I’m inspired to write about my life but feel unworthy of the words.
the only sentiment that doesn’t sentence me to guilt.
My life is full bodied flavor but insipid and insolent
at the crisis inside and outside
Torn between the goodness and content with the misery.
Dear God, I’m done with me.
I’m inspired to write about my life but feel unworthy of the words.
It’s been a while since I wrote here. There are many reasons for that. My life has been full, but that’s no excuse. My real heart reason is that I’m tired of my own words because they break my heart. All I can seem to write about in the last 2 years is Syria. My sweet Cham. How I long to be there…to smell the scent of the jasmine lining the streets…to watch children play barefoot soccer in the street….
These are the only words that come to me now- the longing for peace and sweetness in Syria- the mourning for martyrs- and the destruction of my most favorite place on God’s Earth (after Madina.)
I hope you will forgive my absence. It was not ignorant neglect that kept me from writing here- but heart break and the deep belly nausea caused by seeing too many pictures of bloody bodies strewn across the streets of my beloved Syria.
I fear for my people that this world will only watch them burn. I fear for the world that they will only watch my people burn. I fear for the souls of those who do nothing. I fear for love. We cannot be love unless we give love. My heart is broken.
Allah, Our hearts are broken for you. You’ve promised that you are with the hearts broken for your sake. Heal our broken hearts. Uplift our broken spirits. Bring victory to the oppressed. Give us sweet love, Allah. Our hearts need sweet love.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::أنا عند المنكسرة قلوبهم من أجلي:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
She turns on the water-
First too hot. too cold. good and warm.
She washes her worn hands at the kitchen sink.
The dirt of the day, down the drain.
Her hands tremble momentarily.
But she knows what stills them.
Her hands soiled with the blood of a boy.
Her spirit sullied watching his soul breathe out of his little body.
She tried to save his life.
But He died.
She thinks of his dark brown eyes.
Full of life. Then, not.
The water washes over her hands.
Violent water rushing out over her aches.
The only massage she’ll get.
She has running water, still. That’s a blessing. She thinks.
She passes her hands, one over the other.
The blood stains around her fingernails are stubborn.
The little boy.
All curly hair. Big ears. Small nose. Sweet lips. Missing teeth.
Hasbi Allah wa ni’malwakeel.
Over and over and over.
She repeats it.
It’s all that stills the tremble in her hands.
The tremble in her throat when he tells his mother that there was nothing more she could do.
Over and over.
The tightness in her heart.
The fullness in her throat.
She cleans each hand, methodically.
Under this fingernail. Then the next.
Ah. This is why Muhammad ordered them to have short nails.
Because her people would be persecuted.
They would bleed.
And blood stains.
Hands clean now. She starts to scrub the sink.
One more time with the soap and her hands.
How many more nights like this.
How much more caked on blood
blood stained hands
hands that tremble,
She turns the water off.
I’ve stopped posting things. Imam Suhaib wanted to read a poem on Syria so I thought to post it. Pray for Syria. Pray for the hurt and the hurting. Pray for health and healing. Pray for progress and peace. Pray for freedom and fortitude. Pray for courage and commitment and conviction. Pray for prayer. Pray that God accepts it all in His name, for His sake, in His way and on the path to Him. Shahada.
The opener of what was closed
opens me up
In a London flat with beloveds-
listening to qasa’id and
passing cars, crashing through puddles
visiting the righteous and
committing to get right
in my own life.
The hype in my potential is ripe.
I need only to stand tall
inside my 5ft frame
and remain steadfast
repeating His names.
Ya Latif Ya Kafy Ya Rahman Ya Wadud
Ya Ghafur Ya Samee’ Ya Shafee’ Ya Qudoos
Ya Malik Ya Salaam Ya ‘Aziz Ya Haqq
Ya Haqq Ya Haqq Ya Shaheeeeeed Ya Hayy
Ya Awwal Ya Tawwab Ya Wahid Ya Ahad Ya Noor!
There is no me
I swear it by You.
You know you
and I know no me.
You You You
Hu Hu Hu
Anta Ya Allah
I whisper into my pillow
the secrets of my sorrow
the losses and gains of
gnosis and not knowing
Pressed palms to face
closing prayers of London longing
with the praise of the Prophet
the jewel of perfection
in the cup called dunya
Love overflows in the love called Sunnah
love overcomes the one called mona
beyond names and naming
taming the torrents of this rapture
go slowly my sweet
breathe easy my beloved
swim softly and surrender
let the water take me under…
drowning in the depths of this deep-
eyes open -
hoping i’ll only sink sooner.
London is lovely-
in the whirl of singing cities-
turning out tunes like
Rabbuna Allah Allah Allah!
above pubs and clubs
in Leicester Square-
doing the work of the world
in a little room full of
hearts dancing in the Presence of God.
I love London.
and the heat of its heart.
I love London for opening
what was closed…
in the way of the Opener
of what was closed.
Upon him be prayers, praise and peace!
I tried not to write this.
I tried so hard not to write this.
Denial of destruction
that daemon haunting me.
