Since the British interest in the holy land of Palestine became too blatant to hide behind a diplomatic or academic veil—Britain didn't establish the Palestine Exploration Fund to survey and study Palestinian land for educational purposes, but to collect enough information to tighten its grip on it—the most malicious myth used to describe Palestine was this: Palestine is empty and without a people.

And the colonialist malignancy was not limited to denying the existence of indigenous people; it abashedly accused the Palestinians of being too uncivil to rule themselves. Here came the embarrassing contradiction: was Palestine empty? Or did it accommodate a benighted people?

It is crystal clear that the colonizers are by no means concerned about the rationality or validity of their claims, because they have no regard for the public consciousness.

Weaving such lies to justify their colonialist and expansionist ambitions, the colonizers play the role of saviour: the advanced civilization that will invade the Orient to save it from the darkness of ignorance and barbarism.

They depict themselves as underappreciated heroes, not bloodthirsty invaders.

Thankfully, a growing number of people are now disillusioned with Western political narratives and false statements, which create illusions that contradict reality. Historical analysis reveals that all occupiers employ identical rhetorical patterns and patronising language.

Given these facts, it is undeniable that Palestinians inhabited Palestine and exercised political autonomy at various points in history, challenging the fabricated lie that the region was 'a land without a people'.

One of the most prominent Palestinian political figures who ruled Palestine for decades before being killed at the hands of the Ottomans was Dhaher al-ʿUmar al-Zaydani (1689–1775).

His story shows the active Palestinian presence and the high level of intellectual, political, and economic sophistication. Such a historical figure is less likely to gain posthumous publicity because of the powerful shift it can create in the Western perception of the Orient, especially the Levant.

I collected evidence to prove that Palestine was relatively dynamic and civilized. It had commercial relations with powerful European countries like Britain and France.

Palestine expanded and developed architecturally, as mosques, schools, fortifications, and shops were constructed in the 18th century.

All this to emphasize that Palestine was not empty or backwards in the centuries leading up to the Zionist project, and that the Palestinians were, for so long, intelligent and hardworking.

Who's Dhaher al-ʿUmar al-Zaydani?

Dhaher al-Umar was a renowned Arab ruler in northern Palestine in the 18th century while it was part of the Ottoman Empire. Born around 1690 in Arraba in the Galilee region, al-Umar belonged to the Al-Zaydani clan, an influential Arab family in Galilee.

His father was a tax farmer in Tiberias, and Dhaher al-Umar eventually became the multazim (tax collector) for Safad in the early 18th century. He gradually expanded his domain to establish a semi-autonomous sheikhdom in the region, centred in Acre.

He implemented flexible tax policies, tolerated religious minorities, maintained domestic security, and revitalized the economy throughout Galilee.

His rule began in the 1730s, and the region continued to prosper for the next four decades.

Because of al-Umar's commercial ties with European merchants in the 18th century, Palestine exported wheat, cotton, and other Levantine products to Italy, southern France, and England via the port of Acre.

'This economic prosperity, as the historian and researcher Nur Almasalha puts it, brought about the rise of a local bourgeoisie in urban Palestine (in Acre, Nazareth, Tiberias, Nablus, Jerusalem, and Jaffa) as well as a peasant economy oriented towards exports to Europe, which had become the more lucrative market.'

The resulting paradigm shift transformed Palestinian agriculture and industry from local subsistence to commodity production for the international market. This, in turn, strengthened the relationship between large urban centers and hundreds of villages, where most Palestinians lived and worked.

A prosperous economy laid the groundwork for independent statehood in Palestine. Although Dhaher Al-Umar’s Galilee-based region was under Ottoman governance, his rule was not only independent of but also acknowledged by the weakened Empire.

At the peak of his power, Dhaher al-Umar was too wealthy and locally rooted to be defeated by the Ottomans.

The fact that the leader rose from within Palestinian society, rather than from the Palestinian Christian elite, demonstrates the Palestinian competence to achieve autonomy.

Nur Almasalha emphasizes that, "Indeed al-ʿUmar can easily qualify as the founding father of early Palestinian modernities and social renewal, and the single most influential figure in the beginning of the modern reorientation of Palestine towards the Mediterranean region."

These relative modernization efforts anticipated the rise of local urban Palestinian bourgeois "nationalism" by at least a century.

After a long period of Ottoman neglect, stagnation, and exploitation of the Palestinian peasantry, during which Palestine was turned into a frontier country and imperial backwater, al-Umar’s powerful Palestinian state ushered in a new era of dynamism.

The Palestinian hands built public buildings, fortresses, warehouses, and khans (caravanserais)— ‘the most spectacular of which is the exquisitely built Khan al-Tujjarof Acre; today the site is at the centre of Israeli Judaisation policies in the Arab city.’—and numerous places of worship throughout his domain.

Unlike Europe that was notorious for discriminating against black people and Jews even after scientific and economic revolutions in subsequent centuries, the 18th ruler pursued religiously inclusive policies and encouraged religious minorities (Christians, Jews, and Shi’ites) to get involved in his administration, finance, and economy.

Encouraging local agricultural innovations stimulated foreign trade, as many profitable cash crops such as cotton, grain, and olive oil were exported to Europe.

Such commercial activity took place under al-Umar in the 1730s and continued throughout the 18th century. In fact, Palestinian farmers developed the Shamouti orange in the mid-19th century.

It was an almost seedless variety with a tough skin, which made it suitable for international export.

Like Palestinian cotton and grain exports in the 18th and 19th centuries, much of the Shamouti, or Jaffa, orange crop was packed in boxes and shipped to France and Britain from the mid-19th century onward.

On August 21 or 22, 1775, Daher al-Umar al-Zaydani, the autonomous Arab ruler of northern Palestine in the 18th century, was shot dead by an Ottoman soldier on the grounds of having allied with Russia and Egypt during the Russo-Ottoman War.

In the eyes of the Ottoman state, al-Umar was a traitor.

For all Palestinians of different generations, he was and still is a national symbol of autonomy, freedom, and modernization. Never did he betray his people, violate human values, or promote religious dogmatism.

Al-Umar's alliances with Russia and Egypt were driven by political considerations, as he tried to maintain authority and protect his state from falling under Ottoman control.

It is not a new phenomenon: Every Palestinian attempting to contribute to their homeland is accused of rebellion and disobedience, as if progressive thinking by an Oriental is synonymous with a nefarious crime.

The historical figure who set out to build an independent state— protecting its human and natural resources from the predatory colonizing eyes, though not forever—is the epitome of the free Palestinian soul.

His achievements proved that the Palestinian mind is not only capable of self-rule, but also of managing diplomatic and economic affairs and developing effective methods and inventions to revolutionize local communities.

Palestinian cotton, oranges, and seaports testify to my people's productivity and creativity in the 18th and 19th centuries.

Some related thoughts—not historical facts:

Still, on the matter of treason, I am somewhat ambivalent.

On the one hand, collaborating with a non-Muslim superpower against a Muslim imperial power is unacceptable under Islamic jurisprudence. No doubt Russia cared little about Palestine being free or occupied.

And the Ottoman State was seen as a project to unite the Ummah under the banner of Islam. So betraying your Muslim brother is punishable.

On the other hand, al-Umar was the first to establish an autonomous Palestinian state in its modern sense. Perhaps he feared that the Ottomans would abort his concerted efforts and overthrow his rule.

Generally speaking, it is unrealistic to idealize a historical figure, glossing over what could be seen as mistakes or missteps.

Perhaps solving the political strife between al-Umar and the Ottomans diplomatically would have been more effective.

However, we cannot know for sure what his ulterior motives were at the time, and we should mention that the Ottoman power made deadly mistakes that harmed those living under its rule.

The complicated part is that, after all, the British and French colonizers were no less brutal.

What came in the aftermath of the Arab revolt against the Ottomans wasn't independence for Arab nations, but rather an unremitting series of colonizing and looting across the Arab world.

Certainly, the answer wasn't to overthrow the unified Islamic rule. Our vulnerability as Muslims due to nationalist divisions and other bickering facilitated these colonialist projects.

Note: I reached these conclusions based on my current knowledge, and I am open to changing my view when new evidence emerges.

Reference:

Masalha, Nur. Palestine: A Four Thousand Year History. Zed Books, 2018.

With love,

Marwa

I just woke up from an awful nightmare. I saw myself in my old school, running upstairs, then suddenly standing on the first floor. I found myself in a maze with a long spiral staircase.

Every time I felt that I had finally reached the end, I returned to the same point. I cried. Then I caught a glimpse of my younger self. She, or I, I don't know, was sitting before a stack of books, flipping through one in her small hands.

I asked her, or me, what had changed since I left. She said nothing, and added: “We repeat the same lessons every day.” I can't understand why my subconscious mind is still stuck there. Maybe I haven't processed related thoughts since I left school. But why do I always see myself in my old school?

What does it represent to my inner self? Is it my inability to make loyal friends, my longing for recognition, my obsession with academic excellence, or my chronic boredom from loneliness and estrangement?

It seems that I hopped from one life stage to another haphazardly and without closing the file of memory in my mind.

Hence, I start a new journey while a residue of unpleasant feelings and unprocessed emotions from past events keeps sending me into flashbacks.

No wonder I always dream that I am lost in school. I have a gigantic package of thoughts that I don't declutter, but instead toss to the rear of my mind.

Sometimes it works. Other times it catches my attention in all possible ways under the sun. Perhaps this explains why my body feels continuously stressed out; it holds my old versions as they are, unbeknownst to me. Ostensibly, I left school years ago.

In my mind, I am still a schoolgirl in a white button-up shirt and dark blue uniform, gasping to make sense of life. I am still friendless, obsessed with growing intellectually, and sick of being alone.

When I expose these facts, I certainly don't solicit sympathy at all, simply because it is, in essence, by no means helpful. I mean, most of us sympathize with Gazans; how does our sympathy help?

It barely helps raise awareness about the genocide itself. But when it comes to the actual help, it is nonexistent.

When cold sympathy is available, it is ineffective at best and useless at worst. Gazans are being killed en masse every single day.

For this reason, I basically share facts about myself to remain honest and reflect on who I am.

Back to my point.

What I am trying to convey is that I am not friendless because I lack social skills, but because I didn't manage to make a true friend who would be ready to stay with me through thick and thin. Far be it from me to absolve myself and blame others for not understanding me.

However, a friend who leaves you when you are no longer aesthetically appealing to them is selfish. A friend who looks down on you because both of you are not in the same chapter is arrogant. A friend who gloats over your losses is a hypocrite.

Friendship is a deep commitment to an unconditional alliance; a loyalty covenant never to be broken or nullified. And since I couldn't find a friend with these qualities, I withdrew.

Withdrawing from a battle that's not meant for you is a victory.

I think, deep down, I've yet to heal from school traumas, so to speak. School is a miniature model of a real society. You go through virtually all life situations in school: rejection, bullying, socialization, failure, success, embarrassment, and disappointment.

Your reaction to these events as a student may or may not change as you get older. But I am certain that your initial response is pretty much the same.

Getting rejected is still painful. Dealing with racists is unbearable. Saying something awkward is mortifying. Yet, you think you leave school and carry on with life. But it doesn't leave you. It doesn't leave me, either. I often dream that I walk inside my old school and then get lost.

It is crystal clear that school is more than an educational building where you gain knowledge. It is a life experience that will accompany you throughout your life—a centre for social and personal development.

How you are treated there will influence your self-esteem and self-confidence, which impacts how you carry yourself in public. Maybe the nightmare I had tried to tell me that part of me has not graduated from school.

I am still a student at a green table facing a half-open window. The classroom is empty and drafty. And I breathe every waft of the gentle breeze. I am still there spiritually.

In fact, you are there, too. You are unlikely to admit it, for you assume that graduation means absolute separation from everything related to school. This is not the case. Your unprocessed emotions, thoughts, and memories graduate along with you. Unless you attend to them, your subconscious mind will camp at your old school on your behalf.

I don't blame my teachers for not teaching me how to deal with life outside the walls of the classroom. It is how they are designed and trained to be.

Educators pay more attention to assignments and deadlines than to real-life situations, which have unexpected timelines to begin and end and often need intuitive improvisation.

The problem is that indoctrination and regurgitation replace spontaneous action and critical thinking in some educational institutions. We are taught to memorize information without being told the why behind the order.

After all, what we attend is school, not a military camp in which we are bound to obey and remain silent. We have the right to ask questions and receive compelling answers, for only thoughtful inquiries can nurture our imagination and help us expand our horizons.

However, at school things are a bit different, at least to me. You are expected to follow orders to be seen. Yet, your chances of being seen are significantly scant because teachers focus on a segment of sycophantic students who are brainwashed to say yes all the time, even if a teacher makes a mistake.

From here grew the dangerous conviction that anyone in authority is immune to faults and flaws and that we don't have to speak up if we witness misconduct unfolding, simply because it is rude to point out a misdeed done by a teacher, let me say.

This is a real-life situation that is powerful enough to change the minds of a generation. Unfortunately, neither you nor I were bold enough to speak up in the classroom because we might be suspended, or worse, deprived of an exam.

We were frantically concerned about our academic performance, so much so that we couldn't risk getting in trouble and sacrificing our outstanding level. And thus the fear of speaking up began to creep into our minds.

We've been indoctrinated to accept and turn a blind eye, not to challenge and face consequences. And it is not just about the strictness of school that hushes us, the pressure to make friends even for introverts, or the implicit prohibition of questioning persistent assumptions.

We don't realize that we have never been prepared to sail in the uncharted waters of life. School was a small pond with security guards surrounding it to prevent us from looking outside.

The stark disparity between life inside and outside the classroom is manifested in our hesitation to apply the information we learn in the right contexts.

For example, we are taught to solve algebraic equations, but not how to use them in reality or how their applications can be observed in the universe. We memorize historical facts, but do we extract a just system to avoid the recurrence of past crimes documented in world history?

As if this is not enough, we graduate from university afflicted with overthinking and emotional immaturity. We feel we need four more years to unlearn all false beliefs and assumptions we've absorbed, and learn how to do things the right way.

It is a belated realization: a certificate hung on the wall behind the desk is not sufficient to build a successful life. We will be spiritually stuck at school until we acquire life skills to free ourselves from the torture of our fears.

Fears of getting morally or socially lost despite being well educated.

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With love,

Marwa

I regret not having been an active reader in my childhood and adolescence. I used to tell myself that my arsenal of knowledge would've been magnificent had I read more and earlier.

And sometimes it feels mortifying to announce that I have become a slower reader in my early twenties.

Maybe this is normal, and I'm taking it out of proportion. Or maybe it is truly embarrassing to be a new reader and try to deal with the strain of finishing a book within a predetermined timespan.

Either way, I read a decent number of books, which helped me develop an ever-refining sense of literary judgment. Now I can evaluate books based on their moral and creative aspects.

I don't look only at the plot, characters, events, places, or premises but also at the moral dimensions, both explicit and implicit. And because literary agents, publishing houses, and readers fixate on authors' creativity and prolificacy, often sidelining morality, we need to reevaluate popular or award-winning books using a virtuous framework that picks up on bad undertones hidden between the lines.

This, thankfully, allows me to rate reads more precisely, rather than parroting how the public perceives them.

For example, novels shortlisted for literary awards could be morally impure and normalize what's prohibited not only in Islam, but in all Abrahamic religions. Sins like adultery, illegitimate relationships, and homosexuality are unacceptable to the general public, especially parents who, regardless of their religious backgrounds, are concerned about the content their children are subjected to.

Nonetheless, such sins are cleverly embedded in some overhyped novels that teenagers and children consume, shout out for, and recommend to their friends.

Since we interact with and search for relatability in stories, their characters can influence us. And this is exactly why exposure to morally unsettling content desensitizes us, causing moral degradation in society over the long run.

It is normal to include wrong deeds in a literary work because authors must not get separated from reality and represent the world as utopian. However, the narration style used to display these deeds and categorize them matters.

There is a flagrant difference between displaying a certain sin as sordid and justifying it as an inevitable response to desperation, lust, or love.

When authors elaborate the consequences of falling for a misdeed and how they interfere with a character's well-being, mental health, and relationship with society, the line between virtues and vices remains intact, avoiding any ostensible moral dilemmas that work to reintroduce a major sin as merely a wrong choice.

Many modern YA and NA novels use vulgar language to describe suggestive scenes that implicitly promote depravity, behavioral impulsiveness, and scandal, which undermines the public's moral compass and distorts ethical standards.

After all, morals are not and cannot be subjective; their absence must be blameworthy, not accepted and embraced in the name of modernity and freedom.

Novels are mediums for conveying messages and sharing personal perspectives, so it is imperative to clarify the purpose behind every thought in the story.

For example, in a best-selling English novel I finished last month, one of the protagonists fell in love with her son's attorney and went to his apartment in her pajamas at 2:00 AM to ask him about the progress of her son's case.

