Feminism, at its core, is meant to champion the rights of all women — to protect their dignity, autonomy, and voice, no matter where they come from or what they wear. But where are these voices when hijabi girls are beaten, stabbed with pens, and left in critical condition simply for being visibly Muslim?
Recently, a disturbing attack took place in the U.S. — three young Afghan girls, still in school, surrounded by more than twenty students. They were assaulted, their hijabs torn off, their bodies violated — not just physically, but symbolically. This wasn’t just bullying. This was a hate crime, an act of Islamophobia, misogyny, and racism all in one. Yet the silence from feminist and women’s empowerment groups is deafening.
Why is it that the moment a woman covers herself, she is no longer seen as worthy of protection? Why does her choice to wear a hijab disqualify her from sisterhood in the eyes of the West? These so-called “goddess collectives” and “mystery schools” preach divine feminine energy and women’s freedom — but that freedom, it seems, is conditional. Conditional on how much skin we show. Conditional on whether we fit into a Western mold of liberation. Conditional on whether our choices look like theirs.
To wear a hijab is not to be silenced. To cover is not to be caged. But the Western media constantly paints Muslim women as oppressed, even when they speak for themselves. This narrative is a form of colonial feminism — one that claims to uplift but instead erases and excludes.
Real feminism should be expansive. It should stand for the girls in hijab just as loudly as it does for the girls in crop tops. It should mourn the wounds of Afghan students as passionately as it would any other act of violence against women. If your feminism has borders, if it only fights for women who reflect your own lifestyle, it is not feminism — it is a performance.
Where are the voices now? Where are the protests, the candlelight vigils, the viral hashtags?
We will not be silent. We will not let this hypocrisy go unchecked. Our hijab is not a symbol of oppression — but your silence might be.
Yesterday was one of those physically demanding days — the kind that pulls everything out of you, body and soul. In the past, I might have ignored the toll it took, brushing off my aches and tiredness. But after spending the last two years navigating chronic illness, I’ve learned to listen. Now, when I know I’ve pushed myself, I follow it with a day of intentional self-care — a day of rest, healing, quiet, and reflection.
And this, too, is Islam.
So often we forget that our religion is not just about salah and fasting and hijab in isolation. Islam is meant to be lived as a whole. It is not a religion of pieces, but a way of life — a holistic path that integrates the body, the mind, the heart, and the soul.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said: “Your body has a right over you.” (Bukhari)
We often quote it, but how often do we live it?
In my journey, I’ve seen people say things like:
“At least she’s praying, even if she doesn’t wear hijab.”
“At least she wears hijab, even if she’s not praying five times a day.”
But I think we need to gently challenge that mindset.
Yes, of course, growth takes time. And yes, everyone is on their own path. But we’ve created this culture — especially online — where Islam is accepted in fragments, like checklists of visible deeds, instead of a deeply rooted, living relationship with Allah that encompasses everything. A relationship that changes the way we speak, think, eat, rest, dress, pray, and even heal.
People often say, “You can’t do everything at once.”
But I ask: Why not?
When people embrace Christianity, they receive a rosary, wear a crucifix, go to church, accept the belief and the symbols that go with it.
So why, when we accept Islam, do we shy away from doing the same?
This was our choice. No one forced us. We chose Islam — so shouldn’t we try, with love, sincerity, and effort, to embrace all of it?
That doesn’t mean perfection. It means wholeness. It means acknowledging that just as prayer is important, so is sleep. Just as wearing hijab is an act of worship, so is feeding your body nourishing food. Just as dhikr soothes the soul, so does silence and slowing down. Islam doesn’t pit the physical against the spiritual. It teaches us to honour both.
The Qur’an reminds us:
“And do not forget your share of the world.”
(Surah Al-Qasas, 28:77)
Take care of your worldly needs — your health, your family, your mind — while seeking the hereafter.
“Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear.”
(Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:286)
This is not an excuse to give up, but a reassurance that we are always equipped for the path we’re on — especially when we walk it with intention.
“Indeed, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest.”
(Surah Ar-Ra’d, 13:28)
Hearts, not just minds. Our hearts need nourishment, too — not just through rituals, but through gentleness, reflection, and rest.
So today, I rest — and that rest is not laziness. It is worship. It is trust. It is healing.
