September 2017
Issue 17
The UIC MSA Publication
Al-Bayyan
Autobiography
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Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esra Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basithasheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esra Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esra Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4 Esraa Elkossei 3,5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esra Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali: 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Saba Ali 1, 2 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esraa Elkossei 3, 4, 5, 6 Esra 8 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Zainab Naveed 7 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8 Abdul Basith Basheer 8
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Introduction This issue is dedicated to Ustadh Usama Canon, who was recently diagnosed with ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. Without exaggeration, the autobiography of thousands of Muslims across the world would not be the same without the teachings, wisdom, and love of our dear teacher Usama Canon. The following poem is written about Ustadh Usama Canon Upon reading this, please recite Surah Al-Fatihah for his recovery and healing.
Giants Secrets Hidden in echoed walls, Hold Great Giants who walk these halls. Hear well the fervor of their call, Which cradles hearts from like’s grim fall. Upon such shoulders we do stand, Held high and strong by their firm hand. A clearer view of this strange land. They give to us with every strand. With all their might, They stand upright, And mirror bright, Prophetic light. Their words incite, Minds to new height, And fast ignite, Herts to Unite.
This path they paved, With hearts enslaved, Through storms they braved -Truth well engraved. No heart depraved. No heart is waived, When truth is craved, Each one is saved.
So walk my friend, Walk through these halls, Walk with giants who built these walls. From them still, the heart they call, In arms of love, come run ...Come Fall.
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Poetry Lemons
Bruises
Roses are red, Violets are blue And when life gives you lemons, You make lemonade.
It was like I couldn’t breathe I didn’t care if the sun set or Rose What day was coming How many days have gone It was like you punched me And then I Checked to see if Your Hand was OK And upon seeing the bruises I blamed Myself And I replaced it again and again
But roses can be white Violets are probably violet And life can definitely hand you strawberries instead When I got handed my lemons, I tried to make lemonade. I prodded them, squished them, squeezed them, and completely smashed them. I thought it’d be easy peasy lemon squeezy. It was actually difficult difficult lemon difficult. Only a little while later did I realize that I hate lemonade.
Nuha Abdelrahim
Sometimes life will give you strawberries in place of lemons. You might even get blueberries, mangoes, or a big ol’ watermelon. Don’t try to make lemonade when you’re meant to make something else. After all, how tasteless would this world be if all we could drink was lemonade?
Nui Waris
Between Mama’s Lines “Okay,” you can be amreekan. but the days you find yourself in an aromatic cafe tasting the very existence you tore yourself into millions of pieces for on the days everything other than starched cotton and silk dupattas feel like gaudy costumes, pandering, pandering those days, “come home.” Anon
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Life was Death The memories were a blur. Giggles echoing off of the walls. Warm arms locked around me. The sweet smell of cinnamon tugging at my nose. Life. But it was all different now. The lukewarm beads of tears streamed down my face like a tropical rainstorm, uncontrollably unleashing gulps of moans. My face looked like a stack of ink stained papers. A dense combination of sweat, mascara, eyeliner, and sticky tears smeared down the side of my burning cheeks, sizzling as they jumped off of my damp eyelashes and onto my moist skin. Is this a dream? Is my sister just pulling some strings to get me out of badminton practice? Is this just one of her cruel jokes? No. She would never joke about something like this. No one would. The school suddenly felt like a jail. Cold, dark, gray hallways, mocking my emotions. The amiable club promotion flyers suddenly felt like unaccepting metal bars, closing in on me. I ran out of school as fast as my jelly filled legs could take me. A cold gust of wind blasted me. It suffocated me. It pulled my hair. It tugged at my dry lips. Nothing was in my favor today. The worst part was to come. My mother. I had to be strong for her as she was always for me.
