Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Faith-rooted serialized stories, historical fiction, essays, and overlooked Muslim experiences in America.

Featured series include:

• After Wards • The Story of San Juan Hill • The Libraries That Raised Me • Bronzeville • Hijrah House Essays

New entries added weekly.

Stories rooted in memory, literacy, faith, migration, reentry, and the quiet realities shaping overlooked communities.

In prisons across the United States, a quiet contradiction unfolds every day.

The same faith that helps many incarcerated women rebuild their lives is often the very thing that places them under suspicion, restriction, or outright humiliation while they are still behind bars.

For Muslim women, many of them reverts seeking structure, repentance, and purpose, incarceration is not only a test of freedom. It is a test of faith under pressure.

And when they are released, too many walk out with neither protection nor support.

A Pattern Hidden in Plain Sight

There is no single national database tracking abuse specifically against Muslim women in prison. But reports from civil rights organizations, legal filings, and firsthand accounts point to a troubling pattern.

The American Civil Liberties Union and Council on American-Islamic Relations have documented repeated complaints from Muslim inmates across multiple states.

Among them:

• Women forced to remove their hijabs in front of male officers

• Denial of access to religiously compliant meals

• Punishment or isolation tied to visible religious practice

These are not isolated incidents. They represent a structural blind spot where religious rights and prison policy collide.

The Human Rights Watch has also noted that incarcerated women broadly face higher rates of staff misconduct and abuse than their male counterparts. For Muslim women, that vulnerability is compounded by religious discrimination.

“I Had to Choose My Faith or My Safety”

In interviews collected by advocacy groups like Muslim Advocates, Muslim women describe an impossible choice.

Practice openly and risk retaliation.

Stay silent and lose a part of yourself.

One formerly incarcerated woman recounted being disciplined after refusing to remove her hijab in a mixed-gender setting. Another described male guards entering living quarters during times when women were not fully covered.

These experiences are not merely discomforting. They strike at the core of dignity, modesty, and identity.

And yet, many go unreported.

The Limits of the Law

On paper, protections exist.

The Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA) was enacted to address sexual abuse in correctional facilities. Meanwhile, the Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act (RLUIPA) guarantees that incarcerated individuals can practice their religion without unnecessary burden.

But enforcement is inconsistent.

Data collected by the U.S. Department of Justice shows that women in prison report higher rates of abuse than men. Still, that data does not break down incidents by religion.

Muslim women, in effect, disappear inside the statistics.

And when they do speak up, retaliation is a real fear, ranging from solitary confinement to loss of privileges.

A Faith That Rebuilds Lives

Despite these challenges, Islam continues to grow inside America’s prison system.

Researchers in Criminology and Religious Studies have noted that many incarcerated individuals turn to Islam for its structure, discipline, and emphasis on personal accountability.

For women, especially, the transformation can be profound.

Prayer brings routine.

Modesty restores self-worth.

Community creates belonging.

But here lies the irony: the very practices that stabilize these women are often treated as disruptions within the prison environment.

The Moment That Matters Most

If incarceration is the test, reentry is the turning point.

And for Muslim women, that turning point is often where the system fails them most.

Unlike men, who may have access to more established reentry networks, women frequently face:

• Limited housing options

• Lack of family support

• Heightened vulnerability to exploitation

• Pressure to return to unsafe environments

For Muslim women, there is an additional challenge: finding a space that respects and supports their religious identity.

Without that, the progress made behind bars can unravel quickly.

The Cost of Walking Out Alone

Organizations like The Sentencing Project have long warned that stable housing is one of the strongest predictors of reduced recidivism.

Without it, the odds shift dramatically.

A woman leaves prison determined to change.

She has embraced faith.

She has discipline.

She has hope.

But she has nowhere to go.

No structure.

No mentorship.

No protection.

In that vacuum, old patterns are not just tempting, they are often inevitable.

A Policy Gap and an Opportunity

There is a growing recognition that faith-based transitional housing can play a powerful role in breaking cycles of recidivism.

But for Muslim women, such options are almost nonexistent.

This is not just a community issue. It is a policy failure.

If rehabilitation is the goal, then systems must support, not undermine, the very tools that make rehabilitation possible.

Faith is one of those tools.

Structure is one of those tools.

Community is one of those tools.

And right now, too many women are leaving prison without any of them.

Hijrah House: A Model Ready to Expand

In Richmond, Virginia, a faith-centered reentry initiative has already begun addressing this gap, at least for men.

Hijrah House, supported by the Muslim Chaplain Services of Virginia, provides structured housing, mentorship, and faith-based guidance for formerly incarcerated individuals.

The results speak to a simple truth: when people are given stability, they are far more likely to succeed.

But there is currently no equivalent space dedicated to Muslim women.

And the need is urgent.

Building a Place to Land

Imagine a different outcome.

A woman leaves prison not into uncertainty, but into structure.

She enters a home where:

• Her faith is protected, not questioned

• Her modesty is respected, not compromised

• Her growth is supported, not ignored

She has access to:

• Job readiness support

• Community mentorship

• Daily structure rooted in purpose

This is not charity.

This is strategy.

Because every woman successfully reintegrated is one less life cycling back through the system.

A Call to Responsibility

The conversation around prison reform often focuses on policy. But real change happens when communities take responsibility for what happens after the sentence ends.

Muslim women in prison are not invisible.

They are underserved.

And when they come home, they deserve more than survival.

They deserve a chance to rebuild with dignity.

The Next Step

Establishing a transitional home for Muslim women is not just an act of compassion. It is an investment in safer communities, stronger families, and lasting change.

The blueprint already exists.

The need is clear.

What remains is the will to act.

Why do we insist on Malcolm X

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

There is a strange inconsistency in how we speak about one of the most important Muslim figures in American history.

We honor Muhammad Ali by the name he chose after Islam. No one serious calls him Cassius Clay anymore. That name belongs to a chapter he closed.

We respect Kareem Abdul-Jabbar the same way. Lew Alcindor is history. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is identity.

But when it comes to Malik el-Shabazz, the world hesitates.

Instead, it clings to “Malcolm X” as if that is where his story ended.

It didn’t.

A Man Who Refused to Stay the Same

Malcolm X was never meant to be frozen in time.

His life was a series of transformations, each one sharper than the last. From the streets of Boston and Harlem to the disciplined ranks of the Nation of Islam, he evolved quickly and publicly. But his most important transformation came after he walked away from everything that made him famous.

In 1964, he left the Nation of Islam.

That decision cost him influence, protection, and stability. But it gave him something far more valuable: the ability to search for truth without constraint.

That search led him to Makkah.

The Journey That Broke the Frame

What Malik el-Shabazz experienced during Hajj did not fit into the racial framework he had once preached.

He saw Muslims of every color, every background, every language, moving as one body. Men who, in America, would have been separated by law and custom were now praying shoulder to shoulder.

Blond-haired, blue-eyed men. Dark-skinned Africans. Arabs. Asians. Europeans.

No hierarchy. No segregation. No slogans needed.

Just Islam.

In his famous letter from Makkah, he described how this experience forced him to rethink everything. The rigid racial lines he once drew began to dissolve under the weight of what he witnessed.

This was not a public relations pivot.

It was a theological correction.

The Name He Chose at the End

After completing Hajj, he took on the name Malik El-Shabazz.

That name was not cosmetic. It marked the completion of a journey.

“X” had represented the unknown, a placeholder for a lost identity. But now, he was no longer searching in the same way. He had found direction in orthodox Islam, rooted in the Qur’an and the Sunnah.

And with that came a name that reflected who he had become.

We understand this instinctively with others.

We do not insist on calling Muhammad Ali by the name he rejected. We do not drag Kareem Abdul-Jabbar back into a past he moved beyond.

So why do we do it here?

History vs. Accuracy

The answer is simple: branding.

“Malcolm X” is what the world was introduced to. It is the name printed in textbooks, documentaries, and headlines. It is the version of him that America learned to debate, criticize, and eventually, cautiously admire.

But branding is not the same as truth.

If a man lives, grows, corrects himself, and ultimately dies upon a name and a belief, then accuracy demands we recognize that final state.

To continue calling him Malcolm X without context is to lock him into a phase he himself outgrew.

What He Actually Represented

Malik el-Shabazz’s final message was not one of racial separation. It was one of clarity.

He did not abandon the struggle against injustice. He refined it.

He moved from a framework centered on race to one centered on accountability before Allaah. From anger alone to principle. From reaction to guidance.

That shift matters.

Because it shows that Islam did not erase his passion, it disciplined it.

It gave it direction.

A Matter of Respect

Names are not small things in Islam.

They carry meaning, intention, and identity.

To call someone by the name they chose after embracing Islam is to acknowledge their agency, their growth, and their submission to Allaah.

To ignore that name, especially when we do not do so with others, raises a question:

Is it oversight, or is it selective memory?

Either way, it deserves correction.

Say His Name Properly

This is not about erasing “Malcolm X” from history.

That name represents a chapter, a powerful one. It speaks to a time of awakening, discipline, and courage.

But it is not the full story.

The full story ends with a man who traveled across the world, confronted his own limitations, embraced orthodox Islam, and stood ready to build bridges where he once built walls.

That man was Malik el-Shabazz.

And if we can say Muhammad Ali without hesitation,

if we can say Kareem Abdul-Jabbar without correction,

then we can say Malik el-Shabazz with the same clarity and respect.

Not because it is trendy.

Policy Beneath the Ballcap

Mina Ware learned early that North Platte had a way of making people feel smaller than the horizon suggested. The sky stretched endlessly, but expectations were narrow. She had grown up there, left for a short while, and then returned to the area with two children, a quiet strength, and a faith she carried mostly on the inside.

At thirty-two, Mina had already spent five years working in corrections. The job paid the bills, kept the lights on, and gave her children stability. It also demanded a certain hardness. You learned quickly how to keep your face neutral, your voice steady, and your private life sealed away. Mina was good at that part, too good, some days.

