Maymuna is originally from Ghana and immigrated to the United States ten years ago. Her family had to remain behind. We first met when Maymuna knocked on my door one day. She had seen my name on the door and was proud that a Muslim woman lived and taught at the university.

You would never guess that she is over fifty. “What is your secret?” I teased her. “Is there some special cream that makes you look so radiant, energetic, and young?” Maymuna laughed shyly and lowered her gaze.

From the very first moment, I took Maymuna into my heart. We began seeing each other almost every day, sharing stories about our families and our lives far away from the people we so often longed for. Meanwhile, Maymuna would frequently glance at her watch, making sure she did not exceed her allotted break time.

“A person of faith must earn their money honestly,” she reminded me. “If I stay longer than I am allowed to, then I am not entitled to that part of my wages. And there would be no blessing or benefit in it anyway.”

Maymuna walked with a pronounced limp. When I asked her about it, she told me that one day a drunk man had pushed her down the stairs in the stairwell of her apartment building. She lived in a poor neighborhood, she said, and these were things one simply had to accept. This world is temporary, she reminded me, and in the end, everyone will have to answer for what they have done. She echoed for me the Islamic teachings of the Qur’an and the Prophet Muhammad that this world is fleeting.

“My people, the life of this world is only a brief enjoyment; it is the Hereafter that is the lasting home,” [Surah Ghafir; 40:39]

On the authority of Abdullah ibn Umar , who said:

The Messenger of Allah took me by the shoulder and said, “Be in this world as though you were a stranger or a wayfarer.” And Ibn Umar used to say, “In the evening do not expect [to live until] the morning, and in the morning do not expect [to live until] the evening. Take [advantage of] your health before times of sickness, and [take advantage of] your life before your death.”  – Al-Bukhari

A few days ago, Maymuna told me that every year, before the end of Ramadan, she gathers food and has it shipped to Ghana: rice, oil, flour, and noodles. Her family is so grateful to her, and you can see her joy in her face. The celebration at the end of Ramadan in Ghana, although she herself cannot be there to take part in it, is also a celebration of the memory of Maymuna’s kindness, warmth, sincerity, and sacrifice.

She sends most of her salary to her family every month. She told me with great pride that, because of her, her three brothers have already been able to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. She prays that one day she, too, will be able to circle the Kaaba.

Every evening, we meet her in the university prayer room. We pray side by side and thank the Creator who brought us together.

I love spending time with Maymuna. She is kind, warmhearted, sincere, and her selflessness inspires me to become a better person. But more than that, she reminds me of my immigrant roots and of the people who raised me with these values and embodied them throughout their lives.

Being with Maymuna meant being close to my immigrant family—to my parents and my five siblings. So much of what Maymuna shared with me reflected the experiences and realities of my own immigrant journey.

I remembered how my mother and I would wake up at five every morning and go to work to clean offices. She was meticulous to the point of being almost obsessive; everything had to be absolutely spotless. And whenever I complained that she was being too thorough, I would often hear from her the very same words I heard from Maymuna.

“God loves beauty, and whatever we do should be done as beautifully as possible,” my mother would remind me.

Poverty and a lack of educational opportunities had forced her and my father to emigrate from Türkiye to Germany. Yet she was always generous in giving, and whenever we encountered someone who was homeless, she would share whatever little she had.

My parents not only took on the challenge of building a completely new life from the ground up in a new country; they also cared for their six children and for the families who had remained behind in the village.

My mother was a simple woman with no formal education. School had been denied to her. Yet her social intelligence surpassed that of most people I have known.

After work, the women would gather to talk and listen to one another. Often, these gatherings felt like group therapy. They shared their experiences, listened to each other, and drew strength from one another.

In my academic career, it was not the formal education that shaped my life most deeply. It was the informal life lessons I had received from these strong women, and I have always considered it one of the greatest blessings of my life.

Generational conflicts, feelings of alienation, language barriers, social discrimination, questions about their Muslim identity in a new context, and the guilt of having had to leave their families behind and not always being there for them—all of this was anything but foreign to Maymuna, my mom, and women like them.

It is therefore painful that, beyond all the important debates surrounding immigration policies, these people are not treated with the same kindness and warmth that they have extended to others throughout their lives.

Instead, they are often judged, sometimes in an almost condescending manner, for their lives—a life many have never lived.

If we took a little time to get to know silent heroes like Maymuna, and to bring them out of invisibility and into the light, perhaps we might come closer to one another. Perhaps we would learn to recognize and appreciate one another more deeply as different members of the same community.

Last Mother’s Day, I found myself longing for my mom—for the way she would gently stroke my head while I lay in her lap and tell me stories of days gone by in the village.

I decided to buy Maymuna a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. When she embraced me in gratitude, my longing disappeared.

They are all our mothers. They are all our invisible heroes.

They all deserve our love and our respect.

Related:

– What Is A Refugee?

– Podcast: Refugee Representation In Muslim Literature