Most of our short stories are submitted individually by young writers eager to share their imagination with the world. Others have been selected from our award-winning story-writing competitions. However they arrive, each story is a window into the creativity of young Muslim authors. If you're a young Muslim author wishing to have your work published, you’ll find how to do so in the Submissions section.
by Nur Hamzah
“We have a superhero day coming up, and all of the kids can dress up as your favourite superhero!” announced my class teacher as soon as we settled in our class on Monday. “Parents can also come, and watch children parade around the school,” the class teacher added. My friends and I were so excited on hearing this, we couldn’t wait for our lunch break so that we could discuss our superhero costumes. In lunch break that day my friends, Sasha and Sara, excitedly chatted about their superhero costumes. Sara stated that she will dress up as Supergirl from Marvel and since Sasha had always been so fond of ghost spider, she said to dress up as ghost spider. She even had a ghost spider backpack! Listening to my friends being so certain on who they wanted to be, I felt left out. I was having a hard time deciding which superhero to dress up as. None of the superheros impressed me because they were all fake and unreal. My friends then turned towards me and asked, who I wanted to dress up as, but I kept quiet and silently said “I don’t know.” Just then, the bell rang signaling the end of our lunch break the rest of the day passed by quickly. That night as I was doing my homework, I saw how my mum was making my favourite dinner and helping my youngest brother with his homework. Watching her manage two different work so calmly and happily, filled my heart with so much respect, love and gratefulness. My mum always makes our favourite food, buys us proper clothes and takes care of our comfort. Not only this, but she always knows when I am sad and tries her best to cheer me up. I knew who to honor as my superhero – my mum! My mum is my greatest superhero! The week passed by very quickly and on Friday morning my mum and I entered my school. I headed to my class, while all the parents waited out near the basketball court, where the superhero parade would take place. In my class, I saw so many boys dressed up as Spiderman, Batman and even Hulk. The girls were mostly in the costumes of Supergirl and, of course Ghost Spider! All the children in my class, were in some character of the Marvel or DC movies. My best friends, Sasha and Sara were very surprised and shocked to see that I was not wearing any costume, but I just told them to wait until the parade. After the morning attendance, our class marched out to the basketball court. I located my mum among the other parents and waved at her and she waved back. We all lined up in the basketball area and our class teacher called out our names to come up in front, to show our costume, and give a little speech explaining why we dressed up as that character. Many children’s names were called and many of my friends went up and explained about themselves and their costumes. When my name was called out, I shyly got up, went up in front to the microphone and found my mum waving at me from the other side. I gave her a smile and a thumbs up, as I started my speech. “My superhero costume and my superhero is my mum. She is not just any superhero but a real-life Wonder Woman. She cares for me, helps me, guides me, listens to me and so much more that I cannot ever show or pay her back for the amount of love, gratitude and sacrifice my mum has done. When I’m not feeling my best, she knows it straight away and that night for dinner my favourite food always ends up on our dinner table! I love you, Mama, and today I wear you as my superhero costume. Thank you for listening.” As I ended my speech, the whole crowd applauded, my mum came running towards me, picked me up and flung me high in the air. All my friends gathered around me, patted me on the back and clapped. My mum had tears in her eyes, and she whispered in my ear, “Allah (SWT) has been so kind to give me such a loving daughter like you.” My mum hugged me hard and kissed me on my forehead. I too was crying; I hadn’t planned my speech and spoke from my heart. That night, as I lay on my bed, I prayed to Allah (SWT) to always keep my mother’s love burning bright for me and my family and us to always be there for our parents. Ameen.
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by Samiha Karim
As I journey through life’s struggles, my mother’s love and support shine like a beacon, guiding me through the uncertainty and lighting my way. Her presence isn’t just comforting; it’s been my guiding light, shaping who I am and helping me navigate life’s challenges. Since birth, my mum’s love has been my steadfast support, anchoring me through life’s challenges and celebrating with me in moments of joy. Her nurturing presence has shaped my character, revealing the depth of love’s resilience and its power to uplift and sustain through every trial. My mum’s love isn’t just a feeling—it’s a constant presence in my life. It’s her comforting touch and infectious laughter that bring joy to every moment. We share our stories and dreams from early morning till late night and the quiet moments of understanding shared between us is just a daily habit. In times of uncertainty and doubt, it is my mother’s unwavering belief in me that gives me the courage to persevere. Her words of encouragement change the soul deep inside of me, instilling within me a sense of confidence and self-assurance that empowers me to chase my dreams with unwavering determination. My mother’s influence extends far beyond mere words; it’s her actions that truly inspire me. Leading by example, she embodies love and compassion through selfless deeds. From preparing meals for neighbors to offering a listening ear, her boundless kindness illustrates the profound impact of compassion in our world. Each act serves as a reminder of the transformative power of kindness and the ripple effect it creates in the lives of those touched by its grace. Her actions inspire me to strive for greater empathy and generosity in my own life. As I journey through the complexities of childhood, I find myself learning from my mother more than ever. Her wisdom, gleaned from a lifetime of experiences, is a beacon of light that guides me through life’s twists and turns, offering invaluable insights and perspectives that help me navigate even the most challenging of situations. In moments of triumph, it is my mother’s unwavering support that magnifies my joy and celebration. Her pride in my accomplishments is a source of validation and affirmation, reminding me of the incredible potential that lies within me and fueling my ambition to strive for greatness in all that I do. But perhaps the most profound gift that my mother has given me is the gift of unconditional love. In a world that often feels chaotic and unpredictable, her love is a constant source of comfort and security, a refuge in times of depression and uncertainty. It is a love that has no boundaries or limitations, transcending time and space to welcome me in its warm embrace, reminding me that I am cherished beyond measure. In the tapestry of my life, my mother’s love is the golden thread that binds it all together—a thread that weaves its way through every triumph and every setback, every joy and every sorrow. It is a love that has shaped my identity and defined my journey, guiding me with gentle strength and unwavering devotion every step of the way. As I reflect on the unwavering support of my mother, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and admiration. Her love has been a constant inspiration, shaping who I am today and fostering a profound appreciation for love’s transformative power. Her guidance has illuminated even the darkest of days, reminding me of the profound impact a mother’s love can have on one’s life. Her presence is a beacon of strength and comfort, guiding me through life’s challenges with unwavering care. I am forever grateful for her unwavering love and the profound influence she has had on shaping my character and worldview. In conclusion, the impact of my mother’s love and support on my life is immeasurable. From the earliest moments of my existence to the present day, her unwavering dedication and boundless affection have been a source of strength and inspiration, guiding me through life’s ups and downs with grace and resilience. As I continue along my journey, I am comforted knowing that my mother will always be there, cheering me on every step of the way, her love lighting the path ahead with unwavering brightness and warmth.
