S.E. Bhamjee's Blog

 

This Augustwould have marked 30 years of marriage. Had I stayed married.

Replete withthe perfect vision that hindsight often gifts us, I’ve decided to look at thethings my mother never told me about marriage.

The firstof those being that marriage needs continuous work. I suppose she never passedon this bit of wisdom because she and my father were works in progressthemselves? After all, who isn’t?

SO, perhapsinstead of dwelling on the things I was never told, I should narrow my focusand hone in on the things I learned – from my ‘failure.’

 Overtime, with sufficient neglect, a marital bed can become two separate continentswith an ocean between them that love alone cannot bridge

 Giving100% of yourself will never be enough if the return on that investment rarelypasses 50%

 Swallowingyour words for too long will cause them to dry out completely. And once the WordDrought sets in, that Climate Change is impossible to reverse

 Someonedepriving you of their kindness, their words, themselves, that’s a form ofabuse too.

Yourpartner HAS to be your friend. Because love can sometimes be nebulous. Sometimesit will feel dead, completely. But friendship is that star that holds its placein your sky and will always guide you home.

Youdeserve to have a home that feels like a hug at the end of a long day. And if Homeis not that, then why?

Youwere not born a sheep or a goat, so why should you offer yourself up as asacrificial animal at the Altar of Peace in the Home? And no, this is not a licenseto be selfish, not at all. But a reminder that if it’s hurting to the pointwhere it’s killing you, DO SOMETHING!

 Itis absolutely okay to say NO. To your spouse. To your kids. To the world. And that's not being selfish. It's sometimes an act of self preservation.

 Selfishnesspoisons everything. Enough selfishness can even poison a kind heart

Yes,it’s hard. To balance childrearing with marriage maintenance. But make the timefor that. Because some day the kids will all be grown. They’ll all be gone. Andall you’ll have left is the relationship you never made time for. Will itsustain you?Youcannot put a price on Peace of Mind. And a healthy marriage is Peace. If yourhome is not a place of Peace, fix it. And if you can’t, fix yourself.Leaving,if that’s what you ultimately need, is not failure. Your Home is not Broken. Asa woman, if you chose to leave, you taught your own children the importance ofself-love. Of recognizing their own worth. Yes, that is a hard lesson. But ultimately,it will have been worthwhile. Trust me.

There is no Right Time to do hat you need to do for you. There is just The Time

It is never too late to start again. As long as you are breathing.

Happiness was always an inside jobContentment, no matter what you choose, that's the Real Wealth. And it only comes with acceptance. And if everything in you rails against this acceptance, then maybe it's time for change things?Faith. You need that no matter which direction you choose. We act. Ultimately, Allah choosesForgive. And start with yourself. 

Sidebar: I recently completed writing my second novel. It is with the editor as I write. Exciting! Watch this space!

 A few weeks ago, my Primary School teacher sent me a picture of something I had written that was included in a school magazine when I was in Std 2. That's Grade 4, for you young 'uns. 

It was a description of a Summer Storm. 

I was taken aback by her message. But she also made my day. 

She reminded me, that in spite of all the things I subsequently became, low-key, I always wanted to be a writer.

To celebrate my writing The End on Novel no. 2, I've taken a stab at that descriptive piece, first written when I was 9 or 10 years old. 

To see how far my writing skills have come?

I suspect my mum, Allah have mercy on her, helped me write the Std 2 piece. I wonder what she'd make of the new one. 

There is amoment.

Of perfect stillness that comes.
Just as.
Just when.
The first drop of rain hits the ground.
And the earth, elated by this display of love from the heavens unleashes a scentso sweet, humans have given it a poetic name. 

Petrichor.

No matterhow grumpy the sky had been until that moment, when that first drop kisses the earththat had been quivering in anticipation, turned, and tossed by buffeting winds,everyone celebrates. But the celebration is short lived, as the wind gains momentum,lashing houses and cars with a cascade of leaves torn from hapless trees, thatit then proceeds to uproot. Rain starts to fall hard enough to hurt. Lighteningscars the sky in jagged streaks. Thunder, the glorification of Ra’d, roars likeanger.

