For the month of Ramadan, the Umm Abbad Academy hosted the “Pen of Faith” writing competition, encouraging students to pen down and share their inspiring personal journeys to Allah. Each one featured powerful and unique themes of faith, and the Academy is pleased to share them. May they stir something profound in your heart as it has ours.
Lessons from the Story of Ayyub (Alayhi Salam)- Navigating Loss, Exercising Patience and Falling in Love with The Most Merciful.
When I was about 9 or 10 years old, my older brother gifted me a story book about Ayyub (Alayhi Salam). I devoured the book in one sitting and read it multiple times cover to cover only like a 100 times.
Perhaps for this reason, I find Ayyub (Alayhi Salam)’s story the most compelling. Ayyub (Alayhi Salam)’s most prominent trait was his patience as he went through multiple trials.
Allah had blessed Ayyub (Alayhi Salam) with wealth, health and lineage. When Allah tested him with loss of all of these, Ayyub (Alayhi Salam) remained steadfast. Just as he was grateful to Allah during his peak, he was grateful to Allah when he had nothing except for his heart and intelligence.
As a child, Ayyub (Alayhi Salam) being shy to ask Allah to alleviate his pain really stuck with me. He says ‘Allah blessed me for seventy years with health and wealth, it would be unworthy of me to complain because of a mere seven years in pain and poverty.’ Growing up, this taught me to not question Allah’s decree.
Of course, it was for little things like a failed class or not getting a packet of crisps.
As I grew into adulthood, I learnt the Dua of Ayyub (Alayhi Salam):
۞ وَأَيُّوبَ إِذْ نَادَىٰ رَبَّهُۥٓ أَنِّى مَسَّنِىَ ٱلضُّرُّ وَأَنتَ أَرْحَمُ ٱلرَّٰحِمِينَ ٨٣
“And [mention] Job, when he called to his Lord, “Indeed, adversity has touched me, and You are the most merciful of the merciful.” (Al-Anbiya 21:83)
In my early twenties, my mother became ill for a long period of time. I found solace in repeating this Ayah. My Allah is the Most Merciful of those who show Mercy. There were days that were difficult with blood tests, hospital stays, and uncertainty, but somehow we made it through because My Allah is the Most Merciful of those who show Mercy.
And although My Mother didn’t recover, we’re still encouraged to make Dua to invoke the Mercy of Allah for those who have passed away. It changed from asking Allah to cure my mother in this world to asking Allah to have Mercy on my mum in her qabr and in the hereafter because My Allah is the Most Merciful of those who show Mercy.
Make no mistake, it was really difficult to lose my mum. There are days you want to scream into the sky about how unfair it is. It wasn’t right that she died when she wanted to live. That she fought so hard but it was in vain. Then I remember, Allah gave her to me for a set amount of years and although she can’t come back to this world, I make Dua that Allah reunites us in the hereafter in Jannatul Firdaus. Ameen.
It would be amiss of me to not write about the wife of Ayyub (Alayhi Salam). I remember learning about her sacrifices in maktab and being in awe. What a woman! I learnt from her the meaning of forbearance and loyalty. When Ayyub (Alayhi Salam) lost his wealth everyone but his beloved wife abandoned him. Their romance is better than any of the ones I’ve read about in novels.
She took care of him throughout his long illness without so much as a complaint. However, Shaytan tricked her which caused her to earn the anger of her husband who took an oath to beat her a 100 times when he recovered.
Once again, we see the mercy of Allah. In Surah Sa’d Verse 44, Allah instructs Ayyub (Alayhi Salam) to fulfill his oath by gathering a hundred pieces of grass together and lightly touching his wife with it. In this manner Allah spared the wife of Ayyub (Alayhi Salam) from being lashed 100 times. Because as you know, My Allah is the Most Merciful of those who show Mercy.
As I reflect on how Ayyub (Alayhi Salam) calls out to Allah, I realize he never blames Allah for any loss. In Surah Anbiya V83, he simply says Adversity has touched me. In Surah Sa’d V41, he blames Shaytan for his suffering. From this I learn about the Adab of calling out to Allah in a manner that befits Him. Ayyub (Alayhi Salam) still praises, repents and returns to Allah over and over again despite his losses.
Allah rewards Ayyub (Alayhi Salam)’s patience by returning his health, wealth and lineage. Allah says that he returns it with Rahma.
وَوَهَبْنَا لَهُۥٓ أَهْلَهُۥ وَمِثْلَهُم مَّعَهُمْ رَحْمَةًۭ مِّنَّا وَذِكْرَىٰ لِأُو۟لِى ٱلْأَلْبَـٰبِ ٤٣
“And We granted him his family and a like [number] with them as mercy from Us and a reminder for those of understanding.” (Sad 38:43)
SubhanAllah, Allah tells us in Surah Sa’d, that the story of Ayyub Alayhi Salam is a reminder for people of Understanding. May Allah make us from among them. Ameen
I could go on and on about Ayyub (Alayhi Salam). His story shaped how I respond to many situations in my life. From discovering who Ar Rahman is to responding with Patience in times of difficulty.
To conclude, I want to bring to your attention 3 verses from the Holy Quran about Patience.
