A Reflection on Dua Arafah and the Immaculate Tawhid of Imam Hussain (as)

When I sit down to write about my favorite muses, poets, artists, and thinkers, my ink flows freely, but when I write the name ‘Hussain’, my pen falters and all language feels insufficient. In Dua Arafah, Imam Hussain (as) asks God how he could ever repay Him for the infinite blessings He has given him, but the heart of the lover asks God: how could we ever thank You for giving us Hussain?

As I listen to Dua Arafah each year, I am struck by a painful realization: each of the body parts Imam Hussain swears by in this dua were trampled and destroyed beyond recognition on the day of Ashura. It is as if he swore his unconditional submission to God on the day of Arafah, then sealed that oath on the 10th of Muharram by sacrificing every inch of himself in absolute totality. Has anyone ever fulfilled a oath so thoroughly? Has any expression of love for the Beloved ever resonated so powerfully? Not only did Imam Hussain safeguard the path of tawhid with his blood and the blood of his children, he gave us an immortal blueprint by which to navigate that path, no matter how far or how often we stray.

The depth of the tawhid expressed in this dua fills me with shame and absolute awe. I find it hard to listen to without pausing to allow certain lines to sink in and weave their way into the fabric of my flawed heart. My mind tries to imagine these words uttered by the same tongue that recited Surah Kahf from atop a spear; the thought leaves me breathless. As Imam Hussain thanks God for the cartilage of his ribs, I think of the moment on Ashura when his ribs were audibly crushed beneath the hooves of the enemy’s horses. As he thanks God for the cord of his aorta and the lines on his forehead, I think of the lines in Ziyarat Nahiya when the 12th Imam (atf) sends his greetings upon the one whose aorta was severed; the one whose forehead bore the sweat of death as he fell to the ground, covered in wounds, casting a final glance toward the tents of his beloved family.

The gratitude professed by Imam Hussain in Dua Arafah is not a detached, ritualistic gratitude; it is a gratitude encased in all-encompassing submission, reflecting a depth of God-consciousness in which the Imam unequivocally lays bare his absolute nothingness before God’s absolute greatness. As he conveys his thanks for every physical and existential blessing, it is as if Imam Hussain is saying, “each of these blessings came from You, everything that I am belongs to You, and when it pleases You most, I will gladly sacrifice every trace of this self solely for Your pleasure.” The martyrdom of Imam Hussain on Ashura is a culmination of the secret he shared in Dua Arafah; the climax of the totality of submission in which the lover sees only the Beloved and completely ceases to see himself.

The humility and God-consciousness expressed in this dua reimmerses me in the gravity of who Imam Hussain was: the beloved grandson of the Holy Prophet (pbuh), the child of Ali (as) and Fatima (as), the prince of the youth of Paradise, the one whose cradle became a means of healing for the angels, the one whose grave remains a place of healing and renewal for his lovers, one of the sanctified Ahl al Kisa for whom the universe was created, the lamp of eternal guidance, and the one who exemplified tawhid in a manner that shattered the throne of falsehood forever. Over a thousand years later, Imam Hussain (as) remains one of the rarest secrets from among the secrets of God. Our understanding of him is like an unfinished conversation that the soul becomes awash in year after year.

x r

Moments of Transcendence: A Lover’s Reflections on Ziyarat-e Ashura

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On the eve of the 10th of Muharram, i sit for a while to listen to Ziyarat-e Ashura, and i suddenly feel like i’m experiencing it for the very first time in my existence. It’s as if every word has come alive and is sprouting within my heart; every expression of love and every expression of dissimulation suddenly feels like a living entity. The intense duality of these contrasting sentiments shakes my soul awake, surging through my veins with an electric fervor. I am still vaguely aware of my body and its relationship with the material plane, but my consciousness feels diffused into an understanding far deeper and far greater than its own feeble parameters. For a few moments, i feel as if i’m experiencing this ziyarah through the consciousness of a heart beyond my own. I don’t dare name the owner of this heart or this greater consciousness, but his wilayah reigns over my being with such force in these moments that i feel momentarily lost within him, like a tiny rivulet of water consumed by a purified river.

As the ziyarah continues, i feel an unnameable ecstasy at the unfamiliarity of the wavelength that has suddenly pulled my soul into its orbit, coupled with an awed sense of grief at the enormity of Imam Hussain- his suffering and his beauty, his grace and his immeasurable glory. This awe then shifts into an ever-deepening awe at the Creator of Imam Hussain, and for a few moments, my heart feels traces of the ancient awe my forefather Adam (as) must have felt when he spoke the names of the Ahlul Kisa (as) and sought Divine mercy through them. As i recite the lines of tawassul contained within this ziyarah, i feel as if i’m treading in Adam’s footsteps, seeking the love of my Creator through the love of the beings He most loves.