Waterrises. Defying doors shut tight, seeping into houses. Dripping from eaves andfinding holes in roofs that no one had known existed.  

Silence.
Spent, the wind dies down.  
Ra’d stops glorifying.

Birdsemerge, bedraggled, shaking out their sodden feathers, taking in the carnagethat visited their homes with dismay. People arm themselves with mops, broomsand buckets and tackle the waters, head-on.

‘What astorm!’ she breathes

She takesin a deep lungful of rain-washed air. And in that moment, she is thankful, sovery thankful for life.  

            ********************************************************

In other cheerful news, my novel, Home Scar, made Sunday Times Literary Awards Longlist. 

Whether I make the shortlist or not is irrelevant, I suppose. The honour of being named in company so accomplished is something I will savour.

Next goal: Learn to promote my writing. I'll need that if Book 2 wants to succeed ;)

Tips, pointers, how-to's, welcome :) 

 

 

South Africa,a country with an Indian Muslim population of some 300 000, descended fromindentured labourers and later, traders who first arrived in South Africa in themid 19th Century, about 200 years after the first Muslims actuallyarrived here (involuntary migration, they call it - got to love the colonisers’sense of humour) from the Dutch East Indies.

This tiny IndianMuslim population has no less than five Halaal Authorising bodies. Seemsbizarre, doesn’t it? As though it wasn’t enough that the wise, Islamicallyeducated men (read Ulama) among us thought this division necessary, they thenproceeded to take swipes at one another creating the impression among Indian Muslimsthat some kinds of Halaal are better than others, as indeed, some strains ofpracticing Muslim are better than others.

This needfor perpetuating Shaitan’s superiority complex that led him to say, ‘I ambetter than him’ when asked to prostrate before Adam AS has been the fitna thathas ensured that we remain economically strong, yes, but morally feeble.Because we forget, that differences of opinion and a healthy respect for anddialogue around these differences is what made the early Muslims such a vibrantlearning community. It is these differences that are also responsible forgiving us the four Madhaahib. And it is these differences that should inspirein each of us, as adherents to The Faith, as responders to the call of our BelovedProphet Muhammed (peace and blessings be upon him), as sincere lovers of Allah,a mutual respect.

But whenscholars are so blinded by their bloated egos that demand, insist, that theirright is the only right, when men of knowledge fail to recognize this spirituallyfatal disease within themselves, what hope have we as Mohammed and Fatima Ordinaries?

But youknow what? Some of us (actually a lot of us) are tired. We’re tired of the bickering,the name calling, the casual takfir-ing. We’ve sick of it, in fact. All wereally want is to worship Allah as best we can, learn our faith as best we can,and hold on to it, as best we can.

We don’t want your toxic WhatsApp messages that get passed around, littleembers from the fire of Jahannam, where people who are all working towards thatsame goal you claim to hold dear get maligned and slandered. We don’t want yourname-calling. Your gossip. Your unfounded allegations. Your incorrectassumptions. We just don’t want that portion of Jahannam’s real estate that youare claiming for yourselves.

So, *deepbreath* I say this in the interest of enjoining good and forbidding evil, Can.You. Just. Stop???

Before youhit forward on that juicy bit of slander, do your homework. Before you slap aname on someone, do your homework (and for the record, I don’t consider beingcalled a modernist an insult anymore). Before you get involved in this fitna,do your homework. And ask yourself this most important question: just whatworldly or spiritual benefit does this bit of ugly give me?

On the authority of Abu Hurayrah (may Allah be pleased withhim) who said: The Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings be upon him) said:

"Part of the perfection of one's Islam is his leavingthat which does not concern him."

[Tirmidhi]

So if it doesn't concern you, leave it. For Allah's pleasure.

