Surrounded by beautiful mountains. But fear the beautiful.. they’re cruel. Mountains had always been cruel to her. Way too cruel.

Got married young.. had children. Didn’t challenge anything. Has house in mountains.. house not home. Not everything can be a home. She said she was happy. Well lied.. and everyone believed played along.

But dust oh dust.. its still on her shoes. It won’t leave just like her.

Each word i'm writing.. she would never. It would’ve been swallowed by those beautiful mountains. All those silences.. she would’ve filled with pleasantries. These boundaries I drew.. she would’ve dissolved.

Don’t mistake them for exits. They were erasures.

She died.. my innocent one died. I killed her. She didn’t die in one moment. Died in increments.. slow amputation of self. Death by a thousand small betrayals. Each day.

The knife? I was the knife.

I was cruel i’m aware. I didn’t wanted to be. I didn’t. I cherished her innocence.. the kind heart. How she imagined the world. But survival demands something a witness maybe. Someone must hold the blade. Someone must stay to tell the story.

I tell it now. For both of us.

We all carry the dead inside us.

Ghosts.. ghost of the person you were before that loss.. before that trauma. Before the first time you felt like i’m no longer who I was.. I can’t recognize myself anymore.

The thing about ghosts is.. they don’t help you live. They hold you back. Because you never buried them. Never mourned them. You never gave yourself permission to let them go.

Now they live in you. Residing in your cells.. in your habits. Speaking through you when you’re not listening.

That’s why you feel stuck in same loop. Still waiting. Because you’re carrying dead people inside you.

Ghosts are not the absence of the living. I would rather call it presence of the unlived.

My ghost.. I carried her way too long. She who stayed.. obedient daughter my baba.. my father would’ve called her. The people pleaser.. I name her.

She wanted things. Had expectations.. expected me to stay. To be small.. would whisper never disappoint anyone.

I let her linger way too long.. maybe I was scared of who I’d be without her.

I finally set her free.

Staying wouldn’t have saved her let alone the people that needed us. Perhaps sometimes love looks like leaving.

She is still there.. in that place. In the quiet.. the life I was supposed to live.

And I am here. Writing our story. Guilty yet grateful.

We often inherit more than we know. Its not just about land.. money or names. Expectations.. we inherit wounds.

I inherited my Ammi’s unspoken grief.. Baba’s silence.. Daaji’s my grandfather his loneliness. They still live in me. I carry them but never chose.

I also inherited the Guluna who stayed behind. Who didn’t choose herself. The obedient one they name her.

These are not just my ghosts rather my inheritance. And I am still learning to love them.. as ancestors.. the people who made me possible.

They gave me their longing.. and I presented my leaving. This is what we do for each other.

I will not return to that place.. that life. Not because I don’t want to. It’s about the person I was there. She is gone. I buried her with every step I took away.

Sometimes when the dust settles on my shoes i’m reminded of her. I perceive her as the version of me that needed to exist just so this version could be born.

I owe her my life. And I owe her my gratitude. Not guilt or shame.

She stayed just so I could leave.. taught me to let go.

So i buried her.

Bury the ghost..

mourn the ghost.

Just let it go my valuable reader.

Then walk away freely..

it’s free now.

thank u for giving it your precious time..

pls keep me in your duas.

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it’s almost midnight when i’m writing this. i fear this will get too vulnerable.. don’t mind me if it gets too messy.

i feel anxious like nothing is falling into place.. stuck in a loop.. no one to talk to.. or maybe i don’t want to burden anyone with my small thoughts.. people are dealing with greater struggles

my mind is replaying every mistake, every failure. all the people i disappointed by coming here.. my parents.. my grandparents.. i wonder where im headed. i fear dying like this. i wonder after fighting till now will i even succeed at the end..

i used to think it was just me. something might be wrong with me. but then my mind drifted to a Lady who lived 1400 years ago. and what i realized is that suffering isn’t a sign of weakness. instead its Allah making you strong. Allah loving you.. preparing you.

the lady i'm talking about you all know her. our leader in Jannah.. the piece of soul of our RasoolAllah.. Fatima Batool Zahra. and what are my words in front of her?! oh what a mother we have. but before the saintly image, i want to remind you my dear reader she was a refugee.. orphaned.. homeless.. starved. it’s not unknown to anyone that since her birth she has not seen a day without struggles. she was just 18 when she died. now imagine how young she was going through all these. there’s difference in opinion on Seyyda Fatima’s birth year which makes her age at death either 28 or 18. so if anyone had a right to anxiety, depression, bitterness it was her. but her title is al-Radhiyah. The Satisfied One.. its not happy.. not smiling.. but satisfied.