Her usual peppy attitude towards life was shattered like glass, with shards of hope and love lost under rubbles of sadness. She stared off into the distance as tears trickled down her face,
ignoring the shaking of the walls as I slammed the door shut with an abrupt boom. I threw my backpack from my aching back onto the floor, releasing the crashing sound of boulders as it touched the tiles. I ran to her. I hugged her. I pecked her on the cheek. I held her hand. I stroked her hair. But not a single response from her. Who am I kidding? Who would respond when her mother passed away less than 10 hours ago? My grandmother, whose giggles echoed off of the walls, whose warm arms were always locked around me, and who always smelled like sweet cinnamon, was gone. Death. Death struck her unexpectedly, creeping up like a predator against its prey. And I had lost my only living grandmother. A grandmother, who is supposed to be there to watch your tennis matches and bake you mouthwatering cookies. She was lost from me forever, like a teardrop in a sea of water. I needed that person. I needed her so badly. But she was forever gone. The wind wisped her up and lifted her away, to a better place. Losing my grandmother changed my mom. It changed my aunts. It changed my uncle. It changed me. I no longer wanted to giggle. I no longer wanted to give hugs. I no longer wanted to smell cinnamon. Life was death. Anon
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Poetry 3AM “Lights out,” Mama bellows from a thousand miles away Jelly filled legs stumble to the light that hastily clicks, silencing the dreadful day and opening the doors to the eerie night The specks of shining stars peer through the cracked glass, muting all the sounds from afar leading the night to a smooth pass
Tick tock tick tock tick tock Until the clock abruptly strikes 3 My mind opens its door without a knock, unleashing thoughts like a swarm of bees Irrational thoughts acting as though we’ve never met like wolves circling their helpless prey, reminding me of every doubt, failure and regret And all I can do is drown in dismay
I force myself to think of something to relieve the thoughts that make me quiver to my knees, praying that something will bring me peace So I picture the gleaming sun and trees I finally begin to fall into a slumber After I calmed my shaking hands and arms I lay on my bed of tranquility Only to hear the blare of the alarm
Anon
Self To Self You are right, our lives are connected, but for a If I am truly speaking day to be filled with sunlight, with no to you, then give me the time nightfall, doesn’t make sense at all. I am I’m due. I still may be young, without not merely a result of you, but a product a clue, but for you to be actually true, we of my mistakes. Mistakes I made, through must see my days through. For my life, and and through, and some things I wish I knew. a short life it can be, should be care-free. A Does that make me perfect? Not by any close smile, a laugh, all things about me. I have a means. The grass is supposed to be green, or waving flag, and I wave it high. They always at least greener, on the other side, but some- say to try, no matter how much I want to -times I wish I could go back to a much earlier cry. So why should I be shy, to fly, fly so scene. Do I have regrets? Sure. Do I have a few high up to the sky, while you’re here on doubts here and there? Of course. But as ground, thinking about what could’ the days go on and on, I start to realize, have been. I have hopes, and I life’s genuine surprise only comes when dreams. And yea, I may be a you push through the many lows, and little naïve, and sometimes the few highs. I wish I captured, held tight I’ll take it to the extreme, to what you say you are. That but its not what it youthful light, would help heal seems. I’m happy, these scars, help me see more of as are my days, so now, the stars, in a world that can be supplementary, what do ever so dark. And while I struggle, you really have and I fight that fight, I sincerely hope to say? you and me get to see that person, the best of both, with much more figured out. Abdul Basith Basheer
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Reflections On Healing Anon
