The Butterfly Effect Of Prayer

There is a special type of serenity found in the mere seconds when my body hits the ground and I kneel down for prayer. On most days, the minutes dedicated to my daily prayers are only a small fraction of the hours spent doing everything else - yet these fleeting moments still seem to be the most significant. There are times when I feel like I have been kneeling for a lifetime as the bustling chaos around me stands still, and all that is in focus is my connection with Allah (swt).

Over the years I have grown to realize that my spiritual connection is built on these ephemeral moments of kneeling down to prayer and praising Allah (swt) - their long-lasting effects piling up one on top of the other. While it takes mere minutes to complete my prayers, their effects are long-lasting.

When I was younger, I learned about the Butterfly Effect. I would imagine the delicate monarch by my windowsill, flapping its intricate wings to produce a fiercely relentless typhoon all the way on the other side of the world. I don’t spend much time looking at monarch butterflies on my windowsill anymore, but these little acts of prayer have translated into my own version of the butterfly effect. Every time I kneel down to pray, I am given another opportunity to connect with Allah (swt) in the hopes of creating and solidifying a spiritual connection that holds permanency in my life. Just like the delicate monarch, I flap my wings for seconds in order to produce something much bigger than me, sometimes without even realizing it.

There are some days when I wish that prayer wasn’t so ephemeral - that it lasted forever so that I could always feel its peace. However, I now realize that this peace constantly flows through me, even when it is muffled by the chaos of the day. Praying cultivates a special bond with Allah (swt) that is not fleeting, but permanent. It is this special bond that acts as my serenity. In some ways, it is the fleeting nature of simply kneeling down for prayer that makes it so dear to my heart, acting as a brief escape from the troubles of my world. Allah (swt) asks for something so minor and short-lived for me to carry out every day and yet gives me so much more in return; by watching over me so that I feel cared and protected for. In the grand scheme of things, every minute I have spent kneeling down for prayer will not add up to much at the end of my lifetime, but the relationship I built because of it will be the most important thing I can carry with me. I have grown to realize that the ephemeral moments of life provide this journey with a sense of beauty and purpose because while certain moments may be short-lived, their implications are not. Kneeling for prayer does not take me longer than mere seconds, yet it produces a spiritual connection that follows through me in this life and the next. To me, an ephemeral life is not one that slowly slips away, but rather a series of impermanent moments that cultivate permanent connections that I can nourish little by little in a matter of seconds.

I didn’t know Nahit when I was in high school to be honest. He was an upper year student, he played basketball, and my friend had a crush on him. Even though we shared the same halls at school, I do not remember much of him other than small bits and pieces of information.

His dad was a judge then, who has now been imprisoned for almost 7 years as part of the Turkish government’s purge of government officers. A lot of people were accused of being terrorists since the attempted coup in 2016 (about 600,000 people give or take) and members of the Gulen Movement were affected most. Kurds and other dissenters were also affected, but to a lesser extent. The witch hunt led to some losing their jobs, being sent to prison, and many were excluded from their families, neighbourhoods, and friend groups because the accusation sticks and doesn’t let go. I would know. The affected were mostly teachers, police, lawmakers etc. Nahit’s dad was only one of those tried unjustly under the Presidential Law.

Nahit suffered from something called social death. Stigmatised as a terrorist in his 20s, I can imagine why he could not talk to anyone about what he was going through.

Imagine the fear of the future eating at you as you think of starting a career while also jumping through hoops to avoid getting profiled in job applications. The anxiety of knowing they won’t accept you if they learn about your dad. It is a drowning sensation and you cannot see the shoreline. People who see you drowning don’t lend a hand, some don’t even look your way. You can’t shout nor ask for help. His roommate of one year didn’t even know Nahit’s dad was in prison and had no idea how much he suffered.

People say Nahit was a kind soul. He was hardworking and silent. He got into the best university in Turkey, Boğaziçi University after he aced the entrance exams. He had a solitary life in his dorm room where he prayed often according to his roommate at the university. He had a tough time after his dad was imprisoned. Injustice made him distressed. Enough to be diagnosed with bipolar disorder not long after his father was taken away from him and his family, which included Nahit, his younger sister, and his mother.

Nahit committed suicide at Galata Tower on October 12, 2022.

At first, journalists wrote that it was a foreigner who jumped and therefore, irrelevant. When a foreigner dies, it is of no concern to the public.

A week later they wrote that Nahit was simply depressed and sick, and claimed it had nothing to do with the injustice his community had inflicted upon him. Again, no concern of the public – the newspapers said so.

Against all the lies the Turkish media spread about his death, I bear witness to the injustice that killed Nahit. Life is ephemeral but our legacy lives on in people whose lives we touch – knowingly or unknowingly. As I write these words, I am intentional that someone, somewhere will read this and know that Nahit was a kind soul, that he tried standing up against the face of injustice, and when he couldn’t anymore, he was murdered in maybe the most public place in Istanbul. A place that used to hold a different meaning for each of us.

I am not sure what the Galata Tower symbolises for me anymore. I thought about pain, resilience, injustice, anger, but nothing summarises what happened to Nahit, especially my insufficient words.

Dear Nahit,

I wish I could do something more than write this article.

In the name of Allah – Al-Ghaffar, Al-Hakam, AlAdl, As-Shaheed, Al-Muqsit, I pray that you find the justice you have yearned for in this world where you are.