The father of her children had been a Muslim from Serbia, gentle in his own way, passionate in others. Through that relationship Mina had been introduced to Islam, what began as curiosity grew into conviction. She read, listened, asked questions, and eventually stood alone in her apartment, whispering the words that changed the direction of her life. She accepted Islam not for him, not for anyone else, but because pleasing Allaah felt like truth settling into her bones.

That clarity however, also brought pain. The relationship could not continue, it was not lawful, and Mina knew that faith demanded sacrifices that were not poetic or easy, leaving was one of them. When it ended, she was a single mother of two, newly Muslim, and very aware that the world was not built to accommodate all three of those things at once.

When she began working in the prison system, Mina made a decision, her Islam would be private. She prayed quietly, fasted discreetly, and avoided conversations that might lead to questions. She did not wear a khimar at work, not because she did not believe in it, but because she was still learning how to carry her faith without it costing her her livelihood. The struggle weighed on her, especially on days when she caught her reflection in the mirror and felt she was leaving part of herself behind.

Still, when the time for prayer came, Mina turned her face toward Allaah wherever she could, sometimes it was an empty office, sometimes a storage room during a long shift. She learned the rhythm of the facility well enough to find small pockets of privacy. Prayer became her anchor, the moment when the walls, the noise, the uniforms all faded, and she remembered who she was beyond her badge.

It was during one of those moments that everything changed.

She had just begun her prayer, the world narrowed to whispered verses and controlled breaths, when the door opened. Mina froze for half a second before steadying herself, she finished quickly, her heart pounding. The officer standing there looked confused, then curious, then amused in a way that made her stomach tighten.

He said nothing, then walked away, he was the kind of man who could not hold water, the kind who treated other people’s private moments like entertainment.

By the end of the shift, half the facility knew. Mina felt exposed in a way she never had before. Her prayers, which had been her refuge, were now something whispered about in break rooms and hallways.

Fear followed quickly, she had children to feed, and rent to pay. Corrections was not known for gentleness toward difference so she braced herself for jokes, suspicion, maybe worse. For the first time since accepting Islam, she wondered if she had been naïve to think she could keep the two worlds separate.

The comments came as expected, some awkward, some ignorant, some surprisingly respectful. What Mina did not expect was the silence from administration, no reprimand, no warning, just work as usual.

Months later, a supervisor position opened up at a women’s facility. Mina had not planned on applying, promotions brought attention and scrutiny, but her name began circulating anyway. She had a solid record, calm leadership, and a reputation for fairness. A colleague pulled her aside one afternoon and said, “You should throw your hat in the ring, they’re looking at you.”

That night, Mina prayed Istikhara, she asked Allaah for the goodness of her choice, for a door to open only if it was better for her and her children, her worldly life and her afterlife. She pleaded with Allaah that if this position was not good for her and her children, her worldly life and her afterlife to remove her from the situation and to remove the desire for that situation from her heart. She felt no thunderbolt, no dramatic sign, just a quiet steadiness that told her to pursue it and leave it to Allaah to allow it or forbid it from happening.

The interview panel was formal, all measured questions and neutral expressions. Mina presented her experience, her approach to leadership, her understanding of safety, and accountability. She spoke confidently, drawing on years of navigating difficult situations without escalating them.

Then the questions shifted.

One panel member cleared his throat and asked about her faith, he asked if she was Muslim.

A lump formed in Mina’s throat. For a moment, fear threatened to undo her composure. She thought of her children, of how easily bias could be disguised as professionalism. She answered carefully, honestly, and without apology.

That was when the tone changed.

They explained that the facility struggled to meet the needs of Muslim female inmates. Chaplain visits were inconsistent, policies were unclear, and staff did not always know the difference between contraband and religious accommodation. They were not looking for an imam, they were looking for a lieutenant who understood both policy and faith, someone who could act as a liaison.

Mina listened, stunned.

They talked about khimars and how to draft guidelines that balanced safety with dignity. They spoke about religious texts, prayer rugs, dietary considerations, about Ramadhan and how meal times could be adjusted without disrupting operations. They wanted her expertise, her insight, her lived understanding.

When the interview ended Mina sat in her car and cried, not from fear this time, but from a sense of being seen in a way she had never expected.

She was offered the position… and accepted.

Lieutenant Ware began wearing a khimar beneath her ballcap, tucked neatly into her uniform collar. It was a small accommodation, but for Mina, it was transformative, it allowed her to be visible without being exposed, faithful without being unsafe. Slowly, that confidence followed her beyond the facility, she found herself wearing her khimar more often, then most days, then almost everywhere.

Her work changed too, policies were drafted with care, inmates who had felt invisible began to feel acknowledged. Confusion gave way to clarity, Mina did not preach, she did not overstep, she simply did her job with integrity, guided by faith and professionalism.

At night, after her children were asleep, Mina sometimes stood at the window and looked out at the wide Nebraska sky. She thought about the path that had brought her there, the quiet prayers, the moments of fear, the unexpected opportunities.

Essa was eleven years old, with wide, curious eyes and a quiet way of studying the world. Most people who met him noticed his gentle smile before they noticed anything else. But if they paid a little closer attention, really looked, the way Isa looked at things, they would see there was something wonderfully unique about him.

Essa was neurodivergent. Some adults still used old words like “Autistic” or “on the spectrum,” but Essa simply saw things… differently. He didn’t always look people in the eye. He didn’t always know what to say first when meeting someone new. Sometimes his hands fluttered, or he hummed softly when he felt overwhelmed. But none of that ever made him any less than the other kids. It just made him Essa.

He lived in a cozy neighborhood with sidewalks perfect for chalk drawings, curbs perfect for balancing on, and a big circle where all the kids practiced riding their bikes. Every afternoon, boys and girls zoomed around on bright red, blue, or yellow bicycles. Essa never joined them at first. He would stand a little away from the group, clutching the sleeves of his thobe or gripping the edges of his hoodie, and he simply watched.

At first, none of the kids thought much of it. They figured Essa wasn’t interested. But Essa was very interested. He studied the way the wheels turned when the pedals moved. He watched how the kids leaned slightly when they made sharp turns. He even noticed how their fingers squeezed the handbrakes right before coming to a stop.

Day after day, week after week, Essa observed without saying a word.

Then one bright Saturday morning, Essa rolled his own bike out of the garage. It was a simple blue bike with training wheels, at least, it used to have training wheels. His father had taken them off resigned to Essa just not being interested in bikes, not because he thought Essa was ready, he just figured that Essa’s siblings or other kids in the neighborhood would be able to benefit from there being an extra bicycle. The bike was supposed to stay in the garage until someone else needed it.

But Essa had a different idea.

He pushed the bike to the sidewalk, climbed on with surprising confidence, and began to pedal. His balance was steady. His back was straight. His eyes focused ahead with a determination he never showed during small talk or classroom games.

Around the cul-de-sac he went, no wobbling, no wobbling at all.

His mother gasped as she looked out the window.

His father nearly dropped the mug in his hand.

And the kids who had been riding circles in that same cul-de-sac stared with their mouths wide open.

Essa didn’t fall once. Not a single scrape. Not a single bruise. All the learning had happened in his mind, quietly, carefully, through observation.

That was how Essa learned things. Not always with words. Not always with repeated instructions. He watched. He listened. He absorbed the world like a sponge in still water.

Reading had been the same way.

His parents didn’t realize he could read for a long time. They hadn’t started lessons yet because he was still nonverbal for the most part. They thought they still had time to let his speech develop more. But whenever they drove around the city, Essa would sit calmly in his four-point car seat, his little headphones comfortably snug around his ears.

As the car moved through neighborhoods and busy streets, Essa’s eyes flicked from one sign to the next.

STOP. SPEED LIMIT. GREENWOOD AVENUE. MASJID NOOR. ONE WAY. EXIT 23A.

He didn’t say anything. But he followed each letter, each symbol, each building moniker as if he had memorized the world outside his window.

One day, as they drove past a bakery with a bright yellow sign, Essa suddenly whispered, “what does renovations mean?”, in that weird toddler accent of his.

His mother blinked. “What did you say, habibi?”

“The sign,” he murmured, still looking out the window. “it says closed for renovations.”

That was the day they realized Essa had taught himself to read, quietly, by noticing everything. The bigger challenge was figuring out how to explain renovations to a 3 year old.

The masjid was where Essa’s uniqueness shone brightest and, sometimes, where he felt most overwhelmed.

The main prayer hall was full of movement, endless voices chattering, footsteps, and echoes, all the things that could feel too loud inside Essa’s head. Sometimes he wore a weighted vest under his thobe to help him feel grounded. Other times, he wore soft, padded headphones that muted the sounds around him. The other kids wore sneakers, slides, and jeans. Essa wore those too. But he also wore what kept him balanced, what helped him stay calm when his senses grew too loud.

Before salah, he often stood near his father’s side, rocking gently on his feet or tapping his fingers together. To some, it looked like nervous fidgeting. To Essa, it was a rhythm, a way to steady the world.

But when the imam began reciting Qur’an, Essa’s entire being shifted.

His shoulders relaxed.

His fingers stilled.

His ears opened with stunning focus.

Essa knew Surahs his family didn’t even begin to memorized themselves. He absorbed Qur’anic recitation the way he absorbed everything else, with quiet intensity.

One afternoon, after Maghrib, the imam recited a verse from Surah Ar-Ra’d. Essa’s head tilted. His brows pinched. When the prayer ended, and the men began offering salams, Essa tugged gently at his father’s sleeve.

“Daddy,” he whispered, “the imam skipped an ayah.”

His father looked startled. “Are you sure?”

Essa nodded with confidence.

The imam overheard and smiled warmly. “Come here, Essa. Show me.”

Shyly, Essa recited the passage, his small voice steady and clear. The imam blinked, impressed. He had indeed skipped a verse.

“You have a gift, my boy,” he said. “May Allaah preserve your memory and your heart.”

Essa smiled, small, quiet, but proud.

Some kids at the masjid didn’t understand Essa at first. They wondered why he didn’t always answer right away or why he sometimes hummed softly during gatherings. They didn’t know why he covered his ears during loud events or why he preferred to sit on the edges of the room rather than in the center of the group.

But over time, they learned.

They learned that Essa wasn’t ignoring them; he was thinking.