As my heart circles around the precipice of love for the King of Martyrs, i understand why i’m experiencing this ziyarah through a heart beyond my own. My own heart- endlessly mired in multiplicity, distraction, ignorance, and sin- could never handle this depth of understanding if left to its own devices; my consciousness would implode if it spent more than a moment trying to reflect on the greatness of my Imam. This borrowed awareness is only mine for a few moments, but it strikes me that this must be the daily, recurring experience of the many great scholars who revisit this ziyarah every day and night, habitually renewing their hearts by the light of each line. In these moments, i come to understand it not merely as a time-honored tradition, but as a timeless encapsulation of Tawhid that contains endless layers both visible and hidden. It also reminds me that true faith is a synthesis of both love and hate; that the vanquishing of batil is as sacred as the upholding of haqq- and this is one of the central tenets of Imam Hussain’s final stand in Karbala.

It has been said that Sayyid Ali Qadhi once appeared in Agha Bahjat’s dream and informed him that if he could make sure to do one thing in his life, he would recite Ziyarat e Ashura twice on a daily basis. The first time i heard this story, i was perplexed. We’ve been blessed with no shortage of exquisite duas and ziyaraat; what sets this particular supplication above the rest in the eyes of our greatest scholars? As i ponder this question now, minute traces of understanding begin to enter my heart. The sacrifices Imam Hussain made on the day of Ashura fourteen hundred years ago were essential for the preservation of Tawhid until the end of time. Were it not for him, all of humankind would have been deprived of the opportunity to know God as He wishes to be known- through the pure, unadulterated truth of His religion. So in a manner of speaking, the preservation of every act of ibadah- including all other supplications, ziyaraat, etc- can be linked back to Ashura and its aftermath. Were it not for Imam Hussain and his blessed family and companions, Islam as we know it would have been fundamentally altered beyond recognition, and worship in all its forms would’ve been irreparably corrupted, rendering Truth inaccessible.

Every time i stop to ponder the meaning of each line, chills run down my spine. Can i genuinely claim to mean any of what i’m saying? Do my actions reflect a commitment to the things i’m asking for, or do they make me a partisan of the very men i’m cursing? Am i at war with Hussain’s enemies, or am i at war with the principles he gave his life for? This consideration makes me waver for a few moments, and a flicker of doubt within my heart insists that this ziyarah is beyond the grasp of an imperfect soul like mine. Yet every time i speak the name Hussain, hopelessness becomes an impossibility. Hussain was the one who liberated the likes of Hur (as), the one who continued to invite his enemies toward redemption until his final moments despite the manifold cruelties they inflicted. Hussain was the one who repeatedly offered Paradise to the ones who broke his heart, who sought to guide even the ones who massacred his loved ones and wounded him beyond recognition. Hussain was and is the finite gateway to the infinitude of Divine mercy, a mortal conduit that reunites a seeker’s sinful heart with the Divine love it most deeply craves.

As the ziyarah ends, i marvel at the paradox of Imam Hussain’s wujud; no one in history has experienced a tragedy like his, yet the utterance of his name fills my heart with an immediate sense of tranquility and bliss. I find this strange, and yet it makes perfect sense; the Nafsul Mutmainna doesn’t just encompass itminaan within himself, he radiates it to every soul imbued with his love. This is why every worldly grief, concern, and pain leaves us the moment we sit in a gathering commemorating him, and why even the most lost souls find such profound solace in his aza- the heart forgets everything the moment it remembers Hussain.

x r

Author’s note: if this piece of writing moves you to recite Ziyarat e Ashura, please send some of the blessings to the soul of my beloved brother, Ammar Zaidi, and as a gift to the Imam of our time- may he be pleased with us ❤

The Audacity of Zakariya: A Reflection on Human Vulnerability & the Art of Dua

January 2, 2024August 18, 2024 ~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

بِسْمِ ٱللَّٰهِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ

While engaging in a bit of Qur’anic reflection some time ago, I was struck by the unique tenderness of a story that melts my heart and deepens my affection for Allah (swt) every time I think about it. This story finds us at the beginning of Surah Maryam- it’s the tale of Prophet Zakariya (as) and the miraculous birth of Yahya (as). When I was younger, I would often rush past this part of Surah Maryam without much reflection, but I recently found myself awash in awe when I realized how profoundly full of love, tenderness, and patience the dialogue between Prophet Zakariya (as) and God is.

