Jihad

In the morning you would wake to the sound of the call to prayer. You would prostrate yourself before Allah. You would focus your mind on Him to gain the strength you need for this day. You would ask his mercy.

You would wash your hands and face before dressing. You would slip the belt around your waist and pull your jalabib over it, concealing many dangerous secrets. You would carefully wrap your hijab around and around your face, staring into the mirror. You might unwrap it and wrap it again, trying to look inconspicuous, less like yourself. Then, you would leave the house with your brother and go about the day as if everything were normal.

Your husband would be visiting his sick mother. That way he wouldn’t be around to ask too many questions. When you left the house on this day, if he saw your face, he’d know. He’d see the guilt. He’d ask if you were ill, but know that it was more. He’s seen that face before.

You would get to the bus stop and feel on the verge of screaming. You would think of Allah, the most merciful, Abdur-Raheem, of the pain it would cause him to know your sins. This way, he would never know the secret growing inside you and Allah would forgive it all. You could save him the dishonor, the humiliation. You could save your family and yourself. You could honor Allah. You could atone. You could return to Allah and live in his grace.

You would board the bus. You would sit near the middle with Mahaz. You would hold the device firmly in your sweaty palms. You would wait. You might feel the urge to vomit. You might want to run. You might want to cry. You would resist your unholy desires if you were going to do it. You would wait for the perfect moment, looking to Mahaz for guidance, if you were going to do it. He would nod his head to you and you would do it with resolve and think of Raheem… if you were going to do it.