People have a lot to say

Was it chronic stress or the processed food you ate?

Come now, give us an answer

When every bone in your body aches,

People have a lot to say

Chew raw ginger speckled with tumeric

And suck on beetroot all day!

Stay far away from wretched sugar

We just want for you what's best,

Say all the tone-deaf fakes

Just as they prepare to stuff you like a teddy bear

People have a lot to say

Go all out like Pamela Anderson, hunny!

Losing your body seems to be so funny

The weight, yours alone to bear

Against all odds, you thrash and jump up for air

But people still have a lot to say

Useless words land like endless waves

You're adamant to stay afloat, nonetheless

One day, you'll swallow too much water and sink away

They pumped poison through your veins to save you, but killed you all the same

Stay away from modern medicine dear, someone online cured themselves by meditation

Why don't you test their claim?

People have a lot to say

They feed their own exclusively from their bodies,

Processed milk must stay far far away

But don't worry dear, babies don't know any better

People have a lot to say

Are you not thinking about starting a family?

The female body was designed to procreate

In case you didn't hear

It's about time you fulfilled your mission here, dear

Perhaps when I am laid to rest

Tucked in by fresh soil

People will have less to say

At my grave

Here's to souls who listen more than they speak, empathise without making it about themselves, those who are willing to learn, and the ones who sit and cry with you because there's nothing else they can do..

From a tired heart,

A

In verse 22, Allah says: “Pearls and corals come out of both (these seas)”. Pearl formation starts with a small but extraordinary irritant such as a grain of sand or parasite getting into the shell of an oyster or mussel. Trying to protect itself, these humble creatures secrete a smooth crystalline protectant comprised of calcium carbonate and proteins called nacre used to coat the irritant. Over time, the nacre builds up to form a pearl, taking two- four years to fully develop. Once the irritant is in the shell, there is no way the oyster can remove it- the only thing it can do is patiently apply the nacre to the irritant. In the humble oyster is inscribed a huge lesson.

In the first few days after my diagnosis with breast cancer, I underwent countless appointments, biopsies and scans, including an MRI. These verses resurfaced the memory of my staging MRI scan, and the images produced by my drifting mind as a coping mechanism. The inside of the MRI machine transformed into what I had seen in David Attenborough documentaries of the underwater jungle of our magnificent oceans.. Ten months later, al-Rahman removed my fear of swimming in open water and I got to snorkel in East Asia for real, seeing a coral reef for the first time in person, crying inside the goggles as fish of all colours, shapes and sizes swam with me. Watching them nibble on the corals, my heart burst with gratitude instead of the fear I felt in the MRI.

Each mention of pearls and corals takes me back to that moment underwater, and how the One who reveals Himself through his countless, miraculous bounties, sometimes so specifically for each of us, is so deeply profound.

From my heart to yours..

Pearls and Corals

Lying face first on a mechanic bed

Flipped upside down, face down

“Strike the superwoman pose, sweetheart”

Cannulated arms stretched out

Trying to reach for the light

While the magnetic machine

Drags me feet first, like a stiff corpse

Dragged into hell

Time expands into three dimensions

Where it has more than two faces

The machine’s depth, as if an eternity

Eventually stops pulling me

Parking my still body in a lonely grave,

Where no loved ones remain

Resonance imaging starts hammering

Deafening bangs into my brain

Scanning my body to measure how much I sinned

Heart bursts,

Breath quickens,

Panic rises

A melody lands on my lips, humming so quietly

Only my internal demons can hear

The narrow white coffin widens

Rhythmic bangs land as ocean waves

I become a mermaid swimming in its vastness

Corals of utmost splendour

Greet this wandering sea-girl in earnest endeavour,

Fish splashed with luminescent paints

I ride foamy waves seaward

Singing in its depths

Mother-of-pearl necklace strewn about my neck

Crown of green seaweed

Dispersed with hues of pink on my head

I am not yet dead—

Eventually escaping the confines of MRI’s victim bed

Time shifts again

Gone are the seconds that feel like individual chemical reactions waiting to happen,

Replaced with seasons rolling into each other

Escaping without notice

Earth completes its orbit around the sun

And I find myself in her open waters

Time anaesthetises

The oyster gifted divine irritants sent as catalysts to nacres

Through patient calcification,

This humble mussel produces countless pearls

Swimming atop magnificent corals,

Crying in my goggles

I greet parrot fish munching on an underwater jungle

Deja vu to the mermaid

Swimming in the MRI, hopeless

So which of your Lord’s favours will you deny?

As we enter this blessed month of mercy, and journey on a sacred path to seek forgiveness, expansion and nearness to the Owner of all mercy, I wanted to gift my recent debut recital of a poem centred on the theme of tahara- purification to the world.

I pray this preview to the first poetry and storytelling event that dearest @zarasheriff and I held at Root25 cafe in London, with a room full of hearts yearning for nearness to the One, will be received with the gentleness and love that was showered upon us that evening a few weeks ago.

