Tag: faith

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Living Miracle

The Living Miracle

“The Qur’an is a living miracle — still challenging hearts and minds today through its timeless ability to awaken faith and conviction.”

Revealed over fourteen centuries ago, the Qur’an remains untouched, unmatched, and undefeated. No word has been altered, no verse replaced, and no human being has ever risen to meet its challenge. Its language is both eternal and near — immutable in perfection, yet accessible to every sincere seeker.

What makes the Qur’an unlike any other text is that it speaks to the soul as much as to the intellect. Its verses move with the rhythm of truth — at once a warning and a healing, a command and a comfort. Its language carries divine precision; every letter placed by the One who knows the depths of the human heart.

And as humanity grows in knowledge, the Qur’an unfolds still deeper layers of meaning. Its verses remain the same, yet their wisdom expands — revealing new signs, softening hearts once hardened by pride, and guiding minds once lost in confusion. It is not bound by time or culture; it meets every generation anew, whispering the same message: Return to your Lord.

The Qur’an transforms those who open themselves to it. Its recitation soothes the restless heart, its reflection humbles the intellect, and its commands illuminate the path of righteousness. It awakens the sleeping soul — reminding us that faith is not inherited but discovered, not memorised but lived.

To hold the Qur’an is to hold a living conversation with Allah — a miracle in sound, meaning, and mercy. It does not age. It does not fade. It continues to breathe life into hearts willing to listen.

For the Qur’an is not merely a book to be read, but a light to be lived by — a divine miracle that still speaks, still challenges, and still transforms.

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Taqwa — The Awareness That Awakens the Heart

Taqwa is the essence and purpose of faith — the awareness of Allah in every moment, every thought, and every choice. It is knowing that He sees, hears, and knows everything — even the most hidden corners of our hearts. This awareness is what guides our actions, shapes our character, and anchors our souls.

Taqwa is not merely the avoidance of sin; it is the conscious effort to seek what pleases Allah. It means acting with intention — obeying, worshipping, and striving for His approval — not out of fear of punishment alone, but out of love, reverence, and hope in His mercy.

It is the balance between hope and fear: hope in Allah’s infinite compassion that draws us nearer, and fear of His displeasure that guards us from heedlessness.

Taqwa is the fruit of faith — the proof that belief is real and alive. True faith is not confined to words; it breathes through our actions and transforms our hearts. A person with taqwa aligns their heart, mind, and deeds with divine guidance, walking gently but firmly upon the path of truth.

So how do we develop taqwa?

We begin with knowledge — gaining understanding of Allah, His names, His attributes, and His commands in the Qur’an and Sunnah.

We deepen it through reflection (tafakkur) — observing the signs of Allah in creation and within ourselves, recognising His provision and mercy in every detail of our lives.

We nurture it with worship and patience — through prayer, fasting, charity, and consistent acts of devotion that keep the heart connected to Him. Small and sincere deeds build the strongest foundations.

We sustain it through remembrance (dhikr) — repeating the words SubhanAllah, Alhamdulillah, La ilaha illallah until they soften our hearts and quiet the noise of worldly distractions.

And we purify it through repentance and self-correction — turning away from sin, acknowledging our shortcomings, and returning to Allah with humility and hope.

The signs of taqwa appear in the quiet choices we make: when we choose right over wrong, when we feel peace in obedience, and when we feel unease in the face of sin. It is found in preferring Allah’s pleasure over societal approval, material comfort, or fleeting desires.

Taqwa is God-consciousness in thought, word, and deed.

It is the living pulse of faith — the awareness that keeps the heart awake, humble, and steadfast upon the path to Allah.

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The Rhythm of Divine Mercy

Today, while studying the Qur’an, I was reading through Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:25, and I came across something that sparked deeply within me — almost like a divine connection. I realised that Surah Ash-Sharh (94:6) and Surah Al-Baqarah (2:25) are intimately connected.

Surah 94:6 describes the rhythm of Divine Mercy — the ease intertwined with hardship — when Allah says, “Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” And Surah 2:25 shows the fruit of that very rhythm: a heart that becomes like a garden, nourished from within because it trusts in Allah’s promise and continues doing good.