In the next scene, the street was quiet, and the lights indoors were dimmed. The dog stood there and watched the scandal unfolding before the 28-year-old attorney threw it in the closet. The two looked at each other, and then what happened was expected.

Honestly, I read the first line of the depraved scene and then skipped it until I reached the scene where the mother left the house. I skipped it because I felt thunderstruck and disgusted. It is noteworthy that the mother made a mistake with a young man her son's age.

When the son confronted his mother, she said that she deserved to be happy.

At the outset, the son resisted and didn't talk to his mom. Later, he came to terms with the matter and understood that his mom found her happiness. At the end of the story, the couple lived together, unmarried. Suddenly, the author associates scandal with happiness.

In another contemporary English novel, which won a literary prize, a graduate student meets a senior student. The two are supposed to house-sit for a professor while he is away.

You read a few pages, and you realize that they are just friends—both intelligent. Then, you shriek in sheer shock at the scene that follows.

They are still friends. Here is the surprise: the girl is being exploited and touched, while her friend insists on remaining pure because of his Protestant faith.

Of course, the girl doesn't like that he is religious and ends up falling in love with his friend. In the end, she marries neither of them.

The author doesn't distance herself from the character. Even the terms used to describe some scenes are audacious, to say the least.

If I am to contrast it with Russian literature, my point will become clearer. In Crime and Punishment, the novel's moral atmosphere is palpable. Fyodor Dostoevsky dove deep into the psychological hidden recesses of the murder—the sinner.

The crime weighed on Raskolnikov’s conscience. His throbbing heartbeats, constant state of reveries, nightmares, trembling hands, and quivering voice reveal his deep remorse.

The author never normalizes immoral deeds or makes them palatable. On the contrary, Crime and Punishment is a perfect read for the unruly souls who find it easy to harm others.

It jerks readers into the corner of self-accountability and fear—fear of being a victim of life's circumstances and then turning into a predator overnight. It disciplines you. It doesn't preach to you what's good and bad. It shows you the results of both playing out.

Sofya Semyonovna feels guilty for sacrificing herself to feed her family. She is ashamed of herself and dismisses herself as unworthy because of her sin. It is she who compels Raskolnikov to seek salvation and confess the murder.

Another character is Dunya, who works for a wealthy, depraved man who tried to force her into an affair. She immediately rebuffs him and sends him a letter asking him to be loyal to his wife.

Again, the demarcation between moral and immoral is drawn.

I don't advocate creating characters with textbook moral behavior. This is unrealistic and contradicts logic and human nature. We make mistakes and commit sins more often than we realize.

But we shouldn't try to justify, normalize, or rebrand them to emancipate ourselves from the outcomes.

In Arabic, literature means أدب Adab. And the linguistic root of Adab is أدب, which means inviting people to a banquet. In a literary sense, it means gathering people toward goodness.

Adab can also be defined as good manners in Arabic. This implies that Arabic literature is based on cultivating intellect, social grace, and, most importantly, noble traits. It teaches values and warns against vices, serving not only for entertainment, but also for education and enlightenment.

And if the novels in question are evaluated through the lens of Adab, I am afraid they will lose multiple marks. Keep in mind that they may be translated into other languages—Arabic, for example—and thus infiltrate conservative societies that cherish shyness, modesty, and chastity.

If the whole world makes the same mistake, that doesn't take away from its darkness.

Allah SWT says, “Indeed, those who like that immorality should be spread [or publicized] among those who have believed will have a painful punishment in this world and the Hereafter. And Allah knows, and you do not know.” (Surah An-Nur: 19)

I reflect on why these authors don't employ their talent and imagination to elaborate bloody scenes of the oppressed and war victims to allow readers to grasp their profound pain and sympathize with them.

Rather than describing indecent scenes to satisfy so-called realism, authors can employ their words to shed light on excruciating details of crimes against humanity—man-made hunger, mass slaughter, or discrimination.

Let them describe starved children's gaunt frames, sunken eyes, and bony countenances. Let them describe the moment a bomb strikes a building filled with innocent humans and tears their bodies into scattered bits of flesh.

Let them describe the incident when a surgeon cuts off a dangling part of an amputated hand without anesthesia.

Let the reader flinch, growl, shriek, and hold their breath upon every torturing line. This ambition is ethically advanced and humanly imperative.

Too much indecency is already rampant, so there is no need for it to be further depicted and repackaged as innocuous in novels—the last bastion to amplify unheard voices.

Disclaimer:

• The main point is not to attack any author or work or to generate controversy around any well-known name in the world of fiction. Hence, I intentionally didn't mention any books or authors by name.

• Undoubtedly, this doesn't mean that some English novels have flaws while Arabic ones don't. This is not the case. But the difference is that we in the Muslim world don't normalize indecency in literature.

• I refrained from writing about such a sensitive topic, but when I saw Muslims promoting one of the novels I mentioned, I changed my mind.

• I am aware of cultural differences between the East and the West. However, morals are universal and can't be compromised simply because a sin is considered an accepted practice in a certain country or community.

• At the end of the day, Allah SWT will hold us accountable for what we have used our talents and art for, so be prepared.

  May Allah SWT bless every pen devoted to goodness.

With love,

Marwa

It is not for me. I mean, the cup of sugar-free Turkish coffee is not for me, but for my father. He says I've practiced making his special daily coffee until it became my specialty. And it still is.

He relies on my hands when he craves caffeine, and I am always at his beck and call. A profound sense of peace visits my chronically throbbing heart when I make something I don't love for someone I truly love.

It is the highest act of altruism; a rare quality that we need to reclaim our uncompromising humanity.

Anyway, my father is so gentle a man. Never has he asked me to make his coffee in my dark or hopeless moments. He is a punctual human who masterfully knows what to say, when and how to say it.

For me, the time I spend before the stove is a welcome distraction. It helps me process thoughts lingering on the periphery of my consciousness.

The pressure of other demanding thoughts exhausts me all day long, and taking a break for a labor of love is healthy escapism, I guess.

But I am still drowning in my thoughts, be they rational or fanciful. My mind can't stay quiet and relieve me from the mental labyrinth of connecting the dots.

Sometimes connecting the dots leads you to conclusions that hurt you, so you wish you had kept them unprocessed.

Nonetheless, the chemistry of making black coffee salvages my whole being as it teaches me to break down a thought before the water in the coffee jug boils. Thus, I don't waste my mental energy regurgitating the same thought a million times without an end looming on the horizon.

I once figured out a way to articulate a certain idea in my upcoming book. I was leaning on the countertop, waiting for my sister to bring the white, Arabic-motif cup and saucer that Baba adores.

I am about to make my father his third traditional brew. I'd love to take you along with me. We aren't alone, as my thoughts will keep us company. Most of them are unrelated and intermingled. Inside my skull, they make sense. When it comes to vocalizing them, they are nigh impossible to sort out.

I have to fill the coffee jug with water and put it on the burner to bring it to a boil. My father wants only one cup, so it must taste exquisite. Baba has coffee beans roasted until they are browner, not darker than the light shades of brown. A generous amount of ground cardamom is interspersed with the roasted coffee beans.

The Arabian aroma filling the kitchen signals my father's presence. The smell, I remember, is reminiscent of the good old days when my father was reunited with his mother and made their coffee together.

Speaking of reunion and exile, I am writing a book on Ghorba and don't dare revisit it, for I think I need to read thousands of books before I finish my book.

I am an invisible speck of dust landing on a bookshelf whose wood shelves sag under the weight of the heavy, informative books. I will never be able to read them all before finishing my current literary project.

However, I can't use my fear as an alibi for abandoning the dream of publishing a book. What motivates me to write it is the hope that my fellow Mugtariboon—Expatriates or newcomers—will find sincere solace between its lines. I am doing my part and am certain that Allah SWT will not let my efforts and time be scattered to the four winds.

Sometimes I feel too small to ask God to bless me in my worldly pursuits. I abhor the idea of making duas only conditionally.

I feel this way because I don't want to be one of those who pray to God only in gloomy times, out of impatience and indignation. Even if I ever fall for the same phenomenon, I have to repent and do more Istighfar.

Speaking of remembrance of Allah SWT, I notice that I don't make enough Istigfar per day—standing as evidence of the tumultuous battles of thoughts taking place in my mind.

I am so obsessed with perfectionistic results that I forget the very reason that increases my Risq: Istigfar.

The Creator says, “10 And said, 'Ask forgiveness of your Lord. Indeed, He is ever a Perpetual Forgiver. 11 He will send [rain from] the sky upon you in [continuing] showers. 12 And give you increase in wealth and children and provide for you gardens and provide for you rivers.13 What is [the matter] with you that you do not attribute to Allah [due] grandeur? 14 While He has created you in stages?” (Surah Nuh).

Asking God for His forgiveness can pave the way for your provision. At the same time, you atone for your sins and pray for divine salvation. Istigfar is a win-win.

I should let it be stitched to the edge of my tongue around the clock. I mean, we express our anxiety and stress all the time and complain about whatever goes wrong throughout the day. I think we'd be better off replacing groaning with remembrance of Allah.

The water is bubbling, so I have to turn the heat down.

And speaking of complaints, it is necessary to fill our time with useful activities instead of cursing our bad luck. It is a common human inclination: we look at the half-empty glass. It sounds cliché, but accurate.

Why don't we, me included, try to be a bit more productive? Though I have reservations about this buzzword, I am aware that we need a good dose of it. For example, instead of standing idly by, let's attempt to identify one of our problems and work on it in earnest.

I just added one teaspoon of freshly ground coffee into the boiling water and stirred it gently to add love to it. This is the fourth time I used the word ‘love’.

Anyway, back to the point.

I have a solution for doomscrolling and overconsumption of online short-form content. Don't listen to people who believe and circulate every piece of information they encounter, regardless of its validity.

I mean, your brain can't be rotten irreversibly. This is not even a scientific or medical term. But it is terrifying enough to make you to lose faith in yourself. The human brain is better known for its neuroplasticity. It can be rewired to think and analyze if you spend enough time feeding it useful content. Useful conten.

Use reels and short quotes to your own advantage. How? It is simple. You can use a random video to expand your knowledge on a certain topic, provided that the video itself is informative, not trivial or exported from the parallel world.

For instance, I came across a 30-sec video that explained how a racist slur turned into a French chocolate brand. I saved the video.

Well, I am reading your thoughts at the moment. You want to tell me that you will never return to the saved content. But your motivation to learn something that serves a purpose in your life will encourage you to revisit it.

Now search for a related book or peer-reviewed article. Read it with a pen in your hand. You will gather facts that spur you to reason, memorize and generate new ideas.

Gradually, you will recover from screen addiction.

As I reflect on the agony of complaining, I think of a Gazan who lost his four limbs in an electrical accident before the war. He has been trying to survive the war since it began.

I can't imagine the excruciating tone of his voice when making du'as. Those are the true patients whom Allah Almighty promises the highest rank of paradise.

My ability to remain steadfast in the face of a cataclysm fades in comparison to his. I feel shy asking Allah SWT for the same rewards that the man with four amputations will, through divine mercy, gain.

I just spaced out, and the coffee overflowed on the burner. It is a deadly mistake for Turkish coffee lovers: the rich, creamy foam is gone.

The thought is still worth it.

I turned off the burner and poured the coffee into my father's special cup. Wisps of steam rose from it, contrasting with the cool, breezy air. The aroma embraced my neurons, urging them to awaken.

Much to your surprise, I am not a coffee drinker and have never been one in my entire life. Nonetheless, my immense gratitude to my father inspires me to fall in love with the process and, as a free bonus, to clear my head.

I have a world of unrelated thoughts bouncing around in my mind. I might've been mentally overloaded had this little routine disappeared from my life.

Take Care,

Marwa

Nonetheless, this doesn't erase the fact that the harsh reality of racism shattered his childhood ambition.

What I am emphasizing here is that a person often returns to the point at which they lost a cherished dream and mulls over the events that led to that loss. This is especially true in cases of war and discrimination.

Let me explain:

I have a slight fondness for the idealistic notion that all dreams are meant to be achieved someday. It has an optimistic side that we often lack in our daily lives.

We need this type of positive delusion to prompt us to achieve goals that require broad imagination and an open perspective. The content we consume through traditional and modern media reinforces the same idea: all dreams are achievable.

In movies and novels alike, most—though not all—protagonists struggle to succeed at the beginning. But as they overcome challenges and manage to regain control of their lives, they begin to weave the first threads of success.

Rarely have I come across a story in which a dream remained a distant memory in its owner's mind.

And this stereotypical story arc benefits children who need positivity amid the misery they perceive in the world. After all, an imaginary character inspires them to dream bigger.

However, sometimes these edited cinematic scenes marginalize those never destined to see their dreams meet reality. Not because they work any less hard, but because something formidable prevents them from ascending the peak. We long for happy endings, and so movies and stories end in a way carefully curated to satisfy our literary taste.

In real life, things are different and remain unedited. Plots are too entangled to unravel, making it difficult to grasp what gives rise to what or how events come to a head. Myriad factors are at play, and some of them are kept undisclosed. This contrasts with man-made scenarios that move along the path laid out from the outset.

Hence, they are appealing.

I've always believed that goals can't be reduced to effort, luck, or both. They are by no means guaranteed. Every life event plays a role in either bringing us closer to them or pushing us away.

You may be diligent but unlucky, fortunate but unmotivated, active but demoralized, or encouraged but idle. Success is not a pure result of personal effort, and failure is not evidence of incompetence.

This makes me think of the children growing up in discriminatory environments, war-torn regions, impoverished slums, and open-air ghettoes.

You can't be certain that each of them will recover from traumatic experiences by the time they are ready to venture into the real world.

We shed light on those who manage to heal and succeed, neglecting those who couldn't make it—one word, one event, or one fear paralyzes their ability to shoot for the moon.

We, as the public, are selfish in this regard. We want to feel that life is fair, and justice unmistakably takes its course, and happy endings are fixed. Therefore, we focus on resilient survivors, as if those unable to heal are blameworthy.

Malcolm never became a lawyer, although he was an outstanding student. But living in a racially segregated environment allowed the white supremacists to belittle him and his ambitions, causing him to abandon his exceptional academic performance and drift into the criminal underworld.

I agree that his choice was impulsive and hardly justifiable, but I would argue that good guidance would've saved him from immorality. I can imagine that his life could have been different had his English teacher seen him as a visionary child rather than an inferior Negro.

Everything in his racist milieu pointed to disappointment and inevitable defeat. His crime: a dark skin tone.

Here is what Malcom said in his biography:

“Somehow, I happened to be alone in the classroom with Mr. Ostrowski,my English teacher. He was a tall, rather reddish white man and he had a thick mustache. I had gotten some of my best marks under him, and he had always made me feel that he liked me.[…] He told me, “Malcolm, you ought to be thinking about a career. Have you been giving it thought?”

The truth is, I hadn’t. I never have figured out why I told him, “Well, yes, sir, I’ve been thinking I’d like to be a lawyer.” Lansing certainly had no Negro lawyers—or doctors either—in those days, to hold up an image I might have aspired to. All I really knew for certain was that a lawyer didn’t wash dishes, as I was doing.

Mr. Ostrowski looked surprised, I remember, and leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He kind of half-smiled and said,

“Malcolm, one of life’s first needs is for us to be realistic. Don’t misunderstand me, now. We all here like you, you know that. But you’ve got to be realistic about being a nigger. A lawyer—that’s no realistic goal for a nigger. You need to think about something you can be. You’re good with your hands—making things. Everybody admires your carpentry shop work. Why don’t you plan on carpentry? People like you as a person—you’d get all kinds of work.”

---

Malcolm never forgot his teacher's cruel words that made him lose faith in himself.

How many children his age have been deprived of achieving their dreams just because their skin color was not light enough?

I am sure that where Malcolm lived in Lansing, Boston, Detroit, or New York, there were scores of potential prodigies who didn't aspire to become doctors, nurses, engineers, or lawyers due to the draconian racial segregation laws of America.

Or, I beg your pardon, The Dreamland.

Malcolm mentioned that his teacher liked him. My heart tells me that he was trying to console himself. I mean, his racist teacher's reaction to Malcolm's dream contributed to his subservient self-image. He even expressed a deep sorrow over his lack of formal academic education later in his adult life.

What frustrated him the most was that his white classmates were encouraged by the same teacher who dragged his spirits down.

Malcolm lamented:

“ The more I thought afterwards about what he said, the more uneasy it made me. It just kept treading around in my mind. What made it really begin to disturb me was Mr. Ostrowski’s advice to others in my class—all of them white. Most of them had told him they were planning to become farmers.

But those who wanted to strike out on their own, to try something new, he had encouraged. Some, mostly girls, wanted to be teachers. A few wanted other professions, such as one boy who wanted to become a county agent; another, a veterinarian; and one girl wanted to be a nurse.