Titled “Al Isra Wal Mi’raj”, the seed of the idea for this poem was sown in Rajab, the month of repentance, and poured from the ink of my pen in Sha’ban, the month of the prophet (peace and blessings be upon him). It draws on the experience of my therapeutic surgery day, with the imagination of my soul going on its own ascension while under anaesthesia for 6 hours- a metaphorical Mi’raj.

Pain is the prerequisite for ascension. Prior to Isra Wal Miraj, the prophet (saw) journeyed through the year of sorrow: the loss of his first love, his uncle who raised him, being stoned until his feet bled, and so much more. But he had to experience that pain to ascend to the Heavens and be granted the honour of being invited to the Divine Presence, and ultimately see the Face of al-Jamal.

I gift this poem to souls who may be grieving this Ramadan, with a gentle reminder: “Verily, with hardship comes ease” (94:5) To those grappling with tests that showed up uninvited at your heart's door, may this Ramadan be a light for you in darkness that you can't see an end to, a soothing balm for your weary, broken heart. Your wounded yearnings are more beloved to the Owner of all mercy than anyone else's 🌹

May this month unlock hidden doors in the hearts and souls of all who stumble upon this post, and may we ascend to meet the Most Merciful of the Merciful at the station where He lovingly awaits, ameen.

Then I met the rice plant in Vietnam.

Growing up, I was taught to never leave a single grain of rice behind on my plate, or it would cry after me. Not wanting to upset anyone, I always wiped my plate clean, scraping leftover pieces together with bread. Other old wives tales included a claim suggesting the number of rice grains left on one’s plate were an indication of the number of children they would grow up to have. Naturally, I made sure I never left behind more than 2 grains.

No amount of storytelling could have prepared me for the labour of love that rice growth demands, though. In the naive ignorance generated by modernity, I had given very little thought to how the white pieces of jasmine rice that we bought packaged in 500g bags from the supermarket came to exist.

Witnessing the rice fields in Mai Chau, Vietnam, unveiled a blindingly obvious truth that I had not previously paused to contemplate: The truth that everyday we are showered with gifts. Rice is just one such blessing, and journeys a long, weathered road facilitated by countless farmers to end up as God’s gift on our plates. While fruit, vegetables and meat were clear examples of sustenance which had life of their own, and deserved to be harvested honourably with gratitude, I had given embarrassingly little thought to the origin of rice.

“God is bountiful towards people, but most of them do not give thanks” (Quran, 10:60)

As we turned away from the thunderous volume of Hanoi and entered the calm oasis of Mai Chau, it felt like my body became wrapped in a cocoon of serenity and gratitude. As my dear friend and I cycled around quaint villages through a gentle drizzle of rain on our dingy bikes, we passed water-locked fields upon fields of rice. Children played on the edges of the fields: three girls with their dog drawing on muddy soil with their wooden sticks stopped their game to give us a sweet, welcoming wave and pose for my friend’s camera for what made the sweetest photo; we cycled on to encounter a boy who cheekily offered a lizard he had caught while his mother who was farming the field ran up behind to apologise for the generous lizard offering and held her deeply amused son back as we squealed him a disappointing rejection.

Cycling away from the fields and into a quiet cluster of village homes, we parked our bikes in front of an old woman weaving at her loom. Behind her hung a gorgeous display of pashmina scarves for sale. She greeted us warmly, using hand gestures to explain that she had made each one herself. She named her prices, which cost less than a coffee in London, before she calmly returned to her weaving. There was no attempt to upsell, no insistence, no hint of performance. The humility and diligence with which she practiced her craft was deeply touching.

Contentment is a radical proposition in a consumerist society, and the Vietnamese people’s recognition of abundance in what capitalism would label as scarcity, felt like a breath of fresh air. Perhaps this ease came from the wisdom of the rice plants singing in the wind, their pheromones drifting through the tropical air, laden with meaning. The shared inhale and exhale between plants and people, Oryza Sativa, Asian rice, passing her gift on to those who plough the very soil on which she grows.

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The handloom weaver was old enough to have lived both before and after the Vietnam war. The softness of her nature took me by surprise, her weaving of beauty into existence as gentle and devoted as a farmer plowing a patch of earth. Difficulty gives rise to wisdom. During the Vietnam war, the US dropped almost four times the bomb tonnage on Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia than all parties dropped on each other during the entirety of the second world war [1]. “The challenges faced by Vietnamese people throughout history were as tall as the tallest mountains” [2], yet instead of the cackling of angry ghosts, the howling wind carried the rice plant’s song.