In the fourth verse of Surah Maryam, Zakariya (as) begins with a humbly expressed dua to God, in which he asks God to grant him a child despite his old age. The first line Zakariya utters in his dua is immediately disarming in its humility: he speaks of the brittleness of his bones and the whiteness of his hair- an impassioned expression of vulnerability that brings to mind one of the most beautiful lines in Dua Kumayl. Many of the duas of our Prophets and Imams (as) contain similar admissions of physical weakness and vulnerability, and these lines are always strikingly visceral in nature. In the warrior-centric cultures of antiquity, nothing was likely seen as a greater measure of a man’s value than his physical strength. For a man in such an environment to defy this standard and humble himself- while openly highlighting his physical weaknesses- is a deeply compelling, powerful gesture.

Immediately after acknowledging his physical limitations, Zakariya concludes his dua by uttering a line that I find both heart-wrenchingly beautiful and clever: “I have never been disappointed in my prayer to You” (19:4; this statement beautifully parallels a similar line uttered by Prophet Ibrahim (as) in verse 47). One can tell by the sincerity of Zakariya’s tone that this isn’t a calculated utterance, but it happens to be a brilliantly constructed statement, as if inspired by God Himself. Just as Barkh, during the time of Prophet Musa (as), suggested that it would be unbecoming of God’s greatness not to grant the Israelites water, Zakariya points out that God has always satisfied him in every dua- as if hinting that it would only make sense for God to continue meeting that high standard. A simpler reading of this statement might be that it simply speaks to the magnitude of Zakariya’s high opinion of God. When complimenting someone, praising them for a single action once is a commonplace gesture, but praising them for consistently embodying a quality (in this case, God’s responsiveness) reveals a much deeper level of intimacy, where the one doing the praising signifies that they have noticed and appreciated every instance of a virtue. The line also speaks to the depth of Zakariya’s trust in God. For Zakariya to make a seemingly impossible dua- while acknowledging God’s generosity in the very same breath- indicates that his trust in God’s generosity is literally boundless, as if he places more confidence in God’s will than in the limitations of the material world (or does he? 🤨 we’ll examine this part next.)

After Zakariya concludes his heartfelt dua, the angels respond in the affirmative, and give him the good news: his dua will be answered with the birth of a blessed son named Yahya (19:7). Now comes the part that secretly made me laugh the first time I tried to picture it: in this moment, any ordinary person in Zakariya’s shoes would’ve likely fallen to the floor in gratitude, performed two rakaat of shukr, and wept tears of joy at having their biggest dua answered, then ended the conversation there- for if God is literally confirming that your dua will be granted, what more is there to say? Instead, Zakariya’s immediate response is beautifully human: he perplexedly asks God how such a thing could happen (19:8), considering his wife’s barrenness and his old age (note: as Allamah Tabatabai points out in al Mizan, Zakariya’s words should not be read as an indication of doubt, but might better be understood as an expression of astonishment, or a desire for clarification). If you really want to fall in love with God, pause for a moment and imagine this scenario playing out amongst ordinary human beings: imagine that a beggar comes to your door, pleading for something as if his life depends on it. Imagine that you immediately respond by assuring that you’ll grant him that thing- but instead of thanking you, he poses a counter-argument about why it doesn’t seem logically plausible for you to grant his request. Many mortal beings would likely become frustrated and rethink their generosity, but here we witness God’s kindness in all its unsheathed glory- instead of scolding Zakariya, God validates his concern and responds to it graciously, assuring him that his dua will indeed be granted, as it is easy for God to grant it (19:9).

God concludes His response by gently reminding Zakariya of his smallness- pointing out that Zakariya was nothing before God created him- yet even this reminder reads like an objective statement of fact; it contains no evident hint of anger or displeasure. It’s also a beautiful instance of human logic being met with Divine logic- Zakariya’s question hints at the evident limitations posed by the laws of nature, and God responds by reminding him that the laws of nature don’t apply to His will. Given the gentleness of God’s response to Zakariya, my subjective human impression is that it almost seems as if the openly expressed surprise of Zakariya is more beloved to God than the conventional gratitude of a normal human being. I don’t have the knowledge or authority to make a definitive assertion about why this might be the case, but I can’t help but think back to the story of Barkh and Musa (as), and the way the sincerity and informality of Barkh’s manner of speaking to God was beloved to Him in a way that astonished even the lofty consciousness of Musa. In addition to their unwavering obedience of God’s laws, a common thread between both men is how intimately and vulnerably they spoke to God- without pretension, without formality or inhibition; with an almost childlike innocence that reflected the true reality of what they were genuinely thinking and feeling. This manner of rawness bespeaks absolute trust and honesty with the Beloved; it is only after the cultivation of true intimacy that a lover can let his or her guard down so absolutely.

