_ During my journey to my end, short-lived but rich of memories, I see so much. 

To be born of the marriage of joy and sadness and to be pulled from the womb of hate by the fingertips of love is truly a blessing. 

I sit here today begging you to let me be. Though they tell you there is no use to me, I will share with you what I go through, and you can judge if there is use to me.

I feel, through my liquid window’s pain the anticipating heartbeats of a million mothers.  As she relives the first steps of her firstborn son, waddling to her arms, the moments left till the train arrives disappear.  I see while she rejoices in the past, lovers perch their heads off the platform, like baby birds searching for their mothers, waiting for the blinding lights of the train.  I feel on the platform the thumping (thump thump thump) of a million hearts as they shake the ground more than 200 grinding wheels on a train, impatient to embrace their loved ones after the torture of time had taken its toll. 

I witness the helplessness of a wife, counting grains of rice on a plate for her children, remembering with each grain the number of timers her daughter’s innocent eyes asked why Papa wasn’t coming home with food anymore, and the number of times she answered with silence and a hug filled with hurdles of love but no hope. 

I touch the divine degree of an education fought for by a man who started of a boy as he wipes away days of sleepless nights spent soaking in knowledge upon knowledge.  I breathe-in (breathe in) with him, as he smiles to the crowd, the dean’s hand in his, he is moments away from the victory of “Doctor”.  I remember with him the endless hours spent sweating on cargo boxes to pay for a schooling that would someday lead him to a better place.

I share the pain of a body being eaten alive as the cancer kills its way through ripping apart the hopes of a child and forcing two lovers to bid each other farewell only moments after they promised to love each other forever and ever.

I smile with the bride’s father as his protective hand finally let’s go of his daughter’s, being  shaken to that of another man, under a napkin of new life that will give birth to pride as baba will now watch his katkoota, his banoota, his ammoura, become the habibti of another man.

I wail with a country as it calls on the world to regrow its olive trees, to kick out its unfriendly visitors, to bring back the tunes of harmony, and to let peace settle in the most beloved of lands.  I wail with a country as it sees no hope, stabbed in the back by its own two hands, and twisted to silence with its own mother tongue. 

I dance with a nation, celebrating the triumph of being one’s own; hopeful of a better future controlled by one’s own two hands.   I celebrate with them to the tunes of conquest, cheering my heart out with the victory of Afreedi.

I repent with the fearful heart of a sinned, shaking as it pleads the one Almighty to have mercy.  I scratch my skin as she tries to wipe away what she has done; putting all her hope in God’s mercy.  I shrivel at the fear of being watched with her, knowing that nothing can be done to undo the done.

I sit here today begging you to let me be. Though they tell you there is no use to me, I have shared what I go through, and you can judge if there is use to me.

So who am I to see the world while I am blind?  So who am I to smile with every crease of every pair of lips? So who am I to remember with every memory, rejoice with every happiness, and hurt with every pain?

I am every teardrop cried by a heartbroken lover, every joyous drop of love leaked from the eyes of a mother.  I am every wail of pain screamed by a suffering soul, every cry of disbelief rooted in joy, and every sigh (sigh) of relief accompanied by a hand raised to thank the Lord.

So let me fall to the ground, for my destiny is to be buried by the land each and every one of us was molded from.  They will tell you nowadays it’s better to cage me in, as if the liquid stored in your eyes will somehow pump up your biceps because men are too strong to cry and women are just too moody.  Well tell me now how many tears have been wept over lives that have been taken by the manly machine of war because men are too strong to cry but too weak to fight fears without weapons and women too emotional to stand up for their rights?  Too many to count

So let me fall to the ground peacefully, as light as a drop of water and as heavy as the stories of history books.  For when I fall to the ground, I sing to the soil stories of sadness and joy.  I nourish the roots of trees that will grow strong to tell tales of my stories for generations to come.  And later, they will dig holes in the ground, searching for treasure chests and golden coins, but they will find me instead to share with them the riches of your stories, your lessons, and your days. 

So share your stories, teardrops included.

On the Tongue of Seekers

They advised the seeker
who is inclined to love love
to seek it, no matter the cost.

That the pain of searching
is itself joy and that anything else
is fake, saccharine.

They said that love is known 
through the sharpness of its entrance 
as it punctures into the heart.

That the proof of its reality 
is the dizzying high of blood rushing 
from the heart onto the tongue.

They said the drip, drip dripping 
of it from tongues onto bloodied lips
and soiled chins is the praise of joy. 

That Heathcliff's obsession
and Juliet's dagger are the honour
of the walking wounded.

Walking, wounded the seeker stumbles
now inclined to seek refuge
like love before.