They all reported that Mr. Ostrowski had encouraged what they had wanted. Yet nearly none of them had earned marks equal to mine.”

---

Malcolm's childhood dream story has opened my eyes to an overlooked case: millions of dreams left dangling down the mountainside of systemic oppression and discrimination.

I assume you may not refrain from commenting, “But they have to try; they have to achieve their goals despite the tyrannical monsters. Many could do it, so could they.”

But this is not how things work in life. The fact that you've heard inspiring stories of victims emerging victorious from their battles doesn't mean that every oppressed human can go on to build success.

There is a world of difference between ‘they can't’ and ‘they don't want’. In Gaza, Sudan, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Yemen, or other war-stricken areas, hundreds of thousands of children have been forced to drop out of school to hunt for work. To provide for their families and save their dignity.

Suddenly, they found themselves lost in the grown-up world and its complexities, having no option but to doff the innocent mantle of childhood and don that of adulthood to prove their maturity.

And even if still blessed with their breadwinners, some of them might struggle with severe depression that interfered with their quality of life.

Others might try to get back to normalcy after multiple amputations and weep every time they looked at their missing limbs.

Moreover, a doctor in Gaza stated two years ago that the medical team had to remove the uteri of many young women following abortions to prevent fatal hemorrhaging.

How could a woman give up the universal dream of having a baby, part of her heart, and try to focus on the ‘chasing your material dream’ mantra? I know that some amazingly could.

But I am paying homage to those who couldn't.

We all need a reality check every now and then to realize that we don't listen to all cries equally. The version ‘I performed well despite struggles’ is more reassuring than ‘I barely survived and haven't yet recovered from collapse’.

While the media opts to cheer for those who do it against the backdrop of inhumanity, I proudly choose to advocate for those who are yet to do it. For those holding their traumas in one hand and responsibility heavier than themselves in the other. For every martyr who reached their graves faster than their desired destinations.

I mourn every dexterous hand and bright mind that the world has lost to injustice.

Thank you, Malcolm!

With love,

Marwa

However, I must acknowledge that such a world reveals a multitude of human behavior patterns and common habits. In this case, it can be beneficial to those trying to read people well and infer how they interact with and react to a certain event.

It is an optimal space to test public reaction and collect data on what provokes and satisfies them. But because I grew up away from social media—not allowed to create an account on Instagram until I turned 17 and didn't officially create one until I was 24—I mistakenly belittled its ability to teach me how to understand social inclinations.

As you scroll down your feed, you not only like posts that you agree with, but also the ones your friends liked. Even when you comment, most of the time you rephrase what others say. You may not grasp that this erodes your identity.

Ibn Khaldun, the 14th-century father of sociology, wrote in his masterwork The Muqaddimah: “Blind conformity to tradition does not mean that the dead are alive, but that the living are dead.”

---

But sometimes you prefer being spiritually dead to being unseen.

It gives you a sense of belonging; a profound feeling that your opinion is being heard and recognized. It is a subconscious thought underlying your tendency to agree with a comment liked by 5k users.

Due to the short attention span that doomscrolling fosters, it is a mental burden to pause for a few seconds to draft a comment based on your genuine convictions or even to reconsider your decision to comment at all.

After submitting your comment, a new reel demands your attention, and you forget what you have just seen. You operate in an environment unsuitable for contemplation or reflection; hence the problem.

You may not realize that we've developed a blind and exaggerated recognition of what is Islamically and socially considered obligatory, not optional. This has conditioned our minds to accept minimal goodness as great and ultimate.

To mistake acquiescence for patience and silence for peace. On the Internet, the truth can be controversial, and mindfulness is often dismissed as superfluous.

We try to push back any thought that comes against the grain because we fear social criticism. I periodically scroll through my Instagram feed and come across videos for the Palestinian cause and other equally important affairs.

It is disheartening to witness that the bar for what's considered uncompromising solidarity has gradually been set lower until the point where we think that the mantra “free Palestine” is enough, especially if it comes from an internationally recognized, famous figure.

Suddenly, public discourse changes from ‘influential people have to speak up about a humanitarian catastrophe’ to ‘My favorite actress, supermodel, or footballer has posted the Palestinian flag on their stories; see, they are humane and good. They deserve my support.’

The next stage is expected: ten videos show up on your feed, made, of course, by fans to convince the world, no, not about Palestine, that a famous one has recognized a country named Palestine.

Videos go viral. People comment, like, and repost.

More airstrikes hit the Strip.

Instead of focusing on the matter at hand and going on to raise awareness about it, we brush it aside and shed light on the newly awakened messenger, not the message itself.

I don't mean to belittle the effort of those with a massive following, or accuse them of exploiting the cause for personal rebranding, though many have done it before.

Rather, I draw a demarcation between what's morally mandatory and discretionary. It is a collective responsibility to stand in the face of genocidal crimes because they are prohibited.

Even the inanimate wall agrees that killing is egregiously wrong.

I believe that we take pride in circulating the news that a celebrity stands with Palestine and forget why we need their support in the first place.

The goal is not to cheer for them, but to ask them to use their platform to mobilize as many people as they can to stand with the Palestinian, Sudanese, and Lebanese struggles.

When someone is bleeding, it is not the right time to kiss the hand of the one who tells the world about the wound. Let's help stop the bleeding first. Focus on the blood spot, not on the one taking a picture next to it.

Another common inclination that I've observed online is Muslim users celebrating international figures who said something with the word ‘Allah SWT.’

Know that Islam is complete and inclusive with or without us. It has come from Allah alhaq, and it is utterly unacceptable to claim that someone's conversion will complement it. There is no wrong in wishing your favorite celebrity to convert to Islam.

And if this is the case, then fair enough. The real problem is that these hopes stem from our weakness and a feeling of inferiority. To heal and reclaim strength, we chase validation for Islam from a formidable icon.

Deep down, we think that if they can accept Muslims, so will the world. We feel that we are not enough despite the axiom that we have the truth—and the truth imposes itself on the falsehood.

It is normal to feel weak as you collide with your traumas and insecurities. Muslims have been for decades misunderstood and misinterpreted, and the secular West is undoubtedly the culprit.

We try to take advantage of any event that could result in us Muslims being seen. This is why we seek external recognition through famous figures. It is legitimate to acknowledge—not normalize—our weakness.

Abu Huraira reported Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) as saying:

A strong believer is better and is more lovable to Allah than a weak believer, and there is good in everyone, (but) cherish that which gives you benefit (in the Hereafter) and seek help from Allah and do not lose heart, and if anything (in the form of trouble) comes to you, don't say: If I had not done that, it would not have happened so and so, but say: Allah did that what He had ordained to do and your" if" opens the (gate) for the Satan.

---

The comments section under related Instagram reels exposes our collective Muslim self-image, at least the one embraced by Muslim users on the platform.

We look down on ourselves as if our ancestors were not pioneers bringing about revolutionary changes in scientific and other fields.

We don't need anyone to introduce us or polish our reputation.

If you read the history of Islamic civilizations, you will realize that their chronicled files are clear of heinous crimes rampant in the West, like genocide, racism, white supremacism, religious intolerance, and colonization.

When Muslims entered a city, they would spread peace and prosperity. Churches and synagogues were left intact. And discrimination was nonexistent. Our Muslim history has never been defined by bloodshed or religious oppression.

Europe exterminated and expelled Jews; we welcomed and accommodated them in Palestine.

While America enacted laws of racial segregation in the late 19th century in a flagrant attempt to separate the white from the black, some 13 centuries earlier, the first muʾazzin (caller to pray) in Islam was a formerly enslaved black man.

When nationalism turned into a discriminatory call to decimate those with different national identities, Muslim countries saw themselves as one ummah and every newcomer was a guest.

We must be proud of our rich history and draw upon it whenever we feel inferior, and internalize that solidarity must live up to the severity of the cataclysm we are witnessing.

With love,

Marwa

On the brink of forgetting, I am tiptoeing, afraid of falling into the abyss of amnesia.

I am a lightweight soul moving around. I know not why I am still walking as if I had a heavy physical body.

Am I the forgetful or the forgotten?

The difference is hard to draw clearly because once you are forgotten, you begin to convince yourself that you are unworthy of being remembered. When the world turns its back on you, you can't beseech attention. It is a matter of dignity.

Or, shall I say, a deliberate act not to remind the world of me, so that the Divine punishment against those who forsake me will multiply. I thought death was the antithesis of life. But no, it is not. It is another form of it; you either sense the gentle breeze of Paradise or the burning flames of Hellfire.

I can't tell you what I've sensed during my stay in the grave. I am certain that Allah SWT will bestow His mercy upon me because I have been betrayed. I am المغدور. And far be it from the Most Merciful not to reward me for my martyrdom and forgive me for my sins.

I wander among headstones in search of my brother's grave. It is a winter night, and the hushing wind swirls and twirls around me. The ground is paradoxically warm. Is it the warmth of the innocent blood or the lingering anguish of unidentified martyrs?

I can fly in the sky and travel through different time zones. Why am I still walking on foot? Perhaps oppression has suffocated every part of me, fooling me into sticking to the ground.

But now I am free. Free. I can't tell what day or date it is today. I've been here for so long. Decades. Maybe more. Maybe less. Or maybe counting the days makes them feel longer.

Suddenly, a faint flash of light appears out of nowhere. The illuminating circle grows larger as it draws closer to me.

I squint my eyes.

All I can make out is a silhouette of hands clutching torches on the headstones.

Are those forensic experts who come to excavate and search for my commingled remains?

I don't think they are, because the police have to cordon off the area and place it under 24-hour armed guard before the experts embark on their work. I told them before where my skull and femur were dumped—in two separate graves—but no one listened to me.

The living can't hear the dead.

Now I see a woman in a black, modest dress with a white scarf. Someone is clinging to the edge of her Abya. Let me take a few steps toward them.

Is this…is this the same gold pendant my wife owned?

But she's in her late sixties. And the woman I am looking at is probably 31 or 32.

The woman is here to visit her father, my fellow martyr, along with her child. I remember this man. He had a jewelry shop next to my shoemaker shop. He was my next-door neighbor, and then he moved to rent a one-room apartment down the block. I remember he once told me that his wife and two children had fled to Germany in the first half of 1995. He didn't bear parting, but their safety was at stake. He couldn't leave Srebrenica, where his soul felt at home.

If my memory serves me right, though the heavy steel blade of a Serbian bulldozer shredded my hippocampus, he was among a desperate column of thousands of Bosniak men and boys who escaped into the dense woods toward the safe territory of Tulza.

I didn't accompany him. But it doesn't require math to imagine how abysmal his condition was. Starved. Parched. Barefoot. Terrified. Alone. His body sweltering, and his eyes bloodshot.

He moved northwest through the mountain terrain where the Jadar River and its tributaries were located. He bent over to hydrate his cracked tongue. The water tasted metallic and stank. The blood of people ambushed in the vicinity had seeped into the once pristine stream. He was trapped when crossing the stream running near Kamenica, a small village in Bosnia.

His daughter embraces the headstone, kisses it, and whispers something. Then she leans her head against it. Her two-year-old seems to be in blissful ignorance. It is too early to introduce him to the misery of life.

It is 3 AM. Every blow of wind stings my pale countenance. It billows the woman's dress and forces her child to shrink his shoulders inward against the cold.

Do you see the headstone there?

No, the one behind, on the left.

It is my brother's grave. I remember his remains were scattered in three graves. I saw a forensic expert flinch when he found a fracture of my brother's shinbone. I couldn't remember what happened then. But I am sure he was buried there.

I am pointing at it. Do you see it?

Where is…the woman?

She's not there, nor is the boy.

I just turned my head to show you my brother's grave. Now I can't find them.

It is not an appropriate time to attend the ceremony. Why did she come at this late hour?

Or, did she come at all? If not, then what I was looking at.

Hallucinations?

When the war broke out in Bosnia in 1991, I begged my wife to take the children and flee to Italy. They could start from scratch there. And Hasan, my older son, would provide for his mom and sisters. My wife refused out of hand and said that we either lived together or died together. I told her multiple times that we would be finished had we stayed. She was stubborn. And I didn't stop arguing further to pressure her to move.

Then, survival felt possible when the UN declared Srebrenica a safe area.

On March 12, 1993, French General Philippe Morillon, the commander of the UN peacekeeping forces in Bosnia, stood at the window of the Srebrenica post office and told the panicking crowd:

“You are now under the protection of the United Nations. I will never abandon you.”

We, just like thousands of Bosniak Muslims, headed in hordes to the UN-guarded area. Running water, abundant food, and electricity visited all of us out there in dreams. Only in dreams. We were besieged by merciless Serbian forces.

Their favorite drink was Muslim blood. Favorite sound was Muslim children weeping.

I falsely assumed that the international institution would fulfill its promise, simply because it was thought to be human-oriented.

We all took Morillon’s vow seriously. Why? Well, if an enemy came to us and claimed that he would help us survive the war, we would agree. We had no other choice. And panic paralyzed our ability to think clearly.

Logically speaking, the Dutch forces were too young and inexperienced to protect us. We had a genocide precedent. We counted our breaths. It was a matter of time before we left, not Bosnia, life.

It is 4:30; the call for the dawn prayer echoes from the minaret of a nearby mosque.

حي على الصلاه حي على الصلاه

Come to prayer, come to prayer

حي على الفلاح حي على الفلاح

Come to success, come to success

الله أكبر الله أكبر

God is the greatest, God is the greatest

لا اله الا الله

There is no god but Allah

The crunch of the worshippers' footsteps comforts my loneliness as I watch the enchanting predawn canvas of fading stars. The fine line between deep indigo and peachy hues gently pulls upward, welcoming glowing ribbons of fiery orange, apricot, and amber to stretch across the sky. The light strikes the clouds, making way for the yellow diurnal star. The sun officially crests the horizon.

I am in awe.

I have missed out on 10.957 sunrises!

The last day I felt the sunlight against my gaunt frame was when I, along with more than 8000 Bosniak Muslim fellows, was shot dead by Serbian soldiers.

The UN peacekeepers failed to prevent Bosnian Serbs from taking over Srebrenica and separating thousands of Bosniak men and boys from the women and children. They actually ‘abandoned’ us. They even handed over hundreds of us after we had sought protection on the base.

The depravity of Serbian forces came to a head: they shoved our corpses into makeshift mass graves.

Afraid of being tried for committing a massacre, Serb forces scrambled to conceal the traces of their egregious crime. With heavy machinery, they excavated the mass graves, bulldozed them, and dug secondary graves for our scattered pieces.

The UN and other international institutions sent forensic teams to the site of genocide and promised to bring the perpetrators to justice.

I am not interested in knowing what happened then. They ironically thought that when they dug up the blood-soaked soil of Srebrenica and collected our remains to deliver them to our families, they did us a favor. They stood on the right side of history. But they didn't.

We shall not forgive whoever got complicit in shedding our blood.

It is 6:00; I remember my wife loved to have breakfast around this time. She said that the sunrays reflecting off the kitchen table and into my eyes made her smile.

I am waiting for her. She's due to arrive any time soon.

12 July 2026. The Levant. Palestine/Gaza

(Thunderous sound followed by a lightning flash at irregular intervals)

I take shelter in a run-down school building. The UN has said that schools and hospital buildings are safe areas, and hundreds of Gazans trust this hollow promise. As a newcomer to the coastal city, I too trust it.

I don't know how I've arrived at the Mediterranean coast of Gaza or why I am here. I remember swarms of martyrs who smelled of musk and olives departed from life. How much time has passed since the genocide in Srebrenica?

30 or 31. Maybe 31 years.

I am walking down a street distorted by debris and rubble.

“Ugh,” I say, bumping into someone. “Sorry, I didn't see you.”

“Are you fine?” he asks.

“How should I know? I am not alive,” I reply.

“Neither am I,” he sighs.

“Never again, huh?” I lament

“Time and again. Time and again,” he commiserates.

.

With love, Marwa

I don’t think the world understands the basic premise of love. Words, empty sentimentality, and trite romantic fiction have rarely, in my humble opinion, portrayed the true meaning of love. I mean, the kind of love that is inclusive enough to accommodate friendship, brotherhood, sisterhood, and fellowship—that’s purged of lust or pathological obsession. The love that has peace, rational sacrifice (not the delusional one), and morality as fundamental pillars of its firm foundation.

It is free from exploitative intents, publicity stunts, or even affected cinematic actions. It is also perceived and felt before you utter a word or express it awkwardly. Not forced, nor superficial or made up.

I am yearning for the purest version of love that keeps your conscience awake, your sense of accountability alive, and, above all, your fear of God uncompromised. You remain loyal to those you hold dear even if all odds are stacked against you, and you are standing alone in the middle of a doomed battle of a life’s catastrophe.