i used to think that just meant she was better than me. more patient and holier. which of course she is. but i read her. and i realized.. she wasn’t how we often perceive her a lady who just quietly accepted poverty. do you think she became Sayyidatul Jannah just like that?! no.. she wasn’t passive. she stood firm. she demanded her rights.. spoke up. didn’t just stay silent. she didn’t accept the world as it was. our lady fought. and still from inside she was satisfied. how?! that thought struck me.

she had a practice. words her baba our RasoolAllah taught her when she showed him her bruised hands. when he saw how exhausted his piece of soul was. RasoolAllah(peace be upon Him) gave her a gift. not just.. her he gave a gift to the whole ummah. He saw our exhaustion that day in Seyyda Fatima Zahra.

hadith narrated by Maula Ali in Sahih al-Bukhari and Sahih Muslim:

"Fatima went to the Prophet complaining about the blisters on her hands from grinding grain. She asked him for a servant. He said to her:

Shall I not tell you of something that is better for you than that? When you go to your bed say "SubhanAllah" thirty-three times "Alhamdulillah" thirty-three times and "Allahu Akbar" thirty-four times. This is better for you than a servant."

• 34 times Allahu Akbar

• 33 times Alhamdulillah

• 33 times SubhanAllah

now i’ve been doing Tasbeeh e Fatima since childhood.. but this time something changed.. i was not just repeating words but feeling it.

when chest feels tight Allahu Akbar.. Allah is greater than this panic. when hope fades Alhamdulillah .. there’s so much more to praise than to complain. when it all feels too much SubhanAllah.. Allah sees everything i can’t.

i won’t say it’s magic. i still get anxious when everyone goes to sleep and im left awake staring at the walls remembering my loved ones. i still cry like i’m now while writing these words. i still wonder if i'll be able to rise again. if i’ll succeed this time. but now i have something to hold onto.

i don’t know if i'll ever be as satisfied as Seyyda Batool Zahra. i know i’ll never be. but i’m starting to understand that satisfaction isn’t just about having no problems. it’s about knowing who holds the problems with you. knowing who’s watching u overcome them. i come to understand that i don’t have to be happy. i just need to trust Allah.

my dear reader.. next time you’re anxious about money, relationships, the future, health or anything think about an 18 year old girl. one who lost her mother, father, siblings, her baby. she faced the harsh boycott with RasoolAllah.. saw how he was tortured in the streets of Makkah. didn’t have food for days.. knew her son.. her Hussayn would get martyred thirsty and no one would be there not her.. not Ali.. not Hassan.. not RasoolAllah. It was her who removed animal intestines from our RasoolAllah her beloved baba.. with her little hands.. when people were laughing.

she saw everything. she lost everything. still our lady was satisfied. not because she was weak and couldn’t do anything. but because she knew who she belonged to. that’s what I want. for me and for you my dear reader. to belong to Allah so completely that nothing can shake us. we’re not there yet.. but we can try right?

my valuable reader idk what you're going through right now.. but i know who's holding you pls trust Him like she did.. you are seen and loved.. just like Seyyda Zahra. may Allah wrap us in the same peace He gave her ameen

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I’m holding fire in my hands. It really hurts.. but I can’t let go. My skin is melting.. sizzling. I can smell it. My brain screaming at me to drop it.. just let go.. but I can’t.

I just can’t. I have to hold it.

Because I can see the eternal path ahead. And our Beloved Prophet (peace be upon Him) informed about this moment 1400 years ago.

“There will come upon the people a time when the patient one among them holding onto his religion will be like the one holding onto a hot coal.”

(Sunan At-Tirmidhi, Musnad Ahmad)

He (pbuh) described a time when holding onto deen would feel exactly like this.. like clutching a burning coal.

He Was Right And Here’s Why

What i’ve come to understand is that it doesn’t mean the world will be bad.. no. It means the world will be addictive. Way too addictive.. bright, loud, glossy, tempting. Everything packaged to look harmless to feel good in the moment. And in the middle of all that glitter you’re standing there. Your hand on fire choosing what no one else seems to choose.

That’s what sabr really is. Not passive patience.. not just “waiting it out.” Sabr is standing firm on haq when everything around you is pulling you away.

You Know This Burn

You know the burn. We all do. You feel it when the adhan calls and you have to leave your friends mid-laugh, mid-conversation, mid-moment to answer Someone else.. your Creator. You feel it when you start hijab or niqab and suddenly the loneliness hits because whole doors close.. you can’t visit certain places. You feel it when you’re trying to avoid music in a world that worships it. When you say no to things everyone else says yes to. When you’re labelled boring, extreme or too much.

You even feel it in the smallest moments. In your chest.. when you swipe past something you know you shouldn’t see. In your throat.. when you bite back a comment you really wanted to say. In your hands.. when you put the phone down instead of picking it up again.

