Hiraeth

I still remember the day you arrived,

A whisper of life wrapped in white,

A tiny moon resting in a hospital cradle,

Unaware of the galaxies you would one day carry within you.

I stood there looking at you,

Not knowing that the little fingers curled beside your cheek

Would one day hold dreams,

Build a future,

And touch so many hearts along the way.

Since then,

I have watched you rise.

Not all at once,

But the way flowers greet the dawn,

Petal by petal,

Season by season,

Until suddenly the whole garden is in bloom.

Every step you climbed,

Every storm you weathered,

Every lesson you learned,

I watched with the quiet pride

Only a big sister can know.

And if I have ever admired anyone,

It has been you.

Not for being perfect,

But for becoming.

For growing into a woman

Whose kindness shines gently,

Whose strength walks humbly,

And whose heart still carries beauty wherever it goes.

Today, as another year unfolds before you,

My heart turns into a du’a.

May Allah write your name among His beloved servants.

May He make you a righteous and beneficial daughter,

A woman whose knowledge, character, and actions leave goodness long after her footsteps fade.

May He open doors of success for you,

Not only in your career and ambitions,

But in everything that brings you closer to Him.

And Alhamdulillah,

My heart is grateful that Allah brought Nichu into your story.

May Allah bless you and Nichu with a love that grows deeper with every prayer,

Softer with every hardship,

And stronger with every year.

May He bless Nichu and his family abundantly,

Making both families garments of comfort, mercy, and companionship for one another.

May your home always echo with laughter,

Carry the fragrance of faith,

And be illuminated by the light of gratitude.

May Allah gift you beautiful children,

Righteous souls who become coolness for your eyes,

Joy for your hearts,

And a legacy of goodness that reaches beyond this world.

And when those little hands one day reach for yours,

May you remember that once upon a time,

You were the little hand I reached for too.

My dear sister,

No matter how many birthdays pass,

No matter how high you soar,

Part of me will always see you

As that precious baby I first met in a hospital room,

A tiny miracle Allah entrusted to our family.

And I will always be here,

Proud of you,

Praying for you,

Celebrating you,

And loving you beyond what words can hold.

Happy Birthday, my beautiful sister.

May Allah fill your life with barakah, your heart with peace, your marriage with love, your home with light, your children with righteousness, and your akhirah with Jannatul Firdaus. AAmeen.

There once stood a magnificent greenhouse.

Built with Glass polished to brilliance.

Foundations laid deep.

Inside it grew things so beautiful they could make spring jealous.

Climbing roses.

Jasmine vines.

Fields of wildflowers bending gently towards the light.

And at the very centre,

a single garden

that loved the gardener.

Every morning it turned its face towards him.

Every season it bloomed for him.

Every root stretched deeper into the earth

so it could remain standing through storms.

It never asked for much.

Only sunlight.

Only water.

Only enough care

to stay alive.

The gardener loved the garden too,

After all,

he built the greenhouse.

He visited sometimes.

He walked the paths.

He admired the structure.

He told himself everything was fine.

Because from a distance,

everything still looked beautiful.

What he didn’t notice

was that he had stopped watering it.

Not completely.

Never enough for anyone to call it neglect.

Just enough

to keep it from dying.

Never enough

to help it thrive.

And so the garden learnt the art of survival.

How to bloom on less.

How to thirst quietly.

How to fold its wilting petals inward

so no one would notice.

How to apologise

for needing water.

Years passed.

The gardener would occasionally pour a cup

into the soil

and marvel at how grateful the flowers seemed.

What he never understood

was that starving things

celebrate crumbs.

Not because crumbs are enough.

Because hunger lowers the standard of joy.

A dying flower

will thank the sky

for a single drop of rain.

Then the drought arrives again…

the doom of a flower is Not when the petals fall.

Not when the leaves brown.

Long before that.

when the flowers stop expecting rain.

When they stop lifting their faces

towards the clouds.

When thirst becomes the climate itself.

When survival

becomes mistaken for living.

The gardener still walks the paths.

Still admires the glass.

Still points proudly towards the greenhouse

and says,

“Look, Everything seems fine.”

And perhaps it does.

To someone standing outside, beneath the soil,

They cannot hear the roots breaking.

They cannot hear the desperate plea

between a flower and the earth

as both try to survive

on what should never have been enough.

Because roots suffer in silence.

Their deaths are invisible.

No one hears them crack.

No one hears them begging for rain.

No one notices

until the blossom is gone.

And then everyone asks

what happened.

As if beauty simply leaves.

As if gardens wake one morning

and choose not to bloom.

As if drought is not a cause.

As if neglect has no fingerprints.

But it does.

They are everywhere.

On every unopened bud.

Every fallen petal.

Every empty branch reaching upwards

for a sky that never answered.

And perhaps the cruelest part of all

is this:

The garden never wanted to be saved.

It never wanted grand gestures.

It never asked to become the centre of the world.

It simply wanted enough water

to believe its life mattered.

