Tag: allah

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When Grief Is Truth: From Karbala to Gaza, and the Betrayal We Refuse to See

Muharram has arrived again.

A sacred month. A time when the air itself feels heavy with remembrance. For me, it’s never just about history. It’s personal. It’s raw. It’s a mirror held to the soul, a moment to ask: who do I stand with? And who do I stand as?

This year, I’ve stepped away from the noise—from social media, from performance, from the shallow conversations that scrape at the surface but never dare to go deeper. I’ve chosen silence. Reflection. I’ve chosen to retreat into my Deen—not for show, not even for healing, but for truth. Because truth is what Hussain stood for. And if we can’t find that in ourselves during this month… what are we really mourning?

Hussain (peace be upon him) was not a political figure. He was the beating heart of the Prophet’s legacy.

He was the grandson who the Prophet ﷺ used to cradle in his arms during prayer. The one he called Sayyid shabab ahl al-jannah—the leader of the youth of Paradise. He was known for his love, his generosity, his uprightness, and above all, his unwavering refusal to surrender to tyranny.

At Karbala, he stood with barely 70 followers against an army of thousands. No water. No mercy. No compromise. Because to him, truth was not negotiable. And to surrender to falsehood—even if it bought safety—was not an option.

He and his companions were butchered under the sun. Children murdered. Women taken prisoner. And all of this was done by people who claimed Islam. Who wore the cloak of religion. Who prayed, fasted, and recited Qur’an, all while slaughtering the bloodline of the Messenger of God ﷺ.

That truth alone should have shaken the ummah. But instead?

We forgot.

We forgot who the oppressors were. We erased the pain of the Ahl al-Bayt. We buried the truth beneath centuries of silence and scholarly revision. And we turned the very villains of our history into saints.

We praise those who betrayed the Prophet’s family. We quote those who stood at the Prophet’s door and crushed his daughter behind it.

Abu Bakr stole Fadak from Fatimah. Umar broke down her door and caused her to miscarry. Aisha raised an army against Ali, the rightful successor to the Prophet, in the Battle of Jamal. These are not fringe accounts—they are history. But we’ve been taught not to question them. We’ve been taught that “unity” means silence. That truth is divisive. That grief is sectarian.

But I ask you: If the price of unity is betrayal, then what are we uniting upon?

Today, I see Muslims around the world grieving the genocide in Gaza—and rightfully so. The suffering of the Palestinian people is unbearable. The bombs. The blood. The body bags. The lies.

And yet, some of these same Muslims glorify the very figures who laid the foundation for Karbala—the spiritual Gaza of our history.

They speak out against Israeli apartheid while quoting hadiths narrated by those who tore the house of Zahra apart.

They share du’as for the oppressed while venerating those who oppressed the Prophet’s own family.

They cry for martyrs today while silencing the ones whose blood built this ummah.

There is a deep, unspoken hypocrisy in our outrage.

We are willing to cry—but not willing to confront.

We are willing to mourn—but not to question.

We are willing to say “Free Palestine”—but not “Follow Hussain.”

So this Muharram, I ask myself again: what am I really grieving?

Because if I mourn Karbala, I must also mourn Saqifah.

If I cry for Gaza, I must ask who I glorify in my religion.

If I claim to love the Prophet ﷺ, then I must love his family not just in name—but in allegiance.

This grief I carry—this truth I refuse to abandon—it isolates me. It costs me. It makes me an outsider to many. But I think of Zaynab. I think of the women who walked in chains from Karbala to Kufa to Sham. I think of the courage it takes to speak truth not when it’s popular—but when it’s condemned.

Like Zaynab, I will not cry for sympathy. I will cry as a witness.

Like Hussain, I will not die for victory. I will live for loyalty.

And like Fatimah, I will guard my silence until it becomes louder than every lie.

This Muharram, I withdraw not out of weakness—but out of love. Love for the Ahl al-Bayt. Love for truth. Love for a God who sees every buried injustice and promises its resurrection.

From Karbala to Gaza, truth still bleeds. And I refuse to look away.

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When I Hit Rock Bottom, I Called His Name

Tonight, after a day where everything seemed to fall apart — when every door closed, and every thread of patience unravelled — I lay in bed, empty and aching. Just hours before, I had written about Karbala, about Gaza, about grief — and yet, what washed over me next wasn’t the grief of history, or of others. It was my own.

A heavy, unbearable sadness began to rise in me. Not for Hussain, not for the martyrs, but for me. For how far I felt from Allah. From my Deen. From the steadiness I once had. I felt it in every part of me — the distance, the disconnection, the doubt.