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by Hafsa Irfan
Warda, a seven-year old girl, was raised by a caring and dedicated mother. The bitter truth of her father’s death still haunted her. Now she lived with her mother and her teddy. Every day she heard the cries and screaming of children whose mothers have died. The fact that her mother was still with her made Warda feel so lucky and grateful. During the war, Warda lived in a small tent, but before the war, she lived in a lavish house. Although the tent lacked necessities, her mother did everything in her power to make things comfortable and never failed to provide anything. Since she did not want to lose her, she was aware that her mother was her strength and her courage. The war drastically transformed Warda’s living conditions, forcing her to leave behind her comfortable life and adapt to the harsh realities of living in a small tent. Despite the lack of necessities, Warda’s mother’s unwavering love and dedication helped create a sense of comfort and stability in the chaos of war. Warda saw many children waking up and losing their mothers without saying goodbye. The bombs and flares are visible through the flashes of lightning in the sky. At the same time, Warda sat here in the family bubble that she made with nature.Oh, how unfairshe thought.The whole world watched and stared but still only a few cared. The children of Gaza saw blood everywhere they went and witnessed innocent people losing their families. Warda missed her extended family, her teachers, and her friends. She remembered every moment with them. She remembered her teachers saying that whatever happens never disobey your mothers.Her mother is her Jannah. Boom! A bomb just landed on Warda’s neighbour’s tent, and she saw another person injured. Warda was terrified but managed to drag her neighbour to her tent that was next to her. She even got some leaves and sticks to make a bed for her neighbour. Warda went outside and looked for nature so she could find aid for the neighbour. She was very calm and quick. She found a bag, so she put the stuff that she had collected in the bag. Finally, her mother came with food and water. Warda was starving. Warda’s mother was so proud that her daughter was a lifesaver. Warda was very shocked to have so many supplies now, but her mother stood there stunned that Warda made so much effort. She was very grateful to have a daughter like Warda. It was getting gloomy as the sun was hiding. It looked like it was going to rain! Then it started raining. She thanked Allah for the blessing. Warda was very joyful, and she saw her mum come rushing to the tent and she took Warda’s hand. She went out with her mum to play in the rain. She got some food from a tent and distributed it to her friends. When it stopped raining, Warda and her friends went to a small shelter down the street. There was some play equipment, but the bombs destroyed some. Warda’s mum was very happy, and she thought to do this every day to keep everyone distracted from thinking about their lost ones. Warda remembered times when homes were once filled with laughter, happiness and cheerful children. Now these homes and lives were destroyed. Why did they take advantage of innocent people who have done nothing wrong? Why did the oppression persist, and the world remained silent? This unfairness? This injustice? She was devastated to see the rubble and bloodshed all around her it made her feel distressed by her people’s deaths. She kept remembering those precious childhood memories of her father which were gone by the flash. Warda got her water bottle from the tent and drank some water to calm herself down. The night crept up when she was not watching, Warda’s mum tucked Warda in bed and sang a lullaby to her. In the middle of the night the situation deteriorated, there were more explosions from three bombs. She saw a bright, big, yellow, light coming from the sky. She thought it was a shooting star, but it was a bomb. She hugged her mother tightly. She was petrified because she thought the bomb would hit her tent. Warda and her mum were very scared they prayed to Allah (SWT) that nothing would happen to them. Then Warda’s mum saw a kid outside so Warda’s mum went and pushed the kid towards safety. She was one step away but then the bomb landed on her, and she died saving a child. Warda was unconscious and injured while her mother wasn’t there to console her. However, all her memories of her mother’s legacy were still there as she learned how she was so blessed to have a mother; like her, she never forgot. Her mother strongly supported her in all hurdles. Indeed, every hardship could easily be eliminated with a mother’s love. On the next day, when she woke up, she pondered on those days and recalled those memories she did not realise how she missed the warmth and love of her mother.
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by Rida Mehera
My love, affection and respect for my mother is endless as she is my best friend, my guidepost for everything and my biggest inspiration. She was a forest. My austere eyes glinted with admiration at this silhouette, this ephemeral tree and her stretch marks. My gaze went to her vigorous unfolded arms, a mighty tree trunk moonlit with the twinkling curves of her body. She let everyone build a treehouse around her spine even if she felt suffocated to ensure my happiness. I carved drawings into the treehouse as she lulled her agonies to an eternal subdue. Her old trees towered upon me like skyscrapers, sunlight filtering through her branches as her comforting embrace tethers my worries away. As the cold breeze blows through her emerald leaves sodden with the dew of her sorrows, my innocent eyes ponder how the years have crafted her so resilient, breathtaking, and wise. She was the ocean. The tide rises and falls inundating upon its murmuring shore, furious waves fighting for its life against obstacles splattered across her child’s life, her waves plummeting only when the flicker of glee dances upon her child’s complexion once again. When my heavy heart weighs down into the deep waters, I unload my pain in the ocean’s vast depths and my mother’s warm embrace anchors me in place. She holds me as her waves wash away the cascade of salty tears pattered on my face, letting me breathe. After every storm, the ocean perches calmly, reflecting the sky’s splendor like a mirror showing me resilience. She was the sun. She tiredly entwined her rays of sunlight into a rippling gown for me, hands worn with ache. Her presence trailed blooming tulips in its wake and tackled every unfortunate circumstance for me until darkness turned blindingly aglow by the flickering flame of her hope. She’d paint my sky striking colors of crimson and pinks every single day holding a heavy heart with no one to praise her for the all the monsters she protected me against, for all the weighty sacrifices that strangled her with choked sobs and all the strength in the wings she gave me to conquer. She thought the world took her for granted, her everlasting rays raining down upon us regardless of her circumstance, but I thank the light, as I cease to imagine a world without a sun. She held up in the sky with outstretched arms and I drowned in her words when she said, “You can be anything you dream of.” I knew even a bit of her presence could sprout ample growth in my feeble seed of existence. She was a rainstorm. In the dead of night where sleep abandoned me, my mother’s voice shot through the dark and sang a mellifluous tune with her raindrops to lull me to sleep. Her leading aim was to clean the dirt from everyone’s hearts, but when she opened her clouds to precipitate rain, everyone ran to take shelter. So, to show everyone, she gave them what they wanted by silencing her bolts of thunder, a life with an eternal sun whilst biting down her rainy tongue. She peered through a crisp frame of watery lashes as she observed the world fall more into a pit of destruction wishing they listened to her before. My mother is the unafraid, bold, and fearless hero of my life. The one who always told me knowledge is power, who told me to aim for the sky and touch the clouds, the one who told me not to care what the world thought, the one who told me she’ll believe no matter what happens, and the only person who will be by my side my whole life and will never leave. So, to the woman who let her years of happiness and freedom shatter into thousand indecipherable remnants just to give me a better one and thinks the world does not appreciate her, nothing beautiful will ever grow, if we did not have rain. She was a blessing. Her emphasis so prominent that my key upon embarking on this strenuous road of the dunya all interwoven back to my precious mother as ‘Heaven lies beneath the feet of your mother’ the prophet Muhammad ﷺ said with sheer recognition and honour. Islam is such an opulent and lustrous religion, as I not only need to elude my mother with respect and affection from the bottom of my appreciative heart owing my every breath to her, but my religion obliges us to nurture her like when we all sought refuge in the safety of her womb for 9 whole months. Like Hajar (AS) the mother of prophet Ismail (AS) who ran between the hills of Safa and Marwa seeking water in a barren desert leading to the discovery of Zamzam water, every mother has trodden the path of wholeheartedly trusting Allah’s plan demonstrating patience and resilience whilst suppressing tears through painful sacrifices that she expects no other to comprehend. Her love, patience, sacrifices and kindness will forever leave a lasting impact on me. Each word, sentence, gesture, and advice framing pivotal life lessons, morals and values that would leave me an eagle stripped of its wings without it. She was a secret garden covered by high walls. The walls were bedecked with arrays of many stories, ink running deep in her veins as stories of everyone she met flowed in her blood. Some stories about wicked people who toyed with her life, ripping the pages on their way, people who stopped reading before the story finished, the dusted ones pushed to the back of her shelf of people who betrayed her trust and the dazzling polished ones of her family. In her garden, luscious plains twinkled, butterflies waltzed, and flowers chorused as she protected her peace from the raging snowstorm bellowing outside those walls. Only a few were let in and to be let in was the biggest blessing. The gardens of Babylon hang from her lips as she promises me her wellbeing is thriving, while it is discarded like ashes from the ablaze fire of our lives. So, I make sure to collect the ashes waiting for it to rise into a phoenix. I make sure she always has a smile on her face, I make sure she eats properly, I make sure she is not too overwhelmed by everything, and I make sure she knows how much she means to me. I make sure she feels like she is the blazing flame, not the ashes. She was a mother. Her love was crafted intricately with love, dedication, sacrifice, and pain. It’s an endless unselfish stream of water; indestructible and irreplaceable. It is enduring and forgiving like the sun that shines upon everyone despite its hardships whilst others are ruthless. She was my ocean; the water of her womb was my first home. She was my forest; her spirit sprouted a seed thriving with life and laughter. She gave me her heart when mine fell apart. She gave me wings when mine were worn out. She gave me the last piece of bread when she was starving. She gave me hope when she was scared herself. She gave me the umbrella when she was getting soaked. She gave me her eyes so I can see the best in the worst. Sometimes I wonder how a person pours their heart, soul, energy, and life into someone without wanting anything in return. She says I will understand when I am a mother.