True love is diverse, multilingual, and comprehensive. Its magnitude and influence are too expansive to be shoved into that typical mold of affection. It manifests itself in small details and impressions overlooked by many, simply because we are busy chasing conventional love that is notorious for stepping away the closer we get to it.

Rescuing your depressed friend from the brink of collapse, although you are inwardly shattered, is a brotherly love. Wearing an out-of-style fleece jacket your mom bought you because you don’t want to upset her is a warm love. Choosing not to retaliate or hold grudges against a hater, for you try to break the vicious circle of hostility, is elegant love—it is self-love stemming from a love of goodness. And celebrating your colleague’s wins that add nothing to you is a gentle love.

Deep inside, you know that doing all these things needs mental stamina, which may not always be available to you. Yet, you know that one moment, one touch, one word, one gesture, one pat can make a world of difference to your loved ones. You never vocalize love. You let it breathe through your actions, and this is exactly what love stands for: show rather than tell.

Nothing can be easier than selling hollow promises and then pretending that life gets in the way of fulfilling them. You can make all excuses under the sun to justify this, but we are certain that love defies these excuses. For example, telling your mom that her taste is a bit unstylish and then you both laugh is not, I think, as lovely as putting on the garment her eyes picked out especially for you. It is not a big deal. It is a small detail, but it also leaves an indelible impression on her. She won’t forget it.

By the way, she is sure that the jacket is not your style and that you are trying to make her happy. And this is what impresses her the most. Even your friend can tell that you need to hear the same condolences you offer him. As much as you sag under the weight of your own concerns and untold feelings, you are reassured that investing in your humanity is, in all cases, profitable. If the love you give goes unreciprocated, it will never be forgotten. Even those who detest you can’t deny your tender heart in their inner monologues.

I am disheartened that I’ve just subconsciously expressed a love-related idea in economic terms—‘investing and profitable’. You can see how a materialistic mindset is hauntingly dominant. I should’ve written ‘fruitful’ instead; it has a botanical theme.

Anyway, some versions of love seem, at first glance, callous and excruciating. In actuality, they epitomize the quintessence of love. Not all events of abandonment, withdrawal, or departure are demoralizing. Some of them are a prelude to freedom and dynamism. You cherish your child, but you leave him alone in social situations and at school to train him to communicate. You adore your parents, so you shun a bad habit that would disappoint them. You miss your homeland, but you depart for a new place to help your family survive a financial debacle. You let go of what you love for whom you love. Such an act of devotion permeates the soul, enriching the savor of warmth and compassion in human relationships.

This is unlike conventional love in our time, which is monochrome and mundane, reducing the whole world to one person. One soul. One heart. And one entity. You are blind; you see what’s reflected on the lens screen of your lover. You no longer judge happenings objectively, but based on the rules of who conquers your heart. Your once separate being melts into the other’s, erasing what remains of your identity.

Their presence illuminates you from the inside out. Their absence renders you a faint torch in sunlight. You end up as a faded silhouette of their original picture. Your heartbeat follows the rhythm of theirs. Their fears drape on you uninvited. Their victories lend themselves to becoming yours. It can go as far as this: your lips stretch out if they decide to show their pearls. Your eyes rain upon glimpsing droplets of dew stuck at the corner of their hazelnut gaze.

You break the rules of uniqueness and the idiosyncratic nuances that create our distinct identities to identify with those you hold dear. Romantic novelists often describe this identity depreciation as the peak of platonic fondness. Examine it carefully and you will classify it as willful martyrdom exchanged for a lifelong covenant of loyalty, which may be left unsigned or, worse, unfulfilled.

Far be it from this to be love. It is slavery in disguise. This is why romantic relationships outside the framework of marriage or left unframed by engagement are prohibited in Islam, regardless of how people have changed the ruling to stay aligned with modernity.

It forces you to hollow out the content of your soul to free room for the other. Love, thus, either keeps you grounded or hastens your free fall into an abyss. Your sense of peace is at stake. Your heart is convinced that its fate is somewhat associated with theirs.

This causes unrealistic expectations to soar. Delusion ensues, with disappointment looming. Recovery becomes mandatory. The itinerary toward disillusion will inevitably result in an identity crisis.

The question ‘who am I if I am not their shadow’ exhausts you because you need to rebuild yourself from scratch to answer it. It is a waste of time and energy to be dedicated to someone who doesn’t appreciate all these sacrifices.

And given that this is how society defines or frames love, we are afraid of stepping out of the herd and expanding the lens through which we grasp love. It is not supposed to be melodramatic and torturous.

Here is what Imam Shafi’i said in one of his exquisite Diwan:

“And from misery is that you love, and [the one] whom you love, loves other than you, or that you want good for a person, and he wants to hurt you.”

من الشقاوة أن تحب ومن تحب يحب غيرك

أو أن تريد الخير للإنسان وهو يريد ضيرك

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What if we take a step forward and redefine love to be, for the second time, more inclusive and gentler? It can include every good deed aimed at improving, fixing, repairing, or enhancing. It can begin with the love of Allah SWT, then humanity, then humans.

Think about it: those who fear God have an awakened conscience, which in turn helps them sympathize with others and treat your heart like a fragile glass. Those are the ones who can love you sincerely.

They find love in the small details of life—a sunset scene, stargazing, prayers in the rain, children’s laughter, morning walks, and the call to prayer at dawn.

For them, love is a habit, not an occasion. It is giving, not demanding. Their faces stay unchanged on and off stage because they value love and the heart that embraces it. Whoever doesn’t see and offer love in simple things in casual moments cannot comprehend it fully.

With love, Marwa

I've always believed that our dreams are nothing short of stars that we spend our lives chasing and praying will come true. Gazing into the night sky at the shining stars inspires us to remain determined to reach our goals, however distant they may seem.

I think the content we consume online also feeds our impatient desire to hit more impressive milestones early in our lives, while we are still young and energetic. It is true that youth must not be squandered on trivialities and that Allah SWT will hold us accountable for how we have used our time. But sometimes we go through disturbing events that impede our progress and leave us waiting for a long time in a certain stage of life. We feel left in the dust and unable to control the storms that have turned us upside down.

And when these storms subside, we need time to heal and recover from the psychological toll. To get back to ourselves. This means more time passes by while we are busy putting ourselves together. No real progress or tangible improvements may be seen.

We can't pretend that we suddenly feel great and ready to resume working on projects and objectives right after surviving an affliction. This unrealistic version of healing and motivation that social media sells is problematic and inapplicable, to say the least. We don't press a button and magically restore the lost spark of our dreams as if nothing has disturbed our days and caused us insomnia for several nights.

No one has been realistic enough to tell us that sometimes we are destined to attain our goals later in life and that early successes may not come at all. We are systemically sold into the misconception that success is strictly associated with our twenties and early thirties. It is as if we are supposed to spend the rest of our lives either taking pride in early wins or crying over failures following initial attempts.

Sometimes we are afraid of admitting that we can't be sure what the next step is or that we regret having gone down a path that doesn't bring us value or fulfillment. The affected air of confidence and assertiveness we perceive in influential figures online prompts us to question ourselves, our ability to lead a successful life, our understanding of what can be fanciful or attainable, and our relationship with time.

For some reason, the feeling that we are running behind and that all people our age have already figured it all out stings, exacerbating self-doubt. We see others hit one milestone after the other, while we could barely think of one thing that we've got right. It is not envy or jealousy at all; we feel euphoric that many bloom in their own ways. But we are thirsty to savor success—early success.

And though it is by no means guaranteed, we still cling to the same stereotypical image of the string of events expected to follow one another in order: graduating with a sophisticated degree, landing a dream job, putting the first payment down on a dream house, finding a loyal partner, getting married, having children, and continuing to juggle multiple tasks. If we dare to change the sequence of these so-called holy events, we feel left out. And even if no one criticizes us directly, all nonverbal gestures and silent glances in a given social setting imply that we haven't done enough to be victorious.

We feel alienated, and this is exactly why most of us prefer isolation over socialization. We know that keeping ourselves company is safer than being surrounded by friends who either boast about their victories in life or blame us for taking one step at a time, as if we need to be devoted to running after all things simultaneously.

I once told my mother that I didn't want my twenties to end before I achieved all my dreams. She raised her eyebrows and looked at me in utter surprise.

Mama is a quiet kind of person. She believes that every day comes with its own unique plan, so there is no need to overplan it beforehand. I am impressed by her ability to cope with hard circumstances and loneliness. She's so strong though. Her parents passed away while she was in exile. She was 26 when the two pillars of her existence disappeared for good. I have to confess one little secret: she's way more patient than I am.

My mother said, “It is never too late for anyone in this cosmos to start from scratch and pursue their passion. As long as the sun comes out in the morning, hope will always be there, waiting for us to recognize it.”

She reassured me that the efforts I put in without yielding their fruits would never go down the drain.

Allah SWT watched the battles I fought on the platform of dreamers and He would reward me even for my fruitless attempts. For her, there was no such thing as being too old to chase a new dream.

I was honest with my mom and I told her that we would feel that we missed out on something. I mean, we would be at point A while people from the same age bracket were at point C, and this made us frustrated and down. She then gave me that famous look that moms would give to communicate that our perspective on life was myopic. She simply said that everyone had a story to tell and that mine was surely different.

I love when my mom tries to challenge my assumptions and push me to expand my horizons; she doesn't soothe me melodramatically or validate my fears passively. And more often than not, I need a serious, strict tone to discipline me and shake me out of my insecurities. I detest empty condolences that perpetuate my weakness. Give me a solid piece of advice and I will move right away.

Another little confession: if I were to take events to heart, I would sink into a miasma of despair. So I take them rationally to maintain my mental stability.

Anyway, this is exactly what my lovely mom did. She told me a story of hope. A story of a man who began his life at the age of 45. Before that year, he was empty, alone, and confused. Growing up in Jordan at his uncle’s house, he was an orphan. Since the person is one of my mom's distant relatives, I'd like to shy away from exposing the very reason that rendered his life dysfunctional for years.

But what I can say is that he was struck by a full-blown tragedy that caused his life to freeze. The point is that he managed to build the life he loved at 45. He got married and opened a small business—his uncle funded his idea and it worked.

He has got four children, all of whom now occupy prestigious positions in the local community. He never lost hope. Because Allah Almighty is just and merciful, He knew that the man started his life later. The man lived a long life—almost double the age he was when his life started to gain momentum. He passed away from natural causes at the age of 115.

My mom reminded me that it had taken him two decades before he caught his own star. He didn't feel ashamed of starting anew.

My mom says, '“Walk down your dream path with your burning candle and Allah SWT will help you find a way to light it all along.”

The Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) said, "Allah the Exalted says: 'I am as my slave expects me to be, and I am with him when he remembers Me. If he remembers Me inwardly, I will remember him inwardly, and if he remembers Me in an assembly, I will remember him in a better assembly (i.e., in the assembly of angels).

With love, Marwa

I need a space of my own. A small space where I can collect my scattered pieces and glue them back together. I want to ensure that I am not collapsing before the public and that their eyes are not shooting daggers at my heart. The same heart that has endured a lot of pain and grief over the past decade of my existence.

Healing is impossible in the presence of commentators and flâneurs whose stone-cold gazes wither away my desire to recover from sorrow. And growing worried among others is emotionally unbearable because you will suddenly become a source of anxiety—an energy-vacuuming force that nips enthusiasm in the bud.

I know how hard it is to be a chaotic, melancholic friend whose sad countenance speaks louder than her euphemistic words, which barely escape her lips. Having my own abode means I can breathe my personal aesthetics into it. I don't fear that others may dismiss my taste as too gloomy.

I am not depressed, but more often than not I feel low. Now and then, every part of me begs me to withdraw from social noise and resort to my safe sanctuary to fix the messy puzzles of my being.

I believe that one can't recover from sadness overnight; one may put up with the weight of afflictions to a certain extent beyond which one begins to shriek out of inward suffocation. It is not a sign of fragility or a lack of resilience. It is the simple fact that everyone has a certain capacity for what can be tolerated.

For me, I've already reached the absolute limit of my ability to tolerate grief and its package of worries. I need a small space in the drafty attic with a big skylight. I will paint the walls light blue and forest green. And I will ornament the ceiling with a painting of shining stars and other celestial bodies.

A row of potted hydrangeas and roses will adorn the windowsill and every corner of the room. In the alcove, I will set one bookshelf and a beige circular bench. Thus, when I read, no one will stalk me. I know that no one will be there, but I am too anxious to believe that intrusive eyes don't exist in my refuge.

I long to read and reread the same books until I devour their purest extracts. The picture of the world in my mind is blurry as everything runs fast. I prefer to slow down and try to comprehend the events that have struck humanity since I grew conscious.

Some solo hours are enough to rethink small details that slip away amidst the commotions of the day. I tell no one where my small space is, for it is not meant to welcome guests. Only my thoughts and I can sojourn there. Maybe moonlight, the rustling of cold tree branches, and a gentle breeze are allowed in. No more.

Why do we need to spend some time by ourselves?

I think the world continuously advocates for extroversion because humans need to socialize with each other. We are taught that socially active people are ahead of the curve, thanks to their flair for making friends spontaneously.

We also believe that expanding our social network is the best way to meet new people who are likely to add value to our lives. Everything indicates that we have to exist in a common place shared by many at once. But no one reminds us that we need a small space to sit with ourselves and rethink what we've taken for granted or misunderstood for so long.

Every interaction with others exhausts our mental energy, so much so that we may space out in the middle of a conversation. And we get overstimulated and overwhelmed by the number of emotional responses that we should maintain.

The flood of external stimuli renders us unable to introspect or reflect on ourselves. Among people, we are expected to display confidence and assertiveness while we answer questions or respond to criticisms. There is no time to think twice or pause to re-evaluate default reactions. When the world feels crowded and too small for us, we need to resort to our favorite secret spots where we hide to sort out our thoughts and allow our repressed emotions to surface.

We begin to remember situations and automatically connect the dots. Aha moments follow and regret may sink in. We realize that that person was toxic, but love was blind; we see that we once feared deadlines more than we respected prayer times, and that we followed the herd without listening to our inner voices.

We don't want to isolate ourselves to escape life, but to contemplate its complexity and understand it better. It is also a golden opportunity to hold ourselves accountable for the sins and mistakes that society normalizes. Only then can we look at it with a fresh pair of eyes and dare to take a nonconformist course—the one that aligns with our Islamic values and life compass.

Even in isolation, we are not alone. Allah SWT hears our monologues and sees our fruitless attempts. It is disheartening that we still rely on external validation to spur us into action. We no longer look at what genuinely motivates us and prioritize our peace of mind.

The unwelcome readiness to compromise our decent opinions and beliefs to fit in gets worse. Part of the reason is that we want to be seen. Life feels empty without a supportive companion. But, in my opinion, life is unstable without calculated loneliness.

Unless we strive to please Allah SWT and take all steps that integrate His commands, pleasing people becomes irrelevant and less appealing. Such a realization is impossible to grasp until we get away from it all.

For me, the first thought that comes to mind when I am alone is the grave. It is not pessimism or depression. It is basically the natural reflection that surfaces when no one is around. We remember that the only thing that will salvage us from divine punishment when we are in the grave alone is our deeds. And this fuels us to set aside time for solitary worship.

At the end of the day, we don't withdraw to permit melancholy and bleakness to take over our hearts, causing us to see the world as gray. Rather, we isolate ourselves to purge our hearts of the accumulated flecks of satanic whispers and distorted subliminal messages seeping into the information we consume nonstop.

I advocate for approved isolation that helps restore concentration and energy and encourages introspection and honesty with the self. The Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) isolated himself in the Cave of Hira for contemplation prior to receiving revelation. Yet, his role not only in his community but in the whole world is unparalleled.

In Islam, the practice of Itikaf (spiritual retreat in the mosque during Ramadan) is a good example of approved isolation to reconnect the heart with Allah SWT.

I am firmly against abandoning social life completely as a defensive or coping mechanism. We are part of society.

Society topples down without socially active individuals.

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) taught: “The believer who mixes with people and endures their harm is better than the believer who does not mix with people and does not endure their harm.”

If done correctly, temporary isolation can improve your life, even if just a little.

How can you actually do it?

You can allocate one hour every other day, or once a week, to keep yourself company. Sit in an empty place where subtle sounds can be heard.

Your phone is tossed away. Only air and light are allowed in. Pray two rak'ahs to set your intention right from the get-go. Then, you consciously ask yourself a list of questions that you may push aside during your busy day. Questions that you may find hard or complex, but you basically are too distracted to care about.

Why did I respond to my sister harshly? Why didn't I pay attention to an important topic concerning humanity? Did I really need to accept an invitation to that place? Did I really have to say no to my parents? Was it right to follow every trend on social media? Did I need social media in the first place? Did I fear rejection more than I care about praying on time? Did I overexpose myself to make others feel comfortable? Did I allow the lyrics of a song to stick in my head? And why didn't the Quranic verses I memorized stick in the same way?