God’s lenient reply is then followed by even more boldness on the part of Zakariya- instead of ending the conversation by thanking God for both the blessing and the reassurance, Zakariya goes one step further and asks God for a sign (19:10). And beautifully, God once again affirms his request, immediately disclosing what the sign will be. This is the part of their dialogue that I find especially mesmerizing, because Zakariya’s repetitive asking evokes such a departure from the way we are typically conditioned to approach God. We are often raised to speak to God with the utmost fear and formality, and to make requests of Him sparingly, as if we subconsciously believe that we are doing Him a disservice or are inconveniencing Him by asking Him to grant us what we want. What Zakariya understood was something many of us hesitate to accept: it is in the nature of the Most Generous Giver to love giving; His grace is eternally seeking a recipient, even more than the recipient is seeking His grace.

Though the dialogue between God and Zakariya is clearly not one of equals- as the Necessary Being elegantly reminds the contingent being of his contingency in the previous verse- it is certainly and undeniably encased in mutual tenderness and love. God responds to Zakariya’s dua lovingly, responds to his incredulity lovingly, and responds to his request for a sign lovingly, making it abundantly clear how much it pleases Him to please the ones He loves. This is the very reality that was highlighted by Lady Maryam (as) in 3:37, which was the initial catalyst that inspired Zakariya to make his dua. God’s sweetness to Zakariya is at once intoxicating and awe-inspiring- how could even the most wayward sinner not retain hope in such a kind and patient Creator?

Of course, the story doesn’t end there. What Zakariya does immediately after this conversation is highly significant, because it reveals to us one of the many reasons God loves him so deeply. After being guaranteed the fulfillment of his deepest wish, Zakariya’s first act is to go to his people and encourage them to glorify God morning and night (19:11). Zakariya could have simply kept his appreciation of God to himself; he could have privately engaged in adhkar and tasbih to thank God, and left it at that. Instead, he did what every true lover does- he encouraged widespread praise and worship of his Beloved, wanting to share the blessing of his Beloved’s love with everyone around him. In this moment, I am reminded of Nizami’s Majnun and the openness of his love for Layla- instead of loving Layla from the quiet privacy of his room, Majnun made the entire world a temple of his love for her, wanting every heart to awaken to the beauty of Layla. Not unlike Majnun, Zakariya’s intoxicated heart isn’t satisfied with confining God’s beauty within its own chambers- the grateful lover immediately rushes to draw other hearts toward Him, too.

This final act of Zakariya also signifies a beautiful contrast between the beginning and ending of this story- when Zakariya first makes his request, verse 3 of Surah Maryam notes that he calls out to God in secret. Zakariya’s preference for secrecy in the beginning reminds me of the beautiful prophetic etiquette expressed by Prophet Yaqub (as) in verse 86 of Surah Yusuf; God’s most intimate lovers reserve the expression of their anguishes and needs to Him in private. But at the end of the story, when God fulfills Zakariya’s need, Zakariya makes his gratitude a public affair- this echoes another beautiful prophetic etiquette found in verse 11 of Surah Duha, in which God encourages Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) to proclaim His blessings.

If you’re reading this, may Allah (swt) grant all of your hajaat in the most beautiful of ways. If this writing was of any benefit, please pray for the maghfirah and elevation of the young marhumeen of our community, especially Khurram Ali, Murtaza Rizvi, and Rubab Raza, may Allah (swt) grant their loved ones sabr. Please also pray for the freedom of Br. Ali Danial Hemani, and the miraculous recovery of Sr. Tasneem Amin and Sr. Nehmat Farhat.

& please remember this sinful lover in your duas 🙂 ❤

x r

A Love Letter to Masjid e Kufa

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When I was younger, I often felt a deep-seated longing to go ‘home’, a place I could never quite explain or point to on a map. I only knew that I had an eternal restlessness within that never seemed answerable. Year after year, it only seemed to grow. The ‘home’ I yearned for was a place that would instantly feel right, where my soul would feel at peace and the permanent disquiet of my heart would vanish.