And tomorrow, I’ll walk forward again, in shā’ Allāh, trying — not to be perfect — but to be whole.
Because Islam is not a piece of clothing, or a single prayer. It is a whole way of being. And I want to live it fully, not just in parts.
“Blessed is the One in whose hands rests all authority, and He is Most Capable of everything.”
The very first word of this verse, Tabāraka (تَبَارَكَ), comes from the root baraka, meaning to grow, to increase, or to overflow with goodness. Today, it is often translated as “blessing,” but in the context of Allah, its meaning is far richer. It refers to a unique kind of divine abundance — a pure and supreme goodness that originates from Allah and is spread throughout His creation. He is not only the source of blessings, but also the One who distributes them with wisdom and mercy.
This divine barakah is often visible in the world around us — in nature, in our sustenance, in moments of ease — signs designed to awaken our awareness and appreciation of Allah’s presence. The word Tabāraka, used right at the beginning of Surah Al-Mulk, sets a profound tone for the rest of the chapter. It reminds us that Allah’s blessings are not separate from His authority; they are part of the very fabric of His kingship.
The term Al-Mulk refers to absolute dominion — complete control over the heavens, the earth, and all that lies between and beyond. The use of the definite article “Al” (meaning the) emphasises that this is not just any kingdom — it is the kingdom. Everything that exists falls under His rule, and every individual is both created and sustained by Him.
The verse concludes by describing Allah as Qadīr, which comes from the root Qadara, meaning to decree, to measure out, or to determine. It highlights that Allah’s power is not just limitless but also precise and purposeful. He doesn’t just have power — He uses it with wisdom, and nothing is outside His ability.
This concept of divine barakah — of Allah’s overflowing goodness — is found throughout the Qur’an. One of the most beautiful examples is in Surah Al-Isra (17:1), where Allah refers to Masjid Al-Aqsa in Palestine:
”… to al-Masjid al-Aqsa, whose surroundings We have blessed (ٱلَّذِى بَـٰرَكْنَا حَوْلَهُۥ)…”
Here, the phrase “baraknā ḥawlahu” — “We have blessed its surroundings” — refers to the sacred land of Palestine, showing us that the barakah of Allah is also tied to places, not just people or moments. This land has witnessed the footsteps of prophets and carries a spiritual weight recognised and preserved in the divine text.
So from the grandeur of divine rule in Surah Al-Mulk to the blessed lands mentioned in Surah Al-Isra, the concept of barakah weaves through the Qur’an like golden thread — pointing us always back to Allah, the Most Generous, the Most Capable, and the source of all true increase.
It is delusional to think that as a woman, I’m only free if I strip down, show off, and serve a society obsessed with my body.
I chose the hijab—and sometimes the niqab—not out of fear, not because a man told me to, and certainly not because I was forced. No one told me to put it on, and no one gets to tell me to take it off. Like the majority of women who wear it—especially reverts like me—I made that choice with full awareness and full agency. And I’m not alone.
You say we’re oppressed?
Either we’re oppressed because we hide our bodies from the sick and perverse male world, or we’re ‘free’ because we expose ourselves to it? That’s not freedom. That’s a narrative. And it’s one I no longer serve.
What is actually delusional is believing that Western society has freed women. Let’s talk about real oppression:
Let’s talk about eating disorders bred by impossible beauty standards.
Let’s talk about women having to sexualize their bodies just to sell products, win attention, or feel validated.
Let’s talk about wage gaps, objectification, and being told our worth lies in how desirable we are to men.
Let’s talk about a society where girls are groomed by screens to believe they are never enough unless they perform.
You want to talk about freedom? That’s not it.
Covering isn’t about shame. It’s not about erasing myself. It’s about reclaiming my autonomy, my space, my peace. It’s not freedom to serve the perversions of the white European man—nor anyone else. That’s just a new kind of slavery.
Even within Islam, there are women who say I shouldn’t cover my face. And just as I accept their journey, they must accept mine. Islam doesn’t erase individuality. It embraces choice—with accountability.
So no—I’m not oppressed. I’m empowered. And the real tragedy is that the people shouting the loudest about saving me are the ones who can’t see the chains around their own necks.
Across all religions, there’s a common thread: when we’re in need, we turn to God. We’re taught to make dua, to pray, to call on Him when life feels heavy or uncertain. And it’s true—those moments of surrender, when we realise how little control we really have, often bring us closest to the Divine.
