Mazhloom

There is no equivalent for the word mazhloom in English So let me explain 

Water is a basic right A basic necessity But when a river becomes a war zone Water is denied to the son of kauther A warrior known as a warrior from the age of 11 wants to fight, but sees a more important mission Sent into the battlefield with only a spear for protection. Reaches the river to see his thirsty reflection Looking fondly at the water, he sees the images of tents He refuses to let the water touch his lips A brave warrior did not fight in history’s most remembered battle. A brave warrior gave his life so that the children may have some water. Don’t take my body back to the camp, words of farewell and a broken back. 

Mazhloom

A father follows his son on to the battlefield so he may see his face for as long as possible He walks as far as he can go until he has to let him go Hears his final goodbye and suddenly sees darkness The light from his eyes and a broken back prevents him from reaching his son Hears taunts and laughter by evil surrounding him Call out to me my son so I may follow your voice With a broken spear in his heart and a difficulty to breath His son calls out so his father can reach him A father cannot carry his young son calls out to the children to help him.

Mazhloom

A child cries so that he may give his life in battle Hides in a tent where his mother finds him What's wrong she asks don't you remember your father gave you a solution Points to the band on his arm His eyes light up with happiness once again Runs to his uncle to ask one last time Can I go to the battlefield His uncle looks at his face and at the letter written in the handwriting of his brother Heartbreaking to be reminded of your brother in such a time of loneliness He says Qasim what is martyrdom to you He says sweeter than honey And with that he rides out exiting his tenth like a full moon Fights until he's surrounded A heartbroken uncle collects his body like collecting flowers in a garden 

Mazhloom

A mother thanks God for allowing her to sacrifice her children Where everyone expected her to cry Her two young sons, barely teenagers Went to battle representing their lineage of brave warriors Fought valiantly for their mother, for their religion A mother thanked God by prostrating, Her hands touching each son as her head lay on the ground She held her tears in until she was on her own There in the comfort of her home, lifetimes away from when she lost them She wept.

Mazhloom

A baby girl wants to sleep on her father’s chest for the last time, asks him to lie down so she may She knows it is his final goodbye She has seen everyone who has left the same way never come back. She is young but she is wise Tugs the end of her father’s cloak Asks him to lie down just once She knows it’ll be her last time, after three years of only finding sleep in his arms She’ll have to find sleep on the ground soon So she asks him to lie down so she may Hold on to comfort for a few minutes more Before she has to say goodbye The next time she would lie on that chest, the bones would be broken and her cheeks would be swollen

Mazhloom.

April 2nd 2017

I’m sorry for all the tear-less years. 

A Legacy

Four years a mother Left with nothing but A small scarf Earrings tainted with blood Burnt legs of a broken cradle And a vow to never sit in the shade

The night before the tenth

A silent night Huddled in prayers A small baby anxious in his cradle Mothers look fondly at their sons memorizing their faces A leader walks from tent to tent and then across the battleground He cries for tomorrow A sister prays for time to pass slow so she may be with her brother a little longer A daughter wishes to find rest looks for her father’s chest for one last night of peace One last night, together, in peace.

6 Muharram 1438

A crowd waiting against a door to be checked one by one by metal detector wands and then padded down

Dont bring big bags. Be patient with us

Stories whispered about a time when people would give up their arms and legs to go where today tens and twenties of millions rush

The ground expands they say

A mother takes her child somewhere in Pakistan with the knowledge that last year a baby not more than 9 months was killed in a place like this

They mourn another baby the youngest martyr on that Tenth Day.

A child lost her father in a bombing targetting their kind and yet mourns these two months remembering another three year old who lost her father and was teased and tortured till her death.

We just want to mourn in peace.

2 Muharram 1438

A fine line between heaven and hell he paced Anxious with the faint sounds of prayer Anxious with the memories “May your mother weep for you” What response could he give It was, but a reminder “Give them and their horses water” A mercy like the Merciful It was, but a reminder Shivering, trembling falling over in guilt Hands tied eyes shut on all fours he knelt From cursed to blessed From evil to good From dammned to saved He crossed “I forgive you and my Lord forgives you” … “Your mother named you well. Hur. Free.:

1 Muharram 1438

When every adhan becomes a trigger of emotion, of nostalgia, of that early morning A beautiful voice calling out, in the calm before the storm. A strength like never before not a hint of fear A mother listens her heart filling with pride. The adhan echoes with the remembrance of the greatest, an echo that acts as proof of their lineage, an echo that whispers beneath the words that we are the truth. A mother, some moments and many hardships later, hears the adhan flowing out of a mouth dripping with hypocrisy. A tired but strong voice calls out “The Prophet you talk about is that your grandfather or my grandfather…”  A mother years later sits in an empty home filled with memories, hears the adhan in a distance, recites a verse,  “And do not speak of those who are slain in Allah’s way as dead; nay, (they are) alive, but you do not perceive.” (2:154)

Salvation

From birth I’ve known crying has given me life And you ask me, why I cry God said cry if you want to survive Its evolution Our primary communication Our mark of existence And you tell me its wrong to cry You think it is something light A fleeting feeling No. It’s a spiritual right Name any animal that cries with might Name any story whose tears show sight Name any other nation that cries with pride Men that place their masculinity aside And you want to ask me why I cry You want to spread hadeeths full of lies When human nature decides Crying is a birth right Crying is a sign of life Our tears are our salvation And the greatest salvation lies in his fight His victory His might So I will cry for Hussain And I will cry with pride. 

