Tag: Islam

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

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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

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 Worship of a Child: A Reflection on Laylatul Qadr

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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

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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

A Celebration of Love: A Poem on the Birth of Lady Fatima (as)

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Audio: https://soundcloud.com/rubabwrites/a-celebration-of-love-a-poem-on-the-birth-of-lady-fatima-as

A few years after Bi’tha, in the sixth month of the year,
the Prophet’s household is aglow, for the birth of Fatima is near.
The horizons start to blush at the rumor of her grace;
the stars gleam in anticipation of the beauty of her face.
The moon shyly bows its head out of hayaa and respect
and the sun composes poetry in a luminous dialect.
The celebration of her existence stirs every atom on the earth
as if the universe was created in anticipation of her birth.

A fruit from a forbidden tree brought Adam out of Jannah
yet the fruit the Prophet ate contained the pathway back to Jannah;
For within that fruit of Paradise was the light of Fatima
and the secret of salvation is the pleasure of Zahra.
She is the ever-flowing fountain, quenching the thirst of every soul
between nabuwwah and imamah, she is the link that makes them whole.

As i congratulate the ummah on the dawning of this night
My deepest felicitations are for the lover of that light;
For within the union of Ali and his beloved Fatima
lies the pathway of reunion between the human and Allah.
The power of Ali is often measured by his sword,
but the backbone of his strength was the woman he adored.

And if Ali divorced the world, why should a lover feel surprised?
What are a hundred billion galaxies compared to Zahra’s eyes?
With a single loving glance, she could heal his aching heart
like a rose that leaves its fragrance long after it departs.
She was the refuge of his secrets, the blood within his veins;
she was the yusr that was promised at the heart of every pain.
They were two seas that flowed in unison, giving birth to pearls and coral
A love that unveiled eternity into a universe temporal.

As we celebrate her coming, we celebrate our own revival
For the fulfillment of all creation lies in Fatima’s arrival.
For a woman whose heart awakens to the love of Fatima
becomes a bridge that brings the ones she loves closer to Allah.
And a man whose heart has grasped the nobility of Ali
Will not rest until he frees his soul from the nafs’s tyranny.
For Tawhid is the deepest yearning, at the core of every soul
No matter where our paths diverge, we all share this common goal
So the heart of every creature seeks the doorstep of Zahra
And this threshold bears the perfect path that returns us to Allah.

x r

Ya Ali

~ Rubab ~ 2 Comments

There was a name my mother taught me, long before I learned to speak
That I could utter like a prayer if I felt frightened, lost, or weak.
This name- its letters carried me, and made of me a sparrow
Casting light on every wayward path, no matter how dark or narrow.
Every time I speak aloud this name in moments I need aid,
It’s like wings begin emerging from between my shoulder blades.
When my heart is caught off guard, it returns me to my self
And points me to the sacred book that sits upon my shelf.

It was among the holy names my Creator taught to Prophet Adam;
Among the holiest of secrets that the angels couldn’t fathom.
It is the name I whisper quietly, in the face of every need,
It was the name on Zainab’s weary lips, in the courtyard of Yazid.
It is the name that grants me entry, into the city of ‘ilm and hikmah;
It is the name that completes religion, as revealed in Ma’idah.
It was the name Rasulallah called out, like a cry of victory
When he sought the bravest of his sahaba, who would not hesitate or flee.
Peace be upon that warrior, the fearless lion of Allah;
The nafs of the Holy Prophet, and the beloved of Zahra.
The one born within the walls of the holiest of places,
Whose eyes would only open for the holiest of faces.

Our brothers often ask us, why we rave about Ali
Instead of talking about God or Rahmatul lil Alameen.
The merits of the Prophet, aren’t denied by anyone,
So many ayaat of the Qur’an confirm that he’s the greatest one.
But so many titles of Ali, were usurped by his enemies
Who may have called themselves Siddiq, Farooq, and al Ghani,
To them I say, remember when, our Prophet’s life was at an end,
And the last of his requests, was some paper and a pen?
You didn’t heed his dying wish, to write the name of his wali,
So it’s that sunnah we carry out, when we write the merits of Ali.

If you want me to accept, another Amirul Mu’mineen
Find me a man who loved Allah, as profoundly as Ali.
Within a single munajaat, I find the pinnacle of Tawhid;
With the exception of the Prophet, no one knew God like Ali.
Born in the house of God, and martyred while he worshiped
Ali’s life began with haqq, and the life of haqq became Ali.