يَـٰٓأَيُّهَا ٱلَّذِينَ ءَامَنُوا۟ ٱسْتَعِينُوا۟ بِٱلصَّبْرِ وَٱلصَّلَوٰةِ ۚ إِنَّ ٱللَّهَ مَعَ ٱلصَّـٰبِرِينَ ١٥٣
“O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allāh is with the patient.” (Al-Baqarah 2:153)
وَكَأَيِّن مِّن نَّبِىٍّۢ قَـٰتَلَ مَعَهُۥ رِبِّيُّونَ كَثِيرٌۭ فَمَا وَهَنُوا۟ لِمَآ أَصَابَهُمْ فِى سَبِيلِ ٱللَّهِ وَمَا ضَعُفُوا۟ وَمَا ٱسْتَكَانُوا۟ ۗ وَٱللَّهُ يُحِبُّ ٱلصَّـٰبِرِينَ ١٤٦
“And how many a prophet [fought in battle and] with him fought many religious scholars. But they never lost assurance due to what afflicted them in the cause of Allāh, nor did they weaken or submit. And Allāh loves the steadfast.” (Aal-e-Imran 3:146)
سَلَـٰمٌ عَلَيْكُم بِمَا صَبَرْتُمْ ۚ فَنِعْمَ عُقْبَى ٱلدَّارِ ٢٤
“Peace [i.e., security] be upon you for what you patiently endured. And Excellent is the final home.” (Ar-Ra’d 13:24)
From the above verses, we learn that Allah is with the patient, Allah loves the patient and that the angels will greet the patient ones in Jannah with peace. So do not worry, Allah is with you and Allah loves you O Patient One! And remember, My Allah is the Most Merciful of those who show Mercy.
A Short Ramadhan Reflection
Losing a parent has to be one of the most difficult tests to live through. In 2023 my beloved father returned to Allah. And while I was always aware that it could happen one day, nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it. My father was my protection, my safe haven, the ultimate problem solver and my best friend. After his death I remember this overwhelming feeling of being vulnerable, unprotected and alone. I suddenly had a mountain of responsibilities resting on me, running a business, a home and dealing with a difficult sibling and my advisor wasn’t around anymore. And so the unraveling began…
No matter how hard I tried to maintain control nothing seemed to be going right. I just couldn’t get a grip on my life & just didn’t feel like myself anymore. To the world I looked okay, strong-handling whatever was thrown my way. It is only Allah that knows the amount of “Ya Rabbi, help me” I whispered, and then too it felt as though Allah had gone silent. I naturally questioned my relationship with Allah, what was I doing wrong? How do I get back to feeling okay? To this day I still don’t have an answer, but these questions have pushed me to reflect more.
My journey to Allah isn’t one of grand moments and big realisations, where through one life altering moment my relationship with Allah is transformed. Allah knows me, He knows I forget easily so he sends me constant reminders. Difficult days alternating with spectacular days. There have been days where I was sure I couldn’t go on anymore,
where I even dared to ask, “why is this my life?” Those were the very days that woke me up to the reality of who My Rabb is. While the protection of a father was a luxury I no longer had, I always had the the ultimate protection of Al-Hafeedh. Allah’s help comes silent but it comes deep.
One of the biggest challenges I struggled with or rather I am still struggling with, is getting out of my own way. I’ve been so fixated on my version of what my life should look like and what I need to do to make things go perfectly that’s its to no surprise that none of my plans worked out. The delusion of “I” can only do so much, the result was never mine to control. How would I ever build complete reliance on Allah if everything always went my way? Learning to trust Allah’s plans above my own has been the most difficult part of this journey for me. (Feels quite embarrassing to admit) I do on the odd occasion get it right, hand it all over to Allah and it has become the most relieving feeling.
Who better to take care of your problems than the Sole Creator and Master of all things in the universe?
I experienced one of the brightest “aha” moments in these last few days of Ramadhan. Reflecting on what has been different from last year to this year. Duas from last Ramadhan have been answered in the most subtle yet profound ways. I just had to stop and open my eyes to the countless blessings that Allah has given me. The words “Indeed we belong to Allah and to Him we shall return” have true meaning with me now. Not only with the death of my father but also in the solace that the only true comfort you can find in this world is returning to Allah, relying on Allah and trusting that whatever He has placed in your life through hardship and ease was always only meant to bring you back to Him.
My experience is that it is not a smooth journey. It could look like a perfectly packed bookshelf the one day and the next week all your books could be on the floor, with torn pages scattered everywhere and you ugly crying in the middle of it all. But you get over it and wipe your tears. You’ll pick up your pages, you’ll find something beautiful written on one of them and it will give you hope and courage to carry on… InshaAllah.
May Allah never allow us to lose hope in His mercy, never allow us to be ungrateful in times of hardship and grant us the courage and fortitude to strive towards His pleasure always.
Aameen Ya Rabb
My Test of Faith – From Brokenness to Tawakkul
Sometimes Allah (swt) guides us long before we realize we will need that guidance.
When I look back at my journey of challenges and trials, I now see that every step was part of Allah’s gentle preparation for the greatest test of my life.
A few years ago, my husband and I started facing numerous financial challenges. The weight of our circumstances often felt overwhelming. Life felt uncertain, and my heart often felt distant and weary. Yet in the middle of that difficulty, Allah, the Most High The Most Merciful, opened a door we never thought possible.
Through the kindness of a generous family member, we were gifted the opportunity to perform Umrah.
SubhaanAllah, that journey changed my life completely.
Standing before the House of Allah, something within my heart awakened. My Imaan was reignited and a deep yearning grew inside me to reconnect with my Creator and rediscover my purpose.
When we returned home, I made a conscious effort to prioritize my Quraan tilaawat. My duaa became simple but constant: “O Allah, guide me and bring me closer to You.”
