Would I speak the same? Dress the same? Laugh at the same jokes? Would I be studying the same thing?

How many lives could I have lived?

To be alive and able is certainly one of the most easily overlooked luxuries of life, and it is one that is not given to those who necessarily deserve it. This freedom is a test for all those who hold it. Some grip it tight and realise how so very rare it all is. Others don’t realise they have it until it slips like dry sand between outstretched fingers.

It could all disappear so fast, and yet we are so bad at realising it.

Somewhere in the world, there is someone much more intelligent and deserving than me of the things that I have. Someone who would drink up the knowledge I have access to — knowledge I am so careless with — with a curiosity that cannot be satisfied. There is a child living in conflict who would do anything to pursue the education that I have on occasion looked at as a burden. There is a mother who wants to give her children the opportunities we so freely pursue. These are very real, human lives. Lives that were perhaps once also so full of joy and wonder and ambition.

These are the many lives I could have lived.

But there are limits, aren’t there? So many of us have broken through these so-called glass ceilings, climbed the ladders, made the headlines. Some of us are working towards citations or recognition, but so few of us realise how unique it is for these little things to be the occupiers of our time.

There was no guarantee that I’d be here, doing as I do and making my way through it all. It was the path that was written for me, and it is a path that I forget to pay attention to.

So much of what I know to be normal is not even a thought in the minds of many. How lucky we are that surviving the next day is not even a thought that briefly comes to us. How foolish we are to not realise how abundant our lives already are. How fast we are to pursue the next thing before we have even had time to revel in the present.

There are many lives we could have lived, but the one we know best is our own. We are so busy with trying to build on what we have that we forget those who actually need our attention.

The more we realise how much has already gone right for us, the more we can pour into the world around us.

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But with this blessing comes an immense responsibility — one that we often overlook.

Al-Nu’man ibn Bashir reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The parable of the believers in their affection, mercy, and compassion for each other is that of a body. When any limb aches, the whole body reacts with sleeplessness and fever.”

Bukhari & Muslim

The ummah is one body.

We exist as one, we live as one, we pray as one.

We feel as one.

There are few things as precious as community. To belong to something greater than just yourself is a privilege, but we often look past the beauty that lies in unity.

Islamic identity is a vital necessity for us all — especially the youth. We are faced with trials that our parents weren’t faced with, challenges that have erupted in the face of new realities, innovation that can sometimes do more harm than good. It often feels like there is an attempt to detach us from our identity from every direction, with distraction, violence, and discrimination. We end up looking for belonging in the wrong places, whether that be through friends we think are right for us or places we think we fit in. There is always an effort to belong, and that is natural, especially in our formative years.

But the reality is that not every space we want to break into has a seat waiting for us at the table. Not every opportunity will align with our morals. This does not necessarily mean that we should immediately exit the room and look for a seat elsewhere, but it does mean that we need to reconsider if being attached to that place would benefit us at all.

It means knowing when to walk away from something that is likely to alter your identity as a Muslim.

And I can admit that it’s hard. It’s hard to find belonging if you’re the only Muslim or one of just a few. It’s hard when you choose to not attend that event that everyone talks about the next day. But this should make us stand taller in our identities, and step deeper into knowing who we are outside our immediate contexts.

La ilaha ilallah is what unites us. We are one in our belief, and that is enough to necessitate an effort for our unity. Being Muslim means standing up for your brother or sister when you witness them being harmed in public, it means understanding that our personal feelings don’t matter when times are so divisive. We do not have a choice in this matter, and we are not the judges of someone else’s deen.

A short case study

A recent video of a niqabi sister being verbally attacked invited a response from a fellow Muslim that questioned why Muslim women thought wearing the hijab or niqab makes them automatically entitled to the protection of their brothers. This is problematic for many reasons, the most concerning of which is the complete rejection of what an ummah is for. It is not the fact that this woman was niqabi that should have warranted any kind of reaction from a Muslim bystander, but simply the fact that she was Muslim. And this is the exact issue. It’s beliefs like these that make us weaker. If we don’t stand together, we create gaps in the complex lattice that makes us one. We are not perfect, but the less we defend each other, the more we create fault lines in our collective identity.

Our unity is important now more than ever. We cannot risk being divided because of the actions of a few. We must stand up for our oppressed, be confident in our identities, and defend each other in strife.

So we must make dua for each other, help each other, smile at each other, encourage each other, accept each other, and love each other. The bond that binds us is our religion, and that bond is stronger than blood.

To be part of an ummah is a gift, but to maintain an ummah is our responsibility.

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And every time I do happen to catch a leaf fall, I’m reminded of the ayah:

“Not a leaf falls but that He knows it”

— 6:59

And it blows me away every. single. time.

Can you imagine? All of these leaves are falling and yet, Allah is aware of every single one. The Lord who plans, facilitates, and witnesses these leaves falling is the same one who plans, facilitates, and witnesses your life. Every pain, every tear, every joy, every ounce of yearning and longing and waiting and wondering — Al-Baseer sees it all, and As-Sami’ hears it.

We get so caught up in our own problems that we wonder if Allah sees us. We doubt that His help is near and fail to remember all the times He’s pulled us out of darkness before. Nothing is ever too big or too small for our Lord — it is only our thinking that limits us.

Our human logic cannot comprehend the omnipotence and omnipresence of a Lord so great. We don’t understand how He can know of every falling leaf, or how He can give His help to everyone. It doesn’t make sense because we humans are so limited.

To love Allah is to know Allah. The more we are aware of just how much He does for us, the closer we draw to Him. Every day, there are dangers from which He protects us, realities from which He shields us, pain which He removes from us, sins for which He forgives us — and all this without us even being deserving of it, let alone aware of it.

Leaves fall every day all around the world, and not just in autumn — but Allah is aware of every single one, in fact, He planned the fall of every single one.

And He is aware of us all. He knows our needs and wants, the things we tell nobody and silently wish for, the whispered duas and internal struggles — none of it is hidden from Him.

We have a Lord who is always ready to receive us, to help us, to comfort us — it is we who are unaware of how much He knows us, and just how much there is to know of Him.

أَلَا بِذِكْرِ ٱللَّهِ تَطْمَئِنُّ ٱلْقُلُوبُ

Surely in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find comfort.

— 13:28

“You deserve better”.

“Know your worth”.

You’ve heard it, I’ve heard it. Social media platforms are nowhere short of influencers and creators telling you to choose yourself over and over again. We are sold the narrative of self-respect when it is often just selfishness and self-righteousness in disguise.

What happened to making sacrifices for the people you love?

I have been thinking a lot lately about how shallow this all must sound to the immigrant parent, the child who has grown up in war, or those who demand freedom yet receive persecution. For those in these categories (and many more), there is no such thing as “protecting your peace”. You wake up every day with your peace snatched from you and placed on a shelf like a trophy to be fought for and earned. While we sit here and complain about how our cultures — many of which are rooted in giving and expecting nothing in return — have conditioned us to an extent that makes it difficult to set a boundary, there are people who have never had the privilege of even choosing.

What is a boundary to someone who doesn’t even know if their fight for freedom will allow them to dream?

