Letter to Allah

BY UZMA MALIK

Assalam alaikum Allah,

How’s jannah looking like today? I heard you have new visitors in your Home. I do, too. Chacha, chachi and the kiddos safely made it to the States, alhamdulilah.

I hugged my cousin today,
and she wouldn’t let go.

Allah, never have I been so reluctant to let my heart be loved by hers. Her small body, reminding me of all the other small bodies I see on my screen. I’m trying to keep my heart wide open. To give her my love, Your love. To love endlessly. But hugging her reminds me that I haven’t kissed all the foreheads of the thousands of children who I promised to

I run around, trying to make this home feel more like theirs, wondering how many more mutilated limbs I’ll see across my phone today. Ya Allah, why is my heart so. I cannot look into these little one’s eyes, nor that of her brothers. I watch the top of their heads whizz by. Their laughter echoing in my bones as they explore their new playground. They're safe. They’re healthy. They’re here. But I am not.

I am lost in the walls of masjids, long cared for, now forgotten
and it’s here that the children watch me cry
I can’t see their faces, blurred eyes and rage
but I know they see me, heart bleeding more profusely the closer they draw near

I sense their confusion
why doesn’t this girl love me so
her eyes desolate and hollow,
Why doesn’t she light up when I babble towards her

Oh Al Wadood, the children in the mosque are making me cry

I have become averse to them
my heart saddens to know it doesn’t bloom with the same joy
the rest of the room around me experiences

their oohs and ahhs are replaced with my anxiety
I try to smile and engage, allow my tears to soak into my skin
And keep my heart carefully distant,
Lost and confused as to how I could also
not be head over heels in love
with the growth of our future
Perhaps it’s because whenever I look
at a child, run through
the images of slaughtered bodies,
Hanging, suspended

Futures extinguished
flames one group of people thought would be dangerous
but were the warmth and survival for others

No one talks about how we scramble to accept Your decree
but silently mourn what we thought
would be…futures we imagined would be in our mortal control
progression of timelines we took for granted

Perhaps my heart refuses to relax
around a young one’s smile because she
hasn’t recovered, from the deep-rooted tears
of the little girl screaming
“Mama you’re ok, everything’s ok, mama you’re safe”
And her mama stares blankly,
grasping her child’s hand but unable to respond

Perhaps my heart refuses to calm
because I can’t stop seeing
Amina’s red eyes,
borne witness to by millions of passerbys,
so many of whom stayed bleedingly silent…
unaware that their moral wounds
festered and oozed with pus

Perhaps my heart refuses to
feel the maternal call
because it will take years for my soul in Falasteen
to kiss all the foreheads of each newborn, toddler, child,
whose hands grasp the string of red helium balloons flying towards You.
How could I be a mother if I can’t even complete this task before they return Home to You?

How can I ask my vessel of a body to feel when my soul is busy existing 5532 miles away
How would a Palestinian respond to the thundering run of this little girl? So small yet mighty, her footsteps reverberate through the masjid,
Sounding loud to the floor below and in the chambers of my heart

Is it the same sound a PRC crew makes, rushing up a half-crumbling staircase to the bodies buried under debris? Is it the same sound a tank makes as it rolls closer bringing death and destruction. Would Gazan children hear this little one’s steps and think “run! They are coming!”, playing a fatal game of hide-and-go-seek?

When my soul returns to my body,
I promise to open my heart to the little ones, here with me today
Until then, Allah, please tell them to be careful. If they fall,
I know You will catch them but I won’t be able to see a scraped elbow or knee
My heart is weak,
Simply their smile reminds me to dig deeper for my love, Your love
But I cannot stop thinking of the little ones who are not here in my arms
Who will bring them to safety? How will they get there? Will we ever have a chance to show them what a quiet world looks like? Will I ever get to kiss their foreheads in person?

Allah, Your love is bountiful
and I pray you and the young ones forgive me for my shortcomings.
Please teach me to love with abundance, to love with resilience
so I can love Your children, both near to me in person and those near to my heart

thinking of You,
uzma

---