a love letter to my deen
the fig tree on my relationship with islam, why religion is such a pivotal aspect of people's identity and a brief autobiography on myself and my deen
They say that it’s a mandatory life stage, a period of religious and philosophical discovery every man and woman must undergo. There will come a time when you’re sixty something, freshly retired and dabbling in religious texts. Or perhaps you’ve just begun university and are full of questions. Most argue that religion is something almost everyone explores; it is inherent to human nature to have a curiosity for the unseen and any possible explanations that arise.
Have they not travelled throughout the land so their hearts may reason, and their ears may listen? Indeed, it is not the eyes that are blind, but it is the hearts in the chests that grow blind. (Quran 22:46)
The interesting thing lies in the fact that Islam isn’t merely a religion, it’s a دين (deen)1. Islam is in many ways, a way of living. The Quran and Hadith provide us with knowledge beneficial for all realms of life and human existence - moral, social, political, legal and so forth. Islam is timeless, easily applied to the modern day and flawlessly integrated into the legal systems of many countries (a topic for another post)2.
It is exactly 6pm on the 18th of December, I type this on the train from Makkah to Madinah. Miles and miles of desert stretches desperately outwards, lone men tending to camels. It is around Maghrib time, dunes blending seamlessly into the horizon. There is a surreal charm to it all, a perfect landscape as I type this piece I have craved to write for so long. How beautiful it is, whether you believe in God or not, the earth has been created with even the smallest of details. The crinkle of my silk abaya; the subtle arrangement of desert cacti. Everything has been designed with a purpose. You have a purpose for existence, as do I.
This is a sentiment often expressed by my dear grandfather, an intelligent and heavily educated man. Having taught at prestigious institutions in both Pakistan and the Emirates, he has spent a considerable period of his life studying the political and social sciences, alongside religion and philosophy. At the age of six, he would sit me next to him and point out this level of detail to me. While passing a tray of figs and mango, my dada would muse about the deen. When someone refutes God’s existence, dada said, ask them about the Earth. Ask them that, if that were the case, why is every object and being designed with such intricate purpose?
I do believe these nostalgic talks with my grandfather truly allowed me to open my mind. In many ways, they were my first experience with the notion of religion. Having been born a Muslim, a privilege I am endlessly grateful for, I certainly knew Islam. As soon as I could speak, my mum would teach me the sweet words of Ayat Ul Kursi. At seven, I would follow my relatives in prayer. At eleven, I chose to wear the hijab and abaya, and would attend islamic school weekly. Islam was a friend I knew well, and a friend that would slowly become the epicentre of my life over a decade later.
ٱللَّهُ لَآ إِلَـٰهَ إِلَّا هُوَ ٱلْحَىُّ ٱلْقَيُّومُ ۚ لَا تَأْخُذُهُۥ سِنَةٌۭ وَلَا نَوْمٌۭ ۚ لَّهُۥ مَا فِى ٱلسَّمَـٰوَٰتِ وَمَا فِى ٱلْأَرْضِ ۗ مَن ذَا ٱلَّذِى يَشْفَعُ عِندَهُۥٓ إِلَّا بِإِذْنِهِۦ ۚ يَعْلَمُ مَا بَيْنَ أَيْدِيهِمْ وَمَا خَلْفَهُمْ ۖ وَلَا يُحِيطُونَ بِشَىْءٍۢ مِّنْ عِلْمِهِۦٓ إِلَّا بِمَا شَآءَ ۚ وَسِعَ كُرْسِيُّهُ ٱلسَّمَـٰوَٰتِ وَٱلْأَرْضَ ۖ وَلَا يَـُٔودُهُۥ حِفْظُهُمَا ۚ وَهُوَ ٱلْعَلِىُّ ٱلْعَظِيمُ ٢٥٥
Allah! There is no god ˹worthy of worship˺ except Him, the Ever-Living, All-Sustaining. Neither drowsiness nor sleep overtakes Him. To Him belongs whatever is in the heavens and whatever is on the earth. Who could possibly intercede with Him without His permission? He ˹fully˺ knows what is ahead of them and what is behind them, but no one can grasp any of His knowledge—except what He wills ˹to reveal˺. His Seat1 encompasses the heavens and the earth, and the preservation of both does not tire Him. For He is the Most High, the Greatest.2
[Ayat Ul Kursi, Quran 2:255]
However, although I write this as a love letter in its most raw and beautiful form, it is also an autobiography of my unique relationship with my deen. As of this moment, I have completed my Umrah3 for the second consecutive year4. Staying in the holy city of Makkah has offered me time to reflect, tears falling from my eyes as I gape in disbelief at the Kaaba. I have come so far, it is truly unreal, the very flesh of my foot has touched the marble floors of Masjid Ul Haram (the fact that I’m not purely emphasising this for dramatic effect, this is EXACTLY how I feel, I could genuinely write an entire dissertation).
