October 2015 by Al-Bayyan

Who am I?

October 2015

Issue 7

The UIC MSA Publication

Al-Bayyan

Benish Siddiqui freshman

Sarah Basheer sophomore

Shapla Shaheen sophomore

Nadine Abdelrahim senior

Shereen Abdeljabbar alumnus

Introduction

Who are we? After all the awkward first day of school ice breakers, job interviews, cover letters, responses to that person whose Instagram picture you accidentally liked from 54 weeks ago (whoops), we’ve become desensitized to this question--a question that once held so much magnitude. We live in a culture that teaches us to suppress our souls, drown our emotions in oceans of intoxicants, and dismisses any hint of being introspective as “selfcentered.” Somewhere along the way, the art of looking within our hearts, understanding our identity, and inculcating our identity was lost. Our understanding of identity fell victim to what others said about us, which pictures of ours got the most likes, where we graduated in our class, and which “crew” we rolled with. But there’s a problem with that, a big one in fact: all of those are subject to the perception of others. Identity is different, though. It’s pure: free of the pollution of others’ projections onto you. It’s raw: an unfiltered manifestation of what’s inside your soul. It’s unique: a harmonious composition of ethnicity, nationality, languages, foods, traditions, interests, and the list can go on forever.

But how many times do we grapple with this concept? How many times do we attempt to understand who we are and how we got here? In my experience, at least, this doesn’t happen often enough, and after years of unchecked progression and seamlessly going through the motions of life, we end up as someone who doesn’t reflect who we truly are, or who we want to be. As daunting as that realization seems, it still, like everything else in this world, has beauty. The beauty of having your identity go unchecked and ending up as someone who isn’t you lies in a simple truth of life: this world is one of opposites. This world is one of opposites, and by knowing who you are not, you’ve taken the first step towards knowing who you are. So think. Reflect. Explore. And ask yourself: Who am I? With Peace, Farooq Chaudry Editor in-Chief

Poetry

I Am Flawed

I Am Not Good I am not Good at writing Poetry But I learned That If You write really Small Stanzas Like this Then your writing Begins to resemble poetry. I am not good At being Pakistani But I learned That sometimes If You wear a Shalwar kameez Drink chai Talk about biryani (yum) then your identity begins to resemble a Pakistani’s. I am not good at being a friend. But I learned that Favoriting every tweet Liking every picture Commenting on the right things At the Right Times And “hey! Salaam bro!” will mask the cracks in this superficial relationship.

I am not good at Being a Muslim. But I learned that Having a beard Wearing beads Saying Insha’Allah! Masha’Allah! Will hide The fact That I am dead inside When I Pray. “Pray”. That my relationship With God Is long distance Occasional A one-way-street abusive to say the least.

I am flawed

I am not good at Knowing who I am. But a confession Of ignorance Is the first step Towards truth Knowledge And awareness.

A family man, imperfect In more aspects than one

I am not good At Knowing. but at least with this confession I Can finally Take the first Step.

Walking towards something And running from another Part of one big family To you, I’m your brother Conflicted with the truth Been growing from the start Just one in the crowd Trying not to fall apart Making mistakes aplenty Happy, sad at different times To use my words for more Than cheap jokes and lame rhymes Trying to be a leader Both understanding and just Returning what was given out Make use of others’ trust

A seeker of knowledge Purifying till its done In essence just a servant That’s why I pray Forgiveness has been divine I am really flawed, but it’s okay (Because we all are). ABB

Farooq Chaudhry

Candle Lights My eyes dart from paper to paper, Word to word, analyzing definitions, Absorbing information, breaking restrictions. For once, I’m finally learning. I’m pushing myself. The lights of the candles flicker. My ears transcribe the voices, My hand scribbles the notes, My pen hits the paper, Blazing a trail of fire with every smooth stroke, Every square inch of knowledge floating into my head like vapor. “I can do this.” I glance at the clock. Even the most harmless objects like clouds aid their own potential, They’ve wrought destruction with thunder and lightning. My own heart, my instinct, thumping, booming out loud solutions to the exam, But my brain is zapping, quick second-guessing, Correcting, erasing, correcting. There were four questions and I only answered three. Cold sweat. Hands trembling. Eyes darting, analyzing, The candles are flickering. My pencil is scribbling, but it’s making no sense. T thunder and lightning is too loud. My heart is pounding, I cannot fail this. The words are here, the answer is on the tip of my tongue and “TIME.”