And more and more questions.

You will begin to place your decisions and thoughts under the microscope and compare them against the honored revelation—the Holy Qur'an. Gradually but surely, you will develop an accurate sense of what's right according to divine law, not according to the people you interact with.

Your sense of awareness and vigilance will grow exceptionally because you know that you will hold a solo accountability session.

Once the light of faith in your heart is ready to reflect out, you mingle with fellow humans. This time, with a new mindset that doesn't believe, emulate, or follow anything blindly. With a heart that flinches at what clashes with the values rooted in it and a soul that seeks divine reward.

I hope you find this useful in some way. Please don't forget to leave a comment. Thank you for reading my words.

With love, Marwa

It is perceptible, intangible, but not unnoticeable” you might answer if I were to ask how you would read the Western hegemony over human intellect and awareness.

At first glance, things appear stable and are moving in the right direction, and more reassuringly, they speak the language of cutting-edge technology and modernity. Nothing awakens uncertainty or doubt in your heart, which is attached either to grief or to euphoria. Your heart can't evaluate reality well when it is too sad or too happy. The mind, on the other hand, could barely process the endless flow of information that it receives around the clock. It has no room for rational thinking, which would otherwise help it make sense of reality.

It is ready to react to and interact with stimuli flooding the virtual world. That mind and that heart are less likely to acknowledge that they are in bondage to a calculated scheme of control.

However, as soon as the heart awakens and the mind reclaims its rationality, the senses can't deny that we live in a meticulously designed system that doesn't permit high mental activities—reflection, contemplation, introspection, self-accountability, rational thinking, and analysis. The line between our limited perception of reality and the unmistakable reality is blurry. We don't believe in what we see, but in what we are trained to see. And this is problematic.

Take off the spectacles of delusion and look at the world around. Look at it while being conscious of God, the Creator of the visible and the invisible. Don't you feel that some take their pathological desire to manipulate nature to the extreme? Don't you notice that some try to represent themselves as the highest power, bypassing the divine transcendence? If you don't feel or notice this, you probably are unaware of it.

It seems that we are oblivious to the Western intrusion into the Divine realm because we have been intellectually colonized.

To create something that keeps the mind busy and overwhelmed by fragmented and instantaneous information processes, one first needs to study the anatomy and physiology of the human brain on cellular and molecular levels and to develop an advanced understanding of neuroscience and other related topics.

All of this is executed out of a thirst for power, and power cannot be assumed without knowledge. Knowledge cannot be pursued without seriousness and diligence. This whole point means two important things: first, the malignant exploitation of knowledge can go unpunished; and second, the elites, the inventors, and the tycoons don't participate in the game that they've manufactured because they know its dark side.

You are expected to be distracted and confined to your virtual corner, as if life were reshaped to fit into bits of information found online. But you can resist the gravity of distractions. You can train your brain to concentrate and reflect. It is your own choice, not theirs.

They convince us that change is challenging, forgetting that we often underrate our ability to overcome events or to recover from afflictions. I call on you to wake from your slumber to help you open your eyes to overlooked fact. Facts that we can't see unless we restore our awareness and focus.

Until then, you should ponder the fact that the West has a liking for the idea of playing God. It is understood that their abhorrence of religion and faith has rendered them extremely secular. But it seems that they have gone way past secularism as they never cease trying to control what lies under the Divine will.

They transgress the laws of Allah in the name of scientific experiments. The methodology of their science is chronically abused in favor of their interests, simply because they don't do science to explore hidden worlds and glorify God, but to challenge Him. And to prove that there is no dominant force or influence above them. Obviously, we Muslims were pioneers in science, so there is no way we could be accused of resisting scientific ambitions. There is a huge difference between a curious desire to know more and an unruly temptation to control more.

To appreciate the unparalleled creations of God is to admit that He owns and dominates everything. Such an acknowledgement plants fear of God in your heart and your mind, thus you surrender to Him out of sheer willingness to adhere strictly to His guidance. You are certain that the Divine dominance and omniscience transcend you. There is something above you that you can't ignore or neglect, for your intentional neglect of the transcendence of God entails severe consequences in worldly life and in the hereafter.

Consequences that you can't bear, let alone deal with. You believe in God because you witness the manifestations of His unmatched creativity in every small detail in the Cosmos. Your belief is what settles the heart and reassures the soul.

What if you are too conceited to submit to God? What if your pride amplifies the faithless notion that the Cosmos, along with its mysterious miracles, is not sufficient evidence of the existence of God?

Well, your arbitrary sense of superiority will inevitably lead you to conclude that the whole world can actually be at your disposal and that you have the right to interfere with the Divine rules.

You may be tempted to play God. And if you can't play the role well, you resort to another plan: humanizing the creation of God to pretend that humans can create something similar.

While reading a book on neuroscience, I came across an example that reveals the pipe dream of some Western scientists who attempt to defy human mortality. Their infinite wisdom doesn't question the possibility of preserving a dead human body in certain conditions to bring it back to life. Weird!

They don't believe in the Divine secret of the soul and its transfer from the body to the Barzakh upon death. Neither do they believe that Allah's creations are impossible to replicate.

As I am crafting this essay a random but fairly important question comes to mind: Why do some Western pseudo-intellectuals and scientists question and ridicule Divine miracles mentioned in the holy Quran, yet they expect the world to believe their distant dreams that violate God's rules?

I find it hard to wrap my mind around the world's double standard in politics so you can imagine that I am too mentally exhausted to grasp the double standard in Western science. But this is not my point. Your scientific freedom is limited to predetermined boundaries that you can't cross.

For example, the sea of medicine is unimaginably wide and deep and sometimes uncharted. There is always a new virus to break down, a disease to study, a neuron to watch and manipulate, a body part to dissect, and a mental health problem to solve. The utility of these medical activities lies in their benefits to the living.

Although an autopsy is performed to discover the cause of death and hopefully to protect the rights and dignity of the dead, some feverish, heretical scientific ambitions turn the process into a battlefield to defy God's will. While such confessions engender controversies and backlashes from the faithful, those involved in this project wouldn't confess their intention. However, actions are louder than words.

I once read about a Western foundation dedicated to life extension and immortality. Having reservations about mentioning its name, the focus has to be narrowed to the idea itself. Plus, nothing inside me wants to give that foundation a platform or publicize it.

Let's call it Foundation X.

For so long, Foundation X has been developing technology that they believe will allow people living today to enjoy a second lifecycle later. It currently stores 129 people in a deep freeze that halts their biological decay. Cryopreservation works as follows: an interested party signs his life insurance policy over to the foundation.

Upon the declaration of his death, a local team steps in to manage the body. This obviously means that the dead will not be dignified by a formal funeralprocedures. The team immediately transfers the body to an ice bath. And in a process known as “cryoprotective perfusion”, they circulate sixteen different chemicals to protect the cells as the body cools. The body is then relocated as quickly as possible to the operating room for the final stage of the procedure.

The body is cooled by computer fans in order to cool all parts of the body with no ice formation. When the body reaches a stable ice-free state, it will be transferred into ultra-cooled liquid in a giant stainless steel cylinder called a dewar. The hope is—are you ready to hear this?—to have a technology to thaw and then revive the dead body. Bravo! God forgive us!

In simple terms, those involved in the project are attempting to resurrect the dead. But shouldn't they invest the astronomical amount of money that this project costs in improving something for the living? Well, I should've swallowed this question; I don't want them to disdain me as backwards! You know!

I feel infuriated reading or even writing this because of the intolerable level of irony in this whole idea. It is as if the Western scientists involved in this truly audacious project, to say the least, have no scruples about challenging Allah SWT —تعالى الله علوا كبيرا —and proving that they are capable of manipulating any living creature on Earth.

يَا أَيُّهَا النَّاسُ ضُرِبَ مَثَلٌ فَاسْتَمِعُوا لَهُ ۚ إِنَّ الَّذِينَ تَدْعُونَ مِن دُونِ اللَّهِ لَن يَخْلُقُوا ذُبَابًا وَلَوِ اجْتَمَعُوا) ('لَه وَإِن يَسْلُبْهُمُ الذُّبَابُ شَيْئًا لَّا يَسْتَنقِذُوهُ مِنْهُ ۚ ضَعُفَ الطَّالِبُ وَالْمَطْلُوبُ

 [الحج: 73]

(O people, an example is presented, so listen to it. Indeed, those you invoke besides Allah will never create [as much as] a fly, even if they gathered together for that purpose. And if the fly should steal away from them a [tiny] thing, they could not recover it from him. Weak are the pursuer and pursued.)

(Surah Al-Hajj:73)

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With love, Marwa 🌹🖋️

Reading is a healthy form of escapism, allowing us to travel through pages into a fictional world where every wish can be granted and every dream can come true. For me, it is one way to keep my sanity amidst the world's chaos and misery.

Perhaps we love books because they offer happy endings and a satisfying progression of events that we don't see in reality. Or maybe we long to be understood and recognized, and consuming stories is a last-ditch attempt to feel heard and seen. Either way, reading rejuvenates our souls.

It is seen as somewhat clichéd to recount the benefits of reading as if we were not familiar with its significance. This is simply because, generally speaking, no one underestimates the advantages of reading. We don't struggle to push ourselves to read more, for we technically read more than we think we do.

We read captions, newspapers, articles, jokes, titles, citations, quotes, names, and comments. The very act of deciphering letters visually is not absent from our lives, thanks to the endless flow of information to which we are exposed online and offline. It is not that we shun reading altogether, but we basically don't do it the right way. In today's short article, I am going to share with you how to read intentionally, not randomly.

First of all, don't hyper-focus on trendy reads; they may not always work for you. For some, reading trendy books recommended by celebrities and influencers is socially appealing. We tend to overrate books just because a famous figure has read them or because they are displayed in a prominent place. The content, in this case, becomes immune to scrutiny due to the unbeatable reputation it gains.

If we all read the same trendy books, leaving other potentially enlightening books unnoticed, we are less likely to exchange new perspectives and insights. Such a habit is exhibited out of a deep desire to increase our sense of belonging; reading what other people read helps us connect with them and find common ground on which we may build a new relationship.

It is legitimate to read hyped-up books from time to time. However, we need to introduce ourselves to different genres and new topics that lie outside the territory of socially celebrated written works.

Second, don't take whatever you read at face value. Employ your analytical and reasoning abilities to scrutinize it. I believe that a mindful reader can tell that a certain text has been orchestrated from a false or misleading point of view. Some historical authors maliciously attempted to insert their ideological thoughts into their work in the hopes of softly influencing the public discourse surrounding a sensitive topic or case.

Hence, it is imperative to adopt a critical mindset when we embark on absorbing new books to avoid falling prey to misinformation. Before taking whatever an author has written for granted, try to distinguish between genuine facts and made-up ones, and don't buy every word. I don't advocate casting doubt on the veracity of a given craft unless you come across something that deserves to be re-evaluated and given more attention.

Third, it is advisable to re-read a difficult text to consolidate your understanding of it. I once heard that reading a page of a book twice is one of the most common mistakes that readers make. I was taken aback upon hearing this because I couldn't see what might be wrong with re-reading a page if I felt that I might need to do so.

Some think that such a practice may constitute a hurdle that impedes your progress. Once you fall for this mentality, remember that the purpose of reading is to learn more, not merely to read more. Don't compromise your comprehension of the book at hand to speed up your reading pace.

Slow down. There is no need to put extra pressure on yourself to finish a book before a certain deadline, except in cases where you are professionally obliged to.

Read to be seen. To be heard. To be conscious!

With love, Marwa

Important Note: this essay is dedicated to the cartoons that shaped my understanding of the West. Definitely, there are shows that changed me for the better and taught me valuable lessons.

It all began when my sister and I were chatting about our favorite childhood cartoon. A waft of nostalgia reorganized our priorities that day. And because the dishes in the kitchen sink wouldn’t magically clean themselves, we had to go back doing them.

I’ve always believed that household chores are the collective enemy of all girls.

I mean, sinking in a nostalgic reverie is undoubtedly more appealing than scouting fragile glasses. Right?

Eventually, we were done.

But the question my sister asked was still reverberating in my mind: Why did we dream of owning an English detached house with a red gabled roof and a private garden or a basement when we were little?

She explained that we had never been to Britain or America, yet we longed to live there so that we could enjoy our lives, just like the characters in the cartoon.

Although some of our childhood protagonists had Arabic names (they were translated into Arabic), the environment didn’t match this Arabic touch. There was a clear mismatch between their dialogues and epithets and the space in which their lives unraveled.

In hindsight, everything—from the school buildings, restaurants, and streets to the natural landscapes, cultural nuances, and secular lifestyles—looked and felt Western.

Of course, this fact might disappoint my younger self who prayed daily to join those imaginary figures in their adventurous journeys, which took place in open green fields in Switzerland, the cold streets in London, or quiet neighborhoods in California.

Thanks to my frontal lobe that has learned to analyze, I now recognize these places and understand the contexts in which the events in the cartoons unfolded.

However, almost 14 years ago, these places were not countries located on the world’s map, but my own dream lands where my cherished Romeo, Sally, Remy, and Picky and I would live together.

Back then, my perfect mental image of a nice, safe house was not of a Damascene, Jerusalemite, Egyptian, or Yemeni architectural style.

It didn’t include a spacious courtyard with a fountain at the center like the one in ancient Syrian houses. It lacked the green olive trees and cacti fencing Palestinian houses in the good old days. It didn’t even have balconies where Egyptians preferred to sip their morning tea or sugar-free Turkish coffee.

The image didn’t reflect the architectural beauty and warmth of Arabic houses that allowed for family gatherings, socialization, and social symbiosis. The layout of these classic houses fed and enriched solidarity and pluralism while keeping the conservative Islamic identity pristine.

Daughters shared the same room, so did the sons. Women neighbors would meet after praying Asr to plan for an upcoming wedding or just exchange random, albeit valuable, updates. Fathers would come home after a hectic workday and have dinner with their wives and children.

It was a strict Arab house rule: we all ate together at the same table. A bowl of fruit on a father’s lap while his children waited for sliced and peeled fruit pieces once symbolized defiance of loneliness and individualism.

The perfect mental image of a safe house was a two-story house in which I had my own room. A house to which I would return after an eventful day with a group of my close friends. A house that had red roof tiles and a basement where I could hide. Part of my younger self gravitated toward that kind of individualistic lifestyle because I was alone anyway.

We were five siblings and used to play together on the rooftop of our building or in a nearby park. Friendlessness seemed to be married to Ghorba, so it was no wonder I spent most of my time with my siblings or by myself.

This is exactly what made me fantasize about settling in one of the cities I saw in cartoons. At the time, I didn’t realize that my enchantment with Western settings, landscapes, and a culture of isolation pointed to Western cultural hegemony.

I tended to misread scenes I watched in these cartoons because I was not aware of the full truth:

“Mind your business” represented a social rule of politeness, though it later came to mean “don’t intervene if you witness wrongdoing”.

“Study hard to earn a social status” was parental advice, but it proved to be an acknowledgement of the social reductionist labeling of individuals based on professional and academic achievements.

“Be a hard worker so that you can live on your own” was an ambiguous future plan that fooled me into believing that I would figure everything out by the age of 18 or 20.

“Let’s live our dream and lie on the rooftop beside the chimney” was a line uttered by a child chimney sweep. However, it only revealed the brutal reality of child labor and homelessness.

I couldn’t detect the emotional coldness and moral neutrality underlying Western housing and social culture in my favorite cartoons until I grew old enough to recognize the signs.

Perhaps my life in exile fostered my fondness for places that felt serene and distant. Still, even as a child, I had reservations about some moral issues presented in the cartoons, such as dating or friendships between boys and girls.

Yet, the danger was greater than a few inconsistencies or contradictory arguments. My perception of the West aligned with the idealized image of how it functioned. For context, my parents allowed my siblings and me to watch TV after we finished our homework.

My mother would regale us with stories of the prophets (peace be upon them all) every night. It might seem that I could resist the subliminal influence of Western animation, given that I grew up in a strictly structured household.

Candidly, I couldn’t. I told myself that people on the other side of the world had made remarkable progress in higher education, healthcare, social equality—SOCIAL EQUALITY—and justice—JUSTICE.

In one cartoon, students from South Asia, Africa, and East Asia mingled with white American students, who looked intellectually gifted and wholeheartedly affable.

These racially diverse pupils seemed to have assimilated into American culture in order to be more acceptable, more agreeable. The cartoon implicitly shed light on how merciful it was to give immigrant children the right to be part of the American tapestry.

It left little to no room in my mind to ask what drove these immigrants to relocate in the first place, or why they had to don an ill-fitting foreign cultural coat to be recognized.