We are allstriving to please Allah. Part of my striving is that I respect the ways inwhich believers around me are doing their work. As a sister in Islam, I ask allof you who are currently rearing up on your spiritual high horses, please, for thepleasure of Allah, will you not accord me the same honour?

We have so much that is good within our communities. So much that is worthy and beautiful. Let's amplify that. Let's build on it. Why are we ruining our Aakhira with this needless pettiness? Do we not want to show our children a better way?

And yeah, Ilisten to All Imam Omar Suleiman’s lectures.

To all the children of the world whose parents still breathe, this is a call from the belly of a Sorrow Whale, fashioned from the tears of a parent, deep in an ocean of grief and sorrow. This is a call from a heart so broken, that it is only through the grace of Allah that it still beats. This is a call from a person for whom death is more beloved than life right now, for all the pain she has endured:
 Please, do not, ever bring tears to your parent/s eyes. 
For if  Allah insists that we never even say Oof, to them, what then of the gravity of making them weep? And if Allah instructs us to be good to even our disbelieving parents, then what of the rights of a Parent who shares our faith? 

It does not matter that the words uttered, were done because the parent was wrong. Yes, parents can sometimes be wrong because they are just human. Nor does it matter if the intentions behind the harsh words or actions seemed noble – The path to Hell is paved with Good Intentions.
Nor even, if they came from a place of obedience to Allah: Enjoining good and forbidding evil, for even in that do we subscribe to etiquette.
For me, that my words/deeds caused tears, was enough to seal my fate.
I tried to make amends in other ways. Was the dutiful daughter who cared for her mother, bathed, fed, nursed her to health when she could not stand by herself. Was the devoted daughter who offered up her home to them, a way of lowering the wing of Mercy as Allah enjoined.  And yet, here I am, living the worst pain I have ever known, a pain that has rewritten my understanding of anguish altogether.

That I have used this sorrow to seek the Face of Allah, is only through His grace. That I have used this test, to draw closer to Him, is only through His mercy. What if instead of remaining steadfast, I chose to question His will? I shudder at the thought. 
In trying to understand the source of my grief, I settle on the name of Allah, Al Adl. The Just. Though actually, it means Justice in its entirety. Allah is Justice, the source from whence Every Aadil exercises
Adl. So while many of Allah’s names denote the doer of a deed: An Naafi. The One who gives Benefit or Ad Daarr, one who allows distress to afflict, Allah did not call himself Al Aadil, the One who is Just, rather he is Adl, justice itself. And this Allah, in His Adl, cannot allow the tears of a parent to remain unanswered.
 Your parent may forgive you. (Allah, knows, I have worked hard towards finding forgiveness for my errant offspring but I fear, still, that my tears will reach them), but Allah, Al Adl will not let you off so easily. This has been my experience.So I will say it again, to you, to me, to everyone and anyone who will listen: 
don’t ever bring your parents grief. 
 I don’t know if my words will reach you, nor whether they will touch you. Perhaps I am too late, and you too, dear parent, have been left to your fate because of tears you once caused. Or maybe, you are suffering even though you never caused any? If that is so, please leave a comment because I would like to know whether My Truth is truly true. 
I know we live in an age where people are trying to normalise cutting off ties with their parents because they've completed cutting off everyone else, but if you are a child, and you have broken something precious inside your parent because you need to make yourself happy or speak the truth or demand justice or whatever rationalization you have used, I beg of you, Make amends. For when your test comes, it will far exceed any test you may ever have put them through. 
You will only truly understand their pain, when you are enduring a worse one.  May Allah protect us.

 

And just like that, month 1 of 2025 blipped by and we findourselves staring down the gauntlet that will hasten the coming of Ramadhaan.

As I type, I am several thousand feet in the air over theFairest of Capes, headed home after a brief spell in the Mother City. Alone.Just me.

Thinking myself clever, I booked a seat in the exit row.More leg room. For my restless legs to be restless in, forgetting that tall,wide guys, they choose this too. So seated next to me is just such a blokewhose elbow juts over the armrest into my hip.

