Something for my Beautiful Souls*

*Beautiful souls is what my group of best friends and I call ourselves. This slightly fun and light piece was originally written for the Global Ummatic Festival 2017 but due to certain reasons, I couldn’t perform. No two of us are of the same ethnicity and background, so you can imagine why I wanted this read at GUF. 3ala kulli haaal.. My plan was to still debut it as a performance, but I was hit with a realization today that I should publish it before it gets old and forgotten :p 


The Prophet said souls are like conscripted soldiers.

Those whom they recognise they’ll get along with

and those they don’t, they won’t.

And I think I’ve found my conscripted soldiers.

I call them Beautiful Souls.


After 4 years together I reckon

We are all made of the same essence

Even if we are of different colours

Different shades of the same sand

The very sand Adam was made from

Fashioned by the same Godly hands

Hands of The master architect,

Allah. Allahu akbar.


I grew up not knowing where to call home

For home was a different city every year

Some say home is where you celebrate eid

But what if you pack eid in a suitcase

And Eid is a plane ticket to a place 4000 miles away?

Some say home is a birthplace

And your homeland

But what if that means nothing beyond a red special booklet

With the ugliest picture of you in the front page?

Some say home is a person

What if the person chooses to walk out the door

Even before you get the chance to say salam…?


From Algeria to Kashmir to Kenya and Holland.

From Syria to India to China, Korea and France.


I belong here, and I belong nowhere

I am a child of the world,

Born with red and blue rivers beneath my skin

And a bunch of hair tamable only by

a powerful brush of a mother’s hands

Just like you I eat 3-5 times a day

Not including snacks in between meals

I sit down and enjoy tea

Whether it’s teh tarik, teh peng, red tea, green tea, black tea, white tea, shai, shai bilhaleeb, shai ma3a na3na3, chai, noon chai, masala chai, tak ada masalah I love all kinds.

As Kaveh Akbar said in the opening lines of his poem

Yeki Bood Yeki Nabood,

“everyday someone finds what they need in someone else”.

And everyday I find mine in each and every one of them.


Meriem taught me what it would be like to have two of me.

I am just as much a mirror to her as she is with me

Suaad taught me to treat others with kindness

no matter the BS you get in return

Murakeen taught me that knowledge of your own identity

empowers you even if your identity oppresses you

(She makes me feel I should at least know the important dates to do with mine!)

Shairah taught me to give a 101 excuses for a person’s misbehaviour

And to hold my tongue at the mention of a name

of a person not present.

Emi pushes me to find my niche in life and harness it-

and though I’m still trying to discover it, I know what’s NOT it- not gym.

Heba taught me the beauty in resilience

and how to soar despite the weight pulling down my legs.

Asma taught me how to be comfortable in my own skin,

and that a thing is much sweeter when paid by your own sweat and blood.

Rafa taught me what a good companionship is like

Yusra taught me that power exudes even through a face veil

Amra’s generosity is more than what is hers is also mine


I may have never stepped foot in the Forbidden city or wang ting lu,

or smelled crossaints baking on the 18em arrondisement in Paris whilst

admiring at the Eiffel Tower in the morning

or drove along Bab Sharqi in Damascus,

or listened to EXO’s Monster for the 10th time in a cafe in Hongdae,

or swam in Nahr An-Neel dreaming in the breeze of Khartoum

or sat watching the matatus roam the streets along Juja Road Estate,

or strolled with a loved one among the Swedish trees in Bokskogen Torup,

or munched on couscous in Seb3ah Share3 Mohammed 3abdou in Muradiyyeh,

danced in my colourful sari in Lal Bazaar in Hyderbad

or had tea in a boat on Dal Lake Srinagar

or picked berries in the backyard of a 16th century modern Dutch house on Mariendalsevegh 12,

But my heart has seen these places through the eyes of my beautiful souls

Though my eyes havent.

During the summer break whilst I bike through all the park connectors of Singapore

Braving the humidity and blinding greenery

-it can be blinding when you’ve spent 10 months In the brown, dusty Shari3 Sitteen of Sanaa,-

I experience these places through

The stories my beautiful souls narrate to me

Where they grew up became my home

What their tastebuds are used to become my preferred delicacy

Where their eyes are used to resting,

mine too take comfort in.


