Story 

When our wombs stop bleeding or even earlier when they start stuttering to a stop, spot, stop, the heat of our bodies makes us stop and take a deep breath. I am at the cusp of the stage where this earthly body that God has gifted me is slowing down. 

People tell me I am everywhere. I do too much. I don’t know how to contain myself. My heart is beating with a thousand stories, screaming to be told, where I can not ignore my own self any more. 

Like hell firing up the kiln, curing my sticky clay, it starts from the seat of the heart and spreads all over my body. So hot. Reminding me that there isn’t much more time. Where are you, Hena Zuberi?

I spent one decade perpetually pregnant, nursing, homeschooling. I have four children, like my mother, my grandmother. Each one of them is a miracle baby. I learnt two years ago that I had a womb with a deformity that I didn’t even know about. The diagnosis finally explained the recurrent losses and early throes of labor. I am grateful for Allah’s Rahmah, for them, for the many I lost and may meet in Paradise. I am grateful that I never knew about my bifurcation and was saved countless nights of worry and anxiety; ignorance was bliss. 

The next decade of my life was about my marriage, our marriage. About how much I could give of myself in a way that makes me dig deeper inside myself to discover how much more I am; how much more of myself is there to discover. 

Walking together; walking alone, walking our own paths, nothing steady but God. I learned why marriage is half the Faith; what the Quranic verse printed on my 1999 ivory and gold wedding invitation card meant, what is love and rahmah between spouses and why Allah says it is one of His Signs (1). A decade ago, Allah took my picture perfect home in our picture perfect town in the Valencia hills and shook it. The Message was, “Both of you have become too complacent, too comfortable.”  

My life has been consumed in supporting my husband's midlife journey to medical school and residency, parenting by myself, as my Dadi (grandmother) had done decades ago. 

We moved across the country to the Nation’s capital into a 900 square foot, cramped 75-year-old home, living on my non-profit salary. This shaking placed me where I was needed, to do work that was needed.

We lost our nest egg. (2)

Allah wanted me to rely completely on Him. Allah wanted me to shake Maryam’s (peace be upon her) palm tree. Maybe I had become too reliant on my husband, my friends, and my community…. on wealth. He put me in situations where everywhere I turned, there was only Allah. 

But it was my marriage that was the constant. It pushed me to grow. Confront my worst fears and surrender. Looking for more of me to give to my husband, I found myself again and I grew and grew with the help of my Lord. 

It forced us to look deep into wells of sabr (patience). We broke every stereotype in our South Asian community. 

He struggled with not being the breadwinner, the provider that he had been for every day of our married life before medical school. He had been our qawwam (caretaker) and now felt conflicted. He believed that men are the protectors and maintainers of women, as commanded by God (3) but his studies took that role away from him. I took over the finances, paying the bills as he had no time or money to do so. His tender ego bruised but then learnt to let go.

My husband started helping with homeschooling; took over the kitchen when I was on deadline. He chuckled when the children were known as the Zuberi kids in the neighborhood, instead of by their real surname. His residency took him to Long Island, New York - serving on the frontlines of a national COVID hotspot. 

We dug in and then dug in some more to make it past tests, to test our limits. Marriage was hard until it wasn’t. 

Allah wanted to show us that we are all, all six of us, capable of so much more than the comfortable suburban LA life. We had forgotten how to strive and He placed us in places where we had to. This displacement gave us the greatest gift in life - my daughters were given the chance to memorize the Quran. Zahrah completed her Hifdh in March 2019. This is what He wanted. Two of the children have been homeschooled to college. Two more to mold, to hold.  

We started off in a long distance relationship 25 years ago and are back in one. This distance has given both me and him the space to do, not just be. 

And I did. 

And I emerged. 

What seemed like someone squeezing the air until I would die was actually someone doing CPR on me. My community in Southern California was in the thick of spying by the FBI, resulting in a current Supreme court case. The fallout from 9/11 was everywhere and I was being chosen by Allah to write about it, speak about it in the nation’s capital. I was often the only Muslim woman in the room. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a go-getter, I am a catcher. I spread my jholi (arms draped in my prayer garment) wide and catch whatever blessings, or  opportunities, Allah sends my way and then I run with them.

Now, I work against the criminal Chinese Communist Party, Hindutva forces, the Burmerse Tatmadaw and right wing and liberal zealots here at home.  I work To establish the Quranic principle of Qist- Justice. This drives me. This is Prophetic work.

My people all over the world, from Dr Aafia Siddiqui, the first victim of the War on Terror, to the Rohingya and Uyghur, are subjected to a global web of anti-Muslim policies that have resulted in current and active genocides. My work is so heavy. Working on genocide and with victims of the most Satanic rulers on Earth cracks your body and your soul. My heart feels like it has run a thousand miles, carrying the wounds of my people. I don’t know how much further I can run.

I run a world-class award winning magazine; anchor a newshour. I have spoken on world stages, awarded by my peers. It still feels like it is happening to someone else. My peri-menopausal body still can't come to terms with my accomplishments.

The Message still is: “Don’t get too comfortable. This isn’t home.” 