They learned he wasn’t scared; he was adjusting.

They learned he wasn’t disinterested, he was simply processing the world differently.

And they learned that “different” didn’t mean “less.”

One day, a new boy asked Essa, “Why do you wear those headphones?”

Essa thought for a moment, then answered honestly, “They help my ears stay calm when the world gets too loud.”

“Oh,” the boy said. “That makes sense.”

Just like that, the question wasn’t scary anymore.

Soon, Essa was teaching other kids small things without meaning to. He showed them how to notice details they often overlooked. How to listen more carefully. How to be patient when someone needs extra time. How to understand that every person has their own way of moving through the world.

One evening, as families gathered for community night at the masjid, Essa’s father placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You see, Essa,” he said, “you are the same as the other kids. You laugh, you learn, you explore. You wear thobes and jeans, slides and sneakers. You love bikes and books and Qur’an. But you are also different, and that difference is a gift from Allaah.”

Essa looked around the room. Kids played tag in the hallway. Adults shared food and conversation. The imam greeted families. And somewhere in that warm, bustling space, Essa knew he belonged.

He was the same as everyone else.

He was just different.

Story by Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Aziz had always considered himself a reasonably strong person, but what he didn’t know was that no one should ever ask Allaah to test their patience. Aziz would go into his first year of fasting assured that fasting would be a breeze. He could wake up early when needed. He could survive gym class. He once sat through a three-hour family gathering without touching his phone. But nothing in his thirteen years of life had prepared him for fasting… at school. His first day of fasting required that he wear his finest suit to school, because he had business to take care of.

However, the first thing Aziz noticed that morning was his stomach. It didn’t just feel empty. It felt loud. Like it had opinions. Like it wanted to make an announcement during roll call.

He pressed his hand against it as if to say, Please behave. We’re doing something important today.

By the second period, the smells began.

Someone two rows over pulled out a bag of chips. Not quietly. Not discreetly. This person tore into the bag as if it owed him money. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Each sound echoed in Aziz’s head like a drum solo.

Aziz stared straight ahead at the whiteboard, where the teacher was explaining something about fractions. Aziz liked fractions. Fractions were peaceful. Fractions did not smell like barbecue.

His stomach growled.

Aziz froze.

Did anyone hear that?

He looked around slowly, suspiciously. A girl nearby chewed gum aggressively. A boy behind him sipped from a water bottle like he was auditioning for a commercial.

Slurp.

Aziz swallowed. Dryly. His mouth felt like it had been vacuum-sealed.

The third period was worse. The class took a quiz, which meant silence. Absolute silence. The kind where every sound feels illegal.

Aziz’s stomach chose that moment to hold a meeting.

Grrrrrr.

Aziz clenched his jaw and leaned forward, resting his forehead against his desk. He imagined his stomach shrinking into itself. Please. Just wait until Maghrib. I will feed you. I promise.

The smell of food followed him into the hallway between classes. It was like the entire school had coordinated a snack festival just to test him. Granola bars. Cheese crackers. Someone walked past holding a slice of pizza at ten thirty in the morning, which Aziz felt was unnecessary and frankly disrespectful.

His mind began racing.

Why did food look better during Ramadhan? Why did the chewing sound louder? Why did everyone suddenly eat like professional tasters?

By lunchtime, Aziz knew he was in trouble.

The cafeteria was in chaos. A thousand trays clattered. Fries steamed. Burgers sizzled. Someone spilled juice and laughed about it. Laughed.

Aziz sat at the far end of the table with his friends, empty hands folded neatly like he was waiting for an invisible meal.

“Bro, you good?” his friend Mike asked, biting into a sandwich.

Aziz nodded. Too fast.

“I think I’m fine,” he said. His voice came out weak. Betrayal.

His stomach responded immediately.

GrrrrrrRRRR.

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Your stomach okay?”

Aziz felt his heart start racing. His chest tightened. His palms grew sweaty.

I’m about to faint, he thought. This is it. This is how I go. Fasting in eighth grade. They will write poems about me.

He imagined himself slowly sliding off the bench in dramatic slow motion. Someone yelling for help. A nurse rushing in. His mother arriving, disappointed but also proud.

“Ya’Allaah”, he whispered loudly. “Please don’t let me pass out in front of everyone”.

The room felt louder. Hotter. The smell of fries became unbearable.

Aziz closed his eyes and breathed.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

He remembered what his father told him that morning after suhoor. Fasting is not just hunger. It’s patience. It’s control. It’s trusting that Allaah sees you even when no one else does.

Aziz repeated it silently.

Patience. Control. Allaah sees me.

His breathing slowed. The buzzing in his ears faded. The cafeteria returned to normal volume.

Mike nudged him. “You sure you don’t want to go sit somewhere quieter?”

Aziz shook his head. “I’m okay. Just… hungry.”

Mike smiled. “Respect.”

The rest of the day passed in slow motion. Every class felt longer than the last. Aziz imagined time dragging its feet, stopping to tie its shoes, taking unnecessary breaks.

By the final bell, he felt like a survivor.

When he got home, Aziz collapsed onto his bed fully clothed. He didn’t even check his phone. He stared at the ceiling and let out a long breath.

He made it.

That night, after iftar and prayer, Aziz lay in bed again. This time full. Calm. Proud.

But tomorrow waited.

He sighed softly and whispered into the quiet room.

“Ya’Allaah… help me tomorrow too.”

Huda had never imagined that longing could sound so loud.

It whispered through empty rooms when she came home from work, hummed through the quiet supermarket aisles, and clung to her like a shawl on winter evenings when families passed her with laughter tumbling behind them. She would smile, nod, even help a child reach the top shelf…but inside something tugged and tugged.

Marriage.

Not the glamorous wedding-hall version. No, she wanted companionship. She wanted warmth, a home that smelled of Oud and cooking, a husband who led her in prayer and respected her, children whose names she’d already chosen: Kamal and Jameelah. She pictured them in tiny Eid thobes and abayas, giggling while she hung a banner of Eid Mubarak above their living-room door.

But dreams are delicate things, easy to crush, yet impossible to abandon.

Huda did everything that people told her to do. She made countless profiles on Islamic matrimonial sites, carefully choosing photos where her hijab was neat and her smile was soft. She answered questionnaires about her madhhab and methodology of practice, her aspirations, her ideal husband. She even, with great reluctance, created profiles on a few mainstream marriage sites, typing the words “seeking practicing Muslim man” in bold, as if that alone might summon someone sincere.

But sincerity was in short supply.

Some brothers spoke as though Islam were an accessory they wore for good impression. Others treated wives like disposable chapters in their personal saga, moving from marriage to divorce to marriage again like it was a hobby. One man admitted, mid-conversation, that he had several children with non-Muslim women whom he never visited. “Not my responsibility anymore,” he shrugged, as though that excused everything.

Red flags didn’t just appear, they waved.

And every time a new disappointment arrived, Huda’s heart sank a little lower. She tried not to let her thoughts wander into dark corners:

Maybe I’m too short. Too heavy. Too dark in complexion. Too old. Maybe I’m not what anyone wants.

She chased those thoughts away with dhikr, but they ran fast and returned often.

Winter made it worse. She didn’t celebrate non-Islamic holidays, but everywhere she walked, lights twinkled from windows and couples held hands with steaming cups of hot coffee. It was as though the city was shaking hands with everyone except her.

Still, Huda held herself with quiet dignity. She cooked her meals, attended her Islamic classes, completed her work with a gentle professionalism. She would not let longing become bitterness. And she trusted in Allaah, even when His Wisdom felt heavy on her shoulders.

One particularly cold evening, while the sky looked like torn velvet and the wind tasted like ice, Huda stood waiting for her bus. Her phone vibrated, another message from yet another online profile.

Her heart thudded. But disappointment arrived faster than hope.

“Hey sis, you seem cool. I’m married but looking for something on the side. Are you open-minded?”.

She closed the app. Deleted her profile. Pulled her scarf tighter around her face.

Something inside her broke, not loudly, but like a rope snapping under water.

That night she prayed long rakʿahs, her forehead pressed to the carpet, tears warming the fibers. She begged Allaah for a husband, yes… but more than that, she begged Him to remove the weight from her chest. To make her content His Qadr. To cleanse her from desperation before it soured into grief.

And somewhere between her duʿā and her tears, a strange calm settled. She wasn’t giving up on marriage, never that. She simply refused to let the search consume her anymore. She began fasting Mondays and Thursdays with renewed intention. She prayed the Sunnah prayers she had once overlooked. And every night before she slept, she made duʿā not just for herself but for every woman like her.

O Allaah, grant righteous husbands to the believing women who feel alone as I do. Guide us. Comfort us. Choose for us better than we could choose for ourselves.

It softened something in her, the realization that she wasn’t the only lantern in a dark room.

Weeks passed. Her routines steadied. Her heart breathed easier. She found a quiet joy in making her home warm for herself, little touches, like a new anthurium plant in her kitchen window and a small handcrafted “Ramadhan Kareem” sign she picked up from a bazaar. Life became gentler, even if it didn’t yet hold what she wished for.

One late afternoon, she arrived early to a weekend Islamic lecture at the masjid. Volunteers were still arranging chairs. As she entered, a brother near the front nodded politely and moved aside so she could pass. Nothing remarkable. Just courtesy.

During the lecture, she noticed him listening with deep attention, nodding thoughtfully at the imam’s reminders. He asked a question in a steady, respectful tone. Nothing that said sanctimonious arrogance. Nothing performative. Simply a man seeking knowledge.

After the session ended, the women filtered out one door and the men through another. Huda gathered her things…but the imam’s wife, an older sister who adored Huda, approached her with a knowing smile.

“Stay a moment, dear. Someone spoke to the imam about looking for a practicing wife… and your name was mentioned.”

Huda blinked. “By who?”

“By me,” the older sister said, her smile widening. “He’s a good brother. Quiet, responsible, settled. I’ve known his family for years. His mother teaches Qur’an to the little girls’ at a madrassa out in the county.”

Huda’s pulse fluttered. Fear, hope, and disbelief tangled inside her chest.

