Wednesday 24 December 2014

Eve of Return

My thoughts…Death has always been on my mind. It never leaves me. Being a born Muslim I didn't realise my faith, and only reverted once I began to think and contemplate death more closely. I became so worried about death I would weep at night, and not allow myself to fall asleep in fear, that if I were not to wake from slumber how would I face my Lord? My chest would feel tight with anxiety till I would feel I couldn’t breathe as the fear of not being able to face my Lord took hold. Alhamdulillah that was my first step and by His Grace He swt guided me Alhamdulillah. Death I hold onto as closely as my life, to remind me, to help me stay on the path, so that I can have hope that there is something better inshaa’Allah.

As my own death is always never far from my thoughts, the death of loved ones has always left its mark. These are those that seem to have remained a part of me, who left me valuable lessons. This is a short piece about one such individual.

Aunty Shanaz a great loss to all; family and community. Aunty was amazing and a real inspiration Mashaa’Allah. Never stepped out without her beautiful smile, and never spoke a word unless it was sincere advice Alhamdulillah. She was not just an aunty she was a friend, a mentor the one who always gave strength and courage in hard times and rejoiced in times of happiness. She was always one of the first to help another in need, and always looking for the best in her own and in others.

She personally would always take an interest in the lives of others. Not like the prying or nosey aunty that we can sometimes have the joy of meeting, she had a genuine interest in health, wellbeing and life in general. On occasion she would see me pass by and always invite me in. She would not only give me advice, she would listen to what I had to say without judging me, tell me off if need be, and would never let me leave her house without giving me something; be it a Dua for my soul, an advice for my life or food for my stomach.

I realized that she had a special quality; always a want to attain good in this world but also Inshaa’Allah attain good in her Aakhirah.
 

Aunty was a true fighter mashaa’Allah. She never allowed her ill health to get in the way of her doing the work of Allah. She had suffered with liver problems, had survived a liver transplant but after years of her doing so well, she slowly started to become very ill. As time passed we noticed the drastic change as she struggled, and after spending much time in and out of hospital the doctors finally realised that her new liver was not functioning properly. She worsened and soon enough the biggest fear came true. She became so ill that another transplant was not an option anymore. We were told that ‘it’s just a matter of time’ and in plain English it meant ‘watch your loved one die’.

My thoughts…It’s hard to digest at the time. They are there in front of you, talking, laughing, crying, joking, and in your heart and your mind your still in denial but as the months turn to weeks and slowly you witness them deteriorate, it begins to sink in. You become fearful that it could be today. Your life all of a sudden goes on pause. They get an infection or feel a little under the weather and every time you think, this maybe it? This maybe the last time, they may not make it, and then a little hope comes your way and they become a little better but life becomes very much ‘life on the edge of your seat’. I think this not knowing is a reminder that nothing really is in our hands. We have no control and no power and ultimately He swt gives and He also takes away.

In the time of leading up to her death even then she did not forget to remember all those around her. A couple of weeks before her death she requested that I visit her in hospital and sent for me. As I sat with her on her bed she held my hand and pulled me close, kissed my forehead and made a long supplication for my life and happiness in this world and the next. We both sat and wept silent tears together for a period of time. Even though she was extremely sick and facing death she reminded us that Allah is close and hears the Dua of those that are sick.

My thoughts…I've always been one of those that as soon as I hear of someone’s sickness or ill health I feel I have to rush to their bedside as I remember this hadith. Abu Hurairah narrated that the Messenger of Allah, peace be upon him, said: "A caller from
heaven calls out to the person who visits a sick person, 'you are good and your path is good. May you enter your residence in Paradise'.” I suppose I visit so I too can benefit. This hadith always comes to mind "When you visit a sick person, ask him to pray for you. Indeed, the prayer of a sick person is like the prayer of angels."  

As I sat beside her on the edge of her bed she talked about how her life was only in the hands of Allah despite what the doctors had said, and it will be He who takes her soul when He is ready. She asked me not to worry nor grieve and that it was Qadr of Allah.  

When the doctors announced that she may not see another day I went again to her bedside. I have never seen a room so full of people supplicating and reciting Qur’an. This was the first time that I witnessed another in the throes of death. I went to her side and she acknowledged that I was there. I read the Shahadah to her over and over, and as I held her hand I felt the pain she was in resonate through my body. A reminder for me that even our beloved Prophet (SAW) in the throes of death was in pain. “Every soul shall taste death” is what Allah swt tells us in the Qur’an and I sat there and asked is this that taste?   

