this is my perfect morning, although it is quite imperfect.

as i sit in the cold and contemplate, i wonder. do we often seek perfection more than wholesomeness? do we focus on being perfect so much so that we forget to make memories and live within moments?

yet it seems that when perfection is ignored, ignorance is dominant! who are we, without our constant need of perfection?

so many questions, but the only question with true importance is this:
whose approval do we seek with this perfection? is it ourselves? is it people with too high of expectations? there is a right answer.

the only validation we should we seeking is Allah’s. Allah’s validation is the only one with true meaning and worth. Allah is the only one who truly cares, and the only one we should truly care about and seek approval from.

but how do we achieve this level of sincerity and genuineness?

everything above the water. 
keep it all dry. 
don’t drench others with the waves of your cries. 
above the shore. safe and dry.

when will the ocean comply with its orders?
calm your current. lower your tide. 
keep all the waves inside. 
don’t overflow, or lose control. 
keep calm, collected, and whole. 

but the ocean was made to soak everything. 
to ruin the sand castles, and steal the shells. 
to drown and to shift things away from the shore. 
to make others struggle to stay afloat.
the ocean was made to overflow. 

everyone will run to safety. to warmth and dry. 
and the comfort of caring only for one’s self. 
what if the ocean desires to be on the shore?
dry and warmed by the sweet sun of content. 
a towel of kindness draped on its shoulders. 
and happiness lathered all over its back. 

what if the ocean yearns for the sand?
but their touch creates muddy sorrow no one wants to get close to.
so the ocean stays as it is. 
alone and surging.

I miss the childhood days 
The days with the grass on my toes 
My hands wet with paint 
And my mind excited for yet another discovery

Where all that mattered was how high we could swing,
Or who was 'not it'.
Where a scrape on a knee or muddy clothes was easily ignored,
Proof that we lived every small moment fully.

When friendships were as simple as lets be friends 
Bonding over a shared snack, 
Or little matching shoes. 

I long for the ease of childhood friendships
Playdates we used to call them, 
Because thats all we would do. Play. 
In the grass, with paint, shoes or no shoes.
Water balloons, Yo-yos, and Fortune Tellers. 
Hopscotch, Jump ropes, and Rubberband bracelets.

Things as simple as a little bug would grasp our attention. 
A roly-poly or ladybug would bring me greater joy than a 
device could ever give me.

But as the days pass by, 
I realize that time really does fly. 
The more we wait, the less time we have to cherish this 
small little moment we call life.

I am not educated when it comes to history, but I know the story of Palestine. and I know it well. So to sit in a class and hear the lies about Palestine, it really makes me wonder. what else is a lie we’ve been told?

So many times, in so many cases, or treaties, or agreements, we’ve figured out it’s a lie. so many injustices all because of an identity. and then somehow, when its taught, the criminals are crowned as the heroes, and the victims seem like the criminals.

When I was taught history in 7th grade, I was told that the jews and Palestinians could’ve agreed on a two state solution but they didn’t, and then the Palestinians started a war. The teacher said the Palestinians were terrorists, and that it as their fault that there was a war. They attacked the jews in ‘their land’, she said. Alhamdulillah I had the education to know that was wrong and stand up against it, but just to think that I could have not known makes me worry.

What else is a lie? What else has been wrapped by a thick heavy textbook, passed down as fact, when it’s only a mask. What else is an atrocity, wrapped with heroic stories, with a ribbon of genocide tied into a bow of ‘self defense’?

Injustices are being repeated and rewritten as noble act. Criminals are being labeled as saviors. cultures are being reduced to the villains in the story, and the people who oppress them somehow end up as the heroes.

The Central Park 5, thanksgiving, October 7th. so many moments we were taught something as a truth, but its now revealed as a lie.

So I sit in a class where lies are pressed into a book, with a cover of a textbook slapped on and taught to generations of students. After all this I’m expected to be patient and silent and spend my time and effort studying this book of lies as if it’s the truth. but I won’t. I won’t keep sitting and silently listening to lies after lies. I want to make a difference but how do I know which is a truth and which is a lie?

When will the world wake up? When will we all stop pointing our fingers at the next person, waiting for them to get it done? When will we realize that if everyones waiting, no ones doing anything?

We’re all just so focused on this world and our own problems while one single ocean away, in the same world, a child is leaving everything for the sake of Allah. My mom talks to a family in Gaza, and we were listening to their voicemail, and the 9 year old child was talking about how they fled from Gaza and left everything. And somehow, him and his brother were still happy and saying Alhamdulillah.

This family lost everything. Their home, many of their belongings, their sister, their father, and more. But they still smile and say alhamdulillah. And here we are. on the other side of the world, walking around in our 200 dollar shoes, angry if an order was a size small, and complaining if we don’t like our food.

So I ask again and again: where do we draw the line between a truth and a lie?

a land, once beautiful, once lively, full of laughter. Children’s laughter fades away with the color in the sky. Palestine is not just a land. Palestine is the starving child holding up a Palestinian flag. Palestine is the grandfather who won’t stop caring for his olive trees. Palestine is the men and women in the press vests who won’t go silent. Palestine is the grandmother who holds keys to a house that once wasn’t demolished. Palestine is the art of resilience on walls, it’s the seas that speak, and the olive trees that remember.

"live in the moment", they say, but how do I live while people are suffering across an ocean? My heart, split into two, with roots to a land i've never set foot in. memories become stories passed down - inherited. kuffiyeh on my shoulders yet I stand in the land of the murderers. our people are dying. our people are starving. our people are suffering. and the world is watching in silence.

enough silence. enough cowardice. enough turning a blind eye. its become more than enough. they say the won’t stop killing until the culture is gone. but they don’t know, we will never lose our culture. it is etched into our souls, said with every word we speak, and portrayed in our actions. we will raise our children as Palestinian, continue to pass down the memories, to teach the culture, the strength, and the unshakable roots.

so yes, i will continue to plant olive trees in my american backyard, and i won’t go silent.

we will not go silent.