Enough warmth

to continue opening its petals.

Enough love

to remain soft.

Because the saddest thing in the world

is not a flower that dies.

It is a flower

that spends years

teaching itself not to need the rain.

Until one day

the gardener finally notices

the silence.

The absence of colour.

The stillness where beauty once lived.

And only then

does he look towards the soil

to discover

that what died

was never the garden.

It was the hope

that the rain was coming…

I once knew a stray dog

that haunted the same doorstep

every evening.

Not because it was fed there.

Not because it was welcomed there.

But because once,

long ago,

someone had opened the door.

And for a creature so ardent in love,

one act of kindness

can become a lifetime of hope.

So night after night

it returned.

Curled beneath the porch light,

where the moths circled their false moons,

where the cold settled into its ribs,

where longing became a place to sleep.

The man inside always saw it.

That is the part that breaks me.

He saw it.

He saw the way its ears lifted

at the sound of footsteps.

The way its tail brushed the ground

like a prayer.

The way its whole body leaned

towards the possibility of being wanted.

And still,

the door remained shut.

Sometimes the dog barked.

Not fiercely.

Not angrily.

Not to demand.

Only to say,

“I’m still here.”

“Please don’t forget I’m here.”

“Please tell me I matter to someone.”

But desperation has a language,

They called it noise.

They called it neediness.

They called it annoying.

No one thought to ask

what kind of hunger

forces a creature

to cry into the darkness.

So the dog learnt

to make itself smaller.

Quieter.

Less inconvenient.

It stopped expecting a meal

and began celebrating scraps.

A crust of bread.

A passing glance.

A distracted touch.

The smallest proof

that someone knew it existed.

And isn’t that the saddest kind of starvation?

When the starving no longer hope for abundance,

only survival.

When they begin thanking people

for what should never have been enough.

When they convince themselves

that crumbs are a feast

because admitting their hunger

would break them.

People think hearts break from cruelty.

I don’t think that’s true.

Not usually.

I think hearts break

from drought.

From standing year after year

in the same patch of earth,

turning faithfully towards the sun,

while the clouds pass overhead

without releasing a single drop.

Because you can destroy a garden

without uprooting a flower.

You can undo a forest

without swinging an axe.

You simply stop watering it.

Then you stand back

and watch the leaves curl into themselves.

Watch the colours fade.

Watch life retreat quietly

into the roots.

And when the last blossom falls,

people look around bewildered,

asking,

“What happened?”

As though neglect

leaves no wreckage.

As though absence

cannot wound.

As though thirst

cannot kill.

That is what hurts most.

Not being hated.

Not being shouted at.

Not being cast out.

But being seen suffering

and having that suffering

become part of the furniture.

A familiar thing.

An accepted thing.

A pain so constant

that everyone learns to walk around it.

Including the one who caused it.

And the stray dog remains.

Waiting.

Not because it lacks pride.

Not because it enjoys heartbreak.

But because love,

real love,

is stubborn.

It waits longer than wisdom.

It forgives more than reason.

It keeps returning

to closed doors

with bleeding paws

and a hopeful heart.

Thinking,

perhaps tonight.

Perhaps this time.

Perhaps they will finally notice

how long I’ve been out here.

But there comes a season

more frightening than hunger.

A season when the dog stops barking.

Stops running to the gate.

Stops lifting its head

at the sound of footsteps.

Not because it has been fed.

Not because it has healed.

But because hope,

after being left out in the cold long enough,

eventually lies down beside the hunger

and goes to sleep.

Forever.

And that is how a soul disappears.

Not in one terrible moment.

Not with a dramatic goodbye.

But slowly.

Silently.

By learning that its cries

change nothing.

By teaching itself

not to expect love.

By convincing itself

it can live without warmth

because warmth never comes.

And one day,

the porch is empty.

No barking.

No waiting.

No hopeful eyes turned towards the door.

Only silence.

And those inside may finally notice the absence

and wonder where the dog has gone.

Never understanding

it was never begging for bones.

It was begging for a home.

And there is only so long

a heart can stand outside

Bearing the scorching sun, the coldest nights,

In its own front door

before it forgets

it was ever meant to be let in.

It was only meant to guard it..

“Read, in the name of your Lord who created you” – Quran’s first command.

Seeking knowledge is obligatory upon every Muslim. It is a path to paradise. In our time dense with information overload, returning to the foundation of knowledge is how we bring back light into our hearts and homes.

“Are those who know equal to those who do not know?” – Quran 39:9

Read. Contemplate. Reflect. Take notes. Read again. Revisit. Review your life so far. Practice what you learnt. Measure your progress. Come back to knowledge over and over again.

Ilm is healing. Ilm is empowering. Ilm is Noor. Knowledge illuminates the seekers path to Jannah. It elevates ranks, purifies the soul and connects one to Allah swt. It soothes the heart and brings sukoon amidst hardships.

