By: Mehmudah Rehman The still night descended upon a pensive Fatima like a canopy of dark opportunity. She gazed blankly at the glass in front of her. The
The cubicles were still, the hum of the computers absent and the office nearly empty except for one woman. She was typing intently, turning only to check what she was writing against various charts strewn around her desk. Once she looked at her watch and then began to type with renewed energy. At 6:15 she finished with a flourish of fingers across the keys and then saved her document. She sighed and then gathered up the sheets of paper, sliding them neatly into a folder and then into her desk.
The atmosphere around me is one of urgency and the mood is intense. I shudder. I look around and find myself surrounded by faces looking on in awe. I reach out to touch an arm, it retracts. I grab a hand, it slithers out of my grasp. Breaking out in a cold sweat, I too begin to imitate the hushed, anxious crowd. I know where I am now. This is the Day of Judgment.
The hands on the clock said 1:45. She would come at 1:58, though her appointment was at two, and she would walk in and give a polite smile and say, quite simply, “Hello.” And he would smile, genuinely happy, and stand and return the greeting, courteously ask how she was doing and then offer her a chair on the other side of his desk. Then he would sit in tense silence as she opened her bag and took out the grammar books and the lessons for the day. He would look only at her hands as she did because looking at her face would be too obvious.
A poem inspired by the ban on prayer in public.
The hands on the clock said 1:45. She would come at 1:58, though her appointment was at two, and she would walk in and give a polite smile and say, quite simply, “Hello.” And he would smile, genuinely happy, and stand and return the greeting, courteously ask how she was doing and then offer her a chair on the other side of his desk. Then he would sit in tense silence as she opened her bag and took out the grammar books and the lessons for the day. He would look only at her hands as she did because looking at her face would be too obvious.
Assalamu alaykum readers, We have had some great additions to the MuslimMatters family. This week we will be publishing our first post by internationally acclaimed author Umm Zakkiyah. Umm Zakiyyah
You’re standing in front of a tall Tower. You reach out and feel the foundation, it’s real enough. You rap against it with your knuckles and the solidness of it kind of hurts, send shivers into your hand. You pass your palm along the wall and it is smooth, flawless. There is no question at all about whether the Tower exists. You smile to yourself and lean against the building whistling a happy tune.
The hands on the clock said 1:45. She would come at 1:58, though her appointment was at two, and she would walk in and give a polite smile and say, quite simply, “Hello.” And he would smile, genuinely happy, and stand and return the greeting, courteously ask how she was doing and then offer her a chair on the other side of his desk. Then he would sit in tense silence as she opened her bag and took out the grammar books and the lessons for the day. He would look only at her hands as she did because looking at her face would be too obvious.
The living room was dark except for a thin shaft of light that shone underneath the front door. A clock chimed, once, twice, thrice. The curtains on the window were drawn, and only the faintest glow from the outside world passed through them. In that darkness the father shifted his weight on the sofa.
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