Denial of death
that devil on tv.
I tried so hard
but I’m writing this-
it’s coming from this womb-
to this death.
I am giving in to this
giving up to this
I am being this.
I am this destruction.
I am this desperation
I am martyr
made insane with rage
clenched between my knuckles and fingers
grinding teeth – bearing into a fist
slamming full force into freedom.
I will tear open the hours of time
between milliseconds and minutes
between milk and malt liquor
between barely alive and barzakh
between physics and broken psyches
between deciding to drown in God and martyrdom
I will tear open heaven for the floods of my family
as they flee from the 7imma of Hama into heaven with their himma in Him.
I am the body of my people-
like rag doll
like my people and our story-
where is the world
how are you watching
as we fall through the strainer of this dictator straight into our graves,
being shaken out of life by a monster whose name would sear my tongue to say
They bury our bloodied bodies and when there is no more land to dig
they burn us deep into this living land.
We will not quiet down
we will not stand still.
even when burned to ash and smoke-
we will send signals into sky
prayers like gun powder in the power of The Powerful
we fight for honor
with God given valor
under this 3 starred banner
For the babies. their mothers.
their spirits dwell inside me
inside this dimashqiya
and the road to damascus
is drowning in rubble and blood.
I will climb the shrapnel mountains
to be with you.
I will swim the blood channel to
stand among you.
I am with you
I am with you
I am you.
the victory of God is near.
may the victory of God be near
I don’t know how my belly can bear to swell with any more
Victory- come close
so I can whisper my prayer in your ear
hear me now
carry my Midani men in your heart
raise the dar3awi dream -
be Homs’s friend
be Hama’s healing
be Halab’s lover
hold Idlib high in hand
victory, carry our flag
I cringe each time one of us falls
a piece of my spirit ascends to heaven
with every cry of Allahu Akbar.
My soul is trying to leave my body
with the ascension of every one of the martyred.
My heart beats coincide with the last breath
of the martyred.
They are all dead or gone-
or dead and gone-
and so I volunteer as voice-
Pray for us. Pray.
We are with you. by you. in you. By God- we are you.
ma3akum. ma3akum. ma3akum. fiddinye walakhra.
So I’ve been doing this thing recently where I ask people how their heart is. I’m loving it. I’m loving the open hearted responses. I’m loving the consciousness it engenders and the closeness it builds between our hearts. This is my new mission. I’ve seen beautiful healing begin after this question is asked. I’ve heard surprisingly candid and sincere answers. Some put their hand over their heart and close their eyes before they answer. Some take a deep breath in and look out into the distance. This is the #Heart movement. The more we understand our hearts…the more we are able to see and feel past our bodies- the more capable and compassionate human beings we can be. The question “How is your heart?” grows a cosmic consciousness between humanity- between our hearts and makes a real <3 connection—
and so friend, I ask you:
How is your heart?
Infinite peace, prayers and praise be upon the Prophet of God, Muhammad!
By the glorious morning light
and the night when it is still-
Cast away by men,
comforted by God
was this man of God.
Commanded to read when he could not read
Commanded to speak when he’d rather retreat
“Qul!” God commanded and speak he did.
Shaken by the force with which revelation came.
Painful and sweet upon him it rained.
It fell from the lips of the angel
The words of God- so urgent like danger.
Consistent this revelation came,
and Gabriel became his friend’s name.
Secretly he spoke this message
in the safe darkness at the house of Arqam.
Slowly grew the beat of tawhid’s drum.
In pain through sweat he kept his composure.
Through the threats he had true gnosis and closure.
Nothing could shake him-
nothing could move him.
Offers to put sun and moon in hands of the one
whose brightness they were molded after….
this begs for laughter.
“Cover me. Hold me” he said to his beloved,
for he knew what was to come.
she knew the solid faith he was built from.
With Lady Khadija he found sweet tender solace.
With Abu Bakr he found fraternity that was flawless.
He came to remedy Quraysh and the world of lawlessness and forgetfulness/
Remember Allah often.
Remember Allah while you stand.
Remember Allah when you sit on this aya that is land.
Remember him while you lay.
Remember Him in every way.
With your limbs, in your heart-
let nothing from this tear you apart.
sprinting into Jennat-AlFirdawsi
Ana jaleesu man thakarani…
I am with the one who remembers me..
This was the message of Muhammad.
I am a simple soul.
Slaving, striving to turn this heart back from coal into gold.
Muhammad is alive in this heart.
He dwells in the praise of him that is art.
Mosaic coming together for God’s pleasure.
Arrangements orchestrated by Muhammad-
the noble craftsman of hearts.
He saw past pieces-
saw collaborative unity.
Unity in diversity-
not in a stifling uniformity.
Red next to purple and pink.
All shades of rays of sun-
Ayas to make people think.
Easing people into easy fikr.
Unmasking releasing beautiful latent thikr
Like how he chose his inner circle-
guided by how maybe red can compliment purple.
This is an ode-
An epistle to my apostle:
You are the medicine that was never bitter.