Reminiscent of the deep bond felt upon meeting a soul who has also walked the harrowing path of cancer treatment, I felt not only welcomed but called by the rice fields. Around me, rice plants began rustling their tiny, green hands. They were offering me their most soothing rice lullaby. I realised that whenever humans failed us, it was nature who could help save us [2]. I willed myself to be like Oryza Sativa, and found myself running through the fields, arms outstretched, feet bare on the moist earth, letting her sweet perfume brush my skin, as I sang words of gratitude to the Majestic Creator who brought us both forth from a single seed.

Rice is a flowering plant whose embryo bears a single seed leaf. Though it resembles grass, the plant grows much taller, between 90-150cm. It literally disseminates its love through the wind, pollinating through stirrings of air. Each individual rice grain is in fact, a flower- the fruit of the rice plant’s quiet love song. Rice thrives in wet places and warm climates, which is why rice cultivation is mostly concentrated in tropical regions across Asia. It can take up to 200 days to mature, requiring patience, tenderness and careful hand-harvesting. After drying, the plants are threshed and milled to remove the husk, leaving the rice pearl we eat. As with bread, the more rice is milled, the whiter it becomes, and the more nutrition is lost. Over 400 million tonnes of milled rice are produced each year, making rice cultivation a livelihood for one fifth of the world’s population [3]. When one pauses to reflect upon this, each grain of rice on our plate becomes a sacred, sweet gift to be received with gratitude and never wasted.

If the rice fields taught me presence and gratitude, the jungle demanded reverence.

I felt the same summon from the forest cradling Cat Ba national park. Hidden high within the dense canopy, meeting the strangler fig on the demanding hike from Viet Hai village was humbling. Based on her height, and some research, I estimated her to be at least 250 years old. Remembering learnings from Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, I recalled how forest trees are interconnected by subterranean networks of mycorrhizae- fungal strands that inhabit tree roots. They weave a living web of reciprocity- sharing nourishment so that the whole community may flourish.

This strangler fig welcomed me into her vast arms. I rested against her bark, imagining all that she witnessed- French colonisation, Japanese occupation, and the Vietnam war, when Vietnamese soldiers sought concealment in the jungle’s depths to disorient US forces. I wondered how she had healed from the trauma of war. There is so much we cannot sense with our limited human capacity, and as I cradled the fig tree, I wanted to carry some of her wisdom with me.

I left the rice fields and jungle of Vietnam with the contentment of a heart that witnessed what abundance truly means.

May every grain of rice we meet on our plates summon gratitude that spills out as praise on the tongue and remembrance in the heart, ameen.

References:

1- The Vietnam War, The Rest is History Podcast

2- The Mountains Sing, Nguyen Phan Que Mai

3- Kew Science: Oryza Sativa, Asian rice

Oh to be a creature whose very presence soothes, 

whose single glance can unconditionally affirm one’s existence

To have eyes that resemble turquoise waters of the homeland,

a glassy convex like marble 

                that stirs the heartstrings of grieving souls 



Slow-blinking, enormous windows

whose only purpose is reflecting Light 

                                    to His creation

The thickest kohl outlines the green gems

resting above my moist pink nose, 

Drawn by the Hand of Al-Jamal Himself.

Permanent make-up you could only dream you had 



Al-Jalal dressed me with the softest cloak of caramel, 

brush strokes of brown and beige from my forehead converge 

and fade into an obsessively stroked silky white chin,
                            
like honey dripping onto clotted cream 

I am more delicious to eat than a buttery croissant, 

               more enjoyable to drink than a foamy cappucino!



The wavelengths emitted by my vibrating larynx can heal

That’s why I used to loaf on her chest while she ached and slept-

bald like a baby

I was her guardian angel, 

with my paw outstretched

each purr a purified plea to the Owner of All Mercy 

“Heal her, Ya Shafi!“ 



I act cold, a bit like her,

but my heart is made of cookie dough-

so vast it expands to enwrap with love

mostly feminine souls, though.



I am a cooling balm to those distressed,

a warm furry hug to her when she is bereft 

I am a child to her with whom she is obsessed 

a playmate with the skills of an acrobat

though my claws come handy in combat..



A reminder of Ar-Rahman, 

Elegance personified,

the most loyal friend-

so tell me, reader:

have you guessed what I am?

As I began my journey inward, reflections of Truth became visible that first night in the zawiya. My observations inspired a poem on the rooftop while watching sunrise the following morning, after spending the stillness of dawn in another blessed mosque in remembrance. Droplets of truth from my heart to yours..

Men of God

Ya Haqq, allow me to perceive you

The way men of God in Fes do,

Backs bent in humility 

Alleyways away from projected misogyny 

Unlock tall, arched intricate Moorish doors for me, 

On a sacred journey into the night’s heart.

These blessed men with creased fingers 

Lovingly pouring Moroccan mint tea, 

Eyes downcast, hearts centred on Truth 

Rahmah pouring out,

Through streams of light

Steaming our eyes wet with delight 

Robes of devotion envelop them

Content in the gratitude of serving seekers, 

In the offer of stacked sweet anise bread 

Baraqah spread on silver trays,

Unlocking the gates of caution

Protecting my weary qalb’s station

Sprinkling orange blossom water on surprised faces

Stirring humour with blessing

Yes, there’s segregation

Yet these sidos who graze in God's Garden

Serve women in compassionate tradition

The scent of ikhlas difficult to miss.

