I groaned softly as I stretched after climbing down from the weathered jeep. The long drive up into the mountains from the airport in Islamabad had worked its way deep into my bones. For a moment I simply stood there at the outskirts of my village, listening to the wind move gently through the trees overhead.
is Jannah as sweet,
without the triumph of making it there?
would the rest be blissful,
without the toils of this world?
Is there still hope for me? From dust, I was brought into the world. And to dust I shall return. Yet I wonder, have I spent these years well? Have I served my lord well?
“Ailani, you have to stop,” she said, her tone flat. “There’s a reason why they banned books and got rid of religious institutions.”
“It doesn’t make sense though. If they’re so bad, then why are we still wearing the hijab? Why is there still a Friday service through our screens?
Morning broke without you,
and with it, your suffering.
I thought your loss would break me,
as much as your love empowered me.
when this world forgets your name / and looks away from the faces of the many we’ve lost / at the hands of the oppressor / I will hold your hands
The sounds of the Fajr adhan pierce the stillness of the night. My grandmother’s bed is empty; she’s already seated on her veranda, her prayer mat carefully spread before her, lost in deep prayer and supplication.
O land of the prophets,
you are the home to the many faithful servants of Allah.
From Isa to Ishaq, Yaqub and Yusuf
Thoughtful reads. Writing prompts. New pieces.
It just might become your favorite email in your inbox, insha'Allah.