Do you ever get the feeling of not wanting to get out of bed? That feeling of what are you working towards? The feeling of hopelessness? Questions like these make their morning rounds like a never-ending carousal. Each day I wake up and am reminded of this pain all over again. I try to recall the good times from the vacations to the birthdays, but these memories were fleeting and the pressure to succeed wasn’t suffocating me. I feel the motivation of getting out of bed slowly leaving my body, like a small cut bleeding out. The happier memories are fading like a light fading in a very dark tunnel. I struggled with all these thoughts and emotions my entire second semester of college and the following summer. I felt more alone than ever. I didn’t want to continue school; I wanted to drop off the face of the earth. Yet I continued. I faked my smile daily to avoid the question, “Are you ok?” from my peers, because at that time I couldn’t admit to myself that I wasn’t ok. I felt all the people I wanted in my life were pushing me away and I felt lonelier than ever and the help I sought out made me feel crazy for feeling the way I did. I continued faking this look of happiness the rest of the semester. Only the closest people to me knew what I was feeling and what I was doing to keep myself sane. Finally, the semester was over and I thought the worst was also over, but I was wrong. Summer came and I realized that I wasn’t ok. I was living alone at home, brother do-
ing his own things, mom working an 8-8 job, and my dad traveling all summer. I felt more alone than ever now that all my friends that helped distract me from my feelings and thoughts were gone. Over the semester, all those thoughts I pushed behind a gate in my head had finally broken as summer started and the loneliness caused me to hit rock bottom. I was thinking the darkest of thoughts of whether all this pain I was feeling was worth it? The feeling of waking up and having those thoughts be the first things in my mind was becoming too much for me. I didn’t want this struggle and I felt myself become weaker each day I woke up and the motivation to fight these thoughts were fading like a dying light. Normally, summer would entail me hanging out with all my high school friends I don’t see any more because of college, but these thoughts made me stay home. They made me close everyone out. My only interactions were with my co-workers as I worked a job I hated and with my close friend of 12 years on our trips to the gym, but even he didn’t know what I was truly feeling and thinking. It wasn’t until the end of the first month of summer did I finally come to my own realization that I needed to find help because I wasn’t able to overcome my depression and beat it alone like I was trying too. I had hit rock bottom with thoughts of ending my pain becoming too much. I was ok with dying. I wasn’t afraid. I was willing to test the limits as to what I could do and
how far I could go. I was hurting myself through self-inflicted pain to make the pain of what I was feeling go away. I’d rather be in physical pain than the emotional pain I was feeling at the time. Summer carried on and my pain grew and grew each month as the loneliness and detachment from everyone grew as well. I kept on with my therapy and at one point started with anti-depressants, but after the first month I decided to take myself off it and believe in myself to find my own happiness within Islam. I didn’t want to rely on anti-depressants to make me feel happy. As the end of summer came around the corner I was still feeling depressed at times but overall, Alhamdulillah, I was slowly making my way to mental stability. I was better able to handle my emotions and come to term with the things that caused my depression in the first place. I came to understand that the life I was given was a gift and it would be disrespectful to take away the gifts I was given by Allah (swt). As I write this today I am at the best place possible, Alhamdulillah. I’m thankful for the struggle Allah(swt) put me through because it was a learning experience for me and it taught me a lot about myself. It gave me a lot of important reminders for my future and I’m glad to say today that I’m as happy as I can be with myself and thankful to Allah(swt) for that experience. I wouldn’t trade that summer I had for anything.
dow given to me by a friend that reads, “He knows himself, knows his Lord.” I look at it everyday and try to know myself better. I am getting a little bit better every day. I am most awake when I come back from the library after midnight. I love seeing the moon at night on my way home. Outer space interests me and I remember wanting to be an astronaut when I was little. While most of the city is sleeping late at night, I find myself eating a handful of cheerios in my favorite mug before I go to bed. I like open fields and tall trees. When I was younger, I always wish I had a tree house. At the age of 5, I was convinced
my room had boogie monsters and I refused to sleep without my parents. They convinced me nothing was there and that I shouldn’t worry. But that didn’t stop me from sleeping in their bed for the longest time. I’m 21 and when I go home on the weekends, I ask my parents if I can sleep next to them. In junior high, my best friend and I would call the radio station and request our favorite songs. We would get so excited when our song would play and an outburst of dancing would occur. When I hear my favorite song now, I still do the same thing. I have never felt more alive and myself. My heart is full.