Disguised in the perfume of bukhoor 

Smoke, floating up to God’s house 

Inviting the company of angels 

To sit between us and sing His praises

I thought I comprehended the meaning of this sentiment when I signed up to the Journey Home with Barakah’s womb after much thought. After experiencing the five blessed days on its sacred soil, I realised that my arrival there had been deeply intuitive and much less about what I presumed to understand.

The seed of awareness had been sown when I stumbled upon the post detailing the September spiritual womb healing retreat. I had not been following the barakah’s womb page at the time, but the algorithm presented this opportunity to me on a random summer day as I thoughtlessly scrolled Instagram. Briefly looking at the details, I subconsciously noted the words: “Fes, womb, tahajjud, feminine healing” in the back of my brain. I had tried to find a friend to come with me to a different spiritual retreat in Morocco only a few months prior, but Allah had not written it to be. The notion of feminine healing pushed me away, as cancer had stripped off so many layers of my femininity and buried it in the bed of grief sitting at the pit of my heart. I could not fathom the idea of a group of women connecting with each other over the theme of femininity. I was far, far away from it-the softest and most feminine parts of my body had been replaced by firm plastic, and the evidence had been etched by cold scalpels into my previously flawless skin as a reminder every time I got dressed.

Only a couple of days passed, when an older sister who I looked up to posted photos with reflections of her experience on the very same retreat after just having returned. The third and final knock on my heart came, when my dear sister Zara personally sent me an invitation for the very same retreat.

At this point, curiosity had been stirred in my essence. The magnetic pull inspired me to dig deeper, and find a friend to accompany me. As a scientist and cancer survivor, I had listened to enough unsolicited advice from well meaning, but ignorant, naturopaths from the Turkish community. People who were into herbs and holistic healing tended to be the most likely to suggest fault on my part for growing a tumour in my breast at the age of twenty-seven. I must have been too stressed, or eaten too many processed foods, or empathised too much with all the suffering that was happening in the world. I assumed that I might hear much of the same on this retreat focusing on reconnection with Allah through holistic healing.

After much deliberation, istishara with my husband, friends from my reading circle, and Zara, I decided to reach out to the blessed teacher leading the retreat. I was met with patience and tenderness, and the thoroughness of the responses I received reassured me enough to commit to attending. A divinely timed change in Zara’s plans meant that she could now attend with me too. Flight tickets were bought, and payments made. Before I knew it, I was running through Stansted airport- oat latte and avocado sandwich in hand- towards our gate while Zara calmly followed, with utter conviction that she was destined to get on that flight regardless of there remaining only thirty minutes to take-off.

My arrival in Fes had not been without obstacles. There was some resistance and stammers over small pebbles on the path, yet I always felt the currency of a pull. My Merciful Lord wanted my soul and womb to receive and heal here, and here I was, wobbling down the flimsy stairs of the aircraft with my luggage in hand. The journey home wasn’t a smooth walk, but an uphill climb. After all which path to surrender was without stumbles?

The journey to Ar-Rahman (The Most Merciful) was met with rahmah (mercy). She welcomed me, us, this eccentric group of unlikely companions, with the compassion pouring out from her vessel of love. I had hammered down a protective fence around my broken heart, lest they see my open wounds gushing out. Lest they descend to the depths of the ocean in which I dived, unable to resurface. Terrified of being exposed, read, seen.

So I wore a pretentious air of mystery like a protective invisibility cloak, to be left alone in the solitude of the deep sea of my hollow womb. I had grown comfortable like a desert cactus without the water of self-love, so I drank from the steaming glass of elderly men in robes of devotion lovingly serving us, to quench my thirst.

Backs bent, soft smiles illuminating their creased faces, eyes downcast. Their ubudiyyah (servitude) perfumed their acts in the sweetness of sincerity like the orange blossom water raining down upon perplexed and perspired faces. Just like that, their humility, the joy in their hearts reflected on their faces unlocks the iron gates around my heart, and tears start to fall that first night.

I am touched by the warm embrace of Fes from the moment we stepped out of the airport. Its air is charged with a frequency of calm, as if a protective blanket is draped over this blessed city to distance the outside world from its sanctity. Taking hurried steps in the Medina transports me back in time, as if I enter through a sacred gate, and time shifts and warps as the protective bubble welcomes me into its winding streets, the overpowering smell of tanneries stimulating the pores of my cardiomyocytes. Each interaction and observation acts as a ligand, binding and stimulating surface receptors of the neurons of my womb, which is connected to Ar-Rahman through a divine rope. There is a Hadith Qudsi where Allah says: “I am Allah, and I am the Most Merciful. I created the womb and derived its name from Mine. Whoever upholds it, I will uphold him; and whoever severs it, I will sever him.” (At-Tirmidhi)

I perform an MRI scan of myself from head to toe, understanding the nuances of the fitrah that Ar-Rahman has gifted me, the imbalance of my greater and lesser temperaments, and the inner lens observing myself shifts. Judgement and self-resentment is lifted up and out through the yawns and tears my body released. Space is made for compassion to pour in, and many hidden truths unveil themselves.