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by Nusaybah Hassan
In the quiet corner of our home, where shadows danced with light and time seemed to sway in a gentle rhythm, there lay a sanctuary—a garden hidden from the world’s hurried gaze. Its existence was a whispered secret, known only to those who dared to seek solace in its verdant embrace. Among the flowers that swayed in the breeze and the leaves that whispered secrets to the sky, I found myself drawn to the garden. It was as if the very earth called out to me, beckoning me to explore its hidden wonders. Curiosity drove me to the garden’s edge, where I peered through the foliage with wide-eyed wonder. It was a world unto itself, teeming with life and possibility—a place where dreams took root and blossomed beneath the watchful gaze of the sun. But amidst the vibrant tapestry of colors and scents, there was one presence that stood out above all others—the gentle figure of my mother, her hands stained with soil, her face illuminated by a smile as radiant as the morning sun. “Why do you retreat to the garden, Mother?” my tiny, awe-struck voice once asked, breaking the silence of our sanctuary. She turned to me, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of twilight, her lips curving into a tender smile. “The garden, my dear, is more than just a patch of earth—it is a sanctuary for my soul, a refuge from the chaos of the world. It is where I find solace, where I connect with the Allah.” Her words lingered in the air, like the fragrance of jasmine on a gentle breeze, stirring something deep within me—a yearning for understanding, for connection. As the years passed, the garden became a sanctuary not only for my mother but for me as well. It was a place where we shared our deepest thoughts and dreams, where the barriers of age and experience melted away, leaving only the pure essence of our souls. But as time marched on, so too did the trials and tribulations of life. My mother fell ill, her once vibrant spirit dimmed by the weight of her affliction. In her darkest moments, she found solace in the garden, her fingers tracing the delicate petals of the flowers as if drawing strength from their beauty. Determined to repay her for all the love and care she had bestowed upon me, I made a solemn vow—to create a garden that would rival even the splendor of her own, a living testament to her enduring legacy. With each passing day, I toiled in the earth, my hands stained with soil and sweat, my heart heavy with the weight of my mother’s suffering. But amidst the toil and turmoil, there bloomed a sense of purpose—a determination to create something beautiful, something worthy of her love. Months turned into years, and still, I worked tirelessly, tending to my garden. And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my labor bore fruit—the garden flourished, a riot of color and fragrance that filled the air with an intoxicating perfume. With each new bloom, I felt my bond with my mother strengthen—a silent testament to the power of love and devotion. Just as the garden blossomed under my care, so too did our relationship, flourishing in the face of adversity and hardship. When the time was ripe, I invited my mother to behold the fruits of my labor, eager to share with her the love and gratitude that had blossomed within me. As she stepped into my garden, her eyes widened in astonishment, her gaze sweeping over the vibrant tapestry that lay before her. Tears glistened in her eyes as she beheld the beauty that surrounded her, overwhelmed by the depth of my love and appreciation. “My child, this is the most precious gift anyone has ever given me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “Thank you, from the depths of my heart.” In that moment, amidst the splendour of our gardens, we shared a bond that transcended words—a bond forged by love, gratitude, and faith. *** Years passed, and though time etched lines upon our faces, it could never dim the radiance of love that burned within us. My mother’s garden remained a testament to her enduring legacy—a beacon of hope and inspiration for all who beheld its beauty. With each passing season, the garden flourished, mirroring the growth and transformation of our relationship. Just as the flowers bloomed and withered in cycles of renewal, so too did our bond evolve, strengthened by the trials we faced together. In the quiet moments of reflection, I found solace among the blossoms, their beauty a reminder of the love that had sustained us through the darkest of times. And as I tended to the garden, I felt my mother’s presence woven into the very fabric of its existence—a guiding presence that whispered words of wisdom and encouragement on the gentle breeze. But as the years rolled by, time took its toll, and my mother’s health began to wane. Her visits to the garden grew fewer and farther between, her once vibrant spirit dimmed by the weight of her illness. Yet, even in her frailty, her love for the garden remained undiminished, a testament to the enduring bond we shared. And then, one fateful day, as I tended to the blooms she had once cherished so dearly, a sense of foreboding washed over me—a premonition of the inevitable, a shadow cast upon the garden’s serene beauty. Weeks turned into months, and still, my mother’s condition worsened, her strength fading like the dying embers of a once blazing fire. And though I clung to hope with all my might, deep down, I knew that the time had come to bid farewell—to release her from the bonds of suffering and set her spirit free. In the final moments, as she lay surrounded by the blossoms she had nurtured with such love and care, I held her hand, my heart heavy with grief yet buoyed by the knowledge that she would soon find peace in the embrace of Allah. And as the last breath slipped from her lips, a sense of calm descended upon the garden, as if the very earth itself mourned the loss of one so beloved. But amidst the sorrow, there lingered a glimmer of hope—a spark of faith that whispered of reunion in the gardens of Paradise, where love knows no bounds and tears are washed away in the light of eternity. And so, as I stand amidst the blooms that once bore witness to our shared joys and sorrows, I find solace in the knowledge that my mother’s spirit lives on—in the rustle of the leaves, in the fragrance of the flowers, in the gentle embrace of the earth. For though she may have left this world behind, her love remains etched upon my heart—a timeless legacy that blooms eternal in the garden of my soul. And as I tend to the blossoms that once brought her such joy, I do so with a sense of gratitude—for the gift of her love, for the memories we shared, and for the enduring beauty of the garden that will forever be our sacred sanctuary. In every petal that unfurls and every bud that blossoms, I see her spirit shining bright— a beacon of hope and inspiration that guides me through the darkest of nights and fills my days with the warmth of her love. And so, as the sun sets upon the garden of eternal gratitude, I offer a prayer of thanks—for the mother who taught me the true meaning of love, and for the garden that will forever be a testament to her enduring legacy. And as I draw my final breath, surrounded by the blossoms she once nurtured with such love, I find solace in the knowledge that she bestowed upon me the greatest gift a mother could give—a beacon of hope that illuminates the path to our reunion in the grand gardens of Jannah. There, amidst the celestial beauty that defies imagination, our love will unfurl like the petals of a flower, eternal and ever-blooming, a testament to the bond that transcends earthly limitations. In this moment of transition, as I bid farewell to the earthly realm and embrace the promise of eternal bliss, I offer my deepest gratitude to the mother who taught me to cherish every moment, to embrace every trial as a stepping stone towards our heavenly reunion. And with her love as my guiding light, I embark on the journey towards the gardens of Jannah, where our souls will intertwine once more, and our love will blossom in the Divine embrace of eternity.