But how often do we turn to Allah just to say thank You?
Gratitude is more than a feeling—it’s a way of being. It’s not just about saying “Alhamdulillah” when something good happens. It’s about living in a state of awareness and appreciation, even when things feel ordinary. Because the truth is, nothing is really ordinary. Waking up each morning is a gift. Having food on the table is a blessing. Feeling the warmth of a loved one’s voice, the safety of a roof over your head, the ability to move through your day—these are things we can so easily overlook.
And yet, they’re everything.
For me, living a life of gratitude means living a life of openness. When we express thanks for what we already have, we open the door to receive more. It’s a cycle—giving thanks softens the heart, and a soft heart is a heart that receives. Gratitude is one of the most powerful acts of worship, because it doesn’t come from a place of lack, but from fullness. It says, “I see what You’ve given me. I acknowledge it. I honour it.”
So when we make dua for something we desire, we should also take time to make dua for something we’ve already been given. Before we ask, we must remember to thank. And not just in hard times, or in those moments of desperation—but in the quiet times too. In the everyday moments where everything feels okay.
Because that’s when true gratitude lives.
Personally, every morning when I wake up, the first thing I say is Alhamdulillah. Not out of habit, but from a place of real knowing—He allowed me to wake. That alone is reason to be grateful. Whether it’s unexpected good news, a moment of peace in a noisy day, or simply the blessing of still being here, breathing, witnessing—it all deserves thanks.
Alhamdulillah for everything I have.
Before I ask for more, I remember what already fills my hands.
There’s a rise of women in these spaces calling themselves fierce, calling themselves warriors—but what I’m seeing isn’t strength. It’s ego. It’s being dismissive, controlling, unwilling to hear any view but their own.
That’s not power. That’s not maturity. That’s not sacred.
When you shut down conversation, when you bulldoze anyone who doesn’t mirror your beliefs—you’ve narrowed your mind. That’s the very definition of being closed off. And that kind of self-righteousness? It kills growth.
When you’re unwilling to be questioned, you can’t evolve. When you attack others publicly because they dared to disagree, you’re not holding space—you’re holding a megaphone. It’s not compassion. It’s not truth. It’s a performance.
I’ve watched this for years. I didn’t just dip my toes in—I was in it. I held red tents when they were first beginning. I trained women to hold space before it became trendy. I used to run full festivals where genuine embodiment was the heartbeat of the work. We had deep trainings that prepared us for this path—how to recognise ego dynamics in circles, how to stay anchored, how to listen.
And now? I’m watching women pass through, cherry-pick bits of what they’ve seen at those festivals or trainings, glue them together into a “program,” run it for a while—and it fizzles. Because it’s not rooted. It’s not real.
It wasn’t born from the heart. It was born from the desire to make money. And when something comes from ego—it will collapse. Every time.
I stepped away from all of this over a decade ago. I saw it imploding even back then. I saw the packaging, the rebranding, the endless cycle of women copying each other’s work, selling it on again with a new name. It lost its heart. And I couldn’t be part of that.
But now I’m watching it burn down—and I need to speak.
This isn’t a callout post. This is a warning to younger sisters: Be discerning. Don’t confuse volume with truth. Don’t confuse polished branding with integrity. There’s a poison leaking into what were once sacred spaces. And if we stay silent, that poison spreads.
These spaces were always meant to be safe. They were meant to be nurturing. They were meant to promote growth, to support free thinking. Because while there may be a common goal in the collective, each individual’s journey is sacred and unique. There’s no one-size-fits-all model to empowerment. This push of “either you agree with me or you’re wrong” has to end. Two truths can coexist. Multiple truths can coexist. And that’s what so many women locked in this warrior-blindsided mindset need to remember.
But amidst all of this—there are women I deeply respect. And I can count them on one hand. I’m actually wearing a scared shawl by one of these very women in my picture, one of many I own as I respect the heart in her work.
So who are these women? They’re not the loudest. They’re gentle. They’re rooted. They’ve done the work. They’ve moved through the fire and come out the other side softened, not hardened.
They don’t even realise what they carry is wisdom—because to them, it’s just life. Just love. Just truth. They glow differently. Their words feel safe. Their work moves differently.