No one talks about the loneliness. The loneliness that comes with you choosing Allah over everything. That loneliness? That’s the real coal. That’s the real burn.

And that’s exactly what we have to practice sabr on.. when our eyes are on Jannah but our feet are still in this world.

Here’s What Fire Does to You

The thing about a burning coal is.. if you hold it long enough something strange happens. Your skin doesn’t stay soft.. it changes. At first the burn is unbearable.. blisters form. You wince every second. You wonder if you’ll make it through the next minute let alone the next year.

But then slowly something shifts. Calluses form.. not overnight. Not because the fire got cooler. But because your skin adapted.. layer by layer.. pain by pain.

Every time you chose prayer over procrastination.. a callus. Every time you lowered your gaze when it would’ve been easier to look.. a callus. Every time you bit your tongue swallowed your pride, walked away from gossip said “Alhamdulillah” when you wanted to say “why me”.. a callus.

Calluses Don’t Stop the Burn.. They Make You Stronger

Here’s the beautiful part.. calluses don’t make the fire disappear. But they make it bearable. The coal still burns.. world still pulls.. loneliness still creeps in. But your hands? They’re not the same hands they used to be. They’re tougher. Stronger.. protected.

Not because Allah removed the trial but because He gave you the strength to survive it. That’s the miracle of sabr. It doesn’t remove the pain. It transforms the one who carries it.

But here’s what we forget. The Beloved Prophet (peace be upon Him) didn’t say drop it. He said hold it. Why?! Because the coal contains light. Yes it burns. Yes it hurts. Yes you’ll cry.. you’ll stumble.. you’ll question if it’s worth it. But if you hold it long enough through the sizzle through the melting through the screaming of your own nafs.. you become a source of light in the darkness. The burn doesn’t destroy you. It illuminates you.

One Day You’ll Be the Light for Someone Else

Eventually the calluses form. Not overnight.. not easily. But with every choice, every prayer, every lowered gaze, every Bismillah you whispered when no one is watching.. your hands get tougher. The coal becomes bearable. And one day you realize: you’re not just surviving the fire anymore. You’re carrying it for others.

For the ones still burning still struggling.. still wondering if they can hold on. You become the proof that it’s possible. The one who walks through the dark with their hand glowing.. showing everyone else the way home.

So don’t ask Allah to take the fire away.. don’t ask for an easier path.. a softer world.. lighter burden. Ask for hands that can hold it.. for strength to endure the burn. For patience when the loneliness hits. For courage when everyone else walks the other way.

Because the one who carries the light in darkness? That’s the one everyone eventually follows.

My valuable readers.. if your hands are burning today i want to tell you that you’re not alone. You’re just holding on with sabr. And that’s the bravest thing you can do. May Allah accept our struggle, reward our patience, and turn our burns into light. Ameen.

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I remember standing in the second rakah.. lips moving through Surah Ikhlas while my brain was wandering in duniya. I finished the prayer said salaam. But I couldn’t remember a single word I had just said to my Creator.

That was my wake up call.

I had been praying five times a day for years.. most of us do. We know when to stand, when to bow, when to prostrate. Our bodies go through the motions flawlessly. But our minds? They’re somewhere between yesterday’s argument, tomorrow’s deadline and that thing we forgot to do. We’re praying but we’re not present.

And I realized we’re not alone. But more importantly we’re missing the entire point.

Before We Begin:

What follows is a humble sharing of what I’ve learned from classical Islamic scholarship on the inner dimensions of worship. I’m a student sharing reflections not a scholar issuing rulings. If I’ve gotten anything wrong it’s my fault. If anything here helps you that’s from Allah.

I was scrolling through my feed when a video stopped me.

It was Prof. Dr. Javed Iqbal a surgeon and professor with decades of experience in Pakistan. His lecture wasn’t about surgery.. though. It was about something far deeper.. the inner dimensions of prayer. He was discussing a framework that maps the spiritual levels of prayer.. ideas he had read, studied, and deeply reflected upon.

Note: If you speak Urdu or Hindi I highly recommend watching his full lecture for a deeper understanding.

What he said hit me like a thunderbolt.. I felt exposed kinda called out. Because he was describing me.

The Seven Levels of Prayer

Throughout Islamic tradition scholars have reflected deeply on the inner dimensions of prayer. One powerful framework outlines seven levels of spiritual progression in salah.

Level 1: The Prayer of the Neglectful (Ghafil)

You do the movements. You know when to stand, when to bow, when to prostrate. Your body is in the prayer but your mind is somewhere else entirely. You prayed.. but you don’t remember what you recited. You don’t know what you said. You don’t even realize who were you speaking to.

It’s mechanical. A habit. Not a connection.