And in that moment of complete vulnerability, I broke.

The tears came hard and fast, and all I could do was say it — “Ya Allah, Ya Allah.”

Over and over again. Not with eloquence. Not with hope. Just desperation.

“Ya Allah.”

I didn’t know if He would respond.

I wasn’t expecting a response.

I just needed to cry out — to say His name.

And then… something came.

Not a sign. Not a voice.

Just a whisper from within:

La ilaha illallah.

There is no god but Allah.

Again, and again, my lips moved with it.

La ilaha illallah.

And the crying softened.

And then, almost like a breath rising from the depths of me:

Inna ma‘iya Rabbi sayahdeen.

“Indeed, my Lord is with me, and He will guide me.”

I don’t know what happens next.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or what path lies ahead.

But I know this: He never left me.

Even when I felt furthest from Him, He was there.

Even in the dark, even in the silence — He was always there.

And sometimes, you only remember that at rock bottom.

Because it’s from rock bottom that you finally stop looking in every direction except up.

And when you finally do — you realise you’re not lost.

You were being drawn back.

Back to Him.

Back to truth.

Back to the only One who has never let you go.

All I have to do now…

is keep calling His name

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As Muharram Approaches: A Reflection from the Heart

As the sacred month of Muharram approaches, I feel a weight in my chest — a lump in my throat I can’t quite swallow. This is the month of mourning. The month in which Imam Hussain, the beloved grandson of our Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him and his family), was brutally martyred on the plains of Karbala.

This year, I feel it differently. I feel it deeply.

Last year, I had just embraced the path of the Ahl al-Bayt. I was still learning, still finding my footing as a Shia. But this year… this year, the grief feels alive. My soul recognises what is coming, even before the crescent appears.

Islam is a journey — and my journey into Shia Islam has transformed me on every level. Spiritually, emotionally, intellectually. And in this transformation, I’ve found myself drawn to the Ahl al-Bayt: to Fatima al-Zahra, to Ali, and above all, to Hussain — all through the luminous heart of our Prophet.

Knowing their stories, feeling their pain, honouring their sacrifices — it overwhelms me. My chest tightens with emotion. My eyes well with tears. And in this month of Muharram, everything is intensified. The pain is sharper, the sorrow heavier, the love stronger.

At Karbala, alongside Hussain, stood the most loyal and courageous souls: Abbas, his lion-hearted brother; Ali al-Akbar, his radiant son; Qasim, the brave young nephew; and so many others who gave their lives not for power, but for truth (Haqq).

And then there was Lady Zaynab.

Zaynab, the mountain of patience.

Zaynab, who stood amidst devastation — her family slaughtered, her brother’s head raised on a spear — and still said, “I saw nothing but beauty.”

How can one soul endure such loss, such horror, and still speak with that kind of strength, that unwavering dignity?

Her courage leaves me breathless.

This year, more than ever, I feel her words echo within me. I feel the pain of Karbala mirrored in the suffering of Gaza, where once again the innocent are slaughtered, where children die in the arms of their mothers, and the world looks away. The parallels are haunting. The injustice is unbearable.

And I wonder — how many in our Ummah have lost their hearts? How many have become so indoctrinated, so desensitised, that they cannot see the truth? How many dismiss what happened to the family of the Prophet as mere politics, when it was oppression, pure and simple? When it was the silencing of Haqq.

The pain of seeing people glorify those who stood against Ahl al-Bayt, or justify their crimes, is almost as heavy as the grief itself. It feels like betrayal. A betrayal of love. A betrayal of truth.

So this Muharram, I will withdraw into myself. I will sit with the sorrow. I will connect more deeply with Karbala. With the stories. With the legacy. With the heartbreak.

And like Lady Zaynab, I will strive to see beauty in it all.

Not because the pain is beautiful. But because the resistance, the courage, the unwavering stand for truth — that is beauty. That is love. That is Islam.

Ya Hussain.

Ya Zaynab.

Peace and blessings be upon all those who gave everything for truth

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🌙 “You Are Not Alone: Qur’anic Words for the Heavy-Hearted”

There are moments in life when the pain is too deep for words. When you feel buried under depression, weighed down by addiction, abandoned by family, or haunted by your past. You may wonder: Is there any light left for me?

If you’re in that place right now — silent, struggling, or barely holding on — this post is for you.

And these words are not mine. They’re from the Qur’an — words that never grow old, never expire, and were sent by the One who knows every wound you carry.

🌧️ When Life Feels Too Heavy

You might be tired of hearing “just be patient” or “it’ll get better.” Sometimes, those words sound empty — especially when your heart is breaking.