The influx of what I personally believe is toxic self-care content is mostly to be blamed for this. We are told to cut off people who don’t “match our energy”. Gossip is framed as “venting” because oh that’s just girl code and anyone who breaks it has to be called out, right? When someone disagrees with you, it’s because they’re a contrarian and there’s just no way you’re wrong. Forgiveness apparently isn’t even a thing anymore because that person who did you wrong is just a bad person anyway! Self-accountability is no longer about reflecting on the parts of your character that hurt others, but rather just about focusing on how you hurt yourself.

It’s all about me me me me me.

We are essentially told that it is okay to feel like the whole world revolves around us, and it creates individuals who are unable to connect, unable to take advice, and incapable of understanding those who disagree with any little thing they believe in.

It doesn’t allow us to exist in harmony, and it certainly doesn’t allow us to understand the reality of so many others around the world.

The example of parents, especially immigrant parents, is one that is most notable and close to me. Many of our parents did not have the privilege of “finding themselves”. Everything they did was for us, their children. There was no concept of setting boundaries or protecting peace. There was no concept of cutting people off because at the end of the day, that was family. Everything was about sacrifice, aspirations for the future, and hard work. And for my parents, this meant leaving everything they knew — their language, their food, their own parents, their communities, their families — just to give their children a better life than they had, even if it meant starting all over again in a new country with two children under the age of 5.

There was no spending their teen years trying to find their niche or being told that the sky was the limit. There were no gap years or extended periods of travel, nor was there a vibrant exposure to other cultures. There was no concept of mental health or therapy (not that this was a good thing). It was about survival, not passion.

It is important that at this point I clarify that I am not referring to those who genuinely need to set boundaries for safety and health and well-being. Of course, there is no question about the most appropriate course of action for a person who is, for example, experiencing abuse, coercion, or force. These situations do require intervention and separation to keep a victim safe. But again, this just proves that to be able to choose to remove yourself from a situation is a privilege that some need legal involvement to legitimise. Think about that.

Now, do I think we need to do a full 180 and completely revert to the days when we had absolutely no personal choice? Of course not.

But, I do think we need to step into a mindset of inconveniencing ourselves a little bit more to sustain the relationships and interests that matter. The “I don’t chase, I attract” mindset just isn’t how reality works. We do need to work for the things we care about, we do need to sacrifice for and respect the people we love, and most of all, we do need to understand how privileged we are to have choice over so much.

We can find ourselves and I think that’s a beautiful thing, but we cannot lose everyone else in the process.

We use it to purchase status, opportunity, and reputation. We are rewarded for what we do know, and oftentimes penalised for what we don’t.

In school, we score higher when we know the content and can apply it. We need to meet certain score thresholds to pursue further education. We feel like we need to immediately understand every witty idiom and niche reference thrown at us during those rapid, phatic, surface-level exchanges right at the beginning of work meetings and Zoom calls.

We are scared to fail — or at least I am.

I know it is important to set standards and I completely understand the necessity of the hurdles and competition. However — and this is a self-reflection before it is a general observation — I also find myself fearing failure. And of course, there is the more generic and large-scale failure of not getting where you want to be in life, and that makes sense, but the irrational fear of admitting when you just don’t know something is what I’m speaking of. I mean, why are we so scared to say those three words?

“I don’t know”.

For a lot of us, especially those of us who are constantly engaged in academic pursuits, this fear comes from our perception that not knowing something means we immediately become inferior. We feel as though if we don’t understand something, then we’re letting someone else down. If we don’t understand something, then we’re just not as good as the person who does. We want to be respected and in a lot of cases today, respect is earned through knowledge.

And this is the same thing that holds so many of us back from asking questions. I remember I had this bad habit during high school of asking questions that I already partially knew the answer to, but just needed the gaps filled in for. This was to make it seem like I was still engaging in class while not having to risk my ego in the process. I would almost never ask questions about things I fully didn’t understand because I didn’t want my teachers to think I didn’t know the content. I would proofread texts to important people, emails, comments, submissions, and anything that I was going to be perceived through multiple times because good spelling was my one thing and messing that up felt like too much of a rookie mistake.

I didn’t let myself fail enough and so when I did, it felt like the end of the world.

Part of being human is accepting that we just don’t know everything. You can be heading a certain field and still have things to learn about it. You can think you have all the answers, only for one question to make it seem like it’s all worthless (which could not be further from the truth, by the way).

And here’s the catch — there will always be someone who knows more than you.

But the beautiful thing about that is that it doesn’t actually make you any less valuable than them. Sure, it might seem like that. In fact, it’s hard to see it as anything but that, but it really is the truth.

I am learning every day that there is power in just admitting when you don’t know, don’t understand, or don’t want to do something. And before anything, I do not mean we should use this as an excuse for laziness or inaction. You can’t say “I don’t know” when the opportunity for education was in the palm of your hand and the answer was being held before your eyes. We need to try our very hardest in all that we do. But that’s just it, our very best. Anything past that is an opportunity to learn.

As I write this, I realise that the root cause of this is a fear of failure coupled with being a people pleaser — both traits I believe are useful in moderation, but damaging in excess. And the interesting thing is that I can’t remember a single time I’ve considered the person who admitted to not knowing something as any less than me. In fact, I’ve only ever had respect for people who do so. Why? Because it shows me they’re human. It shows me that we all genuinely have something to learn no matter how much we think we know. There are limits to us, and that is a beautiful thing.

Of course, I will give myself credit when it’s due, but I’m not some girl with top-level academic prowess. Sometimes I have a conversation with someone and have to Google half the words they used. A lot of my writing and speaking is largely in plain English — not because I choose it to be that way, but because that’s what I know. I stumble over my words when I’m nervous and use too many filler words, and sometimes I even blank out completely. I love public speaking and was an avid debater throughout high school yet felt my ears burn every time I stood up to present my speech. I tutor and there are still new things I learn about my subject because I just never used them when I was studying it myself.

All of that is completely fine, and I’m just another human.

The year is coming to a close and if there is just one thing I want to take with me for the rest of my life, it’s that I need to be more comfortable with admitting when I don’t know. Admitting what you don’t know is the first step in learning something new. We are humans, we make mistakes, and sometimes you really need to be comfortable with feeling like the “dumbest” one in the room, physical or virtual. Besides, we all know so much more than we think.

We’re all doing so much better than we think.

So yes, we should push ourselves and push hard, but gaps in our knowledge shouldn’t scare us — they should propel us, empower us, and enrich us.

It’s an oxymoron.

We don’t like to admit that it exists, but oh is it everywhere.

It’s in the short lived trends — crinkle to chiffon to jersey and now modal. Modal that requires me to wear a full coverage undercap even in the heat (why is it so sheer??!).

Anyway, back to it.

It’s also in the hijab styles that float in and out of fashion. In the early years, it was the turban style, and then later it was the tight chiffon wrap that never stayed in place, which then changed to jersey, and then it was wrapping it to fit around the face and throwing one piece back and keeping one out the front, and today, it’s letting it fall effortlessly around your face as half of it drapes across your shoulder, and the rest falls behind your back.

You get the idea, you’ve also definitely seen the idea all over your Instagram.