Scars

My scars My scars run through my body My scars taunt me I run a blade over them/ they come back I burn them with wax/ they come back I pull them with thread/ they come back I curse them/ they remain loyal Only the privileged are called beautiful The rest taunt me with their dark lines pointing at me as if to say We are you. When will it be okay to let them stay. 

Rant, 28 March 2016

Attacks--terrorist attacks anywhere in the world prompt two types of reactions on social media. Sadness and anger. Sadness at the loss of life, the fear it entails, the fact that terrorism is so prevalent in this world. And anger, well anger there are many types. anger at the fear the terrorists are inciting leading to anger at the religion they are pretending to be spewing. And anger from the other side at the lack of coverage of previous attacks and future attacks in eastern countries. comparison of lives and anger at the injustice.

Western media covers western lives. Western leaders mourn western countries. Why. It could be because were a tribal people and we stick to our tribe. We mourn those closest to us and if we start mourning everyone it would kill us. Or maybe It could be because western countries perceive themselves as innocent bystanders that were wrongly attacked which I agree, but the western countries don’t look at the muslim countries that same way. Maybe because they believe its just muslim on muslim violence or just a civil war between the sects. so even if children die. and even if Turkey is technically part European, and even if terrorists kill more muslims than any other religion and even if muslims are risking their lives to flee from these terrorists and even if sunnis are just as much as victims as shias it doesnt matter. The oversimplification of violence in the middle east, the oversimplification of terrorism, the lack of understanding that muslims are more often victims than terrorists prevents that same sympathy. 

But we live in a beautiful age. An age where we control the media with our laptops and phones. We have outlets. So send out your rage. send out your anger. curse the institution that breeds hate. but mostly send out your prayers. if you know the names of the victims write them. if you know a place taking donations post it. Use this power, spread your knowledge. Forget the mainstream media.

Word Vomit #14: Therapy

There is little that compares to the soothing warmth I feel in the arms of my father

Word Vomit #13 Its going to be alright

In the midst of my exhaustion I close my eyes and think about my mother's laugh

Word Vomit #12: Sham e Ghariban

Even the flames that ate the tents of Hussain(as) knew their light couldn’t diminish the light of the Ahlul Bayt.

Zainab(sa) learned from her Mother(sa) how to rise from the fire and demand justice.

Did those who set the tents ablaze think they could control the fire? Nay rather they created the flames that waited for them in the hereafter

9th Muharram: Ali Asghar

Sleep tight baby Asghar

Your mother’s hopes and prayers lie with you You will be brave tomorrow Others will fight with their swords, but you my child will fight with your smile

Sleep tight baby Asghar Your mother will miss your soft skin She will miss your weight in her arms She will miss the dreams she dreamt of your youth She will miss your sweet breath and the way your chest moved up and down with each breath of life

Sleep tight baby Asghar You will save your Grandfather’s revelations You will save the prayers and fasts Through your sacrifice baby Asghar your Father’s mission will last You can’t talk yet my sweet child yet your silence will create a ripple. Your tongue will create emotions from even those that lack.

Sleep tight baby Asghar And hold your mother close Tonight she’ll whisper a lullaby To distract you from your thirst Asghar tomorrow she whispers in your ear, Tomorrow you’ll drink with your Grandmother from the pond of Kauther

Sleep tight baby Asghar

The People of the Cloak

Representing Rasool (saw), the beloved of Allah (swt), stood the son of Hussain (as). His adhan echoed through the land of Karbala bringing tears to the eyes of those who remembered the voice of the Prophet (saw). His face, his eyes, his demeanor, his guise. Ali Akbar (as) stood as a remembrance--nay a symbol of Mohammed (saw) on Ashura.

Representing Fatima (sa), the light of the lights, stood her daughter Zainab (sa), a pillar for the women, a strength for her brother, a mother for the children who were without any water. Zainab (sa) adhered to her mother’s words, she remembered to send her brother off as if she were their mother, kissing the place where moments later the dagger would strike.