The ache and need of wanting to understand the words of the Quraan grew inside me and not long after, I came across the Umm Abbad Academy on Instagram. I cannot remember how it appeared on my screen, but I remember the feeling in my heart when I saw it. It felt as though Allah Himself had placed it in my path.
The ayah from Surah Ad-Duha spoke directly to my soul:
وَوَجَدَكَ ضَالًّا فَهَدَى
“And He found you lost and guided you.” (93:7)
For most of my life, I had recited the Quraan without truly understanding its depth. Through Tafseer class, the words of Allah began to unfold before me. Each lesson revealed layers of wisdom, mercy, and guidance that awakened my heart in ways I had never experienced before.
Little did I know that my Rabb was preparing me for a trial that would shake me to my core.
Towards the end of 2025, after a difficult year of trying to understand the changes in my husband’s actions and behaviour, Allah (swt) revealed to me my husband’s infidelity. The pain of betrayal shattered my heart. With four children, and after twenty years of standing beside him through every high and low, I found myself navigating deep emotional pain while struggling to keep our lives afloat amid financial and emotional neglect.
Those were some of the darkest days of my life.
Yet it was in that darkness that the Quraan became my light once again.
My prayer space became my sanctuary. In the quiet stillness of the night, Tahajjud became my lifeline. I poured my tears, fears, and confusion before Allah. In those moments of brokenness and sincere duaa, I began to understand something profound: my Rabb had been preparing my heart long before this trial arrived.
The lessons from Tafseer strengthened me when anger and despair threatened to overwhelm me. They reminded me that every test carries divine wisdom and that true peace lies in placing complete trust in Allah. They also helped me understand the nature of human creation — weak, imperfect, and prone to error, yet always in need of returning to our Rabb.
One ayah held my heart firmly during this time:
وَمَن يَتَوَكَّلْ عَلَى اللَّهِ فَهُوَ حَسْبُهُ
“And whoever relies upon Allah – then He is sufficient for him.” (Qur’an, 65:3)
When my husband eventually sought forgiveness, Allah placed softness in my heart to give him another chance.
My journey of healing is still ongoing, and some days remain heavy, but my reliance is solely upon the One who knows my heart best.
Today I understand that my greatest blessings were hidden within my trials. In my brokenness, I found strength. In my storms, I found peace by turning to Allah.
The Quraan awakened me from a life of heedlessness and guided me back to my purpose.
And now I know with certainty that every test carries a hidden mercy, and every hardship is a path that leads the heart back to its Creator.
Sometimes Allah breaks a heart only so that it may return to Him completely.
هَٰذَا مِن فَضْلِ رَبِّي
“This is by the Grace of my Lord.” (Qur’an, 27:40)
Shifaa: The Healing in My Heartbreak
قُل لَّن يُصِيبَنَا إِلَّا مَا كَتَبَ اللَّـهُ لَنَا
NOTHING befalls us, Allah says, except that it’s for our benefit.
My name is Ummu Sahlah. I am a twin, and 15 years ago, I stood before the Kaaba with a heart full of hope, pleading for a miracle of my own: to be blessed with twins. When a scan a month later confirmed my prayer, I felt chosen. I didn’t know then that I was being prepared for a different kind of “chosen”—not for ease, but for a trial that would completely dismantle and then rebuild my soul.
The day my twin girls were born, the world shifted. One was healthy; the other was a warrior born into a body that seemed too fragile for this world. My daughter was born with a syndrome so rare that there was only one other known living case in South Africa at the time. She had a cleft palate, no nasal septum, and Holoprosencephaly—an underdeveloped brain.
The trauma was visceral. The shock was so profound that I lost my sense of taste for six months. My world became a blur of anti-reflux milk, seizures that struck every few minutes, and nights that never ended. I was 25 years old, mothering four children under the age of five, navigating a landscape of grief and medical machines. For two years, my life was a constant pilgrimage between specialists and the Johannesburg General Hospital.
I call those my “Two Years of Grief.” During a special Ramadan trip to the Haramain, I clung to the cloth of the Kaaba once more. This time, my prayer wasn’t for a miracle of science, but for Aafiyat—for ease, in whatever form Allah deemed best. A few months later, that ease came in the most bittersweet form: Allah took her back to Him.
While she lived, the weight of the trial crushed my mental health. I spent those years perpetually asking, “When will Allah’s help come?” I lived in the pages of the Qur’an, searching for any verse on Sabr (patience) and Tawakkul (trust) to keep my head above water. On good days, those verses were my anchor; on bad days, they were the only things that caught my tears.
Fast forward fifteen years. I can say with 100% certainty that I am not the woman I was. That experience crushed me, yes, but it also refined me. I learned that Allah never places a burden on a soul greater than it can bear, even when the soul itself feels it is snapping under the pressure.
Looking back, our daughter was aptly named. Shifaa was not just a child we cared for; she was a “shifaa” for our souls. She taught me a depth of empathy, a strength of faith, and a perspective on the afterlife that I would never have gained through a life of ease.
I stand today as a testament that after every difficulty, there is indeed ease upon ease. To anyone currently in their “breaking moment”: hold on. The crushing is often the start of the awakening.
The wound is the place where the light enters you.
(Rumi).
Bi Shay’in – Something
The news came in the doctor’s room. I sat and listened and did the things you do when your body is present but your mind is already somewhere else. Already calculating the weight of what you have just been told. There is a silence that descends. Not the absence of sound, but the presence of something enormous that has not yet found its name. Standing outside the rooms afterwards, I see my sisters. I told them: “I was learning these verses. They are for me. Allah was preparing me.” I did not yet understand the full weight of what I was saying. That understanding would come later, in eleven hours of a hospital corridor during the operation.