Now, in no way am I saying any of this is necessarily right or wrong, nor am I claiming to be perfect in my own hijab. Of course, there are right and wrong ways to wear the hijab, and everyone has their own struggles. I know that. I acknowledge that. I have felt that myself. However, do I realise that young girls feeling the need to show their neck, pull their bangs out to frame their faces, and gel down their middle part so it looks nice as it peaks out the front of their hijab points to a bigger problem? Absolutely I do.

At 18 years of age, I live in a time where everything around me is moving at a rate that I often cannot keep up with. As soon as you catch on to one trend, the rest of the world has already moved on, and you’re already behind — outdated and out of fashion. It feels like if you’re not wearing Chantilly Lace, Ombré Olive, Berry Mosaic, or some other insanely priced printed modal, then you’re just not cool enough (let’s not get into the fact that Vela scarves sell for $40 (Australian) a scarf and how it’s a further $22 to ship — the accessibility issue is a different thing).

The hijab, however, is meant to be a constant. It’s meant to be a consistent factor of being a Muslim woman. It’s meant to unite, eliminate difference, and signify submission to Allah’s commandments. It is therefore unfortunate that we, ourselves, have constructed a beauty standard that makes it just that much harder for young girls to feel ready to put it on.

See, the hijab is my crown. It is my pride. Every time I step out of the house it is a privilege to be seen with it. People know I am Muslim just by looking at me, they know that I follow one God, and that I am not ashamed to display that. I am also privileged enough to have grown up with the hijab being normalised in my family and household. But to a younger girl, especially one that may not have the encouragement and support of family or friends, this feeling of security and pride in hijab can be hard to come by. So, when this young girl logs onto her social media platforms and sees these decorated versions of the hijab, she feels confronted, inadequate, and discouraged. How many times have we heard Muslim women say they were too scared to put on the hijab because they think they “can’t pull it off”? How many anecdotes have we read of Muslim women who struggle to find spouses because they don’t fit the “aesthetic” of a “pretty hijabi” (actual wording from a Reddit post by the way). Intentions aside, do we realise how concerning it is that these women even feel this way? I don’t know about you but it’s really weird to me that this category of “Vela hijabi” even exists. Can’t a hijabi just be a hijabi anymore?

Do we understand how insane it is that Muslim women feel insecure within their OWN UMMAH? I mean sure, we might have moments where we find it hard to feel accepted elsewhere but within our OWN community? In our OWN mosques? Unfathomable.

The hijab is meant to be simple. It is meant to feel accessible. It is not meant to be an image that we have constructed of aesthetic perfection. It is not normal for a Muslim girl or woman to feel like she is competing with her sisters in beauty. It should not be the case that a Muslim woman feels the need to change her hijab in order to fit a manmade standard when the only standard we should have for our hijab is the one Allah has set out for us.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I am not saying it is wrong to want to look nice. I love my printed modals and pretty abayas. If you want to dress nice, then dress nice! I think that’s beautiful, and of course, any effort towards the hijab is better than none at all. However, this becomes a problem when the printed modals and pretty abayas are seen as the standard of beauty for a Muslim woman. It becomes a problem when the full beat every single day becomes the norm. Again, I am not trying to claim that I am perfect in ANY of this. I am not speaking on the permissibility of these things anyway. My point is that it should not be the case that any Muslim woman feels inferior or insecure for wearing a black jersey with a black abaya and a bare face and calling it a day — this should not feel “messy”. We shouldn’t feel embarrassed for existing in our most basic, natural form.

I think it’s necessary to look presentable. There is a lot of value placed in maintaining ourselves and ensuring we don’t look disheveled in Islam. But the crazy standards need to go. Allah will not look at if we wore Baby Blue Floral or Fawn, but He will look at if we wore our hijab properly and with the correct intentions — a battle with our nafs that we all wake up and fight every day.

The hijab is not easy, but it is also not meant to be this hard.

May Allah make it easy for the Muslim women to observe proper hijab, feel fully secure and comfortable in it, and have the right intentions for it.

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It so often felt as though I was being irrationally emotional — feeling sad or nostalgic in moments where my friends or family felt happy, or already mourning the end of something while I was already in that something.

I felt silly when I was just in year 9 feeling sad seeing the older year levels finish school and leave because that was the end of their schooling chapter. This sadness was both because I felt for them, but also because I feared the sadness I would feel when I had to go through the same thing 3 years later (funnily enough, I was sadder to see previous cohorts graduate than I was when I graduated myself).

I have felt weak when a wave of nostalgia hits me on a random Wednesday evening in Spring as the wind is just right, and the light is golden — and all of a sudden I feel uneasy and unable to continue with whatever task I was previously preoccupied with.

I can’t tell you how many times I have wondered what it would be like to just get over things fast or to not feel nostalgic at all. I was sick of it, scared of it, and I wanted nothing more than to run away from it.

For me, feeling sad in the moment felt secure. It felt like if I could get over the longing now, then I wouldn’t have to suffer after. If I could make this moment just a bit less enjoyable by injecting it with some sense of a negative emotion, then the moment wouldn’t even be good enough to reminisce over, thus fixing my fear of nostalgia.

Now, this is an issue that I am yet to come to terms with myself. But, I have since been unpacking what these emotions even are to me. Is there such thing as a “negative” emotion? Is there an escape from a sentimental mind?

Is my depth of feeling a blessing or a curse?

Until very recently, I thought it was the latter. I didn’t like that I felt things so deeply, nor that I mourned a moment before it was over. I didn’t like feeling weak or childish or irrational. I hated and dreaded the pit in my stomach and the thorny feeling at the back of my throat, the feelings that ruined a weeknight which eventually crept up and stung my eyes and then gave me restless, sleepless nights.

And look, I’m not saying it’s a good thing to feel prematurely nostalgic — living in the moment is certainly something I am still actively trying to work on. Life’s blessings are meant to be enjoyed, revelled in, savoured, and felt. I realise that being sad that they will end is not going to make them any easier to deal with once they do, and I also realise that I’m just ruining the moment for myself anyway.

However, I can also appreciate the fact that the ability to feel so deeply is also a blessing.

I am able to look back at moments of my life and the people that made them so golden and feel incredibly connected to them. I am able to feel immensely grateful for all of my experiences, and see my life through a lens of abundance and positivity. I am able to feel close to people, even if we are worlds apart, just because I know that we have shared memories and once wheezed in fits of laughter. Pictures are not just pixels to the eye, oh no — for me, they are windows to the sights, smells, sounds, and emotions I experienced as I took them. I can look at a picture and remember exactly how my heart glowed as I took it, what the air felt like against my skin, and how the day had been. I think that’s pretty beautiful.

I know now that there is no need to dread these feelings. They will come and go, ebb and flow. Emotions are like that — like waves. We just need to ride them and keep our heads above the water. We won’t sink. There is no harm in feeling, we just need to honour it in the moment.

To feel is to love.

And there is just so much to love.

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I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig-tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America…I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree, starving to death, because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.

— The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

We’ve pretty much all heard it — the audiobook excerpt of The Bell Jar, read in the steady cadence of Maggie Gyllenhaal, with Kuja’s agony agony agony as the melancholy soundtrack. Often, this sound accompanies some sort of “aesthetic” autumnal Instagram reel or photo carousel, with clips and pictures of perfectly brewed tea, lit candles, low light, and fallen orange leaves. At least that’s where I first heard it.