But Allah sees you. He knows what you’ve been through. And He doesn’t dismiss pain — He meets it with mercy:

“Verily, with hardship comes ease.”

Surah Ash-Sharh (94:6)

“Do not despair of the mercy of Allah.”

Surah Az-Zumar (39:53)

“Indeed, after difficulty, there is ease.”

Surah Ash-Sharh (94:5)

These are not promises from people — these are promises from the One who created your soul. Ease will come. Not in spite of your pain, but through it.

🕊 When You Feel Unworthy or Alone

Addiction. Shame. Repeated mistakes. Distance from faith. For many, these things become chains — making you feel like Allah has turned away from you.

But the Qur’an reminds us:

“Your Lord has not forsaken you, nor has He hated [you].”

Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:3)

“And He found you lost and guided [you].”

Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:7)

“He is with you wherever you are.”

Surah Al-Hadid (57:4)

Even if everyone walks away — even if you walked away from Allah — He is still near. Still listening. Still waiting to receive you with open mercy.

🌙 For Those Haunted by the Past

Maybe your past follows you like a shadow — family trauma, abuse, guilt, mistakes, betrayal. You wonder if you’ll ever be free. The Qur’an answers with both gentleness and power:

“Say, ‘O My servants who have transgressed against themselves, do not despair of the mercy of Allah.’”

Surah Az-Zumar (39:53)

“My mercy encompasses all things.”

Surah Al-A’raf (7:156)

Your story doesn’t end with your pain. Your story continues with His mercy.

🌿 For the Tired Soul

You may feel spiritually exhausted — disconnected from prayer, unable to focus, weighed down by your own sadness. You’re not alone in that either.

“Truly it is in the remembrance of Allah that hearts find rest.”

Surah Ar-Ra’d (13:28)

“And We are closer to him than [his] jugular vein.”

Surah Qaf (50:16)

“And your Lord is going to give you, and you will be satisfied.”

Surah Ad-Duhaa (93:5)

You don’t have to be perfect to be loved by Allah. You just have to keep reaching, even if all you can do is whisper.

✨ You Are Seen. You Are Heard. You Are Loved.

If no one has told you lately: you matter. You are not broken beyond repair. You are not unloved. You are not too far gone.

Your sadness is not a sign of weak faith. Your struggle is not a punishment.

It may just be the doorway to Allah’s closeness — one that opens in the dark, when no one else is around to see.

So hold on. One verse. One breath. One prayer at a time.

“Indeed, Allah is with the patient.”

Surah Al-Baqarah (2:153)

With you in spirit,

Asiya x

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Alhamdulillah for the Quran

Lately, I feel like I’m breaking in ways I can’t explain.

I’m carrying so much — in silence. The weight of it all presses down so hard some days that I can’t breathe. And the hardest part is feeling like no one really sees it. No one sees how much I’m holding together — the house, the responsibilities, the faith, the exhaustion. No one sees what it takes just to keep showing up.

And the truth is, I feel like I’m slipping. I’m struggling with my deen. Struggling with my iman. Struggling with my trust in Allah and in myself. I’m struggling to wear my hijab. Struggling to pray. Struggling to do the most basic things that used to feel like second nature.

Except for the Qur’an.

The Qur’an is the only thing I can hold onto right now. It’s the only thing that reaches me where I am. I find myself climbing into bed at night, utterly drained, but my hands reach instinctively for it. It’s become my anchor. The only thing that helps me sleep.

When the nightmares come — and they do, again and again — when anxiety floods my chest and threatens to drown me, it’s the Qur’an that quiets the storm. Its words calm something deep inside me. And more often than not, I fall asleep with tears in my eyes. Not because I’m broken… but because I feel this overwhelming peace, this mercy that I can’t put into words.

It’s like every ayah is speaking only to me. Like Allah is responding to the parts of me I’ve never spoken aloud.

And still, part of me keeps whispering, “You’re behind. You should be doing more. You’re not enough.”

But somewhere deep in my soul, I know those thoughts aren’t from Him.

Allah doesn’t measure me by how perfectly I perform.

He sees what no one else sees — the private battles, the quiet tears, the way I keep trying.

He saw the moments I wanted to ask for help, but didn’t, because I didn’t want to be a burden.

He saw me shrink myself, question myself, overextend just to feel worthy.

He saw the effort it took just to stay standing.

And maybe I’ve been asking for scraps — acceptance, peace, a sense of belonging — from places that were never meant to feed me.

But Allah… Allah is preparing something better. A place where I won’t have to fight to be seen.

