We were told this story by one of our mu'alims in my madrasah back then. He said he was in university when this happened. There was a lady named ‘Fatima.’ She was a stylish lady. You know, university life... The girl was a popular person in school, and almost everyone knew her.

So, on that fateful day, he was passing by when he heard someone shout “Bagiyyah!” He was confused. Like, what?! He turned around only to see that the caller was referring to the girl named “Fatima.” He later got to know that “Bagiyyah” was her nickname, and he noticed how confident she became whenever she was called that. Unable to hold back, he called her over and sat her down.

“Sister Fatima, I heard that your nickname is ‘Bagiyyah.’ Is that true?” he asked.

“Yes, that is my nickname. Any problem?” She responded indifferently.

“Please, can you tell me the meaning?” he inquired gently.

“I don't really know. I was listening to a Qira'ah when I heard ‘Bagiyyah’ in Suratul Maryam. I loved the name and decided to name myself that.” She responded confidently.

Our mu'alim said he shrugged and burst the bubble. “Well… it means ‘a prostitute.’”

He said she screamed when she heard that. She said she didn't believe him, and he searched for it on his phone and showed her. Realizing her terrible mistake, she thanked him and rushed away.

***

It is a funny yet sad reality. There are some children who are named beautifully by their parents, but they give themselves terrible nicknames. The story earlier is a perfect example. She was named ‘Fatima’ (one who abstains—, named after the beloved daughter of Prophet Muhammad ﷺ).), but she named herself ‘Bagiyyah’(prostitute). No, she's not the only one. I'm pretty sure there are many people out there doing this.

It's not a bad thing to have a nickname. But please, what's the root, origin, and meaning of your nickname? A name does not become Arabic simply because it sounds Arabic to our ears. Neither does a nickname acquire a meaning merely because someone tells us what it means. This is something very common among us — ladies and young men — nowadays. Whenever we feel a name is sweet, we go ahead and give ourselves a nickname without knowing its root, origin, and meaning. We really need to exercise caution.

Moreover, many parents name their child without researching the root, origin, and meaning of the name. I recall hearing a little child being called “Abu Lahab.” I was beyond shocked. Like, don't the parents know who Abu Lahab was? The man who persecuted Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) and was cursed by Allah, the Most Exalted!

Funny enough, this is something very common in the North. Their so-called sheikh will tell them to close their eyes and flip through chapters in the Qur'an five times. Then, any name will be chosen for the child from the fifth chapter without caring to know its root, origin, and meaning. Of all the good Muslim names we have, you didn't choose a name for your child except “Subhana”, a word that is specifically used to glorify Allah. A word that shouldn't be associated with any human being.

Yes, it has a very beautiful meaning, but its root! In Islam, it is a deeply rooted word used to express reverence and admiration for Allah's greatness. And you named your child that word. I'm not exaggerating; I heard someone being called “Subhana” with my own two ears.

Wallah, parents need to be extremely careful in this aspect. Don't choose a name for your child just because it's sweet — know its root, origin, and meaning. Ask yourself if you'd like your child to be like the first bearer of the name. I gnorance is an enormous disease to the mind. It not only affects you, but also those around you. Consider this: if Fatima had associated with knowledgeable and understanding friends, they would have advised her from the outset.

Come out of your comfort zone and seek necessary knowledge. Some people don't even know the meanings of their names, let alone their roots and origins. They simply answer to the name. Allahul musta'an. Our Lord, grant us from Yourself knowledge and understanding.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

The other day, we were all standing in front of the mosque, the bulb behind us illuminating our surroundings. We were all in the same world, yet caught up in different conversations. The lady who had gathered us was trying to get our attention, her words coming out with conviction. But no, how was I supposed to concentrate when Nana was speaking to me, A'isha was teasing me, Aliyah was greeting me, and I was busy trying to crack a joke?

Then someone from our group(apparently, we weren't going to listen anyway) said, “I just want to find a reason to cry.”

We all laughed, as though laughter were the best way to conceal our experiences.

“Wait until you can't find your second pair of socks. Or when you bump your leg against something.”

She frowned. “Is that even enough to make one cry?”

I hadn't expected her to fail to relate. But then, I had to agree that we were different. What breaks one person wouldn't even scratch another. The things that make us cry have very little to do with how terrible they seem to someone else.

****

The night stretched long across my hostel. The trees whispered sweet nothings to the heavens. Darkness enveloped the world before me, while I sat on a three-seater bench, staring so intently at nothing, as though I were seeing something. I had been sitting like that since evening, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. My heart felt like a sack of rocks, and my hands were clenched tightly together.

That must have been my hundredth blink. Or more. I had tried deep breathing, distraction techniques, and taking a walk. Nothing worked. The truth I had been trying to deny was simple: I needed to cry. It had been weeks since I last cried to my heart's content, and so much had happened in between. For someone as sensitive as I was, wasn't that far too long? Who should I call? Where should I go?I hated physical contact, but I thought a hug might help. Should I walk to the room of someone I knew? Should I try sleeping on the bed of someone I trusted?

But one question outweighed all the others. Isn't that too petty? Oh, how much must I trust someone before I can cry in front of them? I don't think I've ever reached that stage with anyone. So I settled for sitting alone in the nearby darkness. I remembered hearing of a technique that involved placing your index fingers in both ears to stop yourself from crying. I raised my hands and pressed my index fingers into my ears.

And suddenly, everything disappeared. Not a sound. Nothing. Even the distant laughter of people passing by faded away. The world went still, and I involuntarily closed my eyes. Then the tears came. Yes, the technique was the reverse of what I had expected. Instead of holding the tears back, it brought them out. Lol. I cried so hard, so quietly, so tenderly. I could feel the tears slipping down my face and hear my occasional sniffles. Nothing else.

It must have taken about ten minutes. When I removed my fingers, I was fine. Not the kind of fine where you pretend nothing happened. I mean, I felt lighter. So light that, had I been a balloon, I would have floated away and wandered wherever the wind pleased. Then came another question.

Why the hell was I crying?

I don't know, I promise you. I don't know. But I am certain I had been holding in too many things for far too long. More than I had the strength to carry. I didn't need one particular reason. It feels like everything I had swallowed, dismissed, postponed, and convinced myself I could handle had simply been waiting for a moment when I could finally let it out. That night, in the darkness, I gave it one.

****

All these stories for what? To teach you how to cry, obviously. The next time you're overwhelmed, annoyed, or irritated, you could try placing your index fingers in your ears for a little while, if you find the quiet comforting. Though I cannot guarantee that it will make you feel better. Apparently, my own body decided to use the opportunity to release a whole reservoir of tears. Fr a crybaby like me, it seems to work faster than anything else.

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Cry today. Cry better. Oops! That sounds cringe. But I think it's sweet. Yes, call me weird, hehe.

Ubaidatullah Ismail

Yesterday, freedom found me in the most unlikely of places: the back seat of a still bus.

I was exhausted, my eyelids heavy with the weight of an unforgiving day, while beads of sweat travelled from my collarbone down my stomach. There was something almost cruel about how tired I felt, as though even my body had grown weary of carrying me through the hours. Gently, I rested my head against the bus window and surrendered my gaze to the long, bustling street ahead. The world was moving, and I, despite my exhaustion, found myself watching it pass.

My eyes wandered from one stranger to another. A woman seated inside a Keke Napep. A little boy in pink shoes and white socks. Two girls dressed in blue, laughing carelessly at a joke I would never hear. Another girl, clad in deep green, attempting to cross the street.

I smiled with each of their smiles, borrowing little fragments of happiness from people who had no idea I existed.

To me, that's one of the loveliest things about being a stranger. I can admire someone's joy without needing to know its source. I can witness a beautiful moment without having to become part of it. For a few fleeting seconds, I am allowed to be nothing more than an observer, a passing soul collecting little pieces of the world.

Then I noticed a boy who kept turning around to stare at our bus, pointing at us with the sort of fascination only young teenagers seem capable of sustaining.

I smiled at him. We're no different, I thought. We were all once like you.

Once, I was the girl pointing at passing vehicles, marvelling at things I would eventually grow accustomed to. Once, the world had been an endless procession of wonders, and I had possessed the time to look at every one of them. When did I become so busy that I stopped looking? My gaze wandered again. This time, I saw a father walking with five little boys. Two held his hands, their tiny palms nestled securely within his own, while the other three walked ahead of him. When they reached the street, he gently released the hands he was holding and began guiding them across.

He was probably telling them to be careful, or asking one not to bump his head against something, or calling another to come closer. I watched them for a little longer than necessary. There was something tender about the sight of those small hands resting in his. Something reassuring about the way he seemed to move between them, attentive to the little bodies scattered around him. Something that made me suddenly want to hold my father's hand, and tell him that I still have street phobia. I want to feel the warmth radiating from his palm as he helps me cross the street.

And, almost without thinking, I prayed, my eyes fixed on the man's back.

Ya Allah, I pray that one day, when you are old and your strength begins to fail you, these little hands will hold yours with the same tenderness. When your steps become uncertain, may they walk beside you. When the world grows difficult to navigate, may they remember how gently you once guided them through it.

The prayer had barely settled in my heart when another thought interrupted me.

Ubaydah, are you even sure he's their father?

I paused. Then I shook my head and looked down. He might even be their uncle. Or their older brother. He might even be a man entrusted with their care for the afternoon. I had built an entire prayer around a relationship I had invented from a passing glance.

It happens sometimes, doesn't it? How easily I can wander into the lives of strangers, constructing stories around their gestures, imagining their pasts, blessing their futures, and assigning meaning to things I know almost nothing about. Then, with a single question, I am reminded that I have been looking through a window clouded by my own imaginations. I turned my gaze towards the road again. But something had changed. The street was still there. The vehicles still moved. People crossed between them, vendors called out to passing customers, and the afternoon continued unfolding with its usual indifference.

Yet I could no longer see any of it. My eyes remained fixed on the road, but my thoughts had carried me somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and distant. A place within myself where nobody could see me wandering, where no one could follow the winding corridors of my mind or know what waited at their ends.

Slowly, I closed my eyes. so deep that I could almost feel myself dissolving into my thoughts, becoming less a person seated inside a still vehicle and more a consciousness drifting through the unlit chambers of its own existence. With that, I disappeared. I wonder now, as I return to that moment, whether I could have found something different had I looked a little more closely.

Would I have discovered a little beauty tucked between the ordinary things I had overlooked? Would I have found something worth smiling about again, something capable of making me feel lighter even when my lips were cracked and my body was weary? That's it, freedom had been sitting beside me all along, disguised as the afternoon sun falling across the window, the laughter of two girls in blue, or the sight of a father guiding five little boys across a busy street.

It had been in the simple privilege of being alive enough to notice. I had mistaken freedom for something I needed to find, when all I really needed was to learn how to remain present long enough to recognize it.

I do not know how. But I found freedom.

Ubaidatullah Ismail

I lost it, y’all! Not in the way you might imagine. I didn't cry, scream, or throw myself dramatically onto the nearest bed. No. I laughed. I laughed so hard that, for a moment, I genuinely wondered whether the boy had misplaced his last remaining brain cell.

HE WANTS ME TO MARRY HIM. Me.

His former classmate. His partner in crime. The girl who spent years pretending not to notice him while secretly noticing everything. Honestly, the audacity, tsk tsk. But before you judge him, let me tell you how this whole ridiculous affair began.