It is the wish of every poet to touch the heavens with her words,
To take a lifeless set of letters and transform them into birds,
But the essence of my subject, is far beyond the reach of ink
For Ali exceeds the reach of those who philosophize and think.
They try to moderate this love, to confine its outer limits
Because it hasn’t taken root within the essence of their spirits
For wilayah is the bridge that unites the soul with its Creator;
If Tawhid is the highest level, wilayah is the elevator.
But to comprehend wilayah, and gain that immortal elevation
We must replace the filth of ego with pure intoxication.
There’s no room for multiplicity, the heart only serves one master
To put anyone before him, results in fitnah and disaster.

The ‘ishq of Ali possesses me, and makes a home within my being
It gives my eyes a newfound sight, that sees without physically seeing.
This love that set aflame the jealous heart of Ubaidullah
Still infuriates the admirers of the likes of Muawiyah.
But no matter what our enemies say, I will write about wilayah
With the single-minded passion, of Majnun in love with Layla.

I swear by that lonely man, who gave his secrets to the earth
This love exceeds the universe, in both resonance and worth.
This love flows within the blood, that courses through my veins
It exceeds the seven oceans and every depth that they contain.
Like Abu Dhar al Ghifari, I would rather roam the desert sands,
Than contemplate the leadership of any other man;
I can not call myself a Shi’a, but it remains my only dream
to become worthy of the path of Amirul Mu’mineen.
So like Maytham at Tammar, may my tongue be sacrificed
And may this passion stay alive after the last of us has died.

–Rubab Zaidi

Audio: https://soundcloud.com/rubabwrites/ya-ali

A Vision of the Final Hour

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

Written after Fajr on the day of Mab’ath, March 22, 2020

When I arrived in the courtyard of my Beloved, a silence had fallen over the crowd as people waited anxiously for the proclamation that would seal their fates. Scholars tugged nervously at their beards, mystics pulled at the loose threads of their cloaks, preachers stood tall and defiant, and the lovers of the world glanced around frantically, struggling to make sense of the realities unfolding around them. The question on each mind as they prepared for the dawn of Truth was the same: who was right? Every heart quietly doubted its share of Truth, while every mind believed fervently in its own claim to the throne of Haqq.

As Truth began to dawn, it was as if the sky had been ripped by an invisible knife. Colors spilled into the horizon like oil as the sun ascended to its throne. It was a sunrise the likes of which had never been seen before. Some began sobbing wildly at the sight; others stared, wide-eyed in disbelief, mesmerized as the glow of the unbearably radiant sun began to singe their faces. As the sun reached its zenith, people fell to the ground in despair. Mystics, preachers, and scholars alike sank to their knees as the weight of their miscalculations began to crush them; the lovers of the world began tearing at their clothes in agony, and the sound of impassioned wailing filled the sky.

I watched these scenes unfold from my quiet corner, my eyes transfixed on the sun as I wondered how long it would take to burn me. I tore my gaze away and in the distance, I began to notice some people I hadn’t seen before. Had they been here the whole time? There was nothing to distinguish them; they carried no trace of identity, no hint of who they might be. I noticed them now because in that sea of despair, they were the only ones left standing as if in a state of qiyam. They wore a look that made me blush with its intensity: an expression of sublime, indescribable peace. I realized that unlike the others, they were not looking at the sun; instead, the sun appeared to be looking at them. As their bodies began emitting warmth and their faces became more luminous, I realized that they had no need to look at the sun; it had taken up residence within and was now emitting light from inside of them.

I was so captivated by their beauty, I forgot every conception of beauty I had ever held before. I stood there longingly, unable to look away. I noticed that while the emergence of the sun had caused most people to tear away from each other in horror as hidden realities became manifest, they alone had moved closer to their fellow beings. They were now fully immersed in the care of those surrounding them. Some held the shaking hands of weeping sages, some restrained the distraught scholars who were tearing at the pages of their books in grief, while others embraced unmoving bodies that seemed too dazed for movement. As they tended to the needs of those around them, I realized that I’d been mistaken about their lack of identity. They were scholars, mystics, preachers, and lovers, but they had left behind their turbans, books, possessions, and cloaks. The only thing they had brought with them was the softness of heart that now drove them to help the broken and wounded.