That evening, the imam and his wife arranged a supervised introduction. Huda sat with her hands folded, nervous but grounded. And when the brother entered, she recognized him, the man who had moved aside at the lecture.

His name was Idris.

He offered salaam with warmth but without boldness. When he spoke, it was measured and sincere. He asked about her commitment to the religion, her goals, her expectations in marriage. He listened more than he talked.

And when she asked her own questions, he didn’t dodge or embellish. He spoke of his job, his prayer habits, his family. He had never been married. Had no hidden stories, no trail of broken hearts, no chaos behind him.

She kept waiting for the red flag, the inevitable warning sign.

None came.

After the meeting, Huda walked home beneath a sky pricked with stars. Her heart felt light, floating almost. Not because she was in love, not yet. But because for the first time in a long while, hope didn’t hurt.

That night she prayed Tahajjud, tears falling again, not from sadness, but from gratitude for a door that had finally cracked open after so many had slammed shut.

Whether Idris would become her husband or not, she did not know. But something in her heart whispered:

Your duʿā was not ignored. Allaah was preparing you. Protecting you. Delaying only to give you better.

And she believed it.

She slept peacefully for the first time in months.

And somewhere in the unseen world, her name rose with the duʿā of other lonely women, sisters she had prayed for, who now prayed for her.

For the believers want for others what they want for themselves.

🏠 Adam’s First Day at the Hijrah House

Every journey begins somewhere.

For Adam, it began with a single step through the front door of Hijrah House.

Not with all the answers.

Not with a perfect plan.

Just with hope, a willingness to try, and a community ready to help.

Adam’s First Day at the Hijrah House is a story about second chances, personal growth, and the power of having people who believe you can succeed.

Today we’re sharing a video inspired by that story and the mission behind Hijrah House.

If you’ve ever wondered what a fresh start can look like, this one is for you.

🎥 Watch the video.

🤝 Share it with someone who believes in second chances.

The Guard in Allaah’s Decree

Officer Daniel Jones had learned early how to keep his face still.

The academy taught it as professionalism: don’t react, don’t personalize, don’t absorb the noise of the place. The older officers taught it another way: care too much, and this job will eat you alive. Between the clang of steel doors, the stale air recycled through concrete corridors, and the constant low hum of tension, indifference wasn’t cruelty-it was survival.

For nearly twenty years, Jones wore indifference like a second uniform.

Inmates blurred together. Faces changed, sentences ended, and new numbers replaced old ones. He followed procedures, broke up fights when necessary, wrote reports when required, and went home every night to a quiet house and a television that talked back less than the people he spent his days controlling.

Then there was Inmate Carter.

Carter arrived young, barely out of his teens. He was small in a place where size decided respect. Narrow shoulders, thin wrists, eyes that never quite met anyone else’s. When the others walked, they filled the space. Carter seemed to fold into himself, as if hoping the walls might swallow him whole.

Jones noticed him at first only because trouble seemed to orbit the kid.

Missing commissary items. Bruises that appeared and disappeared without reports. A limp that lasted a week, then vanished. Carter never complained. Never wrote grievances. Never made eye contact when asked the standard questions.

“You alright?” Jones would ask, already halfway through the motion of walking past.

“Yes, sir,” Carter would answer quickly, always too quickly.

Jones told himself it wasn’t his business. Plenty of inmates learned fast how the ecosystem worked. Weakness attracted predators. That wasn’t cruelty, it was the math of confinement.

Still, over the years, Jones began to notice patterns he couldn’t unsee.

Carter was always moved to the edges of the yard. He stood last in line. His meals were rushed, head down, body angled away as if bracing for impact. Once, during a count, Jones noticed Carter flinch when another inmate laughed behind him, shoulders tensing like a struck animal.

The bullying was quiet. Smart. Unreported.

And because it wasn’t loud, it was easy to ignore.

Years passed. Jones aged. His knees ached more when climbing stairs. His hair grayed beneath his cap. Carter aged, too, though prison aged him differently. He grew leaner, sharper, but never larger. His eyes hardened in places, but the fear never fully left them.

The transport assignment came on a cold morning.

Jones and another officer were tasked with escorting a handful of inmates to an outside medical facility. Carter was on the list. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, he shuffled forward as instructed, eyes fixed on the ground.

During the drive, the other officer dozed lightly in the passenger seat. The road stretched long and empty. Carter sat in the back, separated by steel and glass.

Jones broke the silence without planning to.

“You ever thought about linking up with the Muslims inside?” he asked, eyes still on the road.

The words surprised even him.

Carter looked up sharply. “Sir?”

“The Muslims,” Jones repeated. “They tend to stick together. Not much tolerance for messing with their own. Or anyone else, really.”

Carter hesitated. “I don’t know anything about Islam.”

Jones shrugged. “Most don’t when they start. Just saying. Might help.”

That was it. No lecture. No sermon. No promise of protection. Just a suggestion, dropped like a pebble into still water.

Jones didn’t think much of it afterward. He went back to his routines, his counts, his paperwork.

But change came slowly, unmistakably.

Carter started spending time near a small group that gathered quietly during certain hours. He stood differently. Straighter. Not bigger, but steadier. His eyes lifted more often. He walked with purpose instead of apology.

Jones noticed fewer bruises. Fewer missing items. When Carter spoke, his voice no longer shook.

One afternoon, Jones passed the prayer area and saw Carter standing shoulder to shoulder with other men, men who nodded at him, corrected him gently, and made space without mockery. No posturing. No intimidation. Just presence.

Something in Jones’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

Over months, then years, Carter transformed.

He learned discipline. Routine. Cleanliness. He read. He memorized. He stopped shrinking.

The predators moved on, sensing the shift. Carter was no longer isolated. He belonged somewhere now.

Jones never spoke to him about religion. Never asked questions. He simply observed.

And watching changed him, too.

Jones began to see something he’d trained himself not to see: humanity.

He watched men teach Carter how to pray, how to fast, how to carry himself. He saw arguments end without violence. He saw forgiveness practiced among men the world had written off as irredeemable.

The indifference Jones once wore so easily began to crack.

He found himself lingering during counts, listening to conversations. He softened in ways he hadn’t expected. He still enforced rules. Still wore the badge. But he no longer pretended that every man behind bars was the same.

Carter eventually transferred. Years later, Jones heard he was released. No fanfare. No ceremony. Just another name off the roster.

But Jones remembered him.

Retirement came quietly for Officer Daniel Jones. A small gathering. A handshake. A plaque with his name misspelled. He went home to longer days and slower mornings.

Sometimes, late at night, he thought about the prison.

About the kid who had arrived broken and afraid.

About the simple sentence spoken during a transport ride.

He’d tell himself he hadn’t done much. He hadn’t saved Carter from prison. He hadn’t rewritten his past. He hadn’t even shared his own beliefs.

But in quieter moments, Jones knew better.

He had pointed a man toward safety when he could have stayed silent.

He had helped save a life, maybe two. One physical. One spiritual.

And though the faith Carter found wasn’t his own, the peace Jones felt when he remembered him was real.

Sometimes, that memory brought tears.

Not of regret.

But of gratitude, for the reminder that even in places built to harden hearts, a single moment of care could echo for a lifetime.

The morning buses moved slower through North Chesterfield when school traffic built up.

Najwa stood in line at James River High School pulling at the sleeve of her hoodie while Naim scrolled through his phone with headphones hanging around his neck, walking slowly, laughing with his classmates.

“You late again,” she said.

“I’m standing here, ain’t I?”

“That don’t mean you not late.”

Naim smirked slightly without looking up.

Cars in the pick up line rolled past steadily. They watched from their school bus as a GRTC city bus hissed to a stop on Midlothian Turnpike.

Richmond anfternoons always looked tired and busy along the busy main roads.

Parents attempting to beat their child’s bus to the bus stop.

Workers staring silently through windows at traffic that delayed their chance to catch an after work rest.

Students half awake beneath hoodies and headphones looking to get home to their desktops and gaming consoles.

Najwa adjusted her backpack higher.

“You going to first khutbah Friday?”

Naim shrugged.

“Probably.”

“You said that last week.”

“I had practice.”

“You had sleep.”

Naim laughed quietly.

The bus doors folded open.

They climbed down with anticipation of getting home as quickly as possible without running.

Their mother was already gone for work by the time they got home that afternoon.

A note sat on the kitchen counter beneath a bag of sandwich bread.

Chicken in fridge. Don’t forget Asr.

Najwa smiled slightly.

“Ma think we five years old.”

“She know you forget prayer when you on Instagram.”

Najwa threw a napkin at him.

Their apartment carried familiar rhythms.

Shoes lined neatly beside the door.

A faint oud scent lingering from the living room.

Qur’an recitation still paused on the television from that morning.

Islam never felt unusual inside their home.

It was just life.

Eid mornings.

Prayer reminders.

First khutbah traffic.

Ramadhan grocery runs.

Their mother yelling if they left cups in the sink during fasting hours.

Normal.

Naim opened the refrigerator.

“You eating the chicken?”

“You asking or announcing?”

“Both.”

Najwa sat at the kitchen table and checked her phone.

Three missed calls from an unknown number.

Her face tightened slightly.

“What?”

She looked toward the hallway first.

“Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

The calls started two weeks ago.

Then the texts.

Then their mother getting quieter at night.

Naim noticed too.

Nobody talked about it directly.

That somehow made it worse.

By Maghrib their mother finally came home tired.

Nafeesah dropped her purse near the couch and exhaled slowly before removing her shoes.

“As-salaamu alaykum, you guys eat already?”

“Yes ma’am,” they answered together.

“Homework done?”

Naim pointed vaguely toward his backpack.

“That mean no,” Najwa said.

Nafeesah almost smiled.

Almost.

Then somebody knocked at the door.

Not politely.

Too confidently.

The apartment went still immediately.

Nafeesah closed her eyes for half a second before walking toward the door.

Najwa looked at Naim.

Naim looked back.

Their mother opened the door halfway first.

A tall man stood outside holding a plastic bag and a half-finished beer bottle.

Older than they expected.

Broad shoulders.

Gray beginning in his beard.