I remember being curious as to what the context was of this fig-tree. It sounded like the usual tumultuous internal conflict that ensues as one grapples with adolescence or a mid-life crisis, and I was about to find out I was totally wrong. But I had many questions. Why were so many creators using this sound in the background of their videos? Which book was it from? Who is the woman with whose calming voice it is narrated?

So naturally, I looked up “fig-tree book”, found out it was The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, bought in on my Kindle and read it. By the end of the book, I had formed many thoughts, one of which was the opinion that the fig-tree analogy had lost its meaning to an Instagram aesthetic, and another of which was the realisation that the content of the book was nothing like the aesthetic Instagram videos made it seem.

Now, I am the first person to admit I am an avid creator and consumer of such content too. But there is a hard line between (casual) cinematography and just plain decontextualisation and dilution of a serious idea, all because a reel made it look pretty.

I mean seriously, it’s called The Bell Jar for a reason. Esther feels trapped, like a specimen, being watched, examined, and scrutinised. The book covers heavy themes of depression and mental illness, all for it to be reduced to just one analogy that just isn’t being done justice.

An analogy that means so much more than what is on the page.

In my second literature class ever, my teacher defined me as a “resistant reader”, and I now understand why, because in all honesty, the first time I read The Bell Jar and got to the part about the fig-tree, I didn’t agree with it and I still don’t. I do not think that choosing one fig means the rest shrivel up and fall. I think you can choose them all, or choose one and then come back to another, or perhaps choose half of one and half of the next. Or maybe it is winter and the figs are just not in season yet, in which case you just need to wait for the summer — you just need to wait for the right time. And even if the tree is heavy with figs, some might grow faster than others and the one you want might still be growing, in which case you go to a plum tree and pick a plum and wait for the fig (which you really want) to ripen into the beautiful green-purple bulb of sweetness you actually crave. Even then, if you weren’t able to get to the orchard this time, there’s always next season.

But it’s a privilege to even feel that way, isn’t it?

A recent conversation I had with a friend in a string of voice messages made me realise that the fact that Esther even feels like she has to choose a fig encompasses the very idea the book grapples with. She feels trapped (in that bell jar), paralysed by indecision and the fear of choosing the wrong path. She wants everything and nothing all at once, she is exhausted, and confused, and starving to death in the crotch of this fig tree.

The visual of a bell jar is representative also of Esther being a quiet, albeit confused and stressed, observer of life as it rushes past her. It is as if she sits behind the glass covered on all sides, and can only observe and be observed, except she cannot act and all those who observe her are a witness to that, and yet this life that she observes from behind the glass is full of action — Buddy Willard and his budding medical career, Joan Gilling with her expertise in physics and athletic prowess, even Esther’s mother who learns shorthand to get a job. All this ambition and achievement both impress and scare Esther, and yet all she feels she can do is sit in this bell jar and have many be a witness to her inaction, indecision, and incompletion.

And upon reflection, it is a feeling that is familiar to almost all of us. We want so much that sometimes it feels like we need to make sacrifices to prioritise the things that seem the most realistic, or the things that we know we can achieve in order to actually be able to make something of ourselves. We want to have lived for something, we want something to show, something to prove we did the work. But trying to get somewhere — trying to achieve something — is just as honourable as reaching that destination altogether.

My point in saying all this is not to critique, as I am completely aware that this feeling of paralysis and fear of decision is not necessarily one that Esther has control of. However, I am saying that the freedom of choice is a privilege and a blessing that we so often fail to appreciate.

With all that being said, do you now see why we should have a problem with those reels and TikToks? The fig-tree analogy explores a topic that cannot be understood just by looking at the ink on the paper or the pixels on the screen. Rather, it is an experience that must be lived, understood, observed, and unpacked. For many of us, we have the opportunity to do the many things we want, so why do we act like choosing to pursue parenthood means bidding a career farewell?

And my concern is that there is so much culture that is being lost to the heart button and explore page. We have stopped thinking about and stopped fully feeling the things that actually need to be thought about and felt. The fig-tree has been romanticised when it was never meant to be. It is a commentary on an internal storm, and I only hope that we can begin to see that more in this context, and all other contexts as well.

It feels, increasingly, as though it is the centre of all our lives right now. It tells 16 year olds that unless they’re making thousands in passive income every month, they’re not successful. It is pushed by the next Instagram investor selling you their course, and asking you to comment “eBook” to get one sent straight to your inbox.

I have been reflecting lately on all the things that I said I would do, started, and then never finished. I will be the first person to admit that it is a beautiful thing to be ambitious. It is natural and commendable even to want to chase and achieve. We are human, after all — the hunger for success and satiety is in our blood.

But, I am done with being told that I must achieve everything at once — that I must start a business, study, get into a course of my choosing, keep up with all my social engagements, study some more, maintain my physical and mental health, work and earn money, read 10 books, listen to wellness podcasts, and study again.

I am done being told that it’s all or nothing, that if I don’t have a billion and one things going on at once, that I am simply not successful or fulfilled.

And some people are genuinely able to handle it all. The many businesses with their day job, as well as their family life and their study — and to those people I look up to with admiration and respect. But should I feel behind? Should I feel like I am wasting my potential? No, because perhaps my definition of success is different, perhaps I am just not able to handle as much — and that’s okay too. You are a whole person even if you don’t have multiple ambitions. You are a whole person even if you only want one thing in life. You are respected if you go out into the world wanting to save people, but the only person you end up saving is yourself.

Sometimes saving yourself is all you can do, and many times that is the best thing you can do because I truly believe that if everyone looked inward and focused on themselves a bit more while still working on being less selfish, then the world would be a better place. But that’s a conversation for another day.

I am now learning that it is okay to pick one or two things and do those things well. It is okay to pour yourself into studying because you want to get into a certain degree, or pour yourself into a business because that is where your passion lies. And of course, everything in moderation, let’s not get fully sucked into the delusions of this material, ephemeral, fleeting world. But my point is, your definition of worldly success is yours to define, and yours to modify (again, within limits of deen, for instance). You can be completely enthralled by a project for the longest time and then decide eventually that your heart is no longer in it. Do I think we should give up straight away in this instance? No. I think we should do everything in our power to keep that spark of ambition alive, especially because it is sometimes just a moment of exhaustion in the natural ebb and flow of passion. But, I also know that not very much good comes out of forcing drive.

So, to all the things I started and never finished, maybe I will come back to you again one day. Maybe I will finally finish And The Mountains Echoed, which I’ve been reading since last November and which has been perplexing me since then, too (don’t get me wrong I LOVE Hosseini’s work but I just don’t understand the flow and there’s so many characters and nothing hits the same after A Thousand Splendid Suns).

And I look forward, now, to a new beginning, where I am able to focus on the few things I actually care about and where I am able to do those things well. Perhaps one day I can work my way up to doing all the many things I dream of, but that day does not have to be today. Small steps. Consistent action. That’s it.

However, I much rather identify with the fact that I am straddling both youth and the responsibility that is galloping towards me. This responsibility both scares and excites me. I know that I will soon be thrust into making decisions far bigger than the ones I currently face. I’d like to think I am ready, and in many ways I believe I am — and then something happens and I realise I’m not really ready at all.

