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Laundry, We Will Always Have Laundry
There is a woman—me— with a house full of twelve people. Alhamdulillah. It is loud. It is full. It is alive. And always— we have a hill of laundry. I fold. I sort. I have my kids on folding duties. Small hands matching socks, older ones complaining in silence, everyone moving somewhere between help and chaos. And somehow, it still multiplies in the dark. Sometimes we fold as best as we can and just tuck things into drawersthe ones we promise we will revisit in six months. Maybe. We fold once a week, on the weekend. Five, six, seven,basketfuls of clothing. It is an everlasting job. Sometimes, I just close…
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Hijabi’s Path to Jane Austen’s Longbourn
It might seem like a stretch. What does a 19th-century Englishwoman—preoccupied with balls, bonnets, and social standing—have to do with a 21st-century Muslim mother of ten in the UAE? On the surface, our worlds are oceans apart. But when I open a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice, I don’t feel like I’m reading about a stranger. I feel like I’m looking into a mirror. The Path Through the Woods I’ll admit, my love for Austen didn’t start with the dense, original prose. English is not my first language, and the intricate, looping sentences of the 1800s were a challenge to grasp. I took the scenic route. I started with…
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Hayaa in a Loud World
Hayaa is often translated as modesty.Bashfulness.But for me, lately I realize thatit has never been just about what I wear. It is a feeling.A boundary.A quiet awareness.A secret cave. I’ll be honest,be truly honest.I don’t show much.I don’t always know how. There is a bashfulness that sits heavy on my tongue,making me shy to reveal my needs,shy to say what’s in my heart,shy to let the world see that I am tired. I used to wonder:Am I being too difficult?Is my silence a barrier to love?Am I expecting them to read my mind? I stayed quiet to avoid being a nag.I stayed quiet to keep the peace.But I am learning…
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The 10:00 AM Ramadan Heist
We like to think of our childhood memories as deeply spiritual milestones. But if I’m being truly honest? One of my most vivid Ramadan memories involves a storage room, a locked door, and a very poorly timed snack. I wasn’t even hungry. That’s the funny part. It was only 10:00 AM. But the house was quiet, the day felt long, and I was… bored. And in the mind of an eight-year-old, the best cure for boredom is a forbidden banana. I remember the strategy. I snatched the fruit and made a run for the storage room—that dark sanctuary of old suitcases and dust. I didn’t just hide; I locked the…
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The Road to Makkah, My First Umrah and the Hijab in the Mataf
In Indonesia, Umrah is a once-in-a-lifetime dream. People save for a long time. Lots of people wait until their hair is gray and their hearts are settled. They wait until they are “ready.” But there I was in 2005. Twenty-four years old. Newly married. Carrying my first child. We weren’t flying across oceans to find the House of Allah. We were driving toward it from Riyadh. The Quiet in the Desert It was April or May—that fleeting, golden window before the Saudi summer turns the world into a furnace. We left Riyadh late, after my husband finished work, chasing the horizon into an eight-hour drive. I remember the thrill of…
