A Renewed Sense of Purpose…

Each year, when I go for the khidmat, I return with my spirit uplifted, my heart overflowing with gratitude, and my soul enriched in ways that are difficult to put into words.There is something profoundly humbling about offering yourself and discovering that, in the process, you receive so much more than you could ever give.It is in the simplest of interactions that I find the deepest meaning of this khidmat. Sitting with the elderly, listening to their stories, sharing a conversation, and perhaps offering them a little solace. Sometimes, all it takes is the willingness to listen, to make someone feel seen, heard and valued.And then there are the little children, with their tiny spaces, their big dreams and their beautiful aspirations. Talking to them about what home means to them, what makes them happy, what they wish for, and what they hope their little worlds could look like is a reminder of how much we can learn from the innocence and the imagination of children. Their voices, their ideas and their dreams deserve to be heard. And perhaps, in listening to them, we can help create spaces that do more than shelter them, spaces that nurture their sense of belonging, give wings to their aspirations and allow them to flourish.Every conversation, every smile, every story shared leaves an imprint on my heart. It reminds me that khidmat is not merely about what we do, it is about how we make people feel. It is about recognising the dignity of every individual, respecting their experiences, listening to their hopes and acknowledging their dreams.Year after year, I return with a renewed sense of purpose. I go believing that I am there to contribute, to help and to serve, but I come away realising how much I have learnt, how much I have received, and how deeply I have been touched by the people I meet.Perhaps this is the true essence of upliftment. While we set out to uplift others, our own hearts are lifted in the process. We arrive with the intention of giving, but leave with hearts fuller than when we came.And for this opportunity to serve, to connect, to listen and to learn, I can only lower my head in gratitude.

Alhamdolillah, for the privilege of khidmat. Alhamdolillah, for the people who enrich my life without even knowing it.

Alhamdolillah, Shukranlillah, for the beautiful reminder, year after year, that the greatest reward of serving others is often the transformation that takes place within ourselves.

Oh Yes Surat…I longingly wait…

This is Surat…
For years, I have watched its streets come alive
the young, the old,
the gallant and the sage,
all arriving from across the globe,
Into the starlit city,
with a sparkle in their darting eyes,
their eager gazes scanning the streets
for familiar faces,
for hands to clasp,
for hearts they have longed to meet.
A season where hearts meet,
where souls gather
to satiate their thirst
a thirst for Ilm,
for Barakaat,
for the warmth of belonging.
It is a season of lights.
Surat, in its entirety,
glows in festive splendour.
And then the shutters of the cameras
click after click
Making memories
capturing moments
that I longingly gaze upon
from far and distant lands.
And I wonder…
Why is it that borders divide?
Why is it that every peasant
every sage,
every young and every old
finds a place in the heart of Surat,
while I sit here,
longingly staring
at photographs of streets
I yearn to walk upon?
Into the season of Barakaat,
into the season of Ilm in abundance,
they come
each carrying a vessel,
each hoping to fill it,
to fill it to the very brim.
And Maula…
I find myself weeping,
praying for my call,
hoping for my beckoning,
waiting for the day
when I too may stand
Tall and proud
upon the streets of Surat,
and with a heart overflowing,
reiterating over and over
Mum lahul Moula, falahul kul.
Istifadah Ilmiyah…
A season of harvest—
a harvest that does not end
when the season does.
For what is gathered here
is carried within the heart
throughout the year
the Ilm received,
the Barakaat bestowed,
the moments lived,
the words heard,
the souls replenished
until the next season of Barakaat
And so I wait…
My vessel in my hands,
my heart overflowing with longing,
my eyes turned towards Surat,
longing a single glimpse of Moula TUS
Waiting for my call.
Waiting for the beckoning.
Waiting for the day
when I too shall walk those streets,
look up at those lights,
find familiar faces in the crowd,
and know
Oh Yes Surat…
I longingly wait…

The Morning has not changed… I Have….