But one thing I am ready for is to defend my identity as a Muslim.

I feel it is the common experience for many diaspora to drop the reigns on their identity here and there, letting the traits and culture of the environment they are introduced to seep in through the cracks that inevitably form as one grapples with an unfamiliar environment. And while I have absolutely nothing against this, and I even think it is a good thing, I still wince when I see another young Muslim go by Moey instead of Muhammad, or downplay their beliefs as to not step on the toes of those who they think will judge them for having to take time out of the school day to pray salah.

Where did we go wrong?

Well, the truth is, it is not the fault of anyone, at least not those who feel the need to shroud themselves in a manufactured identity. The experience of many immigrant parents when they move to an unfamiliar environment, especially a Western one, is to put barriers in place to protect their children. It’s a survival instinct, a good intention. In the context of Muslim immigrant parents, these include (but are not limited to), delaying the age of their daughters wearing hijab or not encouraging it at all, moving away from traditional naming and adopting more ambiguous/Western names or encouraging their children to abbreviate their names, believing it is okay to miss salah in a public place because you can “make it up later” (there is no such thing), attending social events with clear haram, and allowing children to keep friends they know are a bad influence in the name of “making connections”.

Does any of this sound familiar to you?

Alhamdulillah, I was raised to defend my Islamic identity no matter what. I grew up with all the women in my family observing hijab, with salah being a normal part of our gatherings and outings, and support whenever we decided to not take part in something because we knew there would be haram. For the most part, I never felt alienated for choosing to put my deen first. But, I am also aware of many young people who feel that they need to present a rinsed out or censored version of their Islamic identity, forgetting that there is nothing to censor in the first place.

Before I continue, I must first say that in no way am I claiming to be perfect in my deen. I am far from it, and I do not believe that perfection is attainable anyway. I can’t tell you how many times the quality of my salah has been decreased because I was praying in a public place and I could sense people staring, or because I was scared someone would walk into the room I was using to pray in. Of course I often still struggle with wearing a plain abaya in a public place outside of the masjid or Muslim areas! These feelings are normal, but choosing to show up and practice our deen anyway is what Allah wants to see.

As Muslims, we are walking, talking engines of dawah. Giving dawah does not just mean standing at Speakers’ Corner and refuting every Islamophobe that comes your way, or setting up a stall on the street and giving out free Qurans (which is undoubtedly a beautiful initiative). Dawah is also wearing hijab in public, showing up in spaces that you are perhaps not always seen in and using the skills Allah has given you. Dawah is deciding to pull out your prayer mat and pray in the parking lot, even as people drive past. Dawah is deciding to introduce yourself as Muhammad, Fatima, or Abdul-Rahman. Resistance is worship. Pride in your islamic identity is worship.

We exist in a society that is moving towards secularism, in a time that often feels like we are under the microscope with our every action being scrutinised. Now more than ever is it difficult to hold onto our Islamic identities. But, now more than ever is it vital. Our identity is what keeps us united. We are one under our belief in Allah’s oneness and that Muhammad (may peace and blessings be upon him) is His final messenger.

This is who we are. We cannot give up Islam for anyone, nor do we have to change it to appeal to the values of society. We worship Allah, not the people. Islam will always be there, unchanged and complete. It is our gift to protect and honour, and it all starts with us.

So, from the youth to the youth, people will not always agree with or understand us. We might be denied opportunities or shunned to the periphery because of our strong assertion of our beliefs. We might be seen as backwards for covering ourselves, or strange for choosing to follow the rules of our deen in a society that sees any kind of obedience as oppressive. But the truth is, it is not our job to be understood or accepted by the people. It should be our priority to be accepted by Allah — and that is the greatest level of approval.

May Allah make it easy for us all.

Our lemon tree died just as it reached a metre high. Our limes looked promising, until they didn’t. And until this day, our loyal mint plant is the only one going strong.

We’ve stopped trying to grow anything at this point.

But that’s just rizq isn’t it?

In a cold Australian winter, with the wind blowing in from the Antarctic and the frost creeping onto hoods of cars and blades of grass as we sleep, the beautiful, bright citrus trees bear fruit.

Our neighbours’ trees are laden with hues of yellows and oranges and greens, a vibrant peppering of visual warmth spilling over fences and veering on the edge of trespass, against an often gloomy backdrop of rain and cloud.

But that’s just it - our neighbours’ trees.

Not ours.

Our Lilly Pillies are tall and domineering, an added layer of privacy against our fence and a source of food for the birds who peck at the pink berries (that’s their rizq, amazingly).

But still, no lemons, no oranges, no limes.

And still, strangely and unassumingly, upon our dining table sits a bowl of citrus, with a number of lemons we have never before had at home, for the cost of absolutely nothing. A few strays will roll off the top of the pile now and then if the table is shaken or the bowl disrupted - that’s how many we have.

And I am reminded now that even the lemons on our table were written for us. Although it was never meant to be that we grow our own lemon trees, we still get to reap the benefits - our metaphorical trees still bear fruit.

Our neighbours, colleagues from work, friends, and other relatives scramble to get rid of their lemons by giving them away, the golden spheres finally finding their way into our fridge drawers and fruit baskets without us even asking.

Each batch from a different family, a different suburb, a different bed of soil with different fertiliser, grown on different days from shrubs purchased from different places, with unique, gentle hands.

Each batch from a different tree.

But what do they all have in common? The fact that they all ended up with me.

Those lemons weren’t grown in our backyard, and perhaps they were never intended to come to us initially by those who did grow them. And yet, it was written that we would be the ones with the juice in our fridge, and the zest in our food. We would be the ones to use them. Those lemons were written for us before their seeds even touched the soil, even if we didn’t seek them out.

One way or another, Ar-Razzaq gave us homegrown lemons.

One way or another, your rizq is coming to you too.

"If you were to rely upon Allah with the reliance He is due, you would be provided for like the birds: they go out hungry in the morning and return full in the evening."

At-Tirmidhi

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overthinking is blocking your rizq

picture this: two teams, same stadium, same number of players. both of them pray to the same God before the match starts. same pre game rituals. same intentions. but only one walks away with the trop…

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a year ago · 196 likes · 28 comments · imaan

“Tie your camel, and leave the rest with Allah”.

It’s nothing new.

The basic sentiment of this command is that we should put in our effort, whatever that may be, and then have tawakkul that Allah will take care of the rest.

After all, that is literally all we have control over.

But I’ve noticed something - in myself, and in those around me.

With the obsession of hustle culture, we have forgotten the second part of that advice.

Leave the rest with Allah.

We have forgotten barakah culture1

Unfortunately, I find that we are throwing ourselves so hard into tying our camels, and completely ignoring the part which tells us to have tawakkul. It feels like we’re in control, like if we are able to see the action ourselves and actively be a part of it, then we will certainly see the results.

But the truth is, majority of the result comes from actions we can’t see - actions that are not performed by us, actions that are divine, and that come only from Allah.

One more practice exam, one more to-do list, one more application - surely this will show Allah that I’m tying my camel!