I think he was handsome. Very handsome, actually. That was back in SS1, when we were still young enough to believe that a little eye contact could ruin an entire week. We were in the same class, and I had always noticed him from afar. He was the sort of boy who could make an entire group laugh without appearing to try. Always joking with his friends, always smiling, always looking annoyingly comfortable in his own skin. And somewhere between his laughter and those eyes, I found myself developing a problem(a very unnecessary problem)

One day, he approached me. I had been watching him, of course, but the moment he came close enough to notice me, I swiftly redirected my gaze and arranged my face into what I hoped was an intimidating expression. He smiled. Oh, that smile. Then he asked about my friend(listen, my friend, not me. My friend.) I told him she was fine, and he asked me to send his regards to her. Awwwwww! How thoughtful. How considerate. What a gentleman. May Allah reward him for his kindness, because I certainly wasn't going to.

Little did I know that this innocent exchange would be the beginning of one of the most embarrassing chapters of my teenage life. By SS3, we had grown considerably closer. In fact, we had become so inseparable that our classmates nicknamed us the cat and the rat. Romantic, isn't it? Forget Romeo and Juliet. Forget all those beautiful love stories. We were the mouse and the rat, forever quarrelling over absolutely nothing. He disagreed with almost everything I said. If I said the sky was blue, he would probably ask whether I had considered the possibility that it was merely pretending.

He teased me at every opportunity, tilted his head to stare at me from the back seat, and winked whenever the teacher was busy writing on the board. Imagine! In the middle of a lesson! I would respond with an exaggerated eye roll, pretending that I found him thoroughly irritating. And he would smile—the shamelessness. But between you and me, it was cute, unfortunately. “Have you eaten?” he would ask casually. If I admired a book aloud, he would somehow find a way to get it for me. I never asked him to buy me anything. Never. Not from my crush. I had standards, even if my feelings had absolutely none.

Yet somehow, I always ended up with the book. When my complexion changed, he noticed. He would ask why I was getting darker, whether the sun was responsible, and whether I was spending too much time outside. When I became unusually quiet around him, he would drag his chair towards mine. “What's wrong?”

“Mind your business.”

“Why are you quiet?”

“ Shift back.”

He would still laugh even when I was strict. Very strict. I had a reputation to protect, after all. I couldn't allow one handsome boy to discover that he could make me smile whenever he pleased. Except he already knew, sighs! That was the irritating part. He freaking knew. He knew that I arrived at school early enough to meet him on the way, although I would rather walk several paces behind him than admit that I had timed my arrival around his. He knew that I occasionally stole his pen when I couldn't find mine, without asking permission, and he would simply smile when he noticed.

He thought my height was beautiful at a time when I was busy finding fault with it. And he noticed things about me that I had assumed nobody paid attention to.I remember watching him from afar sometimes, wondering how someone could be so cool, so effortlessly himself. Every single day, he asked about my friend. Every. Single. Day. And yes, I answered him. What else was I supposed to do? Announce that his persistent interest in my friend was beginning to feel like a personal attack? I had my pride. Or at least, I was trying very hard to maintain the little I had left.

Then one day, my friend came to me with the sort of news that could ruin a perfectly good afternoon. “He proposed to me.” She said it with a shrug, as though she were informing me that the price of bread had increased. I froze. For a moment, I couldn't hear anything beyond those four words. He proposed to me. Then I smiled. I genuinely cannot explain what I felt. It was like my heart had briefly stopped functioning, and my face had decided to take over its responsibilities. But I still smiled. “It's okay,” I told myself.

You see, at that age, I even believed it. After all, what was he to me? Just a classmate. A boy who occasionally made me forget what I was saying whenever he looked at me for too long. Nothing serious. Absolutely nothing. I was perfectly fine.

Until that rain came. One afternoon, I got caught in it and arrived at my desk slightly soaked. I was terribly susceptible to cold, and soon I found myself sitting with my hands clasped together, shivering despite my best efforts to appear normal. Then I caught his scent and I looked up. “Are you cold?” I immediately looked away. I think looking away was my personal solution to every emotional crisis. If I couldn't see him, maybe my heart would remember that it had a reputation to maintain.

“Here. Take my cardigan.” I knew that I should not have accepted it. My heart knew that. Even the sensible little voice in my head was probably screaming at me to decline. But I was cold, you know? (That was my excuse, and I was determined to use it.)So I took the cardigan. A few hours later, I was no longer cold. But guess what? I couldn't bring myself to return it. I wanted it to stay with me a little longer—Just a little. Don't judge me, please. I was young(if sixteen is still considered young), emotionally confused, and apparently willing to develop an attachment to an article of clothing simply because it belonged to a boy who was interested in my friend. I had reached a new level of foolishness.

Then my friend walked in. She saw the cardigan, laughed, and said, “I can't believe he brought it to you when I told him I didn't want it.” Oh. Oh, my goodness. So that was it. He had offered it to her first, She had refused. And I, the unfortunate second destination of his kindness, had accepted it like a woman who had just been handed the keys to her happiness. I wanted the floor to open beneath me and swallow me whole. I wanted the cardigan to burst into flames. Now, I wanted to travel back in time, slap the younger version of myself, and tell her to PLEASE STAND UP.

But I did none of those things. I blinked back my tears and reminded myself that I was not going to cry over a boy. Especially not a boy who had begun distributing affection like a classroom handout. And yet, I couldn't stop liking him. That was the truly embarrassing part(was I insane?) I knew about his red flags(e.g, he related marriage to slavery, he deserves every woman, he should always be in control and so on and so forth). My friend knew about them, too. In fact, I had advised her to leave him. Imagine how I sat there, offering perfectly reasonable advice about a relationship I had absolutely no business being emotionally invested in.

But now that I think about it, whom was I really trying to save? Her? Or myself? Or is it that I wanted her to leave him so I could stop feeling like an intruder in a story I had never been invited to enter? That was selfish. Or I was simply a girl with a crush, desperately trying to convince herself that she was a better person than her feelings. Whatever the case, my friend couldn't let him go. I suppose she was caught in the web, too. Sometimes, I wondered whether the boy had bewitched both of us.

Because how else do you explain two girls looking at the same boy, noticing his flaws, and still finding reasons to stay emotionally invested? Pure witchcraft. That is my final conclusion. Anyway, life continued. Andsomehow, I remained his trusted adviser. One afternoon, we stood beside the window, talking. “I want to see her parents today,” he said. “What should I wear?”

I smiled. “Wear blue. It suits you.”

BLUE.

I TOLD HIM TO WEAR BLUE. Do you understand the level of madness I had attained? There I was, helping the boy I liked dress up to ask another woman for her hand in marriage. If foolishness were a university course, I would have graduated with first-class honours. And the worst part? I meant it.

I genuinely wanted him to look good. I wanted him to be happy. I wanted to be a good classmate. And somewhere beneath all that nobility, I was quietly breaking my own heart. I went home and cried. Yes, I cried. I, who had spent years rolling my eyes at him, telling him to mind his business, and pretending that his existence was a minor inconvenience, actually sat down and cried over him. A boy! A boy who had asked me about my friend more times than he had probably asked me about myself. I was finished(absolutely finished). I thought I had eventually let him go. I convinced myself that whatever little affection I had carried for him had finally dissolved into the ordinary business of growing up. Then I saw them beneath a tree one day, talking about love.

I greeted them and walked past. I went home. And my mother told me that he had come to ask for my friend's hand in marriage. We were neighbours, you see. News travelled with impressive efficiency. I expressed my happiness and smiled. I said all the appropriate things. But was I happy? No. Was I angry? Not exactly. Was I heartbroken? Well, let's just say my heart had been through enough to qualify for a small compensation package.

I was just a teenager trying to convince herself that she had made peace with something she had never truly admitted wanting. And that, my dear reader, was the end of my first crush(or so I thought.) Life happened. There were ups and downs, changes, new beginnings, and eventually, I left home for school. Time passed. I later heard that they had separated and that my friend was preparing to marry someone else. By then, I had lost contact with him. I didn't know whether I had entirely forgotten him, but I was no longer that girl who could turn a cardigan into a romantic tragedy. At least, I hoped I wasn't,lol. I remember how he occasionally used to tell me that someone admired me. Sometimes, he even offered to connect me with the person. And I rejected every single one. Every. Single. One. (I mean, who wants to get married at sixteen?)

I was uninterested or should I say I simply wasn't ready?. I had developed a mysterious allergy to romantic possibilities. Whatever it was, he never seemed offended. He would simply accept my decision and move on. Eventually, we reconnected after I came to school(university). He sent me a message to greet me, and I replied rather curtly. I have grown older. I have learnt a few things. I have acquired some dignity, or at least enough to stop embarrassing myself over boys who winked during lessons. We occasionally spoke over the phone, once in a blue moon, and exchanged pleasantries whenever I was free. Nothing serious and nothing extraordinary.

Just two people who had once shared a classroom, and a rather questionable history. I thought that was where our story would remain(A funny little chapter of my teenage years.) Something I could occasionally remember, laugh about, and thank Allah that I had survived. Then, a few days ago, he proposed to me.

HE PROPOSED TO ME. I need you to understand that I am not being dramatic when I say I lost it. This man(He must be grown now too). That particular man who had me sitting in a classroom, pretending to be annoyed while secretly looking forward to seeing him. That one who gave me his cardigan after my friend refused it. That same one I helped choose an outfit for when he was going to ask for her hand in marriage. THE SAME MAN.

He wants me to marry him? I laughed. Because what else was I supposed to do? Scream? Call my former classmates and organise an emergency reunion? Send a message to the cat-and-rat committee? I replayed our entire history in my head, and with every memory, I became more convinced that the universe had developed an unusual sense of humour.

Was I crazy back then? No. I was worse. Y’all, I was NUTS. And the fact that he had now returned to propose to me, as though the past were some forgotten document he could simply retrieve from a drawer, made the whole situation even more ridiculous. Did he think I was still the same girl? The one who would secretly cherish his cardigan? The one who would help him choose blue for another woman's family visit? The one who would go home and cry, then wake up the following morning and pretend she was perfectly fine? (But I don't really think he knows I have a crush on him;he should better not)

Oh, my dear. That girl has graduated. She has left the classroom. She has returned the imaginary cardigan. And she is no longer accepting applications for the position of Second Option. I didn't even have to think twice before turning him down. I didn't even hesitate(no be me go decorate my life with red—I saw things back then. Different shades of shege—that was a title to a post I read here.) I didn't stare at the ceiling at 2 a.m., wondering whether I had made a terrible mistake. I simply knew I didn't want to marry him. And that was that. You see, the most astonishing thing about growing up is realising that the person you once desperately wanted can become someone you would never choose. Not because they have necessarily become worse, and not because the feelings you once had were foolish or meaningless.

Sometimes, you simply grow beyond them. You become someone else. Someone who understands herself a little better. Someone who knows that a crush is not a prophecy, that butterflies are not a marriage recommendation, and that a handsome face is not a legally binding reason to spend the rest of your life with someone.

Thank goodness for growth. Because imagine if I had married my first crush. Imagine having to explain to our children that their mother once helped their father choose an outfit to propose to another woman(Good heavens! If you think it sounds romantic, just go and sleep) Imagine my former classmates finding out. Imagine someone shouting, “CAT AND RAT FOREVER!” at our wedding. I would have cancelled the marriage myself. Honestly, I cannot make this up.

