Tag: hijab

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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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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

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🌸 The Silent Cry of Sayyida Ruqayyah (as) — A Reflection

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.

Peace be upon you, O Ruqayyah bint Husayn.

You did not die in vain.

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Title: In Her Shadow: Reflecting on Hijab and the Legacy of Fatima (as)

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.

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💔 A Reminder for the Heart That Still Feels

“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.

Don’t waste it.

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Reflections on Peace, Presence, and the Weight of Masculinity

There’s something I’ve been sitting with lately — a quiet shift in how I understand the role of men, especially within the home. It came from a tafsir I listened to recently. Not a dramatic revelation, just one of those verses you’ve heard a dozen times before… until it suddenly lands differently.

The verse was about Adam عليه السلام in Jannah.

But what struck me wasn’t the story — it was the structure.

Allah addresses Adam directly. He tells him to reside in Paradise, with his wife.

Not the two of them together.

Not a joint command.

The instruction is to him alone.

And the word used — uskun — isn’t just about living.

It’s rooted in stillness. In serenity. In sukoon.

It made me pause.

Because even in a place like Paradise — where peace is already a given — Allah still places the emotional tone of the home on the man.

It’s subtle, but it’s massive.

Before leadership, before provision, before family or tests or legacy — the first responsibility given to the man was to bring calm. Not to rule. Not to fix. Not to control. Just to be a presence of peace.

I keep coming back to that.

Because in this world we live in — full of noise, demands, overstimulation, emotional exhaustion — that responsibility becomes even more sacred.

But somewhere along the way, the definition of manhood shifted.

Now it’s often about dominance, performance, withholding.

Presence is rare. Peace, even more so.

And what I’m realising is: emotional maturity in a man isn’t something you “build together.”

It’s something you either witness in him — or you don’t.

He either brings sukoon into the space… or he brings disturbance.

There is no in-between.

And when he brings chaos? When you find yourself constantly managing, soothing, shrinking just to keep things together — that’s not your role. It was never meant to be.

We, as women, weren’t created to carry the emotional climate of the home alone.

We shift, we soften, we unravel and rebuild. That’s how Allah made us — in cycles.

But peace in the home? That isn’t our burden to bear.

Not entirely. Not always.

I’ve seen too many women asked to become the stillness and the structure — while the men around them remain emotionally unavailable, unaware, or even volatile.

And that tafsir reminded me:

That’s not how it’s supposed to be.

Peace is a man’s responsibility too — from the very beginning.

And if he hasn’t cultivated it within himself first, he has no business expecting partnership.

Because the kind of peace I want in my life isn’t performative. It isn’t external.

It’s something a man carries.

Something that shows in how he speaks. How he listens. How he responds in silence.

Something that cannot be faked.

And if he doesn’t bring sukoon, he doesn’t belong in that role.

It’s really as Simple as that.

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This Muharram, I Choose to Live Authentically on the Haqq

This Muharram, I am not just making a promise — I am taking a stand.

A stand to live more authentically.

To walk with integrity.

To align my life with the Haqq — the Truth of Allah.

Authenticity, in its truest form, is not self-indulgence or rebellion. It’s submission. It’s aligning your soul with Divine truth, even when it hurts. Even when it costs you people, comfort, or belonging.

I’ve never really “fit in.” I’ve always stood out — but more importantly, I’ve always stood up.

I don’t turn a blind eye, not even to those closest to me.

Right is right. Wrong is wrong.

That’s something my parents instilled in me — a clear moral compass, no sugar-coating, no excuses, no loyalty to wrongdoing.

Just truth. Just justice.

And yes, it’s cost me friendships. People don’t always want truth — they want allegiance.

But you can’t be loyal to people and to truth when those two paths divide.

You have to choose.

This Muharram, I am choosing.

I am choosing to live like the Prophet’s family — the Ahl al-Bayt — who stood for truth even when they stood alone.

Who were not afraid to confront injustice, even when it came from within the ummah.

Who bore the weight of truth with grace and unshakeable resolve.

There’s a quote I carry in my heart:

“Stand for what is right, even if you’re standing alone.”

It has defined me for as long as I can remember.

And this year, it defines my path forward.

I no longer want to be around gossip, or people who thrive on low-vibrational energy.

If someone is comfortable gossiping to you, don’t think for a second they won’t gossip about you.

Authenticity requires discernment. And discipline.

So this Muharram, I walk forward.

Toward Allah.

Toward truth.

Toward a version of myself that fears no one but Him, and seeks no validation but His.

This Muharram, I am choosing to live upon the Haqq.

And I pray, by the end of this sacred month, I come out of it closer to Allah,

closer to Ahl al-Bayt,

and closer to who I was always meant to be:

authentic.

Unapologetically, faithfully, sincerely — for Him alone.