In reality, the over-exertion of our effort is doing us more harm than good. We are attaching ourselves to the outcome rather than Allah - and when we do this, Allah will take away that thing we are attached to in order to remind us that He is the only One that should ever take up so much of our hearts and minds. He is the only One worthy of impressing, His love is the only love worth fighting for. We are getting so caught up in the actions we have control over, too caught up in tying our camels, that we are completely forgetting that the most significant thing we can do is trust Allah.

And interestingly, we have control over that too, it’s just that it’s so much harder to act upon because often, the fruits of our labour (tawakkul) will not show up immediately.

It’s not like studying where a concept suddenly clicks after doing a few questions, nor is it like exercise where suddenly you’re able to lift heavy after training for a while.

Tawakkul is gentle, it requires perseverance and struggle, it requires silent action that no one else sees, that only you and Allah are a witness to. Tawakkul can be slow, but that doesn’t mean the relief isn’t coming.

And we are forgetting how simple the act of tying your camel actually is! It is not tying down all of its limbs, or locking it in an enclosure, or blinding it, or restricting it completely - no. It is a humble rope around its neck, attached to a humble post of some sort. It is using what you have to the best of your ability, not letting perfectionism get in the way. That is enough to show Allah that we care. That is enough to show Allah that we are putting in our effort. We are putting so much energy into the actions we think we have more control over that we don’t take the time to align our actions with Allah’s definition of effort.

We think our tawakkul is only valid if we have figured it all out ourselves first, when in reality, the very essence of tawakkul is to trust Allah in all situations.

Tawakkul means we trust Allah even when things are going completely wrong. It’s easy to trust Allah when things are working out for us. It finally feels like the calm after the chaos, the gift after the work, the ease after the hardship. But what is there to be said about the tawakkul that is practiced amidst the most stabbing pains? What is there to be said about the strength you need to have to trust Allah when everything seems to be working out for everyone but you? When your heart feels like it’s being ripped in two or like your efforts are being unnoticed?

That pain is a gift, because if we are able to practice tawakkul in it, then imagine what that shows Allah.

Our tawakkul shows Allah so much more about how much we want something than our actions ever could. Sure, there is proof in our efforts here in the dunya, but the dunya isn’t even our home. When we attach ourselves to Allah in everything that we do, then we get the dunya and the akhirah - don’t you think that our kind Lord, the One Who wants the best for us, would appreciate our akhirah-centric efforts much more than our dunya-centric actions?

As the year rushes on, I realise I need to let go of control. We are not meant to know what’s coming. We are not meant to know the future, only Allah knows that - so why are we worrying ourselves sick about it? Why are we burning out in our efforts to reach our definitions of success?

So here’s what I propose we do.

We must tie our camels, there is no doubt about it. But we must stop ourselves when we find that we are forgetting Allah when doing so. We should then put the majority of our efforts towards that second and often forgotten part - “and leave the rest with Allah”.

And if you find that you still can’t sit still without frantically working, then at least try to begin those actions in the name of Allah.

How might this look?

I am doing this practice exam to get better at this subject, so I can then get this job, to help my people, and ultimately please Allah.

I am doing this work for the sake of Allah because He has gifted me with the ability to be healthy, and to have the resources to do so.

Little things here and there have a great impact on how we view our success. Islam is there to make things easier for us, to calm us, to hold us, to show us that it doesn’t need to be that complicated. Life is beautiful when you realise that it can be that way. Enough being slaves to this dunya, because we are slaves to Allah first.

So yes, tie your camel, but know that there is much more that comes out of leaving the rest with Allah.

There’s a certain feeling I get when I’m driving on the Bolte, past the now no longer functional Melbourne Star, the South Wharf DFO, Marvel Stadium, and then exiting onto the main road under the sign that reads “S.E. Suburbs” and driving back under the lit-up whale skeleton (as me and my family like to call it), savouring the last of the city buildings before entering the Burnley Tunnel and heading home.

Although I have never lived in the heart of the city, only living in the outer suburbs as most people do, there is an appreciation I have for the uniqueness of this city.

It interests me that I can travel an hour away from my own home, to the North, and find an area that is densely populated by Arabs, Somalis, Sri Lankans and other Muslim communities. This area is almost fully Muslim, with halal restaurants, modest clothing stores, Muslim Schools, and mosques at every corner. I always wondered what it would be like to live there.

But I also know I would be an entirely different person if I did. I wouldn’t have experienced feeling like an outsider in those initial years, which means that I perhaps wouldn’t have then clung even harder to my faith and thus made an effort to find my own people.

Now of course it is Allah that blessed me with the community I have, but knowing that it was not always like this makes me appreciate it so much more.

It is not exactly the norm to leave my house and see hijabis all around, whereas it certainly is in the North. And even though I don’t feel alienated, I do wonder what it would be like to constantly walk past women and girls with the same experience as me.

Growing up, and even now (and probably for the rest of my life), I have found myself making trips to this side of the city just to find an Eid outfit or attend an Islamic event. A political party’s billboard sign, located just above a Muslim school, reads “Free Palestine” on a bright green background in all caps. A calculated decision made just before the previous election.

I forget that the local community shares this sentiment, and that it’s not “controversial” as many in other areas of the city perhaps like to call it. And for a second I’m jealous that there is no struggle to assert your beliefs, because it’s just the norm out there.

And then there’s the South-East, where I live. Although our Muslim population is not as dense as the suburbs past the city, it is still so incredibly strong and beautiful. The mosque I attended madrasa at is the mosque I will always call home. We have built a community that values unity. The masajid are filled, the laughter is pure, the connections are real.

Every Eid you’ll find groups of Muslims across the area attending their closest Eid salah with colourful, smiling faces and an abundance of diversity. We gather for breakfast together after salah, a tradition I hope is never broken.

These are the people I have grown up with - the people I will continue to grow up with.

It was written when I was in the womb that I would live in this city, study in this city, and grow up in this city. The people I love are in this city. And while friends and relatives move away temporarily here and there to pursue great things, there is a comfort in knowing they will always come back, and we’ll always continue our lives here.

And who knows, maybe there will come a time where this city is no longer my home, where the golden soil is strangely foreign, and the buildings fade from memory.

But for now, this place is a feeling.

This place is my home, and I am forever grateful that it is.

I took this picture over a year ago when I went on umrah with my family.

To this day, I still think about it.

This picture, to me, represents Islam.

This picture represents tawhid. Even under the beating sun, taking shelter in the shadow of a wall, with brothers who were strangers just mere seconds ago, on a street that bore no real significance to the rest of their day.

And yet, that moment was written. And so was the fact that I’d drive past with my family on the way to catch the salah ourselves, with me eventually seeing this and being so enthralled by it, for me to then take out my phone and capture it through the subtle tint of the window.

My Islam does not discriminate.

This picture holds a feeling that words fail to describe.

It evokes a pride that is pure.

That’s my Islam.

Those are my people.

That picture indicates a bond that is unspoken.

When the time for salah comes, anywhere is a place of worship, anyone will stand shoulder to shoulder with you, every effort is seen by Him.

Tell me, what other religion is there that encourages such unity?

What other community is there that values such equality? Eliminates all differences?