Prison tattoos faded across his forearm.

He looked past Nafeesah immediately toward the apartment.

Toward them.

“That them?”

Nobody answered right away.

The man stepped inside anyway.

“Ain’t even gonna let me see my kids?”

The smell of beer entered before his full body did.

Najwa stiffened immediately.

Naim stared quietly.

The man nodded once toward them like he already belonged there.

“Man…” he said softly. “They big now.”

Nafeesah folded her arms.

“You could’ve called first.”

“I’m here now.”

Something about the sentence irritated Najwa instantly.

Not loud irritation.

Heavy irritation.

The kind adults brought into rooms.

The man looked toward Naim first.

“You play sports?”

“Basketball.”

“I can tell.”

Then he looked at Najwa’s hijab.

“You Muslim Muslim, huh?”

Najwa’s expression flattened.

Nafeesah spoke before she could answer.

“They both are.”

The man nodded slowly while sitting down without asking.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with structure,” he said. “Them Muslims in prison had discipline.”

He lifted the beer casually afterward and took another sip.

The contradiction sat in the room like extra furniture.

Naim noticed it too.

The man looked around the apartment carefully.

Prayer rug folded near the couch.

Islamic calendar near the kitchen.

Arabic magnet on the refrigerator.

“Y’all real deep into this religion stuff.”

Nobody answered.

“I mean it ain’t bad,” he continued quickly. “I learned some things in there myself.”

Nafeesah remained standing.

The man pointed toward the kitchen.

“Y’all eat pork?”

Najwa looked genuinely confused.

“What?”

“I’m saying, ain’t nothing like pork chops and greens with ham hocks. Muslims act like food got a religion.”

Najwa lowered her eyes slowly.

Naim shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

Their mother finally spoke again.

“You didn’t come here to debate Islam.”

“Ain’t debating,” he said defensively. “I’m talking to my kids.”

The word “my” sounded strange coming from him.

Like clothing that didn’t fit properly.

The apartment stayed quiet for several seconds.

Then unexpectedly, the man looked directly at Naim.

“You know who Malcolm X is?”

“Yeah.”

“I read him inside.”

For the first time his voice softened slightly.

“Made me think different about a lot.”

The room changed for a moment.

Not warmer.

Just sadder.

Because buried underneath the awkwardness and beer smell and forced authority was evidence that maybe something inside him once wanted to become better.

Maybe.

Then his phone rang loudly with music.

The moment disappeared instantly.

He answered casually.

“Yeah I’m over here with my peoples,” he said while laughing.

Najwa looked toward her mother.

Nafeesah’s face had gone emotionally blank.

That frightened her more than anger would have.

Later that night the apartment finally became quiet again after he left.

The front door shut.

Then silence.

Naim stared toward the television without turning it on.

Najwa stood at the sink rinsing dishes that were already clean.

Their mother wiped down the kitchen counters slowly.

Nobody spoke for nearly a full minute.

Then Naim finally asked quietly:

“Was he always like that?”

Nafeesah kept wiping the counter.

“Yes.”

Nothing else.

Story by: Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Zara Cole built her empire in a vertical format.

Twenty-three years old, ring light balanced on a stack of unopened PR packages, she lived inside notifications. Morning routines. Night routines. “Authentic” confessions. Carefully lit vulnerability. Three million followers who knew her coffee order, her gym split, her favorite lip gloss shade.

When Ramadhan began trending one spring, Zara saw an opening.

Her analytics dashboard had been flat for weeks. Brand deals were steady, but the spark was fading. Then she noticed it, short clips of lanterns glowing at sunset, families breaking fast together, soft recitations playing beneath captions about discipline and gratitude. The hashtag was climbing fast.

“Thirty days of fasting,” she murmured, scrolling. “No food. No water. Sunrise to sunset.”

She leaned back in her chair. “That’s content.”

By that afternoon, she posted a polished announcement video.

“Hey guys,” she smiled, eyes wide with theatrical sincerity. “So I’ve decided to fast with Muslims during the month of Ramadhan. I want to experience it firsthand and document everything. The hunger, the mindset, the culture. We’re going to do this together.”

The comments exploded. Curiosity. Applause. Criticism. Skepticism.

Zara read none of it carefully. She only watched the numbers climb.

Day One was cinematic.

She filmed her pre-dawn meal in pastel lighting. Oatmeal arranged just so. Dates placed beside a glass of water. “This is called suhoor,” she explained to her audience. “It’s the meal before sunrise.”

By noon, she was dizzy.

“This is harder than I thought,” she whispered into her phone, sunlight cutting across her cheekbones. “No coffee. No water. My head hurts.”

The clip hit half a million views before sunset.

She staged her first “iftar reveal” with dramatic music. A close-up of her biting into a date. Slow motion water pouring into a glass. She sighed dramatically. “You guys… I’ve never appreciated water like this.”

The engagement tripled.

By Day Three, the hunger was no longer aesthetic.

Her lips cracked. Her temper thinned. She snapped at her assistant for misplacing a battery pack. She lay on her couch staring at the ceiling, counting hours.

Still, she posted.

“Fasting is about discipline,” she told the camera. “It’s about empathy for the less fortunate.”

It sounded convincing. She replayed it twice before uploading.

A message slipped into her inbox that evening. Not from a brand. Not from a verified account. Just a simple profile photo of a woman in a soft blue scarf.

If you want your videos to be more accurate, the message read kindly, try reading a translation of the Qur’an. It will help you understand what the month means to us.

Zara hesitated.

Religious text felt… serious. Less aesthetic. Less snackable.

But seriousness was good for credibility.

“Great idea!” she typed back. “Thank you!”

The next day, she added a new segment to her vlog.

“Okay guys,” she said, holding up her tablet. “I’m going to read from the Qur’an translation so I can really understand the meaning behind this month.”

She opened to the first chapter and began reading aloud, stumbling slightly over unfamiliar terms and names.

The words were simple. Clear. Direct.

In the Name of God, the Most Beneficent, the Most Merciful…

She paused.

Mercy.

She continued reading, intending to quote selectively, to highlight phrases that would make good captions.

Instead, she found herself reading entire pages.

It spoke of gratitude. Of accountability. Of the fleeting nature of this life. Of charity. Of prayer. Of a day when every soul would stand alone before its Creator.

“Wow,” she whispered, forgetting to perform.

The live comments streamed by.

This is beautiful.

Why am I crying?

Keep reading.

She swallowed.

“This is actually… deeper than I expected.”

After the livestream ended, she did not immediately check her analytics.

She lay back on her bed, tablet resting on her chest, and reread a passage about those who give charity quietly and those who remember God while standing, sitting, and lying on their sides.

She thought about her own remembrance, her rituals of self-display. Her careful curation of personality.

That night, she dreamed of standing in a vast open plain, alone, no ring light, no filter, no applause.

Day Seven arrived differently.

Zara no longer exaggerated her hunger. She simply admitted it.

“This is hard,” she told her audience. “But I’m starting to understand that it’s supposed to be.”

She filmed less of her face and more of the sky at sunset.

The woman in the blue scarf sent her short voice notes explaining prayer times and the idea of intention. “Actions are judged by intentions,” she said gently.

Intentions.

Zara replayed that message several times.

She had begun the fast for clicks. For engagement. For a spike in followers.

Yet when she opened the translation each afternoon, something inside her shifted. The words felt less like research material and more like conversation. As if the text were addressing her directly.

O humanity…

She had always believed religion was restrictive. Now she sensed something else, structure. A path.

On Day Fifteen, she visited a local mosque to film what she called a “cultural immersion vlog.”

The building was modest. Shoes lined neatly along the entrance. The air carried a faint trace of clean carpet and something sweet.

She adjusted her scarf awkwardly.

Inside, women welcomed her without hesitation. No cameras first. No skepticism. Just smiles.

“You’re fasting?” one asked warmly.

“Yes,” Zara replied. For the first time, she did not add, for content.

They broke their fast together. Dates passed from hand to hand. Water poured into small cups. A quiet prayer rose before anyone ate.

Zara lowered her phone.

For once, she did not film the first sip.

Later that evening, she recorded a short video in her car.

“I think I misunderstood this month,” she confessed softly. “It’s not about documenting suffering. It’s about refining your heart.”

Her followers noticed the change. The lighting was less dramatic. The captions less punchy.

Some unfollowed.

Others leaned in closer.

On the twenty-seventh night, she could not sleep.

She had read about a night described as better than a thousand months. A night of decree. Of mercy descending.

She sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, tablet glowing faintly, reading verses about forgiveness.

Without planning to, she whispered, “If You’re real… guide me.”

The words startled her.

She had not rehearsed them.

Tears slipped down her cheeks. Not cinematic tears. Not carefully angled.

Just tears.

When the month neared its end, her analytics showed something unexpected. Fewer viral spikes. More direct messages. Longer comments. People sharing how her reading had encouraged them to open the Qur’an again.

She felt a quiet relief.

Eid morning arrived with soft sunlight.

She had been invited to the Eid prayer by the sisters from the Mosque. She almost declined. It would be early. Crowded. Hard to film discreetly.

But something in her resisted the idea of staying home.

She dressed simply. A long, flowing outfit. A borrowed scarf pinned carefully beneath her chin.

The prayer was held in an open field. Rows upon rows of worshippers lined shoulder to shoulder. The takbeer echoed in unison, voices rising in praise.

Zara stood at the back, heart pounding.

She did not film.

When the prayer ended, women embraced one another. “Eid Mubarak,” they said with joy.

The sister in the blue scarf approached her.

“How was your month?” she asked gently.

Zara inhaled slowly.

“I started for the wrong reasons,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I’m ending it the same.”

The sister’s eyes softened. “What do you mean?”

Zara’s voice trembled.

“I believe in this now.”

The words felt enormous. Frightening. Liberating.

She had read enough to know what belief required. Testifying that there is no deity worthy of worship except God, and that Muhammad is His Messenger.

Her heart pounded louder than any notification she had ever received.

“I want to say it,” she whispered.

They gathered quietly to the side. A small circle of women shielding her from distraction. No ring lights. No captions. No background music.