When I set foot in Masjid e Kufa for the first time, I felt like I had finally found the home I had been searching for my entire life. As I looked down at the gleaming white tiles of the courtyard and up at the darkening sky above me, I felt a familiarity and comfort that I’d never found anywhere before. And for the first time in my life, I felt deeply, unspeakably complete. As our guide told us about the many events that had taken place there, one in particular struck a chord with me: it was the place where the angel Jibrail (as) had taught Prophet Adam (as) how to perform tawbah, and where Allah (swt) had accepted his tawbah. I suddenly understood why this place felt so much like home: it was a symbol of man’s reunion with God; a place of return to Him after ghaflah.

Before entering the masjid itself, we walked through the adjoining home that was once the residence of Amirul Mumineen (as) and his family. As I pondered the greatness of the beings who had once lived and walked there, my heart filled with a depth of awe that left no room for language. I walked through the house with bated breath, my shoulder against the wall as I thought of Lady Ummul Baneen (as) and imagined the holy footsteps of the Imams treading the same narrow hallways I was passing through. My mind could hardly keep pace with the feelings surging in my heart; no amount of reverence or gratitude could ever do justice to where I was. My sense of smallness and impurity made me want to run away and never return, while my sense of love made me want to stop time and remain there forever. When I finally entered the courtyard of the masjid, it felt like time had started again and I was back in the familiar world I knew, albeit an impossibly peaceful corner of it.

One of my favorite memories of Masjid e Kufa- one that still leaves me wandering there in the corridors of my imagination- was the experience of listening to the munajaat of Imam Ali (as). To hear the exquisite words of one of the most beloved lovers of God- in the very place where he made his final sajdah before returning to his Beloved- was so powerful, it was almost too much for me to bear. I felt like my heart would either burst or take flight. As my soul reveled in the beauty of the lover’s conversation with his Beloved, I felt as though an invisible thread transcending centuries was briefly connecting my heart with that of my master.

Though a thousand letters could never do it justice, I pray that every living soul gets to visit Masjid-e Kufa at least once. It is a place of profound spiritual power and an emblem of our shared human history. So many critical chapters of the human narrative unfolded here, and so many more remain to be seen. If I live long enough, I pray that I might be lucky enough to see the grand masjid fulfill the last of its many roles: as the heart of the government of the awaited Imam Mahdi (atf).

x r

Ali and Fatima: A Reflection on the Greatest Love

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In all the pages of history, I am convinced that no man has ever loved a woman the way Imam Ali (as) loved Lady Fatima (as). He felt her pain so deeply, he built Bayt al Ahzan, a secluded place for her to grieve for her father. Every year during Fatimiyyah, I weep for the Lion of God, who single-handedly lifted the gate of Khaybar, yet let out a cry of anguish when he saw the broken body of his beloved wife. This is the strength of the strongest of men: to feel the utmost tenderness at the pain of his beloved. My heart aches when I think of the loneliness of Ali after the loss of the only woman who understood him, the one whose soul was a perfect match for his. Every time he returned from battle, the mere sight of Fatima’s face dulled the pain of every wound. Every time the betrayal of his enemies pained his heart, the voice of Fatima brought him endless consolation and relief.

When Imam Ali said that he would not worship a Lord he had not seen, I find myself thinking about the tangible realities that surrounded him like finite reflections of his Lord. Though the spiritual insight of Ali needed no external stimulus, I wonder if every love his heart contained was simply another facet of his awareness of God- especially his love for Fatima. When he looked at her face, did he find himself looking at one of the most luminous, evident signs of God? And when he wept upon losing her, did part of his weeping come from the pain of burying one of the most radiant manifestations of his Creator? Though the absence of Fatima would not have affected his awareness of God any more than the wilting of a flower could affect the reality of spring, how comforting must it have been for Ali’s beloved to be a ray reflecting the beauty of his Beloved. If the Holy Prophet (pbuh) would smell Fatima every time he wished to inhale the scent of Paradise, I can only imagine what realities became manifest in every moment that Ali spent with Fatima. She was the flower from Paradise whose fragrance perfumed his mind, the radiant fountain from which eleven streams of guidance flowed. She was the highest testament to the eloquence, beauty, intellect, and sublime dignity of a woman. Who but Ali could be worthy of such a love? And who but Ali could have the patience to endure the loss of such a love?