I seem to reinvent myself every decade and I don't know what the coming decade will bring. Where am I going now and what is next? 

I do not know.

This is what I do know. 

My faith is a religion of Rahmah. Rahmah is to let one’s heart ache for people, caring about their eternal well-being, so that we may all enter Allah’s Rahmah, His salvation, in the hereafter. Rahmah is to embody the way of the Messenger, who said, “I was not sent to curse, but I was sent as a rahmah”. Allah’s Rahmah is the sole source of all earthly rahmah. 

It is the faith of Raheem: tenderness, gentleness, kindness, love, mercy, goodness.

The name of Allah, Ar Rahman does not only mean Mercy, it means Love. This bond of love transferred from the wombs of my grandmothers to me. 

Her voice cracked. “You get to see your parents? You are so lucky.” She is a colleague, a survivor of genocide of her people. She cannot go back to occupied East Turkestan where her family lives, where her relatives are imprisoned in concentration camps. I had just shared news of my upcoming trip to Pakistan to see my parents after 4 long years. 

Ya Mujeeb, grant freedom and respite to our Uyghur brothers and sisters.

During that visit to Pakistan, my father shared a beautiful family tradition.  The making of kheer during the month of Rabi Ul Awwal. So I made kheer for Rabi ul Awwal to honor my grandmother’s love for the Prophet ﷺ. I hadn’t made it on this occasion for years. The world had convinced me that I would be sinning by doing this. (4)

My paternal grandmother, Noorani Begum, loved the Prophet of Allah. A young woman widowed when her husband, a lawyer, was poisoned to death by the Hindutva munshi who took care of their family lands.

She made kheer in clay vessels, to be distributed in the neighborhood, to rich and poor neighbors, to Muslims and Hindus, to share the sweet joy of the month of the birth of the Beloved of Allah. She stirred the milk, reciting salawat as she prepared the rice pudding. The moon of Rabi Ul Awwal was sighted. 

I want to follow her footsteps. To recommit to the Love of the Habib ﷺ.

This I do know.

I know I come from people who love God and His Messenger.

My maternal grandmother, Maryam Zuberi, was an abidah- a worshipper. Her simple home was open for everyone. She would take in relatives the family rejected; caring for them even when she didn’t have enough. 

She sits up all night in worship. None of her grandchildren had ever seen her sleep at night. From Isha to Chast, Maryam sits on her musallah. Her soft wrinkled hands cupped in prayer. Her fingers would count her sandalwood tasbeeh and then rub over her eyes. Ya Allah Ya Rahmaan Ya Raheem. She could not see well without her most heavy spectacles. Her duas were shields of protection around her loved ones.

To think that the egg in my mother’s womb that became me, grew inside my mother while she was still growing inside my grandmother’s womb makes me weep.

I want to follow her footsteps. To recommit to the Love of Allah.

I still don’t know what is next for me. I pray it is still Prophetic work, walking in the footsteps of our Beloved, in search of Divine Love. 

To the next Hena Zuberi.

Footnotes

1. And it is among His signs that He has created for you wives from among yourselves, so that you may find tranquility in them, and He has created love and kindness between you. Surely in this there are signs for a people who reflect. Surah Rum:21

2. The economic repercussions of Japan’s deadly earthquake and tsunami in 2011 hit not only the politics of nuclear energy but our investments in uranium stocks.

3. Men are the caretakers of women, as men have been provisioned by Allah over women and tasked with supporting them financially. And righteous women are devoutly obedient and, when alone, protective of what Allah has entrusted them with Surah Nisa:34

4. According to literalist interpretations of Islam any such act would be called an innovation to the religion. The exact date of birth of the Prophet Muhammad is unknown and celebrating birthdays is considered an innovation.

Photo: Clay pot of rice pudding 

صَلَّى اللهُ عَلَىٰ حَبِيبِهِ مُحَمَّدٍ وَآلِهِ وَسَلَّمْ

Ṣalla Llāhu ʿalā ḥabībihi Muḥammadin wa ālihi wa sallam

May Allah send prayers and peace upon his beloved Muhammad and his Family.

This rice pudding is a labor of love. You have to watch it like you have to watch your nafs, your iman, like you have to be present in your taqwa. Don’t rush the process. I poured it into a clay container shaped like the Prophet’s sandal.  

1 cup Basmati rice

1 gallon Organic whole milk 

1 cup Cream

1 cup Sugar

5-6 Cardamoms

6 Ajwa Dates

Chopped Almonds

Chopped Pistachios

Grind the rice.

Heat a heavy bottom steel pan on medium heat. 

Add the milk to the pan.

Bring your milk to a simmer. 

Lightly bruise the cardamom pods and add them to the milk, keeping the temperature low.

Add the rice.

Let the milk come to a boil, this will take around 10-12 minutes. Stir in between so that milk doesn’t get stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Once the milk has come to a boil, lower the heat and let the kheer cook for around 25 minutes on low heat. Stir every 2 minutes or so.

Pit and add the dates.

Add in the sugar and nuts and stir.

Cook on low with love - a gentle simmer for an hour. Recite the durood as you are stirring the rice. Add cream.