Spring is beautiful in Islamabad. The air is crisp, and the sun is warm. We are sitting inside our favorite cafe, surrounded by laughter and happy faces and the “clink clink” of cups and mugs and cutlery. I notice through my blurry vision that my husband, Talha, and my daughter are wearing the same color, “twinning.”
Dear younger me, Reverting to Islam is one of the most life-changing decisions you ever made for yourself. Remember ten months ago—you were sitting in a hospital room, wondering where your life would go after wanting to commit suicide.
Six years ago, I was broken, a shell of myself and I had the wrong understanding of Allah.
There were days when I questioned everything, days when the world was so heavy, the only reason I got out of bed was because two little eyes and a bundle of hair appeared by my side every morning. Telling me she needed me—and the guilt kicked me awake.
My maamu gets this look in his eyes when he peers into his telescope—a look of longing. A poet and an astronomer all in one, he was a boy with a notebook full of Urdu shairi and philosophical musings who grew into a man that chose a life of stability, of paying the bills.
Three of us would fit on a twin bed. The soft glow from the crescent moon lamp on the wall was the only light
Legs shaking and eyes darting over new terrain—the dark, starry sky envelopes me like a thick blanket.
I sit, I have sat, I am sitting still—seven years in—the grown-up child of a sick-bed sleeping parent, loosened, shifted, transformed, transmuted in my grief. Labels sting me.
I stand on my privilege and ask my sadness: what is it doing here? How dare it exist in this space when I’ve only uttered this phrase a handful of times?
Thoughtful reads. Writing prompts. New pieces.
It just might become your favorite email in your inbox, insha'Allah.