It is this very indescribable feeling that drives me to write of my experience with religion. I do not care whether you are a Muslim, a believer in God (SWT), or simply curious about religion as a concept. I type this in the hopes that there is something within this for you to relate to; be that the feeling of awe as you observe the dynamics of nature, or a deeper sense that there is some form of a higher being.
We visit the twelfth year of my life, a year of both trauma and joy. It is sometime in the middle of June (2017), July and my teenage years are quite imminent. I have just completed my incredibly tiresome ten-minute walk from school, fizzy sweets tossed onto the table for my younger siblings. Baba is working from home and frowning, everything seems perfectly normal. My biggest concern is recording today’s musical.ly, after all Selena asked me to duet her, who am I to say no? My mum chastises me for spilling juice on my school abaya.
“Have you seen the news?” My dad asks my mum, who sets her plate and sits down. She too frowns. I hear of more terror attacks; it is all every other kid talks about at school. My stomach churns.
“They’ve made a list,” my mum says quietly, worry on her face. “For every attack on a Muslim, there is a reward.”
How I wish I was able to return to the naivety of my childhood! When my biggest concern was my crush not reciprocating, rather than my hijab being torn off. I was still a child, in all truth. But suddenly, with the virtual spread of a list created by bitter incels, my life took a darker trajectory. With every run to reach school on time, I’d spend most of the journey stopping to check my surroundings, paranoia of an acid attack gnawing away at my mind. I’d dream of it at times, a faceless figure thriving in my suffering, all because of my personal choice to conceal. Soon it became too much, I felt that my open mindedness and attachment towards my religion was a curse. I’d never stop thinking, why Muslims? Why does it matter? Are we not allowed to make our own choices in this dreadfully short life? I did not and will not ever understand how humans can lack such intellect and be so painfully narrow minded. The choice of an individual to pursue a certain religion, believe in a certain (albeit harmless) idea and belong to a certain race. It is a beautiful thing; diversity is what shapes our world. It is what truly drives it. It would baffle me then and baffles me to this very moment; why are some humans so hateful?
I am not proud to admit this, but these feelings contorted into something akin to self-hatred. Younger me, who had once prided herself on her open mindedness, began to question everything. I would like to reiterate that I did not begin to exhibit or experience hatred towards others, it was more so directed towards myself. Self-conscious and ever a people pleaser, I made the decision to integrate more out of fear. I correct myself; it was not purely fear, but a deeper sense of cowardice brewing within.
A month later, I moved to Pakistan. I also made the decision to remove my hijab. Although I was far from becoming a perfect Muslim, the one link keeping me within reach of my deen was my appearance. That had changed. A sensible individual would think moving to a Muslim majority country would bring me closer to Islam, instead it did the opposite. This self-hatred remained for years, as the gap between my deen and I wedged further. I vividly recall thinking about this during a tiresome Geography lesson. I was France, my religion was Britain. My self-doubt, insecurity and identity crisis had metamorphosed into the English Channel. However, it was drifting apart at an unprecedented rate.