My name is Safa. What’s Yours? Safa Shameem
I start my morning by making my bed and I pick the pillows off from the floor because I like sleeping without them. There’s a book that sits on my bed and I’ve been trying so hard to finish it, but I just can’t get past this one chapter. I realized I have a tendency of starting too many books without actually finishing them. I have pictures of my parents from their college days hanging on my wall and I suddenly become curious about the past. I can’t help but think what my parents were like when they were my age. Were they as shy as me? There are days I feel connected to my heart and days I feel distant. I have note on my win-
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Reflections Cats Don’t Make the Best Roommates Sarah Basheer
The first time my cat fell asleep in my lap, I think my heart melted. She climbed atop my crisscrossed legs, took a small turn about and curled up. I’ve never had a cat before and I don’t consider a class hamster in fifth grade as an actual pet. So when my Layerkins came into my life I was hesitant, excited and eager to impress. I remember the first day she came home and poked her furry head through the opening of her pet carrier, leaped onto my bed and began a swift perusal of her new surroundings. The first few days of our acquaintance were a bit rocky. We didn’t know each other very well. She was a bit more standoffish and uncaring than I thought she would be, and I was a bit more unnerved and unknown than she thought I would be. We shared those first few days together in my small bedroom and beyond those walls the world didn’t
exist. We got used to each other and those nights were mostly sleepless for me. She would scare me half to death at 2 am when she would suddenly decide she was an Olympic sprinter and make a lap around the room. Or I would lay unmoving for hours if she fell asleep right next to my foot, afraid that I would kick her accidentally. I would turn on the light and stare at her with weary eyes when she fell asleep dead center in the middle of the bed, leaving little room for me and making it impossible for me to sleep at all comfortably. After those first few days, we finally opened her to the rest of the world, (i.e. the rest of the house) and I finally breathed a sigh of relief and got a good night’s sleep. And we got along a lot better; I think we understood each other more. I’ve endured my fair share of chomps to the foot, hand, and face, but I can read
her unpredictability much better and I gained her trust through the most potent method: Food. Sometimes I feel like her human food slave, and she’ll wake me up at 6:00 am on the dot (it’s progressively getting earlier EVERY day) but it’s worth it for all the cuddles and purrs. Cats are such complex creatures and that’s part of why I’m drawn to them more than dogs. Dogs are cute yes and playful, but cats are crafty, ingenious AND adorable. They have the looks and wit, so to speak. Leia is pretty clever, she’s cuddly, sensitive, temperamental, hilarious and listening to her purr is the greatest thing ever. I’m learning more and more about her quirks, (right now she’s really into tipping things over from high places) her routine, and her needs (so needy). We’ve got a long friendship ahead of us but thankfully I haven’t started licking her back. Yet.
the sake of being “Muslim” (as opposed to doing things for the sake of God). I figured if I ran fast enough, I could become a “good” Muslim instantly, and that’s really all I wanted. I was so sick of myself that I’d run as far and as long as it took to become a “good” Muslim. In suddenly embracing a new identity, I bypassed essential features growth: introspection, questioning myself, and taking chances on new experiences. Before I knew it, I was being praised as a “good” Muslim, but on the inside I was dying, and even more confused. In running to a new identity, I ran away from myself rather than within myself. I’ve realized that wherever you go, you take yourself with you. I fantasized so much about “being” a “good” Muslim for once, I forgot to “be” in the first place. My desire to change was rooted in
misunderstood fantasy of a future-self. However, fantasies and the future do not exist. In living in fantasies and the future, we live and work in a realm of non-existence. This strips us of our capacity to be in the present—the only realm that truly exists. In being present with ourselves, we see and understand what’s actually inside of us and who we actually are. We ask and answer essential questions, rather than bypassing them to embrace an identity that isn’t authentically us. The only place we truly exist is now, in the present; not in the past, not in the future. In living in the future or past, I was writing novels and tales. In being present, I began drafting, editing, and understanding my autobiography.