Breathing had become difficult as she struggled. Her long hollowed gasps felt like waves crashing. Her face naturally turned to the right. Within an hour she had lost consciousness and a few hours later with all her family and loved ones beside her, her soul returned to Allah.

She departed this world in the early hours at the time of Tahajjud. Being Christmas Eve there was worry that the funeral arrangements may be difficult. However with family and community coming and working together, within hours her funeral had been arranged and paperwork finalised Alhamdulillah. This reminded me so greatly of the importance of knowing what to do at the time of death and the procedures and law of this country. If it had not been for the knowledge and hard work of the family and community it may have been several days before the funeral would have taken place.

Aunt Shanaz was washed and shrouded within an hour and she glowed with so much Noor. As I helped lower her into her coffin I prayed that when I die I too have noble, honourable women around me to take due care and pay attention to detail. A reminder of how important it is to have knowledge of washing and shrouding the deceased.

SubhanAllah the masjid was full in its hundreds despite it being bitterly cold with snow covering all the ground. So many hands that day were raised in supplication for her and the Ummah.  Finally as I covered her radiating smiling face and tied the last tie of her shroud I prayed to Allah that we all have a dignified death.


My thoughts.. Its times like these when witnessing and experiencing unity that I feel so proud that I’m a Muslim. It is also times like these that I feel it is so important that we educate ourselves in funeral rites so we can ensure that our sisters or brothers are given their full rites. I also pray to Allah swt that we have enough time to make sincere tawbah, have enough time to seek forgiveness not only for others but from others also. That we have enough time to make Dua for our loved ones left behind and those that have already left before us. That from death to burial there is haste and that on the day of our janazah there are many to supplicate for us. I pray that we too are remembered for the good marks we left behind. Finally I pray that we leave enough Sadaqah Jaariyah behind that benefit us in our hereafter. Ameen.

originally written 
© Aisha Mirza Jan 2011

Friday 28 November 2014

Oh the shame of it!



Its really hard to express what shame does to you. That feeling of doing wrong and being afraid of the judgement of others. Its scary at how much others words or opinions matter. How much their actions, but more their reactions matter. When did feeling ashamed in front of people become more important or take up more mental energy then feeling ashamed wronging ourselves, body and spirit in front of our Lord? 


Since posting on social media about my sons challenge to raise money for the children of Gaza, I have received a constant trickle of questions and raised eyebrows from some family and friends.

"I didn't know your son had a bone disorder?" 
"but how can he? looks fine to me."
"why did you not tell me?" 

Perfectly valid questions. A response I expected of honest concern and interest especially when for many years I had never mentioned of the sort. However the questions for me remained. 

How does one describe something that the untrained eye cannot see? How can I tell someone that though he looks like any other average child his age on the outside, his insides tell a different story?

Why did I find it so hard to share? what was I afraid of?
The hardest battle in the past had been trying to explain that my child has Hereditary Multiple Exostoses - a condition of benign bone tumours growing from his skeletal frame throughout his body, and being greeted with the judgmental stare. This then often turning into a barrage of intrusive questions and statements full of pity, closely chased by soul destroying comments.. 

"Oh dear you have a genetic disorder in your family?"
"Did you not check before you got married?"
"Feel sorry for you, what kind of life will they have?"

Sometimes the lack of empathy by others with regards to difference or disability be it physical or mental can be one of the key factors that people do not share. Sometimes the reaction of it being something repulsive or "out of the norm" can often leave people feeling inferior, lacking self belief and self worth.

Sadly due to the shame that others had made me feel I had chosen not to tell people as they simply would not understand. To have one child with the condition would be "bad enough" but two children would be "catastrophic" I expect? My protectiveness as like any other mother, deflected judgement and pity from ever setting sight on my children. 

I think as I have developed as a therapist and now becoming an advocate of fighting "shame" in the wider society as a whole, I thought I must practice what I preach. To not be afraid, and hide from the labels others may attach. Speak our truth without fear. To trust that if my Lord can put us through it then he can take us out. If He makes it difficult then He is bringing us closer to Him and He will send mercy and ease when He wills. 