My first crush proposed to me. And I rejected him. Trust me it wasn't because I wanted revenge. And it wasn't because I wanted him to experience the pain I once felt. Never because I was trying to prove that I had become someone worth choosing. I simply didn't want him. And for the first time in this entire ridiculous story, my feelings and my decisions were finally on the same side. I was a child back then. A girl with a crush, a stubborn face, and absolutely no idea what to do with her own heart.But I am not that girl anymore. So, no.

I am not marrying my first crush. I refuse to make that headline. Former Cat-and-Rat Duo Reunites in Marriage: Bride Once Helped Groom Propose to Her Friend.(Absolutely not).I have suffered enough. The internet will not have that story on my watch. Hausa people will say, (Ba da ni za’a yi wannan ba)

THE END.

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And if you are still wondering whether I regret turning him down, the answer is “no”. But if you are wondering whether I will ever forget that cardigan? May Allah grant me the strength to heal.🥹

One of the reasons our generation seems so broken is that kindness has slowly faded into the mist of an older generation. What was once supposed to be ordinary has become an extraordinary gesture, something people hesitate to give freely, as though tenderness were a luxury we could no longer afford. Nowadays, kindness almost feels forced, as though there must be a hidden intention behind every act of goodness.

And some fathers, the very men entrusted with shaping the next generation, are themselves broken in ways they have never bothered to confront. If a father cannot offer his daughter kindness within the walls of her own home, must she seek it from strangers beyond them? If the people who are supposed to teach us what love looks like cannot demonstrate it, where are we expected to learn?

Recently, I stumbled upon a question online: Can you marry someone like your father?

I paused.

Then I wandered into the comment section, and nearly ninety per cent of the women seemed to have one answer: No.

And please, do you imagine they all woke up one morning and spontaneously decided they would never marry a man like their fathers? Surely, there is something beneath the surface, something deeper than a simple preference. Behind every no lies a story, and behind every story, a mystery waiting to be unravelled.

Why not? I kept wondering.

Was it because they had never been treated like princesses? Because their fathers had made love feel like something they had to earn? Or had they spent so many years hearing certain words from the very men who were supposed to protect them that they had eventually learnt to repeat those words to themselves?

A father is often his daughter's first encounter with masculine strength. He is the first man she learns to trust, the first pillar she expects to remain standing, the first lens through which she begins to understand the men she will encounter beyond her home. His actions can shape her expectations of love, respect, protection, and companionship long before she understands what any of those things truly mean.

He becomes a mirror, sometimes reflecting the kind of love she hopes to find and sometimes revealing everything she is determined never to experience again.

And if your father raised the bar by treating you with kindness, honouring your dignity, and making you feel safe beneath his care, then you are fortunate. Truly, among the fortunate ones.

But if he did not, I understand why you might approach the prospect of marriage with a list of expectations taller than the ceiling.

I once heard someone say, "There's no way I am suffering in my father's house and still going to suffer in my husband's house."

And honestly, she has a point.

Who wants to escape one fire only to be thrown into another? Who willingly leaves one place of sorrow for another bearing the same name? We want something better. We want a home where love does not feel like a battlefield, where kindness is not a reward for good behaviour, and where peace does not depend on how quietly we can endure our suffering.

There is nothing wrong with wanting better. The trouble begins when our longing for better becomes an insatiable thirst, when the desire to escape what we lacked gradually transforms into an inability to appreciate what is good. We begin to confuse comfort with luxury, provision with extravagance, and genuine affection with the endless fulfilment of our desires.

If he cannot afford to give me everything I ask for, I will not marry him.

And just like that, the search for a better life becomes a pursuit of an impossible one.We become so consumed by the things we were denied that we begin to measure love by the abundance of what it can purchase for us. We want to experience everything we missed, to reclaim every comfort we never had, to make up for every disappointment through the person we eventually marry.

But what happens when, in our desperate attempt to escape deprivation, we overlook the very qualities that make a person worthy of our companionship?

What happens when the pursuit of a better life blinds us to the goodness of the life being offered?

Sometimes, in our determination never to experience yesterday's suffering again, we become vulnerable to a different kind of misery. We chase the promise of everything we lacked and risk losing sight of the things that cannot be bought.

And guess what? Kindness—something that ought to be freely given has become so scarce in certain lives that the smallest gesture can feel like an extraordinary declaration of affection. A little money. A thoughtful gift. A meal offered at the right moment. And suddenly, a stranger begins to look like a saviour. I have even seen ladies fall for Indomie and egg. Please, Indomie and egg?!

This is not every woman, of course, and it would be unfair to suggest otherwise. Yet, for some people, the experience of being cared for is so unfamiliar that the smallest act of consideration can awaken a longing they have carried for years.

It is not always the gift itself that captures the heart. It is mostly the feeling of being remembered, considered, or cared for, even if only for a moment..And that is where the real tragedy lies.

When kindness has been scarce in the places where it should have been abundant, people may begin to mistake the bare minimum for extraordinary love. They may become attached not because someone has demonstrated genuine character, but because that person has offered a glimpse of what they have always wanted to experience.

A little tenderness can be powerful when someone has spent years without it. But kindness, no matter how beautiful, should not have to cost us our discernment. Gratitude should not demand our affection, and receiving a gift should never make us feel indebted with our hearts.

We can appreciate goodness without surrendering our judgement. We can desire a better life without allowing our unmet needs to decide our worth. And we can acknowledge the wounds of our childhood without allowing them to dictate every choice we make in adulthood.

Trust me, that is one of the saddest things about our generation: so many people are trying to heal from what they never deserved to experience in the first place, while others are unknowingly passing their wounds down to people who have done nothing to deserve them. We are searching for better fathers, better husbands, better homes, and better lives, sometimes without realising that the work must begin long before any of those things are found. It begins with the people we are becoming.

It begins with learning that love is not cruelty followed by an occasional apology. That provision is not a substitute for affection. That authority does not excuse humiliation. That being a parent is not merely about bringing a child into the world, but about taking responsibility for the world that child will carry within them.

Above all, it begins with understanding that children should not have to grow up and spend their entire lives searching for the kindness they were supposed to receive at home.

This generation may already be carrying more than its fair share of sorrow. Some of us are still learning how to distinguish genuine affection from temporary comfort, healthy expectations from impossible demands, and the desire for a better life from the desperation to escape an old one.

But I genuinely think we can still do something for the generation that comes after us. Let them feel loved. Let their fathers be responsible men who understand that gentleness does not diminish authority, and that a daughter's respect is not something to be demanded while her heart is neglected.

Let their mothers be loving women who make their homes places of warmth, reassurance, and refuge. Let them understand that motherhood is not merely the ability to bear children, but also the willingness to nurture the little hearts entrusted to one's care.

And yes, let us talk about mothers, too. Because some people have wounds that trace back to their mothers, and we cannot pretend otherwise. A mother. A mother.

Who would have thought that even the arms we imagine to be the safest could become places from which some children spend their entire lives trying to recover?

We really need to speak more honestly about these things. Not to condemn every father or mother, nor to turn our parents into villains in the stories of our lives, but to recognise that parenthood does not automatically make a person emotionally equipped to raise another human being.

Our parents are human, too. They carry their own histories, their own disappointments, and their own unhealed wounds. Some did the best they could with what they knew; others caused harm they have never acknowledged. Understanding the difference matters, because compassion should not require us to deny the damage that has been done.

Still, I hope the next generation receives something better.

I hope their daughters grow up knowing that kindness is not a rare commodity to be chased from one stranger to another. I hope their sons learn that strength can be gentle, that love does not require intimidation, and that providing for a family means more than keeping food on the table(for those that are even responsible enough to bring food). I hope children grow up in homes where they do not have to become adults before they understand what it means to feel safe.

And when they are finally old enough to answer that question—Can you marry someone like your father?

I hope their answers are not born out of fear.

I hope they are not desperately trying to escape the past.

I hope they can smile, think of the men who raised them, and say yes without having to convince themselves that they deserve better.

And for those who cannot say yes, I hope they find the courage to build something healthier, the wisdom to recognise genuine goodness, and the understanding that their parents' shortcomings do not determine what they must accept for the rest of their lives.

Because the goal should not be to raise daughters who spend their lives searching for the opposite of their fathers, or sons who grow up believing that the mistakes of the men before them are simply part of being a man.

The goal should be to raise children who understand what love looks like, recognise what it does not, and have the courage to choose accordingly.

Maybe we cannot undo everything this generation has endured. But we can stop teaching the next one that suffering is an inheritance. And, if we begin there, kindness will no longer feel like a miracle. It will simply feel like home.

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Ubaidatullah Ismail

I've gotten so used to silence that whenever I finally decide to speak, the words arrive awkwardly, stumbling over one another as though they've forgotten how to exist outside my chest, and I walk away replaying every sentence, wondering why I always manage to sound like a stranger to my own voice.

I've gotten so used to solitude that every time I try to build something with another person, I grip it either too tightly or too loosely, and somewhere between those two, it quietly falls apart. I've gotten so used to comforting myself that when I finally reach for someone else's hand, I don't know how long to hold it before I become a burden, so I let go first and pretend I never needed it.

I've gotten so used to swallowing my emotions that joy itself feels unfamiliar. When I laugh too loudly, I wonder if I've become embarrassing. When I become excited, I immediately apologize for taking up too much space, as though happiness should arrive politely and leave before anyone notices it.

I've gotten so used to my own company that whenever I become comfortable around someone else, I start fearing I've overstayed my welcome. I replay my jokes. My laughter. My messages. My presence. I wonder if I talked too much, smiled too much, stayed too long, cared too deeply. And by the time I find an answer, I've already convinced myself that I have become difficult to love.

I've gotten so used to appearing mature that whenever my childish side escapes unexpectedly, I become ashamed of it before anyone else has the chance to be. I've gotten so used to observing life from the corners that whenever I step into the conversation, I immediately wish I had stayed quiet. I've gotten so used to living inside the strange little world I've carefully built for myself that the real world still feels like borrowed land, somewhere I visit but never quite belong.

I've gotten so used to healing my own wounds that I no longer know whose name to call when I'm bleeding. Somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting comfort from people and started becoming my own shelter, and now that shelter has become so familiar that even kindness feels unfamiliar when it comes from someone else.

I've gotten so used to walking behind people that standing beside them almost feels arrogant. I've gotten so used to silence that every conversation somehow ends with me whispering, “I'm sorry,” even when I don't know what I'm apologizing for. I've gotten so used to making myself small that whenever I accidentally become visible, I mistake every glance for judgment. I've gotten so used to being emotionally steady that when happiness finally reaches me, it feels like I'm pretending to be somebody else.

So tell me... Who should I become?

Should I remain the person this quiet little world has patiently shaped me into, or should I continue trying to belong in a place that keeps reminding me I learned its language too late? Because every single time I step outside, I come back carrying another invisible bruise. Not because people are always cruel, but because I never really learned what to do with pain once it leaves my own heart and enters a room full of other people. I never learned how to say, “That hurt me.” I never learned how to ask someone to stay. I never learned that tears are allowed to be witnessed.

So I keep walking, trying to be invisible. Dragging my feet along roads I do not recognize, hoping they'll eventually lead somewhere that feels like home, while tears disappear into my veil before anyone notices they were ever there. That's exactly why I keep returning to my own little world. It never laughed when I struggled to explain myself. It never asked me to become louder than I knew how to be. It never punished me for needing silence. It simply opened its doors every time the outside world became too heavy.

So who should I become? The version of me that survives out there...or the one that has always found peace in here? I still don't know. Ionly know that the girl I became was never born this way. She was built, desperately, one disappointment at a time.

