An interesting response to the Christchurch Terrorist

Quite the opposite has occurred you imbecile. Your idiotic wishes have failed, perhaps you’ve given hope to one or two lone sharks, but I guarantee you, you’ve most likely made thousands more take a long hard look at themselves and assess if this utter senseless murder is actually what they aspire to.

But still, you’ve given our brothers and sisters who passed at your merciless hands the highest of statutes, granted them ranks beyond your comprehension, weep as your goals have gone unfulfilled and no one will know you for anything more than being excrement, which served to spring forth more beauty than your ravaged soul could ever imagine.

Below is not mine…

Beautifully written by a Chinese revert. (It is written to the killer who attacked Muslims in NZ)

(I) Appreciate that you made the effort to find out the timing of our noon prayer.

Appreciate that you learnt more about our religion to know that Fridays are the days the men go to the Mosques for their congregational prayers.

But I guess there were some things you, rather unfortunately, didn’t get to learn.

Perhaps you didn’t know that what you did made them Martyrs.

And how you have single-handedly raised the statuses of our brothers and sisters in the eyes of their beloved Creator with your actions. And how, through your actions, they will be raised as the most righteous and pious of Muslims.

Perhaps you didn’t know that doing what you did, at the time and place you chose, it actually meant that the last words that escaped their lips were probably words of remembrance and praise of Allah. Which is a noble end many Muslims could only dream of.

And perhaps you didn’t know, but what you did would almost guarantee them paradise.

Appreciate that you showed the world how Muslims welcome, with open arms, even people like yourself into our Mosques, which is our second home.

Appreciate you for showing that our mosques have no locks or gates, and are unguarded because everyone and anyone is welcome to be with us.

Appreciate you for allowing the world to see the powerful image of a man you injured, lying on back on the stretcher with his index finger raised high, as a declaration of his faith and complete trust in Allah.

Appreciate how you brought the Churches and communities together to stand with us Muslims.

Appreciate that you made countless New Zealanders come out of their homes to visit the mosques nearest to them with flowers with beautiful messages of peace and love.

You have broken many many hearts and you have made the world weep. You have left a huge void.

But what you also have done have brought us closer together. And it has strengthened our faith and resolve.

In the coming weeks, more people will turn up in the Mosques, a place you hate so much, fortified by the strength in their faith, and inspired by their fallen brothers and sisters.

In the coming weeks, more non Muslims will turn up at the gates of mosques with fresh flowers and beautifully handwritten notes. They may not have known where the mosques in their area was. But now, they do. All because of you.

You may have achieved your aim of intended destruction, but I guess you failed to incite hatred, fear and despair in all of us.

And while I understand that it may have been your objective, I hate to say that after all of that elaborate planning, and the perverse and wretched efforts on your part, you still failed to drive a divide among the the Muslims and non-Muslims in the world.

For that, I can’t say that I’m sorry.
(A Radiant Muslim)

How do I feel about Christchurch?

How do I feel about Christchurch?

Indifferent.

I’ve been asked how I feel about the Christchurch massacre. What I gather instead is that I have been asked to feel. That’s not the same. What that really means and then breaks down to is; we want you to feel, even yet again and more precisely; you are being forced to feel.

I don’t take lightly to being forced. I reject any form of it.
I won’t let people or events sway me one way or another.

Call me cold, but I digress to calling it numbness.

I believe people who are swayed so easily by media are in proper reaction mode, and when I say proper, I am not complementing them. They’re proper according to the swayings of what media wants them to feel.

What’s disturbing is people don’t realise it’s yet another sign of the hour coming nearer….

And yet we’re not scared of that.

We’re mortified by an event but aren’t mortified by our insides and what state we’re going to die in at any given moment.

Look at the first person who died.

His last words were ‘salam brother’, he’ll be resurrected in that state.

What is my state? People are asking each other about it , asking how they feel and I don’t feel a thing.

I’m intoxicated in my disgusting state and occupied in it’s disaster. I have my own massacre inside, I have my own atrocities and they’re on a perpetual replay reel. They never stop, I never get to hear the flickering of film at the end of my movie, it’s on constant replay and I am drowning in that. I can’t surface to catch a breath let alone look at the shore or the scenery.