It’s going to be a long bloody flight.

This mini holiday I scored came, courtesy of Read To Rise,who are the organizers of the Cape Flats Book Festival.

Gauging by attendance, this less than festive festival isthe weeskind of South African Book Fairs, which is a pity since it is amagnificent initiative. It feels like a thing of beauty struggling to take rootin an unforgiving environ. And if, from the efforts of the determined, warm,organisers of this laudable effort, a handful of less-than-privileged childrenare introduced to the Love of the Written word, then the near empty halls willhave all been worth it.

On a whim, I chose to stay the night in Cape Town. My firsttrip away as a newly divorced female in a man’s world, (if this guy’s widelysplayed legs and arms akimbo stance are anything to go by.)

Read: he turned me into a creeper, climbing my small wall ofthe plane wishing I were out there, on the wing, instead of being made queasyby the armpit warmth of a stranger.

The land below is a faded dusk-coloured canvas of etchedlines and shrouded ridges. Whilst my ears

pop, the ombre washed rainbow ribbonof dusk stretches across the sky next to me. Fading. Fading. Bowing eventuallyto a perfect lilac.

My Lord, You have not created this in vain, glory be toThee. I think. By my heart stays silent.

Somewhere down there, a muazzin is calling the faithful to prayer. My mind bows in submission. My heart is still silent.  And as much as this weighty plane soars, with seemingly little effort towardJoburg and its workaday problem and I take in this much wonder which imbues mysoul with thankfulness, my heart is a heavy, broken thing.

The world has been bleached of joy these last months. Emptiedof the wonder it once filled me with. Because my child, soul of my soul, hasopted for a path so dark, I cannot, with any degree of integrity, join her onit. And so I have had to teach my heart to let go. And each day, I do so. A little more. Fewer tears. 

Funny how you never think these things can happen to you...

And then they do.

And your world is unmade.

And the sky comes tumbling down. And the ground beneath youis mere mush and you're crawling your way through the mundane of every day.Barely, just barely staying above it all.

The heart can break a thousand times, but still, itbeats 100 000 times each day we live. Subhanallah.

Image credit: vector_corp on Freepik


To all parents out there, being tested through theirchildren, being made to seek Jannah through trials inflicted on them by thevery beings for whom they sacrificed their entire lives, my duas are with you.May the Almighty make whole your broken hearts, fill them with joy once more.Bring you peace and acceptance. And above all, an unshakable Faith.

May we meet someday, those of us who were tested thus, in the lengthy shade of the trees of Jannah.And there, to the lilting music of its rustling leaves, may our laughter rise tothe Almighty. We will laugh and laugh, you and I, at the pain, the heartbreak,the suffering. Because the very things that tried to break us, brought us here.Our tears will be the ocean that carries us to Allah’s pleasure. Aameen

 

Don’t lookdown!

Oof! You justdid. And you saw how far along the calendar of 2024 you’ve climbed. And hereyou are, at the pinnacle, the last month mere days away, and once you summitthis…

A whole newyear awaits. Another year to summit.

Cue: slewof New-Year-New-Me; new-year-empty-diary-to-fill-with-all-the-things; I’m-tired-tired;what-a-dreadful-good-bad-year posts.

I’ve long realizedthat these posts are the things we say to ourselves to feel better about thebad by telling ourselves that something really good awaits just beyond this bend.But what if, even in this dreadful, there are spots or bright? Why do we always focuson the bad? Because It’s human nature?

We canchoose differently though, no?

So for sometime now, I’ve begun looking back on each year as it drew to a close and givingthanks. For even among the bad, there has always been good.

As Allahsays, ‘indeed with each difficulty comes ease.’ (citation not needed - all you Mozlamic folk know where that comes from). 

