I know this chapter might be really confusing for people who aren't familiar with Islam, so before you begin the chapter, I have some stuff I'll explain so no one is confused. Even if you still are, feel free to ask questions. There is no such thing as a dumb question, I promise.
Ramadan: The ninth month of the Islamic calendar. For a whole month, from sunrise to sunset, Muslims refrain from food, water, and sins/temptations in order to reconnect with their faith. Muslims give to others, seek forgiveness, and forgive others. Not only is the point of fasting to bring you closer to God but it also humbles you and allows you to understand what those less fortunate than you go through on a daily basis. Fasting also has health benefits such as preventing high cholesterol, heart disease, obesity, as well as improving mental health and wellbeing. It spiritually cleanses you but also acts as a detox for your body.
Taraweeh and Witr: Refers to ritual prayers performed by Muslims after Isha/night prayer during the holy month of Ramadan.
Rakat: One unit of prayer
Suhoor: The time of day, before the sun rises, when Muslims must stop eating and start fasting
Iftar: The time of day when the sun has set and Muslims can end their fast and eat/drink
Laylatul Qadr: Translated to the night of power in Arabic. This refers to the night that the holy book of Muslims, the Quran, was first revealed. Muslims do not know the exact day the Quran was revealed and are suggested to pray every odd night of the last 10 days of Ramadan (night of the 21st, 23rd, 27th, etc.) There are many benefits for those that are able to pray on the exact night.
I'll be including definitions for certain words in the comments. But if you have any questions, let me know here.
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When Samira greeted the angels on her shoulders with salam, she noticed how the birds praised Allah with her right at dawn.
She'd woken up alone for suhoor; her parents and Elias had left town after iftar last night to get some Eid sweets from Dearborn. It felt rather odd to walk through her childhood home with no one around, being able to curl on the couch without anyone scolding her to sit up.
Throughout all the serenity of Ramadan, something rang noisily for Samira. Chasing after faith felt like a slow, excruciating process with depression chained to her. Since this month began, Samira would stay up until fajr, melancholy feelings keeping her far from her dreams.
The last time Samira prayed before this month felt like a century ago. Her feet felt like heavyweights when she'd pull herself out of bed, and her vision always landed elsewhere other than the floor. When her forehead touched the threads of the prayer carpet, her eyes didn't bother to teem with tears.
Prayer was utter numbness, whether her stomach was empty or full. But the only sense of attainment was at least bringing herself to praise God, and prostrate, as He asked.
Now that it was the last ten nights of the month, Samira hoped she'd feel something, and soon.
Walking into the bathroom, Samira opened the faucet. She cupped her hands together, pooling her palms with water. In one breath, she slathered the water on her face, squeezing her eyes shut.
The lights were off, dim in the bathroom; Samira kept her gaze on the mysterious figure in the mirror, patting her face with a towel. She'd stolen her mother's cerulean cardigan from her closet, wearing it over a grey t-shirt and an old pair of joggers tied tightly around her waist.
Raking her fingers through her hair, Samira observed the frizz and knots, disheartened. Her brown skin had dulled, its glow gone.
It's going to get worse before it gets better.
The summer air caressed Samira's skin as she sat on the front porch. She peered to her left, watching the morning sun soak up the night sky as it rose from the east. She rolled her eyes at the sudden thirst, as fasting hours only started minutes ago.
Every morning, Mahnoor made Samira send her a text—I'm up for fajr—because Samira had been slacking this obligation for a grievous amount of time. And she'd finally begun to get up before dawn, every morning except the week of her period.
Mahnoor: Will I see you at taraweeh?
Samira: hopefully
Mahnoor: It could be laylat ul qadar
Samira: ik but it depends on what my parents wanna do tonight
Mahnoor: try to come
Samira: okay
The silence accompanied Samira like a friend last night. Only this time, a good friend, who whispered new ideas and ones that she'd ditched.
Samira hadn't opened Harry's journal since she wanted to forget about him this month. But, like Dr. Ayub said, she needed to stop running away from her problems.
With her lamb next to her, Samira wrote down what felt memorable:
I feel undeserving. How she holds me in her sleep, how she takes care of me.
I need you. Those words meant a lot more than I love you, but she doesn't know that.