Where I won’t have to earn love by exhausting myself.

I’m not falling behind.

I’m falling into the space He’s clearing just for me.

A place of stillness. Of truth. Of divine overflow.

This isn’t about becoming something new.

It’s about remembering who He already created me to be.

I don’t have to hustle to be worthy.

I don’t have to force anything to be loved.

I don’t have to figure it all out. He already has.

And maybe… just maybe…

It’s time I stop abandoning myself.

It’s time I choose me — the way He’s already chosen me.

Alhamdulillah for the Qur’an. For the peace it brings. For the way it finds me when I’m most lost.

Alhamdulillah for a Lord who sees me, hears me, holds me — even when I feel unseen.

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Coming back to Allah

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.

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My GrandFather’s Ummah: A Lament from Zaynab

They said they loved my grandfather.

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.

And I will speak.

For truth.

For justice.

For my grandfather’s Ummah that was lost.

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The Price of Awakening

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.

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“To the Spiritually Woke: You Are Not Who You Think You Are”

“To the Spiritually Woke: You Are Not Who You Think You Are”

by Ink and Intention

In an age where everyone claims to be awakened — bathed in incense smoke, steeped in divine feminine wisdom, draped in crystals and cosmic truth — it is bewildering to find that so many remain deeply asleep.

They chant about liberation, about rising consciousness, about the sacredness of all things. They speak of universal love, of goddess energy, of breaking ancestral chains. And yet, when faced with a people being bombed, starved, and erased in real time, they somehow manage to take the side of the oppressor — or worse, they suggest solutions that are nothing more than polite ethnic cleansing.

This morning, I encountered a few such voices. Sisters, supposedly. Spiritually awakened, allegedly. But what I heard from them wasn’t truth. It was empty, packaged rhetoric. They suggested that Palestinians should simply leave. That perhaps Libya could offer refuge. That somehow, the people of Gaza must want to leave this devastation behind.

Let me be clear: this is not awakening.
This is not alignment.
This is complicity.

To suggest that the people of Gaza — who have endured unimaginable violence, who have chosen to remain rooted on their land even as it is turned to rubble — would want to leave, is to expose just how far removed you are from truth. It is to misunderstand not only the political reality, but the spiritual force that binds them to their home.

They are not enduring this genocide because they lack options. They are enduring it because they refuse to give up what is sacred.

They stay because their land is not a piece of negotiable real estate. It is not something they can sell or exchange for safety. It is home. It is legacy. It is prayer and history and covenant.

Their grandfathers planted olive trees that still bear fruit. Their ancestors are buried in the soil they walk on. Every stone is part of their story. Every inch of land has witnessed their love, their prayers, their blood. This isn’t nationalism — it is a spiritual, historical, and divine relationship with the land.

And more than that — they stay because of tawakkul. Because of their trust in Allah, subḥānahu wa taʿālā. Because they know that every hardship, every death, every loss, is written. That there is no true safety except with Him. That even in the face of bombs and starvation, what matters most is not survival at any cost, but submission to the Divine Will.

They sit on the ruins of their homes not because they have nowhere to go — but because to leave would be to betray everything they believe in. Everything they’ve lived for. Everything they were entrusted to protect.

And you — you in the West, with your temples and your tarot decks, your moon water and your sacred baths — you dare to speak on this? You, who live in lands built on the blood of displaced peoples, dare to advise the oppressed to become refugees again?

You are not awakened.
You are not enlightened.
You are parroting settler-colonial logic with prettier words and softer lighting.

You speak of divine feminine energy, but you cannot recognize the raw sacred feminine power of a mother in Gaza holding her baby in the rubble and refusing to leave.

You speak of vibration and frequency, but you do not feel the frequency of truth in the voice of a father who has lost everything and still says, “Alḥamdulillāh.”

You speak of ancestors, but you deny the dignity of a people walking the same streets their great-grandparents walked, even if those streets are now bombed-out shadows.

You say Palestinians should leave. But where, exactly, should they go? Libya, which has been torn apart by Western war? Jordan, already overflowing? Egypt, whose gates remain closed? The very idea is absurd. And yet, more disturbingly, it is exactly what Israel wants: an emptied land. A silent Nakba. A second expulsion, disguised as a humanitarian gesture.

And you — in your spiritual self-righteousness — are carrying that message forward.

You want to talk about hostages. Fine. Talk about them. But talk honestly. Hamas has repeatedly said: “We will release every hostage, all at once — if the bombing stops.” But the bombing hasn’t stopped, because Israel doesn’t want peace. It wants submission. It wants annihilation. It wants silence.