Just sincerity.

The sister guided her gently through the words in English first, ensuring she understood. Then in Arabic.

Zara repeated them, voice shaking, then steady.

When she finished, the women embraced her. Some cried openly. She felt an unfamiliar warmth bloom in her chest, not performative excitement, not adrenaline.

Peace.

Later that day, she posted a simple message.

No dramatic intro. No monetized link.

“Today, I took my shahada,” she wrote. “I began this month for attention. I ended it with intention. I found something I wasn’t searching for. Guidance.”

The internet responded in waves. Support. Confusion. Debate.

Zara turned off her phone.

She spent the rest of Eid sitting on the floor of her apartment with a small plate of sweets gifted by the sisters. Sunlight pooled across the carpet. The translation of the Qur’an rested beside her, no longer a prop.

In the weeks that followed, she deleted several old videos. She kept some, not as trophies, but as reminders of where she began.

Her content changed.

She spoke less about herself and more about growth. Less about perfection and more about repentance. She still filmed, but now with intention, reminding viewers of charity drives, community events, and the beauty of prayer.

Her following stabilized at a smaller number.

It felt lighter.

Each year when Ramadhan returns, Zara feels the same quiet tremor in her chest. Not hunger for food, but hunger for closeness. She fasts without announcing it. Reads without broadcasting it. Prays without livestreaming it.

And when Eid arrives, she wakes before dawn with gratitude swelling in her heart.

She walks to the prayer field among hundreds, blending into the rows.

No one there remembers her as an influencer.

They know her simply as a sister.

For Zara, Eid al-Fitr is no longer a trend cycle or a content opportunity.

It is the anniversary of her awakening.

The Big Month Returns

Part 4 by Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

The first sign was not the moon.

Not for them.

The first sign was the change in the house.

Nakia stood in the kitchen before sunrise, the room lit only by a small lamp and a street lamp pressing through the window. The children were not used to being awake at this hour.

Thomas sat at the table, blinking slowly.

Donald had his head down, half-asleep, his cheek resting against his arm.

Constance sat upright, watching her mother move.

“You sure we supposed to be up right now?” Thomas asked, his voice low.

Nakia didn’t look up.

“We’re eating before the day starts,” she said. “After this, nothing till evening.”

Thomas frowned. “Nothing?”

“No food,” she said. “No drink.”

Donald lifted his head just enough to protest. “Not even water?”

Nakia shook her head gently. “Not even that.”

Thomas leaned back in his chair. “For how long?”

Nakia paused.

Then she said something she hadn’t said in years.

“For the Big Month.”

The words settled over the table like something old being uncovered.

Adam entered quietly, already dressed.

He looked at the table.

At the food.

At the children awake before dawn.

Then at Nakia.

“You remember it too,” he said.

Nakia nodded.

“My mother used to wake us like this,” she said. “Said we had to eat before the light came.”

Adam sat down slowly.

“I remember my uncle,” he said. “He wouldn’t eat all day. Said it was for God.”

Thomas looked between them.

“You mean we been supposed to do this?”

Adam exhaled.

“I think… we just forgot when.”

Later that day, the streets felt different.

Not quieter.

But slower.

The sun climbed high, and with it came the usual noise of San Juan Hill, voices, carts, footsteps, music from somewhere down the block.

But inside the Wiggins home, there was restraint.

Donald sat near the window, watching other children run past with food in their hands.

He swallowed.

Hard.

“I’m hungry,” he whispered.

Constance didn’t respond right away.

She was watching too.

But not the children.

She was watching across the way.

In the Hosein home, the rhythm was already set.

Khadijah moved through the kitchen with quiet ease, preparing food that would not be eaten until later.

Raziah and Muna sat beside her, helping where they could.

Abdul-Hamed lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m hungry too,” he said.

“You’ll be alright,” Khadijah replied gently.

“We fast every year,” Muna added.

Raziah nodded. “You get used to it.”

Abdul-Hamed sighed.

“I was born here,” he said. “I ain’t used to nothing.”

Khadijah smiled softly, but said nothing.

That afternoon, Babacar sat near the docks, his back against a wooden crate.

The work had not stopped.

The labor had not lessened.

But he had not eaten.

Had not drunk.

His hands rested on his knees, his eyes closed briefly, not in sleep, but in patience.

A man beside him took a long drink from a bottle and offered it.

Babacar shook his head.

“Not today,” he said.

The man frowned. “You sick?”

Babacar opened his eyes.

“No,” he said.

“I am fasting.”

By the time the sun began to lower, the feeling in the neighborhood shifted again.

Doors opened.

Windows lifted.

The smell of food returned, but stronger now, richer.

Intentional.

In the basement, the rugs had been laid again.

This time, not just for prayer.

But for gathering.

Small plates passed between hands.

Cups filled.

Children sat closer than before.

Donald watched the food carefully, his eyes wide.

“Not yet,” Thomas reminded him.

“I know,” Donald said quickly.

But his hand hovered.

Sheik Shabir sat among them, a book resting in his lap.

He had not spoken much since arriving.

He had observed.

Listened.

Watched how the people moved, how they held onto things they could not fully name.

Now, he looked around the room.

Then said gently:

“This month you are observing… it is called Ramadan.”

The word was new to some.

Familiar to others.

But now, it had form.

“It is a time,” he continued, “when we fast from sunrise until sunset.”

Adam nodded slowly.

“That’s what we doing,” he said.

Sheik Shabir gave a slight smile.

“Yes,” he said. “And more.”

The room grew still as he spoke.

“It is not just from food,” he said.

“It is from anger. From harsh words. From what is not good.”

Nakia’s eyes lowered slightly.

Thomas leaned forward.

“So we just… don’t eat?”

Sheik Shabir looked at him.

“And you learn to control yourself,” he said.

Thomas sat back.

Thinking.

Babacar glanced toward the small window near the ceiling.

The light had softened.

Almost gone.

He stood.

“It is time,” he said.

The room quieted.

Hands paused.

Children stilled.

Everyone watched.

Babacar stepped toward the window, his eyes fixed on the fading sky.

Then he nodded and began calling the Adhaan.

“Now.”

The room came alive.

Small bites.

Sips of water.

Quiet relief.

Donald took a drink and let out a long breath.

“That’s the best water I ever had,” he said.

Laughter moved through the room, soft and warm.

Constance sat beside Raziah and Muna.

They ate slowly, not rushing.

“You do this every year?” Constance asked.

Raziah nodded.

“Every year.”

Muna added, “It’s the best time.”

Constance looked around the room.

At the families.

At the food being shared.

At the calm that filled the space.

She understood.

After they ate, the room shifted again.

The rugs were cleared.

The lines formed.

This time, more confidently.

More naturally.

Babacar stepped forward.

“Allahu Akbar.” He called the Iqaama

The prayer began.

But this time, it felt different.

Not new.

But known.

Adam moved without hesitation.

Nakia followed with certainty.

Thomas no longer questioned each step.

Donald tried to stay focused.

Constance stood still, present.

And when they lowered themselves to the ground…

It was not discovery.

It was return.

After the prayer, no one rushed to leave.

The room held them.

Adam looked at Sheik Shabir.

“This Ramadan,” he said slowly.

“This what our people was doing?”

Sheik Shabir met his gaze.

“Yes,” he said.

“And now you know it fully.”

Adam nodded.

Not proud.

Not surprised.

Just… settled.

As the gathering slowly came to an end, Khadijah stood beside Nakia once more.

“You remembered quickly,” she said softly.

Nakia shook her head.

“No,” she replied.

“We just needed to see it again.”

Outside, the night air carried a different feeling now.

The same streets.

The same buildings.

But something had changed.

Inside homes across San Juan Hill, small lamps glowed late into the night.

Voices softened.

Meals shared.

Hearts steadied.

And for the first time in a long time…

The Big Month had returned.

Not as a memory.

But as something living.

Something shared.

The First Prayer Together

Part 3 by Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

The room was not meant for what it had become.

It was a basement, low ceiling, uneven floor, the faint smell of damp wood and old coal lingering in the walls. A single lantern hung from a nail, casting a soft, flickering light that barely reached the corners.

But the floor had been cleared.

Swept.

Washed as best as it could be.

And across it, laid side by side, were rugs that did not match.

Some were thin. Some were worn. One still held the pattern of a home far away. Another looked like it had once been part of a larger piece, cut and carried.

Together, they formed something whole.

Babacar Diop stood near the far wall, rolling out the last of the rugs with careful hands.

He pressed the edges down, smoothing them as if preparing something far greater than a place to stand.

His movements were steady, practiced.

He had done this before.

Not here.

But somewhere else.

When he first arrived in San Juan Hill, he had not expected to find Muslims.

He had expected work.

Hard work.

Long days on the docks, lifting crates, carrying weight that left his shoulders burning and his hands worn.

But in the quiet spaces between those hours, he had listened.

Watched.

And he had seen something.

A man who refused certain foods.

A woman who covered her head in a particular way.

A voice, late at night, reciting words that needed no translation for him to recognize.

Islam.

Not loud.

Not organized.

But present.

Scattered.

Waiting.

Now he stood in that basement, placing the final rug into position.

He stepped back.

Looked at the space.

Then nodded once to himself.

“It is enough,” he said quietly.

The first to arrive was Mohammad Hosein.

He stepped down the narrow stairs with calm familiarity, his hand resting lightly on the railing.

“As-salaamu alaykum,” he said.

Babacar turned.

“Walaykum as-salaam.”

They clasped hands briefly, not formal, but firm.

“You prepared this?” Mohammad asked, looking around.

Babacar nodded.

“It is simple,” he said.

Mohammad smiled slightly.

“It is good.”

Adam Wiggins hesitated at the top of the stairs.

Behind him, Thomas shifted his weight, trying to see past him.

“You going down or not?” Thomas whispered.

Adam glanced back.

“Wait.”

From below, the low murmur of voices reached them.

Not loud.

Not crowded.

But enough.

Nakia stood just behind, her hand resting lightly on Donald’s shoulder. Constance stood beside her, quiet, observant as always.

Adam took a breath.

Then stepped down.