They took time. They let the teachings settle in their bones before they passed anything on. They bloomed in private before ever teaching in public. And to those women—I tip my hat. You’re the ones carrying the medicine.
So no—I’m not angry. I’m not bitter. I’m just deeply sad. Sad that what was once sacred is now a stage. Sad that rage is mistaken for empowerment. Sad that performance has replaced presence.
And no, we don’t need to go back to dancing around the fire. We need to move with the times, but stay anchored in our bodies. Rooted in humility. Grounded in love.
That’s what this work was always meant to be.
And this isn’t just happening in the spaces of feminine mysteries or red tents or embodiment circles. It’s happening in Islamic spaces too.
There’s a growing wave of Muslim women calling themselves coaches, mentors, guides—selling empowerment from an Islamic lens. And yet so many of these offerings are neither rooted in real feminine work nor grounded in actual Islamic knowledge.
They pull from hadith that may not even be sahih. They draw loosely from teachings that have been molded to support a personal narrative, not a divine one. And while they call it Islamic life coaching or Islamic mentoring, what you’re often getting is a confused blend of empowerment language and selective religious references.
It’s not empowerment. It’s not scholarship. And it’s certainly not sacred.
And I say this with love—but also with clarity—because I’ve walked both paths. I’ve trained in the feminine mysteries. I’ve held sacred space long before it became fashionable. And now I walk the path of Islam, too.
So I see it. The gap.
You can’t sell female empowerment in the ummah if you’ve never truly walked that path. Because that path isn’t born in textbooks or on Canva slides. It’s born in the body. In blood. In grief. In rites of passage that tore you open and rebuilt you from the inside out.
And in the world of Islamic female empowerment—most of that is missing.
You’re trying to empower women through a patriarchal framework—and yes, Islam grants women rights Western feminism still doesn’t—but the spiritual empowerment people are trying to create here doesn’t quite have a place in the tradition as it stands. Not in the way it’s being packaged.
Because the divine feminine? The goddess current? The womb as a spiritual portal? That’s not part of Islamic theology. And if you haven’t lived and understood that current deeply, you can’t pretend to translate it into a sharia-compliant package.
It doesn’t work. It confuses. And it quietly disempowers while selling the illusion of growth.
So this is me speaking—not from bitterness, but from deep, heartbroken experience. From the trenches of real sacred work. From the path of witnessing what happens when ego tries to masquerade as spirit.
It’s time we remembered the difference. And honoured it.
It began raining this afternoon—soft at first, then steadier, almost as if the sky had been holding something in and finally let go. I stood by the window and just watched. I’d been making du’a all day—some of it quietly on my tongue, and some of it just sitting there in my chest, like a knot that needed untangling. I didn’t even realise how constantly I’d been calling out until the rain came and something in me softened.
You know, in Islam, these are not mere coincidences or empty sounds from the sky. Thunder and rain are seen not just as weather, but as signs—ayat—from Allah. Subtle and mighty. They speak in a language deeper than words, and sometimes they say exactly what the heart needs to hear.
The Qur’an says that thunder glorifies Allah. That verse always moves me. The idea that thunder isn’t just noise—it’s dhikr. Worship. It’s glorifying the One who controls everything. That roaring sound that shakes the air? It’s not chaos. It’s praise. Even the angels, we’re told, follow it in awe of Him. That changes everything for me. It makes the storm feel like a prayer in motion.
And rain… rain is mercy. It’s a reminder that something soft and life-giving can fall from the heights of the unseen. Surah An-Nur tells us how Allah gathers the clouds, layers them, and brings forth rain. It’s not a random process—it’s orchestrated. Carefully, lovingly. And it’s said that when it rains, du’as are more likely to be accepted. So when the drops began to fall this afternoon, I couldn’t help but wonder: is this Your way of answering me? Of letting me know You heard me?
I think sometimes Allah responds in ways only our hearts can translate. A feather. A verse. A breeze. A conversation that hits the right chord. Or rain—quietly soaking the earth and something within me at the same time.
Imam Ja’far as-Sadiq (peace be upon him) said that nothing is without meaning. And so I choose to see the signs. Not because I’m desperate for proof, but because I believe in a God who sees me in my stillness. In my longing. In my quiet, constant prayers.
I opened my laptop, ready to write after a month of Ramadan, a month of seeking closeness to Allah. But I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. Not because I had nothing to say, but because there is too much—too much horror, too much betrayal, too much rage.
