They said things about me that were never true, and somehow I became the one who had to live with them.

Years have passed, but the story remains, a shadow following me through places I never thought it would reach.

I kept waiting for the truth to be spoken.

For someone to say, “No. That's not what happened.”

But no one did.

And perhaps that is what hurts the most.

Not the lie itself, but the silence of those who knew the truth and still let me carry it.

I wonder sometimes how a person can sleep at night knowing they left someone else to bear the weight of their own mistakes.

I was never asking for the world to love me.

I only wanted my name back.

The name I had before people turned someone else's story into my identity.

I am tired of remembering something I never did.

Tired of feeling the ache of a wound that refuses to close because no one ever admitted they caused it.

But perhaps one day I will stop waiting for an apology that may never come.

Perhaps one day I will understand that the truth does not become a lie just because it was buried.

And maybe, after all these years, I can finally put down the weight of a story that was never mine.

They may have left my name in the dirt.

But I know I did not put it there.

And I know I don't have to spend the rest of my life trying to prove it.

Tree leaves

Tree
leaves—
green,
yellow,
red:
heals,
mellows
stress.
Beats any
hurt,
treats many:
hers.

There’s a cruel thing about beauty. It reveals absence. By the time you notice the light, your heart has already turned to see who isn’t there..

"I still believe that destiny knows my address." 🌙

One Sky

There are two mothers.

Do not tell me
there is only one humanity.

Because I have seen
two.

There are two childhoods.

Two lullabies.

Two definitions
of tomorrow.

Yet somehow—

one earth.

One sky.

In Tanzania,

a little boy
falls.

His knee kisses the pavement.

He cries
as though the world has ended.

His mother rushes to him.

His siblings interrupt one another,
each claiming to have witnessed
the greatest catastrophe
ever known to childhood.

His father laughs softly,

"You're alright, champ."

The wound is washed.

A plaster is placed.

By sunset,

it has already become
a family story.

And beneath that same sky,

in Palestine,

a mother kneels
over what remains
of her son.

No scraped knee.

No plaster.

No reassuring voice.

No father saying,

"You're alright."

There is no face
to wipe tears from.

No shoulders
to carry him home.

No heartbeat
to calm against her chest.

Only flesh
trying desperately
to resemble a child.

The sky,

I notice,

looks exactly the same.

In the UK,

a mother waits
outside a school gate.

Tiny shoes
race toward her.

Backpacks bounce
against little shoulders.

Lunchboxes return
half empty.

Homework is complained about.

Dinner is discussed.

The greatest concern
is whether bedtime
can be delayed
by ten minutes.

In Minaab,

a mother
also waits.

But there are
no footsteps.

No backpacks.

Only smoke.

Only names

spoken in the past tense.

She gathers
what the blast
could not carry away.

A ribbon.

A shoe.

A lock of hair.

A future.

Reduced
to evidence.

The sky

remains painfully blue.

In India,

a mother
stirs dinner.

Oil crackles.

Spices bloom.

Her daughters laugh
from another room.

The father returns
from the masjid

with chocolates
hidden behind his back.

The boys compete
to tell their stories first.

The girls insist
their dolls
won every argument.

The walls
memorise laughter.

In Palestine,

a mother
counts crumbs.

One piece of bread.

Five people.

She tears it

not according to hunger,

but according to love.

The daughters lie.

"We're not hungry."

Because daughters
grow older
far too quickly
during war.

The father
takes his sons
to the masjid,

hoping

hope itself

might still exist there.

Hours pass.

The bread remains.

The father does not.

A neighbour arrives,

covered

not in dust—

but in somebody else's blood.

"They are shaheed."

The daughters run.

The mother follows.

History

records another family

by reducing them

to a number.

Numbers.

That is the remarkable thing
about distance.

One child dies,

and it is tragedy.

Five hundred die,

and it becomes
a statistic.

Statistics
never mention

the favourite colour.

The unfinished homework.

The loose baby tooth.

The teddy bear

still waiting

on a bed

that no longer exists.

All across the world,

parents tell their children,

"Study."

"Become a doctor."

"Become a pilot."

"Make us proud."

Children dream
in professions.

In Iran,

children dream

of shahadat.

A father
serves his nation.

A mother
stands in Bandar Abbas,

forming a human chain.

Children
join hands

around civilian infrastructure.

Others gather
around Mashad.

Around Qom.

Small hands.

Steady hearts.

One declaration.

"We are the nation
of Karaar.

Of Abal Fadhl.

If our blood
must become
the mortar
that protects
our Ahle Bayt—

then let it."

Imagine...

being so young

that your greatest ambition

is not

to become famous.

Not

to become wealthy.

But to become
worthy.

Under this same sky,

war criminals
wear suits.

