Tag: god

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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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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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Judging vs. Advising: A Line Often Crossed, But Not Erased

In Islam, we are taught not to judge others harshly. “Perhaps the one you mock is more beloved to Allah than you.” We are reminded to advise with gentleness, to call one another to good with wisdom and sincere intention. But there is a difference between sincere advice and turning a blind eye to what openly harms the ummah.

When a Muslim sins privately, we cover it. When someone struggles inwardly, we extend compassion. But when sin is made public—boasted, normalized, glamorized—especially by influencers with massive platforms, it becomes more than personal. It becomes influential. And that matters.

There is a grave difference between someone stumbling in private, saying “I am human,” and someone publicly flaunting haram under the guise of being relatable. Sins don’t become less damaging just because someone says, “I know I’m flawed.” And being human doesn’t mean making Islam look hollow.

When a man parades his haram relationship online, only to later claim the woman took her shahadah on the same day they married—it raises red flags. The shahadah is sacred. It’s not a tool for marriage; it’s a declaration of truth. A soul should embrace Islam for Allah, not for love or status or a ring.

And yes, when someone takes their shahadah, their sins are wiped clean. But the path forward should reflect change—not a continuation of the same lifestyle. Leaving inappropriate photos, behaviour, and messages online while calling yourself Muslim misrepresents the deen, and misleads thousands who are watching.

People often say, “Only Allah can judge.” And yes, that’s true. But when something is done publicly, the ummah has the right to speak, because silence in the face of public harm is not piety—it’s passivity. Public platforms carry public responsibility. If you influence others, you’re accountable for what you normalize.

So no, it’s not “judgment” to speak out. It’s naseeha. And in a time where followers are more loyal than faith, the ummah must remember: Islam is not a brand. It’s not aesthetics. It’s not content. It’s a way of life. And that way deserves to be respected—not distorted for views.

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For the sake of Allah.

There is a Version of Us That Longs for Allah, a version of us we hold in our hearts—a version that prays all five Salah on time, that opens the Qur’an every morning before the world wakes, that speaks gently, forgives quickly, and walks humbly. That version of us dreams of a home built on love and taqwa, where faith is the center and peace feels endless. That version of us longs to be near to Allah in everything.
But this dunya—this chaotic, relentless dunya—often gets in the way.
There’s work. There are children. There are dishes in the sink, aches in the body, expectations from society, and parents who need us. There are deadlines, doctor appointments, errands, and days when we can barely catch our breath—let alone open the Qur’an with presence.
And somewhere in between all that, we whisper: Ya Allah, I’m trying.
Sometimes we think we’ve failed, because we can’t be that “perfect” Muslim we imagined. But maybe the failure isn’t in what we do—it’s in what we expect. Islam was never meant to be a burden. The Prophet (sallallahu alayhi wa sallam) came to make it easy, not overwhelming.
Still, we push ourselves to change overnight, to abandon entire lifestyles in a moment, and then wonder why so many reverts and born Muslims alike feel burnt out. But Islam is a path. A journey. One that accommodates fatigue, grief, trauma, and real life.
This is why the five daily Salah matter so much. They’re a gift, not a task. Just 50 minutes a day—less than an hour to stand before the One who gives us every hour. If we can’t give Him that, then maybe the question isn’t about time. Maybe it’s about what we’re prioritizing in our hearts.
Still, even in our imperfection, Allah is Merciful. He knows our struggles. He sees our broken efforts. And He never demanded perfection—just sincerity.
So we try. Not to impress anyone. Not to meet impossible standards. But for His sake alone.
Because that’s what for the sake of Allah really means—to keep going, even when it’s hard, because our love for Him is greater than the chaos around us

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“I Am Not Less Than”

Lately, I haven’t wanted to write.

The words that once poured so easily now feel like strangers.

I’ve been carrying the weight of trauma — old wounds reopened and new heartbreaks too raw to name.

And in the middle of it all, I’ve been editing myself.

Self-editing.

Holding back, trimming down my truth.

It reminds me of my days in print — how we’d slice a piece until it fit.

But this time, it’s not paper I’m trimming. It’s me.

And I feel invisible.

I’ve felt invisible for a long time.

And when you feel invisible long enough, even your voice begins to disappear.

There were moments I thought I had left —

or worse, that Allah had left me.

But the truth is, this has been a test.

A hard, sacred test.

I’m beginning to see the patterns now.

When I pull away.

When I stop wearing my hijab.

When I chase validation from people instead of seeking the pleasure of the One who created me.

That’s when I feel the most lost — because I’m trying to impress the creation, not the Creator.

And it’s only now, through deep reflection, I’m beginning to understand:

I’m not too sensitive.

I’m not broken.

I’m not depressed.

I’m struggling.

And it’s not a bad life. It’s just a hard day.

And even in that — I am still Muslim.

Still loved by Allah.

Still worthy.

We have to stop the mindset that tells Muslims they’re “less than” if they’re not perfect.