Instead, I find myself sharing images, videos, anything to get the truth out. The speed of this genocide has shifted into high gear, and the world is still watching, still doing nothing. I see things most will never see, images that burn into my mind, that keep me awake at night. And I have never been so angry. Never felt so helpless.
How did we get here? How did we let it come to this?
And worse—how do we stop it?
This is a time of reckoning, a time of unbearable weight on the conscience of the world. What is unfolding in Gaza is not just another conflict—it is a genocide in real-time, with the slaughter of innocent men, women, and children playing out before our eyes. It is a slow, deliberate extermination of a people, while those in power lie, cover up, and betray not just the Palestinians, but their own citizens, their own so-called democratic values.
The West, with its grand proclamations of human rights and freedom, has been unmasked. The governments that claim to champion justice and democracy are either complicit or cowardly, and the people are left screaming into a void. Protests, once a force of millions, dwindle in numbers. The outrage is still there, but the exhaustion is setting in. And so we ask, again and again—what is the answer?
Were we ever really in control? Did we ever have a say, or were we simply pacified, led to believe that our voices carried weight when in truth, the scales have always been tipped in favor of those who wield power through oppression? Perhaps the real illusion was that we were ever part of the equation at all.
Some say history repeats itself, but maybe it never ended. Maybe World War II wasn’t the end of an era of genocide but the blueprint for what we see now. The very horrors that justified the creation of Israel are now being used to justify its crimes. And yet, the world remains silent or, worse, cheers on the slaughter. The propaganda machine has done its job well—dividing, conquering, twisting reality until truth itself is seen as an act of rebellion.
In the UK, we see this sickness manifest in other ways. Hate-fueled mobs target immigrants, burn buildings, barricade people inside—because anger, when misdirected, becomes a weapon for the powerful. Instead of rising against the true oppressors, people are manipulated into fighting each other. This is by design. It has always been by design.
And so, we return to the question—how do we stop this? Can we? Or has the balance of power tipped so far that resistance is nothing more than an echo in the wind? As an Ummah, as a global community, where do we turn when our voices are drowned out, our efforts dismissed, our people slaughtered without consequence?
If there was ever a test of humanity, of faith, of perseverance—it is now. And yet, the fear remains: What if we fail? What if we already have?
Life is filled with decisions—some small, some life-changing. Often, we stand at a crossroads, unsure which path to take. In these moments, we turn to Istikhara, a prayer not for signs, but for facilitation. It is a means of surrendering our limited knowledge to the One who already knows what is best for us.
But Istikhara is often misunderstood. Many people believe they must sit and wait for a sign—a dream, a repeated number, a sudden message from the person they’re seeking guidance about. They analyze every small detail, searching for meaning, when in reality, the answer is already unfolding before them. The true response to Istikhara is not in symbols or coincidences, but in what Allah facilitates—or prevents.
The beauty of Istikhara is that your decision is not just guided—it is made easy for you. If something is right for you, Allah smooths the way, brings it closer, and blesses it with barakah. It will feel like a door naturally opening, like the pieces of a puzzle effortlessly falling into place. But if it is not meant for you, obstacles will arise. No matter how much you push, it will not come together. You may be blocked, redirected, or even distanced from what you thought you wanted. This is your answer. Yet, because of ego, attachment, or fear, we often refuse to see it. We mistake resistance for a test, when in fact, it is divine protection.
Many of us become so fixated on waiting that we forget to live. We pray Istikhara and then sit still, expecting the answer to drop from the sky. But Istikhara is not passive—it requires movement. If you have prayed, made your decision, and entrusted it to Allah, the next step is action. You must move toward what you seek. Only through action will you see if Allah is facilitating your path or closing it off.
Istikhara is not just about seeking an answer—it is about trusting the answer when it comes. It is a tool of calm, a practice of surrender. In praying it, we translate faith into action. We place our heads on the ground in sujood, admitting our weakness, our lack of knowledge, our inability to see the full picture. And in that moment of submission, we testify to His supreme knowledge of what the future holds.
With Istikhara, we are not left to navigate uncertainty alone. We are given the comfort of knowing that whatever happens next—whether the path is made easy or closed off—is exactly what was meant for us. And there is no greater peace than that
Seeking Sakina 