To admit, I am a bit more stubborn than she is, but I tell her it's her to make myself feel better.
It's hard to admit that this relationship isn't perfect.
She stopped putting an effort into many things.
I tell Samira I need her a bit too much. Can anyone blame me?
She's so selfish. She can't make it all about her.
I'm an idiot.
I didn't love Samira the way she needed to be loved.
I hope you can forgive me, Samira, even though I don't deserve it. I love you, and I'm sorry.
The words had her boiling with anger, but then she calmed in seconds, ice cold. The pieces Samira collected didn't fit together—being upset with Harry wasn't easy, but she wasn't sure if it was because of the imminent peace in the air.
With her journal on her lap, Samira called Dr. Ayub, hoping she'd be awake.
"Hello?"
"Hi." Samira cleared her throat. "Asalamu-Alaikum, Dr. Ayub."
"Wa-Alaikum-Assalam, Samira."
"Um, is it a bad time?"
"Never," Dr. Ayub answered sweetly. "I was hoping you'd call."
Samira flipped through the pages, fingers trembling. Her heart pounded at the late-night thoughts she'd written, alone in her room with no one else. A few papers were wrinkled from tears, along with a rip or two from writing too aggressively.
"I tried doing your challenges, and it had me thinking. And . . . I wrote in the journal."
Dr. Ayub hummed: "What were your thoughts?"
"I wish . . ." She inhaled through her nose, shoulders lifted up. "I wish he knew how to handle someone like me. That he knew what to do if I didn't want to talk to him. Because there was a time where I told him I was fine, but it was so clear that I lied, and he didn't do anything about it. And he knew I lied."
Discomfort slithered into her skin; Samira wrapped her cardigan around her tightly, taking a deep breath.
"I wish he held me and knew how to comfort me if I was unable to tell him I was sad," Samira sighed. "When I needed it. I wish he knew what I needed."
"Does that make you angry?"
"It did." Her fist softened. "But for some reason . . . it didn't. Something else makes me angry."
Lips quivering, Samira covered her face as if a whole audience watched her, even though she was utterly alone.
"Like, last night, I read the journal and saw things the way he did. He knew I was hurting, but he chose not to do anything about it. He . . . even admitted to manipulating me and doing other things in his journal . . . but then I remembered some things."
Samira flipped a page, reading a sentence she wanted to remember.
"What relieved my anger is . . . knowing that he knew I was angry. I showed it. I channeled it when I slapped him at the time I was trying to break up with him. He knows and acknowledged why I deserved to be angry at him in the journal.
"Yes, he hurt me. It hurts that he couldn't apologize to my face. Beneath it all, I stayed with someone who agreed not to hurt me."
Like a flash of lightning, Samira froze in place—she'd finally grasped the point of this objective.
"But . . . I'm angry with him as much as I am angry at myself. Because it's not entirely his fault. I'm not . . . I'm not good at communicating. I'm . . . awful at it, and I don't know why. I would've known what to do otherwise."
Having said it, Samira's shoulders felt light.
"And now, I want to know why it was so hard to talk to him."
"I see. I was hoping some self-realization would be the result. I'm proud of you," Dr. Ayub praised. "When you come in next week, we can explore that. Write it down."
The corners of her lips twitched: "I did."
"Good. By the way, how is your Ramadan going?"
"It's going—"
"Be honest."
There was a pang in her chest. Her boat that floated toward growth had turned back, reencountering all the storms and the rapids in the water.
"I'm back at this point in my life where I think I can't change and that Allah isn't going to forgive me," Samira answered earnestly. "And I try to pray and hope that closeness to Him will come . . . but it's not there."
"It's Ramadan, Samira, remember? This is the month where you seek forgiveness and forgive others."
"Yeah, but . . . I'm back to being the person I asked Him to forgive. It feels hopeless."
"Okay. And what have you done to change?"
Samira blinked, thinking to herself: "I mean, I deleted all the dating apps and the numbers of people I hooked up with. I haven't been sleeping much because I'm too sad, and I think I'm going to miss salah and eventually give up on it—I force myself to pray, knowing the fasting won't be accepted. Either way, I don't feel connected the way I want to be. I really want to . . . cry."
Samira watched the sun light up the world around her.
"I'm putting an effort, and yet, I feel like giving up. I don't know why."