Like most people, I find it immensely addicting, scrolling mindlessly through my TikTok ‘for you’ page. Often, I come across posts from my beautiful homeland, Pakistan. British Pakistanis muse about their well spent summer, wistfully describing the luxuries of living in South Asia. Certainly, these experiences are a privilege enjoyed by a small minority. Sadly, not everyone can afford regular late-night trips to Monal, or beautiful manor houses. I have also observed how many have expressed how close they feel to Islam, staying in a Muslim country. Occasionally, a post appears, offering a look into the more nightlife aspect of Islamabad. People living in the West are in dismay, floods of criticism emerging in the comment sections.
“Ye kiya wannabe-western cheezay hai” (Why are they such western wannabes?) says one comment, another mocks “pov what the cousins actually get up to back home.”
Having spent my early teens in Islamabad, I have been a victim of both sides of the narrative. As a child, I would visit and adore the connection I experienced. There was something so surreal about Faisal Mosque, praying salah with my wider family and rooftop dinners in Ramadan. I hadn’t been regular with my salah back home, something that is unjustifiable, but I would change my habits whenever I visited back home. But when I actually began to live and attend school there, something swiftly changed. I soon forgot how to recite and became obsessed with attracting the attention of the opposite gender and other worldly things, like high school popularity.
Soon enough, my prayers were scarce. Only when I needed something, I’d become religious. Or if I felt completely alone, though there is nothing wrong with the latter. I was known as glamorous and outspoken5, rarely someone that would be acknowledged as a Muslimah. I knew that my drift from religion was apparent when a girl I had (mistakenly) befriended visited my house, shocked at the fact that I was praying salah. During non-uniform days, I would dress in traditional Pakistani attire, standing out like a sore thumb amidst crop tops and skinny jeans. I am not a girl who judges, especially given that I am still on my modesty journey, but my classmates obsessing and wearing the same outfits as my old friends in the UK was something I had not come to expect. Pakistan was changing in my eyes, along with it transformed my relationship with my deen. I was no longer the bright eyed and innocent girl living in East London, instead the homeland I held such intense adoration and reminiscence for had rendered me someone lost in the worldly desires of this dunya.
The year 2019, my most beloved year (to much irony). I often reminisce to my younger cousins, expressing how this was the year I peaked. Once a girl still juggling the downsides of pre puberty, I was now a rather pretty fifteen-year-old girl. Strangers commented on my bubbly attitude, my friends giggled about how “fun” I was. I’d thrive in my peer’s attention, using it as a source of confidence. Teachers would complain about how I’d disrupt lessons with my silly comments and irritating jokes. I’d spend most of first period in the girl’s bathroom, topping up my lip combo consisting of a matte kylie lipstick and the too faced lip injection. Although I wouldn’t deem myself popular (many people resented me for my hyperactive personality and un-seriousness), I knew most people and most people knew me. From afar, an old friend mentioned that my life had seemed mostly perfect. I was thin with clear skin and perfectly straightened hair. My nails were always done, and I was invited to parties. I was the pretty albeit somewhat annoying British girl, known for my questionable dating history.
It is true that often with the life of a person many people admire, there is always envy. Envy ends up ruining things, or things were already ruined in the first place. It is also, in my experience, true when they say a loud and ‘unserious’ person uses their personality in the hopes of concealing insecurity. Perhaps if I am loud and bubbly and attractive, they won’t see the insecurity and lack of self-confidence I still possessed from thirteen. More so, my social life was going well, I had a close-knit family and friends and parties and boys and (occasionally) good grades. My teachers would find me annoying but praised me upon the rare, good behaviour. Most had a soft spot for my ‘class clown’ antics. Nevertheless, something unpleasant remained, confined behind the steel gates of my Islamabad home. My relationship with my deen was barely breathing, almost entirely lifeless. I am ashamed to admit it and only do so in the hopes of inspiring change in others who feel the same; but I would only pray if I needed something. I suffered with severe depression and suicidal tendencies for years on end, often I’d cry myself to sleep daily, wishing I was perfect in the eyes of those I had yet to please. The remnants of my teenage trauma remain, glaringly obvious tear marks that serve well when applying eyeliner. They are daily reminders of my past, a past where I didn’t have the debris of my supposedly beautiful cruise ship keeping me afloat. I knew of the risks of suicide and what was written in the Quran, yet this did not stop me from considering it.
