Over half the students from last year dropped out.
As our teachers predicted, the majority of students would not come back after the first year. Last semester, at least 150 of us sat in an auditorium room for the three year Associates Degree program. Now, maybe thirty women and fifteen men divided by a barrier are cramped in a small and narrow classroom. We huddle shoulder to shoulder, trying to fit our coffee cups, notebooks and bags on the thin desks. Despite the minimal room, the class hums with anticipation, brought together by the shared goal of seeking knowledge, a thirst for learning, or perhaps simply just not wanting to quit what we started.
In our first class, Sciences of Quran, Mufti asks us to write down our intentions for the year. “Why did we come back?” he asks in his friendly Scottish accent. “What is motivating us to study Islam? And don’t just write ‘the free chai,’” he jokes.
He passes down a pad of light blue sticky notes. I tap my pen on the desk, thinking about the question.
Why am I here?
I think of the friends I made during my time here. The way I had made dua when I moved to Michigan six years ago, asking for a community, and then a year later, this facility opening up. I think of the feeling of fulfillment these classes give me. I think of my daughter, who has been on this journey with me since before she was born. I was pregnant with her during the first year, my pregnant belly growing with each class that passed.
“You can hand the notes to the front, and I’ll read them inshaAllah” Mufti says. Ruffles of paper and clicks of pen caps float down the classroom and a familiar fear sets in the pit of my stomach. I still haven’t written anything. In haste, I write “I’m here for my daughter, so I can pass on what I learn and be a role model for her.” I fold the paper and pass it to the sister in front who is waiting with her hand outstretched.
Mufti reads some of the intentions out loud and tells us to write them in our notebooks so we can return to them at the end of the year. Just then, a girl hurries in and sits down next to me, whispering “sorry,” as I shuffle my chair to the side. She’s wearing a kuffeyah hijab, one that I also own, tucked away in my closet. I look down at my paper, where I’ve written my intention down. This isn’t my intention.
Well, yes, my daughter is a driving force in so many things that I do. But I remember something, something I heard, and I realize the ‘why’ behind driving 40 minutes to class two times a week. It’s because of something I heard a year ago that has stuck with me ever since, even without the memory of who said it and where.
“The ummah is like one body, when one part feels pain, the whole body feels it.”
— (Sahih Al-Bukhari)
A hadith often quoted, especially during the past two years as we watch in agony the struggles of Gaza. But what I think of isn’t just the hadith, it’s what was said afterwards. That if the whole ummah is as one, then it is not only pain that connects us—it’s everything. Our experiences, our struggles, and more importantly, our strengths. If we are weak in one part of our body, we can become weak in other areas too. Yet if we strengthen one part, then the rest of us gains from it as well.
Simply put, if we work on our iman as individuals, if we come closer to Allah, if we fortify our hearts and minds, then this can then benefit the rest of our body; the rest of the ummah. We look around the world and see our brothers and sisters suffering at the hands of evil. We see Gaza completely alone. And so we protest and share news and donate. But what we don’t realize is that even with our daily actions, we can contribute to the state of the ummah.
I take out my pen and cross out the words I initially wrote with a straight line. Maybe it seems far-fetched, maybe it’s to make me feel better. But it is a hope that I hold on to and I pray for it. I pray my actions benefit others, in this life and the next. I pray that every salah, every dua, every drop of knowledge learnt, counts not just on my scales, but for the betterment of the whole. I pray we as an ummah can come together in a way that heals our one body and removes our collective pain.
In my notebook, under ‘why am I here?’ I write: for Gaza.