The room felt different from their home.

Not unfamiliar.

But… arranged.

Intentional.

Babacar nodded as Adam entered.

“You are welcome,” he said.

Adam nodded back.

“We heard… you were gathering.”

Babacar gestured to the rugs.

“We pray,” he said simply.

More footsteps came down the stairs.

Khadijah entered with her children, her daughters close beside her.

Abo Bakr followed behind, his posture straight, his eyes taking in the room quickly, not judging, just understanding.

Soon, the space filled.

Not crowded.

But complete.

Different families.

Different paths.

Standing in the same place.

There was no announcement.

No speech.

Babacar looked toward Mohammad.

Mohammad looked toward Sheik Shabir, who had arrived quietly, carrying a small bundle of books under his arm.

Their eyes met.

A silent understanding passed between them.

Sheik Shabir gave a slight nod.

Then stepped back.

Babacar stepped forward.

He did not raise his voice.

He did not call attention to himself.

He simply stood.

And turned.

Facing a direction.

Not guessed.

Not assumed.

But known.

The room shifted.

Subtly.

But completely.

“Stand,” Mohammad said gently.

The people moved.

Not perfectly.

Not all at once.

But they moved.

Adam stepped forward, placing his feet beside Babacar.

He glanced down briefly, aligning himself.

Thomas stood beside him, watching closely.

Donald fidgeted for a moment before settling.

Nakia stood behind, her posture steady.

Constance beside her.

Khadijah and her daughters helped formed their line.

Abo Bakr stood among the men.

Sheik Shabir aligning with the men.

Babacar raised his hands.

Not high.

Not exaggerated.

Just enough.

“Allahu Akbar.”

The words entered the room like something that had always been there, waiting to be spoken aloud.

Adam’s breath caught.

He did not know the words.

But he felt them.

He followed.

Raising his hands.

They stood.

Still.

Then Babacar recited.

His voice was different from Mohammad’s.

Deeper.

Grounded.

Each word clear.

Measured.

Certain.

Adam listened.

Not with his ears alone.

But with something older.

Something that had been stirred before, but never like this.

Then Babacar moved.

He bowed.

And the room followed.

Adam hesitated for only a fraction of a second.

Then bent.

Hands on his knees.

Back straight.

Just as he had been told long ago.

“This…” he thought, “this is it.”

Then they rose.

And then…

They went down.

Knees.

Hands.

Forehead.

To the ground.

Adam’s forehead touched the rug.

And something inside him settled.

Not excitement.

Not surprise.

But certainty.

“This is what we were doing.”

Behind him, Nakia lowered herself in the same way.

Her movements were not learned.

They were remembered.

Her forehead pressed to the ground.

And she breathed slowly.

Constance followed.

Carefully.

Watching.

Feeling.

Understanding.

Thomas moved slower.

Thinking through each step.

But when his forehead touched the ground, he did not question.

Donald peeked once.

Then pressed his head down quickly, copying what he saw.

The room moved together.

Not perfect.

But united.

When the prayer ended, no one spoke immediately.

They remained seated.

The air felt different.

Full, but calm.

Adam sat back on his heels.

He looked at Babacar.

Then at Mohammad.

Then at Sheik Shabir.

Finally, he looked down at his hands.

“That’s it,” he said quietly.

No one rushed to answer.

Sheik Shabir stepped forward slightly.

“What you have been holding,” he said gently, “is from this.”

He gestured to the space.

To the prayer.

To the people.

Adam nodded slowly.

“I know,” he said.

Across the room, Constance sat beside Raziah and Muna.

They did not speak.

They didn’t need to.

Donald leaned toward Abdul-Hamed.

“That was good,” he whispered.

Abdul-Hamed nodded.

“We do it all the time,” he said.

Donald grinned.

“I’m gonna do it better next time.”

Abo Bakr stood near the wall, watching quietly.

His eyes moved, noticing.

Understanding.

Not just the prayer.

But the people.

Babacar remained near the front.

Still.

Grounded.

His eyes lowered.

Not seeking praise.

Not needing acknowledgment.

He had seen this before.

In another place.

Another time.

But here…

It was new.

And yet not new at all.

As people began to rise and gather their things, the room slowly returned to what it had been.

A basement.

Low ceiling.

Worn walls.

Dim light.

But something had changed.

Something that would not leave when the rugs were rolled up.

At the top of the stairs, Adam paused.

He looked back once.

At the space.

At the people.

At the Northeastern direction they had faced.

Then he nodded.

Not to anyone in particular.

But to something he finally understood.

“We weren’t guessing,” he said quietly.

Nakia stood beside him.

“No,” she replied.

“We were remembering.”

Outside, the night stretched across San Juan Hill.

The streets were the same.

The buildings unchanged.

The world moving as it always had.

But beneath it…

In a basement few would notice…

A community had just done something for the first time.

They had stood together.

Faced one direction.

And bowed as one.

The LIBRARIES THAT RAISED ME - What the Streets Became

Over the years, I returned to East Orange quite often.

Not constantly, but enough to slowly watch the neighborhood change piece by piece.

At first, the changes did not feel shocking because they happened gradually. One storefront closed. Another opened. Familiar signs disappeared. Buildings received new paint. Businesses changed ownership. Entire rhythms shifted quietly over time the same way people slowly age without fully noticing it in themselves.

But after recently discovering online that the Ampere Branch Library had been temporarily closed, those earlier visits suddenly began returning to me differently.

This time the memories did not come back as simple nostalgia.

They returned layered.

When I revisited the neighborhood as an adult, one of the first things I noticed was how much of the area had become visibly Muslim.

Old pizzerias had become halal restaurants.

The old record store had become an Islamic bookstore.

Muslim clothing stores appeared where entirely different businesses once stood. The smell of oud drifted from storefronts onto sidewalks. Gentle Qur’an recitations played softly through speakers inside shops, becoming part of the neighborhood’s background soundscape the same way radios and arcade noise once had during my childhood.

Men wearing kufis walked beside women in niqab and abayas.

At first, the transformation felt surreal.

Not because it felt foreign, but because it somehow felt strangely connected to the person I myself had eventually become.

As a child, I could never have imagined that the neighborhood surrounding Ampere Parkway would one day contain Islamic bookstores and halal restaurants becoming a little Medina. I had no idea that I myself would later become Muslim, build personal libraries filled with Islamic books, work alongside students of knowledge and teachers, establish educational and media projects, and eventually become a writer centered around Muslim family life, literacy, and storytelling.

Life moved in ways none of us could have predicted back then.

The old bank near the library eventually became a Masjid.

That transformation stayed with me deeply.

As a child, it was simply the place where I held a small savings account. Another ordinary building standing quietly among the storefronts and traffic of East Orange. Years later, people would remove their shoes there before entering the prayer area.

The same walls remained.

But the purpose changed.

And perhaps people are not entirely different from buildings in that way.

We survive long enough to become something our younger selves could never fully imagine.

Some changes were comforting.

Others hurt quietly.

My childhood home at 191 North 16th Street no longer stood.

After a devastating fire in the late 1990s, the multi-family home was eventually torn down. Where my home once stood remained only an empty lot.

There is something difficult about seeing emptiness where your earliest memories once lived.

Not dramatic grief.

Just a strange silence.

A realization that the physical world continues moving whether memory is ready or not.

And then there was the Ampere train station.

The station itself still stood there, but the trains no longer stopped.

That may have affected me more than I expected.

As a child, I spent countless hours near my second-floor front window watching people arrive and depart throughout the day. The station represented movement to me long before I understood what movement truly meant.

People going somewhere.

People returning.

People leaving.

Conductors leaning from train doors before departures.

The constant rumble of motion.

Now the station remained, but the rhythm itself had disappeared.

No arrivals.

No departures.

Just the structure standing quietly beside memories that continued moving without it.

And yet, even with all the changes, parts of East Orange still felt familiar in ways difficult to explain.

The sidewalks still carried movement.

People still gathered outside businesses talking loudly.

Children still moved through streets with the same restless energy children always seem to possess no matter the decade.

Life continued rearranging itself.

Looking back now, I realize neighborhoods do not simply disappear.

They transform.

Some buildings vanish.

Others inherit entirely new meanings.

And somehow the child who once wandered between libraries, arcades, grocery stores, train stations, and storefront windows eventually returned carrying pieces of all of it within himself.

The trains no longer stop at Ampere Station.

My home no longer stands at 191 North 16th Street.

The neighborhood sounds different now.

It smells different now.

Even the storefronts tell different stories now.

But somewhere beneath all those changes, I can still feel the movement of the old neighborhood that raised me.

“So there were Muslims in Brooklyn?” Abdul-Baasit asked.

Rabiyyah smiled faintly from her chair near the window.

“More than people realized,” she said softly. “…fewer than we needed.”

Rain still drifted across the San Juan Hill windows while Yusuf Ali’s Qur’an rested carefully across Abdul-Baasit’s lap. The apartment had grown quieter as the evening deepened. Somewhere below the hill a distant automobile horn echoed through wet Manhattan streets before fading again into the night.

Rabiyyah folded her hands slowly.

“Your grandfather used to disappear some evenings after Maghrib,” she said. “At first I thought he simply wanted long walks after work.”

She smiled gently to herself.

“He was looking for Muslims.”

Brooklyn in winter felt colder than anything Rabiyyah had imagined possible when she first left Trinidad.

Not simply cold.

Heavy.

The wind coming from the harbor carried dampness that slipped through coats and settled into bones. Streetcars rattled through snow-lined roads while coal smoke drifted endlessly above Weeksville rooftops.

One evening Yusuf returned home from work unusually alert despite exhaustion still hanging beneath his eyes.

“Put your things on,” he told her quietly. “We’re going somewhere.”

Rabiyyah followed him through dark Brooklyn streets where shop windows glowed against the winter fog. Horse carts rolled carefully over icy roads while church lights burned warmly in the distance.

Eventually Yusuf stopped before a narrow building squeezed between two storefronts near the edge of a busier commercial block.

Nothing about the place appeared remarkable.

No sign.

No announcement.

No visible indication of what existed upstairs.