As I commemorate his shahadat, I think about the resonance of the greatest love the universe has ever seen. As creation mourns the loss of the lion of God, the heavens will soon be illuminated with the reunion of two souls in perfect harmony with each other.

x r

A Love Letter to Sahifa e Sajjadiya

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When I was a precocious teenager with a love of staying up all night to read about philosophy, mysticism, and religion, I would often find myself knee-deep in a diverse sea of concepts and belief systems, and I would wonder: in a world of so many varying perspectives- each with its own share of profundity, wisdom, and spiritual resonance- how could I presume that my faith of choice was the absolute truth? How could I be certain that I wasn’t allowing my personal biases and inclinations to dictate my spiritual beliefs?

At age 15, I fell in love with a book that gave me a deeper certainty of my path than anything I’d ever tasted before: Sahifa e Sajjadiya. From the moment I began to read the beautiful supplications therein, I felt certain that the man who had uttered these words had known God more deeply than any philosopher, scholar, sage, or mystic I had ever come across in all my years of secular study. I had been captivated by the brilliant insights of Plato and Descartes, the mesmerizing poetry of Hafiz, and the timeless wisdom of Lao Tzu, but the eloquent perfection of Imam Zain al Abideen’s connection with God left me breathless. The beauty of his supplications left room in my heart for just one unrelenting, permanent desire: to know God more deeply. I wanted to learn to speak to God as Imam Sajjad (as) did; as though He were the most intimate of all lovers, the most beloved of all friends, the most revered of all confidants. I wanted to trust God more deeply than I trusted myself, to learn to rely on Him in every aspect of my existence.

The first time I learned the meaning of the name ‘Zain al Abideen’ as a child, I felt perplexed; surely every member of the Ahlulbayt (as) could be regarded as ‘the beauty of the worshipers’, what set Imam Sajjad apart? Though this question has been explored by those with infinitely more knowledge and depth than myself, my heart blooms with fresh understanding every time I weep for the masaib of Imam Sajjad in Karbala, Kufa, Shaam, and Medina. The worship of a man who has lived a life of peace and ease is mere worship. The worship of a man who has witnessed the horrors Imam Sajjad endured, remained alive for forty years to grieve the memory of these pains, and yet never wavered in the depth of his love for God, is a degree of worship that must leave even the angels speechless.

Like many, I am moved beyond words every time I think of the immortal utterance of Lady Zainab (as) in the courtyard of Yazid: “I saw nothing but beauty.” But while Lady Zainab was the literal embodiment of this statement, Imam Sajjad was its living, breathing tafsir. The faith of a flagrant sinner like myself is a wave that perpetually ebbs and flows; the slightest grief or disturbance can cause a tempest or a drought. But the God-consciousness of Imam Sajjad was like a steady ocean with no discernible floor; even in the face of circumstances that would shatter the strongest of men, he remained deeply, profoundly in love with God, and no pain in the universe could ever distract him from this love- it was the very essence of his soul.

The 70th surah of the Holy Qur’an, Al Ma’arij, contains a verse that is often noted for its beauty: “so be patient, with a beautiful patience.” When I reflect on this verse, my mind wanders to the life of my beloved fourth Imam. To have ordinary patience is to merely endure pain; to have beautiful patience is to alchemize pain into a boundless, unceasing awareness of God. ‘Beautiful patience’ means that one has learned to view every moment of suffering as yet another reason to love and thank God; to view grief as a means to worship Him in a manner that bespeaks a level of gratitude and trust that is completely immune to circumstance. It is in light of this definition that I understand one of the Imam’s best-known titles: Sayyid us Sajideen. Sajdah is the ultimate expression of one’s submission to the will of Allah (swt); it is the literal and metaphorical lowering of the self to bear witness to the greatness of God. Imam Sajjad’s frequent prostrating was not merely a physical act he repeated at every opportunity; it was a testament to the nature of his lifelong relationship with God, wherein he viewed himself as nothing but an ‘abd of Allah, and viewed Allah as the sole Master to whom he owed unlimited gratitude, loyalty, love, and obedience.

In closing, I’d like to share the most beautiful line from one of my favorite duas in the Sahifa, the Whispered Prayer of the Lovers:

“My God, who can have tasted the sweetness of Your love, then wanted another in place of You?”

x r

The Lover of Isa (as): A Reflection on the Night of Power

April 13, 2023 ~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

There’s a beautiful Sufi saying i read once- i can’t remember the exact phrasing, but it was something along the lines of, “i overheard one conversation in the bazaar, and a hundred doors of wisdom opened within me.”

