Raising our littles

We try to pass onto them the lessons learned from our own youth. The lessons derived from both the good and the bad. Carrying fourth the blessings of love if you were fortunate to behold it.. And the lessons of pain and hardships outside your child self.. Lessons that take a lifetime to learn. Realizations that you come to make as an adult looking back on that child you once were.

Looking at your littles and as you soothe, comfort and motivate them.. Peering into their eyes and also nurturing the child you once were.

I thank Allah for everything that has led me to where I am standing. Here within my soul that nobody may know! God knows best, Allahu Alim. The greatest comfort.

-A

In a blink of an eye

There she reclines..

The thought of you gone

No words can capture

Always You

This is our time

Naomi

Oh Naomi

A silent Truth

I know the silent truth..

Of holding onto a lonely grace

In the face of anger.

 

I know the quiet surrender

To tranquil silence..

Where silence becomes my voice.

 

Soulful solitude..

An inward embrace

The only comfort..

That of the Ever Watchful.

 

Allahu Alim..

A God, All-Knowing.

 

-A

October of 24'

There’s no way to recount every single insult since October ‘24, but here is a small, fumbling rant…

We have witnessed countless innocent lives lost, damaged, and tortured—people just trying to live, like you and me. People with families, hopes, dreams, and gifts for the world—everything stolen by evil design, by an empire betting on our continued blindness, indoctrinated before our very first breath.

I saw the martyrdom of an innocent girl who shared the same name as my daughter—one of many. I witnessed a toddler whose wide, searching eyes and angelic cheeks were in sharp contrast to his trembling little limbs. A child surviving a blast somewhere in the middle of the night, clinging to a fragile stick of a tree, curled over his knees—his spirit gone like a ghost in the dark. Too many grandparents. Martyred newlyweds. Weddings that once provided hope in a dark hour. Young and old. Too many stories, so many lives. Every denomination. Every place of worship.

I remember last October, breaking down under the weight of witnessing a broadcasted genocide—atrocities that should leave any moral person with PTSD. That’s just from sight alone. Imagine that. Imagine, after all this time, a person who cannot summon even an ounce of love or pain from within their own heart to care. These are not my people.

Every single day, I make the effort—to show support, to raise awareness—because every effort counts. I choose to be a "sound bite" in the hope of shedding light on the bigger picture. It’s the least I can do. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. These are not my people.

An awakening has come—but not in the way it was predicted. This is not sugar and fluff. This is our new norm. And all the superficial things that once seemed to matter? They don’t anymore.

Nothing is more important than life, liberty, and freedom for ALL—a unifying message that rings hollow if its foundation has always been built on the blood of the innocent. Just a cover. Just indoctrination.

History keeps repeating itself. Every corner of the world has felt this pain. There is no true success in stepping on others to get ahead—whether through outright diabolical planning or the silent complicity of turning a blind eye.

Ignorance is willful.

Love truly is the answer.

—A