What was historically known as a colony built on Indigenous blood was portrayed as the dreamland. Even the cosmopolitan city where Balfour had spat the poison of his ominous promise was thought to be the epitome of social courtesy.

An Englishman in a black suit decorated with golden epaulets: Sorry, oh, sorry, my apologies, darling!

Me: For stealing my country and destroying my dreams?

Him: Oh, no! For bumping into you! Are you okay?

Me: I've got some bruises in my heart. They have stood the test of time!

Back to immigrant students in the cartoon, I was jealous of their colorful breakfast that contained avocados and toast. Mine was olive oil, za’atar, Akkawi cheese, and Arabic bread.

No avocados, but so Palestinian.

But I never wondered what their traditional food was because they looked too blended into American society. Now I am wondering why the whole Internet is brimming with avocados and toast for breakfast. Don’t those people have different cuisines and special food signatures that tell the story of their families?

I think it comes down to the fact that internet culture stealthily paves the way for global citizenship, which facilitates Western cultural domination. It is not as innocuous as exchanging cultural elements and trying new things, nor is it an innocent act of creating a hybrid culture. Rather, it is a systematic approach to erasing people’s cultural diversity to accentuate the dominant culture of the powerful.

Ultimately, what my vision was constantly exposed to became normal at the time: success is secular, life is synonymous with work, morals are subjective, friends are more important than parents, and immigrants are a problem until they integrate fully, and I mean fully, into Western society.

It wasn’t until I began to read history books after high school that I grasped that some of the information I consumed from childhood cartoons was the inversion of reality.

I honestly didn’t read many books, but just a few were enough to correct the historical misalignments I grew up with.

For example, many Irish people moved to America because the famous Potato Famine forced a massive wave of immigrants to the US to survive the tragedy. They certainly didn’t leave their homes because America was ‘the land of opportunity’.

Furthermore, not all Western women seek independence and freedom at the expense of homemaking. It turns out that a significant number of women in the West prioritize family stability over professional labels.

Similarly, not all Western people look down on the Arab world or believe in the false Orientalist narratives that depicted the Orient as uncivil, exotic, and benighted. Those who visit the region firsthand often become skeptical of fabricated historical accounts.

Expand your horizons and read more history to correct misconceptions you unknowingly hold.

Thankfully, I have survived the illusion spells of my once-favorite cartoons. It saddens me that I was indoctrinated with inaccurate narratives that distorted history.

With every truth we come across, a piercing pain strikes our reason, begging us to answer: why have we been deceived in the first place? And why is the past sanitized?

I refuse to let imperialist and colonialist history blind me to the beauty that still exists in the West. There is always goodness in every part of the world. From the womb of goodness, a light of hope will rise.

I am looking forward to visiting cosmopolitan Western cities and meeting good people—this time with a mature mindset that distinguishes between truth and falsehood.

This time, I will come with my olive branch and my copy of the Holy Qur'an. As a visitor, not a refugee. As a traveler, not an immigrant. As a dignified Palestinian fond of discovering the world that belongs to Allah SWT, not to occupiers.

With love, Marwa

Salam my lovely readers

I hope your recent days have been lighter and less overwhelming. I know how hard it is to work while feeling exhausted. But difficulties are not meant to stay forever, though sometimes they seem too complicated to resolve.

Still, we often underestimate our ability to face and manage challenges. We eventually overcome them, but not before they put our patience and faith to the test. I pray you all wake up to good news that refreshes your soul and helps you let go of intrusive thoughts.

I am trying to figure out how to organize my thoughts on the white screen I am staring at, especially because some could misunderstand my point and rush to comment on things I haven't mentioned in the first place.

This makes me feel discouraged and causes me to lose my confidence, which barely exists. I think being a writer is tricky because you are held accountable for how your thoughts are interpreted, not how you articulate them. Personally, I am struggling to internalize this unwritten rule, even though it exacerbates my anxiety. 

Now I am hesitant to publish social commentary or raw reflections out of fear that my opinions may be called out. Maybe because I do not have academic authority, my words lack impact or tend to be misinterpreted.

I do not know the answer, and maybe I am wrong about the last point. I always feel that I need to overexplain myself, my thoughts, my actions, and even my intentions.

This tendency is so deeply entrenched in my mind that after accomplishing any task, I expect someone to find fault with me, to remind me that I missed out or messed up something. Perhaps it is not only about writing, but about being tired of the habit of over-explaining that I have been forced to adopt for so long.

I'd love to remind myself first and then all of you that:

When I point at the moon, don't look at my finger and turn it into the main subject. Look at the silvery celestial body in the sky.

If I mention A, don't bring up B and blame me for not doing so. Focus on A, for B is another realm I've yet to visit. I see the same trend upheld by some readers on Substack: the writer wanders into the woods while the reader searches for their tree.

Please don't get me wrong, we all gravitate toward what touches our hearts and speaks to our lost parts. That being said, pushing our thoughts down the writer's throat is somewhat haunting.

I published an essay on self-victimization last week. Someone commented that the essay is cruel to victims who still process their pain. Associating my writing with such a harsh word shattered me, to say the least.

I mentioned in the post that I addressed those playing victims, not true victims. The premise was clear: Instrumentalizing fake pain to seek out social recognition and get away with immorality is wrong. I don't mind being professionally criticized at all, but the word is an outright insult.

The other day, an English teacher told me that I had to stop writing breathless, long sentences. She said it was an Arabic style of writing. I genuinely took her critique into account and went back to my old pieces to re-read them.

She was right, and her advice was spot on. My writing resembled rough, unedited drafts. I really needed to work on my craft and learn how to structure it well to improve readability.

Another novelist gave me her valuable feedback and suggested that I take a creative writing course. Once again, I welcomed her suggestion and thanked her for her honesty.

My pen has been sharpened in this virtual space that gave my voice an opportunity to grow. I am immensely grateful for all of this. I am also aware that I need to be thick-skinned and focus on my work.

Still, there is a huge difference between constructive and destructive criticism.

My melancholic monologue aside, let me catch you all up on my upcoming debut book. I already wrote the first three drafts on Notion and the word count stood at 93K words. Having crafted this project since October 2024, it's felt like I was raising my own child.

It is so intimate and emotional to work on something that would allow me to express myself freely. At the moment, I am working on the fourth draft on Google Docs and trying to tighten the texts and ensure their articulation. I am not sure when the book will be available, although I am keen on finishing it by September 2026.

To be fair, it is uneasy to evaluate the manuscript as my eyes are used to how it looks. I often feel unproductive when I revise the chapters, for revision takes a long time and mental energy.

I prefer to write in the morning and edit at night, though my editing skills are still under construction. Despite all these technical snags, I am so thrilled that I am doing something that my younger self imagined, let alone believed.

As someone prone to self-flagellation, I used to identify my worth with my academic performance or social agreeableness. I was a child who chased perfection at school and beyond.

Back in the day, I wouldn't allow myself to take a break during exam periods. I never failed an exam ( well, except for three times). But I have a distinct definition of failure: missing one or two points in a test. Top grades were evidence of my higher self-esteem and identity. I reduced myself not to who I was or who I might potentially become, but to how excellent I was at school. I would study for long hours nonstop.

My parents never put pressure on me or punished me if I didn't ace an exam. Much to my chagrin, I did it on their behalf. I wouldn't buy my favourite bar of chocolate during recess when I felt that I wasn't doing enough to thrive academically.

As I am writing this, I am really sorry for my younger self, and I wish I could tell her that we are bigger than academic or professional titles. I regret not having been kinder to myself at the time.

Writing a book taught me to be less judgmental of myself, encouraging me to let my unprocessed stories and emotions breathe into words. These words will reveal the truth about Ghorba and how one can deal with it.

To give you a little sneak peek into what the book is about, it is a nonfiction work that focuses on how a Mugtarib or expatriate can survive the trials and tribulations of Ghorba. It is not exclusive to expats or Mugtariboon; everyone who feels alienated will enjoy reading it, insha'Allah.

From the very beginning, I set myself a challenge: not to use Western literary works on alienation and expatriation. The goal was to preserve the originality of my work. I have sought to produce prose flavored by my Islamic Levantine roots: Qur'anic scriptures, Islamic teachings, figs, olives, sage, and more. 

The book is for those who don't feel like they belong anywhere, yet are insistent on building a peaceful, stable life. The insights, lessons, and anecdotes in the book are practical and realistic, as I have defied some common modern concepts and habits.

I haven't set the bar too high, nor have I left it too low. At the same time, the language I use is contemplative, not mechanical, to build rapport with my reader.

Honestly, the very dream of knowing that my book could be on someone's shelf gives me goosebumps.

When it comes to publishing, I will do my best to publish my book through a traditional publishing house. Self-publishing is not an option for the time being.

A writer here on Substack reached out to me and asked if there was any chance I could send them my manuscript to see if it is a good fit. Although I may get rejected, I am glad that people are taking my work seriously.

The manuscript on Google Docs stood at page 100. As I mentioned, I had been using Notion to craft three drafts so that I had a clean space on a different app to write the penultimate manuscript.

This is a little update on my book and I hope you all find it promising enough to be owned. And I pray Allah SWT keep my pen aligned with what pleases Him. Ameen.

Speaking of making duas, we have five days left of the ten days of Dul Hijja, so we still have an opportunity to make the most out of this holy time. Micro-habits like reading one or two pages of the holy Qur'an, helping a passer-by, and forgiving people's slip-ups are doable and highly rewarded. Moreover, reflection and introspection encourage the Nafs to keep track of its mistakes and rectify them.

This, in turn, awakens conscience as we become aware of our shortcomings. This is the best time for those who skip or procrastinate on prayer, missed Ramadan, or are striving to shed bad habits.

We are all in dire need of the endless mercy of Allah and long to be among those whom God loves. Remember that as long as the sun rises from the east, we can repent and return to the Creator.

Final words:

I am fully aware that I may not publish this because I don't want people to think ill of me. However, I am certain that my fellow writers and readers will grasp the message. Between pretending to be perfect in the public eye and being authentic to myself, I definitely opt for the latter.

With love, Marwa

It is said that dreams go beyond time and space. We always dream, regardless of the wrinkles and dark circles under the eyes. We dream wherever we happen to be. We dream because, after divine mercy, hope doesn't perish in a faithful heart. We cling to hope, for despair is a monster of darkness that consumes the last lit candle held by a grieving soul. We loathe despair, for hope rejuvenates what has withered deep inside.

We identify ourselves with what uplifts our spirits because we are tired of being attached to what could define us only shallowly. Longing to be part of an ever-expanding circle of humanity, we all have a dream that one day we shall meet the lost halves of ourselves.

To rummage through the past files in search of these halves, humanity has to heal from what has contaminated its pristine solidarity and torn apart its shared covenant of Iman. Everyone has a dream, and one dream can be shared by so many.

What if we all combine our dreams to have a major dream whose crux is shareable and whose details are personal? What if our collaboration enables us to conquer injustice with an iron fist? What if that very fist pats our shoulders and holds our trembling hands tightly?

The empathetic fist unknotting into a free hand cuts off the strings that perpetuate our roles as helpless puppets.

Now we can breathe. Now we can hear the symphony of a free heartbeat. Now every conscious creature looks for their remnants here and there.

I, too, have a dream that I shall collect my scattered pieces and form a less self-conscious mold. I want to restore my sense of belonging, though the expression “restoration” distorts the brutal reality that I've never felt like I belonged anywhere.

I belong to figs and olives.

I belong to a cactus that served as a natural fence to delineate my Palestinian property. I am using a possessive pronoun as if I still own it. It is mine, but for the time being it is a lost vein separated from me. Nonetheless, my blood reaches it and its bleeding deteriorates the rhythm of my internal scarlet chambers.

Call for a veteran surgeon. Tell him the story of my grief, my detached vein, and my dream of becoming one of his team. Greet him first so that he doesn't feel exploited. Only colonialists exploit genius minds.

Is he distant?

Indeed, he is distant.

Then, ask him to lend me his scalpel, scissors, gauze, and antiseptic. I shall treat my injuries and stitch my lost vein back in place. Before embarking on the intricate operation, I shall clean my wound.

I grimace not at the bloody scene, but at the idea of being intellectually colonized, of using Western-made medical tools, and of ending up as consumers enslaved to the very powers that divided our land using a blunt pencil.

I have a dream of going back to a school desk and studying surgery. Reading people proves futile. Some excel at playing roles that mask their real identities. It is unimaginable that, for me, reading what humans are made of is less disappointing than reading their thoughts.

I have a dream of dissecting human veins, arteries, and capillaries to discover what blood and air carry into the heart. Maybe I can invent a way to prevent grudges and hatred, cruelty and inhumanity, depravity and malignancy from colonizing the heart. Maybe, thus, I can contribute to relieving the pain.

Inside every human’s skull is a complicated network of neurons that drives motor and sensory skills. Give me enough time to intervene in every neuron and cleanse it from the tumor of insidious intelligence.

Allow me to marry intellectuality with morality. Let my fingers drift gingerly in the thick soup where the brain floats, and plant a list of moral cards deep in each cortex.

The cards shall release signals whenever a prodigy contravenes a virtue. Knowledge with no morals manifests itself in applying mathematical equations and physical laws secularly.

All of a sudden, numbers and symbols wind up in the wrong hands. This is the fear I work to eliminate. I want to ensure that prodigious minds never use their capabilities to wreak havoc on Earth. If I succeed in this endeavor, evil may shrink just a little bit so we all can catch our breath.

Too much blood and ashes. I am exhausted.

Send me to my grandmother's house. I've got a secret rendezvous with a fig tree tucked beside the wall. Its leafy branches rest on the windowsill, hugging me every time I feel forlorn.

Its roots expand horizontally to absorb every source of water. Even though the fig tree bears fruit from paradise, its root system threatens the concrete slabs of the house. I have to relocate once again. I should not have come here in the first place, for its residents have abandoned it. I never bid them farewell.

I stand before the same fig tree, telling her that the warm hands that once picked her fruit are gone forever. I no longer know whether the tree finds solace in my presence or if I find solace in her shade. Either way, we both agree that the next destination in my itinerary shall be Jerusalem to meet every olive tree.

I shall hear its unique account of what transpired in the sacred courtyard of Al-Aqsa Mosque. I come across a small house whose front windows overlook the magnificent golden Dome of the Rock. Soon, I walk outside to stroke olive trees and reassure them that things shall be fine at some point.

Navy-green pearls hang from the top branches, leaning downward. I lose myself in a reverie, pondering the fact that I read the melancholy of nature. Why can't I read people in the same way? Maybe because being occupied for centuries ( intellectual colonization counts) has a dire bearing on one’s ability to distinguish between friends and enemies.

Now everyone is under suspicion, for placing trust in someone is costly for an occupied survivor. I turn my back to depart for the next coastal destination. I shall come back to that small abode facing the Muslim architectural heritage. It is December 1st, and the air is supposed to chill me to the bone.

But that is not the case. I have realized how scorching the weather is until I touched a tree trunk. My hand recoiled in pain.

The sky is painted in a gloomy grey and the ground underneath is uncomfortably warm. One branch points at the road leading to Gaza. Only then does the smell of blood invade my nostrils.

I look at the horizon while my imagination turns into a filmmaker that produces bloody scenes to help me conceive the reality of being under fire. A waft of hot air brushes light twigs, carrying the suffocating specks of ashes. I have a distant dream of seeing blood only in surgery rooms or tragic accidents. Blood caused by natural causes.

I have a dream of meeting consciousness and conscience, humanizing them, and beseeching them to visit the world. Perhaps they are in exile, which explains why the world is sinking into chaos. I have a dream of convincing them to rethink their absence and come back.

To be conscientious, you have to fear God. To fear God, you have to be faithful. Faith doesn't bloom in the hearts of the unscrupulous.

I am still at the stage of dreaming, swinging back and forth between despair and hope. But it is said that every great achievement was once a dream in the imagination.

I have a dream of a pen that never betrays me, of a heart that awaits me, and of a one-room home within the embrace of the Old City.

Marwa,

It is a heavy, unfeeling guest that tends to wear out its welcome. It stays in our inner abodes, leaving us fragile and sensitive. Sadness never goes away when the sun rises. Yet, it intensifies when the sunlight leaves the sky and allows darkness to color half of the world at a time.

And when you try to close your eyes and surrender to sleep, it insists on stealing your attention and weakening your heart. It is so exhausting to cope with grief. It is basically a constant attempt to protect the heart from palpitations and the mind from distractions. Unless you handle it well and cling to your faith throughout recovery, you may remain a helpless victim with a life drained of bright colors. Adaptability feels impossible.

Who would accept adapting to a sad state of mind? No one, actually.

Your inability to coexist with grief doesn't expose your weakness; it highlights your tenderness and puts your perseverance to the test. Sometimes you know that the only way out is to let sadness take its time to heal. The more you repress negative feelings, the longer they stay. In moments of absolute powerlessness, you give up the world and reach for your prayer mat.