I’m momentarily torn, mainly angry, I cry a tear for but a brief second of recognition, not because these men and women and children lost their lives, but because I’ve still got mine and I’m a walking disaster whilst they were honoured by their Lord to be taken in a worshipping state.

How will I go? Backbiting? Thinking ill thoughts? Hating, angry, lying?

I’m gathering and walking through these states and don’t know if I’ll be taken in one of them. That’s what scares me and should everyone else.

How does anyone know when they will flip the switch, have the devil take them by the hand to commit any of the above mentioned heinous crimes against ourselves? Because ultimately, that’s what the shooter did, he ignored his insides for so long until they took over.

If each of us stopped to fix five of these ugly internal vices a year, just five, then we’d not be having these conversations, feeling these misplaced feelings, have a lot more honour and respect in dealing with each other and truly love one another more.

That’s why I don’t feel, I don’t hashtag or cry for anyone.

I’m too busy, self absorbed in my own sins to hold anyone hostage for theirs.

Wesam El dahabi

who it comes to

 

All beautiful things are concealed well.
Pearls, diamonds, sages, gnostics and my favourite;
artists and writers who only become apparent when they pass.

If you think you’re going to arrive,
at beauty without a struggle,
wisdom and truth without suffering,
peace without a war inside of you,
if you think you’re entitled to it all by default,
just for existing,
then you’re deluded,
and deserve to be barred from it.

Do the work and be patient.

-Wesam El dahabi

Amazing pieces by Hossein Irandoust

What would you pay?

I don’t think I’ve come across more sadness,
than realising my capacity,
knowing I have to lose everything,
to offer thanks for all I’ve been given.

And yet it offers an ease to this anxiety,
that leeches on my happiness,
relinquishment after all is said and done,
floats like fairness in the air.

If ever there was more of a reason,
to lose myself in work,
it is in gratitude to gifts I know are there,

Losing love,
losing health,
losing time,
status or money,
becoming the target of wagging tongues,
pointed fingers,
the laughing stock,
or despised amongst men,
is a small price to pay,
for surpassing mediocrity.

I’ve never met a man devoted to their art,
who could be easily comprehended,
nor a woman Gnostic and acetic,
who wasn’t indifferent to their appearance,
neglectful of their condition,
enough to misguide the laymen
away from their secrets.

Of things I’ve come to know,
there’s a truth that gnaws and twists,
and that is,
brilliance, has its price.

-Wesam El dahabi

Adhan


Oh Bilal,
I wonder,
if that stone placed upon your chest,
an act of barbarity,
to stifle your tongue,
from mentioning The One, The One,
to suffocate your breath,
didn’t in fact give you lungs,
didn’t in fact expand your breast.

No stone, nor mountain,
would in future find more peace,
and tremble with love and awe,
than by hearing your voice,
And have your breath between them soar.

God made that stone and every stone, subservient to your Ruh,
your Reeh,
your zephyr that passes between your teeth,
from the well within,
far too deep,
for the materialist minds,
for the societal sheep,
to do anything but misunderstand,
but a thousand years and a thousand more,
still makes every believer weep.

W.E.

Bilal Ibn Rabah, was the first African to become a Muslim.
He suffered tremendously for his pronouncement of faith.
At a time where the Meccan dignitaries were oppressing anyone, be they of nobility or a layman, the punishment endured by Bilal was nothing short of an extension and proof of the putridness that lay within them, the barbarity and hostility they had towards anyone who professed to believe in One God.

Bilal’s would go on to become one of the most infamous rebellion stories.
A slave to wealthy Meccans, upon hearing the call to believe in one God, the equality of men and women before God that Islam espoused, Bilal defied his owners and would not whip Ammar bin Yassir when asked to make an example out of him. So instead, his owner and the rest of Mecca decided to make an example out of Bilal.

They whipped and punished him, dragged him around town with rope around his neck, even dipped him in boiling water, and still, Bilal could only echo ‘Ahadun, Ahad’, – The One, The One. Two syllables that would enrage the Meccans who wanted him to denounce one God and instead worship and acknowledge their many gods.