“The first matter that the slave will be brought to account for on the Day of Judgment is the prayer. If it is sound, then the rest of his deeds will be sound. And if it is incomplete, then the rest of his deeds will be incomplete.” (Sahih Al Tabarani)
My beloved mother6 would still attempt to fill the gaping hole I had in my life following the absence of my faith. I would not say Islam itself was absent, it is always there, warmly awaiting my return. It has always been to me my truest friend, never judging and ever welcoming. My mother would encourage me to attend Islamic events and dawah sessions, the devilish entity that was my teenage angst and depression would squirm in discomfort as I took a few pivotal steps towards the straight path.
Around 2021, I felt things that were new to me and felt alienated by other members of the deen, although never the religion. Islam by itself is very flexible, and this was something that pushed me to find it again. I cannot express enough how merely being born Muslim isn’t enough, it is crucial that every person finds it and desperately searches for it, craving a bond so close to their Almighty Creator (SWT). I will mention that my feelings were merely confusion at my ever-conflicting identity, but there are people out there who truly regard it as being them and that’s okay. I firmly believe there is something beautiful in being certain of yourself, but the relationship between you and God SWT is much sweeter. Islam teaches us not to judge but warmly embrace everyone, believers, and non-believers, and it is for this reason it poses such a threat to people who pretend to accept but truly do not. I will not excuse my internal misguidance under the argument of being a teenager and hence a child, I was seventeen and able enough. But in some ways, I do not regret how I found Islam for it truly was the most beautiful journey and this post is both an account of my relationship and simultaneous love letter.
Back to the seventeenth year of my life, I was naïve and at the verge of collapse, I experienced heartbreak and self-sabotage. The pandemic had rendered me void of the one thing I had for a long time, my ‘good looks.’ Binge eating and hormonal struggles caused me to gain weight, my friends of four years almost entirely left me, I had my reputation destroyed. This isn’t a sob story, and I am much better now Alhamdulillah. However, I do look back in exasperation at how, despite my pain, I was still so stubborn and unwilling to revert to my deen. Allah SWT awoke me each morning for fajr, I slept through, a satanic voice instilling a sense of bitter resentment within me. I was a loser in the plainest form, expressing my pain by blaming my deen for not helping me, even though it was I who could not help myself. Out of spite, I would purposefully reject any opportunity to redeem myself and my faith. I went as far as to proclaim myself atheist, when in reality I was certain of God’s existence, I just didn’t want to believe. Why would I believe in a God who rejected me and permitted me to suffer such pain? I assured myself at night. How wrong I was.
“Allah does not charge a soul except [with that within] its capacity.” [Quran 2:286]
The truth is humans need setbacks to grow. Depression is one of these numerous setbacks. In the view of myself and other muslims, this world is a temporary illusion. A test of patience and love, a unique examination of one’s ability to cope with trauma. God (SWT) loves us. A love that our limited minds fail to conceive. He (SWT) wants us to grow and thrive and for this to occur, we will experience the uncomfortable. That is inevitable. Take this example: often you’ll see podcasters and influencers stressing how it is normal to lose people around you. Some people aren’t good for you, although you are unable to see this at the time. Losing friendships and relationships is a setback, a setback that transforms your life for the better. Whether you believe in religion or not, that is not for me to decide. But everyone has a paradise in their eyes, something to strive for. Muslims strive for Jannah, an eternal garden of paradise. Other religions have their own idealised notions of heaven that although I do not believe in, I respect the idea of. For someone who doesn’t align well with faith, their paradise might be a dream they have, the future they desperately strive to manifest. Setbacks are littered on the path to heaven. That much is certain.