The rope that ties these brothers together - young, old, Arab, South-Asian, African, wearing a thobe or wearing jeans of various colours, from different walks of life, speaking different languages, with different cultures and different experiences - this rope? It’s not from here. This rope is woven together with the fibres of emaan. It is pulled, and pulled hard, from both directions and yet does not snap, for its strength is buried deep in a submission that transcends the bounds of human respect.

And sometimes this rope feels more like hot coal.

But the greater the struggle, the greater the reward.

The coal crumbles.

And then the fibres materialise once more between my palms.

This picture reminds me that no matter where we are, or who we’re with, the rope of Allah will always be there - and this rope cannot be let go of. This rope is His, and this rope will pull us away from the fire.

This is my Islam.

My most prized possession.

I speak not of the love of a mother, nor do I speak of the love of a spouse. This love story transcends the bounds of human connection, correcting us and holding us, even if our backs become weak from bearing the weight of the dunya.

It is a love that began on Arafah, as we stood before Him as His servants. It is a love that materialised in the womb as the ruh was blown into us. It is the love that gave us mercy as children and yet still held us as we neglected Him, choosing our distractions over our end goal. And it is the love that we strive for in the noor and spaciousness of our graves when our time comes to an end.

It is the love that envelopes us now, as we exist. Here, in this moment, we are witnesses to this love.

With every breath our lungs seek permission to administer, with every beat our hearts seek permission to pump, with every second we are granted to live and every day we wake up with sustenance and safety - this love is injected into.

This love lingers in the peace of a Jumu’ah, this love infuses the gatherings of the righteous.

This love is that of our Rabb, the One who calls himself Al-Wadud, The Most-Loving.

You see, Allah knew us before we knew ourselves . He chose us, and continues to choose us as we travel through this life, to be honoured with the gift of Islam, the warmth of tawheed. The love, or rather, the connection between a servant and his Master is one like no other. It is a love that is forgiving, even when we can’t forgive ourselves, a love that lifts us when we fall, catches us when we slip. I find this love in the silent waves of qadr that gently rock me, lull me to comfort. It’s just dunya after all. This love is divine, it is not from here and therefore cannot be understood within the frames of our finite, naive, and ever so mortal minds. This love is one that will leave us speechless every time, allowing us to gracefully feel contentment and gratitude for the hardships we once thought we’d never overcome.

The love of our Creator is one that is not reflected upon enough. Do we ever stop to consider where we would be without it? Where we would be without His divine words from His divine book? His perfect plans and rules that govern our lives? His love is the only love in the entire universe that truly matters.

We can have the whole dunya, with every desire and every dream granted to us - but if we don’t have Allah’s love, if a seal has been placed on our hearts, then nothing we can ever own will ever matter.

How many of us have come onto this earth, left it, and are still yet to arrive, who will never get to experience this love? How many of us will never get to feel the weight being lifted off of us? How many of us will never get to sit in the peace of fajr, soaking in the barakah of that solitude and humble grounding?

But we do.

We get to experience that.

We get to live that.

And so, it is we who should say Alhamdulillah because of that.

May Allah make us of those whose hearts are soft.

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is it the familiarity of salah, uniform no matter where in the world you pray? is it the perfection of a jumu’ah, complete with the rejuvenation of a khutba that miraculously happens to address and then remedy the exact issue you presently face? the cyclical and inevitable comfort of a friday that promises to revive us? is it the grounding, literally, by sitting on the plush carpeted floors of a communal space, everyone listening eagerly, soaking in the excellence of knowledge?

or is it the swelling of a collective ameen in the momentary silence between each utterance of the sheikh’s dua, falling as he begins to utter them again, and becoming louder as more worshipers join in? maybe it’s the enthusiastic assalamu alaikum! accompanied by a warm embrace that signifies a long period of distance? perhaps it’s the immense pride felt by seeing the youth bring themselves to the masjid, willingly wanting to learn more? or maybe it’s the pure and innocent laughter of children running around at the back as salah goes on, tripping over their little abayas and thobes, making friends with whatever child they come across?

or perhaps it’s the wings of the angels, the malaaika, that have been spread upon an establishment in which Allah is remembered, in which knowledge is cherished and yearned for - the blessing of Allah that is so strongly felt in circles of ilm. yes. that is what it is.

ramadan mubarak everyone,

may Allah make this the Ramadan that changes us forever, and the one in which all our dua’s are answered.

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I mean seriously, what does that even mean?

A lot of this fluff is simply narcissism under the guise of positivity and self-improvement. We are so oblivious to how selfish these mindsets are making us. The fact is that anger, disrespect, and lack of care for boundaries have always and will always exist for as long as the human race exists - this is simply an inescapable reality. But when did that ever mean that we should stop trying to mend our relationships? When did it ever give us the permission to cut people off? Who are we to act like we have any right not to forgive people when we are the ones in need of forgiveness? We are so deluded that we believe we are owed so much. We are owed nothing, yet we owe everything to the One that forgives no matter how many times we turn away from Him.

Of course, there are certain instances such as those in which the immediate safety of a person prevails over all else. But I speak of petty arguments and disagreements, issues that have aged for decades, problems that have been and gone - in all of which we would be advised to simply ‘protect our peace’ by ‘cutting people off’.

And all of this stems purely from one thing - arrogance.

The Prophet (صَلَّى ٱللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَآلِهِ وَسَلَّمَ) said: "Anyone who has an atom's weight of arrogance in his heart will not enter Paradise."

We are all becoming increasingly arrogant. We want everything to fall at our feet, to cater to us, to entertain us, to make us feel peace, to make us happy, to fulfill our materialistic desires, to give us a surge of dopamine. Our social media feeds

are curated to do just that - to feed our nafs. We were not put on this earth to feel comfort at every single second of our lives. There will be people who hurt us for no reason, people who stop talking to us for no reason, people who talk bad about us for no reason, people who stop inviting us to their gatherings. And yes, this will hurt for a while. But none of our pain can ever come close to the pain felt by the Prophet صَلَّى ٱللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَآلِهِ وَسَلَّمَ. He was abused and hurt by the Quraysh, rejected by his own people, driven out of Makkah, pelted with stones, mocked and ridiculed and underestimated - and yet, he was so forgiving. He never let any of this pain or the adversity he faced move him from his beliefs or make him stop pursuing his call. Who are we to think we are deserving of anything in comparison to him?

And as mere servants of Ar-Rahman, who are we to act like we can’t forgive people? We sin day and night, turn away from worship, neglect our duties, ignore the Quran, fail to be consistent in our dhikr, and lack concentration in our salah - and yet, Al-Ghaffar forgives us. So I ask again, who are we?

Islam is given to us as a way of life, a perfect guide on how to exist with others in peace, righteousness, and mercy. Unless we first learn to decentre ourselves, we will never learn to let in those we love.

The Prophet (صَلَّى ٱللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَآلِهِ وَسَلَّمَ) said, “Be merciful to others, and you will receive mercy. Forgive others, and Allah will forgive you.”

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And the sad thing for us children is that we will never understand.