Others give naseeha to search
for the vastness of fitra that unveils 
what wounded hearts cannot feel.

The rib cage becomes a gate
to discovery, replacing the old stitching 
that held together a false sweetness.

They advised that in place of the punture,
love should be immersed in, lived;
The Most Loving sees all.

The stumbling then becomes firm strides
away from the love of dysfunction
and love as dysfunction towards ayat, ubiquitous.

They used to speak to me about
Heathcliffs and Juliets, but I ask
have you heard of our masters Fatima and Ali?

The owners of smiles like light
that spill joy from pure hearts
onto blessed lips.


----------------

Letting Go


Walking this path, 
I have found that thorns 
force me to tread carefully.
So clothing, like the heart,
is kept close.

And on this path,
I come upon you,
your tilted stem and flowers
covered in the dust
of what I stumbled from.

I find you resting, restive 
on your side but with roots 
reaching deep into the earth.
Is there a word for your type of flower?

So intricately beautiful,
the distraction of what covers you
does not mask the pure scent of fitra.

You present yourself, a distraction
when I have only started living, love.

I cannot say what storms you've endured,
or what rain has washed away 
the foundation that should sustain you
or what wind has sharpened your thorns
and bruised the petals that should adorn you.

The time is short,
and my provisions are few
and the journey is long.
I cannot stay to know those answers.
   
I have been advised to avoid thorns
that will puncture a heart 
so it bleeds praise
that should be sung 
for the Most High. 


Follow Fareedah on her blog "Noes of a Traveler" 
http://www.notesofatraveler.wordpress.com/ 

Ali Saeed is a first year student at the University of Toronto.  He is always learning and experimenting with new things related to photography. He feels that he has a very long way to go and would love to hear constructive criticism regarding his photography from the Keeping It Halal community. 

_ Can you imagine a world where violence was never the answer,
where the streets were clean of drugs, thugs and gangbangers,
can you imagine a world,
where aggression was solved by the suppression of anger
never resulting to the point of being hand cuffed and thrown in the hanger,
can you imagine a world,
where bystanders wouldn’t just stand there and watch while innocent people were getting shot,
Can you imagine mayhem being struck in a country that cant afford clean water,
can you imagine losing a son or daughter, mother or father because someone carelessly pulled the trigger,
can you imagine the tears of a Palestinian kid having to watch his parents die,
in the midst of bullets falling from the sky,
but a kid like that never cries instead he bleeds from his eyes,
with pain permanently engraved in his pupils, his brain, shell shocked, hes an orphan,
a rebel carrying a pouch full of pebbles,
promising to himself that if he sees another tank he’s gonna stone it to the ground,
he lives in a place where its never safe and never sound, 
he never sleeps, terrified that the gunshots in his nightmares might pierce through his skull,
so he prays during days that are dull,
wishes that his dirt filled skies become blue,
can you imagine what would happen if his wishes came true,
if peace substituted for war and war no longer existed,
if the system wasn’t twisted and you wouldn’t get convicted for speaking the truth,
where we didn’t need to hide from our own shadows,
congregating in dark corners where the sun wouldn’t spot us,
see that’s how afraid we’ve become,
convinced that we’re the ones disturbing the peace,
they tell us, they tell us they want world peace,
but what they really mean is that they want the world in pieces,
segregated as the death rate increases,
stacking lies on top of lies, until their towers kiss the skies these cowards in disguise hide behind unfulfilled promises,
promising a better future trying to manipulate our consciences,
chaining down our brains making us their psychological hostages,
you see they control what we think, make us forget about these kids,
like this Palestinian kid whos afraid hes gonna die,
in the midst of bullets falling from the sky,
so he shuts his eyes, covers his ears and pretends hes invisible,
wrapped up in a blanket that he hopes is invincible,
little does he know that bullets can penetrate through cloth, skin and bones,
but don’t worry,
because it can never pierce a heart made of gold,
a soul as pure as the driven snow

See I always thought I was a wise man
better than
the average man
Until that day
It was a beautiful summer day
I had no idea what was coming my way
I was walking down the street
moving to my own beat
Then I saw her
She was a Goddess
She was the perfect girl
with a body that was out of this world
Sitting in the park
I swear as she sat there
It was almost a perfect picture
Her outfit showing she had excellent style
On her face this heart stirring smile
The cool breeze blowing her hair
I just had to stare
She saw me and gave me an inquisitive look
I was kinda shook
So I set a smile her way
She sent a smile my way
and with out delay
I started walking in her direction
hoping that I could win over this image of perfection
To me it seemed like our fates were intertwined
As if the stars were all aligned
Not a chance meeting but something of God's design