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Ubaidatullah Ismail.

I wished you would never look at me with anger in your eyes—the kind that quietly breaks something inside me while you probably never notice. I wished I would never become the reason your smile faded, never become the person you needed space from, never say the wrong thing at the wrong time and leave regret sitting between us like an unwanted guest.

I wished we could write our own fairy tale, one that begins with Once upon a time and stubbornly refuses to end any other way except ...and they lived happily ever after.

I wished I would never hesitate before knocking on your door. Never wonder if today was a good day to speak to you. Never rehearse ordinary conversations in my head because I was afraid of your response. I wished comfort would become our native language, that silence would never feel heavy, that misunderstandings would never find our address, that tears would forget the way to our eyes, and that love alone would always be enough. How selfish of me.

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How unbelievably selfish to expect two imperfect people to build something untouched by imperfection. Perhaps that is what hurts the most. Not that we fought, not that we misunderstood each other but that I genuinely believed love could protect us from being human.

I wanted a relationship without cracks, without distance., without waiting, without apologies, and wiithout the terrifying possibility that one day we might look at each other and fail to recognize the home we once found.

I wanted forever without the work forever demands, I wanted peace without storms, I wanted certainty without fear. I wanted love without wounds. And Allah never promised me any of those things. So forgive me. Forgive me for expecting paradise from a world that was never meant to be one. Forgive me for mourning every tiny change as though love had ended, when perhaps it was only growing differently. Forgive me for wanting more than two hearts, no matter how sincere, could ever offer each other.

Because if loving you has made me selfish... Then perhaps my greatest selfishness was wishing that something so beautifully human would never have to hurt.

UbaidatuLlah Ismail

There's another thing I find terribly complicated.

It's when someone dies and another living soul sits beside their body, speaking all the words they somehow couldn't say when the person was alive. They apologize. They laugh through tears. They confess love. They admit regret. They whisper stories. They ask for forgiveness. They thank them for ordinary things that suddenly became extraordinary the moment death arrived.

And I always find myself wondering… Why now? I mean…they're dead. They won't answer you. They won't smile. They won't interrupt halfway and say, “You're talking too much.”

So why does the heart suddenly become so brave when the ears that needed those words can no longer hear them? Is it because the words were never really for the dead?

Maybe they were for the living, trying desperately to become lighter. Perhaps the mind simply tricks itself into believing, “At least I finally said it.” As though confession loses none of its weight simply because it arrived too late.

It's strange, isn't it? We spend years swallowing words, only to pour them into a silence that can never respond. And yet… Am I any different?

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I don't think so. If my father were to leave this world before me, I know I would have so much to tell his face. Not because I don't love him now, but because grief has a cruel way of revealing words that ordinary days keep hidden. I wonder if he would have things to say to me too if I were the one lying there instead. To my corpse.

My mother... the people I love... the people who left both beautiful memories and painful scars inside me. I know I would sit before them and speak until my throat became tired, speaking to a face that would never nod again, while some stubborn part of my heart continued believing they were still listening.

But If I already know I would have so much to say to their corpse…Why don't I say it now? Why do those words remain trapped somewhere inside me, waiting for death to give them permission to exist?

Maybe because we never really know what matters until time removes the possibility of saying it. Maybe death does not create words. Maybe it simply uncovers our fear, pride, busyness and tomorrow keeps us buried.

Then I become curious about myself. Would anyone speak to my corpse? Would someone sit beside me and finally tell me they loved me? Would they apologize for something I had already forgiven? Would they laugh while remembering the strange little habits I never noticed about myself? Would they cry because they never hugged me one last time?

Or would they simply stare at my face, hoping I would wake up just long enough to let them finish one final conversation?

And, you see, sometimes I think about the dead in another way. If they were allowed to wake up for just one ordinary afternoon and watch us from a distance, what would they think? Would they hate us for laughing again? For drinking tea? For going to lectures? For arguing over trivial things? For watching sunsets they could no longer see?

Would they mistake our moving on for forgetting? Or would they understand that grief was never meant to stop life, only to change the way we carry love? Would they be angry that the sun still rises without them? Or would they smile, knowing that life continued exactly as Allah designed it to?

Perhaps… Perhaps that is why the dead are not meant to return.

Because eventually we learn to smile again, and I wonder if seeing that would break their hearts before healing them. We slowly return to ordinary life, not because we loved them less, but because the living are expected to continue walking. We carry them differently in du'ā', in habits we unconsciously inherited, in stories we still tell years later, in the sudden silence that visits us when something beautiful reminds us of them.

So if you have lost someone…pray for them. Speak kindly of them.

And if one day you find yourself sitting before their still face, saying everything your heart never managed to say while they were alive...do not be ashamed.

Some conversations were never searching for a reply, they simply wanted permission to finally exist.

Or if, by chance, one day you ever stand before my own still face...don't rush. Please, tell me everything. Even if my ears can no longer hear you. Because maybe the saddest conversations in this world are not the ones without answers...They are the ones that arrived one heartbeat too late.

If I can no longer live, I would love you to live lighter.

UbaidatuLlah Ismail

There is a particular rule of life that nobody officially teaches, yet everyone seems to understand: If you want people to notice you, be good at something they find valuable.

Notice that I did not say something valuable. I said something valuable to them.

Those are two very different things. And perhaps that's where most of our problems begin. Because being valuable to people is surprisingly easy. The difficult part is remaining valuable without destroying yourself in the process.

People find value in almost anything. Your beauty. Your intelligence. Your humor. Your attention. Your kindness. Your availability. Your boundaries—or the complete absence of them. Sometimes, people do not even value what you do. They value how easily they can access you. Interesting species. Very interesting.

So before asking yourself how to become valuable to someone, perhaps ask a simpler question:

What exactly do they consider valuable?

Don't rush. Think. Because the answer changes everything. To one person, your value is your ability to listen. To another, it's your food. To another, it's your smile. To another, it's your religious commitment. To another, it is simply how much access they have to your life.

And that is where life starts becoming complicated. Because sometimes the thing people value most is the very thing that is slowly destroying you. Funny. The world rarely warns us about that part. You can have a wonderful relationship with someone. Respect them. Care about them. Pray for them. Support them.

Yet somehow, because you refuse to cross a particular boundary, they suddenly see you as less valuable. Not because you changed. But because you stopped supplying what they wanted. Ouch.

Now let's use university life as an example because universities are miniature versions of society. The same drama. Just with more assignments. And less sleep. Sooner or later, every student will need help from someone. Especially course mates. Even the “I can do everything myself” association eventually discovers that life is a group project.

So naturally, people begin looking for value. But here's the funny part: Everybody defines value differently. To one male course mate, your value may be your intelligence. To another, it's your kindness.To another, it's your religious commitment. To another, it's your willingness to reply messages immediately. To another, it's how available you are. To another, it may simply be whether you entertain conversations that should have ended three hours ago.

And to another… Well. Let's just say their definition of value is not academically related. May Allah guide us all. The problem begins when people mistake their personal preferences for universal standards. They start treating those who satisfy their preferences better than those who don't.

And before long, discrimination quietly enters the room. Not the loud dramatic type. The subtle one. The dangerous one. The one nobody talks about. The one where you ask for help and wait three days. Then watch someone else receive the same help in three seconds. The one where you've stood patiently in a line for hours, yet somehow somebody arrives later and gets attended to first. The one where support is offered freely to one person but feels impossible to obtain for another.

You watch it happen. Again. And again. And again. And eventually, a dangerous thought enters your mind: “Maybe something is wrong with me.” No. Pause there. Because that is usually where self-hatred begins. Before you start blaming yourself, ask: What exactly made the other person valuable in their eyes?

And more importantly: What would I have had to sacrifice to become equally valuable?

That question matters. Because sometimes the answer is your dignity. Sometimes it's your boundaries. Sometimes it's your principles. Sometimes it's your relationship with Allah. And if that's the price, perhaps losing their favor was actually protection.

Think about it. If somebody only values you when you become less of yourself, then perhaps their approval was never worth having. That realization changes everything. Because suddenly, your struggle becomes less about rejection and more about direction. You stop asking: “Why don't they value me?”

And start asking: “Where should I create value instead?”

That is a much healthier question. A much wiser question. Because the bitter truth is this: You cannot control what people value. You never could. You never will. People will always have preferences. Biases. Standards. And strange obsessions. Human beings are remarkably consistent in that regard.

What you can control is where you choose to invest your effort. Take a hijab-wearing sister, for example. Suppose she notices that most people around her are obsessed with visible beauty. The kind that receives immediate attention the moment it enters a room. Now tell me. Should she abandon her values simply to compete in a category she never intended to enter?

Should she sacrifice her dignity just to receive temporary validation? For what? Applause from people who will forget her existence by next semester? Abeg. Let us be serious. If she refuses to compromise for the sake of Allah, then let her build value elsewhere.

Let her pursue knowledge. Character. Competence. Excellence. Success. Let her become so remarkable that her achievements speak louder than anything she chose to cover. Because one thing about genuine success is that it shines through cloth. It shines through silence. It shines through principles. And unlike attention, it tends to stay longer. There is always another path. Always.

The tragedy is not that the path doesn't exist. The tragedy is that many of us spend so much time trying to prove ourselves in the wrong places that we never notice the right road standing beside us.

And perhaps that is the lesson. Not everyone will value you. Not everyone should. But if becoming valuable requires you to become someone you are not, then maybe the problem was never your worth. Maybe you were simply seeking recognition from the wrong audience.

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UbaidatuLlah Ismail.

Why? Tell me.

I have never fully believed in unconditional love. Not because I think love is fake, no. But because I have always struggled to understand love without a reason attached to it. A reason to hold on. A reason to stay. A reason to love harder. So whenever someone says, “I love you,” my first reaction is never the dramatic one people expect.

No blush. No shy smile. No butterflies performing acrobatics. Just a quiet face carrying one stubborn question: Why do you love me? And perhaps, the more frightening question— How did I deserve it?

Maybe that is the strange way my heart works. I do not receive affection and rest inside it immediately. I examine it. Turn it around. Hold it against the light.

Searching.

Not because I want to reject love, but because I want to understand it. And somehow, that question followed me into places where it should never have existed.

Like us; We are siblings. Same blood. Same parents. Same home stitched into our memories. So sometimes I hate myself for questioning what should have felt natural.

Because tell me— Isn’t the word sister supposed to be enough? Yet there are moments when I look at you and find myself quietly searching for reasons. Not reasons to tolerate you. No. Reasons to love you more. And that thought alone aches. Because I see it. I promise you that I do.

I see it in your eyes when you look at me with that silent expression that says: Can you love me harder than this? Can you stay softer with me? Can you choose me a little louder, sister? And while your eyes ask for closeness—my own heart betrays me with questions. Why? Why should I love you more than this? Give me reasons. Just more reasons.

Maybe that sounds cruel. Maybe it even sounds selfish. But I am trying to be honest about the places inside me that do not know how to love loudly. Because how do I do it? How do people love naturally, without overthinking every movement of their heart?

Do you want me to hug you longer when we meet? To hold your hand? To pay closer attention when you speak? Should I call your name when you are walking away, just so you know I notice your absence? Should I stop disappearing into my distance and learn to stay closer?

I do not know. I truly do not know. And perhaps that is the part that hurts me most. Not that I do not love you—but that I do not always understand how to love you better. Because somewhere inside me, love has always been tied to reasons. To deserving. To proof. And you—you stand before me asking for softness while I stand before myself asking questions.