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by Hafsa Nawed
In the early hours before dawn, as the city slept beneath a blanket of stars, Amina’s day began with the gentle call of the adhan echoing through the stillness. Rising from her bed with a weary sigh, she embraced the familiar rhythm of her morning routine, a blend of devotion and obligation that marked the start of each day. With practiced ease, Amina performed her ablutions, the cool water washing away the remnants of sleep as she purified herself before her Creator. Each drop that cascaded over her skin served as a reminder of the cleansing power of faith, washing away the impurities of the soul and preparing her for the day ahead. As the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and pink, Amina wrapped herself in the comforting embrace of her prayer shawl, ready to commune with Allah in the quiet solitude of her room. With each prostration and bow, she poured out her hopes, fears, and gratitude, seeking solace in the knowledge that she was never truly alone. But even in the sanctity of her prayers, Amina couldn’t escape the gnawing guilt that had taken root in her heart. Her relationship with her mother, Fatima, weighed heavily on her conscience, a shadow that lingered even in the brightness of the morning sun. Despite her best efforts to push it aside, it clawed at her, a relentless reminder of the rift that had formed between them. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting its warm embrace over the city, Amina set about her daily tasks with a heavy heart. The familiar sights and sounds of her neighborhood offered little comfort, the laughter of children and the chatter of neighbors serving only to deepen her sense of isolation. Throughout the day, Amina found herself lost in a haze of regret and longing, her thoughts consumed by memories of happier times with her mother. She recalled the warmth of Fatima’s embrace, the sound of her laughter, and the comforting scent of her cooking that filled their home with love. But with each passing moment, the distance between them seemed to grow wider, an unbridgeable chasm that threatened to swallow her whole. Then, just as the afternoon sun began its descent towards the horizon, tragedy struck with the merciless force of a thunderbolt. Amina’s phone rang with the urgency of impending doom, the voice on the other end delivering news that sent shockwaves rippling through her soul. Fatima had fallen gravely ill, her condition critical, and her life hanging in the balance. In the blink of an eye, Amina’s world was plunged into darkness, the ground beneath her feet crumbling like sand. Guilt washed over her in a suffocating wave, choking her with the weight of her regrets. She realized, with a sudden and stark clarity, the depth of her mother’s love and the sacrifices she had made in silence. With trembling hands and a heart heavy with dread, Amina rushed to her mother’s side, her steps fueled by a desperate need to make amends. As she stood in the sterile confines of the hospital room, watching helplessly as Fatima fought for her life, she prayed fervently for a second chance, a chance to show her mother the love and appreciation she had neglected for so long. As the days turned into weeks, Amina’s devotion to her mother only deepened. She found herself rising before dawn not only for her prayers but also to prepare nourishing meals for Fatima, each dish infused with love and care. She sat by her mother’s side, reading verses from the Qur’an aloud, finding solace in the soothing rhythm of the sacred words. Through her actions, Amina sought to embody the teachings of Islam, finding strength in the belief that every trial was a test of faith. She reached out to her community for support, drawing upon the bonds of sisterhood forged through shared prayers and shared sorrows. And as Fatima’s health continued to improve, Amina felt a sense of peace settle over her, a deep-rooted conviction that Allah had heard her prayers and answered them in His mercy. With each passing day, Amina’s relationship with her mother blossomed anew, their bond stronger and more resilient than ever before. They laughed together, cried together, and prayed together, united in their shared journey of healing and forgiveness. And as they looked towards the future with hope in their hearts, they knew that their love would endure, a shining beacon of faith in a world filled with uncertainty. Days blurred into nights as Amina kept vigil by her mother’s bedside, her prayers a constant refrain in the quiet stillness of the hospital room. She held Fatima’s hand tightly, willing her to hang on, to fight against the darkness that threatened to consume her. And then, just when it seemed all hope was lost, a miracle occurred. Fatima’s condition began to improve, her spirit resilient against the onslaught of illness. With each passing day, she grew stronger, her laughter ringing out like a bell in the quiet corridors of the hospital. And as Amina watched her mother’s recovery unfold before her eyes, she felt a glimmer of hope stir within her, a flicker of light in the darkness. As Fatima regained her strength, Amina became her devoted caretaker, tending to her every need with a tenderness born of newfound gratitude. She bathed her mother in love and affection, showering her with the same devotion that Fatima had always shown her. And in those precious moments they shared, amidst the beeping of machines and the hushed whispers of nurses, they found solace in each other’s presence. Through the crucible of adversity, Amina discovered the true essence of love and sacrifice. She realized that her mother’s love was a precious gift, one that deserved to be cherished and honored. And as Fatima’s health improved, their bond blossomed anew, infused with a deeper understanding and appreciation for each other. Together, they emerged from the darkness of despair, their hearts intertwined in a tapestry of love and resilience. Amina, forever changed by the ordeal, vowed to cherish every moment with her mother, to hold her close and never let go. And as they stepped into the light of a new day, hand in hand, they knew that their love would endure, a testament to the power of faith, family, and forgiveness.
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by Ibrahim Hamzah
I am a soccer fan and a very good soccer player as well. Everytime I used to score a goal or save a shot in my soccermatches, I always used to do a celebration for my mum.Whether it was running around and making a heart with myhand and holding it out towards her or blowing her a kiss.Each time I would do such a gesture, my friends would makefun of me and tease me on being such a mama’s boy and still ababy. Little did they know that it was through my Mum’sefforts, sacrifices and prayers I am standing here on thissoccer field.Ever since I learned to walk, a soccer ball would always be bymy feet. When my parents realized how inseparable the balland I were, they put me in a soccer club at a very young age.My parents also invested time in teaching me various soccerskills. Every day after school, my parents used to take me tothe soccer pitch and practise. As I got older, I improved, andalways with my parents by my side.Every single time I would score they would cheer so loud to apoint where they actually ran out of breath! When my littlesister was born, my mum would stay at home, and my dadwould take me for training and to the soccer matches. We hadto move a lot as well, because I kept getting offers from different soccer clubs, but my parents didn’t mind, and wouldalways be encouraging and accommodating.Then one day, my dad got a letter in the mail inviting me to aclub in Western Australia. This was a big moment for me. I hadnever been requested to play interstate – I didn’t think I wasgood enough for that. My parents knew how passionate I wasfor soccer and within a few weeks we were ready to moveinterstate.In the club, everyone was curious to know about me and theposition I played. The new soccer club wanted to try me out indifferent positions. In some matches, I played as defender andin some attacker. I even played as midfielder. Even though, Iplayed different positions, one thing stayed the same, mycelebrations. Every time I stopped a goal or scored a goal, Iwould make a celebration for my mother. She loved it! Shewould cheer me on more.The only problem was that my teammates used to make funof me, calling me a baby and a wuss. I tried to tell them that Iwas showing my affection to my mother and that they shoulddo the same. Still, they ridiculed and teased me, but I didn’tcare. Even though, the teasing would annoy me and make mefeel left out, but I was my own person, and I would remindmyself how far I’ve come only because of my parents’encouragement and support.One day, our coach announced the end of season matchagainst our bitter rivals, South Australia FC. All of us wereexcited and nervous at the same time. South Australia FC wasa really good team, the boys were giants, and they had an intimidating attitude on the field, The coach gave us a goodtalk on how playing together a s a team mattered, showingthe team spirit, skill and having fun was important.Soon, the day of the match arrived. It was warm and sunny,and the match was in our home ground. The match began andit looked like we would lose but surprisingly we held on. Imanaged to score a hat trick and save more than fifteen shots.Each time I celebrated using affectionate gestures for mymum. At half time, the scores were 5-5. In the second half Itried desperately to get another goal and made wonderfulassists, but they were all squandered. At fulltime the scoreswere the same: 5-5.The game continued to extra time and two of my teammatesgot a goal each! Things seemed pretty good for us. As webegan the second half of extra time, most of the team gotconfident and once again it was a tie: 7-7. I was fuming! Wewere just about to win! I looked up at my mum and she gaveme a thumbs up. The match was to be decided in penaltiesand I was going to go first!I put the ball on the marked spot and made a small dua in myheart. As I heard the whistle blow, I felt a surge of adrenalinein my body, I said bismillah and ran up to the ball and kicked ithard as if I was in the world cup! As I heard the crowd cheer, Ilooked up and saw the ball in the goal undoubtedly. I was sohappy, I ran around the pitch, climbed on a board thenpointed at my mother while making a heart shape and blewher a kiss. Another one of our players walked up and shot but he missed.I felt like storming out of the stadium as we conceded anothergoal. 