Category: Hedayah Gurgaon

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Another End

How much is too much and how little is not enough?

There comes a point, after the frightened tears and ringing ears, when all becomes numb and you don’t feel anything at all. When horrifying headlines and terrifying tweets make you giggle because the alternative would be crying and you don’t have the strength to do that anymore. So you laugh in the face of utter misery, until the silence stops echoing.

I am not an student of law, or of politics, or of history. But the first thing all third graders learn in social studies class is democracy is the best form of government because the people get to rule themselves. Because they are citizens not subjects. Because its ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’. Because ‘people and their wants’ is the central theme of democracy. I guess disappointment is just something you accept when you grow up. But now that you don’t get marks for it for being politically correct you can go around giving sweets to celebrate the death of democracy. I mean, if your government isn’t studying the Constitution, why should you either.

I won’t explain to you the details or the legalities of that little piece of paper considering history books will include it soon enough, for better or for worse. But I will paint you a picture, of 1.4 million troops (that’s one third of one of the biggest armed forces on the planet) holding guns on empty, deserted streets. I will show you the utter silence where no phones chime or ring, and no voices whisper again. I will take you to the homes of the disappeared, the gagged and the missing. I will paint you a picture of a people without a voice, of a people with darkness in their eyes, of a people erased. I will ask you, and you won’t answer.

On a brighter note; tyranny, forceful occupation, colonisation, ethnic cleansing, genocide? Not yet.

“Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un” and move on or “Inna Allah ma as-sabireen” and wait

The struggle doesn’t end yet.

~Sana’a

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The Vespa Rider’s Syafakallah

It’s not just a book, it’s a journey of a man towards self discovery and most importantly, towards Allah SWT.

The Prophet (peace be upon him) said: “Truly, in some poetry, there is wisdom.” [Bukhari, Muslim, Abu Dawud]

From the times of the Companions and their Followers, throughout the centuries and across the Muslim lands, scholars and layman alike listened to, composed, recited, gathered for and encouraged poetry an expression of heart-felt and melodic rhythms. 

Similar to the Islamic Qasida form of poems, Syafakallah consists of a series of poems that base themselves on a serious meditation of elevated subjects. The poems follow a regular rhyme scheme that echoes and parallels the consequent order that Allah has created and in that sense, it appeals to the senses of the readers.

As a reader and a young member of an increasingly liberal world, what strikes out most is how the author engages an audience larger than his community. The poems are relatable and offer more than a guide to humanistic values. The simplicity of the poem makes out for a prominent feature. It offers a range of people, rather than a definite set. In this sense, this fantastic piece of literature stands out encouraging people to take a path of self-reflection.

Written by a narrator reticent about his whereabouts, the introduction of the book serves key in both establishing the context of the book and the purpose of the narrator’s writing. As a servant of the Singaporean civil forces, the poems explicitly hint at the life of a soldier whose isolation leaves him to ponder on the various aspects of life eventually bringing him closer to Allah SWT. 

The Vespa Rider’s stream of thought is transfigured into a simplistic monorhyme that dwells into the reader’s mind and a Hadith at the end of each poem serves to connect each contemporary piece of writing back to Allah SWT. The beauty of the poems lies in its simplistic structure inviting the readers to enjoy the poem with minimal struggle. However, at certain moments the book floats away to touch other themes – more theological rather than concentrating on Islamic aspects of the narrator’s epiphany during these crucial moments of his life.

Overall, this piece of writing stands out like a living spirit that absorbs emotion and exploits it to weave a story that glorifies Allah and reminds the readers of his power. Vespa Rider’s burning words create a rather soothing impact on the reader as he leaves us with a cliffhanger ending- an end where we decide what we take from what he gives.