Every time you believe despite fear, every time you act righteously despite pain, you are watering that inner garden Allah has promised you. That is the ease within hardship — the beginning of Paradise already growing in your heart.

This rhythm is how Allah nurtures the heart: hardship humbles, purifies, and turns us toward Him; ease restores, heals, and allows the soul to breathe again. Both movements are part of the same Divine breath — the gentle rhythm through which Allah brings the believer closer to Him

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Knowledge may fill the mind.

But wisdom shapes the soul.

A Reflection for My Fellow Revert Sisters

Sometimes, as reverts, we feel small in comparison to those who seem to know everything about Islam — who can recite the Qur’an flawlessly, quote hadith by heart, and remember every lesson. We may worry that our journey is incomplete, that our understanding is lacking.

But the truth is, the beauty of this path is not measured by memory or perfection. It is measured by the depth of our hearts, the sincerity of our reflection, and the way the Qur’an takes root within us.

With this in mind, I want to share a letter to my fellow revert sisters — a reminder that wisdom is found in the heart, and that your connection to Allah is unique, precious, and enough.

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A Letter to My Fellow Revert Sisters

My dear sisters,

There is something I want to share with you, especially for those of us who came to Islam later in life. Many of us carry a quiet worry in our hearts: “I don’t know enough. I can’t remember enough. I’ll never catch up to those who were born into this faith.”

I want you to pause here, take a breath, and let me tell you — you are not less. Not in the sight of Allah. Not in the value of your journey. Not in the weight of your worship.

There is a difference between reading to gain knowledge and reading to gain wisdom. Knowledge is about remembering facts, recalling names, and reciting details. It makes a person seem knowledgeable, and there is goodness in that — but it is not the full picture.

Wisdom is something gentler, deeper. It is not measured by what the mind can store, but by what the heart can hold. It is not about carrying every verse in memory, but about letting even a single verse move you, shape you, and become part of your soul.

As reverts, we do not need to compare ourselves to those who can recite the Qur’an from beginning to end without stumbling or pausing for breath. That is their gift, and it is beautiful. But your gift may be different — and it is no less. You are not any less than somebody who can recite the Qur’an from beginning to end without taking a breath. What matters most is to understand the Qur’an in the same way you feel your heartbeat — constant, alive, and within you.

The Qur’an itself reminds us:

“None will grasp its meaning except those firmly grounded in knowledge.” (3:7)

And Imam Ali (as) taught us:

“Knowledge is of two kinds: what is heard and what is practiced. That which is heard does not profit if it is not practiced, but that which is practiced is knowledge indeed.” (Nahj al-Balaghah, Saying 366)

So let this bring peace to your heart. Do not measure your worth by what you can recall on command, but by how sincerely you live what you have understood. One verse lived is greater than a hundred verses recited without reflection.

For some, knowledge is stored in libraries of memory. For others — especially those who cannot retain details easily — wisdom is carried in a different way. It is carried in the heart, in the quiet understanding that stays with you long after the words have faded.

Knowledge may fill the mind.

But wisdom — wisdom shapes the soul.

With love and solidarity,

From one revert sister to another

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Duʿa

O Allah, make us among those who are firmly grounded in knowledge,

those who live the Qur’an with sincerity,

who practice what they understand,

and who carry Your words in their hearts

as steadily as the beating of their own hearts.

Āmeen.

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Al-Raqīb and Al-Shahīd: Walking in the Awareness of Allah

So I’ve been struggling with my iman recently, as many of us do time to time and I have decided to work on that connection by reflecting upon the names of Allah to deepen that bond and increase my knowledge.

Some recent events have made me choose the following for a very specific reason. It’s easy to fall into the trap thinking we are not being watched when we don’t wear the hijab or we choose not to pray or when we speak or act in a way that doesn’t align with our usual self or morals but we are seen and our actions are witnessed;

God is always watching over you (4:1)

Among the beautiful Names of Allah are al-Raqīb — the All-Observant, and al-Shahīd — the Witness. These two Names remind us of a profound truth: Allah is always present, always aware, always watching over His creation. The Qur’an tells us, “And be patient, for indeed, you are under Our watchful Eye” (52:48). In another verse, Allah asks us gently but firmly, “Does he not know that Allah sees?” (96:14).