3-1. At this rate we were going to lose! I turned aroundonly to see the ball sailing into the top bin. I ran to hug myfriend who may have just changed our fortunes! “4-2,”announced the commentator shakily another South Australiaplayer walked up to score. He shot and our goalkeeper savedit! It was in! as we walked off the pitch, I felt like punching thecommentator in the face! He was just ranting on and on abouthow well they had played and what a great victory for SouthAustralian FC it was.The South Australian team walked up to the podium to gettheir trophy. My team and I also clapped for them. Lastly, theman of the match was to be announced, and much to mysurprise, I heard the commentator speak, “The man of thematch for this season has been agreed upon by all, on thebasis of his respect, love, honour and unshakable affectiontowards his mother. We all witnessed how affectionately thisplayer acknowledged his mother in each and every attempt ofsave or score. The board here has unanimously voted forIbrahim Hamzah along with his mother for the man of thematch! I request Ibrahim up here on stage along with hismum.”My jaw dropped open and I just froze. Was the commentatorreally calling me with my mum on stage. I heard someone callout my name behind me, I turned around and saw my mumwalking towards me being accompanied by the guards. Mymum was as much surprised as me. As we walked up on stage and received the man of the match trophy, I saw the entirecrowd cheer and clap. Truly, my celebration gestures hadclearly impacted everyone around.I turned towards my mum and I gave her a big hug and a kissand spoke in the mike, “Thank you. I am greatly humbledbeing chosen the man of the match, tonight I stand here onlybecause of my parents who have went above and beyond inhelping me pursue my passion. I want to thank my parents,especially my mum, for being my rock and I wish I can do thesame for her always.” As I walked down the stage, my teammembers all gathered around me and patted me on my back. Icould see the respect in their eyes and never again did theytease or mock me on my gestures.
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by Zeinab Al Helfy
Nestled among lush hills and meandering streams in the center of our town was a woman whose presence brightened our community like the sun peeking through the clouds in the morning. She was my mother, a personified virtue known for her unshakable faith, limitless kindness, and unselfish commitment to helping others. Everyone who knew her pronounced her name with reverence, but to me, she was just Mama. I could sense Mama’s strong dedication to Islam even in my early years. Every morning, even before the sun rose, I would discover her on her knees in prayer, her forehead pushed against the chilly ground while she uttered earnest pleas to Allah. Seeing such a sight gave me a feeling of astonishment and wonder, since I could sense the depth of her relationship with Allah even as a small child. As I became older, Mama served as both my mother and my spiritual advisor and mentor. She taught me the ins and outs of prayer, the meaning of the Ramadan fast, and the value of being kind and compassionate to all living things. She gave me a great appreciation for the principles of Islam and a deep love for Allah by her words and deeds. However, Mama’s influence extended beyond our house. She was well-known in our village for being a comfort and support system for the less fortunate. If it was consoling Mama’s generosity knew no bounds, whether it was helping a bereaved neighbor, giving food and shelter to the destitute, or paying visits to the ill and frail. Her kindness was not limited to Muslims; it included people of other faiths and cultures as well, since she thought compassion was a universal language that cut over religious barriers. Nevertheless, despite her altruism, Mama was not exempt from life’s difficulties. Her faith was put to the ultimate test during one very trying period of life. My older sister, Huda, became quite sick and experienced excruciating pain and fever. Doctors could not offer a conclusive diagnosis, and Mama’s anxiety increased daily. I shall always remember the evenings I spent by Huda’s bed. Her pale face was shadowed by the oil lamp’s weak glow. Mama sat next to her, her hands around her, and she prayed into the darkness, whispering healing words. Her faith remained unwavering even as the lines of tiredness appeared on her face. She never wavered in her conviction that Allah, in spite of how difficult this trial may appear, would lead us through it. Mama’s determination was put to the test like never before as the days turned into weeks. She balanced managing our home, taking care of my sister, and continuing her community work while never letting her faith waver. She took comfort in the Qur’an’s messages even in the darkest of times, taking courage from verses describing the kindness and compassion of Allah. Then a ray of hope emerged on the horizon one fateful morning. Huda’s fever broke, and his cheeks took on color again, almost as if a miracle had occurred. As Mama led our family in prayer and gave gratitude to Allah for his kindness and mercy, her delight knew no limits. Mama’s reputation as a woman of unshakeable faith and infinite compassion only blossomed following Huda’s recovery. People from all over the world were drawn to the light that came from her spirit and came to seek her blessings and guidance. But even in the face of others’ love, Mama maintained her humility by giving Allah all the credit and honor. Thinking back on Mama’s trip, I am overcome with a feeling of thankfulness for the gift of having her in my life. She has imparted to me not just the fundamentals of Islam but also the significance of putting those precepts into practice by being nice and helpful to others. Her unshakeable faith has helped me get through life’s challenges with courage and grace, serving as a light of hope in my darkest hours. One thing will never change over the years, no matter how our lives evolve: Mama’s unwavering legacy of love and commitment to Allah. And I will always be appreciative of that. Time passed, the seasons changed, and Mama’s influence on our lives and the lives of those around us persisted. She seemed to become more and more devoted to helping others and to her beliefs as time went on. However, it was not only her deeds that made a lasting impression on our me everyone who met her was won over by her genuine smile, kind touch, and sincere heart. Individuals would go great distances to consult with Mama, confident that they would receive strength and direction in addition to a listening ear. Mama never wavered in her faith, her confidence in Allah being a lighthouse that guided her even in the darkest of circumstances. She instilled in us the values of perseverance, faith in His purpose, and optimism despite seemingly hopeless circumstances. Mama’s lessons stayed with me as I got older and into adulthood, influencing my behaviour and perspective on the world. I discovered that I was emulating her, trying to imitate her kindness and selflessness. Her example of love and faith inspires us even now, showing us that anything is possible with Allah’s help, no matter how challenging the path may be. Upon reflecting on Mama’s life, I am overwhelmed with immense thankfulness for all the many gifts she gave us. She was more than simply a friend or mother; she was a living example of the virtues of compassion, love, and faith in Islam. Even though she is no longer with us, her memory will live on in our hearts as a constant reminder of the amazing influence one person can have on the lives of others. With the knowledge that her legacy endures, may her soul rest in peace in the lives she touched and the hearts she inspired. I frequently find myself looking to Mama’s lessons for direction during my alone times of contemplation. Her words have a calming melody that plays over and over in my head, reminding me of the value of faith, tolerance, and tenacity in the face of adversity. I take courage from her example, knowing that Allah’s kindness and mercy will carry me through any difficulties that may arise.
