Recent events have reminded me that trust is not only fragile—it is sacred.
I am someone who keeps my guard up with intention. So choosing to engage in a daily gratitude practice with another person was not casual or performative; it was a meaningful act of trust. In Islam, what is shared in private is an amanah. It is not content. It is not material. And it is certainly not something to be repurposed publicly without consent.
When that trust is broken, it is not only permissible to speak—it is allowed to defend oneself. Islam does not require silence in the face of harm. Allah permits the one who has been wronged to name that wrong, without excess or injustice. There is a difference between backbiting and boundary-setting. There is a difference between slander and truth.
What deepens the hurt is not only the breach itself, but the mindset behind it: a way of moving through the world where other people’s vulnerability, words, and creative labour are treated as resources for visibility. Where being seen and heard is prioritised over being ethical. Where integrity is sacrificed for relevance.
We are living in a time where many call themselves “on a healing journey,” yet use that language as cover for careless behaviour. Healing is not branding. It is not selectively done. It is not completing only the comfortable parts of the work and abandoning the rest. Surface healing avoids accountability. Deep healing requires discipline, humility, and the willingness to sit with one’s own shadows rather than exporting them onto others.
True healing does not leave a trail of wounded people behind.
I choose to respond without cruelty, but also without self-erasure. I will continue to make duʿāʾ for those who act from unhealed places—that they are granted the courage to do the deeper work, and that they do not repeat these harms with others. But making duʿāʾ does not mean accepting injustice, and forgiveness does not mean silence.
Integrity is shown not by what we claim to be, but by how we treat what was entrusted to us when no one is watching.
And Allah is Witness over all trusts, all intentions, and all accounts.
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.
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.
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—
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.
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,
As the anniversary approaches to honour this little girl I’m struck by the core similarities between her and the children of Gaza like them She was only a child — just four years old, some say even younger — yet her name echoes through the centuries with the weight of grief and sanctity.
Sayyida Ruqayyah bint Husayn (as), daughter of the Master of Martyrs, walked a path that no child should ever walk — the path from Karbala to Kufa, and then to Damascus, shackled not by her own sins, but by the cruelty of those who tried to extinguish the light of the Prophet’s family.
She was born into light, into love — the cherished daughter of Imam Husayn (as) and a grandchild of Fatima al-Zahra (as). Her small world was filled with the fragrance of worship, truth, and purity. But the love of Ahl al-Bayt came with a price in a world intoxicated by power and tyranny.
On the 10th of Muharram, she witnessed what no soul should bear: her father standing alone in the desert, bleeding yet radiant, calling for help that never came. The cries of “al-‘atash!” — “I am thirsty!” — from children like herself, still echo. And when her beloved father fell, she no longer had anyone to shield her from the storm.
Dragged in chains through the streets of Kufa and Shaam, Sayyida Ruqayyah was not only a prisoner of Yazid — she became a witness. Her small voice, her cries for her father in the dark prison cell, pierced the hearts of even the cruel. And when they brought her the severed head of Imam Husayn (as) in a cold box, her tiny heart could bear no more. That night, she left this world, reuniting with her father in the Hereafter, where there are no chains, no pain, no parting.
💔 Her Story, Our Mirror
Ruqayyah’s story teaches us that innocence is not always protected in this world, but it is always honored by God. She reminds us that even the smallest among us can bear witness to great truths, and that grief itself can be a form of resistance.
In her cries, we hear the voice of every oppressed child. In her shackles, we see the cost of speaking the truth in a world ruled by falsehood. And in her martyrdom, we are reminded that Allah sees the brokenhearted, and that the oppressed will rise again — with dignity, with divine reward, and with their names forever engraved in the hearts of the faithful.
🌹 What Can We Learn?