Dr. Ayub clicked her tongue: "I think I do."
Samira furrowed her eyebrows for a split second: "What is it?"
"I think your faith isn't strong because of your own self-hatred," Dr. Ayub said. "According to what I have learned about you, Samira . . . your mentality has become just like your ex's when you met him. Because he hated himself, too, didn't he?"
A blurred memory of that night at the dock consumed her thoughts, where she and Harry found amenity in each other. There, Samira felt a bit of the same comfort now, just like she did that very night.
Samira absolutely loathed herself since the very moment she understood what love she deserved and what she put herself through to realize it.
"Do you agree?"
Samira nodded to herself: "I do."
"Okay. Have you two ever talked about it?"
"Yeah." As the breeze rolled in, she could hear his voice. "I don't remember much, but . . . he said he thought he was a bad person. He pushed his loved ones away . . . because he thought they deserved better than him. He didn't believe that he could be forgiven. And that he had a hard time believing . . . that God forgives."
If Samira could gasp, she would—how words from Harry's mouth now made it to her tongue.
"You paused a lot."
"Yeah, um . . ." Samira breathed shakily, fitting into shoes that belonged to the gloomy, old Harry. "I've really become like him."
"And he's probably become like you when he met you," Dr. Ayub replied. "And what did you tell him when he said those things?"
Samira felt her lips quiver as she remembered when Harry yearned for comfort, a hug, just like she did right now.
"I told him he was human and that he made mistakes. That he needed to forgive himself." Samira pinched the sunflower pendant, eyes brimming with tears. "And that when you do something terrible and seek forgiveness, you did your part. And with patience, you can feel that God has forgiven you because you know you do good things, and the good comes to you.
"He needed me because I reminded him of his worth. I reminded him to love himself."
"It's time for you to do that, too. Forgive yourself, Samira," Dr. Ayub encouraged. "And repent. And good things will come to you."
Taking a deep breath, Samira slouched her shoulders, understanding what she'd just learned. How her father always encouraged her to look after others, but never that her well-being mattered, too.
"I never take my own advice, do I?"
"The ones who think they're fulfilled by taking care of others really aren't when they don't take care of themselves, Samira."
Biting her lips, Samira admitted: "And what do I do if I'm told that's selfish?"
"Another thing we can explore, Insha-Allah," Dr. Ayub replied. "I'll talk to you soon."
Samira watered the plants for the rest of the morning, relishing the birds' songs and the daylight breeze's coziness. After praying dhuhr, her body repleted with lassitude—Samira fell asleep with the curtains closed.
A few hours later, when Samira woke up, she noticed the sun was on the other side of the sky. Groaning, she felt a rock sit at the pit of her stomach. Her eyes averted to the clock on the wall: it was five minutes past seven.
As Samira stretched, she noticed that something had lustrated. With every blink she took, she saw the ease with each of her movements.
I slept. For six hours.
Like ice, the frown on her face melted away, the corners of her lips curling upward.
Samira thought she'd wake up to the sound of voices and clutters. But after peering into the hallway, she was still alone.
Samira: Where are y'all? No one is home
Omma: We are late go to Ayan house.
Omma: for iftar
Well, Samira was now bummed because she'd only seen Ayan once since she got back home. Whenever his name echoed in the house, she'd leave to avoid seeing him. The traumatic memory wasn't just a bruise—it was a bleeding gash that hadn't healed.
Samira: I will get some food myself and go to taraweeh. It's fine
Omma: thats your brother
Samira clicked her phone off; the day already felt better than most, and the last thing she wanted was to feel guilty for putting herself first.
So, she stepped into the bathroom, pulling her hairbrush out. Gritting her teeth, Samira combed through all the tangles of her unkempt curls. Once she put the brush down on the counter, her arms burned with tiredness, and her hair puffed around her head.
Coming out of the shower, Samira fixed her wet hair carefully, hoping her bouncy curls would form back. She then put on a long, purple dress and wrapped a scarf around her head.
The sky filled with pinks and yellows, so she prayed asr quickly as possible before the sun could meet the horizon in the west.
Before heading out with her hair down, she looked in the mirror, fingers toying with the halfhearted ringlets. Staring into her sienna irises, Samira shrugged.
Eh. Close enough.
