By As a Muslim twenty-something in university, the past few years of life have been admittedly excruciating. I tell myself it is normal growing pains, though, I find myself wondering if all young people typically witness near-debilitating anxiety as they watch all forms of injustices unfold all over the world, with their community members being a specific target of horrific events like genocide. It is not to reduce all other communities in their struggles with oppression — as all of our struggles are forever interconnected — though the subjugation of Muslims strikes a specific chord because of a bond unifying us in this life and the next.
As we experience this Dunya, striving for our best while attempting to balance humility in our successes and losses, I’ve observed how it is typically an encouraging smile among friends or reassuring dua sent between family that reminds us to keep things in perspective. Of course, we wish to achieve excellence, though whatever trials we may face inhibiting that do not dictate the value of our time spent here — a fact we often forget. Outside of normal, day-to-day stresses, however, growing up also seems to entail internalizing a more sinister anxiety about Muslim life well beyond the fact that the Dunya is a prison.
Despite it steadily building throughout my adolescence, my consciousness of myself, who I am, and my place in the world has coincided with an increasing awareness of Muslims as targets of institutional oppression. Such an awareness sometimes leaves me emotionally debilitated, more than the worries commonly associated with this time of life, and the motivation necessary to build my future escapes me. I realize Islam encourages us not to despair, and that, if anything, enduring hardship is meant to challenge and build upon our trust in Allah SWT, though my weakness remains. Why is it that I, for seemingly no good reason, am allowed a life of luxury and opportunity, while others like me are not even given a chance at life?
Just a few days after Eid al-Fitr this year, I walked into my university lecture, a class entitled “Violence and Subjectivity.” The class was truly a highlight of my semester, getting to engage with students on past and current events and analyzing state violence through an anthropological lens further complicated by my professor’s background in Islamic theology. Having just managed my emotions after feeling intense anxiety about the Palestinian genocide, I sighed upon hearing that we would be continuing the discussion started during the previous class (which I did not attend due to Eid) on trauma.
We began with an open discussion on what comes to mind for each of us when we hear the word “trauma” — a word we all agreed has been overused and inaccurately so as of late — with my classmates describing its associations with violence, stress, memory, and difficult experience. One student added how trauma is also parasitic, that once trauma attaches to a host, it remains alive by destroying or eating away at life. The class seemed to collectively contemplate this thought, which my professor used to elegantly segue into her lesson. As we understand trauma, she began, it is necessary to refer to and understand history. We immediately delved into the topic, though this statement in particular stuck with me.
As Muslims, empathy is established within the framework of our religious ideology. While we use this sensitivity to fuel collective action for various social and political movements, it is also necessary to look within intimate life in order to understand history as it unfolds. As we attempt to reconstruct the world in the wake of devastation — relations of support, definitions of justice, navigating life after catastrophe — we should refrain from judging the pain or even depression we feel as an indication of mere sickness. Especially within Western schema, mental health support typically individualizes people by diagnosing and medicating them instead of taking a holistic and critical approach to why we feel the way we feel. Applying the words of my professor, trauma is not an indication of weakness as it exists in our minds and bodies individually; rather, it is an indication that we are collectively experiencing the weakness of an ongoing history.
While we perceive suffering to be the basis of victimization, those suffering are not victims; they are given trials and through their affliction, their souls are elevated in the Hereafter.
Attempting to enact transformation while trying not to lose stamina due to compassion fatigue or general depression, we must remember that Allah SWT does not accept injustice or violations against life. It is all too easy to witness calamity and lose sight of divine purpose, though possessing a religious reading of injustice injects power back into those made powerless. While we perceive suffering to be the basis of victimization, those suffering are not victims; they are given trials and through their affliction, their souls are elevated in the Hereafter.
By reconciling violence with a consciousness of Allah SWT’s purpose, we adopt a mindset that supersedes all that exists in this Dunya — including our tendency to understand earthly matters with a false sense of finality. Such an approach is necessary because, like all of you, my mind cannot comprehend the reason for senseless death and cruelty. I often find myself asking, “Why me?” — though this question itself embodies a key test of faith.
As I ponder my privilege versus others’ suffering, I realize how much liberation comes from being able to understand the grander purpose behind one’s worldly life, and how little of what luxuries we have or do not have in the Dunya translate into the Akhirah. Perhaps collectively witnessing the destruction of humanity is meant to disorient us from what ‘luxury’ even is. As we continue to uplift Palestinians and fight for their cause, it is necessary to remain cognizant of what you are feeling as you are feeling it without a sense of defeat. Despite what I previously perceived as weakness in myself, you and I are not weak or fragile or inferior in any sense for experiencing the emotional impacts of witnessing calamity.
As a witness you are bound to experience the full range of emotions that come with solidarity work — despair in times of particular difficulty, joy in times of progress and small victories — though this ability to feel is integral to the work. More than signs of strength, your emotions initiate confrontations between you and your faith in Allah SWT, forging opportunities for higher consciousness and empowerment. And yes, while it can undoubtedly get overwhelming, being a witness is a position destined for you by Allah SWT — and a responsibility you cannot ignore.