Mornings… and the madness that comes with them, totally uninvited and completely unannounced, put me through a bout of cardiac arrest every single day!
Puffing and panting, I finally arrive at the majestic gates, where even the polite little “thank you” from the face scanner seems strangely welcoming in this otherwise thankless world.
But the moment I step through those divine gates, something shifts. The madness seems to come to a screeching halt. Tranquility takes over, bringing with it a sense of peace and calm that I desperately need after the morning mayhem.
I settle into my little spot in the well-lit, well-aired portico, take a deep breath, and somehow, almost magically, the day begins to feel a little more manageable.
And then comes the moment when the morning finds its rhythm.
I sit quietly in my little corner and watch the young students and faculty begin to arrive. One by one, they stride through the doors, carrying with them the promise of yet another day. They find their places, and slowly, almost magically, the space fills up in the prettiest of pastel tints, hues and shades. Not merely with young voices and youthful energy, but with something far more profound.
The recitation of dua begins…and somehow, the racing mind that only moments earlier was puffing, panting and protesting, begins to find tranquility. The words soothe gently, like an elixir, replacing the frenzy with a stillness I cannot quite put into words.
And then comes the Tilawat. The verses of the Qur’an rise into the air in the most melodious voices. Young voices. Innocent voices. Beautiful voices.
And suddenly, an ordinary morning feels serene and divine.
There is something incredibly humbling about sitting there and listening to these young students recite the Qur’an with such grace and devotion. I sit there, simply watching and listening, and feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
The portico is no longer just a place where I sit. For those few precious moments. It becomes a sanctuary of peace. A space where hearts settle, minds become still, and the soul is gently reminded of what truly matters.
There is something about the sound of dua in the early hours of the day that reaches places within the heart that ordinary words cannot. The mind that only moments ago was racing and running through lists, worries, deadlines and the countless responsibilities of the day begins to find solemn solace.
The words of Wazifatus Shukr rise into the morning air, and I find myself breathing a little deeper, listening a little more intently, feeling a little closer to the One who has brought us all here.
There is a sweetness in the sound that is difficult to describe. A sacredness that cannot be created, but simply felt…For a few precious moments, everything else disappears. and perhaps this is the true magic of these mornings.
As the melodious verses fill the portico, I cannot help but feel that there is a quiet blessing in simply being there.
Watching…
Listening…
Receiving….
A reaffirmation sets…The morning has not changed.
I have.
And perhaps that is the greatest gift of all. All we need to do is pause long enough to recognize the bounties and the blessings that envelope us.
And so the day begins.
Another day…
Another promising beginning. Yes… The morning has not changed….
I have.

A Lesson in Every Stitch…

After the birth of my firstborn child, life changed radically, yet beautifully. In those early months, as my baby slept peacefully and I watched his tiny form grow day by day, I wanted to fill those quiet moments with something that would become a lasting reminder of that precious season.
As I decluttered little nooks and crannies to make room for this tiny bundle of joy and the not so tiny space all his belongings seemed to require. I came across a large bag filled with skeins, knots, and little pieces of thread in every possible tint, shade, and hue. Rather than discarding them, I brought out a canvas and a needle and began gently pulling thread and needle through its tiny holes, not quite knowing what would emerge.
Like life itself, this embroidery was created from pieces of leftover yarn that seemed too small to matter. Each thread carried the history of another creation, yet together they began a new story, one of resilience, renewal, and hope.
In those precious, unhurried days of new motherhood, I found myself reaching for what remained rather than what was new. Short lengths of thread, too small for most projects, became the palette from which this tapestry slowly emerged.
One stitch at a time, the fragments found their place. Colours that were never intended to meet blended into a kaleidoscope of unexpected beauty. No single thread tells the whole story, yet together they create something complete and harmonious.
Life has a way of doing the same with us. Our joys and disappointments, our beginnings and endings, our triumphs and our trials may seem like disconnected fragments. Yet, with patience, time, and faith, they are woven into a pattern far richer and more beautiful than we could ever have imagined.
This tapestry reminds me that nothing is ever truly wasted. Every experience leaves behind a thread of wisdom, every challenge adds depth, every season leaves its colour, and every act of love contributes to the masterpiece we are becoming.
Sometimes, the most beautiful creations are not made from what is new, but from what remains woven together with gratitude, purpose, hope, and resilience. Looking at this tapestry today, I no longer see merely leftover threads. I see the quiet joy of early motherhood, the beauty hidden in ordinary moments, and a gentle reminder that, just as these fragments found their place, so too do the seemingly scattered fragments of our own lives