Your supplications to God are interrupted by deep sighs and choked cries. From the outside, offering unsolicited advice to a broken one sounds logical and often morally necessary. However, in actuality you can't instruct the sinking to breathe slowly. He is dying while you are detached from the brutal reality by your emotional coldness. It is easy to say ‘stay strong’, but it is challenging to be resilient enough to remain strong.

Understanding how to deal with sadness protects you from despair, from depression, from apathy, and from listlessness. At last, such a senseless guest is not meant to stay forever, for the human heart cannot accommodate it for a prolonged period of time.

I am wholeheartedly against the belief that Muslims shouldn't experience grief under the pretext that unwavering Iman does not allow for negative feelings. Some go even further and stigmatize mental challenges resulting from deep sorrow. I think the best way to rebut such a misconception is to remember that the best of creation, Mohammed (PBUH), was afflicted with grief.

He grieved his beloved wife Khadija RA and his supportive uncle Abu Talib in the "Year of Sorrow" (Aam al-Huzn), and six of his seven children. He faced the pain of rejection, sarcasm, hatred, and betrayal. Yet, our beloved Prophet had an unparalleled capability of balancing human emotions with increased trust in Allah's decree. Never did he shame his companions for feeling down or crying, for he epitomized humanity and empathy.

He left behind a blessed guide for managing sadness through intense faith, patience, and reliance on Allah SWT.

Sometimes I forget that my religion respects sadness and never associates it with weak faith, especially because we live in a world that arbitrarily links grief and its subsequent impacts to one's lack of willpower.

Reflecting on the fact that Allah SWT sent a warm message to His Prophet Mohammed in Surah Al-Duha strengthens my Iman. Our Creator validated the Prophet’s grief when he thought that God had abandoned him after he stopped receiving revelations. The Surah contained an elegant reassurance and an eloquent condolence that relieved the Prophet's heart.

Surah Al-Duha:

By the morning brightness and [by] the night when it covers with darkness, your Lord has not taken leave of you, [O Muhammad], nor has He detested [you]. And the Hereafter is better for you than the first [life]. And your Lord is going to give you, and you will be satisfied. Did He not find you an orphan and give [you] shelter? And He found you lost and guided [you], and He found you poor and made [you] self-sufficient. So as for the orphan, do not oppress [him]. And as for the petitioner, do not repel [him]. But as for the favor of your Lord, report [it].

---

The opening verse reassured Prophet Mohammed (PBUH) that Allah SWT never left him, injecting him with generous doses of relief. Allah Almighty clarified that the hereafter was better for the Prophet than the worldly life. Then Allah SWT reminded the Prophet of the Divine blessings to comfort him by the fact that He would never let him alone. When we reflect on the blessings bestowed upon us, we become more motivated to embrace patience.

After calming the Prophet down, the last verses focused on divine commands that protect human dignity and establish God-consciousness. Such a Surah worked wonders for the Prophet's inner sorrows. It healed his heart and empowered him to continue his godsent mission. Life breaks our hearts, and Allah the most merciful takes care of curing them.

The first thing we tend to do when we collapse is to release a sigh and call ‘Ya Allah’. Even non-religious people say ‘Oh God’ when they feel shattered by soul-crushing events. This is evidence of our subconscious belief in the transcendent Divine power that manages the affairs of our lives. When we Muslims fall, we escape the world and its packages of misery to our prayer mats—our safe sanctuary.

If worldly solutions prove futile, the One who manages the matter from the heavens will solve our problems. When our Prophet left Taif after the Banu Thaqif mocked and expelled him, he was utterly crestfallen and demoralized. He rested in a nearby vineyard. He never complained about the difficulty of his mission, nor did he accept the suggestion of the angle of the mountains:

(If you wish, I will bring the two mountains (Al-Akh-Shabain) upon them).

The Prophet (ﷺ) said, 'No, but I hope that Allah will bring forth from their descendants, people who will worship Allah Alone and not worship anyone along with Him.

Instead, he made his famous heartbreaking dua:

"O Allah! To You alone I complain of my weakness, my helplessness, and my insignificance before people. O Most Merciful of the merciful, You are the Lord of the weak, and You are my Lord. To whom do you leave me? To a stranger who scowls at me? Or to an enemy to whom You have given control over my affairs? So long as you are not angry with me, I do not care; but your protection is more spacious for me. I seek refuge in the light of Your Face, by which all darkness is lit, and by which the affairs of this world and the hereafter are set right, lest Your anger descends upon me or Your displeasure falls on me. Yours is the right to be pleased until You are satisfied, and there is no power nor might except through You.”

The supplication teaches us to rely on Allah SWT when life becomes as narrow as the eye of a needle. It also shows how to observe Adab (good manners) when making duas. Everyone thinks that they don't deserve woes to happen to them, hence some lose their composure upon colliding with an unpleasant event.

It is legitimate to feel sorry for oneself, but it is sinful to ask God why he has written a certain event for us. Going through difficulties can be unbearable to the point of losing sanity and logic—some afflictions are beyond our ability to comprehend.

Yet, Allah Almighty is our sole refuge to whom we irreplaceably resort when life throws its weight upon our shoulders. Notice the elegant, polite language our Prophet (PBUH) used to supplicate God. Never did he say ‘I am your messenger and this must not happen to me’ or ‘punish those who offended me severely and take my revenge on them’.

Far be it from him to utter such words. Rather, he gently said: “O Allah! To You alone I complain of my weakness, my helplessness, and my insignificance before people”. Notice the prophetic politeness here: “So long as You are not angry with me, I do not care; but Your protection is more spacious for me.” His Taqwa was evident in displaying submission to the Creator.

Our Prophet (PBUH) would always repeat this beautiful dua: “O Allah! I seek refuge in you from anxiety and grief and I seek refuge in you from inability and laziness, and I seek refuge in you from cowardice and miserliness and I seek refuge in you from overpowering debts and from the subjection of man.”

When I was a little creature mistaking boredom for grief and fearing academic mediocrity, my mom taught me this dua. But I managed to memorize only the first line ‘ O Allah! I seek refuge in you from anxiety and grief’. These prophetic words rhymed with my heartbeat softly. They were a source of reassurance when darkness descended on my own world. I still supplicate Allah SWT to remove sorrow from my heart so that I don't feel its heavy weight.

It magically works. It is that spiritual waft of Iman that you sense when you return to Allah SWT after being worn out by the attrition of life. We may learn to train our nervous system to reduce stress, thanks to some self-help books that minimize reality into zeroes and ones and are built on a secular mentality. Perhaps we forget that grief dwells first in the heart, and it is impossible to leave unless we actively work to purge our internality of its toxic effects. Hence, it is recommended to pray or recite the Quran when one feels down or agitated.

In the holy Quran, Allah Almighty sent a divine consolation to His Prophet Mohammed (PBUH) during a period of intense psychological pressure and constant mockery and mistreatment in Makkah.

"Indeed, we know that your breast is straitened at what they say. So glorify the praises of your Lord and be of those who prostrate themselves (to Him). And worship your Lord until there comes unto you the certainty (i.e. death).” (Surah Al-Hijr).

Not only did the Creator acknowledge the Prophet's human emotion, but He also bestowed upon all Muslims valid antidotes to emotional brokenness. The divine comfort is manifested in the opening of the verse, “Indeed, we know that your breast is straightened at what they say”.

It is a God's mercy that soothes the aching heart and rejuvenates the withered soul. He hears your inner monologues, secret duas, and untold stories. He sees what drains you and forces your eyes to rain. The Quranic framework for breaking free from grief can heal our wounds and help us reclaim our poise after the long episode of sinking into a catastrophe.

Allah Almighty commanded His Prophet to praise ( tasbih), pray, and perform Ibadah. In other words, the only way to survive an affliction is to strengthen the tether connecting you to your Lord.

Prostrate to soften your heart, glorify God to relieve your anger, and recite Allah's words to read the inspiring stories of the messengers and prophets who vanquished adversities by patience, faith, and integrity. It is legitimate to feel sad, but it is absolutely unacceptable to surrender to it.

Our worries are great, but the Manager of all affairs is greater. He will rescue us eventually.

Marwa Essam,

I've noticed that I published one hundred essays on Substack. I decided to publish this piece, which has been sitting in drafts for months, to celebrate this milestone. Though I am sure they are far from perfect, I am still learning to be a professional, conscious writer.

Your support and encouragement fuel me.

Some bemoan their inability to wake up early and kick off the day before its limited hours start to chase them. For them, getting out of their warm sleeping abodes is the most challenging task. You really need a great external motivator to push you out of your bed and energize you to kickstart the day with high spirits.

While some oppose morning routines due to the momentum needed to initiate the first action, I personally embrace the early hours of the day because my energy is higher than it is later in the day.

Hence, I confidently introduce myself as a morning writer. I allocate the first few hours of the day to my writing session. And I can tell you that the result is always satisfying: The flow of my creative thoughts is incessant, the movement of my fingers on the keyboard is graceful, and the quality of the written piece is fairly fine, at least to me.

What makes morning writing appealing is that my mind is at peace and free from intrusive thoughts. I arise and look at the world through an optimistic lens. The magical way the sun's rays spread across the sky injects me with a dose of hope and relief. The morning breeze creeping through my half-open window reminds me of how beautiful life can be.

As a diurnal writer, the sunshine plays an indispensable role in invigorating my whole body and my soul. Morning is characterized by peace and tranquility. No one is awake. My lovely neighbour, who sometimes becomes an unwelcome source of noise, is asleep.

At the end of the day, there is no right or wrong way; you can write whenever you feel your mind is ready. For me, I cannot change my morning writing routine because it helps me set the tone for the rest of the day and rescue me from running behind my daily to-do list. I check the writing task off my schedule early in the morning so that I can welcome a new day with a less anxious mood.

My writing routine is simple, minimal, and peaceful. It doesn't contain any fancy steps or luxurious elements that may make it inimitable. I don't stretch my body in the morning. Sorry, I cannot convince my mind to move my body as soon as I unclose my eyes; maybe I can go for a walk a few hours later. Let's dive deep into it.

I wake up at 6:30 AM.

I wake up at 3:30 AM to pray Al-Fajr and then hit the pillow once again because my eyes cannot force their lids to remain up. I sleep for almost three hours and then arise from my sleep. I am a realistic kind of person, so I am not here to pretend that I get up with high spirits and overdoses of motivation.

Although some days I feel that I am ready to embrace the day with its heaviness, other days I pray that the day doesn't have anything unpleasant in store for me. My alarm usually screams to get me back into consciousness. I may not be the perfect person who wakes up without technological interventions.

My skincare routine and a little trick to wake myself up fully.

Please, my dear ladies, don't panic, as my skincare routine is the true definition of being a minimalist girl. I am not completely minimalist. I just prefer simplicity. I don't use a million skincare products. You don't need anything more than a high-quality facial cleanser, a facial toner, and a moisturizer.

Cosmetics companies must be informed that our beautiful faces are not open fields for their experiments of new products. Once I finalize my simple skincare routine, I wash my face with cold water to invigorate my sleepy eyes. It may not be the best feeling in the Cosmos, but it definitely works wonders for my nervous system.

I prefer to drink water as coffee is not my own thing

I know that if you are Levantine, you may be shocked that Turkish coffee never tickles my fancy. I cannot tolerate its bitterness and how its bitter taste lingers in my palate.

My philosophy of being against drinking coffee can be summarized in one thought: We have enough bitterness in our miserable reality, so we don't need to exacerbate it by consuming bitter coffee. Just a little anecdote: my Syrian friends always tell me off because of my unchangeable refusal to sip a cup of Turkish coffee with them.

I am not a fan of American coffee, either. It is too bitter and emotionally cold. It causes me throbbing headaches and does nothing to activate my neurons. I conclude that I am immune to caffeine and its magical effects.

I don't plan for my upcoming writing because plans and I are not close friends.

Have I ever told you, my dear reader, that I jump into writing without planning for it in advance? The reason for this tendency is that I don't want to distract my mind with the nitty-gritty of schemes and schedules. I don't lay out aesthetically arranged rows and columns and fill them with related thoughts that I include in my essay. Plans make me anxious, shatter my focus, and leave me unproductive.

I am a pantser: I start writing without knowing where the story will go and let it evolve as I write it. Sometimes I immerse myself in writing and end up writing up to 1000 words. Other times I struggle to snatch a few hundred words out of my mind. Producing a decently written piece in the morning comes with a set of challenges. This is understandable.

I refrain from restricting myself to a predetermined plan that may not be implementable. Every day comes with its surprises. And sometimes the obedient version of myself may not necessarily wake up early. I give myself free rein to embark on writing and figure out how my essay or story takes shape along the way. Thus, I am not under the pressure of plans and am less anxious.

It is time to take a breather and break my fast

We cannot overwhelm our brains and souls with a strenuous task, like writing, without taking a break and letting our hearts beat slowly. I cannot force myself to stick to writing for more than two hours as if my mind and body don't require nutrition.

I write for two hours, so the time now is supposed to be 8:30 AM. I prepare a light breakfast and make a cup of tea with sage. Oh, the aroma of sage never fails to boost my creativity and increase my inner peace. Notice that when I interrupt my writing session and delay it until I take the edge off my hunger, I allow new ideas to breed in the theater of my subconscious mind.

I chat with my sister, eat a morsel of bread, find a trivial reason to fight with my younger brother_well, I am a peacemaker, but boys are generally obnoxious_and sip a cup of tea. I don't directly make a mental effort to generate new ideas to flesh up my essay or story. The notion is that I keep what I am writing about in the back of my mind, so I don't think about it directly.

To put it clearly, delaying a certain task intentionally and then resuming it can increase your creativity and the quality of your performance. This amazing and effective strategy is attributed to the brilliant author who explains it in his book Original.

Adam presents a unique perspective on procrastination as he thinks that it is not always a negative trait. He suggests that intentional procrastination, meaning you delay tasks while engaging in other activities, can be an effective strategy to maximize innovation. Allowing time for divergent thinking can lead to generating more original ideas.

He believes that: “ Procrastination gives you time to consider divergent ideas, to think in nonlinear ways, and to make unexpected leaps”. He obviously doesn't advocate for laziness but for deliberate delay as a creative strategy.

Resuming the process of writing and stopping as soon as my creativity ends up in a cul-de-sac.

Now it is time to get back to my writing session and pick up where I left off. I quickly skim through my piece before starting to write the rest of it. The aim is to familiarize myself with what I have written before breaking my fast.

Thus, I avoid any possibility of inconsistencies or digressions that can compromise the lucidity and readability of my writing. At this point, I get distracted by my family's noise_ they move between the rooms of the house, speak loudly with one another, turn the TV on, run some errands around the house, or just phone someone they know.

I try hard to force my mind to stay concentrated. I keep writing until my mind sends me a message: “ This is enough for today; I am exhausted”. I politely listen to my mind's whisper, save the project, and close my Notion. ( I use Notion for writing).

Turning my daily habit of writing into a form of worship

The divine mercy is manifested in everything in this cosmos, and more so in little things that we as Muslims may not realize or take enough time to reflect on. There are many strategies and ways to uphold our Islamic identity and keep aligned with Islamic teachings even when we do something worldly.

Imagine that you can turn your daily habit or act into a form of worship and guarantee that Allah Almighty will reward you. It is all about your intention as our Prophet Mohammad ( peace be upon him) said: “Deeds are to be judged only by intentions, and a man will have only what he intended”.

For example, you sleep early because you want to wake up at dawn and pray Al-Fajr. When it comes to writing, I establish the intention that I write to add value to people's lives and leave an indelible impression on them. Thus, I manage to elevate the act of writing and duplicate its value. ( A source of motivation)

An important note: this is my ideal morning writing routine that can definitely be shattered whenever something unexpected pops up out of nowhere. If something prevents me from writing in the morning, I swim with the flow and write at night or cancel my writing session altogether.

With love, Marwa

Nothing can push me to move my lips and utter one word beyond “hello” and “ goodbye” in social settings or public places. I am that person who prefers to be reticent and considerate whenever I find myself surrounded by fellow humans.

Every word that is about to leave the gate of my lips presupposes a page-long mathematical equation to dissect and analyze the probability of how good or bad my words may influence a listener. My investigative mind never ceases to search for evidence that shows what I should say, how I should say it, what kind of body language I am meant to display, how the receiver will react, and other nuanced questions that bounce up and down inside my head.

I am in charge of answering these questions in a way that convinces my exhausted mind to orchestrate socially acceptable sentences. Thus I can feel comfortable talking within strict, self-imposed boundaries. Such a mentally arduous process leaves me less willing to take the initiative and strike up a conversation with a new friend or open a chat with a stranger in a train station. My whole being accepts and absorbs my frequent unreadiness to participate even in small talk.

Being silent is much better than messing things up during a given conversation” I always whisper to myself whenever I am out.

