The Trials I’ve Endured as a Deaf Muslim Woman

What is the meaning of “Trial?” It has once been mentioned by Allah’s Messenger (PBUH), “If Allah wants to do good to somebody, He afflicts him with trials.” (Sahih Al-Bukhari).
Every day in this small life brings upon a trial: as one trial ends, a new one shows up in its place. I was born Deaf, this itself was the very beginning of my first trial. Who knew I would be like this for the rest of my life?

I always had interpreters as my shadow, whom I could hide behind and shroud myself. I was faded in the crowds, as no one around me noticed.

In my early childhood, I struggled with making new friends and developing my education to the same level as my peers. I had constant miscommunication with others, and it was no wonder many wouldn’t befriend me.
I always had interpreters as my shadow, whom I could hide behind and shroud myself. I was faded in the crowds, as no one around me noticed. During my early teenage years, I decided to cover my bulky hearing aids with the cloths wrapped on my head, with my hijab. I imagined that in this way, I would finally be able to hide my lack of hearing; but instead, my being deaf roared even louder.
It took me some time to realize how the hijab is my protection. At first, I didn’t wear hijab for the sake of Allah (SWT) — but, instead, for myself.  As I walked down the hallways in school, many stares followed behind me.
To myself, I prayed, please don’t look. I had already felt like I had lost so many things in my life by now: my knowledge, my hearing, my communication, and my social life. Please, I prayed, don’t make this more tragic than it already is.

Funny thing, I didn’t even have to hear these words about the bulky thing around my head. I could see them, so clearly in their aggressive expressions. Their enormous eyes would pierce me in their stares from across the room.

But then, several thoughts and contemplations later, I realized that these kids weren’t looking at my hearing aids — they were looking at the cloth wrapped tightly around my head. My second trial.

 
As I recalled, I used the idea of wearing hijab to cover “my curse,” my lack of hearing. I hated the fact that I am deaf and the fact of people around reacted in ways that made me feel like a freak, or worse, with pity. Oh no, she is deaf. Oh no, we are not allowed to talk with her. Oh no, there is no point to being friends with her. Oh no, oh no.
But now, the questions and judgments shifted — now, they were asking: What is she wearing? She must be from a strict family. She is not a good person to hang out with. Oh, her wrapping thing makes her head appear large, a fat head. Funny thing, I didn’t even have to hear these words about the bulky thing around my head. I could see them, so clearly in their aggressive expressions. Their enormous eyes would pierce me in their stares from across the room. And so here I was, am facing two different but simultaneous trials.

The crowds around me always seemed grey-neutral, but I was in the red bold hijab. It is time to shine, Haadia. Let that brush stroke wipe away the cowardice that lies within, using beautiful words from the Quran with confidence.

Fast forward to my mid-teenage years, my mind began shifting: It is time to be confident, Haadia, and turn myself into a new person. I tried to reshape my mindset about the choices I had made and the qualities I was born with. My hijab is my protection, not my burden. With this confidence I excelled — I noticed the people who surrounded me seemed to finally look away. I am proud of my belief in Allah (SWT).
I felt the piercing stares at me soften, now instead recognizing me as I picked up my golden paintbrush. My art is a gift, it is a gift to enhance who I really am.
The crowds around me always seemed grey-neutral, but I was in the red bold hijab. It is time to shine, Haadia. Let that brush stroke wipe away the cowardice that lies within, using beautiful words from the Quran with confidence.

I bowed down into sujood, my head lowered, nose pressed to the ground, and cried my heart out to my Lord. I felt nothing but failure. I failed to be a great listener, I failed to be a genuine hijabi, and now I even failed to be successful as an artist.

From where I stood, now in college, the many steps on these stairs of life seemed high with my growing potential. And though I had finally begun my climb, I looked down to my feet and marveled at how I still was so incredibly low on the ground.
I still had so much to accomplish before I completed my trial, my life. Instead of an ascending, easy, upwards staircase, my life turned more into a bumpy rollercoaster, filled with ups and downs.

 
Starting my first major drop, was the failure to get accepted into the art program in my sophomore year. I let this tear me apart because God knows how hard I worked toward this goal of mine. It felt as though a part of my soul was violently ripped from my being, as if the sky couldn’t reach to the sea. As much as I thought too, I couldn’t end my life, not this time.
I bowed down into sujood, my head lowered, nose pressed to the ground, and cried my heart out to my Lord. I felt nothing but failure. I failed to be a great listener, I failed to be a genuine hijabi, and now I even failed to be successful as an artist. Then, as if God was responding to me with hope, I remembered a saying: “Allah tests different people with different trials, because everyone has a different level of Patience, Tolerance, and Faith.” I stood up, I looked up.

All of these have been my trials, and I know they will never end. It was not my goal in life to erase these trials, but instead, learn to live with them, accept them from my Lord and overcome my dwelling in their triviality with remorse.

Ya Rabb, if I will fail something again, please pull me up from this ocean of despair, with waves filled with words of failure. I felt my strength return, slowly but surely, and continued to climb. I continued to run toward the path of self-righteousness, confidence, self-love.

 
By the time I was about to grab the baton of hope from another runner, I once again failed to grasp the happiness. Here came the fourth trial. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with diabetes. When I got the news, I was unsurprised. My tears had dried, I couldn’t cry. I was simply numb, empty without happiness and health.
For many weeks, my eyes became weak, my body felt unsteady and not in my control, and my confidence elapsed once again. I looked at myself in the mirror, my face with the simple question of, “why me?”
I still constantly wonder how it is that I am failing at so many things. In the past, I questioned my faith, I doubted myself, and I feared life alone. All of these have been my trials, and I know they will never end. It was not my goal in life to erase these trials, but instead, learn to live with them, accept them from my Lord and overcome my dwelling in their triviality with remorse.

 
Now, a few years later, in my last year of college, I stare at myself once again, and I smile reassuringly. He loves me more than anything, why should I let Him down and quit now?
I may be struggling today, but all I know that I am making God happy because I am winning. I am winning and beating these trials because I am still breathing, I am still living, All Praises to the highest.
Today, deafness is my legacy and Hijab is my armor, given from the Most Gracious and the Most Merciful. Today, art is my pathway to righteousness and diabetes is my power, bestowed from the Compassionate and The Light.
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Written by Haadia Khan.