Representing Ali (as) stood his son Abbas (as), both warriors alike. Abbas (as) would be there for Hussain (as) the way Ali (as) was for Mohammed (saw) the way Haroon (as) was for Musa (as). He was his backbone, his strength, his companion, his brother. Abbas (as) was trained for this day to stand there as the son of Sher-e- Khuda, Ameerul Momineen, Ali ibne AbiTalib (as) 

Representing Hasan (as), was his son Qasim (as). He was just a young toddler when he was orphaned, but his father on his deathbed, looked at him with pride in his eyes. He knew that Qasim would stand with his uncle in Karbala, he knew his son would look at martydom to be sweeter than honey, and he knew his son would be his symbol on Ashura

And the fifth of them Hussain (as) stood with his family to remind his enemies of that day his Grandfather, Prophet Mohammed (saw) said,   "O Allah, these are the people of my Household (Ahlul-Bayt). They are my confidants and my supporters. Their flesh is my flesh and their blood is my blood. Whoever hurts them, hurts me too. Whoever displeases them, displeased me too. I am at war with those at war with them. I am at peace with those at peace with them. I am the enemies of their enemies and I am the friend of their friends. They are from me and I am from them”

Who are they?

They are Fatima, Her Father, Her Husband and Her Sons

5th Muharram - Aun & Mohammed

To be a Shia you must learn from Zainab (sa)

There will come a time, she knew, when she would place her duties as a Shia over her duties as a wife, and so with that in mind her Nikkah was recited with all those aware that whenever Hussain would leave, Zainab would follow

And There would come a time, she knew, that being a mother would have to wait as the future of Islam weighed in her tears. They would look back at Zainab as someone whose tears spoke not of sadness but of revolution.

To be a Shia you must learn from Zainab (sa)

They often say Zainab never cried for her own, not when she sent them to battle. Not when their lifeless bodies returned. Not when their heads were raised and not when they were returned. 

She never cried they said because she gave in the way of Allah, she never cried they said because she knew her brother was worried, she never cried they said because she was overwhelmed with all those who were slained. 

But she did cry. She cried for her two sons, Aun and Mohammed, not when they were killed, not when she was dragged without her hijab through public streets, and not when she was kept in prison. She had to wait to be a mother. 

She had to wait because Zainab became Abbas, the flagbearer of Islam, and Zainab became Hussain, the revolutionary, and Zainab became Ali, the leader, and Zainab had a duty as a Shia to cry, to lament, to speak of how they invited her brother to save them yet the very people killed him hungry, thirsty in a hot desert. 

Zainab had to wait because her tears would not be looked on as a mother crying for her son, rather a Shia crying for her Imam. So Zainab waited, she waited until she made it to her home, worn from so much oppression, tired from so much injustice, she waited until she was in the solace of her home, with her husband as her only witness, and there seeing her young sons beds the way they were when she left, she cried as a mother. 

To be a Shia, you must learn from Zainab (sa) ...

What Could Kill a Three Year Old?

What could kill a three year old

we often say sakina was three days thirsty but lets put this in perspective. thirst does not get quenched from a few sips of water in a hot desert. the camp drank water but their thirst was greater

the desert was hot; the water was blocked

What could kill a three year old

How do you explain to a three year old that the men and boys that went out weren’t coming back to her. How do you explain why the camp is getting smaller, why her father is in distress why her mothers are crying. How do you explain to her that her cousins that used to play with her are now gone and her older brother slained and her uncle didn’t even want his body to be returned to camp because he couldnt bring her water. How do you explain to a three year old that after Asr prayers she wont see her father the way she has always had.

What could kill a three year old

We want to protect our children. We want to keep them innocent, but when tents are set ablaze and children start running like beads of a tasbee when it breaks, how do you keep their innocence. How do you protect them from evil men that can only see the earrings on her ears, not the small scared looks. Earrings ripped from her ears, shes only three, hijabs snatched from the women, the house of Islam! Hijabs snatched; horses running this way and that, men surrounding and looting everything in sight.

Little sakina looked for the place she knew was the most safest; she looked for her fathers chest. And there she lay on broken bones.

What could kill a three year old?

The next morning she woke to fear, to her mothers being tied on sadleless camels, her brother being chained, ropes and handcuffs, marched. And this journey wasn’t easy. the roads were sprinkled with trash and rocks and glass and hot sand. The roofs were filled with angry blind mobs throwing rocks and trash, and the camels were sped. Hungry and thirsty, their bodies were already weak now imagine a three year old, her neck in ropes, her shirt torn, her feet swollen and she begs for mercy not for herself but for her brother.

What could kill a three year old?

Marched through Kufa, marched through shaam, stood in the courts of oppressive men, seeing her father’s head and jokes being told? Locked up in a prison.

What can kill a three year old?

Loss, pain, thirst, sadness. What killed her the most, however, must’ve been being without her father. Without the man that gave her heart peace. she cried herself to sleep one night and saw him in a dream, and she woke up startled, “he was just here” she cried and cried, her cries woke up Yazid (la) and he was told she missed her father so he sent Imam Hussain (as)’s head to the prison, there she saw his head and told him what happened, she told him she missed him and cradling his head she became quiet, Imam Sajjad (as) went by her side, he looked at her mother and said, “inna lila wa inna ilayhi rajeeoon”