Dr. Javed’s words:

“We don’t even remember which surah we recited in the first rakah. It’s become a mechanical habit.”

Remember this still counts. If you’re on this level, you’re blessed. The obligation is fulfilled. But ask yourself honestly is this what prayer was meant to be?

Level 2: The Prayer of Outward Awareness

Now your brain is on. You’re actually aware of what you’re doing and saying. Your intellect is present.

The practice Dr. Javed shared to attain this state is that you’ve to mentally note each segment like.. 1 after Takbir, 2 after Subhanallah, 3 after Fatiha

Which is such a beautiful concept for beginners to keep themselves present.

Keep reminding yourself. Keep counting. Your attention slowly anchors itself to the prayer.

This is a huge jump. For the first time, your mind is actually present in the prayer not just your body.

Level 3: The Prayer of Heartfelt Presence

Now you understand what you’re actually saying. You’ve learned the translation. You’re no longer just reciting the Arabic you understand the meaning too. Not just your body or brain but your heart gets involved here. You begin to feel each word. Your salah becomes meaningful.

When you say “Subhana Rabbiyal Azeem” you feel you’re speaking to One of tremendous glory. When you say “Alhamdulillahi Rabbil Aalameen” your heart actually feels and means it.

· Level 1 = Body

· Level 2 = Brain

· Level 3 = Heart

Level 4: The Prayer of Concentration (Khushu)

Your heart isn’t anxious anymore.. you feel calm. Your mind is completely with Allah not wandering in the duniya.

Now you’re not just doing prayer. You’re actually in the prayer. The world fades.. there’s no more noise. Just you and your Creator. Just you and Allah.

Level 5: The Prayer of Witnessing (Mushahadah)

Now you feel Allah’s presence.. his greatness. As if you can see Him directly. You’re no longer lonely. You sense that Allah is listening. That He is actually present with you.

Tears start to flow.. not tears of sadness but tears of extreme gratitude. You truly realize who you’re praying to. The weight of it hits you. And here’s the thing.. you no longer want it to end. You want to stay longer. You want to linger in His presence.

Scholars cautioned if someone claims to have reached this level.. they haven’t. This is a gift not an achievement. You don’t earn it rather you receive it.

Level 6: The Prayer of Annihilation (Fana)

Now your sense of self dissolves. There’s only Allah in your awareness. You realize you’re merely a vehicle through which worship is happening. You don’t feel that you exist separately anymore. It’s just Him.

The danger is that some reach this level and think, “I don’t need prayer anymore.”

This is misguidance. Even at this level the mechanical prayer remains an obligation. You still have to do the physical actions. You still have to bow.. you still have to prostrate. The fard doesn’t drop its still required.

Level 7: The Prayer of the Prophets and Saints

Here prayer is no longer just an obligation. It’s not about reward anymore. It’s purely about love.

You wait for prayer time like a lover waiting to meet their beloved. You count the minutes.. you get ready. You clean your space.. you wear your best clothes. You make everything beautiful like you would for a dear guest.

In reality the Beloved Prophet Muhammad(peace be upon him) is at this level. And those who reach it appear completely ordinary a clerk, a king, a shopkeeper. Nothing about them looks special from the outside. But whoever prays with them? They can feel it. Their own prayer transforms.

Reading this framework I felt two things at once:

Conviction because I saw myself clearly at Level 1. I knew very well that I was just going through the motions and calling it worship.

But I felt hope too. Why? Because these levels aren’t fixed. They’re a path.. a ladder actually. And the first step is simply awareness.

The greatest scholars didn’t claim the highest stations they simply kept climbing.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth.. most of us are praying at level 1. We’ve convinced ourselves that’s enough.

But imagine just imagine what your life would look like if you prayed at level 4.. or level 5.. or beyond.

Imagine waiting for prayer time like a lover waits for their beloved. Imagine tears of gratitude flowing because you feel His presence. Imagine not wanting the prayer to end. Imagine your entire day becoming an act of worship because you carry that presence with you everywhere.

Yes, it’s possible. It’s not fantasy. This is what prayer was always meant to be.

Quick self check: Where Are You?

1. Can you remember what surah you recited in the last prayer? Yes / No

2. Were you aware of each segment while praying? Yes / No

3. Do you understand the meaning of what you’re saying? Yes / No

4. Do you feel anything during the prayer? Yes / No

5. Do you sense Allah’s presence while praying? Yes / No

Be honest.. because the first step is awareness.

A simple practice to start..

1. Before you start remind yourself: “This might be my last prayer”

2. Count each segment (1, 2, 3..)

3. After you finish ask yourself: “Did I feel anything different?”

The seven levels of prayer aren’t just a theory. They’re a map.. a road.. a ladder waiting to be climbed.