I don’t always pray Fajr.

Sometimes I sleep through 20 alarms and an adhan  ringtone.

I don’t read Qur’an every single day — that’s why I joined a Qur’an group.

I don’t always wear abaya — it’s not always practical for the work I do.

And on some days, when the nosebleeds and headaches hit, I can’t even bear to wear my hijab.

But if I can extend myself grace, I know without a doubt that Allah already has.

He is:

Ar-Rahman – The Most Compassionate

Ar-Raheem – The Most Merciful

Al-Ghafoor – The Most Forgiving

Al-Lateef – The Most Gentle

Al-Hakeem – The All-Wise

If He, in all His Mercy, still counts me worthy —

then why am I letting people convince me otherwise?

Especially other Muslims.

We need to stop weaponising Islam against each other.

Stop measuring worthiness by rituals alone.

Islam is not a checklist.

It’s a connection.

It’s a returning.

And returning often starts at our lowest — when we realise just how far we’ve fallen.

That’s where the sincerity begins.

Because it’s not just about ticking off your five daily prayers, or reciting a random surah.

It’s about your heart.

Your relationship with Allah.

Your desire to deepen that bond.

Because without that, we’re just living Islam on a surface level.

Yes — it’s especially hard when you’re visible.

When you’re known, followed, or watched.

You become a target.

And it hurts.

I recently told a sister, who was being abused for wearing hijab, that it’s okay to take it off if it means protecting herself —

especially when she’s alone, in her car, with her children, being shouted at by strangers.

That’s not just okay — it’s Islamic.

“And do not throw [yourselves] with your [own] hands into destruction.”

(Surah Al-Baqarah 2:195)

This is not about abandoning hijab.

It’s about protecting yourself.

Understanding your context.

Caring for your heart.

So this piece, for me, is a reflection.

I’m going through a lot — and that’s okay.

I drop the ball — and that’s okay.

I give my energy to people and things that don’t deserve it — and I’m working on that.

This dunya is temporary.

And so are the people in it.

And if someone or something is pulling me away from my focus,

from my purpose,

from my closeness with Allah —

then they have to go.

Because anything that pulls you away from your path,

clouds your clarity,

or steals your peace —

is not your qadr.

Right now, I’m standing at a crossroads.

I have decisions to make.

And I don’t make decisions under pressure.

So I’m turning to Allah — again and again and again.

Because I don’t know what’s next.

But I know the One who does.

And that is enough.

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I no longer believe that God rejects my prayer because I wear nail polish.

There’s something that’s been weighing on me for a long time, and I’m ready to say it out loud: I no longer believe that God rejects my prayer because I wear nail polish.

It sounds ridiculous when you say it plainly — but it’s a real thing, something Muslim women are told all the time. “Your prayer isn’t valid.” “It won’t be accepted.” “You need to remove it for wudu(ablution).” It doesn’t matter how sincere you are, how ready your heart is, or how desperately you need to stand before God — if you’ve got polish on your nails, you’re told you can’t pray.

But here’s my question: Who gets to tell me that my prayer isn’t accepted by God? They’re not God.

The more I sit with that, the more I realise how absurd it sounds. Islam teaches that God is Ar-Rahman, the Most Compassionate. Ar-Raheem, the Especially Merciful. A God who is closer to us than our own jugular vein. And yet, I’m supposed to believe that He would reject me because of a few microns of varnish?

I don’t buy it anymore.

And no — there is no verse in the Qur’an that says nail polish invalidates prayer. There is nothing in the Qur’an that even directly talks about it. All it says is to wash your face, arms, wipe your head, and wash your feet before prayer (Surah Al-Ma’idah, 5:6). That’s it. The idea that polish blocks water from reaching the nails is an interpretation — one made by male scholars in pre-modern times, long before breathable polish or the nuanced understanding of materials we have today.

But more importantly: the idea that God would dismiss a prayer because of nail polish — or makeup, or a tattoo, or anything superficial — is a human idea, not a divine one.

And let’s be honest — these rules disproportionately affect women. Men don’t have to worry about their appearance in the same way. They’re not told to scrub off a part of themselves to be worthy of prayer. This is part of a wider issue: so much of what we’ve been taught about religion came from patriarchal structures, from scholars who — though well-intentioned — never lived our lives, never had to carry the weight of being both a woman and a believer.

Some of the hadiths that people quote about cleanliness or prayer came hundreds of years after the Prophet. They were filtered through generations, through political climates, through human biases. And while there is deep wisdom in some of them, we have to be brave enough to ask: Is this really from God? Or is this from men?

Because I believe in a God who knows my heart. A God who sees me in my mess, in my struggle, in my quiet faith. A God who doesn’t need me to be scrubbed, perfect, or bare to come near Him — He just wants me to come.

And when I do? With nail polish on, mascara smudged, and life pressing hard on my shoulders?

I believe He hears me. I believe He accepts me.

And that is enough.