I’m often sad because my primordial temperament is melancholic. Illness broke and metamorphosed me from a summer to autumn. My pride has been shed, the green luscious leaves of the tree of my being have turned brown, and I am softened through the shedding of my leaves.

She reminds us that Ar-Rahman breaks us into the smallest pieces to allow more light to enter our hearts and wombs. The pain of losing feminine body parts, the arrival of scars where my skin used to stretch so vast, physically took away parts of me. My chest became hardened with silicone and saline, yet this is the very process that flung open the veils of my qalb.

Who but Ar-Rahman would invite a soul as lost in the shadow of her grief as mine to step out of the dark, for the opportunity to bask in the loving mercy of His Light? The sakinah (serenity) of Fes lays to rest the whisperings that pin down the curtains enveloping my womb. Each beat of daff clears my inner sight, focusing my vision on what needs to be done.

As my heart fills with gratitude for the blessed opportunity to sit in suhba with loving teachers, and my words pour out on the sheet of paper that becomes my letter to Ar-Rahman, a steady stream of silent tears landing on the page like gentle freckles on the canvas of a beautiful face in sunshine. Rahmah downpours, thunder and lightning swiftly follows- “so which of the favours of your Lord will you deny?” (Surah Rahman). Like children hanging onto the waist of their mother, we cling onto the mercy of Ar-Rahman, and He lovingly responds to our collective cries.

Rahmah greets us everywhere on this journey Home; In the gentle interactions with a young man of ihsan, patiently pouring concoctions of jasmine and musk, oud and sandalwood into small glass aliquots. Perhaps he is the companion of angels who circle him and his blessed perfumery. His humble smile and jamal spills out of the pores on his skin as he serves his customers in quiet joy and gratitude. These neighbours of awliya (saints) truly honour their craft in loving servitude.

On the same day, sido Abdullah welcomes us into his tea house- a space tucked away on a narrow alleyway. Requiring a climb up extra steep steps, we arrive in his jungle of herbs stacked next to a copper tea machine. His skin looks weathered and hardened by the sun, creases adding layers of mercy to his joyful face, pink towel thrown across his shoulders to soak up perspiration in the tiny space where we nourish our dehydrated bodies with his steaming Moroccan mint tea. Glass cups are filled to the brim with peppermint and lemongrass leaves. How can boiling hot tea soothe in near fourty-degree heat? Al-Jamal pours out in the essence of yet another sweet man.

The retreat closes with a womb meditation where I feel my rahim emptying itself of its grief to make room for more light. She comes over and gently takes my hands in hers, tenderly caressing my fingertips as if saying “I know you’re hurting, but there’’s so much love and wisdom itching to pour out”. As she signs her book, the Womb’s Tale for me, she makes a prayer that astounds me- how could she have felt the yearnings simmering in the depths of my vessel of compassion so accurately?

Science and data fall short in explaining metaphysical secrets Breathed into every being which can only be deeply felt, not quantified or reported. Fes unearthed hidden secrets within me that I didn’t know it was possible to connect to. I pray that the visions arriving in my rahim and heart during the journey home in Fes will act as signposts for my journey of servitude ahead…

A gift from my heart to my beloved coffee sponsors, I hope you enjoy..

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Ya Fattah

Ya Fat-ttttaaaah

…was the first blessed Name, Asma, that vibrated in my heart and arrived on my tongue during my training runs leading up to the recent Cambridge Race for Life.

I have never been much of a runner, or at all sporty growing up. Moving to the densest cycling city in the UK encouraged me to adopt cycling as a mode of transport, which quickly became one of my favourite forms of movement. There is something particularly liberating about exploring this beautiful city at the speed of a gliding bird that distracts me from the discomfort of burning thighs when going up hill. Previously I was only partial to slower paced exercises like walking and hiking that truly allowed for contemplation of the Creator’s canvas.

Walking was also the only form of movement, besides occasional yoga, that my very fatigued body could tolerate while I was under active treatment for breast cancer last year. We took my green Dutch bike home from the park and ride where it was usually parked for cycling into the lab and city centre, relocating it to our garden shed instead to collect dust and many spider webs for the rest of the year. Everything came to a grinding halt, quite literally, as the hustler in me had slammed down the emergency break on life in the unexpected face of this rocky, malignant obstacle thrown en route from above.