Hope this helped you in some way. Keep me in your duas.. my valuable readers.

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I was in tashahud. Suddenly mid prayer there’s sand under my knees instead of my prayer mat. The sand is hot so hot. The mat gone i am not in my room anymore.

I walk forward tense. My eyes are burning. The heat is everywhere. In my throat in my lungs. In the spaces between my breaths. I can’t see clearly it’s dust everywhere. The sky is red not orange not yellow.. red. Like it is about to bleed.

Wait i’m not alone. I can see something in the distance. I see tents maybe thirty. I can’t count properly the dust keep shifting playing tricks. There are worn tents, patched, thin. Like they had been standing for too long and knew they wouldn’t stand much longer. There’s a flag. I can’t tell if it’s black or green the dust is covering everything even the sky. But it’s standing.

And i can see children.. little children. But they aren’t playing. They are sitting with the adults.. too quiet. It’s like they know something. Even the youngest knows something. I can see it in their eyes that heavy knowing that no child should ever have.

I see a man walking toward the tents. I can’t see him clearly. Maybe it’s the dust, maybe the tears. Maybe something else. But i feel my heart alive just from seeing him.

Every step he takes has weight not the weight of exhaustion but the weight of purpose. He is someone special. I can feel it. It’s as if light bent around him. As if the sky itself is bowing slightly. I can feel his presence.. everyone does. The children straightens when he passes. The women breathe again. The camp relaxed exhaled like it had been holding its breath and finally found permission to let go. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence was the answer.

And then i see the river. So close I can almost taste it. The sun hit the surface and it looks like silver. Mercy in plain sight.. cruel so cruel. Because it can be seen but not drank. Between the river and the camp i see men armored with swords. And a decision thirst is cheaper than water. Thirst is free. So they gave them thirst instead.

I looked away. Then I looked back. There’s a child so small maybe four.. maybe five it’s a little girl. She’s holding a cup an empty cup actually. She raises it to the sky hoping, praying, begging but nothing falls it’s empty she continues again again and again. Her lips are cracked. Her small hands trembling. Next she does something that tear my heart apart. She looks at the river. That silver water shining in the sun. As if mocking her.. taunting her. She looks at it with eyes that didn’t understand why water can be so close and yet so far. Oh how cruel. How unbearably cruel.

Someone is watching her. A woman.. her mother or maybe her aunt. I can’t see the face clearly. But i can see the pain. The helplessness. The love that can’t do anything. She doesn’t take the cup away. She don’t tell the child to stop. What will she say? What can anyone say when their loved one is thirsty and there is nothing nothing they can do..

I want to hug the little girl. I want to give her water. I want to carry her to the river myself. But I am nothing here. I can’t feel my body.. my body is not here. I am just a soul with eyes. A witness with no hands, no voice.. no power. It’s the worst and most helpless i have ever felt. And the battle hasn’t even started.

The night fell. The enemy camp is loud.. fires, laughter, drums. They are celebrating like tomorrow is a wedding. But here it’s silence. Not a fearful silence, not an empty silence it’s a heavy silence. The silence of people praying, busy in dhikr with heavy hearts. They know. Every single one of them knows what tomorrow will bring.

Dawn came too fast. The sun rose like it always does but there is something different today.. something wrong. It looks like it’s bleeding. The light that falling on the sand is red.. not gold. It’s as if the dust itself is weeping silently even the sky seems to mourn.

The camp is awake. No one had slept anyway everyone is ready. The women are checking their men and children looking at their faces as if memorizing them. Committing to memory what would soon be gone. A mother touches her son’s cheek. Once, twice, three times. Like she is counting his breaths. Like she knows she will not hear them tomorrow. I looked away. I know what is going to happen. I know really well.

I will not move closer. I just can’t my soul refuses. I don’t know where i’m standing a rock, a hill, i just don’t know. I can see movement.. dust, figures. One by one they are going. I can’t see faces. But i see figures falling from horses. One by one.. one after another. I’m counting.. i wish I didn’t know how to count. Every time one falls I hear a sound from the camp behind me. It’s not a scream but worse like a breath cut off. A name called out once then swallowed by the silence.

The little girl watches a man fall. She doesn’t scream. She just whispers something. I can’t hear it. But I saw her lips. I think she said “Baba” Or maybe “Abi”. I don’t know. I just know I will never forget that whisper for as long as I live. I wish I was deaf before hearing this.

The sun set.. red just too red. It’s bleeding. Everything is quiet now, too quiet. The tents are burnt.. torn down, destroyed. I see figures moving among the fallen. Not helping just taking.. swords, shields anything valuable. They don’t look at the faces. They don’t care who had fallen. They are just taking lootting.