Alhamdulillah though for a while our story had remained untold to others our home has always been a vast open space. A place where there has continually been acceptance and celebration of who we all are as individuals and a collective. My son has never felt different and has embraced his condition. He is never afraid to share with his friends and with peers that he lives with a bone disorder. There are good days and there are bad days but we work as a team. No one is left out or left behind. 

Sharing my sons story for me has been no easy task. I share it as my sons courage has taught me to be as fearless as him. Mashaa'Allah tabarakallah.

May Allah swt grant all our children health happiness and success always in this life and the next and may we speak words that encourage and empower, not words that tear others down. Ameen. 

© Aisha Mirza 2014

Thursday 27 November 2014

Poverty

I feel her entwine between my toes, wrapping herself around my legs. Pushing up against my skin, she swiftly grabs my knees which shake from the intrusion. I shudder as she takes me in her embrace. I try to push her away but my body trembles with weakness. Her icy fingers stroke my face making my limbs become hardened mass, as my blood rushes to save me.





She is the cold, and I am the man who sleeps on the streets. 

© Aisha Mirza 2014

Tuesday 4 November 2014

Motherhood



She stared at her sleeping. Slow measured breaths. The rise and fall of the blanket she had wrapped around her, neatly tucking it under her chin. She lay beside her cradling her like she was her newborn. "I wish I could have you in my belly again and start all over" she whispered, as warm tears silently streamed down her tired face."I wish I could spend more time reminding you how much I love you." Her melancholic thoughts tapered to a slow pace, trying to hold time as it slipped away.

"I wish I could create cherished memories, rather than have moments of just things we have done." Her voice shuddered to a halt. Her emotions swept through her like a cold breeze making her body tremble, while suppressing the agonizing cry that welled inside of her. Choking on crushed pieces of broken promises she buried her face into the blanket and let out the muffled pain. Sobs of deficiency coupled with depleted means made her feel inadequate as a mother and inept as a father too.

Years had passed and life had been a series of lists. There was always something else to be done first.

"Wait I will listen in a minute!", "hold on a second I'm in the middle of something!" and "we can do it tomorrow!" were the words that spurted out before her vision raised to acknowledge her daughters tender pleading eyes.

Seconds turned to hours and minutes turned to days. Tomorrow as they say will never come and meanwhile she was growing up, learning, absorbing. No longer her baby daughter but a young girl already denied a father but void of her love too.

A mother, who loves her daughter so very much, who regrets every moment lost.

© Aisha Mirza 2014

Friday 10 October 2014

Strange things happen, but there is always a reason..

Strange things happen when you least expect it. All swt sends a sign. A timely gift that reminds me of how pure the natural disposition of humankind is. A reminder that amongst the hatred there is peace, behind the ugliness there is virtue and like through the ages, for every one who wishes to cause harm there are many that wish to help.

Little did I know that over the last few months I would come across individuals that would restore my hope in humanity. The stories go a little like this.

First
After a long drawn out process of being pushed from pillar to post, feeling lethargic of constraints, straight-jackets of paperwork tied securely with red tape, I was tired. Gaza, was bleeding and the world watched on. Innocent children, women and men were mercilessly being wiped away and I felt helpless, but some, sadly felt joy. As I sat in a public office one day awaiting some resolve, for the first time in my life, I was hurled abuse and made to feel intimidated by a young man, for being of my faith and race.

He felt it was ok to make a point of switching seats because I needed to take my 'rag' elsewhere and that he could 'smell my filth'. He thought it ok to then hurl profanities when I challenged his thinking and when he was challenged by others he claimed to have been a victim of racism himself.

I am blessed that I had the ability to challenge and piped up so others could hear. I am blessed that a brother in humanity whose race has also suffered for generations by those that see the beautiful shades my Lord has created an offence, came to aid and support me while others remained silent. I am truly blessed that I am reminded that respect, kindness and compassion for others doesn't cost anything and should be given irrespective.

Thankyou stranger for aiding me in my time of need.

Second
On meeting and conversing with the paramedic who tended to my son, he not only increased my respect for the people that serve with the NHS especially in the role he plays, but also reminded me that though currently there is so much hate in the world there are many that spread, love, light and peace alhamdulillah.