So tell me, dear sister— how do people love without calculating? How do they love without measuring who deserves what? And if love truly needs no explanation…then why am I still searching for one?

You know— when you screamed my name from the window, asking me to come outside and walk with you… I heard you. Every single time, I heard you. The sound of my name never missed my ears. But I stayed where I was. And this is the part I never knew how to confess to you— it was not because I disliked you. No. I was afraid.

Afraid that if I stepped outside, if I allowed our conversations to stretch longer than polite greetings, I would begin doing what I always do—searching. Searching for reasons to let you into my life. Why should I befriend you? Why do you want to befriend me? I remember asking you that question. And your answer…I do not know how to explain it. It sounded kind. Genuine, even.

Yet my heart looked at it suspiciously, as though it had heard those words somewhere before. Maybe that was unfair.

Maybe I expected too much. But your reasons felt rehearsed. Not fake. Just… familiar. And familiar things frighten me. Because anyone can say they love calmness. Anyone can say they admire kindness, gentleness, or charm. People often love what is comfortable to love.

But I kept wondering— are there deeper reasons? Something beyond what the eyes notice first? Something that survives beyond personality and pleasant moments? And perhaps this is where I become selfish with you. Painfully selfish.

Because while you stretched your hands toward me with sincerity, I stood there demanding explanations from a feeling that may never have needed one. I know. It sounds cruel. Maybe it is. But I have always believed there must be another way to love people. A way deeper than simply standing beside them. Something quieter. Something difficult to explain. Because presence alone does not always convince me.

And the funny thing ? I speak about this different kind of love so confidently— yet I do not even know what it looks like myself. I only know I keep searching for it. Like someone standing before a locked door, insisting there must be treasure behind it while holding no key.

So tell me— will you ever forgive me? Forgive me for searching so much? For holding onto a loose rope while expecting certainty from you? For hesitating while you stood there, perhaps only wanting friendship, while I turned affection into an investigation? Maybe you only wanted to walk with me. Maybe you only wanted closeness. And there I was—standing at the edge of kindness,asking love to explain itself before I allowed it in.

And then there was that sunny afternoon. You urged me to talk to you. The sky was bright, almost annoyingly peaceful, while I stood there carrying my usual caution like a second skin. You spoke softly—too softly. Then you said it. You said you loved me. So tenderly. So gently. So naturally that for a fleeting moment, I almost believed love could really arrive without asking permission.

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I almost fell for it. But then—that stubborn part of me woke again. The questioning heart. The frightened heart. And before warmth could settle inside me, my thoughts interrupted— Why should I love you, dear stranger? And perhaps more importantly— Why do you love me? Someone you barely know, someone whose storms you have never witnessed, someone whose silence carries rooms you have never entered.

How do you love what you have not fully seen? I know people speak of love differently. Some wrap it in flowers. Some hide it inside sweet words. Some decorate it with romantic settings, thoughtful gifts, and beautiful promises. And perhaps all of those things are lovely. But my own way of loving has always felt… different. Less decorative. Less poetic.

To me, love was never fireworks. It was never dramatic confessions or carefully arranged moments. It was reason. Just reason. More reasons to stay. More reasons to trust. More reasons to love you tomorrow than I did yesterday.

And maybe that is where my tragedy lives. Because I searched. Allah knows I searched. I searched through your words, your kindness, your presence and the spaces between our conversations. Desperately. Quietly. As though if I searched hard enough, I would finally discover the answer my heart kept demanding. But I never found it. I really searched, I promise. And maybe that confession sounds unfair.

Because perhaps love was standing before me while I kept asking it for identification. Perhaps affection was knocking while I stood behind the door asking for proof of residence. Funny. Humans ask love to explain itself, then mourn when it grows tired of waiting. And maybe—maybe this did not begin with you. Maybe it began long before. With someone whose memory still lingers like unfinished rain.

Dear past person—I wish I had never accepted your love without understanding what it carried. I wish I had known that love received without safety can leave fingerprints on the heart. Because when you left, you did not only leave absence behind. You left questions. You left caution.

You left me standing in my present, searching desperately for reasons to love, because once upon a time, I loved without them and paid for it with pieces of myself. So if I hesitate now—if I search too much, question too deeply, and hold affection at arm’s length—perhaps it is not cruelty. Perhaps it is memory.

Maybe that is the saddest thing of all— that sometimes, the people who leave us do not take our love away. They take our ease with it.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

We say “leave me alone,” then get sad when people actually leave us alone. Interesting species.

(laughs in loneliness).

That’s so you. Yes, you. Lol.

****

How does a mother become a mother without the child that first called her Ummi with a trembling voice? How does a teacher become one without the student staring at the board, pretending to understand? How does a husband become one without the wife waiting for him at home? How does a friend become one without the other soul laughing beside them?

How does a brother become one without the sibling that turned childhood into memory? How? How do we become someone without another person witnessing our existence? It sounds impossible when you think deeply about it.

Because humans were never truly built to stand completely alone. Even the strongest people—those who claim they need nobody—still soften somewhere. Quietly. Secretly. There is always someone they wait for, someone whose absence changes the atmosphere around them.

And perhaps that is the strangest thing about us.

We spend half our lives pretending we do not care, because caring is dangerous. The moment someone matters to you, loss suddenly becomes a possibility; while the other half is spent hoping someone notices that we do. I know there are moments when we lie to ourselves. Moments when we insist, “They mean nothing to me.” Yet we still reread old messages. Still pause when their name is mentioned. Still glance around unconsciously, hoping to see them.

Funny.

Humans are terrible liars when emotions are involved. But maybe it is not really about them.

Maybe it is about what they made us feel. Seen. Safe. Wanted. Understood. Loved. Because tell me honestly— Isn’t that what every human being is searching for in one way or another?

Not necessarily romance. Just warmth. A place where the heart can rest without performing. A place where you do not have to rehearse your smile before entering. A place where your silence is not mistaken for attitude, and your softness is not treated like weakness.

We all want that. Even the people who say they do not. And maybe that is why loneliness frightens us so much. Not the physical loneliness of sitting alone in a room. No. The deeper kind. The kind where nobody truly knows you. The kind where your chest feels heavy and there is no safe place to drop the weight.

Loneliness, in its quietest form, is terrifying. A crowded room has never cured an empty heart.

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It does not always scream. Sometimes it sits politely beside you while you laugh with people who do not really see you. And because humans fear that feeling so deeply, we do strange things. We force ourselves into places we do not belong. Shrink ourselves to be accepted.

Beg silently for affection while pretending we are “just chill people.” We go the extra mile for crumbs of attention and call it love. So crazy. So painfully human. We hate trying too hard. We hate feeling needy. We hate waiting for replies that never come. But deep down? We are just afraid. Afraid that one day, when everything becomes quiet, there will be nobody left to hold us gently and say, “I’m here.”

Tell me, am I lying? Write boldly that you can survive a lifetime without warmth, without connection, without being understood—and watch how even your own heart hesitates before agreeing. Because even the coldest souls soften somewhere. Even the most terrifying villain leans into tenderness when it is offered sincerely. Because beneath anger, pride, and cruelty, there is often a starving heart asking softly to be loved correctly.

Even people who claim they “don’t need love” still glow differently when someone chooses them gently. That is the nature of humans. We are constantly reaching for each other. And perhaps that is not a weakness. Perhaps that is mercy. So for once, let us be kinder to ourselves.

It is okay to want love. It is okay to want companionship. It is okay to want someone whose presence calms your storms. That does not make us desperate. It makes us human. But while searching for love, we must not destroy ourselves in the process. We must not bleed endlessly just to convince someone to stay. We must not abandon our dignity for temporary warmth.

Because genuine love was never meant to make us beg for basic care. And sometimes—this part is important—sometimes people truly love us sincerely, but we push them away because pain has taught us to fear softness. We become so used to disappointment that kindness begins to look suspicious. But not everyone comes to leave. Not every hand that reaches for us intends to hurt us. Some people arrive gently and mean it (Shocking, I know.) Some hearts are safe places. Some voices carry peace.

Some souls were created to make loneliness feel less heavy. And maybe that is why Allah created everything in pairs. The sun and the moon. Night and day. Man and woman. Joy and sorrow. Perhaps humans, too, were never meant to carry life entirely alone.

So somewhere out there, beyond all the fear and failed connections, there is still warmth waiting patiently for us. A calm heartbeat. A safe place. A soul that feels like rest. And maybe love, in its purest form, is simply finding someone whose presence makes loneliness loosen its grip on your heart.

Ubaidatullah Ismail

Then a voice came from behind me. “I hate fair girls.” I paused. Not fully—just enough for the words to land. Then I continued walking. Ididn’t turn back. It’s not in my nature to turn at every sound, to search for faces behind passing statements. I kept moving, steady, composed.

But somewhere inside me, something shifted.

For a second—just a second—I wanted to look down at my own skin. To check. To confirm. To almost re-negotiate with my reflection. Maybe I wasn’t that fair after all. Maybe I could quietly disqualify myself from someone else’s hatred.It was a strange thought. Uninvited. Slightly embarrassing.

I shook it off. A small exhale, a silent AstaghfiruLlah in my heart, and I kept walking. Because how do you carry something that was never meant for you, yet still manages to find you?

On my way back to the hostel, the sun hung lightly in the sky—not harsh, not gentle either. Just there. But my face… my face had already formed a frown I didn’t remember giving permission to. Then I passed two men standing by the roadside. One of them muttered, almost carelessly, “Why should a woman be tall in the first place?”

This time, I didn’t pause. I didn’t even slow down. Because at that point, it felt like the day had already chosen its script—and I wasn’t about to play along. Still… the words followed me. Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just… persistently. And that’s the thing. None of them called my name. None of them pointed at me. None of them even knew me.

They weren’t insulting me. They were simply… speaking. Expressing preferences. Standards. Opinions. Carelessly. And yet, those words found a place to sit in my mind. Because statements like that are never just statements. They float in the air, waiting for someone to wear them. To some people, fairness is beauty. To others, height is elegance. But does that apply to everyone?

No. It never has. And maybe that’s where it touches us the most—our ego. Not loudly. Not obviously. But in that quiet, uncomfortable place where we want to be accepted… by everyone. We want to walk into a room and be liked. To be seen and approved of. To exist without being questioned. Yet, if we are honest with ourselves—we don’t accept everyone either.

We have preferences. We have biases. We have silent judgments we rarely admit out loud. So why do we expect from the world what we ourselves cannot fully give? And when that expectation is not met, we begin to turn inward. We question. We compare. We adjust. Not because we are not enough— but because we are imperfect.

And somewhere along the line, we started believing that imperfection is something to hide. That was where the problem truly began. Not when people spoke their standards. But when we decided we had to fit into all of them. Not when the world had opinions..But when we desired to be loved by everyone.

And now I find myself asking— If we struggle this much with things like skin tone and height…what about our scars? The ones that are not always visible. The ones that tell stories we don’t always say out loud. Would they, too, make us “unwanted” in someone else’s eyes? That question takes me back to a story from my childhood.

A king. A man with power, wealth, and everything people spend their lives chasing. Yet he wanted one thing— a woman without scars. So he searched. Across lands. Across continents. Across years. He looked everywhere, refusing every woman who carried even the smallest mark. Time passed. The journey stretched longer. And the king grew older.

Until one day, he met an old, wise man. The man looked at him and said, “Every scar is a symbol of strength. It is what makes a woman glow.” Simple words. But they came too late. Because a few days later, the king died— still searching, still unsatisfied, still alone. High standards, zero results. (bro really thought life is online shopping.)

