Tag: muharram

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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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This Muharram, I Choose Truth — Even Here

It’s the first few days of Muharram,

and already I find myself at war —

not with anyone else,

but with the voice inside me that says, “You’re fine. Just hold it together.”

Yesterday, I was sitting in the dental waiting room, waiting.

The smell hung in the air — sharp, sterile, suffocating.

My chest tightened. I felt sick.

My instinct was to run, or pretend I was okay.

They told me fourteen teeth must be removed.

That the infections in my jaw —

years in the making from Crohn’s and chronic illness —

are serious enough to need partial dentures.

That some of the work might have to be done in hospital.

That because of my past sepsis,

and how likely it is to return,

the risk of dental sepsis is high —

and if it happens, survival is only fifty-fifty.

My world cracked open.

And still, I was expected to nod. To cope.

To thank the dentist and walk out strong.

But inside, I was breaking —

quietly, invisibly, again.

The sharp clinical tang still lingers in my memory, fueling panic. I’m unraveling inside, still on the outside.

Like a girl with her sock slipping halfway off in her shoe —unseen, uncomfortable, fidgeting for peace.

And yet, I remind myself:

I’ve walked through fire with steady steps.

So why does this feel like too much?

People see me as strong —the one who holds it together, no matter what.

Do I tell them I’m spiraling?

Or do I keep the mask in place, again?

This “strong one” persona —

it’s a trauma response, I know.I learned early that needing no one was the safest way to exist.

But this Muharram, I promised myself something different: to live with more honesty. To let go of performance. To stop hiding behind strength that costs my peace.

This is one of my first tests.

To sit in my discomfort. To name it. To not shrink away from it —not even here, in this small, anxious moment with slipping socks, shaky breath, and quiet vulnerability.

Because this, too, is a battlefield.

And this, too, is where authenticity begins.

Karbala is not only a place.

It’s every moment I choose truth over silence,

faith over fear,

softness over survival mode.

This, too, is a battlefield.

And this Muharram, Karbala lives in me.

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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.

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This Muharram, I remember her…

This Muharram, I remember her…

Zaynab, the daughter of Ali,

the echo of Fatimah,

the flame that did not flicker

even when the tents were burning.

She did not weep in defeat.

She wept as a witness.

She stood in the court of tyrants

not with fear,

but with fire.

And when asked what she saw that day,

what remained after Karbala,

she said:

“I saw nothing but beauty.”

So this month,

when my grief rises,

when the world feels heavy with injustice,

when loneliness settles on my skin—

I will think of her.

I will speak like her.

And I will remember:

Truth walks even when trembling.

Dignity survives even in chains.

And loyalty to Allah

is never lost.

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

Muharram has arrived again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We forgot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is a deep, unspoken hypocrisy in our outrage.

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

We are willing to mourn—but not to question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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