I came across this realisation recently on a trip I took alone to my home country, Sri Lanka. An island nation with its gorgeous beaches and sweet fruits, its deep orange sunsets and lively people. I have been back to visit many times, but this was my first time alone, and being able to experience all of it myself was something else entirely. I recall sitting on the rooftop of my grandparents’ house, designed for just that - sitting and observing - looking out over the horizon and seeing the buildings of Colombo city light up like little stars as the sun set on another warm day, and then coming down and video calling my mother, telling her about the deliciousness of this experience, the freedom and utility of a rooftop. It is now that she tells me that the very rooftop I stood on while the wind tousled my hijab was where she made many memories. A rooftop where engagement parties of her and her siblings were held, where she would lay down a mattress with her family and sleep under the stars, one where they used to have barbecues and bask in the perfection of a humble youth. And I come to realise that these memories, these little moments from her childhood, the laughter, the simplicity, the liveliness, meant so much to her. It was a life that she eventually grew out of, as everyone does as they get older and move on, in a country she eventually also moved out of. And although I will never know how much those things really meant to her, I am at an age now where I am becoming more and more grateful for the little moments I get to experience, where I begin to cherish them with such great emotion that no one will ever understand even if I were to explain them with the most intricate detail.

My future children will never understand the wonder of an iftar with my family in my own family home as I sit around the table while the adhan is called, and everyone is home. Of course, they will get to experience it in their own way, but they won’t know, in simple words, what a big deal this was to me. They will never know how I loved walking around the lake near my house against the backdrop of the setting sun, they won’t really understand that I was also once just a girl, just a teenage girl sitting in her room penning her journal and painting pictures while nasheeds played and a candle burned - the same way we tend to forget that our mothers were also once just girls, and our fathers just boys.

So I think we must remember that just as we are living our young lives for the first time, experiencing all these experiences like never before - our parents are as well. They were once the children we are now, looking forward to their futures, the love they would experience, and the memories they would make, not knowing that the memories they were already making were the ones they would ultimately love the most. It fills you with so much gratitude when you realise you are living a life that you will one day look back on and smile about, making the most of your youth before it leaves you. I sincerely hope we can all begin to appreciate the beauty of now, that we can understand how precious these little moments are, because one day, the people you shared these moments with might leave the world or become so much harder to stay in contact with - that’s the way life goes - and then no one, not even our children, will truly understand the beauty of these small joys.

Let us all see our lives as they are, the beauty that is, the beauty that will be, the stories we will eventually tell, and then let us say Alhamdulillah.

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Love is in my mother’s touch, the scent of pandan in her cooking, the tender care with which she loves us. Love is in my father’s generosity, incredible knowledge, and pure selflessness (Allahumma barik of course). Love is in the scent of bukhoor from Makkah, the powerful rosy and woody tones wafting through my house, clinging to the intricately woven patterns of my pashminas, lingering in still rooms, embracing me when I enter through my front door. Love is felt in the voice of Maher Al Muaiqly playing over the Makkah Live broadcast, echoing through the house in the early hours of the morning. Love is in the golden late-afternoon sunlight, temporarily staining my walls and creating a brilliant illumination of reflection and shadow. Love is in the giggle of my sister, the wittiness of my brother, the warmth of a fireplace in a cold Melbourne winter. I find it in the purple-pink hues painting the sky as the sun rises and sets over the horizon. It is the cool, refreshing breeze in a hot Australian summer, the lapping of water in the arid landscape, the crash of the waves on white shores. Love is in my colourful camera roll, a visual diary of my travels and all the people and things I cherish, my wall of polaroids from countries I have travelled to, my box of cards and letters I have collected for as long as I can remember. It is in the simplicity of a perfectly brewed cup of tea, the scent of fresh coffee mingling with the chatter of my parents on a weekday morning before the chaos of the day. Love is the peace felt in the adhan I hear five times a day from our adhan clock, a reminder, a call, a grounding embrace.

So really, love is all around me - as long as there is gratitude, there is love. Love for Allah and all His favours, His mercy, His kindness, His perfection. Allah has blessed us all in beautiful ways, and the more we look for it, the more we will find it, and the more we will find it, the more content we will be.

May we all be more grateful for what we have, and what we are.

Alhamdulillah.

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On one random Monday afternoon, I find myself saying goodbye to everyone I’ve known and grown to love over my last four years at my current high school. It’s all just over, all so bittersweet. I have hated and loved both at once, laughed some days and cried on others, made friends and grown apart from acquaintances. But, leaving school is only one small part of this phenomenon I am experiencing - a phenomenon called ‘growing up’.

At home, my desk is littered with memorabilia. A bouquet of flowers gifted to me by a friend, artificial so I can keep them forever, a graduation bear and personalised mug gifted to me by my homeroom class, a white shirt hung on the back of my door, stained with the coloured powder we throw on each other on the last day of school and the signed names of all my classmates in a collage of coloured Sharpie, polaroid prints, good luck and thank you cards, old test papers I brought home from school, a firefighter cap from my muck-up day costume - it’s all so beautiful, so simple, so me.

And then there are the piles of practice exams I have either completed or am yet to, a calculator, a chemistry data booklet, and a pile of books I have studied for literature. There is a poster on my wall of all the organic chemistry pathways I need to remember, down to every last reagent and catalyst, next to which are hung two A3 sheets of all the eighteen Emily Dickinson poems I have studied, and am still studying (less than a week now till I can forget them forever, no matter how beautiful they may be). And next to that is hung a whiteboard on which I have jotted down, to remember, all the contemporary ‘real world’ articles I have collated as evidence for my English Language exam. There, I think about what a privilege it is to drink in this knowledge, to know what I know. I utter to myself a silent ‘alhamdulillah’.

Then there I am sitting on my bed trying to reread James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time for the fifth time for my Literature exam, and I glance up to see the golden early evening sunlight flooding my room. A vase on a high shelf in my wardrobe reflects its ethereal hues onto the wall as the sunlight leaks through effortlessly, the cool spring wind whisks through my open window as the trees rustle outside (truly, this is ‘that magical frontier beyond which summer hesitates’). I have sat here for almost all my childhood, marveling at the beauty of this exact site. The excellence of the sun’s rays making my room light up in an unmatched glow, and the soft lull of the wind. But as I sit here having completed my 13 years of schooling, I can’t help but revel in the marvel that is growing up. I am here, alive, experiencing life as I know it, and everyone is here with me. I have no bills to pay, no family to feed (although that is a humble dream of mine, because how beautiful is it to nurture?), no house to maintain or employer to please. I am just existing as a teenage girl, and my only real stress is the four exams I am yet to face in the next three weeks.

But I am captured by the idea of growing up—the sweetness of it, but the fear of moving on. I am grateful, so very grateful, for the ease of being young. There is life and light in being young, in experiencing it all with other young people, in having a whole life ahead of me - and I say this completely idealistically of course because not even the next second of life is guaranteed. But this is what it is, the bliss of being just 17, and it is a bliss I will never forget. Will I mourn being young? Perhaps I will, but that mourning will not come from a dislike for my life when I am all grown up, nor will it come with the desire to be young again, it will only come from a place of gratitude and nostalgia for the beauty that once was.

The best thing about this is - there is so much beauty that currently is, and yet to be. Let us all look for the beauty in our lives for if we look for it, it certainly will be there.

Until next time,

Sarah

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