By Guest BloggerHey Mom, Yes, I am studying. Yes, I ate today. The exam was okay. How are you? These are the same exact phrases I tell my mother every night. In the same exact order. Sometimes, the ‘L word’ isn’t the only way to express your love for someone, Sometimes, little phrases are codewords for…
By lailakhanSolmaz Sharif’s first book of poems, “LOOK,” is hauntingly beautiful. I couldn’t put it down and when I did I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Each time I’ve read it, (so far, three times) it has evoked a different meaning and a different feeling from me. Born in Istanbul to Iranian parents, Sharif later migrated…
By Guest BloggerAre you a Muslim first, or an American first? This question was intended to be well-versed But underlying questions are always assumptions That it’s impossible to be both was this one’s presumption Pew Research Institute posed this question In an attempt to form some impressions Of the Muslims that call America home For Muslim-Americans, to…
By Guest BloggerThere’s a hadith in which the Prophet (SAW) says, “There will come a day when holding on to your religion will be holding on to hot coals.” Not so long ago I read an article detailing the demographic of the victims of anti-Muslim hate attacks. “Female, visibly Muslim, between the ages of fourteen and forty five.” One…
By MG StaffWe love it when Muslim women talk back, so we had to share this, that was shared with us via The Sanctuaries. Noreen Nasir performs a powerful spoken word poem about coming into her own voice, and reclaiming her narrative. “You see, I am exhaling twenty six years of held breath, and that…is like breathing fire.” This…
By Guest BloggerBy Lana Alaraje Fasting all day Ready to pray All the kids wanna play At the fall of dusk The neighbors are here Maghrib is near It’s the best time of the year Oh it’s a wonderful feeling — Can you hear me? Give me all ears now It’s Ramadan Reciting Quran…
By Naaz ModanThese are my people We are white and brown and yellow and red And every shade of skin, every kind of person, your eyes claim to “know.” We are the ones with cloth on our heads that you call oppression and we call liberty; We are the ones with beautiful voices –like soft hands gliding…
By Naaz ModanOne day my daughter will drink air for the first time. And I will wonder if her lungs turned a little blacker from the world we’ve polluted with dying screams and gunpowder. And maybe her heart will constrict from the chains they’ve tied around thousands of her brothers’ wrists. I wonder how she will hear…
By Guest BloggerI even look like them — or is it us? I have blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin. I am Lebanese American. My whole life I’ve been raised to be proud of my roots and culture. I’ve also been raised to appreciate America and to be thankful for the opportunities it has provided my…
By HabeebaLife isn’t easy—and NEWSFLASH—it isn’t meant to be. It can feel like trial after trial, bad news after bad news. But Allah guaranteed us in the Qur’an that it’ll get better: “For indeed, with hardship [will be] ease. Indeed, with hardship [will be] ease.” (94:5-6) Whenever I’m feeling down in the dumps, totally unmotivated, or…
By Guest Bloggera minute i learned to make chai before i learned to make sentences thats why i write in poetry so i don’t have to write in sentences eyes shy check scarf on check but hands still shake as i hand over the rickety tea cup to the mustached man, gaps in between his teeth pouring…
By Guest BloggerTrigger warning: abuse. This is a poem I wrote about a year ago about my observations in my own South Asian/Mauritian Muslim community, about how domestic violence remains a taboo subject — something people and even (or maybe especially) religious leaders remain uneducated about and quick to think can be solved by mere patience/sabr/prayers from…
By Guest BloggerAs a survivor of violence and in the process of healing, I wrote this poem in a form that it tells my story of resilience and to encourage many others that in difficulty that there comes an ease. I hope to those who read this story understands that each of us were given us a…
By Laila AlawaI always felt as though my life, my being, my very self were forevermore saddled with the very expectations of generations before me, dusty individuals, their fervent whispers carrying, moving, traveling, across centuries of near-still air, air rippled only with the occasional revolution, scented softly with rosewater and hot Arabic coffee, that their unfulfilled wishes,…
By Guest BloggerWho told you That you could speak for me? After all, your tongue Can’t even move smoothly Over the sounds and letters Of my name, Who told you That you could pitch Imaginary bars around me, Looming high, Turn me into a false prisoner And have ignorance comply To be the watch guard, That you…