Al-Raqīb is the One who observes every detail, nothing escapes His care or His knowledge. He is not only the Watcher from afar, but the One who holds all things in His gaze with wisdom, precision, and mercy. Al-Shahīd is the One who bears witness — to our actions, our words, and even the quietest whispers of our hearts. He is the ultimate Witness who will testify to all that has passed on the Day of Judgment.

Yet, alongside this watchfulness and testimony, Allah is also al-Laṭīf — the Subtle, the Gentle, the Kind. His watching is not cold or harsh, but full of care. His witnessing is not simply record-keeping, but an expression of His closeness and concern for us. To know Him as al-Raqīb and al-Shahīd is to never feel abandoned or unseen. We are, at every moment, under His compassionate gaze.

When we remember these Names, we are invited into the practice of murāqabah — spiritual mindfulness, the awareness that Allah is near, that He sees and knows what is within us. This awareness is what nurtures ihsān, the state of worshipping Allah as if we see Him, and if we cannot see Him, knowing with certainty that He sees us.

Living with this consciousness softens us. It encourages us to guard our thoughts, our words, and our deeds — not out of fear alone, but out of love, reverence, and gratitude. It reminds us to be responsible and caring, especially toward those whom Allah has entrusted to us — our families, our neighbours, even the blessings and property in our care. Just as Allah is the Watchful and the Witness, we too are called to be mindful and trustworthy in our daily lives.

And so, these Names do not burden us — they free us. They remind us that we are never alone. Every sigh, every effort, every tear, and every silent prayer is seen, heard, and remembered by the One who is the All-Observant, the Witness.

But this awareness also poses gentle questions to us:

How mindful are we of our everyday actions? How careful are we with the words we release into the world? How sincere are the intentions we carry in our hearts? And how present are we with Allah, the One who is always present with us?

In remembering al-Raqīb and al-Shahīd, may we learn to live with greater consciousness, greater sincerity, and greater love — under His ever-watchful, ever-compassionate eye.

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Art is a soul’s surrender to Allah—a dance of sabr and tawakkul.

Art is the purest expression of the soul. It doesn’t have to be perfect, and you don’t need to have everything planned when you start—only Allah in your heart. This morning, after a really tough week of struggling, I woke up feeling divinely guided to create. I don’t know where this piece will go or what the end result will be, but every time I stand at my table with the Qur’an softly playing in the background, I know I am being gently led. Whatever this art is meant to teach me will become clear when it’s complete.

I’m especially pleased that I’m using texture in this piece—texture gives the work depth, dimension, and complexity, just like in life and in Islam. Texture reminds me that things aren’t always smooth or simple; there are layers to our faith and to our experiences that add richness and meaning. Just as a textured canvas invites us to see beyond the surface, Islam invites us to look deeper, to turn back again and again, to reflect and adjust our path.

The journey in Islam is much like creating art. It’s not about perfection, but about returning, making small shifts, stepping back to see the bigger picture, then moving forward with renewed intention. Allah says, “Indeed, with hardship comes ease” (Qur’an 94:6), and Rumi beautifully reminds us, “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.” The lessons, like the layers of texture, reveal themselves in time, if we trust and surrender.

Standing at my table, I feel that same sacred dance of patience and surrender—the journey of faith and creation unfolding hand in hand, with Allah as the ultimate Artist guiding every stroke.

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Space For Grace

From One Sister to Another

When we first find Islam, the joy can be so overwhelming that it feels as if our heart might burst with light. The tears, the peace, the relief—it’s unlike anything else. But then, sometimes quietly and unexpectedly, the feeling shifts. The light feels dimmer, the joy feels heavier, and a voice inside whispers, What have I done?