Last Friday marked the anniversary of my surgery- a whole lap around the sun since another date in the calendar that changed my life forever- a physical reminder of all that I lost since my diagnosis, irreversibly carved into my skin. These scars have become my tattoos, permanently etched into my curves as symbols of the parts of me that were once there, before crossing over to the other side of the rocky obstacle and metamorphosing into a very new me.

About six months post-surgery, I was finally given the green light by my plastic surgeon to start cycling again. Understandably, he wanted to avoid me falling and ruining six hours of his hard work in theatre. I had been given the go ahead to start running much sooner, but having never cared much for running unless it was to fundraise for an important cause or to catch buses and trains, I ignored this particular part of his rehab advice and focused on strength training instead, only to injure my wrist weakened from prolonged hormone suppression drugs in the process.

Cancer Research UK’s Race for Life in Cambridge took place two weeks before my surgery last year. I had run 5k with colleagues to raise funds for essential cancer research at this vibrant community event the year before, which was also my first summer in Cambridge. Last year, though, I watched from the sidelines as my body’s haemoglobin count hit rock bottom at the end of six months of chemotherapy, in what they describe as the ‘cumulative effect’ of the body no longer being able to regenerate healthy blood cells at the rate required to replace loss from systemic cytotoxicity.

The beauty of this particular fundraising event is that most people who take part have been affected by cancer in some way, whether that be supporting someone who has gone through it, losing a loved one, or battling it themselves. On his ‘I race for’ card, my dear husband wrote ‘my gorgeous wife’ and pinned it to his back. As I went to take a photo of him before he started his 10k run, face swollen from months of steroids and cheap, shiny, 2D eyebrows stuck on in a failed attempt at normality, I heard a cheery voice shout: “Let’s get a photo of you and your gorgeous wife then!” I turned around to see a woman around my mum’s age dressed in pink head to toe, tutu at the waist, glitter sparkling on her face framed by a stylish pixie cut. My eyes welled, feeling anything but beautiful, as I walked over to take my place next to him.

I walked him over to the start line, and found a spot in the sidelines to cheer him on. After waving him and my colleagues off, the runners who signed up for 5k came up to the start line, and I recognised the woman who had offered to take our photo moments before. She walked past me, allowing me an unobstructed read of the sign pinned to the back of her top, which said:

I was astonished, like warm water had been poured over me (*Turkish proverb*). She had survived a beastly storm, and turned up to be a part of the collective effort to raise funds for CRUK so that fewer people would have to endure that. No wonder why she was so empathetic and kind in her approach- she knew exactly why I looked the way I did. Seeing her at the start line filled me with hope, as I cheered for this kind stranger with tears in my eyes, praying under my breath for God to let me run there like her next year too.

Next year came, and recently passed.

At the end of Ramadan, I started training to run 10k- a distance I had not done in years, even when I had been able-bodied. The rational part of me dreaded having signed up for a distance that I could not realistically train to run in the limited time that I had, but the vulnerable, emotional part of me kept playing back the scene from last year at the start line, remembering my weakness and impotence at the end of a terribly difficult half a year. I had beaten the rocky obstacle to pieces with a sledgehammer. My body had healed from a huge surgery and regained strength- there was not a thing that I could not do with the help of my Lord.

“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear” (2:286).

Since my earliest memories, and through the command of The Fashioner, Al-Musawwir, Who knows me better than myself, I was gifted self-discipline that enabled me to study with the end goal of a particular school, university, and career path in mind from a young age. It was this self-discipline that allowed me, to some extent, to endure the pain of treatment with the end goal of remission and reclaiming my old life. It is this discipline that also pushed my husband to train with me, three times a week for several months. We used the couch to 5k app, with the idea to train up to 5k and build up to 10 from there. Unfortunately, we ran out of time and only got up to 6k during training. I was fairly content with my pace, but could not imagine running another 4k after feeling like my heart would stop beating by the time we reached the 5k mark.

Al-Fattah, the Opener, was the blessed name that landed on my breath in the moments I struggled to continue with the deep breathing technique I had been taught by the couch to 5k trainer. I kept thinking of how He had removed a lethal mass from my body and Healed me from months of toxic treatment and the physical trauma from surgery. This was a minor feat in comparison, and I could do it.

Ya Fattah, open up my lungs..

Ya Fattah, expand my heart

Ya Fattah, increase my oxygen

Putting one foot in front of the other became much easier on the day of the race, despite 31 degree heat. A dear sister I met on this journey came all the way from London with her husband to support us- she understood how much it meant to me to do this. I had told her of the moment with the ovarian cancer survivor, and she held on to it, offering to come and cheer me on unprompted. My love language is acts of service, and that was a huge proclamation of love- for someone who has known me for such little time to go to such lengths to be there in solidarity, with the sweetest handmade signs.

