Resham Riazshah is a first year student at the University of Toronto, studying Mathematics and Religion. Resham has always been interested in Art. During the summer after grade 8, Rashim took oil painting and pastel classes. Ever since then she often paints landscapes and has been working hard to broaden her knowledge on the subject. This is Resham's first calligraphy piece.
Ejaz the Poet is an lyricist hailing from Edmonton, Alberta. My songs have played on Edmonton CJSR 88.5 FM and also has been featured on KeepingItHalal.com previously in March 2012. Along with my musical accolades, I've presented
speeches for the Northern Alberta Alliance on Race Relations to aid in the Elimination of Racial Discrimination and is also featured in the book "The Alchemist of Kush" by Edmonton Writer Minister Faust extolling my efforts in Youth Culture.
How do I tell her that he is not going to come?
That she is waiting for no one.
Because, in reality all she has left of him are his childhood memories.
She holds on to broken promises, like him.
She says she is tired of living this life. There is no life HERE.
And, I watch her memories. Because she tells me her stories. She lets me.
I am scared to tell her the truth.
So I am quiet.
Because, how can I find words to tell her that the one she cradled in her arms.
The one she sang lullabies to in Arabic, French and English.
Will not come to see her. He will not speak to her. He will not be with her.
With tears in her eyes she tells me he is a big piece of her. She gave birth to her own life.
Now, that he is gone. She is broken.
There is a hole in her
heart: something is missing.
She cried. I cried.
I want to tell her that life will still go on.
What does it mean to be strong? She is strong.
She says this is not the way things were supposed to be.
They were supposed to be together, forever.
She says there is no life HERE.
It is as if she is waiting to die.
Watching TV shows to make time pass but the shows that are supposed to make her laugh make her cry.
She says she has no one.
No one who will listen to her.
No one to talk to.
No one to hug.
No comfort here.
She says she can’t hear the muezzin sing, so she has lost track of time.
I listen to her.
Her stories: her language of
Every day when the sun shines, she gets dressed, builds up hope. Thinking that maybe today,
Maybe this is the day that he will finally come and visit her. Come to see her.
She is vigilant and never gives up hope.
She sits by her window, watching for signs of him. Sometimes she mistakes others for him.
My stomach turns because I know that he is not coming.
Maybe he will never come because he said his goodbyes and now is gone.
I want her to forget him. But how can you forget so much of
But I can’t tell her the truth.
I just can’t.
I tell her to keep waiting.
“He’s on his way. Anytime now. Why don’t you take a quick nap.”
I tell her that he is coming. She squeezes my hand. Her eyes sparkle for a second. I see her smile.
Do no leave your parents.
Hold them close forever.
Show them that you love them
Jaudat Adnan is a 3rd year undergraduate university student in Toronto, studying architecture and art history. She has
always had an interest in art and specifically began to work on mosaics a few years ago. Over the years she has focused her artwork exclusively on Islamic themes and styles. Through her artwork she aims to present the beauty of Islam's
art and culture. She has exhibited her work several times at MuslimFest and has also won the MuslimFest People's Choice Award in 2011.
This art piece is titled 'The Core of My Faith', Dimensions: 18" x 64"
Chris Yassin is a revert to Islam who works in photography, film, and other medium. He explores life through his work and often reflects back on his faith.
“She doesn’t remember any of it,” I remember the nurse’s words to me as I walk my 92 year old mother out of the parking lot. “She’ll be okay, in fact she’ll be in better care at the Alzheimer’s Senior Home”. I was dropping my mother off, which felt more like abandoning her because I just couldn’t do it any longer. It took too much time, effort, and strength.
I can still remember my mother, young and full of energy. She’d drop me off at school, hand in hand, crossing the street.
But back then it was her holding my hand, not me holding hers, and that made all the difference.
I had thought she’d remain that way forever. I had always somewhere deep down in my heart believed that she’d scare away any monsters from under my bed for as long as I lived. She was a strong, confident woman, full of love, beauty, and grace. I was always told by my aunts and uncles that she was the brightest of the four siblings. A high achiever. So much power. And today, it’s coming back, full force.
I recognized the woman before me today, even under these new folds on her skin, I knew exactly who she had been for me. The strongest handhold any person could have was my mother’s. She had guided me through the toughest aspect of life, shared her wisdom, and blessed me with her presence. But then it all changed. Entirely.
She began to grow old, and slowly her physical and mental being submitted to the natural cycle of life. No matter how
strong, bright, powerful, or beautiful you are. You can’t escape this cycle. My mother was no exception, though I would have believed she was.
And so my life became very busy, work, children, responsibilities and commitments. All to make ends meet. I had
forgotten about my aging mother, and when she could no longer live on her own, she had to move in with me. I happily welcomed her, remembering the comfort of seeing her face every time I was in desperate need of support. It was as if she made all of my problems disappear. This wasn’t the case this time around though.
She needed me. She had developed a series of chronic conditions, one of which was Alzheimer’s. All of a sudden, it wasn’t so easy and doable anymore. My husband and children needed my time. I had to make ends meet. If I didn’t go out to work, we’d barely be able to survive this race. And then there was my mother too. I tried my best to manage everything and keep my mother too. But her condition kept escalading. 7 years later, here I am standing at the front door of the Alzheimer’s Senior Home at the recommendation of our Family Health Team. It’s the only way they said. And I knew they were right, I was getting very tired. Tired of my own mother. It felt so wrong, so betraying.
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