The women i can’t see them anymore. They’re gone, taken in chains along with the children. The little girl with the empty cup my eyes search for her. I search through the dust, through the figures, through the chaos. I can’t see her. I just see a small shadow being led away. Towards the river.. towards the silver water she can’t drink. They are taking her past the water.. past it. She can see it. She can smell it. She just can’t taste it. That’s the cruelty within the cruelty.

I just stand there. The sky is dark now. I have no body, no voice, no power. But I have eyes. I wish i hadn’t.

Then a blink. I’m back on my prayer mat. In My room with my phone on the table. A glass of water still full, still cold, still there. I reach for it but stop. I can’t drink not yet. Not after watching a child lifting an empty cup not after watching her look at the river and know it will never touch her lips.. not after watching mothers memorize faces they will never see again in this world.. not after watching that little girl whisper “Baba” to a fallen man. My tears are falling it’s not the crying of mourning. But the crying of someone who just saw something and can’t unsee it. The crying of someone who returned from a place no one should ever have to witness.

One question echoed in my heart over and over “Ya Allah why didn’t the sky tear apart? Why didn’t the ground swallow everything? Why did You let me see this?”

I didn’t get an answer. But I got something else.. a feeling that I was allowed to see it for a reason. That I was meant to carry it. That I was meant to remember it.

I drank the water. But not without remembering without pausing. And i didn’t waste a drop.

Because somewhere in the world, in Gaza, in Sudan, in a place like Karbala where thirst is a weapon and standing for haq/truth is a crime someone is lifting an empty cup. A child is looking at water they cannot reach. A mother is memorizing a face she will never see again.

And the sky still hasn’t torn apart. But maybe just maybe it’s waiting for us to do something. To never forget that Karbala didn’t end on the 10th of Muharram. It happens every single day. It happens whenever we see injustice and stay silent.

Thanks for giving it your precious time. I hope it moved your heart and you felt something. I didn’t really go anywhere. I just let myself feel. And this is what came. May Allah accept it💚

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We talk about duas all the time.. answered, unanswered, delayed ,replaced with something better.

But no one talks about the dua that comes true and breaks you. The one you begged for at 2am tears soaking your pillow. The one you made after every prayer for months, years, a decade. And then Allah says “Kun”(Be) and it happens.

But instead of relief.. you feel empty. Not because you’re ungrateful. You are very grateful. But you look at the thing you wanted so badly and you think “I begged for this?”

You feel like a fool. You wish you had never asked. You wish it was never answered.

So why would Allah who knows everything still give it to you?

Because sometimes an answered dua is a test in disguise. He gives you what you asked for.. to see what you willdo with it.

To see if you hold on with sabr or shatter into ungratefulness.

Let me show you what I mean. Not with theory but my story which is embarrasing to share but still..

I was sent away from home when i was almost six. To the city.. to study.. to become something my mother said. But looking back I think it was to keep me away from a place where girls werre married off young. From a family with no educated women.

I was a child without parents. I only saw them on holidays. My father? I almost have no good memories with him not a single.

I made a dua for years in every prayer. Let me live with my parents. Let me at least visit them often.

And then it was answered. I got shifted. I was finally with them. But guess what? There was nothing left.

Everyone talks about a girl yearning for a boy’s love. But no one talks about a girl yearning for her parents’ love.

I sat with my mother. but there was nothing to say. No emotional bond. My father.. he was just another man.. no love.. no comfort.

I missed the hostel room. The random girls. The chaos I used to cry in. I regretted my dua. I even said why did Allah answer it? For years i begged and when it was answered i wished He had said no.

But eventually i understood. This is my test. Not everyone’s test is the same. Yours might be money, marriasge, health. Mine is getting exactly what I asked forand finding it empty.

I’m not a saint.. i fail. I become ungrateful. I say why me on my prayer mat. Im just an ordinary girl with a heart that craves love and has never gotten it. Not even from the people who were supposed to give it first. It breaks me watching my siblings get the love I deserved too. I know i sound dumb for you it might not be a big deal but.. it just hurts so much..

I started to doubt my duas.. my connection with my Allah. But then i remind myself. This is your test. And maybe just maybe Allah is saving someone for me. Someone who can love the hard to love version of me. Because if He saw me worthy of this test.. maybe He also see me worthy of a love that finally feels like home.

Maybe the hardest test isnt a denied dua. Its an answered one that teach you exactly what you were never given.

So if your dua get answered and it breaks you? Thats still Allah trusting you to survive the breaking.

For my valuable readers thanks for giving it ur precious time💚

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You want to know the status of a woman in Islam?

Forget what you read on Twitter. Forget the headlines about hijabs and "oppression." Forget what any scholar says for a moment.