We finished 10k in 66 minutes- only 6 minutes slower than my original target. Most importantly, undertaking this challenge inspired donations from friends and acquantainces I had not spoken to in years, resulting in the collection of more than £1000 including gift aid! Together with my husband and brother, we raised over £2000. With the addition of colleagues from my institute, the collective total was over £3000. In the grand scheme of things, these sums do not add up to much. In my heart, though, the immunocompromised, swollen cancer patient from last year crying on the sides of the start line is beaming with pride at what we have achieved- physically and as a community.

All praise is due Al-Fattah, who gifted me the determination and physical ability to see this to completion.

For my coffee sponsors, I would like to end with a short poem that was inspired by one of my training runs when, half way through the run, I got caught in torrential rain that turned into hail, soaking me through to my core. I hope you enjoy…

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Gliding across a sleeping sea,

Surprised by my spouse whose soul’s shore has crashed next to mine

for four whole years- how sublime.

It feels as if we are the only ones sailing

in the vast expanse of turquoise water

Bobbing white boats in the distance too small to mind

Sunburnt skin is the only dress

adjourning heedless souls sunbathing amidst an assembly of red, greasy flesh

on beaches in the distance

Here we are safe from confused stares-

how dare we cover and protect ourselves from their unwelcome gaze?

The skipper swerves and speeds through the Mediterranean

Who is suddenly awake and angry

as our safe haven surfs against her sudden waves

Bashing up and down we propel West along the coast,

Trying to find refuge in a quiet cove to anchor.

As my hands brush against my windswept curls

instead of the smooth silk of my scarf,

I realise, with a heartdrop, that my hijab has flown off my head!

I let myself feel the wind in my hair for a moment too long-

my husband and the vast ocean of blue my only witnesses

We navigate near a beach recommended by the Italian mariner,

Dropping the anchor into the seabed buried in the depths of the Meditteranean

who has returned into her sheet of calm once more

As I guide my beloved captain using Google Maps for navigation,

I remember that the opposite coast in the distance is Africa.

If the tank had enough petrol

and the cool box enough supplies to last a few days,

We could reach the shores of Tunisia

If we went further East from there, we would reach Palestine.

I lay on my back at the cushioned front of the boat,

My hair spread out like disheveled octopus tentacles around my head

Warmed by sunlight’s kiss in a place other than our garden

I look back in the frothy wake at the stern of the boat,

in a failed attempt to spot my scarf gifted by my mother-in-law

By the time I registered the sensation of wind in my hair,

My knotted scarf was long engulfed by the enraged arms of foamy waves.

I imagine it floating all the way to Gaza,

whose shore is caressed by the same sea that I am resting on,

Unreachable by any boat on the horizon

The Madleen had set sail from Malta just across the water from us

and got intercepted only a few days prior.

What a warped, dystopian reality

What immense privilege to be able to step on a boat,

for safe sail through the same sea that is being weaponised

Only a few nautical miles away from where we are moored.

My silk scarf reaches a white-sanded beach in Gaza

Bisan picks it up, squeezes the salty water out

her dry, dusty hands stung by the salt

She folds it in half to form a creased triangle,

criss-crosses the two tails into a double knot

at the back of her neck.

The fabric that nestled my chemo curls a few hours prior

now embrace her coarse curls which escape

in the front and sides.

I wish I could hold her hands,

Pull her into a tight embrace,

Apologise for my helplessness,

For their suffering.

I wish she could also swim

in the turquoise expanse of God’s Mercy

instead of suffer in the wrath of greedy, ungodly demons

Descending into the cool bed of water,

I wonder: what is the wisdom in my existence

in this particular coordinate of the same ocean

instead of the very bleak reailty of hers,

down the same stream of water?

Stepping into the basilica, I felt immediately immersed in a symphony of light and colour which gently caressed my face as I observed blended cascades of a rainbow in the Venetian Murano Glass. Such total embrace of a building is, for me, an unlikely experience in the setting of cathedrals which are usually adjourned by human sculptures and glass stained with human faces which distract from the purpose of worship. Gaudi’s deep inspiration from Islamic architecture is apparent in his imitation of nature through the use of organic forms and geometry to bring seekers closer with their Creator. Like Andalusian Islamic art’s spatial uncertainty that evokes the openness of an eternal reality, Gaudi’s natural forms and geometry encapsulate a sense of infinite space.

The interior of this giant masterpiece resembles a forest, with tree-like inclined structures supported by intertwined helicoidal columns that are star-shaped at the base. Inside the columns are spirals- braided like a DNA double helix- giving them self-supporting strength. These columns divide into brances which in turn support hypervoloid vaults with holes to let natural light in, creating the illusion of a starry sky, achieved in whole through the use of complex geometry- the language of creation.

It is humbling to bear witness to such earnest support from the laws of nature as a means to strive in way of collaborating with the Creator. In his words: “Nothing is invented, for it’s written in nature first.” There isn’t a single perfect right angle or flat surface in the interior of the Sagrada Familia- all is ever-changing as in nature.