On Running
Farooq Chaudhry
The summer before my freshman year of college, I was sitting with a friend atop of the bleachers of my high school’s football field, around 11pm, doing something I really should not have been doing. The police pulled up in the parking lot behind us. So, I ran. I ran from high school, the police, my friend, and, helplessly, myself. While running, the only thought circling my head, other than “I hope my parents never find out about this,” was “what happened to you?” In the midst of a storm of anger, depression and confusion, I ran to UIC intending to run away from myself, and run towards God. Within a couple months, I had mastered what I thought being Muslim was all about: dressing and speaking a certain way, blindly accepting some things and vehemently rejecting others for
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What it takes to be a Woman A Young Woman
Being a woman in this world I get the best and worst of it. I get both sides of the double-edged sword of double standards and rather than coming to terms with it, I’m trying to change it. Today it’s different they say: women work, women are strong and educated. Women were always strong. Even when our only job was tending to the house and kids. Women today tend to have more economic power, with jobs and personal incomes, but things aren’t any different today. Why is the homemaker job still only delegated to women? What, men don’t live in the house? Are they only temporary visitors that women have to clean up after? What, the kids are only my responsibility because I give birth to them? Last time I checked in health class, it takes two. If anything, the only thing that’s changed is women putting more and more on their
plates. Today I’m expected to not only be the perfect homemaker but to have a college education. And after I graduate, I’m expected to put that degree to work. Yet the value of my education is less than my brothers’. They can’t be bothered to help domestically because they have exams coming up, but my grades and the time I need to study are irrelevant, so I can do the housework. Even after I’m married, I’m expected to put my income into the house. It’s not requested of me, it’s assumed that’s what I’ll do. And I don’t mind, if the money I work hard to earn goes toward my family, what grudges could I possibly have? As a mother it’ll be my duty to care for my children in whatever capacity I can. I’ll rise to the task. But men, you need to step up too. I’m going to assume you know how to cook dinner, or do chores around the
house. My job description doesn’t include maid, hostess, or nanny. It includes wife, mother, daughter and woman. Your job description doesn’t include audience member, bystander, or babysitter. It includes, husband, father, son, and man. You’re the man of the house, and while that comes with rights, it comes with responsibility too. The prophetic example is to help in whatever capacity you can and do the things you can do yourself. Don’t leave it for someone else to do for you. Especially your wife. Stop giving the burden for women to shoulder alone. We’re in this together. My mother has shouldered this great burden, and I’m not free from it’s crushing weight, but I’ll make sure my daughter doesn’t carry this weight alone or get cut by the double-edged sword of double standards.
So they said the theme was “Autobiog- You write your autobiography in a raphy” and I was like, cool, I love talking Moleskine, beautiful calligraphy, set to the about myself. But then I was like wait, to tune of Frank Ocean, worthy of being there better not be some change the framed above your desk. I write mine to course of your life expectations. I could the beat of Fall Out Boy (American Beauty/ write poetry and throw in American Psycho obviously), indecipher some able scribbles on Post-it notes, a con random glomeration of doctors appointments, spaces spilled coffee and late assignments. Her and ignore all rules of grammar. i can write autobiography is in sketchbooks, hasty in all lowercase, talk about Ammi’s blood drawings between science classes, that runs through me and my Nani’s rough stuffed under a pillow at night. His autobipalms and faded blue eyes that tell stories ography is a mixtape on SoundCloud, the of generations. But they, the mysterious perfect playlist for the late night train going omnipresent they, said auto-biography nowhere, but full of the 80s rock bands he and from seventh grade English, I know actually likes instead of the obscure R&B that auto- means self and andro- means artists he should. man, and I really want to make this about I could lecture you about changing myself. the world and making a difference, but But first, you. do this instead. In a notebook or a Word
document or on the back of your bio notes, write. Write down what makes you happy, what made you sad, what made you proud of yourself, what you were ashamed about. Do it for yourself, not for your Twitter or your finsta. Unapologetically, confront yourself and your reality. You don’t have to define yourself as a writer or a revolutionary or an artist. But when you write down the ultimatum, the Ballot or the Bullet, fuel the fire inside of yourself, that’s when you define your autobiography. This is your Moleskine, your Postit notes, your sketchbook, your mixtape, your legacy. I can’t tell you want to do with your life, no one can. But if you’re going to write an autobiography, I know a guy in a publishing company. So first live your life authentically, courageous, unapologetically and then hmu.