Just come with me to one house.

The House of the Ahlul Bayt the family of my beloved Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon Him)

In this house, you will find the proof. Not in speeches or laws. But in actions. Because the men of this house the greatest men to ever walk the earth showed us exactly how high a woman stands.

They stood for them, kissed their hands, wept at their graves…

This is not a theory. This is the Sunnah.

***

The Status Of A Daughter:

If you want to know the status of a daughter look at the King of all kings.

My beloved Prophet Muhammad e Mustafa (peace be upon Him) was the man who nations witnessed as a mercy to all worlds. He conquered Mecca with an army of 10,000. And when his daughter Sayyeda Fatima (sa) walked into the room?

"When Fatimah came to him, he would stand up for her, kiss her head, make her welcome, take her hand, and make her sit in his place." [Sunan Abi Dawud]

He didn't say "I'm busy." He rose for her like she was royalty because to Him she was.

Umm ul Momineen Sayyeda Aisha (ra) described their beautiful mutual love:

"When the Prophet came to her, she would stand up for him, kiss his head, and take his hand." [Narrated by Imam Bukhari in his collection]

Umm ul Momineen Sayyeda Aisha (ra) narrated the most heartbreaking moment. That during the Prophet's final illness, Fatima came to his bedside. She leaned over. The Prophet whispered something to her and she cried. Then he whispered something else and she laughed.

When people asked her afterwards: “Why did you cry, then laugh?”

Sayyeda Fatima (sa) replied:

“He told me he was about to die from this illness, so I cried. Then he told me that I would be the first of his family to join him after death so I laughed.” [Sahih Bukhari, Sahih Muslim]

Her father gave her the news of her own death as a gift. Because being with him in paradise was better than staying in this world without him.

My beloved Prophet (peace be upon Him) declared about his daughter:

“Fatima is a part of me. Whoever harms her has harmed me. Whoever harms me has harmed Allah.” [Sahih Bukhari]

That is the status of a daughter. She is not a burden. She is a piece of his heart, and he will walk through fire to honor her.

***

The Status Of A Wife:

If you want to know the status of a wife, do not look at modern influencers. Look at the Lion of Allah.

Maula Ali (as) was the strongest warrior Islam ever produced. He split armies in half with legendary courage.

And when he came home to Sayyeda Fatima (sa)? He melted.

“By Allah, I never angered Fatima, or forced her to do something she did not like, up to the day she died nor did she ever anger or disobey me. In fact, when I looked at her, depression and sadness would be removed from my heart.” [Recorded in multiple sources]

Read that again. “Depression and sadness would be removed from my heart.” This is Haider e Karrar, the man who enemies feared .His refuge was his wife.

Allah says:

“And among His signs is that He created for you spouses from among yourselves, so that you may find tranquility in them, and He placed between you love and mercy.” (Qur’an 30:21)

Fatima was Ali’s tranquility.

In a society where polygamy was so common that someone with a single wife was called weird, Maula Ali (as) despite being pressured remained loyal to Sayyeda Fatima (sa).

And when Sayyedatul Jannah died? He wept and said: “Help me carry her.” The man who carried the door of Khaybar while fasting could not lift the dead body of his wife. Grief had broken his strength.

That is the status of a wife. She is not a servant. She is the anchor of the soul.

***

The Status Of A Mother:

If you want to know the status of a mother, look at the leaders of the youth of paradise.

Saeyydna Imam Hasan (as) and Sayyedna Imam Hussayn (as) the two most beloved grandsons of my beloved Prophet (pbuh) who were told by their Grandfather that they would be the masters of the youth of Jannah. They had the blood of prophethood running through their veins.

“And We have enjoined upon man kindness to his parents. His mother carried him in weakness upon weakness…” (Qur’an 31:14)

Imam Hassan (as) and Imam Hussayn (as) lived this verse. Historians and hadith scholars record that they would kiss their mother’s hands. They would stand when she entered. They would not eat before her. They would not eat from her side out of so much respect and love. The grandsons of the Prophet of Allah (peace be upon Him) showed the world what respect for a mother looks like.

That is the status of a mother. She is the first teacher of heroes. Without her, there is no Hussayn. There is no Karbala.

***

The Status Of A Sister:

If you want to know the status of a sister look at Karbala.

Most people know about Imam Hussayn’s sacrifice. But do you know who preserved that sacrifice? A sister. Sayyeda Zaynab bint Ali (sa) stood beside her brother Imam Hussayn on the plains of Karbala. She watched her sons, Aun and Muhammad get killed in front of her. She watched her brother’s head mounted on a spear.

And she did not break.