Weeks earlier, I started memorising the first pages of the second juz of Surah Al-Baqarah about the verses about trial…
Walanabl uwannakum bishay’im minal khawfi wal ju’i wa naqsim minal amwāli wal anfusi wath-thamarāt. We will surely test you. With fear. With loss. With hunger. With the diminishment of wealth and souls and fruits. (Al-Baqarah 2:155)
Allah says: wa la nabluwannakum bi shay’in. We will certainly test you with something. Not everything. Something. Bi shay’in. The indefiniteness of that word is itself a mercy. Each category preceded by min – from, some of. Allah is telling us: I am not sending you everything. I am sending you what I have already weighed, what I have already measured against what you can carry.
They arrived with a weight I had not anticipated. I did not know then that Allah was not simply asking me to memorise. He was placing provisions in my chest for a journey He already knew I was about to make. This is one of the secrets of the Quran that no one can explain to you. You have to live it. The Quran does not wait for you to be ready. It prepares you while you are still unaware. Day after day. The same verses. That is what the repetition does. It does not just lodge the Quran in your memory. It lodges it in you.
The morning of the operation, we woke at Tahajjud. It felt like preparing for something that had no name. The anaesthetist sedated him just outside the theatre doors, and the last image I have of him before they took him is his face. Unafraid.
I waited eleven hours. I sat in the Jamat Khana of the hospital and made dua until the words dissolved into something beyond language. I watched the surgeon’s last seen on WhatsApp and I did not allow myself to think about what it meant. Just after lunch, the anaesthetist sent a message: All done. Closing up. And I prayed more. And I waited more. By evening, we left the Jamat Khana and stood outside the theatre. The glass doors were frosted and stained. But near the floor, close to the ground, there was a small panel, unstained, clear. A few inches of visibility. And I found myself returning to that panel again and again, kneeling, pressing myself close to the ground, looking for the shadow of a trolley, for any movement, for any sign. Later, much later, I would understand what that image was. A woman. On her knees. Waiting for Allah to answer in the way only He can.
Ibn al-Jawzi writes that the believer is not someone who has no fear. The believer is someone who, in the presence of fear, finds that the name of Allah is still on their lips. That the ayat are still in their chest. That the heart, even in its terror, knows where to turn. That is what Hifz gave me in that corridor. Not the absence of fear. The presence of Allah inside the fear.
Wabashshiris-sābirīn. Alladhīna idhā asābat-hum musībah, qālū: innā lillāhi wa innā ilayhi rāji’ūn. (Al-Baqarah 2:155-156) Give glad tidings to the patient. Those who, when calamity strikes, say: we belong to Allah, and to Him we return.
I will be honest. I did not arrive at the ayats in peace. I arrived at it gasping. I made sincere dua ..as a cry of surrender. That opening of the hands and handing it to Allah. That is where faith reveals itself. Not in the beautiful moments of reflection. Not in the quiet of your musallah. In the hospital corridor, when you are on your knees and you have made every dua you know and you have nothing left to offer except your complete and total dependence on the mercy of Allah.
At six in the evening, they wheeled him out. The surgeon looked at me and said I looked like I was about to fall, and that he had no intention of doing a second operation. His attempt at a joke. I think I laughed. My son was moved to the ICU and placed in an induced coma. The doctors had prepared us for this. I went home because they told me to. I do not remember the drive. The next morning, before I reached the hospital, my phone rang. The doctor’s name on the screen. My heart stopped. Then his voice: Your son is awake and well and asking how his operation went. I sat in the car and wept with a gratitude I do not have words for. Not the gratitude of relief. The gratitude of someone who has been carried. Who knows, without any doubt, that they did not carry themselves.
It was only afterwards, like a year later, that I saw what I had not seen before. Immediately after the verses of sabr, immediately after Allah describes the patient ones and their reward, He moves, without pause, to the rites of Hajj. (Al-Baqarah 2:158) And within that, He speaks of Hajar (AS). A mother. Alone in a desert. Her child on the ground. Water running out. She runs between two hills. Safa and Marwa. seven times. Not because she can see the water. Because she cannot stop moving toward Allah. Allah placed that story directly after His promise to the patient ones. As if to say: this is what patience looks like. It doesn’t give up. It runs between hills in a desert with nothing in its hands except its trust in Me.
The glad tidings go to al-sabireen (Al-Baqarah 2:155) …not those who felt nothing, but those who said inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’oon in the moment the loss arrived. (Al-Baqarah 2:156) The qualifying act is not the absence of grief. It is the presence of return.
For them, Allah promises three gifts. (Al-Baqarah 2:157)
The first is salawaat/blessings from Allah. The second is rahma. A mercy that wraps around the exact shape of your wound. Personal. Particular. The third is the most profound ulaika hum al-muhtadoon. You would expect relief from the trial. Instead Allah says: The test was not punishment. It was direction. It was guidance.
This year, I was fortunate to join Mothers of the Ummah, and was introduced to Ibn al-Qayyim al-Jawziyyah in his Madarij al-Salikeen who describes tawakkul not as passive resignation but as a deliberate, conscious handing over of the matter to Allah after one has done all that is humanly possible. He says the heart of the tawakkul is like a bird resting on a branch in a storm: it does not pretend the storm is not there. It simply knows where its weight must rest. I did not know that on the morning of the operation. I thought I was practising tawakkul. I was not. I was still holding on.