Between the danger of escaped words and the safety of reticence, my inclination to swallow my words wins.

My mind tries to emancipate itself from my heart’s longing to unload the heavy feelings of untold stories and swollen words. Much to my chagrin, I am destined to carry the weight of unexpressed thoughts and emotions out of sheer dread of making a social blunder. Perhaps silence draped on my public persona is a response to my inner fear of being misunderstood or misinterpreted by others.

Or perhaps I am afraid of uttering something controversial and therefore eliciting a vitriolic response or inviting sharp friction. I loathe futile disputes and unduly drawn-out discussions. These trivial interactions enervate me, dampen my resolve, quicken my heartbeat, and constrict my breath. I don’t normally argue if I am unlikely to convince the other side of my viewpoint or to make a compelling, undebatable case.

Why should I get involved in an argument whose conclusion depletes the last iota of my energy and vainly takes up a significant amount of my time?

The monster of conflict looks at me as if it were eyeing a helpless victim in an empty forest on a pitch-dark winter night. I must hide in a damp cave or abandoned house to circumvent the potential confrontation.

My deep-seated aversion to fruitless discussions is not the only reason for my chronic silence. I don't want to spread misinformation or contribute to it. My fear of promoting an inaccurate piece of information chases me and threatens that if I just attempt to utter one word, it (my fear) may hurt my conscience and tear it into shattered bits of flesh.

Instead of adding value to my listener and equipping them with precise insights and informative points” I whisper to myself, “my tongue dares to share something invalid or flawed…what a nightmare”. Offering no food at all is far better than serving a rotten meal, right?

Another pillar of my silence is my rational fear of hurting others. Social politeness is my specialty; it is the game I play to win. This can truly mask my anxiety: while I appear considerate, I am still frightened of “committing the social crime of stabbing someone in the heart with the spear of an unfiltered word”.

In the blooming garden of the prophetic hadiths, one hadith bears out my point:

It was narrated from Abu Hurairah that: The Messenger of Allah [SAW] said: “The Muslim is the one from whose tongue and hand the people are safe, and the believer is the one from whom the people’s lives and wealth are safe.”

Reading these sacred words feels like a gentle breeze wafting in through a window on a summer day. It is relieving that Islam pays attention even to the delicate details of social politeness and to the danger of employing the tongue to wound others for no reason. In this case, silence is mandatory.

Another hadith warns against giving yourself free rein to vocalize whatever thought or word jumps irresponsibly in your mind.

The prophet said: “whoever believes in Allah and the last day should speak good or remain silent”. When a hurtful word teeters on the edge of your tongue and tickles the back of your teeth, tempting you to cough it out, close your mouth and let it slip back into your throat.

I am not advocating for the kind of silence that amounts to social awkwardness or arrogance tinged with mystery. Sometimes silence becomes a crime unto itself if it holds you back from speaking the truth. In life we lack gentle silence—the one that saves those in your surroundings from iron-heavy words that hit the heart before reaching the ears.

There is a vast difference between falling silent in the face of injustice and holding one's tongue in an open-ended argument. It is a matter of gauging which is more beneficial: keeping silent or speaking out. Being an impulsive speaker or a deathly quiet listener reduces your chances of making friends and leaving a good impression on others. At the end of the day, part of why we remain sane amidst the insanity striking the world is that we socialize with others and share our stories with loved ones.

Otherwise, we are prone to psychological struggles of adaptation; navigating change is nearly impossible if we are confined only to our inner voices. This explains why loneliness can lead to complicated mental challenges. Though silence is elegant, a bit of ambient noise relieves us from the pressure of our obsessive thoughts.

On the spectrum of silence, we tend to cling to the extreme ends: either utterly silent or unrestrictedly talkative. We seem to have lost a sense of judgment in this regard. Some situations cry for bold words to leave our throats, others urge us to keep our tongues inside. It depends on whether it is necessary to be vocal or not.

When words can save someone from falling prey to a sin or a major mistake, then let them echo. In the Holy Quran Allah SWT explains to us that one of our collective responsibilities as a unified Ummah is to enjoin good and forbid evil. This honored mission is also advocated by the best of creation Mohammed pbuh.

He makes it clear that silence in situations requiring speaking up is punishable. As the Arabic proverb goes “The one who is silent about the truth is a mute devil”. Being complicit in a wrongdoing doesn’t only mean that you abet the offenders; it can also involve being a silent eyewitness who refuses to stand up for what’s right. In these scenarios, silence is a devilish act and verbal courage is a public trust.

Hudhaifah (May Allah bepleased with him) reported:

The Prophet (ﷺ) said, “By Him in Whose Hand my life is, you either enjoin good and forbid evil, or Allah will certainly soon send His punishment to you. Then you will make supplication and it will not be accepted”.

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Elegant silence

Elegant silence imposes itself when words aren’t enough to change a dialogue for the better. It is that emotional maturity that you display when you feel incapable of answering back an insult or retaliating verbally. It is your sincere willingness to de-escalate a conflict that has already been taken out of proportion.

Deep down, you can’t deny that those around us who hasten to make a mountain of a molehill upon a trivial argument or misunderstanding are haters in disguise. Hence, silence is the answer. If my words pierce the plaster but decline to penetrate the first layer of your head, then I embrace silence as evidence of giving up on you. My beloved father always says that not everything in life deserves a comment; sometimes the echo of silence is more eloquent than a lengthy speech.

Silence is a polite and safe way to communicate my discomfort, despair, sorrow, and apathy. There is a magnetic aura surrounding those who barely speak that makes them highly respectable. Back when I was in high school, my Arabic teacher was one of those people. She wouldn’t scold her students when they acted up or forgot to do homework because she thought that a silent, not disdainful, look was enough to signal their mistakes.

One day, a student in my class disrespected the teacher, but the latter did nothing beyond darting a surprising glance at her, with absolute silence. The student felt embarrassed because the teacher didn’t punish or even reprimand her. She must have regretted her reckless attitude. Silence is powerful when it holds you back from being vengeful or belligerent.

This is exactly what Ahsan Alqasas, the best of stories, Surah Yusuf, has taught me. Even though the story epitomizes wisdom and moral elegance, there is a distinct part that awakens the beauty of silence within me. Ever since I learned the profound social strategy that lies within it, I have become more convinced that sometimes it is legitimate to stay silent.

Years of abundance came to an end, and famine became imminent. People from many different areas traveled to Egypt to seek grain and save lives, including Yusuf’s brothers from Canaan, Palestine. The brothers arrived to buy provisions, but they didn’t recognize that the powerful Vizier of Egypt was Yusuf, their lost brother.

However, Yusuf recognized them immediately and provided them with grain, though he required them to bring their youngest brother on their next visit. The next time, Yusuf’s brothers returned with their youngest brother. And because Yusuf wanted a way to keep his brother with him, he commanded his servants to hide his golden measuring cup (the king’s chalice) inside the grain bag of his brother.

As the caravan began to leave, Yusuf stopped them, crying out: “ O travelers! Indeed, you are thieves!”

The brothers were in absolute shock, though they were certain of their innocence. They declared that if the cup were found with any of them, that person should become a slave as punishment. When the bags were searched, the cup was discovered in the youngest brother’s bag. The brothers tried to distance themselves, saying: “If he steals—a brother of his ( Yusuf) has stolen before”. They referred to a false accusation they had once made against Yusuf as a child.

Here comes my favourite part: Yusuf kept it within himself despite the sting of his brother’s insult and the memory of their betrayal. The Qur’an describes Yusuf’s reaction beautifully: “But Joseph kept it within himself and did not reveal it to them.” (Surah Yusuf, 12:77).

He didn’t reveal his identity to shame them. He whispered to himself: “You are in a worse position; and Allah knows best what you describe.”

Yusuf possessed absolute authority to punish them and take revenge on them, but he preferred elegant silence because he trusted divine timing. His reaction didn’t come out of weakness, but from emotional strength. If his brothers resorted to insults and grudges against Yusuf, he wouldn’t reciprocate. He could have reminded them of their sin—throwing him into the well—but found silence more expressive, more impactful.

I prefer to stay silent unless I am sure that my words can change something or someone.

"Learn silence just as you learn speech. Silence is a dear wisdom" (Abu al-Darda).

Marwa Essam ✨

If you release your tight grip on this transient life and pay attention to what it has recently become, you will be shocked at how chaotic and noisy it is. It is somewhat soulless and tedious despite the tumultuous distractions that haunt us all day long. Others surround us, yet we feel isolated and alienated.

We have access to a gigantic amount of information, but we have no idea how to process it. We have a long to-do list that requires our energy and focus, though we feel unsatisfied. We don’t suffer from scarcity. We are afflicted with abundance that eats away at our attention. We have more than what we need or what we can process and comprehend. This unconditional availability of information gives us a sense of fulfillment, although we are inwardly empty.

Information is everywhere, but there is no purpose of having it unprocessed and not using it to improve our lives. We are stuck in the modern system of work and education, which prioritizes conformity over critical thinking and is designed to keep our attention distracted.

Realizing that we are entrapped is impossible unless we break free from the system itself.

Critical thinking, information analysis, and moral judgment are significant skills that we seldom master at school. Hence, we graduate from college having not only our degrees but also our sense of conformity. The modern education system is not designed to create creative minds, but hardworking human robots. The same logic applies to workplaces.

We can't get out of the box, for we have a list of strict orders to follow. Otherwise, we are ostracized on the grounds that we swim against the grain and object to the manmade rules. Speaking up is prohibited. We live in a reality whose shallowness is covered with complicated yet sophisticated language, which gives us an aura of intelligence and importance. We seem to understand the reality and read it well. But we don't.

The noise and complexity in our surroundings lead us to lose our moral compass and the ultimate purpose of our existence. Complexity here is manufactured— rather than inherent — that obscures our understanding of reality. We are fooled into believing that the environment is too complex to understand, so we give up and try to capitulate, instead of questioning it and making an attempt to change or improve it.

Why can't we read reality?

False awareness

Abundant information is supposed to revolutionize our lives, but this is not the case. We read books about how to manage our time, how to be consistent, or how to regulate our emotions. Yet, there is a clear gap between what we know and what we do. The discrepancy between knowledge and execution is evidence of our lack of determination.

We seem to be aware of what we have to do, but we do nothing. It is as if we don't learn to put knowledge into practice. This is one of the most dangerous problems that keeps us numb and apathetic. It is hard to transform our lives not because we don't have awareness, but because we are afraid of taking action and facing the consequences of change.

Change is daunting but important. Put in effort to challenge our nefs and train it to seek good changes, not instant gratification. If we have knowledge and keep it as theoretical principles, we will suffer a mismatch between our beliefs and our actions. Awareness is the integration of knowledge and work. Knowledge without work is pointless. And work without knowledge is meaningless.

Knowledge without work is insanity, and work without knowledge is vanity. Know that any science which does not remove you today far from apostasy, and does not carry you to obedience, will not remove you tomorrow from the fire of hell.”

―Abu Hamid al-Ghazali, Ayyuhal Walad.

Making people's opinions a moral standard of right and wrong

We depend on others to measure our success and morality. We look at people's opinions as a reference to us. And this is driven by our hidden desire to be culturally compatible and fit in. We place our trust in a fallible reference that changes at a whim. While such a habit reveals our lack of agency, it can be evidence of something way more shocking.

We unintentionally decentralize the Holy Qur'an as the ultimate reference to us. Instead of making it at the forefront of our lives and using it as guidance to better ourselves and bring about change in our reality, we follow changeable cultural trends and obey people's opinions.

Allah's words unify people to employ the Qur'anic standard to evaluate their performance meticulously. We have been created to please Allah, not the creation .

“You will never be able to please everyone; rather, rectify what is between you and Allāh and do not care about the people.”

_Imam Shafi’i

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Drifting away from the true purpose of our existence

We spend long hours working hard, but we don't know the reason for our diligence beyond the need for salary and social recognition. We work to survive, not to worship. We focus on what brings us prosperity in the dunya, never concerned about the end results that affect our value in the hereafter.

We sink into the noisy demands of life, unable to identify the meaning of life. We strive to achieve a new goal right after hitting a new milestone. We don't pause for a moment and see whether we are on the right path or have deviated from it. This is because we are locked in a secular, individualistic system that shuns whoever chooses to be a nonconformist.

We don't feel satisfied when we attain a certain objective, for the inner emptiness is yet to be healed. “What's the meaning of life?” is a confusing question that hits us hard as soon as we emerge victorious from a given battle of life. If we answer it sincerely, we will take the first step in realigning our goals with the purpose of our existence. But what's the purpose of our existence? We are here as stewards or successors to worship Allah Almighty and better the Earth.

Unless we become aware of the fact that we are trapped in reality, change is a distant dream. Taking things for granted just because no one before us has questioned them is not an excuse for surrender. We are not responsible for pleasing others and fitting into their definition of success. Autonomy is what we need to build a life system based on the Islamic concepts of Ihsan, Iman, Taqwa, & Yaqeen. These four principles are what make us more sincere and self-disciplined in life.

We are here to work, to change, to ask, to improve, and to enhance man-made beliefs and ideologies and traditional thoughts, which few take the initiative and try to dissect, destroy, and rebuild. True awareness is not merely possessing knowledge that fails to turn into a set of actions.

Rather, it is the fundamental step to show resistance against the traditional currents that insist on remaining unchanged— currents that don't allow us to swim against lest we are excluded from ‘the tribe’. The only way to see the reality through a critical lens is to centralize the content of the Holy Quran in life.

What's right and wrong has already been predetermined by Divine ultimate knowledge, so there is no need to worship others' biased opinions and secular thoughts. By and large, historical changes that have been embraced to build a new reality began with experiencing or witnessing injustice.

The colonized who managed to emancipate their country from the colonizer's grip could not endure persecution and oppression, and this encouraged them to revolt in the face of their enemy. People of color who were treated unjustly fought fiercely for equality and justice. In order to change our surroundings, we need to change ourselves first. To change ourselves, being aware of our sins and mistakes is a prerequisite for success.

To gain an awareness of our shortcomings, we must eliminate noise, at least temporarily. Our days are filled with notifications, distractions, and temptations that waste our energy and time. Because we are used to welcoming them, and they become part of our lives, we don't look at them as intrusive entities. But they actually are intrusive.

We took our reality for granted until the genocide began in Gaza. Then everything changed. People started to ask important questions and distinguish between the truth and falsehood. They no longer fell for propaganda and fake news. It is crystal clear that awareness has been formed in the wake of the mass slaughter in Gaza.

But the question is: will this awareness continue to spread and develop in a promising way that makes transforming our miserable reality possible?

I’m missing my old self.

I’ve left myself somewhere before I realized I could. I am separated from my true self. I am rummaging through the invisible containers of my life’s memories, searching for a trace or a signal that could lead me back.

My attempt is futile. I am still lost. My soul is looking for something holy, sacred, and peaceful. I hasten to open the window, only to be welcomed by a waft of gentle breeze that rejuvenates my countenance. All of a sudden, a wind of nostalgia shrivels the petals of my youth.

Where to go? What to do?

Maybe meeting someone my soul cherishes will be enough to heal my inner wound: the loss of my old self. I dream of a meeting that may help me reclaim myself. I know the location. I don’t have the map. My heart is my tour guide.

But why should I enlist a true tour guide if my heart will lead me to where I belong?

Brace yourself for a breathtaking journey.

We are about to go on a journey through which we will walk past many stations. The station of nostalgia. The station of homesickness. The station of Ghorba. And the station of the Palestinian struggle. Come with me on my journey, but don’t dare allow your thoughts to accompany you. It is already too crowded. I take my thoughts and memories with me, so there is no room for yours.

Don’t forget to bring with you a notebook and a pen. I beseech you to chronicle our shared journey. Don’t spare any detail. I am a writer. And writers are loyal to subtle details.

A few hours separate me from being reunited with my true self. We are crossing the Jordan River, making our way into the Palestinian city Ramallah. But it is not our original destination. We will visit the Palestinian coastal cities where visitors are embraced by the cold Mediterranean splash.

I am in awe of the matchless beauty of the Palestinian coastal cities that I can’t decide which one to enter first. What if I visit Acre first to see the port from which Palestinian cash crops like cotton were exported to….to …..to Europe_ France and Britain.

Why are you surprised?

Don’t you know that Britain imported cotton from Palestine to produce textiles during the Industrial Revolution in the 18th century? Alas, I don’t have enough time to admonish you for not reading Palestinian history.

Oh, don’t forget to craft an exquisite description of Jaffa and its delicious oranges. Don’t you know that Jaffa oranges were transported in boxes to the ships heading to Europe?

Now instead of admonishing you twice, could you reflect on the fact that Palestine once fed Europe? And when Europe heard the cries of the starved Palestinian children in Gaza, it did not move.

With love, Marwa 🇵🇸✨