Knowledge strengthens Taqwa. It expands you. If you don’t expand your cup, it will fill up really quickly. Allah placed Rahm in our hearts; Women being the first teachers of their children, should ensure knowledge is practiced and you can only practice from what you know. Knowledge without practice is hollow.

If Allah intends good for someone, he gives them the understanding of the Dheen. Seeking knowledge is a pathway lit by angels and measured by how many hearts are guided and served through what we learn. If Allah swt guides one person through you, it is better than the entire world.

When knowledge deepens, the heart finds clarity. Memorising and reflecting secures knowledge inside the heart, turning notes into character. Wisdom must be carried inside, it must reside in the heart not on a donkeys saddle (in books). Memorise what you learn so that it can never be stolen.

Ayahs in the Quran place people of knowledge alongside angels and promise elevation for the believers who learn. Early Muslims described knowledge as the root of happiness in both worlds. Knowledge ties the heart to Allah and train the limbs to obey Him with insight.

Hiqmah is the right use of knowledge at the right time. Quranic map of knowledge is testimony, elevation, discernment, and dawah. Quran is the highest form of knowledge.

And the more you learn your Dheen, the more humble it should make you. Knowledge that isn’t lived slowly hardens the heart. Knowledge should reflect in how you talk, how you treat others. It should attract people to Islam. It should never scare them further away.

The best amongst you is the one who learns the Quran and teaches it. The best amongst you is the one who has the best character. Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) placed a profound emphasis on Akhlaq (manners, character, and morals), often framing it as a primary objective of his mission alongside the foundational teachings of Tawhid (the oneness of God).

Knowledge that isn’t lived slowly hardens the heart. Our Akhlaq should radiate what we carry in our hearts.

📜❝I sought manners for thirty years and I sought sacred knowledge for twenty years. The righteous predecessors would seek manners first, then seek knowledge.❞ – Ibn al-Mubarak ( رحمة الله )
[Ghāyat al-Nihāyah 1/446]

Knowledge MUST refine conduct. It should reform character. It is carried with humility, shared with compassion, and acted upon consistently. If learning makes us harsh or arrogant, we have missed its spirit. if it makes us more mindful, gentle and just, we have tasted it’s sweetness.

My understanding and Excerpts from Usthada Dalya Ayoub’s virtual halaqa on Ihya Uloomudheen Dheen by Imam Al Ghazali. Volume 1 – Book 1: The Book of Knowledge

Bismillah,
Today I raise my hands for Riya,
the girl who loves her Lord
with a heart that bows before He asks,
and rises stronger every time He lifts her.

For the girl who is always trying
to better herself —
polishing her soul the way dawn polishes the sky.

For the girl who lives life to the fullest,
who carries joy like a lantern,
who becomes the life of any gathering
without ever dimming another’s light.

For the girl whose heart is soft,
whose kindness arrives before her footsteps,
who runs to help you
even before you finish calling her name.

For the little girl inside her —
still wide‑eyed, still in awe
of the wonders Allah scatters across this world.
The girl who loves to run, jump, sing, dance,
and taste every flavour of fun
Allah allows with innocence and delight.

For the beloved wife of Nahas,
whose loyalty is a dua answered.
For the ardent mother of Jannah and Barza,
whose arms are a home,
whose love is a shelter Allah Himself witnesses.

A daughter.
A sister.
A friend.
And all the tiaras she wears with grace —
not on her head,
but in her heart.

For the girl who loves to dress up,
to look good,
to celebrate the beauty Allah placed in her.
Another ibadah, gratitude.

Ya Allah,
write for her a year of ease,
a year of barakah,
a year where joy finds her quickly
and sorrow forgets her name.

Place noor in her smile,
Sukoon in her breath,
Yaqeen in her heart,
and protection in every unseen corner of her life.

Let her faith stay anchored,
her heart stay soft,
her home stay blessed,
her health radiant,
her beauty sparkling,
and her steps guided
toward everything You love.

On this day she turned up to this world, and everyday from now,
wrap her in mercy
the way You wrap the sky in stars.

Alhamdulillah for blessing me with her.
To become a sister from another mother.
And in sha Allah, to become neighbors in Jannah..

Aameen.

To belong —
in a world loud with Insta stories,
fleeting smiles,
and friendships that dissolve into pixels —
is a quiet miracle.

To belong to a happy place,
to a heart that keeps a room for you,
small enough to cradle your softness,
yet vast enough to carry your laughter,
your joy,
your wild, beautiful energy.

A space where you can simply be you —
unfiltered, unmasked, unafraid.
Alhamdulillah for that sanctuary.

For the laughter that shook our bellies,
for the endless food trails and wandering joy,
for the warmth that stitched itself
into the fabric of our icy cold days.

As snow crowns the mighty mountains
with its creamy, cloud‑woven tiara,
we stand in awe of Allah’s creation —
yet forget that belonging to good‑hearted souls
is also one of His wonders.

So I bow my heart in gratitude,
humbled by every blessing He has written for me.
Alhamdulillah for belonging.
JzkAllah Khayr for love that feels like home.