And every time you repeat, “Why won’t they just leave?” — you’re doing its work for it.

You are not neutral. You are not compassionate. You are not spiritual. You are colonized. Mentally and morally colonized, dressed in the language of awakening but devoid of substance.

Being truly awake means understanding the weight of oppression. It means standing with the oppressed even when it makes you uncomfortable. It means dismantling your illusions, not reinforcing them with incense and ego.

Real consciousness demands that you understand this: the people of Gaza are not martyrs because they want to die. They are martyrs because they refuse to abandon life — real life — a life of honour, of faith, of rootedness, of resistance. Their lives are drenched in meaning. In sacred defiance. In belief.

You, on the other hand, are asleep. And worse — you think you’re awake.

If your version of spirituality does not include the oppressed, does not understand the holiness of land, does not weep for the children buried beneath rubble, then your spirituality is a lie.

So sit with your discomfort. Sit with your hypocrisy. Sit with the realization that you are not who you thought you were.

And maybe — if you’re brave enough — start again.

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Into the Cave, and Out Again

I’ve been walking this path for a while now — this journey of Islam, of returning and retreating, of losing myself and finding Allah again. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been smooth. But if I’ve learned anything over these years as a revert, it’s that falling off the path doesn’t mean you’re lost forever. Sometimes, falling off makes you return deeper. Not because turning away was good — it wasn’t — but because the return wakes something in you. It reminds you that you’re human, that you’re fallible, and that mercy waits for you regardless. That is the beauty of Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala.

I’m not one of those social media reverts with the glossy testimony. I haven’t married the perfect Muslim man. I’m still single. My children haven’t reverted, and I won’t force them to. We live in a respectful, balanced home, where compassion is a two-way street. My job isn’t to mold my children’s faith — it’s to live mine sincerely, to lead by example. And part of that example is honesty: Islam is beautiful, yes, but the journey isn’t always easy, especially not for reverts. The challenges often come not from the religion itself, but from the pressure and expectations of the ummah.

There was a time not long ago where I slipped into a period of very low Iman. I withdrew from people. I stopped showing up in ways I used to. And it felt dark. But in hindsight, I see now — that was Allah pulling me away from what didn’t serve me, drawing me into silence so I could hear Him again. Sometimes, you have to go into the cave to rediscover Allah in the darkness. And that cave, while lonely, is where your heart starts to beat again with sincerity.

When I stepped out again, I felt different. Stronger, somehow. Lighter. Closer. And with that return came a new pull — toward the niqab. I’ve worn it on and off over the past year, sometimes full, sometimes half, never consistently. But recently, my heart has been drawing closer and closer to it — not just as an act of devotion to Allah, but as a form of protection. Because that’s what it is: not a symbol of invisibility, but a shield. A way to step into the world with strength.

Living where I live — a very Western area where the streets flood with red and white after every football match — wearing the niqab isn’t easy. But it feels necessary. Which may sound like a contradiction. It’s not that I want to be seen. It’s that I want to be seen differently — or perhaps, not seen at all. My connection with the niqab has grown as my connection with Allah has deepened. It’s ironic in a way, but it’s real.

This morning, I joined a live with some incredible niqabi sisters — strong, grounded women who wear their niqab with confidence and sincerity. They weren’t judgmental. They weren’t rigid. They were kind and balanced, and they reminded me of the kind of woman I want to be. For so long, I avoided the niqab because of the criticism I’d faced: “If you’re not wearing it full-time, why wear it at all?” or “If you can’t wear it at work, what’s the point?” That harshness held me back. But today, I felt seen — by sisters who understand, who encourage, who support. Alhamdulillah for them.

And alhamdulillah for the women in our history who remind us what strength really is. One of the women I admire most is Lady Zaynab, the granddaughter of the Prophet (peace be upon him). A woman of fierce truth and unwavering courage. In the aftermath of Karbala, surrounded by loss and devastation, she looked upon the horror and still said, “I saw nothing but beauty.” Her strength, her steadfastness in the face of unimaginable grief, humbles me. It inspires me. She stood for justice, for truth, for faith — not just with her words, but with her presence. That is the kind of woman I want to be. When I wear the niqab, I wear it not just in devotion to Allah, but as a reminder of the women I come from — women like Zaynab.

So my niqab journey is just beginning. I don’t know what it will look like in the weeks and months to come. But I do know that it’s mine. It’s not perfection I’m chasing — it’s sincerity. It’s connection. It’s that quiet, unshakeable strength that only Allah can give.

And if I have to go into the cave again one day, I will. Because I know now — even in the darkness, Allah is there.