His inspiration from nature becomes more obvious in some of his other designs, such as Casa Battlo, the exterior for which reminds onlookeers of the wavy mid-ocean ridges of a diverse seabed with sparkly seashells in shades of turquoise. The whimsical, colourful mosaics and undulating curves of Park Güell’s iconic esplanade against the backdrop of beautiful Barcelona are a testament to his unique vision, and of the unifying support of nature that he sought from the most Majestic of Creators.

Despite the fascinating glimpse offered by these enchanting works into Gaudi’s genius, it is the sheer scale of ambition and incompleteness of his last project that resonates as most impressive. Rarely in our strange realm of AI do we invest time, money, and creativity on this scale to art of meaning, yet the ongoing work on a building that has been under construction since its conception in 1882 continues to defy the modern consumerist expactation to churn out creative output quickly, for profit. Eventually, the finished building will have eighteen spires and capacity to hold 15,000 people. The basilica’s conceptual genius is buried in the crypt of his masterpiece, who was destined to enter his eternal home through the material cause of a tram accident when the building was less than 25% complete.

Experiencing Gaudi’s immersive expiatory church has awakened a realisation that we can get to know someone and feel immense affinity to them through the art they leave behind, almost a hundred years after their death. Not being architect or designer, Gaudi’s designs left me with a profound question that I continue to ponder: what do I want to inspire in others through the legacies I leave behind in this brief voyage of life, even years after my death?

Thank you for dipping into this rather journal-like reflection from my recent passage through Barcelona. For my kind coffee sponsors, I would like to offer a small poem inspired by this experience with Gaudi’s architecture, together with my current read of Rumi’s Masnavi. I would love to hear your thoughts..

With love,

Ahsen

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Hello, guess who’s back again?

In the summer when I graduated from my first degree, I started a blog on WordPress called Thoughts of a scientist. It was my first creative project which allowed an escape from the university essays that had trained me to be strictly analytical, forcing me to edit my voice out of the picture. Yet, I had spent my entire degree marvelling at the tapestry of the human body and disease at molecular level in which science and Islam are tightly interwoven. My mission was to write reflective articles on specific biological processes and experiences from my travels and voluntary work, viewed through a spiritual lens informed by Islamic teachings.

Admittedly, my writing became less frequent as I climbed up the academic ladder. I found increasing demand on my free time as I progressed from an MRes, a gruelling PhD (impacted in part by the pandemic), married my biggest cheerleader, followed by relocating from London to my current postdoctoral research position at the University of Cambridge. It took me longer than expected to settle into my new job and adjust to Cambridge’s demanding research ecosystem, and I found little energy to flow in my creative writing.

Those who arrived here from Instagram or know me personally will be familiar with the series of events that brought my life to a grinding halt one year after our relocation. My return is inspired by my diagnosis with hereditary breast cancer on 22nd January 2024, at the age of 27, my experiences with the nine months of life-saving but relentless active treatment, and its ongoing implications. By the Grace of my Creator Who is As-Shafi, the Healer, this relentless treatment resulted in a complete pathological response- in other words, there is no remaining evidence of cancer in the body- alhamdulillah. I wrote a couple of invited articles about the journey of evolving from a scientist to survivor for BRCA_chat and Nature Reviews Gastroenterology & Hepatology, but again, the spiritual elements are grossly suppressed in both articles.

So here I am, reviving my own blog newsletter. My convoluted feelings and thoughts during active treatment are thoroughly documented in a journal, and I recently took up writing more formally again with . Previously, I dabbled in poetry in the quiet pages of my journals, but took a plunge and started sharing some of my poems with the MWS community as part of the Ramadan Writing Challenge and am happy to nurture this emerging poet in me.

I feel called to share my voice on my own terms again, because I yearned to hear the perspective of someone who shares my faith battling a similar adversity when I was buried in the depths of despair and isolation that comes with cancer treatment at my age. Isabel Allende says that ”Writing is a calling, not a choice,” and “Write what should not be forgotten.” Cancer was a tumultuous teacher of life’s purpose. With a Divine flick of a switch, my faith was tested near breaking point. If My Lord has cleansed my body of the hardness that had settled itself into the deepest corners of my core, then I believe I must spend the rest of my life to tell the tale.

From a first glance, this platform seems to encapsulate the slow, dedicated purposefulness that I’ve been seeking on social media but rarely find. If you are also yearning to slow down and journey life with more purpose, I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for subscribing.

Each month, I’ll aim to share a free newsletter offering short articles that delve into science, spirituality, and reflections from my cancer journey. Mostly for accountability, to sustain motivation, and because my poetry tends to be very vulnerable and raw, subscribers who gift me a coffee each month will get access to exclusive poems and updates on my other ongoing creative projects and thought processes.

The wounded bird within me is excited to share its songs on the path to healing with you all. I would welcome any feedback and thoughts in the comments with gratitude.

With love,

Ahsen

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