War mongers
shake hands.

Tax thieves
write legislation.

Pedophiles
are hidden
behind titles,

offices,

and the phrase,

"protected by federal government."

Meanwhile,

children

continue

to disappear

before they have even learned

how multiplication works.

Elsewhere,

when a child develops a fever,

parents rush
toward hospitals.

Toward medicine.

Toward hope.

In Palestine,

parents run

toward rubble.

Hospitals
have become

coordinates.

Doctors

have become

martyrs.

Hope

has become

a prayer whispered

before another airstrike.

Children elsewhere

fall asleep

to lullabies.

Soft blankets.

A forehead kiss.

A whispered,

"I'll see you
in the morning."

In Lebanon.

In Palestine.

Children fall asleep

counting explosions

instead of sheep.

And when morning arrives,

they do not ask,

"What's for breakfast?"

They ask,

"Who's missing?"

I watch the news.

Searching.

Not for headlines.

For him.

For the Mahdi.

One glimpse.

One certainty

that this nightmare

has reached

its final chapter.

Maybe...

this is elaborate fiction.

Maybe

someone forgot

to yell,

"Cut."

Maybe

this is merely

a grotesque misunderstanding.

But reality

is cruel enough

to survive

our denial.

Because the screen

never fades to black.

It only refreshes.

Another city.

Another child.

Another mother.

Another funeral.

If the Mahdi

were among us,

justice

would no longer

arrive

in eulogies.

If the Mahdi

were among us,

mothers

would not have to identify

their children

by fragments.

If the Mahdi

were among us,

evil

would not negotiate.

It would simply

cease.

And so

I have stopped saying

we all live

in the same world.

Because we do not.

Some children

learn colours.

Others

learn calibres.

Some mothers

fold school uniforms.

Others

fold burial shrouds.

Some fathers

teach bicycles.

Others

teach their sons

how to recognise

the sound

of drones.

Yet somehow...

there is still

only one earth.

Only one sky.

Only one history

that will remember

where every one of us stood.

When your grandchildren ask,

"What did you do while children were becoming headlines?"

Will your silence

sound

like innocence?

Or complicity?

There has always been

one earth.

One sky.

But humanity

has chosen

to build

two worlds.

Tell me—

which one

are you helping

to survive?

#saayawrites

"some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead."

charles bukowski

Knowing me and knowing about me are two completely different things.

Can You Hear?

Every day…

We hear.

Not by power.
Not by chance.
Not by coincidence.

But by the command of Ar-Rahman.

An eardrum vibrates.
Three tiny bones orchestrate.
A cochlea translates.
Hair cells activate.
Nerves communicate.

Signals race…
until the brain can appreciate…

A single sound.
All within the blink of an eye.

Yet we barely contemplate.

Because miracles repeated…
become expected.
Blessings repeated…
become neglected.

Until…

they’re taken.
Mine were.

As a teenager,
the soundtrack of my life…
fell silent.

No warning.
No invitation.
Just…
silence.

And suddenly…
the sounds I once ignored…
became the sounds I adored.

The kettle beginning to sing.
Water from the tap…
doing its simple little thing.

The microwave’s impatient beep.
Even the alarm clock…
interrupting my sleep.

The very sounds I wished would disappear…
became the sounds I longed to hear.

SubhanAllah.

How quickly appreciation appears…
when a blessing disappears.

Allah asks us…

“Which of the favours of your Lord will you deny?”

Tell me…
Which one?

The ears that hear?
The tongue that speaks?
The eyes that see?

Or the heart…
that still beats?

Hearing isn’t merely a gift.
It’s an amanah.
A trust.

A trust to hear the Qur’an…
before the dunya becomes too loud.
To hear sincere advice…
before pride speaks louder than truth.
To hear reminders…
before regrets become permanent visitors.

Allah says:

”…Little are you grateful“ ( 67:23)

Not because His favours are few…
But because our gratitude is.

He gave us hearing.
He gave us sight.

He gave us hearts…
to distinguish darkness from light.

Nothing was random.
Nothing misplaced.
Every blessing…
carefully placed.

And the same Lord…
who allows your ears to hear today…
will one day call every soul…
His way.

So perhaps…
the question isn’t…
Can you hear?

The real question is…
What are you choosing to hear?

The Qur’an…
or gossip?
Truth…
or falsehood?
A reminder…
or another distraction?

Because these ears…
were never created…
simply for sound.

They were created…
to recognise…
the call of their Lord.

May Allah make our hearing a means of guidance…
before it becomes a witness against us.
Ameen.

The ascetic spent his life longing for Paradise,
Never realizing that Paradise lies in letting go of longing itself.🪽

Ṣā’eb Tabrizi

Some words by Rumi 🌸