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As a child, it sounded like one of those tales meant to scare us into “learning a lesson.” Almost unrealistic. Almost exaggerated. But now… Now it feels painfully real. Because aren’t we all, in some way, that king? Searching for perfection. Rejecting what is real. Overlooking what is meaningful. Sometimes in others. Sometimes… in ourselves.

Self-love is often reduced to something shallow. Standing in front of a mirror. Admiring what looks good. Celebrating what fits into the world’s idea of beauty. But it is more than that. It is deeper. It is quieter. It is harder.

It is looking at the parts of yourself that don’t fit the standard—and choosing not to reject them. Every line that runs across your body. Every mark that tells a story. Every patch of skin that doesn’t behave the way you wish it would. They are not flaws waiting to be fixed. They are reminders that you have lived. That you have grown. That you have survived something—even if no one else saw it.

There is nothing wrong with taking care of yourself. Nothing wrong with skincare. With dressing well. With wanting to look good. But there is something exhausting about trying too hard to become someone else’s definition of beauty. Because no matter how much you change— someone, somewhere, will still have a different preference.

And if you keep chasing every opinion, you will lose the one that matters most. Your own. So maybe the peace we are searching for does not come from being accepted by everyone. Maybe it comes from accepting ourselves—fully, honestly, unapologetically.

Because at the end of it all, you don’t need to be everyone’s standard. You just need to be at peace with your own reflection—because even perfection has critics.

It’s okay… even if there’s another world where I could be more far away, I will still choose me—again and again. I promise.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

What’s So Special About Being A Writer?

“Are you a writer?” “Oh my God, that’s so beautiful. You’re amazing.”

And just like that, something shifts. The air changes. The same person who was once ordinary becomes something… elevated. Almost untouchable. As if holding a pen suddenly makes you wiser, deeper, more complete than everyone else.

And then come the expectations. Writers are supposed to be intelligent, brilliant, carefully composed, and almost flawless. But I’ve always wondered— is writing really that special? To me, writing has never been a crown. It has always been a refuge. Because the truth is, writing is just another way of speaking.

Some people speak with their voices. Some with their hands. Some with colors, movement, silence. Some people argue in group chats like their life depends on it. And some of us… we write. Not because we are extraordinary. But because we had no other place to put what we felt.

I was not always “a writer.” I was a loud girl. Not loud in the way people imagine—bold, outspoken, fearless. No. I was loud in quieter, messier ways. I complained too much. I cried too easily. I felt everything too deeply.

I would sit alone and pick at my fingers when anxiety crept in. I would replay words in my head—words that shouldn’t have hurt, but did anyway. I would close my door, not because I loved solitude, but because it felt safer than being seen.

And when things didn’t go my way, I reacted. I spoke. I explained myself like I was defending a thesis nobody asked for. I tried to be understood. I thought if I was loud enough—if I said it clearly enough, emotionally enough—something would change. But nothing ever did. The situation stayed the same. The people stayed the same. Even my own heart refused to soften.

And slowly, I realized something that didn’t feel nice to admit: Being loud was not saving me. It wasn’t making me feel heard. It wasn’t making me feel loved. If anything, it made me feel like I was trying too hard to belong. And there is nothing more exhausting than trying to fit into a space that never opens for you.

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So one day, I stopped speaking. Not completely. Just… differently. I bought a book. A simple one. And I wrote. I wrote everything I couldn’t say without breaking. I wrote the anger that had nowhere to go. I wrote the sadness I was tired of explaining. I wrote the parts of me I couldn’t show anyone.

And for the first time, I felt something unfamiliar—relief. Not because my problems disappeared. Not because anything around me changed. But because I was no longer carrying everything inside my chest.

Writing didn’t make me special. It made me… lighter. It gave me control. It gave me space. It gave me a voice that didn’t have to compete to be heard. Writing didn’t fix my life. It just made it easier to carry. And that was enough. So I stayed. I stayed with writing—not because I chose it in some grand, artistic way, but because life quietly led me to it.

It's not because I wanted to become “a writer. But because I had finally found a place where I didn’t have to fight to be heard.

So again, I ask: What’s so special about being a writer? I don’t think of beauty. Or talent. Or admiration. I think of survival. Because writers are not more important than anyone else. We just found a different way to breathe. A public speaker stands on a stage and releases what’s inside them. A painter spills their emotions into colors and shapes. A reciter hides their heart between notes.

And a writer? A writer bleeds quietly onto paper. Gracefully. (We suffer, but make it aesthetic.) Neatly, too. (We cry, then fix the punctuation.)

So no—writing is not something that should be glorified above everything else. It is not perfection. It is not superiority. It is simply… expression. We are not better. We just chose a different way to survive ourselves. And maybe that’s what people are actually admiring. Not the writing. But the fact that we found a way to stay.

So instead of placing writers on pedestals, we should all be asking ourselves a different question:

Where do I feel most honest?

Where do I feel most free?

Because the goal is not to become a writer. The goal is to find a place where your voice—whatever form it takes—finally feels like it belongs. And to live there, fully.

UbaidatuLlah Ismail.

I realized that for years now, silence has been my default language. So many moments have passed without me saying a single word. I move through life like a feather released into the air—light, drifting, gliding away instead of ever truly touching the ground.

When I am tired, I answer with silence.

When I am sick, I answer with silence.

When I am happy—deeply, overwhelmingly happy—I answer with silence.

When life becomes harsh and heavy, I answer with silence.

When I am hurt, I answer with silence.

When I am praised, I answer with silence.

When I am insulted, I answer with silence.

When I am annoyed, I answer with silence.

And when I am angry—which is rare—I still answer with silence.

The last time I felt real anger was in junior secondary school. I stayed silent then too, but the girl ended up hospitalized. It was never something I was proud of. Since that day, I tamed that part of me and learned to glide through life without ever letting that fire surface again.

No, I am not dumb.

I simply let my actions speak for me.

When someone treats me like trash, I don’t argue. I don’t ask why. I don’t beg for explanations. I simply walk away—and I mean a real walk away.

It has gotten to the point where even my face follows my silence. I rarely react with expressions, except when my eyes betray me.

I’ve been called cold, gentle, heartless, sluggish, cool, terrible, and many other names. Oh, you guessed it right—I never react.

Because I am just a girl living. I didn’t become like this overnight. I wasn’t born this way. I learned. I adapted. I chose peace over noise. So when I live, I live quietly—and I leave quietly too. I find my peace in silence, especially when emotions run deep.Silence is where I breathe, where I think, where I stay untouched.

I feel powerful this way. Different. Mysterious.

I can turn a soft atmosphere intense just by staying mute, or by saying a single sentence that makes everyone go silent. Yes, I talk—but silence is the language that owns me.

When I’m happy, I jump quietly. I dance silently. I smile brightly. But words? I rarely release them.

Just actions.

When I don’t like someone, I watch them in silence while keeping my distance.

When I feel something is right and the world criticizes it, I don’t give a damn—I do it anyway.

I correct someone once. If they don’t take it, I let them be. (If I ever do that more than once, I truly care—deeply.) Isn’t that how life should be? Simple, yet in control?

I remember the time my favorite person hurt me. I didn’t draw the line then, because I am human, and I love deeply too. They did it again. I still didn’t draw the line. I didn’t want to. But eventually, I did. I did it without batting an eyelid. Yes, there is still love—but that line? I carved it deeply, hollow, undeniable. And since then, I found my peace.

In a world full of chaos, I just want to be a girl who lives in the sanctuary of her silence. Yes, it gets suffocating sometimes. But that is where I belong. That is my world. That is who I became.

So, we live in peace—moments of talk, and many moments of silence. As long as you don’t step on my nerves, welcome to my world, where I am the CEO. To the few people who bring out the childish, talkative, carefree side of me—you’re amazing. You taught me that silence is powerful, but not every word should be swallowed. Some deserve to be spoken.

You might be wondering what my coping mechanism is beneath all this silence—how I wear it like a second skin and still breathe inside it. I’ll talk about it in my next piece.

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Ubaidatullah Ismail

We students often say school is the worst place we’ve ever known. And maybe, some days, it feels true. It has never been easy. But we are only human—humans who dare to dream, who dare to try, who dare to step into paths we do not know the ending of, and still choose to live through them.

We are brave enough to call ourselves students. Brave enough to sleep late with tired eyes hovering over books, and wake up early to run to lectures our bodies are begging us to skip. Brave enough to miss meals—not because we want to, but because exhaustion and stress steal our appetite.

Brave enough to hide in quiet corridors where no one passes, just to let the tears fall freely. Brave enough to lock ourselves in our rooms on weekends, wrestling silently with heaviness no one sees. And still, we force a smile. Still, we answer every “How’s school?” with “School is fine,” even when it isn’t.

We are brave enough to pick ourselves up after falling—sometimes terribly. We let go of love, attention, comfort, hobbies, and pieces of our mental peace just to remain standing as students. We hate being burdens. We don’t complain loudly. We swallow everything and keep moving, because survival becomes the goal.

So how can school be our enemy, when all we really are… are dreamers? Dreamers trying to become something. Dreamers learning endurance before success. Dreamers bleeding quietly so tomorrow can be brighter.

Our school is not our enemy. Society is.

We don’t dare to say we’re tired, because the moment we do, society calls us lazy. Weak. Ungrateful. We’re told to “try harder,” as if we haven’t already given everything we have.

People ask, “Why are students losing themselves today?” Nothing can ever justify taking one’s life—ever. But can we pause for one honest moment and ask why the pressure feels unbearable?

Failure.

Look around when exam results are about to be released. Anxiety hangs thick in the air. Hands shake. Smiles disappear. Breathing feels forced. Not because students are careless—but because society taught us that failure is the end, that effort means nothing if the outcome isn’t perfect.

But which student, in their right mind, wants to fail? If we wanted failure, we wouldn’t have tried this hard. We wouldn’t have slept at 3 a.m. and woken up at 5. We wouldn’t have dragged ourselves out of bed when our bodies begged us to rest. We wouldn’t have studied through exhaustion, hunger, tears, and silence.

So tell me—how is failure the end? What if we tried… and still failed? That’s when society steps in with its sharpest words: “I expected better from you.” Better how? I came home darker, thinner, slumped with fatigue. I left pieces of myself in lecture rooms and libraries. I gave what I had—yet you didn’t see it.

Why don’t our efforts count? What society doesn’t understand is this: judging failure doesn’t motivate us—it crushes us. It doesn’t push us forward; it pushes us inward, into silence, into doubt. And yet, we don’t need applause from the whole world. We just need one soul. One person who sees the effort.

One voice that says, “It’s okay. You tried. You can still win.”

Sometimes, that single voice is enough to keep a dream alive. And maybe—just maybe—that’s how we save students, not by glorifying success, but by honoring effort, and allowing failure to be part of becoming.

When a child stumbles and rises again, parents smile with pride and say, “My baby is brave.” They quote wisdom like it is scripture: “Failure is not falling down, failure is refusing to get up.” But when it comes to students, that mercy disappears.

When we fall, we are not given time to rise. We are judged instantly. Pointed at. Whispered about. Mocked. Not because we stayed on the ground—but because we dared to fall at all.

We are pressed further down instead of being allowed to breathe. And no, we didn’t ask for a hand to lift us—we are strong enough to stand on our own. But tell me, why press us down when we are already struggling to get up?

I am not speaking for myself alone. I am speaking for every student who is trying.