Who am !? Pencils, hearts, confidence, spirits drop like dominoes across the lecture hall. I stare wide-eyed at the test in disbelief. Three days, for three hours, for one exam, for one subject. This is the third time I have failed. Tears brim my eyes. I am not a religious person, and I very well may not even wbelieve in God. But that day I dragged cement-like feet to the lounge to the circle of faith, And my knees, my spirits hit the floor. I can’t stop thinking about Time. There is never enough of it. My heart was speaking faster Than my thoughts were forming words. I’m a failure. My tears keep hitting the carpet. I have no idea what to “Believe.” That word was just spoken in my head by another voice. I blink back the tears and look around, dazed. I felt your presence. You were there. I know you were. Creator, Your candles are so bright. They do not flicker anymore. Elijah Hernandez

Who am I? Why do you ask? It’s not something that can be measured in a flask, Do you know you? I doubt it, very few do, That’s why were entitled to having a mid-life crises, Roll the dices, What’s your next move? It takes time to figure out a life, that’s why they call it a lifetime, “I” am a lot of things, Don’t limit me, I am a child, I am a daughter, I am a teen, I am a sister, I am an adult, I am at fault, But I am forgiven, I am a Muslim-ah, I am a student, I am a teacher, I am a learner, I am a voice, I am color, I am a fighter, I am struggle, More than ever, I am tired, But I am trying, I’m trying to figure it all out, In the midst of mortality, Yes, it can be a fatality, So who am I? If I had the answer, it’d be a lie, Even if I comes after g, G, that does not mean that I am greater than you, Who? Who? Who? “I” is starting to sound like an owl, But that is not I, I am hope, I am love, I am wise, I am hurt, But I am going, And through all of these things that I am and continue to be, I begin to see, who “I” is. Anonymous

Jummah Gems We asked people to write down reflections after Friday Prayer. Here’s what they had to say.

“Represent Islam—share the beauty of this deen with others.” “Always turn to God in times of crisis.” “A new perspective: It’s not about balancing deen and dunya, it’s about prioritizing the deen.” “A believer is one who calls others towards the truth.”

“Muslims are not above seeking different means of help from domestic violence, depression, and mental disorders.” “We shouldn’t be ashamed of seeking help and feeling sad. Pain is okay.” “God gave us the capacity to succeed. Never think success is just your own.” “When it’s dark, always look for the light.”

Reflections Time

Ahlena Mohammed

I look at my watch, my time is almost up… My heart is beating so fast I feel it about to rip out of my chest. I break into a run. Dodging people all around me, my eyes dart around to find any nearby clocks that tell me my watch is wrong. I run up what feels like a million stairs and by the time I reach the top I feel as though I’m about to collapse. I feel sweat on my forehead and my knees feel shaky. I have to keep on pushing. My time is running out… I push past a heavy door and I see others running too... time is up. My path becomes narrow and I’m racing the others who know that our time is up as well. He yells “HURRY RUN!” and aggressively waves at us as if it will make us run any faster. I feel the woman behind running so close to me as if she’s on my heels. I’m almost there but I see the doors closing and the angry man is gone… I fear what he will say to me if I see him again. I use all the last bit of energy I have and I take a leap up and the door closes behind me, scuffing my heel. I turn to find my competitors but I look around at them now as if they are my comrades. We exchange shaky and exasperated smiles half heartedly because we know it's not

over yet. I look out the window and find the woman who was running behind me with her head in her hands… She didn't make it. But it isn’t over for us just yet. I’m panting completely out of breath and suddenly my comrades disappear behind the other doors. I begin to panic again. My heart is beating hard. I enter the doors and the area around me is so narrow I feel like holding my breath will stop me from bumping into something. I barely have room to walk. My head whips from left to right and suddenly everything becomes silent. There are people around me but they don’t speak and hardly move. I suddenly sit and I hear a yell. I cringe and everyone gets into a sudden panic. I’m rummaging through my backpack along with half the other people searching all around them and in their bags to find the precious piece of identification. I look up and see some people still sitting robotically still and silent. They knew this was going to happen. I hear the man's footsteps getting heavier as he approaches me and I begin digging deeper into my bag. “CLINK CLINK” the sound of something heavy and metal next to me causes

my eardrum to shake. He’s warning me… I know he’s waiting. “Sorry” I murmur as I’m ransacking through my bag wildly as everyone behind me settles back into their robotic stance. My fingertips suddenly feel the soft paper corners of my identification piece and I quickly take it out and show it to the man. He nods his head and continues on… My breath begins to steady. Now to sit on this train for an hour until I get home. Hey…. making it on time to the train is more stressful than it seems okay… For some, this may be just an overdramatized story about a 20 some year old running late to her train. But for others, this is a piece that connects with life. Chasing time which never stops, feeling pressure with every step we take, and the blind pursuit of this duniya. The statement, "I made it," differs from person to person. And everyone's final destination is unique to their life. The safety and comfort of our identities (for me, being Muslim) is what can potentially help us see our way through any times of turbulent circumstances and push to our final destination, whereever that may be.

Finding Yourself in Islam Sarah Basheer

As the Muslim identity is slowly dissolves into the melting pot of American society, many of us are conflicted with the age old question of ‘Who am I’? Growing up outside of our parents’ homeland, we fight being pulled into two different personas: the culture that flows through our lineage and the culture we’ve been born into--a culture that opposes major principles of our Deen. I’m deeply saddened by the tragedies that the new generation of Muslim American teenagers have fallen into. The pitfalls of American culture and the identity crisis is real. Growing up it seems only natural to question the edicts of our religion when what we see around us is so different. Many of us, myself included, didn’t have the luxury of a strong Muslim community growing up, especially at school. Islam was an anomaly and the majority of people didn’t understand my religion or my culture for that matter. It was