Not after each difficulty, but with. Ease with every difficulty (thank you,good friend, for reminding me of this – you know who you are  ;)

So yes, I’mcurrently in iddat and will usher in the New Year, newly single at 47. So yeah,I’ve mourned some big relationships this year and said goodbye to people, some,quite near and dear. So yeah, work is probably the most hectic it’s been in along, long time. But with all this, I saw my novel that I had been working onfor a decade, see the light of day. This took me travelling, Durban and CapeTown, where I got to meet some wonderful souls.

I’ve alsostarted writing my second novel. My long ailing Asian restaurant has finallybecome profitable after being recognised for serving up the Best Wings inJoburg, And I’ve rekindled some precious old relationships as well as forgingstronger, better, lifelong ones.

And I,after years of suffering with a pinched nerve in my back, have finally managedto sort that mess out thanks to the healing hands of a superb Chiropractor. I’mfinally sleeping without pain, walking without pain. So no, it was not a badyear. It was a year. And I survived seismic changes to the topography of mylife and my heart remains filled with gratitude and faith in a Benevolent Rabb.

So I’m roundingup 2024 by listing the lessons I learned this year

 Sleepingin the centre of a bed takes a lot of practice

 Adishwasher can never be filled with dishes from two people

 You’renever too old to start Pilates. And yes, if you start it in your late 40’s, itwill hurt something hijjus, but will feel great regardless

 Youcan survive living in a dump, having completely empty cupboards, with a racistold crone for a landlady and not having a proper shower for over a month if youremind yourself that there are people out there suffering much worse. My duasare with Gaza.

 Allahwill ALWAYS send the friends, family, companions to guide you through dark days

 Sayinggoodbye and letting go may be hard, but sometimes it’s all you can do to keepyourself sane

Yourmental health is NEVER is solid as you imagine it to be. So be kind toyourself. If you aren’t kind to you, how do you expect anyone else to be?

You’renever too old to have new dreams and chase new goalsNo matter how much NEEDS to get done, it's okay to stop sometimes and just take in the viewPat yourself on the back, darlin'. A job well done deserves at least that. And no, that doesn't mean you're proud. It just means you know how to appreciate you.  You won't need a power drill or electric screwdriver if you buy hooks that hang over doors

Feel freeto tack on your heard-learnt lessons of 2024.

I wish you abundantease with every difficulty, double rainbows after every storm and a heart thatis always connected to the Divine.

Take careof you, see…

I am that errant servant who has disobeyed You, ya Rabb. Cast from the ship, I am a bad luck charm, I now weep in the belly of the whale. In darkness upon darkness, hoping, praying, that my sincere call to You will slice through the darkness to reach the heavens and cause You to turn to me Your countenance, full of Grace and Mercy. 
 I know I am unworthy. I know I have wronged You just as I have wronged myself, but I ask in the words of Yunus from the belly of his whale, There is no Ilah save Thee. Glory be to Thee. Indeed, I have been of the wrongdoers. 
 My heart is shattered into a thousand dark pieces. And in my aloneness, I turn to You. In the words of Yaqub, I say, indeed, I complain of my grief and sorrow to Allah. 
 And I borrow from Zakariyya who refused to despair when even in old age, yearning for a child, He said, And never have I, my Lord, Been disappointed in supplicating to you.

 And I take from My Beloved when cast from his home, hiding in a cave, he reminded his companion, Do not grieve. Indeed, Allah is with us. 
 And I know, Ya Rabb, you are with me in my grief and sorrow. You will make whole my tattered heart. You will save the ones who have brought me such grief from the tears I shed begging at your door and again in your court. For even now, as a mother whose heart has been destroyed by her own offspring, I wish goodness for these children. I wish for them no taste of my own pain.

 Call me Home, my Lord, if this life has no merit left in it for me. I defer to Your perfect knowledge. And if, even now, in this brokenness, You choose to keep me here, then I trust that Goodness from You will follow. 
 Allah is sufficient for me. There is no Lord but Him. In Him do I trust completely and He is the Lord of the Great Arsh.