This is something we don’t talk about enough. Maybe because many Muslims born into the faith can’t fully understand what it’s like to have to change everything—the way we walk, talk, think, dress, and live—almost overnight. For us reverts, the transformation is monumental. And while our Shahada marks the most beautiful moment of our lives, it is not the finish line. It is the starting point.

Yet too often, instead of gentle hands guiding us, we meet pointed fingers correcting us. Mistakes are met with judgment rather than patience. The space for grace feels too small, when in truth, it should be vast and wide enough for every single step of our journey.

I’ve seen sisters lately speak of wanting to take off their hijab, of feeling like they’ve jumped too far, too fast. As if they’ve been dropped into the deep ocean of Islam without a life raft. And I want to say to them: Dear sister, you are not just a drop in the ocean. The entire ocean is within you. (Rumi)

It’s natural to feel this lull. It’s natural to feel overwhelmed, even sad. But remember the words of the Qur’an:

      Allah is enough as a friend, and Allah is enough as a helper. 

                      Quran (4:45)

If you are feeling lost, hold on to that truth—your closest, most loyal companion is Allah Himself. And from me to you: my door is always open. I understand your struggles because I’ve been there—not once, but many times. I’m still learning. I’m still growing. I’m still striving to be a better Muslim.

You don’t have to know everything today. You don’t have to have it all perfect. You took your Shahada—that is your first step. Everything else will come in time, with patience, prayer, and the grace of Allah.

So, my dear sister, breathe.

You are exactly where Allah meant for you to be.

Every stumble is a step,

every tear is a prayer,

every moment you stay is a victory unseen.

You are not failing—you are unfolding.

And one day, you will look back and see

that Allah was carrying you all along,

gently, patiently, lovingly…

until you could stand,

lift your head,

and smile from the depths of your heart as you say—

Yes. I am Muslim.

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A Full Moon, A New Chapter, A Dua

This morning, under the light of a full moon, I felt the closing of a chapter in my life. The full moon is a powerful symbol — not a time to manifest, but a time of completion, gratitude, and release. It marks the moment to let go of what no longer serves, and to prepare the heart for what lies ahead.

As a revert, I have come to understand that it is not necessary to discard everything from my past life. There are threads of meaning that can be woven into the fabric of my faith — as long as Allah remains at the centre. The moon is one of those threads. What once held deep significance for me now takes on a new meaning — not as a source of power itself, but as a creation of Allah, a sign pointing back to Him.

Islam, too, holds the moon in its rhythm. The lunar calendar guides our days of Ramadan, marks our Eids, and determines the sacred days of Hajj. The moon is not to be worshipped, but honoured as part of Allah’s perfect creation — a reminder of the cycles of time and the constancy of His presence.

Tonight, as the full moon shines brightly overhead, I reflect on the words:

“Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth…” (Qur’an 24:35)

In this light, I find peace in the path ahead — not through wishing or manifesting, but through sincere du’a, trust, and gratitude.

This full moon reminds me to honour Allah’s creation, to be thankful, to let go, and to open my heart to a new chapter illuminated by His light.

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Islam doesn’t belong in the west

You can’t avoid it anymore.

Open any comment section — whether it’s a hijabi doing something mundane, a revert sharing their journey, or just a post mentioning the word “Islam” — and it’s there.

The same slogans.

The same hate, dressed up as patriotism:

“Go back to your country.”

“This is a Christian nation.”

“Islam doesn’t belong in the West.”

And if you’re unfortunate enough, you don’t just read it — you hear it in real life too.

Sometimes muttered under breath.

Sometimes shouted with rage.

Sometimes wrapped in “friendly advice” or passive-aggressive conversation.

What shocks me isn’t that the hatred exists — it’s how deep it runs.

It’s not just ignorance.

It’s a mindset that assumes faith should follow bloodline.

That religion is a cultural artefact — not truth, not revelation, not guidance.

They say:

“Why don’t you just believe in the God of your people?”

As if God belongs to certain nations more than others.

As if your soul is supposed to stay in line with your passport.

But let me ask you:

Does guidance come with a national anthem?

Does truth depend on the colour of your flag?

I didn’t choose Islam because it was familiar.

I chose it because it was true.