Love for the Ahl al-Bayt must be active — it must move us to speak out against injustice, to comfort the vulnerable, and to uphold truth no matter the cost. Spiritual strength does not depend on age. Even a child, nurtured in faith, can bear immense trials with patience and purity. Grief is not weakness — Ruqayyah’s tears became a testimony that outlived empires. Our pain, too, can be a form of worship when it is rooted in love for Allah and His chosen ones. Martyrdom is not always on the battlefield. Sometimes it is in the prison cell, in the silent suffering, in the dignity of a soul that refuses to bow to tyranny.
May we never forget her.
May we raise our daughters with her name on our tongues and her light in their hearts.
And may we meet her, one day, in a place where no children are ever hurt again — in the gardens of Jannah, under the mercy of Allah, near the ones who were never afraid to stand alone for truth.
There are days when the scarf feels heavier than cloth. When it clings to the back of my neck under the weight of a summer sun, or when the air feels thick with judgment—from within and without. I’ve had my struggles with hijab. I won’t pretend otherwise. I’ve wrestled with questions, with shame, with the feeling of being visibly other. But through it all, there’s one figure who keeps returning to me, like a soft light breaking through my own confusion: Fatima al-Zahra (as).
Fatima. The daughter of the Prophet ﷺ. The woman whose dignity is remembered not just through her words, but through her silence. Through her modesty. Through the way she carried herself even when the world turned its back on her. I think about her a lot—especially on the hard days.
When I wear the hijab, I often feel like I’m stepping into her legacy, one fold at a time. Not perfectly. Not always confidently. But with a kind of quiet love. It’s strange, because the hijab can sometimes feel like a battleground—especially as a revert, especially in the West. But then I remind myself: it was never about performance. It was about presence. Being before Allah in a state of humility, and letting that humility bloom into strength.
What’s more, lately I’ve been walking down the street and seeing sisters in niqab—full black, flowing, unapologetically radiant under the same boiling sun I’m hiding from—and I’m just… in awe.
These women are fierce. Fearless in the most graceful way. Choosing modesty in a culture that constantly ridicules it? That’s strength. That’s freedom. That’s power. And I see you. Every single one of you out there doing it in this heat, choosing haya over ease—you are my inspiration.
Sometimes I feel like I’m dragging myself through this journey—one pin, one fold, one step at a time. But then I remember Fatima. How she walked to the masjid to speak truth to power, covered head to toe, her modesty not muting her, but amplifying her voice. How even in her death she requested privacy. A woman who never needed a stage to shine—her light came from her nearness to Allah. That’s the legacy I want to be part of.
Hijab doesn’t erase us. It refines us. And I’ve come to realise that every time I struggle and still choose to wear it, I’m part of something sacred. Something ancient. Something revolutionary.
This isn’t just fabric. It’s a flag. It’s a love letter to Fatima.
And on the hardest days, that’s enough to keep me going.
I’ve been thinking about this so much. It’s now been more than 640 days since the genocide began on October 7, 2023—over a year and eight months of devastation now playing out openly. In that time, countless voices—from UNRWA, global healthcare leaders, human rights advocates, legal experts—have stood up and declared: this is genocide. Yet our governments persist in refusing to acknowledge it.
I have to believe that those who deny it are in the minority—because if they were the majority, then humanity is lost, quite frankly. It also means we’re closer than we should be to complete moral collapse.
And yet, what do we see instead? People making effigies, burning boats, sanctioning violence against helpless children at airports—slamming them to the ground into comas—just because of where they’re from. Who is fuelling this hate? Why is it not being challenged openly by our governments? And most shockingly—why is Israel being allowed to commit genocide live on our screens, with no accountability, no consequences, and total impunity?
What is it our governments refuse to see? Do they think these videos and images are fabricated? Or do they simply believe this is “war”—the way war has always been, and they’ve become numb to horror? Do they not realise this is new: the first time we are watching genocide as it happens, in real time.
How many more tragedies must we witness this way before it becomes too late to stop it? This alone is why I don’t soften the language—I refuse to treat genocide like it’s just another conflict. Because to live another day using the word war—when humanity itself is at stake—is beyond forgiveness.