The Quran is not a book we read and put down. This is the truth I carry now in a way I could not before those eleven hours. Allah had a perfect plan with perfect timing for me. Not by coincidence. By a mercy so specific, so intimate, so precisely timed, that the only response is the one I return to every single day:
Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah.
All praise belongs to Allah. Who knew what was coming before I did, who placed the remedy inside me before the wound arrived, who answered the dua I made from the hospital in a way I could not have scripted, who carried my son home, who carries me still. Imaan does not reveal itself in the moments when we are strong. It reveals itself in the moments when we discover we were never strong. And that we were held the entire time.
Child loss
A loss not often talked about but a loss for the dunya yet a gain for the aakirah.
A parent grieves the loss of their child or children daily. What really brings solace to many parents is reflecting on the rewards for the patience encountered. Allah through His infinite mercy not only places a burden on us beyond which we can bare but loves us to an extent when Allah Almighty has promised us in the Quran that those precious children will take their parents to jannah.
Subhanallah how beautiful it is to know that such a great loss in the dunya can be the greatest gain in the aakirah. The miscarriage fetus too will intercede for their parents on the of Qiyamah. What is more beautiful is learning that these children are all under the care of our Prophet Ebraheem (AS) in the gardens of jannah. Parents like these are so loved by Allah that Allah puts then through this great test in the dunya to replace the loss with jannah and for the parents who just bare this loss with utmost patience and do not question the will of Allah.
To reflect on the fact that this temporary dunya is temporary for us all. Alhamdullilah some parents are able to be blessed with children for the dunya as well. This is not only the beauty of Islam but also the genuine pure love of Allah for us the servants of Allah. Every sacrifice holds great rewards. Imagine on the day of Qiyamah a beautiful child your child you did not see grow up in the dunya making sure Allah enters you as a parent into jannah.
Our beloved Nabi S.A.W has mentioned that these children on the day of Qiyamah will be told to enter jannah. Their response will be we will not enter until we enter with our parents. Such is the beauty of our deen. This parent child relationship does not end with death, it continues in the Hereafter where the parents and child will be reunited in jannah. Alhamdullilah such is the reward.
Yes indeed in this world the parents will have moments memories and days where they will grieve. Allah has permitted us to shed tears but has not permitted us to lose faith in the plans of Allah. Loving someone you lost does not mean forgetting but holding onto the memories and the special moments always.
Unlike other religions Islam is by the most wonderful religion. It teaches us that even in times of losing loved ones we can be brave we have our imaan carrying us through daily and most importantly that no sacrifice goes unnoticed and is always rewarded by the Almighty Allah.
To all parents who have lost children, never forget that the doors of jannah are open and all it takes is patience and perseverance until the day you officially be reunited with your angels. Allah tests the strongest soldiers as Allah knows who is able to bare child loss and this test is not a punishment but a blessing in disguise. Do not be disheartened for Allah is indeed the best of planners. It takes bravery to lose a child and it takes strong faith to continue life thereafter.
بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم
Like many women in this world I dreamt of marriage, I dreamt that I would have had a partner, a friend I could confide in, someone just by my side.
Once I got married I quickly found myself more alone than I have ever been. Cultural norms trumping deen. I found myself lost and in a situation that I could not understand. We don’t prep our kids that are getting married for conflict resolution, for dealing with cultural norms over deen , how to navigate this. I remember my grandmother telling me on my wedding day, you must listen and do everything that your husband says.
Now looking back no, Islam teaches us mutual respect and not one sided only to the husband and his family. I was forced to sign an anti nuptial because my husband and his family said “Its the Islamic thing and I have to” not knowing what to do and I didn’t want to cause problems, I didn’t want to worry my parents I just kept quiet and signed it. But from that day I kept thinking I wish I knew more islamically so I don’t find myself in a situation like this again.
I always had this lingering taught in the back of my mind. It gives me comfort to know now that my gut feeling was right… anti nuptial for dunya but Allah says give with Ma’roof. Time goes on and I’m 9 months pregnant and I find myself all alone at 3 in the morning, my husband was somewhere but not at home. We “lived” together but not, I done what I needed to keep the house running and he done what he needed to do for his family. I was never considered “part” of the family. I think I’m still not till this day. His parents and brother and sister always have more and higher needs than me and my children. We are always pushed aside.
I then became a mother, and I had amazing help Alhamdullila from my mother and Father but not from my husband. I was essentially a married single mother. See to all the child’s needs from drop off to pick up to clothing etc. What was worse is that I lived in another city from parents and I had to work because he had to provide for his family and I had to look after myself and daughter. I didn’t want to leave my daughter with a stranger or a nanny, I kept saying who will teach her Bismillah, what if she is ill treated, this is an amaanah on me but what do I do.
I travelled every morning and my parents met me half way picked her up so I could go to work and then left early and picked her up from them and travelled at night with my daughter. It didn’t bother my husband, and still doesn’t bother him. I always wonder to myself where is my Mehram, my protector. Then when I got sick he chose to go take his Parents and brother for a wedding to Durban leaving me to fend for myself. That weekend I made a choice to go back home.
I was broken and in tears I gave him everything, lost my identity, essentially filling the role of a slave and not wife. I will never be what he wants. My mother and father helped me settle and I remember my mother clearly telling me, turn to Allah, ask Allah for help. I started reading my tahajjud, and Surah Waduha kept me going, Allah wont leave me he provides for everything.