They did not revel in the triumph of their correctness, nor were they physically overwhelmed by it. While the rest of us could scarcely bear to look at each other for fear of the horrors we might face, they looked upon each person with absolute tenderness. They carried on with the task of holding and healing as if nothing else existed. My heart filled with awe, my knees buckled, and tears flooded my eyes as I began to realize how little I had ever understood. One of them noticed my state and approached me immediately. They wiped away my tears with soft, featherlike grace and took my weakened body into their arms. By their touch, the parts of my face that had begun to blister from the sun’s heat were healed and I felt no pain anymore. To be embraced by them was like embracing the sun itself; I had never experienced warmth like this. My body strengthened, they pulled away and smiled at me. Despite my shame and fear, I smiled back. They leaned forward and whispered a secret in my ear, “it isn’t too late for you… Join us.” With these words, I finally recognized the source of their strange magic.  They had succeeded in harnessing the power that Iblis had turned his back on: humility. What a marvelous, audacious victory. The radiance pouring from their bodies was simply a manifestation of their humility; it was the truest essence of who they were. And I understood at last: these were the people who had never been concerned with owning or weaponizing the Truth, they had been too busy becoming it.

x r

A Night with the Beloved

~ Rubab ~ Leave a comment

I sit beneath the late night sky, my eyes affixed on the mesmerizing halo that encases the blushing moon. The sea of flaxen clouds surrounding it are veiled by a soft ring of golden moonlight, as if the heavens have donned their finest apparel in honor of tonight’s celebration. In the distance, Venus gleams like a radiant, unveiled jewel. I want to speak to my Beloved the way He deserves to be spoken to, but I’m painfully worried about doing everything wrong tonight. I’ve changed my clothing thrice in anticipation of meeting Him, adorned myself with my most beautiful jewelry, enchanted my clothing with my finest perfumes, but I know my attention to the vessel is mere distraction; internally, I’ve brought little more than ignorance, neglect, and the pain of separation.

I apologize for how distracted my heart has become, as I wonder: of all the ways He could have tested me, why this? I’ve been battling a terrible longing to be understood, and the intensity of this desire has filled my heart like an intoxicant. I know the irrationality of it; I understand the futility of wanting anyone other than God to become fluent in the language of my soul. But my heart aches for it just the same, and that ache pollutes the sacred spaces that are meant to contain my love for Him. Like a rising tide of dark water seeping into a once-clear ocean, the waters of my soul begin to darken in response to the disarray. Is my lostness evidence of my failure? The night air has grown cold and my body shakes from the late spring chill, my throat aching as I continue to pray. This used to be so easy, so blissful, but the division of my heart has robbed this conversation of so much of its beauty. The sweetness of unity that used to govern my interactions with Him is now tinged with multiplicity. Has the world I once turned my back on become my greatest fixation? Has my heart become disloyal? My cheeks redden at this thought.

As I begin to recite the sublime ziyarat that never fails to ease my soul, a trace of understanding enters my wounded, imperfect heart. If I could hear my Beloved’s voice, maybe He would tell me that I’ve already been tested with so much loss, it wouldn’t be much of a test anymore. But just as loss softened the earth of my heart and caused my reliance on Him to deepen, perhaps this unsated yearning for understanding will bring me back to Him in the most enduring manner. The intensity of my solitude often feels like punishment; it feels like a prison sentence to have been given a heart so different in a world full of people who might never understand it. But couldn’t this punishment become my greatest glory if I learned to see it as Yusuf (as) did- as a means to become more deeply immersed in the love of my Beloved?

As I whisper the names of the Aale Yaseen (as), my pain finally begins to subside. My heart fills with an unbidden wave of gratitude as the reality of tonight shakes me and reminds me what a privilege it is to be aware of the existence of this path. I have not yet learned to walk it, but I have the honor of speaking aloud the names of God’s most beloved ones; the honor of sending my salaams to them. Even amid the yearning that distracts me, what more could I want but that? Would any degree of gratitude be sufficient to thank Him for the pleasure of this love? The ache of my heart is slowly transmuted into bliss as love for the holy fourteen floods my spirit. I move through the world feeling alone, but I’ve never known companionship like the love that now overtakes my being. And in this moment, I know: this love is the reason for the continued beating of my heart; it is the very substance my heart is made of. On nights when nothing else makes sense and I feel like a foreigner in this strange world, this love is my home.

x r