So what’s the Real Reason People Don’t Change – And Why It’s So Dangerous Now
I’ve been thinking a lot about something I just witnessed — and really, something I keep seeing over and over in society. It’s this deep resistance people have to being challenged. Especially when it comes to their beliefs, their politics, their culture — their sense of what’s “right.” The minute you try to correct them or offer another way of seeing things, something switches inside them. It’s like you’re not just disagreeing — you’re insulting them. And suddenly, they become rude, defensive, aggressive.
But I don’t think it’s about rudeness on the surface. I think it comes from a much deeper place — a kind of insecurity. Maybe from childhood, from being told they weren’t smart enough. Maybe from fear. Maybe from a lifetime of tying their worth to being right. And when that’s the case, any challenge to what they believe feels like you’re telling them they’re stupid. That they’ve failed. And that’s when the ego steps in.
Some people live their whole lives not knowing this is what they’re doing. Others do know, but they cover it up with a loud persona — ego, arrogance, even superiority. You see this a lot among the wealthy, among people with power. But honestly? It’s not just them. You see it across all classes. Especially in people who lack self-awareness, who can’t sit with being wrong.
And I genuinely believe — hand on heart — that half of society’s problems today come from this.
This inability to say, “You might be right. Let me think about that.”
This unwillingness to be uncomfortable.
This fear of having your worldview shaken — even when your worldview is harming people.
We see it most painfully right now with this genocide happening in Gaza. People who are wide open, deeply informed, and morally awake are screaming: This is ethnic cleansing. This is mass murder. This is apartheid. And yet we are met — again and again — with blank stares, with arguments, with people saying “No, it’s complicated. We support Israel.”
It’s like watching two different realities play out.
And the question I keep asking is:
How do we get these people to open their eyes — without triggering their defensiveness?
How do we speak truth without it sounding like an attack?
It’s hard. It’s exhausting. And sometimes it feels impossible.
But I’ve learned a few things.
You don’t change minds by force. You plant seeds. You speak clearly, but not with cruelty. You ask questions instead of throwing accusations — not because they don’t deserve confrontation, but because if the goal is change, shame doesn’t always get you there. And most of all, you speak not just for them — but for the ones who are listening quietly. The ones who are still open.
Because maybe they’re the ones who will carry the truth forward when others refuse to hear it.
“Surely, in this is a reminder for whoever has a heart, or who listens while he is present [in mind].”
— Qur’an, Surah Qaf (50:37)
There are verses in the Qur’an that don’t just speak—they pierce. This is one of them.
It doesn’t ask if we’ve memorised the words.
It doesn’t ask if we’ve debated the meanings.
It simply asks: do you have a heart that still feels?
Because sometimes, we move through life numb—alive in the body, but asleep in the soul. The Qur’an calls out, not just to be read, but to be witnessed. It speaks of nations destroyed, of death and return, of the unseen and the inevitable. But none of it will matter unless something inside us stirs.
This verse draws a line between those who remember and those who are too distracted to see what’s right in front of them. Between those whose hearts are soft enough to tremble, and those whose ears are deafened by noise. Between those who are truly present, and those who are just… passing time.
“He who has a heart”—not just one that beats, but one that breaks, hopes, longs.
“Or gives ear”—not just listens, but yearns to understand.
“And is a witness”—not just looks, but sees with insight.
Some of us don’t need more signs. We need to slow down long enough to feel the ones already around us.
The sunrise you rushed past.
The ache in your chest when the Qur’an mentions death.
The moment you knew Allah was calling—but didn’t answer.
That was a reminder.
Maybe this verse is a mercy. A final knock on the heart’s door before it hardens completely.
If you’re still moved by these words, still stirred by a verse, still able to cry in secret when no one sees… then your heart is still alive. And that, my friend, is a gift.
Seeking Sakina 