That was a tough year, fighting for a marriage but also fighting to find myself again and my worth. I made a decision to do my Aalima, I worked hard to pay off my car and little debt I had. I planned on leaving work to do this but always worried how will I support myself and daughter as my husband doesn’t give me anything for myself, yes he put a roof over my head but if I need something for myself like basic necessities of underarm, clothing sometimes even groceries for food I wanted to cook, I had to have the money to get it. I know this is not the command of Allah but what are you supposed to do when you are in a Married Single Mother situation and you have to provide for yourself.
I made so much dua in this period. Alhamdullilah Allah answered it in the most beautiful possible way. I resigned but my manager said he has never seen someone leave to go study religion and he admired it, so he kept me on as a full time employee but 2 hours a day work from home. I went to madressah and Alhamdullila I am in my 5th year this year.
It was not easy I still travel everyday with my 2 children. I went last year for a massive operation, but I am so grateful that Allah has chose me for this path. Yes we have problems in our marriage but now culture cannot trump deen for me anymore. I now know the difference and when to standup for myself. I got this beautiful gift from Allah so I can pass onto my children ان شاء الله . This has made me stronger in deen and a stronger person. I now get some Nafaqa which was not a reality before, I now have a house that every salaah is being read, that hadith is being recited in everyday.
I still have a far way to go and to learn a lot more but this situation has pushed me to the best situation of my life, it has pushed towards Aakhirah. While we might still not be there 100% in our marriage, I know now that I will never feel all alone ever again. Allah is always with me, no matter what the situation I am in. That has given me my life back, just knowing that. Alhamdullilah, Allah is most merciful. I count my blessing everyday even when I thought I was alone, I was never alone, I had Allah but also the most beautiful helpful and supportive parents. That alone is such an amazing blessing.
A Test That Strengthened Our Imaan: Our Miracle Baby
Last year in January, our family faced a heartbreaking loss when my beloved uncle passed away due to kidney failure. Our hearts were shattered, and we were still mourning his loss when, only a month later, another devastating test came our way.
My two-year-old nephew was diagnosed with leukemia.
Allahu Akbar.
My sister is the youngest in our family, and hearing that her little son was battling such a serious illness felt as if our entire world had come crashing down. What does a two-year-old know about leukemia? He is innocent, pure, and free of sins.
Yet deep in our hearts we knew that this was a test from Allah — a call for us to return to Him with sincerity, to repent, to beg for His mercy, and to strengthen our Imaan.
The doctors informed us that he would need six months of continuous chemotherapy. This meant leaving our home in Zambia and moving to South Africa for treatment. At that moment, we wondered how we would endure such a difficult journey.
Then we realized something remarkable — it was the first day of Ramadhaan.
What a Ramadhaan it turned out to be.
Our days were spent in hospital corridors on prayer mats, surrounded by chemo drips, injections, and theatre visits almost every day. It was physically and emotionally exhausting.
But it was also the blessed month of du‘aa — the month in which the doors of mercy are wide open and supplications are accepted.
Our days and nights became filled with salah, sadaqah, zikr, tasbeeh, and countless du‘aas. Every morning began with charity and two rakaats of prayer. Tahajjud became our refuge in the quiet hours of the night, and iftaar became a moment of heartfelt supplication.
Messages poured in from across the world, telling us that Baby Ayman was in their du‘aas.
And that was enough for us.
We surrendered everything to Allah. We placed our trust completely in Him, knowing that if Allah wills, He can heal any illness.
Allah is As-Samee‘, the One who hears every supplication.
Allah is Ash-Shaafee, the One who grants cure.
Today, exactly one year later, Baby Ayman — though still on chemotherapy medication — is a healthy little boy, running, playing, and laughing.
Alhamdulillah.
The miracles we witnessed along this journey are beyond words. Allah Ta‘ala granted us the strength to endure moments we never imagined we could face — watching our little boy lose his hair, lose his sense of taste and smell, trying to keep him entertained in hospital rooms day and night, force-feeding him when food had no taste, and carrying the pain of seeing him suffer.
Yet through it all, we held firmly onto hope.
We constantly reminded ourselves that this trial would one day come to an end. The words of Allah Ta‘ala gave us strength: “Indeed, with hardship comes ease.”
And truly, we witnessed that promise unfold before our very eyes.
This journey taught us a powerful lesson: chemotherapy itself cannot harm or benefit without the command of Allah. Medicines cannot work without the permission of Allah.
Everything is in His control.
To negate everything besides Allah — Laa ilaaha illallah.
Only Allah can do.
How blessed we are to be people of Imaan. When Allah is in our lives, we are never alone.
And our reward is but by Allah.
SubhanAllah.
When the World Felt Dark, Allah Became My Light: An Essay on Faith & JDM
When people look at me now, they usually see the girl who gets good marks, the one who seems confident and put together. But very few know the story behind the smile — a story that began in a hospital room and quietly shaped the way I walk with Allah.
I was in Grade 3 when the first signs appeared. Red rashes marking my face. Slowly, my body began to weaken. Tasks that once felt simple became painful and exhausting. Climbing stairs, tying my hair, brushing my teeth — all suddenly felt like climbing mountains. We went from doctor to doctor, searching for answers, but every appointment ended the same way: confusion, guesses, and no real explanation.
Then finally, after months of uncertainty, came the diagnosis: Juvenile Dermatomyositis — a rare disease that causes inflammation in the muscles and skin. I was too young to understand the medical details, but I understood one thing clearly: my life would never be the same again.
A week later, I was in hospital, surrounded by needles, machines, and unfamiliar faces. For a child who once feared injections, the sudden rush of blood tests, drips, medications, and procedures felt overwhelming.
But it was in those quiet, fearful hours of the night that something extraordinary began to grow inside me. When fear crept into my heart, I turned to the One who never leaves.