A Levels saw my relationship with my deen grow. I too experienced setbacks, whether imminent heartbreak or the fitna associated with starting university. I don’t talk much about this for obvious reasons, I have changed, but my biggest push towards my deen was my struggle with addiction. I don’t think there is a need to dwell on my sins much further as this isn’t necessary, but my struggles had partly erased the hard work I had done towards the end of sixth form. “You were getting so religious!” said one person. “What on earth happened?” For obvious reasons, despite my respect to those who advise others, I much prefer my relationship with my deen be kept private unless I choose to reveal it (like in this post). I understand the genuine intention behind the remark, so I bit my tongue and said nothing. In all truth, my desire to fit in is still there. There are times when I do slip into unneeded habits (although nothing like addiction). I am a human in flesh, still suffering setbacks. Although I no longer enjoy ‘partying’, I do enjoy getting ready with my girls. Now, I choose late night restaurant dates with friends, a suitable substitute that doesn’t involve neglecting my friend (my deen). The easiest solution to my issues is the feeling of tawakkul7, absolute trust in God (SWT). Everything does in fact happen for a reason, you miss the bus because something better is waiting to step onto your path. If I don’t get a first in an essay8, perhaps it is because it could lead to dangerous overconfidence.
Finally, I do believe my biggest push towards my deen was the isolation I experienced in the summer. I have not spoken about this without metaphor, but I experienced something no person should ever experience last summer. The cruel and unwanted touch of a vile stranger. I cried to God (SWT) about what had happened, how I was made to feel so slutty and disgusting9. The man I thought I had taken an interest to pretended like I never existed, my friends again isolated me. I feared leaving the house and being harassed by men who judged me for what had happened and had found out about it without my consent. My reputation as a woman, socially delicate and doomed from the start, had tarnished tremendously. Although I had lost many, I remained patient. God SWT kept my best and closest friends and family, all unwaveringly loyal and supportive. Those who had left me, people who would to this day stubbornly deny their wickedness, were swiftly replaced with much better friends and more in quantity. My unfaltering faith in my deen and God (SWT)’s ability to violate those who had violated me kept me going. It still keeps me going.
Dear deen, I now write in my concealed and battered journal. I understand. I applaud you for remaining patient with me. For keeping my faith in God (SWT). An unwavering faith, In Sha Allah. I express my deep appreciation for you as being an anchor granted by Him (SWT), softly nudging me towards Him (SWT) and a much better future.
Dear God (Allah SWT), I write in a much larger and emphasised fashion, for He (SWT) is the sole reason for my existence and everything and anything I will ever seek to please. Thank you for accepting me and bringing me closer to You (SWT). I hope that my patience is rewarded in ways I can never imagine, and the same goes for all of you readers.
I will reiterate for a final time, in possibly my longest substack post to date. This is a love letter to my deen and mostly my Creator (SWT), a culmination of two decades of pain and trauma in the making. The setbacks have enabled me to thrive, and I will continue to thrive. After all, how can any pitiful human threaten me if I have a strong and unbeatable force on my side?
I would also like to emphasise; this is a post I hope figments of can relate to both the religious and those who do not attach themselves to any religion. My page is a safe space for all peaceful opinions, and I am eager to remain openminded and listen to the experiences of others around me. Acceptance is so important to me, as is diversity. I think every belief is so distinctly beautiful and I admire each and every one.
Yours truly,
— The Fig Tree in a love letter to my deen.
deen (arabic دين): a term encompassing judgement, custom and religion - widely defined as a way of life inspired by the Islamic religion.
I would like to clarify that many countries don’t implement the religion into their legal systems properly, often leading to human rights abuses and conflict with international humanitarian law. That, however, is a topic for another post.
religious pilgrimage
Alhamdulillah, may Allah SWT accept it!
There is nothing wrong with this, it only becomes an issue when it replaces my relationship with religion (in my view).
May Allah SWT grant her Jannat Ul Firdaos!
In the Arabic language, tawakkul (Arabic: تَوَكُّل) is a verbal noun of the verb tawakkala (Arabic: تَوَكَّلَ), meaning "to put trust" or "to rely" (into or on something or someone). It is also the word for the Islamic concept of the reliance on God or "trusting in God's plan".
And Allah SWT knows best!
Although this should never be the case.
I just started my Substack journey in which I explore effective ways of freeing Palestine and sharing deep thoughts (among other things) follow for more 🫶🏻
Such an emotional and beautifully written essay, this resonates with me deeply.