Riza Mirza

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Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un

This was the First Friday after the Last Friday

The bodies not yet cold in their graves,
The bloodstains on the walls not quite gone
The flowers on the sidewalk not yet wilted
The knees of the faithful not quite worn

The iron willed, the fiery eyed, the strong souled,
They rise
“Allahu-akbar”, begins the takbīr

This was the First Friday after the Last Friday

There were gang bikers on the streets
There stood armed policemen across
There watched thousands of strangers
There with the faithful they stood in solidarity

The bright-smiling, the quiet gaited, the calm minded
They bow
“Subḥāna rabbī l-ʿaẓīm”, recited in ruku’

This was the First Friday after the Last Friday

They stand on the firmest of grounds
They avow in the strongest of terms
They impassion to the deepest of hearts
They love on the greatest of heights

The hand holding, the kind hearted, the soft spoken
They prostrate,
“Subḥāna rabbī al-‘aʿlā,” whispers of sujood

This was the First Friday after Last Friday

The broken do not weep, they are tranquil
The tragedies do not hurt, they are honoured
The martyrs do not die, they are blessed

This day too more walked through the very same doors
This day too they smiled and welcomed their brothers
This day too peace was delivered to all who sought it

The worshippers finish the first of many Salatul Jama’ah to come,
“As-salāmu ʿalaykum wa raḥmatu llāh”

They took the peace with them

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Why thoughts and prayers ring hollow

There’s a numbing air of wariness as I write this. One that many of us are unfortunately accustomed to, even. After a while, the shock stops registering until everything becomes a repeated cycle of newspaper numbers, tasteless TV debates, ‘patriotic’ radio songs and a sense of gloom wondering where the next WhatsApp hate message would come from, and if you have enough emotional strength left to ‘make excuses’ to the person in perpetration or to just block them and get on with it, hoping the next time is more merciful. Because yes, there is always, always a next time. 

In the sixteen years I have been alive, and the fewer years in which I’ve actually cared, I do not (regrettably) remember a single ‘peaceful’ year which wasn’t graced by the endless circle of black bands, candle marches, and people crying in general. It all feels extremely insensitive to even think in such brash terms, but after over 16,554 deaths due to several terror-related ‘incidents’ in just the last 19 years, I daresay this terrible routine is one we’ve settled into and show no signs of recovering from. And cynicism doesn’t begin to cover it.

Two hours after the news of the Pulwama blast hit the mainstream media, I found myself with a screenshot someone had forwarded, titled ‘How Not To Be A Twat After A Terrorist Attack’ and what made me sick wasn’t the fact that there guidelines on how to behave like a decent human being but the fact there was a need for it in the first place. Or that there had to be admonitory headlines streaming by the likes of  ‘No need for hate, Muslims condemning Pulwama blast’. For in crisis there are always two types of victims, the ones who die and the ones who have to live with it. And in times like these, though Muslims may die and Muslims may kill, the Muslims have to live with it. 

Because even though our hearts wrench and bleed like any other, we must march through the streets, release statements and ‘condemn’ that which is obviously evil, in order to justify our inclusion as worthy Indian citizens. Because it hasn’t been even two complete days and people are already being booked on sedition charges over Tweets and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who they are. Because hate isn’t just poison, it’s also the plague. And you know how the plague is stopped? By burning down it’s carrier.

The more we tolerate intolerance, the more it will keep blowing up in our faces. So let’s make a vow to not get into a petty fight with with the bigot aunty from the colony WhatsApp group, to not get let your boiling blood get to your brain watching Arnab Goswami (I mean, seriously?), to not claim having a higher moral ground because you used a hashtag, to not own the privilege of crying victim when there are far worse alternatives, and most importantly, to never, ever be just another ignorant idiot our country seems to lamentably have an abundance of. Let us not sit back or make excuses and play pacifist either, because that would really be the ultimate dismissal. 

We can’t demand justice or fairness if we’re not willing to be stand there and watch it be delivered. The solemn ‘thoughts and prayers’ are in the end, just words and noises. It’s about time we make our voices heard, not only because they matter but also because no one else is going to speak for us. 

PS: Just as I finish writing this, comes the news of another blast  near Jammu.

O you who believe! Stand out firmly for Allah and be just witnesses and let not the enmity and hatred of a people make you avoid justice. Be just: that is nearer to piety, and fear Allah. Verily, Allah is Well-Acquainted with what you do.

Surah Al-Maidah, (5:8)

~sanaa