The night before my biopsy, the hospital room felt too big for someone as small as I was. The lights hummed, the drip clicked, and the world outside my window moved on without me. I was nine, but in that moment, I felt older — scared in a way I didn’t have the words for.
My parents had stepped out, the nurses were busy somewhere down the corridor, and I lay there with monitors blinking in the dark like stars I couldn’t reach. My body was weak, too tired to sit up, too sore to shift. I could hear my heartbeat in the pillow.
That was the first time I whispered a duʿā that didn’t come from a book or a teacher.
It slipped out of me like a secret:
“Ya Allah… please don’t leave me.”
I didn’t know it then, but that small prayer — from a trembling nine-year-old girl in a cold hospital bed — was the beginning of something that would change every part of my life. Tawakkul wasn’t taught to me; it grew inside me in the dark, the way seeds push through soil before anyone sees them.
The days that followed were a blur of needles, machines, voices speaking too fast. The biopsy, the endless blood tests, the doctors explaining Juvenile Dermatomyositis in words meant for adults. I remember nodding even though I didn’t understand. What I did understand was fear — and how heavy it felt.
But every night, the fear pushed me back to the same place: my duʿā.
Silent, shaky, honest — a conversation only Allah heard.
And He did hear me — not by removing the hardship, but by carrying me through it.
This was the first time I truly understood the verse:
“Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” (Qur’an 94:6)
The ease wasn’t the hardship disappearing — it was the closeness of Allah that wrapped itself around me.
But as life moved forward and the hospital days became memories, I thought the hardest part of my journey was behind me. I didn’t know another test was coming — one that wouldn’t weaken my muscles, but my heart.
When lockdown came, it felt like my world shrank into four walls… Everyone struggled, but for me, the isolation was different. I had to wear N95 masks long before they were normal. I couldn’t hug my own family, stayed home when school reopened, watching life continue while I remained behind a screen. But the silence of lockdown wasn’t empty — it pressed on the wounds I had been ignoring. Without school to distract me, I finally saw myself clearly. The redness on my face. The marks of JDM. The thing I tried hardest to hide.
Recovery was slow. And even when my strength began to return, another struggle took its place — the battle with my own reflection. The redness on my face often made me feel different. Alienated. Exposed. I used to stare into the bathroom mirror and wish I could wash it away. I tried to hide it behind hair, behind humour, behind silence, I tried to shrink myself, to blend into the background. But still, kids stared. Whispered. laughed. Said things that cut deeper than they understood. Their words curling themselves around my heart. Some nights, I cried into my pillow quietly so no one would hear. Other nights, I didn’t cry at all — I just felt nothing. For a long time, I believed that if I could just hide this part of myself, life would be easier.
But hiding never brought peace — it only trapped me.
And in that trapped feeling, Allah taught me one of the greatest lessons of my life.
One day, I completely broke down after school, when someone called me “tomato-face.” I locked myself in my room, stared at my reflection, tears running down my face, and whispered the same duʿā I had once made in hospital.
“Ya Allah… please help me, please don’t leave me.”
And after years of carrying this quiet pain, standing in front of the mirror, I realised something I had never seen before: these marks were not punishments. They were tests designed to shape me. This redness — the thing I begged Allah to erase — wasn’t a flaw.
It was a story. A battle scar.
Proof that I had survived nights of fear, months of pain, and years of struggling with who I was. And something in me softened. A realisation washed over me slowly, like dawn after a long night:
Allah had never left.
Not in the hospital. Not in lockdown. Not in the comments that bruised more than I realised. Not even in the moments I hated my own reflection.
I expected Allah’s help to come as healing, or strength, or some dramatic miracle. But instead, it came as understanding.
My face wasn’t a flaw — it was a story. A sign of every battle I survived. These marks were not shameful — they were evidence of Allah’s mercy. Signs that He carried me through nights where I thought I wouldn’t make it. Signs that He wrote a hardship for me that would bring me closer to Him.
The more I reflected, the more I understood: Allah never abandons the hearts that turn to Him, that whisper His name in the dark. Even when I felt alone, he was always there. Every hardship carried a lesson. Every struggle carried hidden strength. Everything I experienced had been written for me — not to break me, but to build me.
That was the moment — that exact moment — when something shifted inside me. Instead of praying to be unseen, I began to pray for contentment. Instead of begging for a different face, I began to thank Allah for the one He wrote for me. Instead of hiding, I began trusting. Tawakkul wasn’t a lesson anymore — it was my way of breathing.
Slowly, my perspective changed. I stopped hiding. I began to see my face as Allah had written it. Not as a mark of weakness, but as a sign of resilience — a reminder of everything Allah had carried me through.
People often say hardship breaks you. But my hardship didn’t break me — it introduced me to the One who could rebuild me.
It taught me empathy, patience, and the truth that strength doesn’t always look loud or heroic — sometimes it looks like simply surviving.
Allah opened doors for me I didn’t even know existed:
strength I didn’t ask for,
courage I didn’t know I had,
a heart that learned to beat with tawakkul before it fully understood the world.
And the greatest mercy was this: My illness taught me who Allah is. Not the Allah from stories — but the One who held me when fear overwhelmed me, who listened to my quiet duʿā, who placed light in my darkest moments.
My illness didn’t take away my childhood — it rewrote it. It taught me to stop hiding. To stop shrinking. To stop apologising for a face that Allah Himself chose for me. It taught me that faith is not loud — sometimes it is a small child whispering, “Ya Allah, stay with me.”