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by Ubaid ur Rahman Rabbani
“Why am I here? Did someone choose this for me or am I responsible for this? Is it all worth it? Is it up to fate, or does my happiness really depend on me? Will it ever be fine like people always say? What if everything I’ve done up until this point has been a mistake? What if I just drive straight down the hill instead of turning? The allure of death seems more inviting than continuing to live in this world filled with pain and struggles.” The last thought was so overwhelming that it sent shivers down his spine. Ali Hashim himself felt a jolt of fear at the final thought that crossed his mind. Swiftly, he reconnected with reality, pulling himself back from the brink of danger. His car was literally on the edge, but with a deft turn of the steering wheel, he averted disaster, narrowly avoiding a deadly plunge down the mountainside. As his vehicle came to a halt near the cliff’s edge, Ali stepped out, quenching his throat with water before settling onto a nearby bench. From this vantage point, he gazed out at the sunset over Islamabad, unable to shake the sense that his own inner light was fading along with the disappearing sun. It didn’t happen for the first time. Ali Hashim was struggling with these intrusive thoughts for a long time now. Despite trying antidepressants, he found no relief from the persistent thoughts that plagued his mind. He attempted to distract himself by staying busy, but it seemed as though these thoughts were unwelcome guests that had taken up permanent residence in his mind. His mind was kind enough to provide them with space to live and thrive. Glimpse from the Past A sense of nostalgia washed over him as he found himself in the same place where he had been with her mother a year ago. He was raised by a single parent, Ayesha Hashim. She was his best friend. One day when Ali returned from his medical school, his mother surprised him with news of a trip to the Northern areas of Pakistan for a few days. This was unexpected, as it had been years since they had taken any trip. His mother worked as a teacher in a small private school, and he worked part-time while studying to help support her. He thought that perhaps she had planned the trip because of the upcoming summer vacations. Although he wondered why his mother had chosen that year’s summer vacation for the trip, he decided not to ask her any silly questions and happily agreed to the adventure. They walked around together, and she shared her wisdom like she always did. They sat on the same bench he was sitting on to watch the sunrise and sunset. She always used to say to him, “There is always a light at the end of the tunnel, Ali. Make sure you keep moving forward.” She told him stories about his dad and grandparents. Ali never saw his dad in real life, only in photos which Ayesha Hashim had of him. Ali never missed his dad because Ayesha never let him. She made sure that Ali was always taken care of. On the last day of their trip, they celebrated Ali’s birthday in a restaurant at the top of the Hill. He could see the whole city from that restaurant. That day he felt like he was the luckiest son on earth. It was undoubtedly one of the most memorable days of his life. But there was something about Ayesha that was not right. Like she was holding something back, a secret tucked away in the corners of her heart, shielded from her son’s gaze. It was as if there were unspoken words lingering in the air. She was present physically, yet her thoughts seemed to wander to a distant place, a place he couldn’t reach no matter how desperately he tried. It was not until they resumed their normal lives when he came to know about his mother’s pancreatic cancer, which was deemed incurable by the doctor. The doctor told her that she had only eighteen months left to live, out of which she had already spent seventeen months without revealing the devastating news to her only son. The news hit him hard, causing his world to crumble in front of his eyes. He felt completely unprepared and knew he would never truly be ready for it. He struggled with the thought of living in a world without her as she was his sole motivation to carry on in this melancholic existence. From that day onwards, he devoted every second to her, tried his best to save her but he couldn’t alter what was meant to be. No one can. “Ali, promise me you will keep walking,” were her last words before she closed her eyes forever. He wept inconsolably until his eyes were dry as a bone. He yearned to break every promise he made to her mother and depart from this world together with her. He couldn’t bear the thought of facing the harsh realities of life alone. Yet, for her sake, he considered honoring his commitment one last time. Despite making conscious efforts to keep his mind occupied and avoid dwelling on lost thoughts, he couldn’t escape the constant ache of missing his mother. Determined to honor her memory, he threw himself into his studies, pursuing a career in oncology. With a passion fueled by his personal experience, Ali set a mission to make a difference in the field of medicine, particularly for pancreatic cancer. Through years of dedicated work, he found that tiny particles responsible for regulating communication between cells in the human body could hold the key to detecting this deadly disease at an earlier stage. Despite pouring his heart into that groundbreaking research paper, Ali found himself met with indifference and skepticism from scientists worldwide. Some dismissed his work right away, saying it was destined for failure. Disheartened by the lack of support, Ali’s spirits sank, but the promise he made to his mother burned brighter within him than any disappointment could dim. He kept walking as her mother advised him. Light At The End Of The Tunnel (Present) Maghrib prayer was being called when that session of nostalgia finished. “Ali, do you know, what will help you keep walking through the tunnel?” Ali looked at her with a questioning face. “Remembrance of Allah. That’s why I encourage you to pray all the time. Because it’s in remembering Him that you will find comfort and strength, even in the darkest times He will always be there with you in the tunnel.” These words from his mother always echoed in his ears with every prayer. As Ali Hashim rose from the bench and made his way towards the mosque, his phone interrupted the quiet with an international call. “Hello, is this Ali Hashim, the author of the pancreatic cancer research paper?” the caller inquired. “Yes, it’s me,” Ali confirmed. The caller then shared remarkable news: “Your research was tested at a university in California and yielded groundbreaking results, accurately predicting pancreatic cancer cells with an impressive 97% accuracy. But there is more. Your research has been selected for the prestigious Breakthrough Prize in Life Sciences. You’re invited to California on June 6th to receive the award.” Overwhelmed with emotion, Ali’s eyes brimmed with tears as he murmured, “I’ll be there.” He fell to his knees in prostration, unsure of how long he remained in that position, but enveloped in a sense of gratitude and purpose. In that moment, his mother’s words resounded in his mind once more, killing all the intrusive thoughts that were living in his head for free from years. It was his birthday that day, June 6th. His name “Ali Hashim” was being called in front of thousands of scientists from all around the world. He ascended the stage to receive his well-deserved prize. The presenter, recognizing Ali’s momentous achievement, posed a question: “Ali, as you stand before us today, do you have any words of wisdom to share with our distinguished audience?” Ali paused for a moment, taking in the gravity of the moment, before responding with a quiet confidence, “There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Keep walking.” Tears of joy glistened in Ali’s eyes as he stood on stage. As the applause gradually faded, he suddenly felt the subtle presence of someone watching him from backstage. However, when he looked, there was no one there. He stood there with tears in his eyes while memories of his mother flooded his mind. At that moment, it all clicked for Ali. He finally understood his mother’s words, the reason behind every event, and the wisdom in Allah’s plans. He understood how everything happened because the purpose was bigger than what he understood. As he was stepping down from the stage, a familiar sound reached his ears, confirming his newfound understanding. “I am proud of you, son. I am proud of you.”