Samira sat at the table, a plate of dates and a tall glass of water accompanying her. Her eyes stayed glued to the ticking clock on her phone; the longer the minutes were, the drier her tongue ran.
Once the adhan had finally gone off, Samira split open a date, taking the pit out. Saying bismillah, she chewed slowly, downing the glass of water in a heartbeat.
Oof, I have to stop doing that. Samira winced at the sharp pain in her stomach.
After she prayed maghrib, her father called her, asking her to leave on all the lights before leaving.
Samira slipped a twenty-dollar bill in the zakat box with her right hand when she sauntered into the mosque. Samira's footsteps echoed when she entered the ladies' prayer mat—Mahnoor sat alone on a chair toward the qibla, cozy in a long, loose abaya. For the next hour, Samira talked about what she learned in therapy, watching Mahnoor rub her swollen belly.
"I still haven't cried yet, Mano." Samira groaned, playing with the hem of her dress. "Like the Ramadan cry."
Mahnoor rolled her eyes: "Quit beating yourself up and remember what your therapist said. Take a fresh wudu if it helps."
"Hmm. You're right, I should." Samira raised her eyebrows. "Maybe I should just let go. And pray without overthinking it."
And so then, before the prayer mat crowded with other women, Samira left for the ablution room. She removed her scarf, washing everything from her hair down to her feet, niyyah on her mind with every movement.
Mahnoor squeezed Samira's hand when she returned to the prayer mat. Once isha was completed, taraweeh prayer began.
Samira lifted her hands to both sides of her head, taking a deep breath. With her eyes closed, the imam chanted 'Allahu Akbar,' and she laid her palms over her stomach, her right hand over her left.
The pain in her heart was immeasurable, both when Samira stood and when she prostrated. The things she witnessed, where her feet took her, what she believed was good even though it was bad for her heart—it all brought an unbearable ache to her chest.
Her shores were tainted. Each bit of agony was a grain of sand, scattered all over her heart, mind, body, everywhere. And she hoped something would wash it all away.
By the end of taraweeh, when Samira greeted the angels on her shoulders, her vision blurred, and her nose tickled.
Witr prayer began; Samira closed her eyes, her lips moving, reciting silently. By the last rakat, everyone in the prayer mat cupped their hands in front of them, the imam making dua aloud.
And then, without warning, the wave crashed fastidiously.
It rushed to obliterate the dirt that adulterated every part of Samira, the parts she wanted clean.
Her lips quivered, and without a second thought, Samira wept zealously.
I'm so sorry I forgot You. Help me remember You. I'm so sorry that I thought You won't forgive me.
Take this pain away. Forgive me. I want to be happy with who I am. Help me figure it out.
Forgive me for all the bad things I've done. Forgive me for all the bad things I did to him, and forgive him for what he did to me.
Make me a better person. Bring me closer to You, bring me ease in this world.
Teach me the love that I deserve.
Her body trembled; Samira brought her hands to her face, completing her duas, tears dampening her palms.
Her head touched the floor in prostration, and her heart poured right onto the prayer mat. All the weight fell down from her shoulders to the ground. She sobbed quietly, apologizing for how much she neglected her faith, for how much she didn't return to God when she needed Him and herself the most. All she wanted was for Him to remove her heartache so she could move on and love herself before letting someone love her.
Give me a sign that I'll be okay. Anything.
A few moments after sitting on her calves, Samira greeted the angels on her shoulders one last time for the night, sniffling silently.
Amidst all the tears, a soft giggle escaped Samira when Mahnoor shoved a tissue in her face.
Noise erupted in the hall. Women began to leave the prayer mat, while some stayed.
"Are you going to pray the next ten?" Mahnoor asked, rubbing Samira's shoulder.
"No." Samira took the tissue, wiping her face and blowing her nose. "But, I'll leave in a bit."
Once the halls cleared up and the outside wasn't crowded with people, Samira opened the massive doors of the masjid, stepping out with a clean heart.
The wind didn't howl—rather, it hummed, a melody that no other month could compose. Samira inhaled the fresh air, feeling all the filth and sin depart with every exhale. She placed her hand over her heart, thanking Allah for putting all her trust back into Him, the trust she'd put into the wrong people, wrong things.
Call upon me; I will respond to you.