While we journeyed to the hospital one paramedic shared funny stories with my son to keep his mind off the pain, the other told me about his time serving in the Gulf war. After witnessing the absolute trauma and torture being inflicted on civilians and innocent people he found for his sanity, he couldn't remain. He left to spend time backpacking around the world, to as he put, “find his humanity again.”

He told me he didn't believe ISIS was even remotely Islamic after spending time in Muslim countries, saying that he had seen Islam as a way of life that everyone could learn a little from, as it was universal moral code. He told me he hadn't met a group of people that had as much respect, empathy and humanitarianism than Muslims and he felt sad to see the media propaganda.

He ended the conversation saying that on his "run" he had found himself defending Muslim colleagues, within the current climate who had been harassed by patients who had refused to be treated by them. He felt disgusted that such deep divisions had been created apologising to me that "we are not all the same." He said, "like not all of us spit hate, I know that all Muslims are not what the media want us to believe".

From one humanitarian to another, I thank you Chris.

Like I say I am truly blessed that I am reminded that respect, kindness and compassion for others doesn't cost anything and should be given irrespective.

© Aisha Mirza 2014

I ask you all to make duas for all those that show such compassion and make dua that we become of those who offer compassion and mercy towards others. Ameen

Monday 1 September 2014

Under the sky...

As they sat on the jetty, tentatively perched on the edge of the lakeside the silence between them was as deep as the lake itself. His eyes scoured the mountains for a spot to rest his thoughts. She dare not disturb his search, his burden was heavy and he was weary. No words did she exchange, but spoke to him in a thousand silent ways.



The sun softly placed its warming hand upon her back while the breeze scooting across the lake, tickled its fingers about her face. She dare not look at him. She just stared out across the lake, hoping that somewhere on the mountain upon which he scoured they would accidentally meet. That they would come face to face and their eyes would reach into the depths of their souls and unearth the words, that each of them longed to hear. That life prevented from emerging, to flourish on their lips. Just say...



"I think we best return and re-join the group" he finally spoke, breaking the dialogue that was free running through her mind. All of a sudden, her thoughts came tumbling down around her like loose rocks, slipped upon under footing. She was surprised he wasn't startled by the noise they made. He didn't look at her as he carefully stood, nor did he look at her as she waited for him to pass. She inhaled as much of this precious moment as her lungs would allow and slowly rose turning, to see him stood waiting for her at the end of the jetty.



Her pace quickened as her heart skipped. Her mind fervently fought the muscles in her face preventing the upturning lips breaking into smile. She lowered her gaze as she approached, afraid that he would catch sight of the reality hiding in the shadows of her eyes. He would recognise her quivering heart; the reverberation through her body as it trembled. That he would hear the echoes of her essence; familiar yet unfamiliar. Desperately seeking a distraction her eyes fixed to the ground where two tiny ants were busy in their daily work. After all, she knew that if their eyes were to meet; she would be lost forever and perhaps he would be to.


Monday 23 June 2014

First draft- A thousand Miles More

Raja awoke to the loud clamor outside. He turned eyes half shut to the empty bed beside him. Sultana's bed was made. It was not like her to be up before him. He would usually have to wake her, especially on school mornings like this one, but she was nowhere to be seen. Another loud thud, and then a scraping noise came from the other room. The kodti felt strangely busy for such early hours. Raja swung his legs round the side of his bed. Eyelids still heavy he couldn't find his chappals, and too intrigued to see what all the commotion was about, he padded across onto the veranda.

The courtyard was full of activity. He saw Ami-jaan rescuing the large metal tray that had fallen. Her chaador draped over her head. It wrapped neatly across her, covering her to her forearms. While carefully it remained pinned to her shoulder she was busy collecting pots, pans and utensil piling them on top of each other. He watched her as she grabbed the four corners of the cloth that had been laid out underneath and tie knots securely on top. Maybe she was sending them to be washed, he wondered. "Abdul! take these and put them on the cart." She called out, her voice soft but demanding. Abdul, the worker in their home came running across the courtyard. In one swoop he plucked the cargo off the ground and carried it on his shoulder to the horse and cart that was already waiting. They were, one of the only families in the village, to own a horse and cart of their own.