A Detox I Never Signed Up For

It has been six days since my phone and I parted ways.No dramatic farewell. No heartfelt goodbye. One moment it was there, faithfully buzzing, chiming, demanding attention; the next, it wasn’t. I wish I could say I handled the separation with remarkable dignity. Naaaa, I certainly didn’t. I felt like the chick in the story CHICKEN LICKEN. “the sky has fallen down and I’m off to tell the King”

The first day felt oddly like an attack of paralysis. Every few minutes, my hand instinctively reached for a phone that wasn’t there. My pocket felt suspiciously light. I kept wondering who will have texted, who will have called, what urgent piece of news the world had decided I absolutely needed to know. By the way, to my disappointment, the world carried on just fine.

By the second day, something curious began to happen. The silence stopped feeling empty.I realised just how often I had been interrupting my own life. A notification here. A quick glance there. A harmless “I’ll just check one thing…” that somehow turned into twenty minutes of wandering through the digital wilderness.Without my phone, there was nothing to check. So I checked in with myself instead.I noticed birdsong that had probably been there all along. I lingered over a cup of tea without simultaneously scrolling through headlines. Conversations became richer because my attention wasn’t quietly negotiating with a screen. Even waiting in traffic, outside a classroom became something other than an opportunity to disappear into my phone.I simply waited.Imagine that!The detox wasn’t just from a device. It was from urgency. From the illusion that everything demanded an immediate response. From the subtle anxiety of always being available, always informed, always connected.The irony is almost amusing. We carry devices designed to save us time, yet they often consume the very moments they promise to protect.

Don’t get me wrong, I love technology. My phone is a remarkable interface. It connects me to my loved ones, supports my work, answers impossible questions, stores precious photographs, and somehow knows exactly when I need reminding about an appointment I had completely forgotten.But somewhere along the way, the tool quietly became a companion, then a habit, and occasionally an uninvited guest and on many occasions it felt like the oxygen that kept me alive.

But friends, believe me I didnt die and go to heaven. Im still alive and kicking.These six days have reminded me that there is a difference between being connected and being present.Presence cannot be downloaded.Peace doesn’t arrive as a notification.And some of life’s richest moments are actually possible without my cellphone.

My phone will eventually return. I look forward to those moments ardently. But, when it does, I hope our relationship will be a little healthier. I’ll still use it, appreciate it, and probably still ask it for directions when I am hopelessly lost.But maybe, I won’t feel the need to reach for it in every quiet moment.Because these past six days have reminded me that sometimes, the best connection begins with disconnecting.

the promise of Shafa’at

perhaps

inni wallahe ohiboka ya Moulaya

Fatema… Ya Fatema…

A Nidaa…

The Trials Beyond…

the spinning wheel…

karbala…

nothing to offer… but yet I stand…

it’s the little things in life that go a long way…

A Missive …

My dear and respected Students,

For a lot of years now , I have been strongly rooted in my understanding of LEADERSHIP that has only deepened my conviction: leadership without a title is available to every human being alive. And when you model this practice, you not only elevate your influence, you scale your joy.

Whether you are a teacher or a company owner , a parent or a student—you can lead. Because leadership, at its core, is simply the opposite of playing the victim . 

It’s the decision, made each day, to take responsibility for your life, your work, and the world you inhabit.

We are living through one of the most volatile, uncertain, and disorienting periods in modern memory. And that is precisely when your leadership matters most. 

Mother Teresa said it beautifully—“if everyone would only sweep their own doorstep, the whole world would be clean.”

We can wish for an easier world. Or we can wish for stronger character within ourselves. 

Every dawn is a fresh chance to take responsibility, to demonstrate creativity, to stand for excellence, and to model integrity.

When you do that consistently, without waiting for applause, you practice what is called “everyday leadership”.

Remember, you won’t become fearless by avoiding the things that frighten you. You will become fearless by doing them, over and over, until your definition of impossible quietly begins to diminish. 

Every impossible thing you attempt rewires what you believe is possible. 

So I want you to consider this. Reflect upon it. Fear is not your enemy. Fear is your friend. It is a signpost, pointing directly at your next place of growth.

No matter what you do, no matter whether you carry a title or not, use every opportunity to recognize the gifts and talents of the people around you. 