Umayyah ibn Khalaf, became enraged, being the owner of Bilal, he set about from the start to orchestrate all the punishment. Finally he had a stone brought forward which took four men to lift and placed it upon Bilals chest. Defiantly, Bilal would not succumb, ‘Ahadun, Ahad’, The One, The One.

It was at this time Abu Bakr, paid for Bilals freedom, when Ummayy had realised he could no longer have any use for him, he thought, being the materialist oppressor he was, that the money is better than a ‘useless’ slave.

Bilal was bought off and set free by Abu Bakr.

Upon hearing his story, the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) became extremely fond of Bilal.

Bilal would go on to be the official Mu’adhen (caller) to prayer. The Prophet Muhammad preferred him over anyone else because of his sincerity and piercing voice.

So here we have a man, thought of as nothing, a former slave who was persecuted and tortured by the Meccans, now calling the prayer for all Muslims.
His call, which he saw in a dream, has become the only call to be recited by all Muslims around the world 1430 years later.

Bilal lived out his life alongside the Prophet Muhammad and the companions until the day came when the Prophet (peace be upon him), passed from this world.
Bilal was making the call to prayer and upon reaching the part mentioning the Prophet, broke down inconsolably. He finally finished the call but couldn’t bare to be around the place where the Prophet’s scent still lingered, and joined the convoy of Muslims heading to Damascus and settled there.

One night, he saw the Prophet (peace be upon him), in his dreams who asked him ‘Oh Bilal, why is it that you don’t visit me?’ Upon waking, Bilal immediately packed his belongings and set for Madinah.

Upon arriving, he was greeted by Al Hassan and Al Hussayn (God be well pleased with them), the noble grand children of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). Bilal had a deep fondness for them, because they were so dear to the Prophet. So when they requested he make adhan for prayer, he could not refuse their wish.

Upon initiating the call, suddenly Madinah and all its inhabitants fell into shock. For a moment, they reminisced, they were all taken and thought that the Prophet Muhammad had returned and began crying and coming out into the streets, rushing to the central prayer mosque. Upon arriving the joy was apparent on everyone’s faces, it wasn’t the Prophet, but it was his beloved companion and preferred caller to prayer, Bilal. This was the last time Bilal would call the prayer in Madinah.

Bilal would eventually return to Damascus where he passed away.

His story reminds us today that no matter the persecution, God always has a plan far grander than any punishment oppressors can dish out.

From the chains of slavery, Bilal became the echo on every Muslims lips, five times a day at the minimum, reminding them of God, calling them to prayer, calling them to success, calling them to establishment and rectitude of their affairs, reminding them to reconcile, admit error, improve ones affairs and repent from evil or wrong doing. To ask for forgiveness, and to beg pardon. To have thanks and gratitude for fortune and misfortune, knowing well, whatever lay in stall for them, is of the wisdom and knowledge of their maker.

W.E.

*Ruh – Soul
*Reeh – Subtle breeze or zephyr

Entitlement

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Entitlement

If you cannot see,
that the reward for obedience,
is obedience,
then you are void of obedience,
and have no business,
demanding a reward.

Conversely,
even if you are obedient,
seeing your obedience,
is self-aggrandising,
and since you witness yourself so well,
you will be called to account,
against yourself.

And the one rancid in disobedience,
aware of their disobedience,
may just reap the reward you so seek,
from the remorse and brokenness of their state.

W.E.

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-No Filters

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-No filters

Fitting for the thoughts that this place always inspires,
like the hand of a saint brushed past it’s walls,
it haunts, and liberates me all at once.

What is this litmus between you and I,
neither of fire,
nor of water,
a breath escaping from the prison of my mind,
a gasp reverberating in syncopating time.

Finding you, finding me, finding you,
has become an obsession of improbable magnitude,
the lower I go,
the more sinful I am,
the stronger my urge,
the needier my purge.

Aching spine,
wretched and supine,
almost torn twine,
and all I can do is hold my eye lids open,
trying not to flinch as it snaps.

Oh the sap, oh the sap,
the strumming of a harp,
the belting of a flute,
paralysing, humiliating me,
to absolutes and mute.

There’s silent mourn,
guilt and yearn,
torture and patience,
dead ends at every turn,
but grief is worth this slow twist and churn,
cold knife, the only way to learn.

W.E.