Because in the quietest, most honest moments of my life —

when I stripped everything back and stood alone before God —

I knew I had to follow what was right.

Not what was easy.

Not what made sense to others.

But what was true.

Faith isn’t something you inherit like an accent.

It’s not a family recipe passed from generation to generation.

Real faith is discovered — through searching, struggling, questioning.

Through being brave enough to ask:

“Is this really the truth, or just what I was told?”

And sometimes, that journey leads you far from everything you knew.

Away from what feels safe.

Toward something that calls to your soul with clarity — even if the world around you doesn’t understand.

That’s what people don’t realise about reverts.

We didn’t stumble into Islam.

We fought for it.

We walked away from the familiar.

We lost relationships, identities, even parts of ourselves —

not out of rebellion, but out of obedience.

Obedience to what’s right.

To what’s eternal.

To Allah.

So when people tell me that Islam doesn’t belong in the West,

I ask — where exactly do you think the truth is supposed to belong?

Because the truth doesn’t recognise borders.

It doesn’t speak only one language.

It isn’t British, or Arab, or Pakistani, or African.

It’s Divine.

And when it reaches your heart — no matter where you are —

you follow.

So no, I won’t shrink my faith to make you more comfortable.

I won’t apologise for leaving behind what I outgrew.

And I won’t pretend that truth can be limited by culture, country, or expectation.

I chose Islam with open eyes and a sincere heart.

And no matter what continent I live on,

no matter what assumptions people make —

I’m home with Allah.

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To My Dearest Sisters,

To that sister in the abaya.

To that sister who’s trying.

To the one who left behind everything she knew, and still sometimes wonders where she belongs — I see you.

But more importantly, Allah sees you.

You weren’t always like this. Maybe you were the hoodie and jeans type, the one who never imagined herself wrapped in an abaya. Maybe dressing modestly doesn’t feel natural yet — maybe it even feels like a costume some days. But still, you put it on. Still, you showed up. Not for people. Not for praise. But for Him.

That alone speaks volumes about your heart.

You’re a revert. You left behind a life, a mindset, a world — and now you’re walking a new one, brick by brick, often alone. And some days, it hits you hard: the loneliness, the confusion, the weight of not quite fitting in anywhere. Your īmān dips. You question whether you’re doing enough, whether you even belong here. You wonder: Who am I now?

Let me tell you, from one sister who knows that feeling too well — you are not lost. You are not an imposter. You are in the middle of becoming.

We don’t talk enough about this part of the revert journey. The quiet grief of leaving behind your old life. The silent tug-of-war between who you were and who you’re trying to be. The courage it takes to obey when everything inside you is still catching up.

And yet, even in that chaos, you chose Allah.

“Allah chooses for Himself whom He wills, and guides to Himself whoever turns to Him.”

(Qur’an 42:13)

He saw something in you — even when you didn’t see it in yourself. You didn’t stumble into Islam. You were chosen, handpicked by the Most Merciful. And if He brought you here, He will carry you through.

But here’s the reminder we all need:

This journey isn’t about how others see you — it’s about how deeply you turn to Allah.

It’s not about being perfect. It’s not about looking the part. It’s about seeking Him with a sincere heart.

So when it gets too loud, when the dunya pulls you back, when the whispers say you’re not good enough — quiet them with dhikr. Drown them in sujood. Let your heart fall in love with your Lord again and again.

“So flee to Allah.”

(Qur’an 51:50)

Turn to Him not just when you’re strong, but especially when you’re weak. That’s when He is closest.

You don’t have to be graceful. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to keep going.

You in your abaya, unsure but sincere.

You in your prayer, dry-eyed but trying.

You, choosing obedience over comfort.

You, learning to let go of this dunya, piece by piece.

That is strength. That is beauty. That is īmān.

So focus your gaze, your heart, your everything — on Him. Not on the world. Not on your past. Not even on the version of you that you haven’t met yet.

Because in the end, it was always about Allah.

And He is always enough.

With love, understanding, and du‘ā’ from a sister who truly sees you,

Your sister,

U.A. Noor