These are the words I poured onto paper, when in the depth of the night, overwhelmed by sorrow, weeping, praying, I could find no rest. Reading them back, I realise that even in the seething belly of the Sorrow Whale, I could find my Qiblah. My heart knew, even when my mind faltered. There had grown over me a tree bearing fruit. Sabr. And all I had to do was eat of it.
It’s been days since this disconsolate night. Many more tear-soaked nights have passed. The musallah has worn thin and my knees have grown creaky. I have passed through the shadow of a near mental breakdown, pulled from the abyss by the love of good friends and a loyal son and daughter. And now I sit in the cold light of day, ready to face the dark chapters that must surely come to pass. Armed with acceptance. Still broken hearted, but alive. And standing. And no longer weeping. 
Mine is a grim acceptance. Necessarily so. The heartbreak is no longer about the future my daughter has chosen, in spite of knowing the fears I have regarding this choice. Rather, it is centered on the sure knowledge that my child, the child who was born on the 10th day of Muharram, when, I, heavily pregnant, started the day fasting and finished it at death’s door bleeding out on a gurney, that child, has no mercy in her heart for me.

The realization, at first a shock, has settled in my heart, heavy. A boulder. It was like death by freezing. Slow, agonizing. Or like death from bleeding out after childbirth. 
Ibn Taymiyyah said, A calamity that makes you turn to Allah is better for you than a blessing which makes you forget Allah. 
So this is better for me. I accept it. Allah has brought me to my knees, and finding myself there, I choose to pray.
Whatever heartache her future holds, for life always holds heartache, she will face it without me. And I will quieten the fears I will feel for her because I no longer have a right to feel them. She has chosen to be a stranger to me, inured to my pain. I will have to content myself with being a mother to her from afar. 
 Did not the Prophets too have to deal with errant children?

Imagine the grief Nuh AS must have felt, when seeing his son thrashing about in the rising waters, rain from above, a groundswell from below, he called to him. Oh my Son, he said. Pouring all the love he felt into those two words. But his son, blind to faith and deaf to his love, preferred the imagined safety of a mountain to the sanctuary of his father’s embrace. 
Imagine the sorrow of Ya’qub AS when his sons, all ten of them, came to him late in the evening, the blood of a sheep on their brother’s shirt, false tears in their eyes, telling a bald-faced lie, because they had placed a higher value on their jealousy and insecurity than their father’s heart. And to Allah did he complain of his sorrow, until his sons’ actions stole the very light from his eyes. 
I am not the first parent to endure this pain. Nor will I be the last. Perhaps this is how Allah gets us to the stages in Jannah that He wants for us. 
So long as we don’t slip.
Into sorrow.
Into despair.
Into faithlessness.

 As long as we keep saying, Hasbunallah. Always.

 

It wasduring Ramadhaan this year that I decided I was FINALLY ready.

So, withoutsaying anything to anyone, I went about house scouting. I wasn’t going to beoverly fussy. Just something simple that I could afford. Furnished, ifpossible, because where on earth was I going to find furniture for my new nestfrom? It was clearly Time, because the chips all just fell into place. I founda place.

Fast forwardsome months and I now live in a little 2-bedroom apartment that I’ve furnishedwith stuff I found on Facebook Marketplace.  It’s cosy. And clean. And I’m happy. If mymother were alive to see this, she’d be upset. Why should I, after working allmy life to curate the perfect house, be living in a matchbox surrounded by junkother people don’t want? I can almost hear her say this. Even my sisters weren’ttoo thrilled with the choice I had made.

 But it’s okay. A home isn’t the solid oaktable and bespoke dining chairs, or state of the art appliances I once enjoyed.It isn’t the garden I’d lovingly tended for 16 years, where I had grown adazzling array of exotic herbs, fruit trees that yielded the sweetest apricots,hedges almost as tall as a man. Home is the place that makes you happy. And thatbeautiful home, though I filled it with things that brought me sparks ofhappiness, was missing the vital piece of the Life Puzzle. Love. That had beenabsent for so long, that at some point I stopped paying attention to itsabsence.