Some of us are blessed with parents who give us time to rise. Others are not. Some of us achieve high grades and still feel empty—because that wasn’t the dream we held, but a role we were forced to play just to preserve our name as students.

Let me be clear: I will never justify examination malpractice—never. But we must be honest about what often gives birth to it: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of disgrace. Fear of being reduced to nothing in the eyes of society. Still, I believe a truly trying student would never choose that path.

I dream of becoming a parent someday. A parent whose child is not afraid to come home after failing. A parent who says, “Sit down. Let’s fix this together.”

Yes, we all dream of graduating with a first class.

But what if we tried hard and we didn't? Then boom—“You could have done better.” As if second class upper is not an achievement. As if effort has no weight. As if survival itself doesn’t count.

The world doesn’t see the nights we fought sleep. The mornings we fought ourselves. The courage it took just to keep trying. Maybe students don’t need more pressure. Maybe we need permission—to fail, to rise, and to become… at our own pace.

I’ve seen students try until they forget themselves. Try until food loses taste. Try until sleep becomes a luxury. Try while whispering duʿāʾ to Allah, asking Him to ease what feels impossible. So please—when a student fails, give them time.

If you have no words of encouragement, then choose silence.

We are exhausted from losing ourselves piece by piece. I can’t cry over my result and still come home to cry over an expectation whose roots I never consented to. Students are human too. Please.

And then comes the familiar speech: “You’re acting like we didn’t go to school. We also did our time. In our time—”

Cut me the slack.

Why must my pain be measured against yours? Why is suffering a competition?

Even when we all carry the title student, our realities are never the same. Some people struggle harder than others—even while sitting in the same classroom. You cannot compare someone Allah blessed with a magnetic brain to someone who spends countless nights wrestling with just a few concepts. You cannot compare a student surrounded by abundance to one wearing the same clothes every day and begging for something—anything—to eat.

Grace is not equality; it is understanding difference.

So please. Shut it.

How many pages was your lecture note in your time? How many courses did you register per semester? How many breakdowns were normalized as “discipline”?

(Bombastic side eye.)

****

All we ask for is time.

Time to heal. Time to rise. Time to become.

Because pressure never builds greatness—it only breaks people who were already trying their best.

To all students reading this:

Cheers to the nights we studied hard, walked into exam halls full of hope, and met questions that clearly came from another planet.

Cheers to the times we solved a question perfectly—only to discover our answer wasn’t even among the options.

Cheers to answering with confidence, based on what we studied, and still being told we were wrong.

Cheers to the concepts that disappeared in the exam hall and magically returned the moment we stepped outside.

Cheers to the slumped shoulders as we walked out, carrying uncertainty heavier than our bags.

Cheers to the tears we shed, convinced we had failed—only to later find out we passed.

Cheers to the quiet nights we cried to Allah, whispering for ease, clarity, and just one breakthrough.

Cheers to splashing water on our faces to fight sleep, begging our eyes to stay open just a little longer.

Cheers to leaving home at dawn and returning at night, exhausted, when a single tear slipped out without permission.

Cheers to standing for four, five, six hours for a practical we desperately needed to complete.

Cheers to falling sick and still dragging ourselves to the clinic, swallowing pain without loud complaints.

Cheers to the bad days.

The anxious moments.

The heavy hearts.

The silent tears no one noticed.

And finally—cheers to the small, ordinary, yet extraordinary moments of happiness that quietly remind us why we keep going.

The laughter between classes.

The relief after an exam.

The hope that tomorrow might be kinder.

If no one has told you this yet:

You are trying.

You are brave.

And that alone makes you worthy of pride.

Cheers to us.

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Ubaidatullah Ismail.

Would you believe me if I told you I want to wait two hours before your train arrives— just to feel the anticipation stretch my heart?

That I want to stand another hour watching you greet everyone else,

memorizing the way you smile when you don’t yet see me.

I want the world to pause the moment your eyes finally find mine.
I want my vision to blur, not from weakness,

but from fear—

that if I blink, you might disappear,

or worse,

you might walk past me

and take the moment with you.

Would you believe me if I told you I want to write a story with you inside it—
not as a chapter, but as the spine that holds it together?

That I want to cling to your sleeve through the long hours of the day,

as if letting go might loosen the world.

I want you to recognize my eyes

in the middle of a million faces,

to find me without searching.

I want to smile and play hide and seek with you—

though I know you might hide forever,

and I would still search for you

until forever feels small,

until it runs out of places to keep you from me.

Would you believe me if I told you I want you to stay—

not for a moment, not for a season, but until leaving forgets your name?

That I want to make memories with you

until time forgets to click,

until even seconds grow tired of passing us by.

That I want you to call me yours,

to walk me home, to ask if I am fine—

not because I am broken,

but because you care enough to notice the cracks.

I want to love you so fiercely

the sun would stand still just to watch us exist.

You won’t believe me.

But I will never let you die—

not in my words,

not in my memory,

not in the quiet corners of my heart.

You believe that, don’t you?

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Ubaidatullah Ismail.

I saw this sentence online and, for once, I didn’t scroll past. I paused.

“Me and him didn’t work out because we both wanted princess treatment.”

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And honestly? I agreed. Not because a man shouldn't want princess treatment—no. My man deserves prince treatment. Because he is one. And somewhere along the line, we started talking about love and marriage like it’s a one-person sacrifice.

“I want him to pamper me.”

“I want him to hug me when I’m sad.”

“I want him to rush to me whenever I call.”

“I want extra care when I’m in pain.”

I want him to…

I want him to…

I want him to…blah, blah, blah.

But when it’s his turn—when he wants tenderness, reassurance, softness—suddenly it’s a problem. Suddenly, “he’s not man enough.” Suddenly, the relationship “doesn’t work out.”

So let me ask:

When my man is sad, who does he run to?

When he’s sick, who holds him?

When the world is heavy on his shoulders, who tells him it’s okay to rest?

I don’t expect him to be strong all day, fight battles outside, and then come home to perform strength again—just for my comfort. Love isn’t an audition. It’s a shelter.

I want to spoil my man too—yes, you heard me right. I want a relationship where we both get spoiled. Where I’m his soft place to land, and he’s mine. Where love isn’t measured by who receives more, but by how willingly we give.

Two people wanting to be cherished shouldn’t be a deal-breaker. It should be the whole point. Because if I wanted a rock, I’d buy one. I want a human—one who can be held too.

If the feelings are mutual, then the treatment should be mutual as well. Love isn’t a one-way service; it’s a shared language.

If my man is about to step out and I notice his shoelace dangling, I’ll bend down and tie it for him. Not because he can’t—but because I can. That’s prince treatment. Quiet. Intentional. Tender.

If I wake up in the middle of the night and see the blanket slipping off his body, I’ll gently pull it back over him, making sure he’s warm before I return to sleep. If he complains of a headache, my hands will already be there, easing the tension before he finishes his sentence.

Of course, there are things I won’t do—not because I don’t love him, but because I won’t begin what I can’t sustain. Love should be consistent, not dramatic. But the little things? The things that make him feel seen, loved, and understood? You’ve got me, my love. Every time.

I don’t want to marry a robot programmed to be strong. I want to marry a human being—with emotions, vulnerabilities, bad days, and soft moments. I want to love him sincerely, genuinely, the same way he loves me.

If he can hold me all day when I’m falling apart, why wouldn’t I hold him when the weight is his? If I can cry into his chest, why shouldn’t he cry into mine? If I deserve princess treatment, then he deserves it too.

If I walk into a store to grab something small and my eyes catch a pair of cufflinks that would look perfect on him, I’ll buy them and surprise him. He deserves gifts from me too—even when it isn’t my responsibility. Love isn’t a duty; it’s a choice.

If his love language is food, then I’ll cook him a delicious meal and arrange the table with care, turning an ordinary evening into something warm and memorable. Not because I must, but because I want him to feel cherished.

If he’s facing problems I can help solve, I’ll lend my hand and stand by him. Isn’t that the essence of marriage? Partnership. Support. Presence.

But let me ask—if I don’t give him prince treatment, what treatment should I give him?

As women, we don’t need to be selfish in the name of self-preservation. We want the right men for ourselves, yet we sometimes forget to ask whether we are being the right women for them.

We expect our men to bring umbrellas when it rains, yet we’ve never imagined ourselves doing the same. Why? Because we assume men are built only to protect. But we forget that we are built to love—and loving is just as powerful.

Yes, we can give prince treatment without carrying burdens that aren’t ours. Love does not mean exhaustion. It does not mean overdoing. There is no need to pack heaps of his clothes to wash by hand just to prove devotion. Don’t start what you can’t finish.

Prince treatment is not slavery. It’s softness. It’s thoughtfulness. It’s showing up in small, meaningful ways.

If e reach your turn, no give your man prince treatment. He will seek for it somewhere else.

Marriage isn’t a throne for one—it’s a kingdom for two. If you’re not ready to

treat your man like royalty, please don’t audition for queen.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

But here lies the question: can a person truly step away from their own reflection to see the world exactly as others do? No. And that is where most misunderstandings are born.

Those reflections we cling to are our perspectives. The longer we view life through only our own lens, the more selfish we appear—not because we intend to be, but because our vision is limited. Every human carries a perspective as naturally as they carry a heartbeat. And behind every perspective is a reason, a story, a history that shaped it.

Perhaps the problem is not that we see differently, but that we forget others are seeing something just as real from where they stand.

I am a Nigerian girl, raised by Nigerian parents. And in this space, silence can be disrespect, while speaking can be rebellion. When I stay quiet as my parents talk, I am rude. When I try to explain myself, I am talking back. When I look at them, I am insolent. When I lower my eyes, I am ignoring them. There is no winning position—only different ways of being misunderstood. Perhaps every Nigerian child knows this language of contradiction, unless your parents are too wealthy to notice your presence at all.

So what, then, am I expected to do?

Some things are not born from perspective alone, but from traditions bent and hardened by people over time. Once, I picked leftover food from the street—not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t want a child to eat it and fall sick. Yet someone standing behind me saw only what their lens allowed them to see: a poor girl, desperate enough to scavenge. And just like that—judgment was passed. No questions. No pause. Just a conclusion sealed without explanation.

That is perspective. Or rather, the danger of it.

This same imbalance follows us into our homes, into siblinghood. When we are young and a fight breaks out between an older and a younger sibling, the blame falls easily on the older one: “You’re the elder. You should let it slide.” Years pass, and the roles reverse. When adulthood arrives and conflict resurfaces, the younger one is scolded instead: “You’re the younger. You should show respect.”

Both are wronged. Both are silenced in different ways. Yet both are expected to endure—because that is how it has always been.

In our culture, when an elder speaks, even in error, the younger must swallow their truth. Correction becomes disrespect. Silence becomes survival. And so we grow up learning not how to communicate, but how to endure being unheard.

Perhaps the real problem is not perspective itself—but our refusal to question it.

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I remember a day at the market. A small boy crouched on the ground, carefully gathering discarded vegetable leaves the sellers had thrown away. They were still fresh. Still good. A quiet act of survival. Then an elderly woman stormed toward him and snatched the leaves from his hands, declaring that he had taken enough.

No one spoke. Not even me.

Not because I was afraid—but because I knew better than to challenge an elder with the perspective of a child. In that moment, the boy’s hunger, his patience, his dignity—none of it mattered. Age had already decided who was right.