Direct the camera upon potential others haven’t yet seen in themselves. Celebrate the quiet excellence that often goes unnoticed. Because here is the beautiful paradox at the heart of greatness. When you help others rise, you do not diminish yourself. You become greater. You create something that lasts far longer than any single achievement.

Leadership is all about now. Not someday. It is this moment in time all the way to the last syllable of time

In your home, in your class, in the way you carry yourself. The world is not waiting for more titles. It is waiting for more people who have decided sincerely, firmly, to lead.

With love and respect,

Arwa

Wah…

Wah…

In every word you uttered, in each and every pause,

There was noor for every soul in lands so faraway and upon the near shores.

Wah…

We listened, but more we felt,

Each word softly shaping souls and guiding hearts towards the right

Wah…

For every pearl you revealed from the depth of the sea, it’s mesmerizing beauty certainly untold

Upon our hearts you embedded with tenderness and utmost care

Wah…

You called us to live with care and never despair,

To hold on fast to your daaman and walk with nay a fear.

Wah…

You lead every Moomin and every Moominah, and child,

Aboard your ship safe from the vehemently crashing tides of changing times.

Wah…

You took us on a journey mile by mile, and heart to heart,

Not just roads beneath our feet, but paths we walk within

From distance to closeness and from heedlessness to Deen.

Wah…

You showed us hub in each Salaam and every kalaam Each young and old,brave and meek collectively chanted

Wah… Wah, wah!

With every breath of the heart

Joilto fidaak—a thousand lives and more,

Inni wallahe ohiboka ya Moulaya,

Inni wallahe ohiboka ya Mufaddal Moula.

Husaina…

A Legacy Treasured…

With the click of the camera,
A moment is sealed
Not just on film,
But etched deep within

The corridors of their future

The arenas of their lives
As they sit around Moula (TUS),
Something greater than a photograph
Comes into being
The barakaat of which will continue forever
Into generation after generation and generations forever.
For Moula has engulfed each child within His haven so safe
Shielding each tender soul from the harms of the world
Their innocence, their promise,
Their destinies still soft as clay.
A legacy promised becomes a pact
As gentle as His nazaraat,

As lasting as His dua .
The barakaat of this single instant
Will outlive their childhoods,
Outlive their memories way beyond time

And in this brief, blessed pause in time,
He inscribes upon them
Radiance they will carry forward,
A legacy their generations will inherit
long after the shutter clicks close…

the Monument That Breathes…

In the quiet folds when the world is still and fast asleep,
She stands, an invisible monument,
Built not of stone, but of pots and pans,
Laundry baskets, lunch boxes,
and work that never ends.
The only sign she isn’t a machine
Is the soft sigh that escapes between her chores.
A statue no one ever sees,
Yet the one that holds the whole home upright—
Its pillars carved from patience, sacrifice, and resilience,
And a thousand unthanked gestures
That shimmer only when the light is kind.
And still they say, “She does nothing.”
Surprising, isn’t it!
That everything breathes because she does.
Life moves gently for everyone around her
The walls stand on kindness and love,
The ceiling is a shield of humility.
For this is her kingdom
Not a hall of marble, glass and crystal
But one of rolling pins and mismatched socks,
And whispered comfort that mends tired souls.
Her crown is a hurried knot of hair,
Her throne the kitchen counter
Where she sits listening
to the quiver and the shivers
But still… “She does nothing.”
Her royal baton is a wooden spoon
That stirs more than just food
It stirs peace and love into every pot,
Garnishing meals with her unwavering strength.
Her labour is a cascade of invisibilities
Heaps of folded clothes and brooms & dustpans,
Softened anger, calmed fears,
A thousand seams stitched back together.
Yet again… “She does nothing.”
She sails her ship through weekdays and weekends,
Through storms and rough seas,
Through school mornings and long worried evenings
The unseen captain who keeps her ship steady,
The turbulent tides she calms with her bare hands.
But one day…
When her footsteps no longer echo in the hallways
and the house exhales a strange silence,
Only then is the weight she carried felt
The tempests she quietened
Only then does the invisible monument
suddenly rise into sight
Not in stone, but in the void she leaves behind
When a woman who “did nothing”
finally rests.
And the whole house
Begins to learn to breathe …