Where doesit go, this love? How does one go from: In this sweepstakes that is life, Ihope you’ve drawn the longer lot and will live to see me go, because I haveloved you so completely, that I cannot ever imagine living a day without you,to feeling NOTHING? Just nothing. How does that happen? All things die?

In the fourmonths I’ve been away, the garden has gone to seed, I’m told, so now I’m busymaking it okay in my head to see my plants die. Everything dies in the end, Ireason. My leaving just hastened the end for my garden.

And its not even my garden anymore because that’s not home anymore. Home is aplace you go to gladly at the end of a long day at work knowing that once youenter it, you leave all woes and all worries behind. Going home doesn’t fillyou with sadness. But each day, going home would do just that. Make me sad.  And then one day, I was just tired of beingsad. Tired of swimming against the current. Tired of holding the sky up by myself.

I’m in agood place, alhamdulillah.

picture credit

Yes,sometimes I feel my aloneness. But it’s not oppressive. Or sad, this aloneness. It just is. I’ve begunfilling this new home with green things because watching things grow, that hasalways filled my heart with joy. how did I not notice, that life offers so much joy. Maybe the sadnessthat once swallowed me was able to do so because I had stopped feeling joy? I know that resentment that I nurtured for so long had turned into a stone on my heart that kept all the good things in, and all the best things out. And now that that's all past, I finally feel free. Free to feel and love and be. It's been mind-blowing.

My kidsvisit, my girls live with me, mostly.

I’ve had toredefine myself, reinvent myself in ways I never imagined I’d have to in myforties. After all, I’m a part-time mother now.

I find astrange pleasure in making and buttering toast for my girls when they stayover. I happily iron their clothes and do small acts of mothering that I neverreally considered vital before. This is me, trying to fit into my skin, still.Trying to be a mother to children who’ve outgrown me in many ways. But that’sokay. It is what is meant to happen.

What next?My second book. And a dedicated love affair with myself.

Between allthe wife-ing, mothering and working I’ve spent 28 years doing, I never reallyfound time to visit me.

This month,we would have ‘celebrated’ our 29th wedding anniversary. This month,I turn 47. Basically, I’ve been married more than half my life.

IF, at 18, whenI stood on that precipice, ready to leap into marriage with the person Ibelieved to be the Love of My Life, someone had come to me and told me that in29 years’ time, I’d be single again, would I still have jumped?

Yes. And yesagain.

The years,the streaks of happiness, and splashes of sadness, the sorrows, the joys, allthese things conspired to make me, Me. And I’m thankful.

I’ve liveda good life. I’ve always worked to leave my little whisp of the world betterthat I found it. I’ve chased dreams and caught them, held them between myhands. I have no regrets. I have amazing children, I have faith. Alhamdulillah forall of it.

Alhamdulilah.Every. Single. Day.

 

 

 

To MyMuslim brethren who went out on the 29th May, stood in lengthyqueues to make their mark, and then threw it all away by voting in favour of theANC, I have but 1 question to ask you:

Were you dependenton this same ANC for education for your children as opposed to some model C orprivate school, dependent on this ANC to provide safety and security instead ofa privately contracted company, dependent on the ANC’s clinics and hospitalsfor healthcare instead of some grossly exploitative private hospital, would youstill have voted for them?

I doubt so.But because we’re insulated by our wealth from the harsh reality of life inSouth Africa, we could happily throw away our vote on a party that has broughtuntold misery on millions of poor South Africans. All because our ulema ignorethis hadith:

“May the curse of Allah be upon the one who pays a bribe andthe one who takes it.” Narrated by Ibn Maajah (2313); classed as saheeh byal-Albani in Saheeh Ibn Maajah – and encouraged us to vote for the ruling party,knowing full well, that through their corrupt shenanigans, these are peopleconstantly under Allah’s curse.