Differences do not scare me

Uniformity does.

That it almost hurts me.


I despise your refusal to bend your tongue

To speak my native tongue

On the basis that it is foreign

I despise your refusal to shake my hand

On the basis that my eyes are of a different shape and colour to yours

I despise your seeing me as a different class –or caste

Based on the lineage of my forefathers

which I had no part to play in

I invite you

Dear brother and sister

To embrace this once in a lifetime opportunity

Know your neighbour

Love your neighbour

Defend your neighbour

Be a neighbour

to a neighbour.


The Prophet said souls are like conscripted soldiers.

Those whom they recognise they’ll get along with

and those they don’t, they won’t.

I think I’ve found my conscripted soldiers. And I call them my Beautiful Souls.



The Qalb is that which qallibs

The very nature of the word tells us that it turns

on its face as it turns on its heel


It turns so much in a day,

a month, a year-

that i wonder if it ever gets dizzy

from all the turning

it does


When I am happy it flutters

When I am sad it aches

When I am nostalgic it hurts

When I am angry it pounds

like a prisoner in a cage of bones

When I am anxious it feels like it is not there

there is a void;

a hollowness

an abyss

of uncertainty

of what has gone wrong.


Often when that happens

I’m reluctant to ask

what’s wrong this time

because I am afraid of the answer


that i already know

but am too proud to admit 


my heart is a little too indecisive

yet i mostly rely on it to make decisions

they call it instinct or gut feeling

although it has nothing to do with the gut per se-

it is the heart that turns and churns

that the entire body becomes affected by its turning

the gut,

the fingers,

the pupils,

the temples,

even the feet.


my heart turns a whole 180 degrees

at the mention of a convincing word-

of please, and i beg you, and you’ll look good in this, and that and you can pray later, asr is not until an hour.

in a split second

in the time it takes to bat an eyelid

or less than that

it turns its back on You.



I am a woman

and my heart gives a little too much

they say it can be taken, stolen and broken,

but despite how much it gives, it also takes

the bullets, spear wounds and cuts

from the very people that 

have vowed to protect it


how much more can the heart take?

how much longer can it hold-

before it explodes into a million pieces

and becomes unrepairable

but until then it remains 

the toughest organ i have

in my body


Though in the back of my mind I ought to ask

ya muqallibal quloob

thabbit qalbee 3ala deenik

I bite my tongue

from uttering them

lest it changes what i want

what I desire

lest what I desire clashes

with what my Lord has in store for me


how easily do I forget

that the One that turns the Hearts

also turns the hearts of everyone else

and not just mine









if He can make me want something

He can also make that something want me too


I forget

that the one that is in charge of my life

is not me


I forget


rather than following

its whims and desires

I should be giving it what it needs-

and what it needs is 

whatever that is best for it.



Be still,

my wavering heart.

Be still while your Lord chooses for you

Be still while your Qadr unfolds under your nose

Be still even whilst you are being squeezed to your limits

Be still even whilst the sharpness of words from the child you bore pierce through you

Be still even whilst an intruder enters without an invitation and makes himself at home,

Stand your ground and defend your fortress 

Be still and waver no more

although /that/ is in your nature.


It’s like telling the river not to flow

and the sun not to shine


The Qalb is that which qallibs

The very nature of the word tells us that it turns

on its face as it turns on its heel


It turns so much in a day,

a month, a year-

that i wonder if it ever gets dizzy

from all the turning

it does


One day it is full of spots of sins

The next day I’m scrubbing it clean

One day it drives me worried-sick

and the next day it’s as peaceful as the gentle waves on the shore on a Sunday afternoon.


That is why I’m not asking it

to go against its course

I’m only asking it to turn

towards You.


[Performed at Twins of Faith 2017, Kuala Lumpur]

The Death of Mothers

Is why I started writing in the first place.


To the wise, perhaps life is measured by the number of breaths they take.

But to me, life is measured by the days you have with your mother-

she and you

are at either ends of one string.

As soon as she pushes you out of her,

your timeline begins to dock hers off;




Each breath of life you take

is taken from hers

let it be an utterance of gratefulness

and not sighs of



                                           and  irritation

towards her

for you owe her

every bit of your breath

and much more.


To all those who have lost their mothers,

and to all of us who haven’t.