Yet, had that boy protested—had he said, “But I picked it first”—the crowd would have turned on him instantly. He would be labeled rude. Ungrateful. Disrespectful. Because in our society, a child’s perspective carries no weight. Silence is obedience. Endurance is virtue.

I once told my cousin, “Grown-ups are always right.” He disagreed. But isn’t that exactly what we were taught? Not that they are right because they are correct—but because our perspectives were never allowed to exist beside theirs. When an elder scolds you for something you are clearly innocent of, you are expected to apologize anyway. Truth becomes secondary. Peace becomes submission. The moment you resist this rule, you are no longer honest—you are disrespectful.

So we learn early: apologize, even when you are right. Accept blame, even when it is unjust. Swallow your voice, because it was never yours to use.

That same silencing follows us into our homes. Something happened once between me and my younger sister. I was speaking to her when she interrupted, explaining her side. I stopped. I listened. I gave her space.

Then suddenly, someone snapped from the corner of the room:

“Your sister is talking and you’re talking back at her? Isn’t that disrespectful?”

I was stunned.

Owwwkiii, I had listened. I had made room for her words. She was calm. I was calm. Yet somehow, she was still wrong. Not because of what she did—but because of how it was perceived.

And that is the problem. Perspective is not respected here. It is ranked. Age decides truth. Position decides innocence. And voices—especially young ones—are not heard, only managed.

Perhaps we don’t lack understanding. Perhaps we simply refuse to listen.

So many moments have taught me this truth: in the world we live in, everyone stands before their own mirror. They stare so deeply at their reflection that every other mirror turns blank. Other people’s stories blur. Other people’s reasons fade. It is not that we cannot see—it is that we do not care enough to look.

We ask, “Why did you do it?” when the real question should be, “What happened to you?”

And then we wonder which generation will rise to speak against injustice.But how will that happen when our voices were muted at home? When explanations were mistaken for rebellion, and silence was mistaken for respect? If a child is never allowed to explain themselves, which voice are they expected to use when the world wrongs them?

I am not defending disrespect. I am asking for dignity. I am asking for the simple right to explain one’s perspective without being crushed beneath authority or age. To speak without being labeled rude. To exist without being misunderstood on purpose.

Like I said from the beginning, one person cannot see through a million mirrors. But there is one way to be fair—listen. Not to reply. Not to dominate. Not to correct. But to listen.

Because as long as we refuse to listen, we will keep wounding each other in the name of being right. We will keep raising silent children and loud injustices. We will keep demanding change from a generation we never allowed to speak.

And maybe that is the real injustice—not that people are wrong, but that no one is allowed to explain why.

Maybe the problem was never my tone.

Maybe it was the fact that I had a voice at all.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.

But they never did. They only learned how to hurt in quieter ways. I remember the day I watched my two friends walk away, their hands entwined, swinging together, as though I had never stood between them, as though I had never existed at all.

I watched. Not because I wanted to—but because how does a nine-year-old girl wave goodbye? I didn’t know how. So I stayed still and let the moment pass through me.

I recall the day my hands first welcomed them.

“We are friends,” I had declared—once, twice, a thousand times—as if saying it enough would make it permanent. Looking back now, I wonder whether I was foolish or simply too gullible for my own age.

I truly believed there was a way to welcome someone without ever learning how to let them go. Now I know better. I wasn’t foolish—just innocent enough to believe that love could arrive without ever leaving.

I have waved more than one goodbye…not two… not three. It reached a point where my hand grew tired of welcoming, where even my fingers curled inward, as if they had learned that every greeting eventually demands a farewell.

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The seasons never stopped changing, and I learned to inhale the scent of each one—to walk across different kinds of leaves, to admire unfamiliar skies. Not as a girl with companions beside her, but as a girl who slowly stopped believing in friendship.

The goodbyes became too many, too heavy for a soul already learning how to crumble quietly. Each goodbye was bearable—I breathed through them all. I stayed standing. I stayed tall.

Until… until I had to hug the body that held me tight on my very first day on this earth. Until I had to wave at the one I would give anything to hold for the rest of my life. I couldn’t cry—no, I refused to.

How dare I cry when I am a strong daughter? And yet…daughters have hearts, don’t they? They carry emotions too. I left home—or so I believed.

Then someone said to me, “You didn’t leave home. You went in search of your growth.”

Growth. Why must growth be brutal? Why must it arrive carrying another goodbye in its hands? Why—must it hurt this much? Slowly, even growth began to lose its charm. I no longer knew whether I was growing at all—only that for my mother’s sake, I had to survive this goodbye.

And then another goodbye followed. I didn’t break…but I did shake. I stared at the same hands that once opened wide in welcome and later learned how to wave farewell. They are still soft—as soft as a promise that was never meant to last.

Somewhere along this journey, I forgot how to comfort another soul.

I forgot how to say “I miss you” without my voice freezing halfway. I stand like a statue now, watching other people’s tears fall, unsure of what I’m supposed to do with mine. I don’t want to wave another goodbye.

When a heart is already in pieces, there is nothing left to shatter— only more weight to carry. So I distance myself from people, not out of pride, but out of fear— fear of growing attached to something I’ll have to bury later.

Goodbyes are not about letting go. They are about watching familiarity turn into foreign. Isn’t that strange? I don’t look forward to the day my hand learns another goodbye.

Ubaidatullah Ismail

The same traditional reports state that Prophet Muhammad ﷺ was approximately fifty-three years old when the marriage was consummated. The marriage contract had been concluded earlier, when he was about fifty-one, but Aisha joined his household two years later. From that point onward, they lived together until the Prophet’s ﷺ death, a period of nearly nine years, during which Aisha matured into one of the most influential and knowledgeable figures in early Islamic history.

There is a reason I began by presenting my evidence. This is something I was taught as a young Muslim girl, and I accepted it without doubt or complaint. Why? Because it concerns Prophet Muhammad ﷺ—the final Prophet and the leader of all messengers. As Muslims, we believe that the greater part of his actions were guided by divine instruction. And Allah, in whom we believe, is perfect in wisdom and judgment. He does not err, nor does He command injustice.

This was the foundation of my faith as a child, and it remains my belief today as a conscious, practicing Muslim who believes firmly in Allah and His Messenger.

But questions do not exist in isolation. What, then, of other sects that also call themselves Muslims? What of laypeople who do not truly understand Islam? And what of those who stand openly as enemies of the faith?

Over time, I have encountered this issue repeatedly—not once or twice, but many times. I have heard accusations, particularly claims that some sects, such as Shi’ah groups, label the Prophet ﷺ with deeply offensive terms. At other times, these remarks come from people close to me, or even from strangers who speak without knowledge or context. After hearing these claims again and again, I realized that silence was no longer enough.

That is why I have chosen to take this initiative: to explain the matter clearly, calmly, and simply—not to provoke, but to educate; not to argue, but to bring understanding to an issue that is often discussed with emotion rather than knowledge.

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1. Why do some people make this accusation?

Many people today judge the past through the lens of modern laws and contemporary ideas of childhood. In the 21st century, childhood is legally defined as lasting until the age of eighteen. By this age, a person is considered an adult, capable of voting, obtaining a driver’s license, or entering into marriage.

Because of these modern standards, when some hear that Aisha was nine years old at the time of her marriage, they instinctively apply today’s norms to a society that existed fourteen centuries ago. They fail to consider the historical and cultural context of 7th-century Arabia. This mismatch between past and present understanding often leads to misunderstanding and misjudgment.

2. What was the historical context?

Prophet Muhammad ﷺ lived in 7th-century Arabia, a time very different from the world we know today. Back then, there was no universal age of adulthood. What defined a person as an adult was often puberty, physical maturity, and social readiness, not a fixed number of years. In this context, early marriage was not only socially acceptable in Arabia—it was common across many societies worldwide.

Historical examples show that early marriage was not unusual: in medieval Europe, girls could legally marry under twelve; in ancient Rome, girls sometimes married at twelve or even younger; and even 100–150 years ago, many societies still practiced early marriage.

Given this, judging a 7th-century individual by 21st-century laws and norms is historically unsound. Modern legal frameworks, definitions of childhood, and expectations of maturity are vastly different from those in the past. Most people forget these differences, and in doing so, they fail to understand the social, cultural, and legal realities of that era.

3. Who was Aisha at that age?

Aisha bint Abi Bakr was not like a modern nine-year-old child. According to authentic historical reports, she had already reached puberty and was mentally sharp, articulate, and confident. Even at a young age, she displayed remarkable intelligence and maturity.

As she grew, she became one of Islam’s greatest scholars, teaching both men and women, narrating over 2,000 hadiths, and emerging as a respected political and intellectual figure.

Her own words reflect her perspective: she never described herself as abused, but instead spoke proudly and lovingly of her marriage, continuing to defend the Prophet even after his passing.

Indeed, a victim would not typically become a strong public authority who openly discussed her marriage with such clarity and confidence. Aisha’s life and legacy demonstrate that she was respected, empowered, and fully capable—not a powerless child in the sense that modern critics imagine.

4. Does this make Prophet ﷺ a pedophile?

No, and here is why:

A pedophile is someone who has a persistent sexual attraction to pre-pubescent children and seeks out children because they are children. Prophet Muhammad ﷺ does not fit this description.

Throughout his life, he married adult women, including widows and divorcees. His first wife, Khadijah bint Khuwaylid, was forty years old, and he lived with her monogamously for twenty-five years.

Aisha was the only young bride in his life, and her marriage was not part of a recurring pattern. Considering his marriages, social context, and personal life, it is inaccurate to label the Prophet as a pedophile. Both psychologically and historically, his actions do not fit the definition of pedophilia.

5. Was this a bad character trait?

In Islamic belief, Prophet Muhammad ﷺ is regarded as a moral exemplar. His life was public and closely scrutinized by both allies and enemies. Notably, no contemporary adversary ever accused him of immorality in this matter.

If this act had truly been seen as immoral by the standards of his society, his enemies would have used it as a weapon against him immediately. Consider the fiercest of his opponents:

• Abu Jahl (ʿAmr ibn Hishām), who led the persecution of Muslims and mocked Islam openly.

• Abu Lahab, his own uncle, so hostile that an entire chapter of the Qur’an (Surah al-Masad) was revealed about him.

• Umayyah ibn Khalaf, notorious for torturing Muslims such as Bilal.

• Utbah ibn Rabiʿah and Shaybah ibn Rabiʿah, influential Meccan leaders and military opponents.

• Al-Walid ibn al-Mughirah, one of the most vocal critics in Mecca, who accused Prophet ﷺ of sorcery and falsehood.

None of these contemporaries ever accused the Prophet of being a pedophile.

This silence tells us something important: we do not have the right to falsely accuse the Prophet ﷺ of something so grave. Even those who may express hate or misunderstanding today cannot compare to the level of scrutiny and opposition he faced from these powerful figures during his lifetime.

Islam is a faith of beauty, wisdom, and profound respect. Its teachings honor human dignity, guide moral conduct, and call for understanding before judgment. If, after reading this explanation, one still views the Prophet ﷺ as a pedophile, it is not Prophet ﷺ or the faith at fault—it is a reflection of a misunderstanding of history, context, and knowledge.

Finding fault in Islam without seeking to understand it is not only unfair; it is a missed opportunity to see the depth and wisdom that have guided millions of lives for over fourteen centuries. Islam does not oppress—it enlightens, elevates, and teaches responsibility, compassion, and clarity of thought.

The truth is simple: before judging a past we do not fully understand, we must first strive to understand it.

May Allah guide us all.

Ubaidatullah Ismail.