You are the remedy that was never better.
Ya tabibi ya habibi
Ya dawa’i ya shifaa’i
Ya anisi ya unsi
Ya qudwati ya uswati
My dearest one,
God is curing me of every malady.
You are the remedy.
Upon you are the always accepted salah.
I bear witness that you are indeed the messenger of Allah.
You live on in my heart and in my head.
And that is why
I call out
AlMadad ya Sayyidi ya Muhammad!
It seems like just yesterday when I lamented at Ramadan coming to a close, and now here I am- at the almost half way mark of a new Rama[dawn] (get it? man. oh man. I’m punny! ha! okay, dork alert. whatever.)
The emptying process of the heart is hard. I’m listening for the whispers of how to continue – the how to keep going. inspiration.
It feels like a big ice cream scooper has been taken to my insides. a really big one. scooping it all out. scraping out all the edges – all the nooks and crannies.
Allah has said be-
and so I am.
and now it feels like I hear:
be nothing. no one.
to become everything- everyone.
I’ve stopped swimming.
I’ve given up floating.
I am deep sea diving.
dangerously driven and oxygen deprived-
to be close to the water.
to become water.
the goal is where I already am.
While the world is at war
we sleep soundly in america
far in land of the free
home of the brave.
when syrians starve
and freedom is all their bellies crave.
it is every free person’s duty
to bring freedom’s beauty
to every seeking bit of soil
why then do we merely watch syria toil
and claim to be bringers of freedom…
but only if you have oil…
your paradisiacal shorelines
and ambitious infrastructure
never had a chance
your president made sure
to keep your beauty impure
so he would be the only one
who would ever want you
the only one who could ever
he kept you ugly, and in the dark
so that no one else would want you.
so that one one would even want to help you.
My Sweet Syria. Land of the Coming of Christ.
and JESUS CHRIST
I wish you would come now
for the anti christ has come to shore.
they call him bashar
i call him naffar
I call on ALLAH in the face of this modern day pharaoh
and i’m callin out this false idol
ya wailak ya Naffar
3am ti2til likbar wizghar
ya qatil alatfal-
Allahumma ya qahhar
ya 3aziz ya jabbar
3alayka bi bashhar
3alayka bi hadhal naffar
hadhal dhalim YA sattar
ustur 3ala baladna
Bashar the butcher,
Cant wait for the day your name comes true
cant wait for the day our brave lions eat you
cant wait for those day glad tidings accrue
the day our bravehearts will prove to you
that you really are a fool for not believing you are already through
dignity would be that i don’t address you
because i am a lady but let me put it plainly
because today is the day we all knew would come
today is the day that you pigs are through
today is the day we oust you.
today is the day freedom reigns true
today is the day the hypocrites lose
today is the day we choose to refuse any more abuse
today is the day the civilian turns his mind to martyrdom
rather than live another day in your unjust kingdom
today is the day he reached the end of my fuse
today is the day you made sure he had nothing left to lose
That’s your dead brother’s lady
pregnant with the baby of the man who murdered him
800 raped in homs alone
the worlds silence condones these atrocities
death and destruction in every city
this isn’t a syrian issue
this is human
this is i want to hold you human
bless you warm you kiss you
wipe your hurt away with your sister human tissue.
little boys tortured and raped
littles girls running for turkish borders, enemy lines, suicide
anything to escape
while russia and china patrol the gates
sure to wrap everyone up in their red tape
so every little wound is fatal
the child cries out
aroo7 li meen
wi 2ool ya meen yinsifni minnak
to whom shall i go?
to whom shall i complain to?
when my father is dead at my doorstep
and my mother has been enslaved for sex.
and i cry out ohh who will give me my justice from you?
Who will gather my fragmented heart
who will help me when I fall apart?
Who will turn my father’s spilled blood into art?
who will tell this story from the start?
who will embrace my message and do their part?
You are my hope, my joy
I am just a little boy
childhood they have destroyed
so now i am a man of the revolution
but in these small hands i have no solution
i have only tears to wash away my sister’s hurt
with only more hurt
all my sisters and brothers
fallen fighting for freedom and honor
giving everything fighting harder
giving their lives so that i might have the chance
to stand taller than they could in life
so that i wouldn’t be stifled by oppression
i am orphaned for freedom
she has become my mother
she is my warm my will my survival skill.
hope in her is all i have.
my mother khansaa said
what good is it to raise a child
who will not stand up for what is right?
courage in great stock
men like mountains
in spite of geo political grid lock
wet with the souls of martyrs
Cousins in dar3a-
you were the first dam3a
that fell from this sama
that opened the sky and prophetic flood
noah and moses
floods and pharoahs
graves and roses.
spears and arrows
deep and desperate-
your time is now.
15 thousand dead
fifty five thousand detained.
this is raw. yes. this is real yes.
heart sinking when we see the bombs and the bruises.
the blood and the babies. Body bags. raving mad.
seeing red. what is left to be said. support syria. support freedom.
Pray. Allah Sooriya Hurriya o bas.
bes ya 2elbi bes.