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by Xenobia Elali
As I lie in your lap and you run your long, brittle fingers through my young, soft curls, I allow my tears to spill. I know I am finally safe. I look up into your eyes, the deep sunken eyes, eyes of glass, which hold more stories than the brain remembers. Your gentle touch and soothing presence remind me that I am not alone in my pain. In that moment, I find solace in the connection we share, knowing that you understand without words. Your soft gaze comfort and reassure me that everything will be okay. I’m taken back to the days where my gratitude towards you ran thin. My endless use of demeaning words, arguments, and retaliation. I never understood the pain, I inflicted upon you, and nevertheless you forgave me time and time again. Your forgiveness and unwavering support are a testament to your strength and compassion. I hurt you so much: I mocked your foreign accent, failed to see the effort you put into learning the English language, never applauded you for coming to a foreign country, for leaving your family behind, not knowing it would be the last time you saw your parents, in order to give your four daughters a better life, whilst yours crumbled behind the scenes. My pride and ego are too high up to express my gratitude. Despite everything I did to let you down, you never stopped loving me unconditionally, always putting my needs above your own. Yet I never thanked you. You continue to stroke my hair. My safe place. As the tears continue to fall, I reminisce on all the friendships and heartbreaks you helped me through, every time you healed a heart, you didn’t break. Piece by piece, you fixed me, over and over again. Each time I fell, you caught me, never allowing me to hit the floor. Yet I never thanked you. I blamed you; I took my anger out on you, I hated you. Then you would engulf me in your camelia scented hugs, taking my pain away. I shamed you every time the table was set with a dish I did not like. You never let us go without a meal, embracing our heritage and culture. You taught me my native language and shared stories of our ancestors, connecting me to my roots in a way I never thought possible, installing a sense of pride, and belonging into my heart. Your love and patience never wavered, even when I pushed you away. You gave me the gift of a second language, opening a whole new world of opportunities and connections to my culture and religion. Yet I never thanked you. You continue to stroke my hair. You once were also a little girl, with dreams, hope, aspirations, desires forever put on hold for me. You were once a little girl that wanted to explore the world. You were once a little girl that thought she would grow old next to her mother, instead you never got to say goodbye, as you were halfway across the world to give us a better life. I feel your love and sacrifice in every touch. I never saw you cry or break, even when life threw its worst at you, you stayed strong for us. I was never kind to you, with the fact that this is your first time living life as well, your first time being a mother, your first time raising a family. You caught me before I hit the floor, but I never noticed you falling. You continue to stroke my hair, admiring my beauty, when all I saw were displeasing features. Your touch is gentle and comforting, but my insecurities still linger beneath the surface. I wish I could see myself through your eyes. I stood in front of the mirror, hours on end trying to find the beauty you see in me, but all I could see were flaws and imperfections staring back at me. I longed for the self-love and acceptance that seemed to come so effortlessly to you. I love you, yet I cannot love the parts I took from you. I cannot love the eyes I got from you. I want to believe in the beauty you see in me, but it is hard to shake off the doubts that cloud my reflection. Hopefully one day I will be able to embrace myself fully, just like you do. For now, I tell you, “I wish I never got your eyes,” or “I wish I never got your hips,” with your only response being a kiss on my forehead, as you remind me that I am more than just a reflection of you. Every part of me is unique and deserves to be loved. Yet I never thanked you. Through your hard work and determination to show me the value in myself, I am slowly learning to appreciate my own beauty and worth. Your unwavering support and love have helped me see myself in a new light, one that is filled with self-acceptance and confidence. Yet I never thanked you. You continue to stroke my hair. You continue to stroke my hair. I want to thank you, for lighting up my path when I was lost in the dark, for taking care of me because I still need you, for showing me what unconditional love truly is, for being my anchor in the stormy sea of life. You continue to stroke my hair. I am beginning to see with each year I grow, how much of yourself you sacrificed, and how much you gave to me. Nobody asked you to do what you did. Nobody needed to say anything, since love was the fuel that kept you going. Every sleepless night and early morning. There have been times when I should have shown my gratitude to you, but it is tough when I do not know where to begin. Things I could never convey. I want you to know that you shaped who I am today, and that I adore you. You are always stating how fortunate you are. But I am certain I am the fortunate one; you may have been gifted with me, but I get to call you Mum. For as long as I can remember, you were always by my side. To give me support, confidence, and help. No matter the issue, you made sure I felt your support. For as long as I can remember, you were always the person I looked up to. So strong, sensitive, stunning. Always full of determination and beauty inside-out. For as long as I can remember, you always provided stability within our family, full of laughter, full of tears, full of love. You continue to stroke my hair. I want you to know I am grateful, for everything you give, I want you to know I am blessed, for everything you have done. I want you to know I see you; I see every beat of your heart, I see a heart that beats for both of us, I see a heart that will never depart. On all the sacrifices you made for me, realising that true love knows no bounds. Your unwavering support and selflessness have shaped me into the person I am today, and for that, I am eternally grateful. Thank you for being my rock, my guiding light in a world full of uncertainty. As I begin to approach adulthood, I am hit with a rush of gratitude, for the lady you have raised me to be. All of the qualities I am complimented for possessing were instilled through your extreme determination and never-ending effort, to ensure the best possible future for your four daughters. My personal enrichment in my culture and undying faith for my religion, embroidering a sense of belonging into my heart, a sense of appreciation for the beauty of my culture and heritage you have installed in me. Because of this, I am able to navigate the world with confidence and pride in who I am, knowing that you have given me the tools to succeed in life. Your love and guidance have shaped me into the strong, independent woman I am today, and for that, I will be forever grateful. Yet I never thanked you. You continue to stroke my hair. As my eyes begin to close, and my mind comes to peace. My heart is full. Full of love, contentment. Your peace brings out a peace I had installed in myself but had forgotten. Thank you for reminding me of the beauty and worth that lies within me, and for helping me see myself in a new light. Your love and support have truly made a difference in my life, and I am grateful for you every day. I dread the day, I may have to say my last goodbye, the day I may not be able to lay in your lap anymore. The day I fall and hit the floor, with no one to catch me. I can only hope I make you a proud mum, and hope that one day I will be just as good a mother with my children. For all the words I never said. I love you, Mum, more than words can say.