 Truth is, the ANC weresmart enough to play us, and we in turn were dumb enough to be played by themwhen they pulled their ICJ stunt in a bid to hold on to their majority vote, astunt which has done nothing to better lives for Palestinians, nor diminish thetrade ties between South Africa and Israel that are in excess of $200 millionper annum in each direction, nor even help the rotten ruling elite to hold onto their majority.

Yes, our hearts bleed for the Palestinian people. Not justbecause they’re Muslim, but because NO HUMAN BEING should ever be subjected towhat they’re enduring.
Yes, we weep for them when we see the video evidence of a genocide unfolding withthe full blessing of western governments.
Yes, we wake up in the wee hours of the morning and read two raka’ahespecially for their freedom from oppression.
But our vote, here, in South Africa, was supposed to be for South Africanpeople. Was supposed to be one that could ensure dignity for the poorest andmost vulnerable among us. THAT is the core of Islamic teaching. Our neighbourshave the greatest right over us and we did them a grave injustice by voting forparty that has not built one new University or hospital in the 30 years thatthey have ruled over us.

I maintain that no believer with even the lightest conscience could havehappily voted ANC. Even a vote for the Zionist DA would have been betterbecause at least they have shown accountability in their governance of the WesternCape, so a vote for them would have been a vote for South Africa , even if itwas a vote against our beloved Palestinian people (yes, that’s an unpopularopinion, and you can lynch me for it later).

So when DA counsellors make statements like these:

and DA members say things like these

And Zionist, racist ‘journos’ write drivel like this , you know, as a band of believing South Africans we are alaughing stock of the religious community at home and have totally lost the plot. Our leadership is stumblingin the dark because they have failed to speak truth to corrupt power, something no righteousscholar from the golden age of Islam would have shied away from, even at the costof their lives.

When your chance comes in the next election to contribute tomaking the lives of ALL South Africans better, think carefully. Vote with yourconscience. And if you still vote ANC then, well… check your faith. Because,you, my friend, are in deeper trouble than you imagined.

 

Too often,we are mired in the daily negatives and fail to celebrate the daily positives that envelop us.

I was reminded of this human failing last night, when, surrounded by inspirationalwomen from my own community, I celebrated the launch of my debut novel.

I went homeand thought  of these women, and their rousing life stories. And in that moment I felt intense gratitude that these were the women, from among all of Benoni's women, whohad chosen to come and celebrate my achievement with me. Because all of themwere phenomenal in their own right.

Here, seated next to me, was asingle mum and businesswoman who had raised 3 children and started a business,built it from the ground up. Today, whilst semi-retired, she serves as the anchor for both her children and grandchildren and the businessshe built is still the means by which Allah sustains them.

Here, seated waayyy out back, was awoman whose daily motivational posts, in spite of having had to start her lifeall over again, never fail to add a splash of colour to my day.

Here was agroup of women whose desire to build an organization that wouldserve the needs of our community had brought them together. An enduring sisterhood is the result of their meeting for the benefit of others. I frequently get to witness their little celebrations that they gatherat Upcycled for. A birthday here, a milestone there. I always feel extremely privilegedto be a part of their joy.

Here weremy customers, women, who support my business endeavours and are always apleasure to deal with, here they were, celebrating my Dream, Realised.

Here weremy friends. Women in whom I have found a sisterhood that has been as lasting, asit has been unexpected. A small group of women who see me, for me. 

Last night reminded me, that this perfectly flawed world we live in, stilldelivers some perfectly beautiful moments. We need only be open to receivingthem and embracing them.

Sure, thereare people who would ignore the road you’ve travelled and never offer even theslightest compliment on your successes, but equally, there are people capable ofcelebrating the success of others, the achievements of others, without feelinglike it has reduced them in some way.

That there willalways be women who support other women, and don’t view them as challengers forwhatever mythical crown they wear, gladdens my soul. These are women, generous of spirit, ampleof heart, who embody  the essence of Sisterhood, with their unabashed displays of joy at the success of another.

Last night, I sawbeauty in this sisterhood. I saw wonder.

And forthat, I can only say, Alhamdulillah.