There was no smell that morning of parathas being cooked over the warm stove or the sound of Abu-jaan reading the Quraan. The char pai upon which Abu-jaan would normally sit, precisely positioned under the shade of the orange tree was empty. Raja from the corner of his eye saw Sultana. She was dragging a large trunk out from the other room. "psst, Sultana" he whispered. "what are you doing?" She dropped the trunk and looked at him startled. She hadn't noticed him hiding behind the pillar of the veranda. "what are you doing hiding there Raja?" she said, her tone tense, eyes diverting to and fro looking rather annoyed. "I just wanted to see what was going on" he said with eyebrows raised, tilting his head to one side. "We are packing, isn't it obvious and I suggest you keep out of the way," she snapped, and with that she swiftly turned dragging the heavy load. "You can't get it down those steps by yourself" he said quickly hoping to keep her attention for a little while longer. Her one foot firmly placed two steps down, and other balanced on the step closest to the trunk, her arms and hands tried to manoeuvre the bulky load into position. She stopped and looked at him. Her face softened, and while breaking half a smile, her eyes bore a darker shade than the normal glisten of auburn that always alleviated his worries and helped chase his tears away. He looked back at his sister with confusion. What was going on and more so, why was she not telling him?

Being an eleven year old in a household of seven siblings and two adults especially being one of the youngest it was rare that Abu or Ami-jaan would tell him anything. He would often have to wait for Sultana to pick up the news. At sixteen she was like a second mother. They spent much time together and he knew her moods well, but today, they were hard to read. Today, even the air was different; hemmed, hesitant.

He ran round the trunk and with both arms and all his strength lifted the trunk while sultana dragged it down the three steps. “Wait what are you two doing? You will hurt yourselves like that.” A soft concerned voice carried on the slight morning breeze landed on his ears. Raja looked up and saw Abu-jaan walking in through the gates. “Abdul, come and help the children. Sultana you help your mother and help the children get dressed.” Sultana quickly straightened, and adjusted her duppata that hung loosely around her neck, quickly whispering “leave this now and go inside, I will find you some clothes and then you must get ready” before she scurried over to Ami-jaan in the kitchen area who was feverishly busy selecting and sorting.


Raja stood staring. He still didn’t understand what was going on. Abu-jaan looked different. His fair radiating face today looked as grey as his eyes. His shoulders sloped and hunched today unlike what Raja had ever seen. His father was a disciplined man, strong and fair but always soft and kind in word. His back always upright and his face always beamed a smile, but today it was like he carried the whole world’s burden on his shoulders.

to be continued..........

Sunday 15 June 2014

Fathers day

For me it’s father’s day everyday.

From a very early age I had a passion for words. I was a constant seeker of knowledge and think always will be to the end of my days.

Before I could articulate words, I would create images, which manifested in a constant stream of drawings and paintings, being my favourite pastime as a child. During the evenings, I would not sleep without listening to my father tell me an old folk tale in Urdu, of distant lands and of places I had never heard of or ever seen.

Visual arts were encouraged in our household, with my father being a keen photographer, making me his apprentice.  He loved to take me on his adventures of discovery, travelling up and down the country to capture pictures and life; to fill every curious sense with exhilarating beauty.

I remember once, my father taking me on a trip to London to visit the museums, asking me to write a story of the day on our return. I wrote for days. Pages and pages, trying to capture each and every thing felt, seen, smelt and experienced; a day now engraved in my memory like it was yesterday.

From there on, writing became an outlet for me, especially poetry. It helped me through my teenage years and as I grew older, words I found hard to say in person, I would often write. It was always an emotional release; a pleasurable pastime. It wasn't till later in life after having my children I realized how my writing could also be used to convey messages, be shared with others in the hope that they too may take something away from them or provide a source of inspiration.

My most cherished memories of time spent with my father are of evenings listening to his stories of old. Tucked snugly in his bed, under the lamp that spread its warm pink hue, I would listen with eagerly attentive ears. Head propped on pillows, eyes wide with gasps of excitement and whimpers of fear, I never tired, always asking “just one more.”

I feel so blessed to be the daughter of a father who has given me the greatest wealth; morals, manners and appreciation for the world and its’ blessings.  I feel honoured to be that granddaughter of a great wise man I wish I had met, an artist; true and sincere. My father is the centre of my world and has made me who I am today but also I feel exceptionally blessed to have the best uncles who have served as inspiring father figures in my life too.