Many years ago, i experienced something akin to the magic invoked in that saying. It was the eve of the 23rd of Ramadhan, and my mom and i stopped by her Christian best friend’s house to drop off some food. Just before she left, my mom mentioned to her friend, “tonight is a very powerful night, so you should pray.” Without missing a beat, my mom’s friend immediately responded, “ok, i will.”

I don’t know why, but the swiftness of her reply- and the absolute sincerity in her voice as she responded- had a profound effect on my heart that still lingers to this day. She didn’t pause to think about it, or begrudge the fact that it was a suggestion rooted in a faith that was different than hers; it was as if she was instinctively ready to embrace any opportunity to worship God a little more. Many years have passed, but i still marvel at the beauty of that moment every time i think about it. It was just a fleeting sentence, but the quickness with which she said “i will” contained a fascinating spiritual lesson for me. In that one simple moment, she embodied the peak of what God wants from us: the beautiful sense of inner urgency that makes us say yes to any opportunity to get closer to Him- without hesitation, without any permutation of logic or evaluation of circumstance; just a genuine, sincere, intuitive “yes” that comes as naturally as breathing when we truly love Him. Reflecting on it now, i’m reminded of the beautiful phrase repeatedly found in the adhan and iqamah; “hayya ‘ala”- “hasten to”. While patience is essential in most areas of life, love and worship necessitate urgency, because the benefit of what one stands to gain is such that haste becomes the only sensible reaction.

In its deepest essence, this is what Divine love does: it magnetizes the soul to rush toward every opportunity for a deeper connection with the Beloved. It makes God such an absolute focal point, rationalization is rendered unnecessary the moment He comes into the picture, and the heart reflexively leads the cacophonous mind and tired body toward His light.

That night also made me think about the way the energy of the Night of Power can be intuitively felt by all living beings, regardless of creed. Throughout the month of Ramadhan, i often find that nature feels more vividly alive, as if every form of creation is engaging in a deeper level of ibadah. This difference is especially palpable on Laylatul Qadr- everything from the wind to the moon and stars seem to beautify themselves so as to attest to the greatness of their Creator; there’s a quiet pride in the atmosphere, and a dormant bliss in the sky that moves the soul to worship the moment one steps outside. It’s as if the air itself bears the fragrance of Divine mercy, as if God is as restless to forgive us as we are to beseech Him.

If you’re reading this, may God fulfill your every hajaat in the most beautiful of ways tonight; please keep me in your duas as well ❤

x r

The Worship of a Child: A Reflection on Laylatul Qadr

Featured ~ Rubab ~ 2 Comments

On Laylatul Qadr a few years ago, my most powerful moment of spiritual insight came from my friend’s four year old son.

Halfway through the night, I chose a quiet corner so I could begin the lengthy night prayer. My young friend followed and decided he wanted to pray with me. He didn’t know the words, but quietly matched my movements perfectly. After the completion of each set of rakaats, I glanced over and smiled at him, expecting him to be bored or tired, but he stood back up each time with an enthusiasm that put me to shame. The world of a typical four-year-old is full of color, excitement, and an endless array of distractions, but on this night, my young friend stood with me to pray as if it was the greatest delight in the world. I found myself torn between awe of my Creator and awe of this tiny, exuberant child whose single-minded worship left me speechless.

When I reflected on his behavior later, his actions got me thinking about the evolving nature of a believer’s heart, and the innate joy we feel as children every time we connect with the One who made us. As children, we aren’t yet burdened by a sense of unworthiness, hopelessness, or insurmountable fear… There is no worldliness, self-doubt, or negativity within us yet that places an imaginary distance between us and God. Our awareness of Him is inherent, inescapable, unspoken- it lives within us like a foregone conclusion, and we have no separation from it. When we pray to God as children, we haven’t yet learned to think of any reason why He wouldn’t answer our prayers- we speak to Him with the absolute conviction that He will, because all we know is that He is the Giver, and this knowledge is sufficient for us to trust that He will give. We approach worship with the same joy and lightness that we approach playtime. In our purity and innocence, worship simply feels like another form of play for us.