After Karbala, Sayyeda Zaynab the beloved grandaughter of RasoulAllah (peace be upon Him) was marched in chains to the court of Yazid the tyrant who killed her family. Historians record that she stood in front of him as a prisoner, and delivered such a powerful a sermon that the court fell silent and the tyrant trembled.

Historians record that she recited from Surah Al Imran:

“Think not of those who are killed in the way of Allah as dead. No, they are alive, finding their sustenance in the presence of their Lord.” (Qur’an 3:169)

She declared the truth when every man was silenced. Her defiance showed that Islam has always recognized the importance of women not just in the private but also in political and public life.

Imam Hussayn (as) had entrusted the women and children of Karbala to Sayyeda Zaynab (sa). He knew that without her voice his sacrifice would be forgotten. She became the guardian of his legacy.

That is the status of a sister. She is not dependent. She is the guardian of a legacy.

***

You want to know the status of a woman in Islam?

You will find example no where like Ahlul Bayt.

The greatest men Islam has ever produced did not look down on women. They lifted them.

They stood when they entered, kissed their hands, consulted them, wept at their graves.

Allah says:

“Indeed, Allah desires to remove all impurity from you, O Ahl ul Bayt, and purify you with a thorough purification.” (Qur’an 33:33)

That verse was revealed under a cloak. Inside that cloak were five people. One of them was Sayyeda Fatima (sa) and through her, her fearless daughters Sayyeda Zaynab (sa) and Sayyeda Umm Kulsoom (sa) took birth.

That is the status of women in my deen. If you don’t see it, you are not looking at the right men. Because the men of Ahlul Bayt gave us practical examples of how a woman must be treated.

Salaam and Hi my valued readers💚

I’ve written this with heart full of love for Ahlul Bayt. All quotes are from authentic sources, Allah knows best.

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I was never afraid of him. Not until that first second after his hand came down. That face I had loved looking at every morning became someone else's face. Ugly in a way I did not know faces could get.

Let me tell you exactly... your mind goes blank. Not from the pain. From the impossibility. This isn't true. It's not the man I knew.

We think violence happens to uneducated women. Women who don't know their rights. But educated women get hit too. By fathers, husbands, brothers. Women with degrees. Women with bank accounts. Women who can cite the law.

Because violence is not about her ignorance. It is about the man and his character, his upbringing. No certificate can stop a man who believes he owns you. And violence... it is never just physical. Emotional. Mental. Social. Financial. The slap is just the confirmation. The prison was built long before.

We are taught abuse means bruises. But by the time the bruise appears, she is already broken in four quieter ways:

• Emotionally "You are too sensitive, it wasn't even that bad."

• Mentally "You misunderstood, that's not what it looked like."

• Financially "My money, my rules. Even your money is mine."

• Socially "Your friends are bad for us, they're making you a feminist."

They don't know it's not about feminism I'm demamding the rights my Islam gave me.

He does not need to hit her every day. He just needs her to know that he can. This is true whether he is her father or her husband. Sometimes the father teaches her first. Then the husband finishes the lesson.

What others tell you when you tell them about the abuse. You are educated. Just leave. Set a boundary. Everything sounds simple when you are not the one inside it. The woman going through it cannot move. Not because she is weak. Because no one prepared her for this.

No one told her she could disappoint society and still survive. No one told her that saying “my father hit me” is harder than saying “my husband hit me” because the first man was supposed to protect her.

A man when he hits says: I am a man. I got angry. We accept this. But here is what we never ask him: Have you ever raised your hand to a police officer? To a man bigger than you? No? Then your anger knew exactly where it was safe. Your fist knew her face would not hit back.

We are raised to adjust with men of our house. If a father is angry our mothers will tell us lower your voice he’s in bad mood. Make yourself smaller. This is not called training. It is called “keeping the peace.”

By the time she is married, she has been practicing for years. How to perform happiness. How to erase her own anger so his can fill the room.

When a woman faces violence for the first time, she will either forgive or run. Education has nothing to do with it. What separates them is whether she can afford to leave not in money but in shame. Most cannot. So they forgive. And stay. And hope it was one time. What my innocent girls don’t know is that it’s never one time.

The woman who has taken a slap at her own doorstep does not forget. She never can. It stays with her. Every sound makes her scared. A door closing. A chair scraping. A voice suddenly loud. Every sudden movement even from a friend, even from her own child sends a jolt through her body.

She is not weak. She is a wound that learned to walk. And still, people will say: But he seems so nice. Maybe she did something. Yes. That is exactly the problem.

No one prepares us for this. Not our mothers. Not our schools. Not entertainment we consume. So let me say it plainly: You are not alone. You are not crazy. You are not the first.

And a man who raises his hand once whether father, husband or brother will convince himself he had the right. Believe what he shows you. Not what he says after.

The first hit is not the beginning. It is the mask falling off.

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