Being a parent myself I know the struggles endured in raising children, and recognise that there are parents that are doing it singlehandedly; under difficult circumstances, through hardships, poverty, war or trauma.

Being a parent is the most challenging and most rewarding job in the world. I hope that I too, like my father and his father before him, am able to leave a lasting legacy that inspires, encourages and motivates not only my own children, but others too.



 

Monday 2 June 2014

Poem- Where is, the love.

where is the love?

When life washes ashore, 
when held in destructive claw, 
or when walking from the wreckage,
of heat and flames so savage.

where is the love?

Hidden between cracks,
of bricks and mortar,
chaos and disorder.
Beyond closed doors,
when flesh beats down on floors,
muffled screams,
where blood streams
at the hand of regimes.

where is the love?



Tuesday 18 March 2014

Connecting with your Creative Soul.

I believe that creativity is in all of us, we just have different expressions of it.

Having a heightened awareness of the self and developing an eye for detail I feel is fundamental. To do this I believe it’s about forming stillness and giving ourselves space to allow for creative voices to rise within us, finding courage to express our own creative thinking in ways that are most honest and sincere to us. A genuine expression is often an enjoyable one.

It’s often about finding the source; the inspiration. What gives us an emotional high?

And once this connection is made then what?  

Like many things we want to give longevity to, creativity is something that has to be nurtured; allowing space for growth and development. Like a running stream it can never remain stagnant. It’s a fluid journey, constantly flowing; regularly needing to be replenished otherwise it runs dry.

Too often when the word creativity is thrown into the room immediately many respond by saying “I’m not a creative person” and people say that it conjures images of painting, photography, sculpture, music, theatre, dance and performance. I believe it’s all down to perceptions.

I believe that there is creativity in all that we do; there is an art in most things. Art for me I feel spills into so many elements of life. It doesn't have to necessarily be limited to the stories we write or the pictures we paint, but can be found in the masterpieces we make in our daily lives; from the food we cook to even the conversations we hold.

Skills can be artistic.

Skills and art where’s the link I hear you ask? Yes even skills that wouldn't necessarily be categorised or even considered as anywhere near artistic, I believe can have original, imaginative and resourceful elements. It is when a skill becomes so enjoyable and such a pleasure that it takes over our senses as we know them; we become immersed. It is the skills that over time are crafted, fashioned and perfected, meaning that there is a conscious and continual engagement to produce something better.

Take the example of Tajweed and the learning of how to read the Qur’an with correct recitation. Learning the rhythm, short or long letters, pauses all take great skill and many believe it is a technical science however I believe it is a beautiful art also. I only have to look at the canvass, the sheer beauty that Allah swt has created around me to realise that there is a natural intrinsic desire within each and everyone one of us to be creative.

It’s just a matter of time that when we dim voices of the world, give space, allow stillness that we shall hear the voices of our soul rise… then watch the creativity pour forth.  

  

Wednesday 5 March 2014

WORLD BOOK DAY!

WORLD BOOK DAY!

Finally the day has arrived 6th of March, on which I will be launching my book "Time for Bed Zayd" at my old primary school where my journey to develop my writing began.

Mr Smith was his name; a man of old principles and discipline who taught me to play chess and write in a script that resembled the scribbling of a child from the Victorian era. Most of all he helped me to think, to feel, to touch and to taste the words that I wrote transforming my monotone, colourless story, into 4D epic adventures.

I have two schools to visits tomorrow, at three different sites, in two different cities where I will share my book with hundreds of children. The best part in reading to the children is witnessing the light in their eyes, which for me is the greatest gift of all.


My earliest memories as a child are of me and my brother crawling into my fathers bed to listen to his stories of far distant lands... in Urdu he would take us on adventures across land and sea. Feeding my imagination and me hanging onto every word, that when the story would end I always begged "just one more..." wide eyes pleading that today before mother became fed up he would read us another.

Today I feel a sense of nervous excitement about my World Book Day readings but somewhere inside of me I cannot help but wonder about all those children that do not have someone to read to them... all those children who have been displaced, become orphans or are sick or those who due to poverty, conflict or war do not have access to books, or time to settle to listen to a story...

My heart hopes and prays that each child has an opportunity to hear and read stories that bring them happiness and I've learned that reading and telling stories is a real privilege.

I ask the Almighty that I have the opportunity to read and share with those less fortunate. Real riches I feel are in that.