The Imitation Game Anonymous
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Reflections Connecting on a Deeper Level Ummesalmah Abdulbaseer
“Sophomore. Psych major. Yes, I’m Pre-Med.” “That’s nice.” This is a conversation I’ve had. Over and over again. Different people, different places, but same questions, same lackluster responses. “What year are you? What’s your major? Are you pre-med?” The other person will go on to share their answers to those questions and quickly move on with their lives. We call this meeting someone new, but have we really met them if we have walked away only knowing facts that we will forget in a matter of minutes? It’s as if nobody has the time to think of better questions. It’s as if nobody has the drive to get to know others at a level beyond the surface. It’s as if nobody really cares to know about anyone else. The same thing happens with your friends. “Hey, how is everything?” “Good, what about you?” “Yeah, pretty good” You both nod in affirmation, and get going on your way. Not realizing that this
interaction was simply meaningless. Not noticing that these questions were just routine. You see, we have forgotten to take the time to get to know people. It’s not just becoming Facebook friends and greeting them in passing. It’s much much more. It’s being there for them, talking to them about your own life, and above all, listening to what they have to say about that everything. Some people never get the chance to really open up. To share what has really been happening or tell others about their unique experiences. I wish that instead of asking these basic questions, individuals we just met or our friends would try to dig deeper. Instead of simply trying to understand my career path, I would wish that they’d work to understand my soul. The same feeling is shared by everyone. You want to feel valued, and share with others who you are and what you’ve been through. For some, the best way to give others an insight into their world, is to write. An autobiography perhaps. Or they do it for themselves. A journal or diary. But for someone like me, my life experiences don’t seem to resonate on paper. I have
to talk through them, act them out, and paint a picture so that others really feel the experience. I actually believe that accurate account of my life can be found in the hearts of those around me, as it lies in the stories that I tell others and the impression I leave behind. My conversations are a means for people to really know me and for me to really know them. So that when I walk away, I have given them a piece of my soul and they have given me a piece of theirs. So that when I move on to another place, and happen to run in to that individual, we will know how to pick up where we last left off, and not simply repeat the basics. So now I ask of you, go try to get to know others at a deeper level and listen to what they have to say. Because for many, you will get the chance to hear an account of their lives, firsthand. A front row seat for their life story, with elements of comedy, drama, adventure, and who knows what else. So my friends, go out and learn new things about those around you. Ask thought provoking questions, provide a listening ear, and I promise, you’ll be astounded by everything that you hear.
A servant of the Creator and a servant of the creation Ali Nasaruddin
One of my mentors gave me a piece of advice a couple of years ago that fundamentally changed my worldview. It was something that I had known but not yet internalized. In that extreme low that I was in, God gave me some light to understand this aspect of reality through the words of my teacher: “You must purify your heart from the najaasa (impurity) of being overly concerned about creation—and you as part of creation—instead of the Creator.” When you think, say, or do anything, what is going on in your heart? Whether we are complimenting someone or backbiting someone we need to listen to the chatter in our hearts. When we are complimenting someone, are we thinking that because of
this action we can consider ourselves safe as good people? Are we thinking about how others can now perceive us as good people? Or are we concerned with God being pleased with us finding beauty in all things and lifting each others’ spirits up? After we backbite someone, are we convincing ourselves that God can never forgive us for the action we committed? Are we wondering whose favor we will fall out of for gossiping? Or do we repent and know that God is forgiving and understanding and that as long as we put in our best effort, God will help us get rid of this habit over time? Cockiness in our good deeds and despair for our bad deeds are symptoms of being overly concerned with creation
instead of the Creator. The good deeds will destroy us as they did Satan if we do it for our egos or for other people. The bad deeds will destroy us if we allow ourselves or those around us to be our judges as opposed to God, Who is the Ultimate Judge. When we leave being overly concerned with creation, we will find a type of peace and satisfaction that can only be found in God. Concerning ourselves with creation will only leave us in a scattered, confused, and restless state where everything is out of place. Concerning ourselves with the One Creator will bring us to a grounded, clear state of mind where everything comes together and is as it should be.
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Editors in Chief Farooq Chaudhry Nuha Abdelrahim Managing Editor Ibrahiem Mohammed Staff Writers Nui Waris Samirah Alam Nahian Saed Ummeselmah Abdulbaseer Sarah Basheer Safa Shameem Ali Nasaruddin Staff Artist Saba Ali Doodles Sumaiyya Ahmed Meme Master Aleena Haider
Interested in contributing to Al-Bayyan? If so, email submissions to albayyanuic@gmail.com
Cover Courtesy of Ta’leef Collective
Creative Direction Noor Abdelrahim