’s lives. When we can hold each other to account — and still hold each other in compassion. When we can look one another in the eye and know we are standing together on the side of what is right, not what is easy.

Our faith teaches us this. Islam is not a religion of empty consensus. The Prophet ﷺ did not unite his people by appeasing every party. He did not say “let’s just get along” when Quraysh asked him to compromise on tawheed. He did not sacrifice truth for togetherness. He stood in truth — even when it meant standing alone.

So we have to ask ourselves:

If the price of unity is betrayal, then what exactly are we uniting upon?

Are we standing on shared conviction? Or shared denial? Are we avoiding conflict because it’s unnecessary — or because it’s uncomfortable? Are we keeping peace — or just keeping secrets?

There is no honour in a unity that protects the powerful and silences the oppressed. There is no barakah in peace that buries truth.

So perhaps the real work is not to strive for unity at all costs — but to strive for integrity within our unity. To know that it is not disloyal to speak the truth. It is not divisive to challenge harm. And it is not betrayal to refuse to betray your own conscience.

Real unity is not the absence of tension.

It is the presence of truth, held with love.

And that is a price worth paying.

I remember seeing this canvas way before October 2023 and falling in love with it instantly.

Little did I know at the time that since first seeing the dome of the rock as a child in a history book and being totally fascinated with it how deep that fascination would run and eventually turn into a deep love and respect for its land and her people.

As I lay here gazing at the canvas on the wall opposite my bed I am struck with a multitude of thoughts and emotions and fear of its erasure. It’s a dream I’ve been having for a while now and I know many others feel the same way but with this fear runs something deeper and it’s the realisation that even if the zionists were to seize and destroy it,as is their plan for a third temple, that this still wouldn’t be enough to get a rise, a stand ANYTHING from the Arab world the so called ummah,for Palestine, her people or her land. Yet we all know if this was the kabba it would be different

But why. ???

Does one matter less than the other ? Simply because one generates an income that exceeds billions every year justified by its religious purpose and one doesn’t ?

Follow the money and the truth appears.

But for for now I will put down in words what my heart spoke:

In a land called Palestine,

beneath a sky bruised with storm and silence,

the Golden Dome glows —

a quiet fire at the centre of shadow.

Even the clouds seem to hold their breath around it.

And above, a crescent moon hangs like a prayer not yet spoken.

There is mourning in this darkness.

But the Dome does not dim.

It burns steady, untouched by the hush of grief,

a beacon for the broken,

a witness to the weight of this land.

The olive trees feel it in their roots.

The stones remember.

This is a place made of tears and tawakkul,

a place where light does not shout —

it simply endures.