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by Asma Ali
BOOM!CRASH!“AAAAAAAAAH!”Everything was happening too fast, I couldn’t bear it.I’m….BOOM!CRASH!“AAAAAaaah……” 2 HOURS LATER Assalamualaikum my name is Maryam andI’m 11 years old. I have 2 brothers who are twins,named Musa and Haroon and I have 1 sister namedFatima.They were all killed with everybody else in myfamily, including my aunts and uncles with theirchildren.Everybody was killed except for me and 2 otheradults. At least, this is what I know from thePalestinian Red Crescent rescue workers who told me they were being treated in Shifa Hospital, 5minutes from the Jordanian field hospital where Iwas being treated.Allhamdulilah, I only had a few minor injuries,so I could walk to get treated at the hospital.As I entered the mass parking lot of thehospital, there were tents everywhere, as far as Icould see, reaching up to the door, evensurrounding it; leaving only a walkway big enoughfor people and ambulances to pass.The tents were made of cloth, plastic bags, etc.and even with thousands of people running orwalking around, not a single real smile were on theirfaces, only forced smiles.There were many adults and children carryingdead or injured people. I went into the hospital andall around I saw injured people, mostly children. Ilooked around, but I didn’t feel a single smile.I searched everywhere but couldn’t find anyfamily members.“Maryam!” I heard someone shout, I turnedaround to find a woman who looked familiar, but Ijust couldn’t put my finger on who she was. She rantowards me and hugged me. “Maryam how are you?” she asked lookingrelieved.“How do you know my name?” I askedsurprised.“I am a relative of yours, you might not knowme as I am a distant relative. You might have seenme in pictures. I know what happened as I was nearyour home when that happened.” She explainedcalmly then took me to a small tent, large enough for4 people made from bedsheets. I was told that thiswas going to be my home for now.2 DAYS LATER We have been living the past few days withminimum food and water supplies.We recently heard news that the Zionist Israeliarmy was going to besiege the hospital.We are getting ready to leave Shifa hospitaland go to Khan Younis. 1 WEEK LATER We reached Khan Younis 2 days ago.We are currently taking refuge in the house ofa friend of my distant relative.My distant relative’s name is Sarah and herfriend’s name is Khatija. THE NEXT MORNING BOOM!CRASH!I woke up with a jolt.“Oh no, Aunt Sarah and Aunt Khatija, where areyou?” I screamed, frightened.Aunt Sarah and Aunt Khatija came running in,we grabbed some belongings and ran out in the nickof time.BOOM! Allhamdulilah we were saved. We ran fasttowards Nasser hospital. But, on the way there wasan Israeli tank which opened fire on Palestinians.Aunt Sarah got injured and we had to carry her therewith the help of some other Gazans. A FEW HOURS LATER Aunt Sarah sadly died.Aunt Khadija gave me her ring after the funeral,said Aunt Sarah left it for me.When I wore it, I felt healed. I didn’t know whybut I found out later, the ring had the power to healpeople. But as days went by, the war got worse andthe safest place in Gaza was now Rafah.But Rafah was not spared from the bombardingand cruelty of Israel either. Aunt Khatija and Iescaped to Rafah. There, I tried to help heal peoplewith the ring. But it was verses from the Quran anddoas to Allah (SWT) that helped heal people ratherthan the ring.People recorded me healing people and put meon whatever social media app they had. I became ahope for the injured and their families.Now, after 8 months and thousands dead ormissing, I saw a glimmer of hope pass through thepeople, the very people who never separated fromtheir faith, even through the horror of war. They keptstrong and kept on trying to get closer to Allah. Theynever complained, only said this was a test fromAllah and they will pass it. People interviewed me like Bissan or Mansour.A month later I learned that some people had cometo inform Aunt Khatija that another relative of mineliving in Jordan had seen us. They sent money forus to be able to pass the border to Egypt and thenbe flown to Jordan.I left the ring in Gaza with a friend of AuntKhatija’s. She promised to continue healing peopleand not let the hope down that had surprisinglyemerged and had brought hundreds of smiles. I leftGaza the next morning but I felt like I had left myheart there, the whole flight to Jordan and evenwhen I arrived in Jordan.The war kept going on but the hope for it to endnever died.
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by Niha Ahmed
The Prophet Muhammad (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) was born 571(A.D), his father’s name was Abdullah and mother’s name was Amina.When the Prophet turned forty years old, the first revelation “The Qur’an” was revealed which is when he started givingDawah(spreading the message) to the people of Makkah about Islam and about the One True God: Allah. 🕌Some of the Prophet’s family were the first to accept Islam, among them, his beloved wife Khadijah (رضي الله عنه), his children and his cousin Ali (رضي الله عنه). Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) (the Prophet’s best friend followed by a handful of other companions who also accepted the call of Islam).Sadly, the majority of the people in Mecca rejected the call of Islam, some even started to put their efforts into stopping the spread of the divine religion, that Allah sent to illuminate all the darkness in this world. Abu Jahl, a senior member of the Quraish and one of the leaders who rejected Islam and planned to kill the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) to put an end to Islam.Allah the Almighty, the all knowing and all-seeing, commanded the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) and his companions to migrate from Mecca to a desert city namedYathribwhich later becomes known as Madinah- the city of the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ).Only after ensuring all his companions and followers safely migrated to Madinah, the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) with the permission of Allah (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) embarked on his migration to Madinah. Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه), the best friend of the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) was his companion in this migration journey. The journey later become one of the milestones in Islamic history and starting date of Islamic Calender. 🕌To start the migration journey, on that very night, Prophet Muhammad (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) followed the command of Angel Jibril and Ali (رضي الله عنه) took his place under a green blanket. Placing his complete faith in Allah (SWT), Ali knew Allah (SWT) would not forsake them.It was a very dangerous journey, as Abu Jahl placed his men in front of the house of the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) with intention to kill him and prevent his migration. The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) was protected and guided by Allah (SWT), and after performing his morning prayer, prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) picked up a bit of sand and blew it to Abu Jahl’s men, Allah (SWT) made him invisible from the killers’ team of Abu Jahl.The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ), after leaving the house safely, went to Abu Bakr’s (رضي الله عنه) place. Along with Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه), The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) took a remote route. They were very careful during their journey to keep it very secret from Abu Jahl and his team. They removed their shoes so not to leave tracks and took route not normally taken by travelers. 🕌During their journey, the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) and Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) hid in a cave outside of Macca. Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) sets an example here by showing his care and kept our beloved Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) safe from all possible dangers. After checking the cave and making sure it was free from any wild or dangerous animals, Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) let prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) in the cave. He used his own clothes to cover a hole from any venomous creatures. The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ), exhausted from the travel, laid upon Abu Bakr’s (رضي الله عنه) lap to rest. Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) got stung by a poisonous animal and a tear from Abu Bakr’s (رضي الله عنه) eye fell on the Prophet’s (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) cheek, waking him. The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) gently rubbed his own saliva onto Abu Bakr’s (رضي الله عنه) wound and slowly, the pain disappeared. The two companions stayed in the cave for three nights and never complained about discomfort or thought it was an inconvenience. Rather, Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه), all other companions and all the Muslims consider this journey one of the best events in Islam. Umar (رضي الله عنه) used to say, the good deed that Abu Bakr done for being the companion of the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) in the migration journey is heavier in scale compared to entire life of Umar (رضي الله عنه). In the Seerah, the role of Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) is unique for many reasons, his role in the migration journey is one of them.In Seerah, there are many interesting stories mentioned during the event of Prophet’s (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) migration journey. One of those is- the story of the spider web. The story goes like this- when Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) and Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) was hiding in the cave, suddenly, the pagans found the cave they were hiding in but on closer inspection, the pagans صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ a completed spiders web at the front of the cave, a sign no one had been inside for a very long time. A few threads of a spider’s web were all that were between the pagans and the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) but with the will of Allah the Almighty, the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) and Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) were safe. 🕌 Once exiting the cave, the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) looked back towards Mecca one last time. It was his home, the place he was born and where he grew up. The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) said, ” You are the most blessed land on Earth and the most beloved to me and were it not for the fact my people had expelled me, I would not have left you’’.It was very sad moment for the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) to leave Macca. Angel Jibril then appeared before the Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) with a verse from Allah (SWT) “You shall return to Mecca, have patience.” 🕌 The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) and Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) finally reached a small village outside of Quba. Its people were waiting anxiously for three days for their arrival, only returning home to seek shelter from the heat throughout the day. A Jew living in the village, spotted the travellers wearing white approaching from the outskirts then shouted at the top of the hill, ‘O People, there he is, The Prophet!’.News of their safe arrival spread like wildfire and the people of the village all hurried out of their homes to see them. The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) and Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) stayed in Quba for three days and noticed there was no space for large congregational prayers as they mostly gathered at the home of Sa’ad bin Khaithamah to pray together. The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) then decided to build the mosque – the first mosque of Islam! And its name is Masjid Quba. 🕌The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) and Abu Bakr (رضي الله عنه) then continued their journey to Medina itself, both on the back of the Prophet’s camel Qaswa. They were greeted by the people of Medina so enthusiastically. People lined the path, calling out ‘Welcome, O Prophet! Welcome!’ Young and old alike, excited for the safe arrival of the Prophet, craned their necks and sang song of welcome. The Prophet (صَلَّى اللّٰهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ) was immensely touched by this beautiful reception by the people of Medina. This is the city of the prophet, where Islam found its future… 🕌
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