With that very ayah Samira remembered, she felt near. Close.
Samira unpinned her hijab, pulling it off her head. Her mind was a placid ocean, not a drop of storm rippling through its waves.
But then, Samira felt something grip her leg softly.
Glancing below, Samira blinked, taking her hands out of her hair. A little girl clung to the skirt of Samira's dress—she adorned two ponytails, a few magenta hair clips, and a small beige abaya that draped down to her little feet.
Samira's heart softened; she gave the child a comforting smile, knowing that children would often get lost at the masjid. The child looked up at Samira with its brown eyes, playing with Samira's stretchy dress.
"Are you okay?" Samira asked the child. "Where are your parents?"
The child didn't respond, staring at Samira with her fingers in her mouth. The fulgurating lights rang in the empty lot where the two of them stood, their lone shadows tall on the cement. Samira sought for any sign of another adult, but everyone was inside.
"Are you lost?" Samira asked, kneeling down.
"I can't find Zawi," said the child.
"Zawi? Who's that?" Samira asked, taking the girl's hand gently. "Is that your dad?"
"Aiza?"
Bones stiff, Samira froze in place, caught off guard by the soft, silvery voice behind her. It almost hummed, kind of like the breeze in the air, dancing scrupulously through Samira's ears.
Standing up, Samira cleared her throat, the little girl still clutching onto her. She turned around to the voice that joined the two of them, thinking maybe they knew the child and came to claim her.
"Zawi!" The child exclaimed.
Notes of nostalgia joined the melodious air, sending a chill down Samira's spine. Blinking ineptly, she watched the little girl run from her, all the way to the person who owned the voice.
It was a man that stood before Samira, who was quite tall, holding a countenance as youthful as hers. He picked up the child with ease, holding her on his hip.
"You will get lost if you run like that. Do you remember what happened last time?" The man told the child, pulling loose strands of her brown hair behind her ears.
Samira squinted her eyes in bewilderment, trying to put a finger on what rang alarmingly in her ears.
The man adorned a loose black kurta on his lean figure, sleeves rolled up, revealing golden brown skin. A beard was peppered on his face, tamed meticulously over his chin and above his lips. His black hair bore waves, sitting above his forehead perfectly, curling down to his nape. A pair of circular glasses sat over his eyes.
The wind picked up just a bit when she met his brown, luminous irises.
But when the zephyrs brought goosebumps onto Samira's skin, something felt rather peculiar.
God, do I think this brown boy is cute?
You hate men. Men suck. Leave.
The moment her gaze locked with the man's, her heart nearly stopped, realizing she'd been staring for too long. Samira coughed ineptly, failing to lower her gaze sooner than she should've.
"Salam, sorry, she was looking for you," Samira mentioned, blinking awkwardly.
The man held a big grin, almost as bright as the crescent moon above him. His smile brimmed beneath his lips perfectly, despite the few crooked teeth.
"It's okay, thank you," he replied, looking at the little girl, Aiza. "Did you say thank you to Samira?"
The moment Samira heard her name subtly come out of the man's mouth, her heart jumped to her throat. She batted her eyes, caught off guard. The unknown man knew her name, how?
What the fuck?
"Um, who are you?" Samira then stood her ground, arms crossed over her chest, eyebrows furrowed. "How do you know my name?"
The man laughed, looking away for a moment.
"You don't remember me?" The man giggled, clutching onto Aiza. "How do you not remember me?"
"Sorry, brother, I don't."
"Wow."
The man took a step closer, laughing to himself. On impulse, Samira took a step back, pursing her lips, vexed. Aiza wrapped her little arms around the man's neck, smiling sweetly.
"Samira, the girl that my parents always compared me to? The girl who won the spelling bee? The only kid in the community who memorized all of Baqarah in one year?"
Startled, Samira's mouth parted at all the information this man knew about her childhood. She scrutinized him from head to toe, forcing herself to try and recognize the man—but the gears in her brain were stuck. Nothing.
No expression formed on her tongue—before she could try and defend herself, the man began to wander away from her.
"At least tell me who you are!" Samira held her hands out, displaying her confusion.
The sound of his jovial chuckles pranced with the rhythmic wind. His steps bounced as he twirled around, looking at Samira one last time, holding a mischievous smile.
"You'll know who I am!"