As children, we don’t yet know how to ponder our own worthiness or unworthiness; we are cognizant only of Allah’s greatness. Something it has taken me a lifetime time to grasp is that self-doubt isn’t an egoless state; it’s a state in which the imaginary fears of the ego are actually overtaking us. To be truly egoless, the way a child is, means that we don’t even begin to evaluate our place in the equation; all there is is God and His greatness. If I truly think about it, isn’t this the kind of steady, tranquil worship that enables a man to utter ‘Bismillah’ and walk across a body of water? If we truly want to taste the sweetness of worship, perhaps the secret lies in teaching ourselves to see God with the unblemished reverence of a child.

x r

A Tale of Two Strangers in Najaf: A Reflection on Human Tenderness

April 23, 2022January 19, 2023 ~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

When I went to ziyarat a few years ago, there was a period of time in Najaf when my heart ached because of the way people behaved. Every time I tried to visit the interior of the shrine, I was shoved, elbowed, and choked, as many people were violently aggressive in their attempts to reach the zari. On a particularly rough day, I felt disheartened because of the principle of the matter: how was it that we could be gathered in one of the holiest cities in the world, to honor one of the greatest men who had ever lived, only to treat each other so poorly? The more I thought about it, the more I felt a childish surge of anger that distracted me from experiencing the pleasure of that sublime place.

Later that night, I went back to the shrine of Imam Ali (as) and moved several times because of the crowd. I finally found a peaceful spot and settled down to pray next to two women. As I finished the prayer and sat down to recite some duas, the woman sitting next to me said salaam with a huge smile, hugged me, and began complimenting me in a mixture of broken English and Farsi. She kept praising the way I worshiped, touched my face and told me I was beautiful, kissed my cheeks, and praised me again and again for simply doing what millions of people were there to do. There was no hint of shyness or reserve in the love she expressed; it was as if she were an old friend I’d run into after a lengthy separation. The sweetness of her behavior melted my heart and flooded me with awe. She told her companion about me and the other woman hugged and kissed me as well, and both women enveloped me in the warmest, kindest energy I’d ever encountered from strangers. A while after they left, I remembered how uneasy I’d been feeling before, and it occurred to me that it couldn’t have been a coincidence that I had ended up sitting next to them. It struck me that my master Amir ul Mu’mineen (as) wouldn’t have allowed me to leave his city without softening my heart and reminding me not to allow momentary displeasure to cloud my love for my fellow human beings.

Many years have passed, but the lesson those two women taught me has woven its way into the fabric of my heart, reminding me of the profound power of human tenderness: in a world that abounds with cruelty and indifference, having the courage to be warm, loving, and kind creates a force that dispels every form of darkness. In an era replete with hyper-individualism, kindness is like a foreign language that we sometimes feel too timid to speak- but the more we speak it, the more we realize that this is the highest calling our souls were created for: to become a living, tangible reflection of the infinite tenderness and mercy of the Divine. Every day, the world gives us endless reasons to become cynical, jaded, and doubtful of good. Yet the tenderness of a soft-hearted human being breaks this spell and reminds us that goodness exists everywhere- it only waits for us to open our hearts and recognize it until we, too, grow to embody it. The two women also reminded me that love wasn’t created to be a finite resource- it begs to be poured into every being and creature we encounter, no matter how briefly.

No discussion of tenderness would be complete without acknowledging the tender-hearted king of Najaf himself, Amir ul Mu’mineen. We often speak of Imam Ali’s loyalty, eloquence, and courage, but on nights of reflection, it’s the unparalleled depth of his empathy that takes my breath away. After the Prophet (pbuh), Imam Ali was the greatest being in existence- the most devoted ‘abd of Allah, the victor of countless battles, a champion unparalleled in strength, intellect, and Divine significance. And yet- Ali remained Ali. Despite experiencing the pinnacle of both honor and hardship, he never forgot the most vulnerable members of his community. Not only did he make time to shower them with reverence, kindness, and love, but he genuinely perceived them as no less important and beloved than those who had far more to offer him. When Ali felt the deprivation of the orphans of Kufa, it’s as if he felt their hunger within his own body- as if he couldn’t sleep until he made sure their hunger was satiated and their joy revived. It’s no surprise that these orphans felt as if the sky had fallen on the 19th of Ramadhan; for who but Ali could love the forgotten children of his city with the tenderness of a father?

At his doorstep, we learn not just the art of prayer itself, but the art of turning every interaction into a potential moment of worship. Our Imam actualized compassion as perfectly as he actualized bravery and ‘ubudiyyah, exemplifying the reality that faith is incomplete without tenderness of heart. This is why our hearts eternally gravitate toward holy cities like Najaf: the magnetism of a loving soul is so powerful, it calls to us across continents, oceans, and centuries, flooding us with love for beings we have never met, yet would happily give our lives for. To feel this depth of ‘ishq is to be a true mu’min; to embody it is to be a true Shi’a.

x r