And he did.
Every moment. Every hardship. Every step of my journey.
This is not the end of my story.
It is the beginning of a girl who finally understands that the marks on her skin are not the proof of her weakness — they are the proof of Allah’s love. It is the start of a new chapter — one where I embrace what Allah has written for me and trust that every test carries meaning.
I no longer ask, “Why me?”
I say, “Alhamdulillah for what brought me closer to You.”
Because in the moments when the world felt darkest, faith became my light.
When I felt completely alone, Allah showed me that I never was.
And I discovered something extraordinary: sometimes, the tests we fear the most become the ones that bring us closest to Allah.
Alhamdulillah—my faith has stood firm through the tests of trials. There were moments when I broke, when I stumbled, when I felt the weight of everything press against my soul. Yet, Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem was always there
This is a story of Rahmah—of a mercy so vast it carried me through every fracture—and of Ar-Raheem, a tenderness that never once let me fall alone.
I acknowledge this with certainty: I am nothing. It is my Rabb who granted me faith within my trials. And so I ask myself—how does one truly embody gratitude to Ash-Shakur? How do we thank the One whose giving knows no limit?
This writing—this humble act of putting pen to paper—is my attempt at shukr. A way to reflect, to remember, to recognise.
I have come to see my trials not as wounds, but as a garden.Imagine standing on a balcony, looking out over it.
At first glance, it is overwhelming—dense, layered, full of shadows and light. But as you begin to look closely, each section tells a story.
In a deeply emotional class, we were asked to draw a timeline of our lives—the highs and the lows—and then to map the Names of Allah onto those moments. To ask ourselves: where did we witness Him?
The exercise was simple. The impact was not………Pain surfaced instantly. Memories long buried rose without warning. Trauma, raw and unfiltered, demanded to be seen.
I was raised by two beautiful parents—both shaped by loss. One was orphaned of both parents, and the other lost her father at just three years old. They were raised in environments marked by dependence on extended family—siblings, uncles, and their spouses—where neglect quietly settled and trauma took root.And in that moment of reflection, I realised something uncomfortable. Ya Rabb… I lack Rahmah.
I saw within myself a harshness—a rigidity. A tendency to control. To command.
A sergeant. A dictator.
My timeline stretches long—nearly half a century (and no, I am not a dinosaur). But I will hold on to a few moments—those that stand out as clear signs of Allah’s guidance.
My childhood is one of them. Through it all, there is one undeniable truth: Allah was always with me.
Then came marriage.
A journey layered with its own tests—competition, a constant need for validation, emotional strain, and unspoken struggles. Yet even here, there was turning.
For five years, we held tightly to the du‘a of Zakariyya (AS). At the time, my understanding was limited—I knew only that he longed for a child and turned to Allah in his old age.
But later, I came to know the deeper part of the story—the part rooted in Maryam (AS) and her mother, Hannah.
Hannah’s intention was pure: to dedicate her child to the service of Allah. When Maryam was born, she honoured that intention fully.
Maryam was placed in the care of Zakariyya (AS). In her mihrab, she would receive sustenance directly from Allah. This was the part I did not know—the part that inspired Zakariyya (AS) to make du‘a to Allah for children. Maryam and her out-of-season sustenance became the reason.
It was this—this quiet miracle—that inspired Zakariyya (AS) to make his du‘a.
SubhanAllah.
And even now, these realities continue to unfold in my life. Just recently, on the 26th of Ramadan, I experienced something small yet profound—every food my heart desired came to me, without effort, without planning. A fleeting thought, answered.
Allah is Al-‘Aleem—the One who knows what was, what is, and what will be.
Every trial I have faced carries His imprint.
From struggles with OCD, to the unbearable loss of my beloved son Luqmaan, to the darkness of sihr—within each was a hidden mercy. Not around the trial, but within it.
I hold on to this truth: the mercy is in the trial.
In a du‘a course taught by the late Mohammad Al-Shareef, we were encouraged to make “unrealistic du‘as”—the kind that awaken longing, that create butterflies in the heart.
In my course notebook, I wrote one such du‘a:
“Within 2–3 years, for my children—Mohamad must be married with a beautiful baby.”
SubhanAllah. It unfolded exactly as written.
Between that du‘a and its answer were some of the hardest moments of my marriage. Yet at the end of that tunnel stood fulfilment—my son’s marriage, a new chapter, a gift.
This is my shukr journal.
A record not just of what was taken or endured—but of what was given, guided, and divinely placed.
The trials have not ended. There are still unresolved wounds—especially in my relationship with my mother. Even now, as I write, I feel the ache waiting beneath the surface.
But I hold firmly to one promise: “Your Lord has not forsaken you.”
I have cried with the du‘a of Yunus (AS), whispered in darkness. I have sobbed with the longing of Zakariyya (AS). I have called upon Ya Salaam when my heart sought peace, and Ya Kareem when I needed generosity beyond measure.
In recent weeks, I have clung tightly to the words: “Ka dhalika.”And to the divine assurance: “For Me, it is easy.”
As I reach the end of this reflection, I realise this is only the beginning—just a glimpse into a life shaped by du‘a, guided by the Qur’an, and carried by Allah’s mercy.
I thank my Rabb with every part of me.
And still—I know my shukr will never be enough.
Alhamdulillah, each submission was filled to the brim with vulnerable, courageous, and deeply inspiring stories. After careful consideration, the winning entry of the Umm Abbad Academy’s “Pen of Faith” is Entry #2.
May Allah Ta’ala bless all the sisters who participated abundantly for their efforts.