Only a narrow staircase disappearing upward beside stacked shipping crates.

Yusuf removed his shoes near the bottom stair.

That was the first moment Rabiyyah understood.

The room upstairs was small enough that too many people speaking at once nearly filled it completely.

Lantern light flickered softly against worn walls while steam rose from cups of tea balanced carefully beside books and folded newspapers. Shoes crowded the doorway in uneven rows. The smell of damp wool coats mixed with cardamom and old paper.

And for the first time since Trinidad, Rabiyyah heard Arabic spoken naturally around her again.

Not from memory.

Not from Qur’an recitation alone.

Living Arabic.

Conversational Arabic.

Warm Arabic.

“As-salaamu alaykum.”

The greeting reached her from multiple voices almost at once.

Some accents sounded sharp and Levantine.

Others softer.

Others unfamiliar entirely.

Yet the words themselves wrapped around her like recognition.

“Wa alaykum salaam,” she answered quietly.

A Syrian merchant sat beside a Black sailor from Barbados discussing ships arriving from Alexandria. Near the back wall, two South Asian seamen unfolded newspapers while an older West African laborer slowly counted prayer beads through weathered fingers.

Everyone seemed pulled together from different oceans.

Yet somehow gathered inside one room above Brooklyn streets.

Rabiyyah sat quietly beside Yusuf while conversation moved around her in fragments:

Ottoman politics,

dock work,

French colonies,

new arrivals through Ellis Island,

Muslims rumored to be living in Boston,

Philadelphia,

Liverpool,

London.

Outside, trolley bells rattled faintly through the winter night below the windows.

Inside, Islam survived softly.

The adhan was never called too loudly.

One of the older men recited it barely above conversation level while another briefly checked the stairwell before salah began.

Everything about the gathering carried caution.

Landlords complained about crowds.

Neighbors asked questions.

Too many foreign men entering one building attracted attention quickly.

So Islam remained careful.

Quiet.

Almost hidden inside the city itself.

Yet when they stood shoulder to shoulder for prayer, the loneliness Rabiyyah carried through Brooklyn eased slightly for the first time since arriving from Trinidad.

No one stared at her scarf there.

No one asked if she was mourning somebody.

No one asked if she slept dressed that way.

Inside that upstairs room, she simply existed.

After salah the conversations continued late into the evening.

The Syrian merchant sold imported tea and occasionally smuggled Arabic newspapers into the city through shipping contacts. A sailor from Sierra Leone described Muslims praying openly near ports overseas while another man argued about labor strikes affecting dockworkers downtown.

Yusuf seemed different there.

Lighter somehow.

At home exhaustion followed him constantly after long labor shifts. But inside the gathering his voice carried energy again. He spoke about Trinidad, harbor routes, Caribbean Muslims, and old Islamic teachers he remembered from childhood.

Rabiyyah watched him carefully that night.

Brooklyn had reduced him in certain ways she had not fully noticed before.

Work.

Cold weather.

Isolation.

Survival.

The city demanded pieces from immigrants slowly over time.

Yet here, among scattered Muslims above storefronts, part of her father returned briefly to himself again.

As snow drifted lightly outside, the gathering finally began emptying into the late Brooklyn night.

Rabiyyah and Yusuf walked home quietly beneath gas lamps glowing through the fog.

“You looked happier tonight,” she said softly.

Yusuf smiled beneath the cold night sky.

“A person needs reminders that they are not alone.”

Snow gathered lightly across the shoulders of his coat as they continued walking.

Then after several moments he added:

“Allaah preserves His religion through ordinary people more often than powerful ones.”

The words settled deeply into Rabiyyah though she did not fully understand them yet.

At the time, the Muslims she knew seemed so small.

Sailors.

Merchants.

Widows.

Laborers.

Men praying quietly above rented storefronts while Brooklyn hurried beneath them barely aware they existed at all.

One evening before leaving the gathering, Rabiyyah overheard sailors discussing Muslims in London.

Large gatherings.

Students.

Diplomats.

Converts from wealthy British families.

She nearly dismissed the stories immediately.

Brooklyn had already taught her what Islam in the West looked like:

careful,

temporary,

and hidden.

Others remind us that no one is beyond redemption.

Zahir: The Taste of Redemption follows the journey of a man determined to leave behind the cycles that once defined his life and pursue a better path. It is a story about accountability, hope, community, and the people who help make second chances possible.

This audiobook reading is part of Hijrah House: The Fight Against Recidivism, a collection of stories inspired by the struggles and triumphs of those seeking a new beginning.

Because sometimes the most powerful journeys are not measured by where a person starts, but by the direction they choose to walk.

🎧 Listen to the audiobook reading and let us know:

What does redemption mean to you?

The Missing Shoe Incident

Story by: Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Abdur-Rahman had a plan.

Not just any plan. A good plan.

The diaper bag was packed with military precision. Extra diapers. Wipes. Snacks. Emergency snacks. A backup outfit for Qusay and a backup backup outfit, because experience had taught him humility.

The stroller stood ready by the door like a loyal companion.

And today was important.

The brothers were meeting at the Somali tea shop.

Real Somali chai. Strong. Sweet. Comforting. The kind that made conversation stretch longer and laughter come easier. Abdur-Rahman had been thinking about it all morning.

He adjusted his shirt in the hallway mirror.

Clean. Crisp. Coordinated.

He nodded approvingly.

The brothers were definitely going to notice the outfit.

He could already hear it:

“Abudi, looking sharp today!”

He smiled.

Then he reached down for his shoes.

One shoe.

Just one.

He blinked.

He looked again.

Still one shoe.

“Qusay…” he said slowly.

The toddler sat in the stroller, swinging his legs happily.

And in his tiny hand was the missing shoe’s mate.

Abdur-Rahman frowned.

“Where is the other one?”

Qusay grinned.

That grin meant trouble.

The search began in the mud room.

Abdur-Rahman checked under coats, behind boots, inside random boxes that no one remembered owning.

Nothing.

He crawled halfway into a basket of scarves.

Dust flew.

POOF!

No shoe.

Qusay watched silently, chewing on the laces of the shoe he did have like a trophy.

Next stop: the garage.

Abdur-Rahman pushed open the door and stared into the cluttered wilderness.

Tools. Storage bins. Old soccer balls. A mysterious exercise bike nobody used.

He crouched down.

“Maybe it got kicked out here.”

He searched under the workbench.

BANG!

His head hit the underside.

“Subhan’Allaah…” he muttered, rubbing his forehead.

Still no shoe.

Qusay clapped.

Abdur-Rahman squinted toward the crawl space.

He froze.

The crawl space was dark.

The crawl space was dusty.

The crawl space belonged to spiders.

He looked at Qusay.

Qusay looked back with innocent eyes.

Abdur-Rahman sighed.

“For Somali chai,” he whispered to himself.

He grabbed a flashlight and crouched low.

The moment he opened the hatch, a web brushed his face.

“ AH! La hawla wala quwwata illa billaah! ”

He stumbled backward.

Qusay laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the stroller.

Abdur-Rahman glared at him.

“You think this is funny?”

More laughter.

Inside the crawl space, every shadow looked suspicious.

Boxes leaned at strange angles. Something skittered in the corner.

He whispered extra dhikr.

The flashlight shook slightly.

He checked every corner.

No shoe.

He backed out quickly, brushing invisible spiders off his shoulders.

Qusay offered him the one shoe in encouragement.

Now there was only one place left.

The attic.

Abdur-Rahman stared at the ceiling hatch like it was a test of character.

The attic was not part of his normal routine.

The attic contained memories, old furniture, and sounds that never had proper explanations.

He looked at Qusay.

Qusay stared up expectantly.

Abdur-Rahman raised his hands.

“ La ilaaha illa Allaah, Ya Allaah… protect me from whatever is up there.”

He climbed.

The attic creaked with every step.

Dust floated in the air.

A box shifted somewhere.

Abdur-Rahman froze.

“Probably nothing,” he whispered.

He searched carefully.

Old baby clothes.

Holiday decorations.

A broken lamp.

No shoe.

A sudden noise behind him made him jump.

THUMP!

He spun around, in a loud, frightened voice, saying, “ Allaahu Akbar! “

Nothing.

He decided the search was officially over.

Back downstairs, he dropped onto the couch, defeated.

Qusay bounced happily in the stroller.

Abdur-Rahman looked at the clock.

The brothers were probably already sipping chai.

Real chai.

Not the watered-down imitation he sometimes made at home.

He sighed deeply.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll go with different shoes.”

He stood up and walked toward the door.

Then stopped.

His eyes narrowed.

There, sitting perfectly neat on the shoe rack.

Both shoes.

Side by side.

Clean.

Aligned.

Waiting.

Abdur-Rahman stared.

He turned slowly toward Qusay.

The toddler looked away suspiciously.

“Qusay…”

Qusay giggled.

Abdur-Rahman rubbed his face.

“You hid them.”

Giggles.

“You watched me search the whole house.”

More giggles.

Abdur-Rahman shook his head slowly.

“This is psychological warfare.”

He slipped on the shoes, grabbed the diaper bag, and wheeled Qusay toward the door.

As they stepped outside, he sighed dramatically.

“You know what’s going to happen now?”

Qusay babbled happily.

“We’re late. The brothers will already be done with Somali chai.”

He pushed the stroller down the walkway.

“Now I’ll have to drink Virginian chai.”

He shuddered.

“That’s basically tea pretending to be tea.”

Qusay laughed as if agreeing.

When they finally arrived, the brothers greeted him warmly.

“Abudi! You made it!”

One of them nodded at his outfit.

“Looking sharp today.”

Abdur-Rahman straightened proudly.

Then he looked down at Qusay, who smiled with absolute innocence.

The brothers leaned over the stroller.

“He’s so calm today,” one said.

Abdur-Rahman nearly laughed.

“You have no idea.”

As the first sip of chai warmed his chest, Abdur-Rahman relaxed.

Qusay reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

Abdur-Rahman looked down.

The toddler smiled again.

That same mischievous smile.

The one that said:

This round goes to me, the undisputed and still undefeated.

Abdur-Rahman shook his head and smiled.