scary to be different and it still is. We need to change the mentality around us that looms like a dark storm cloud over the idea of being different. Embrace your roots, your Deen, and never forget where you came from or where you’re going. It’s easy to be embarrassed about not fitting in, but in the end, it’s a small unnecessary worry. I deeply hope many of you have discovered who you are, or that you will in the years soon to come, and I pray that you embody a strong Islamic faith. But the work doesn’t end with us. We need to pass on our pearls of wisdom to younger brothers and sisters, our nieces and nephews, young cousins, our Sunday school students and the next generation of teenagers who need a rope to pull them out of this chasm. We’ve already lost too many lives to violence and drugs and suicide and it’s thinning our ummah. Don’t discount the struggles our youth face today like your parents did to

you. Each generation has their work cut out for them in this swirling chaos that is life, each generation is faced with finding out who they’re supposed to be. To close, I’m a Muslim American-Indian woman. I owe the strength of my faith to my family and peers. Faith is something I place above all. But my being is made up of all things Indian and American. I love eating rice practically every day, and the smell of my mom’s cooking when I walk in the door. I plan to wear a red outfit that weighs more than me on my wedding day and I will never stop watching my favorite Bollywood movies. Yet I love my blue jeans, apple pie on Thanksgiving, football, watching the Christmas trees and lights go up and being born into a country that fights for the rights of the individual and has sung the lyrics of a free country with liberty for all. All these mesh together to uniquely make, me.

Concretely, I am from Pakistan, born at the end of the twentieth century, the eldest son of five, son of the eldest of six, South Asian descent, working middle class, culturally American, post 9-11—a catalog of characteristics ascribed without my choice or consent, surrounding my existence, becoming the vehicle through which I move, shaping the choices and opportunities I can traverse, yet, only a fraction, a cursory surface glance of who I am. Who I identify as, who I am, at my core is a Muslim—not because it’s the path of my forefathers, a cultural conformation, or a sociobiological context to which I merely plop upon—but because it is a transcendence from such constraints, putting into perspective man, life, and the universe. Linguistically speaking, Islam means a submission to God in peace, and accordingly in submission, a liberation from

one’s sociobiological and economic bindings—as one’s worth, sustenance, existence, morality, and purpose is tethered to God, and not an ever-shifting sociopolitical landscape. I identify as a Muslim, as it brings me light and tranquility in a world that seems to slip into darkness and tragedy, clarity in a time that seems to shroud itself in propaganda, sensationalism, and double standards—and focus in the pursuit of truth and justice.

Who, I am

Muhammad Hatib Umar

One’s identity, who he is and who he sees himself as, manifests from two basic components: things beyond one’s control, and things within one’s control. The former encompasses one’s sociobiological context and environment: where one is born, in what time, in which family, in which ethnic background, in which economic status, and in which culture one is raised in. While in contrast, the latter directly builds upon one’s will, what he believes, what he pursues, and what lens he chooses to see and understand the world through. While both components shape one’s identity, the latter, in actuality, truly differentiates one from another, for by its nature it exemplifies what makes people so profound—their ability to move beyond their concrete characteristics and physical limitations, to transcend to higher grounds of thought, reflection, and pursuit of truth. So who am I?

Reflections Lunch with Mohamed Hashim Mirza Adil Shoeb

I remember during my freshman year at UIC, I met Mohammed Hashim Mirza in my medical ethics course. I invited him to come over to eat lunch and pray zuhr. He came over and as we began to pray I noticed he prayed differently. At that point it hit me that “Oh he was Shia.” Coming from an extremely conservative Sunni family and learning in a more conservative private Islamic high school, I heard so many things about Shia Muslims. At this moment I realized I needed to drop my guard and ask him any and all questions I had. I am not going to go into detail about our conversation, but let’s say that my mind was open. During the past few years I have had the pleasure to know Muslims from different sects. Despite differences, we all still say salaam when we meet. We all begin our conversations by wishing peace upon

each other. So the questions that remains at large is that despite the fact that we wish nothing but peace and blessings, why do we hesitate to connect and grow close to people of different sects? Why have I been taught to be civil with Shias, Ahmedis, etc but not to grow closer to them? I understand the underlying concern. Avoid what you do not understand to keep yourself safe. But safe from what? Why do I need to be cautious of people who wish peace upon me and treat me with the same level of respect as someone of my own sect? Allah(S) knew sects were going to exist. Everything that happened is all planned. Maybe the reason he created sects was to see how humanity will react. Maybe he is testing humanity to see if we let sectionalism divide us or unite us. Whether you identify as Shia, Sunni, Ahmedi, or etc it does not matter. Your

identity as a Muslim stems from accepting those who say salaam. Your identity as a human being stems from being able to accept those who think differently. So as a college community maybe its time we got out of our comfort zone. Maybe at the IAW booth this year we have a Sunni, Shia, and Ahmedi spokesperson explaining their take. Maybe we let the public know that, despite our differences, we IDENTIFY as one. “It did not matter whether you prayed with a rock or your hands folded on your chest, you were just Muslim back then. You needed to get out someone’s basement and build a masjid so everyone could pray and you could build a community. Sectionalism couldn’t exist because if it did you wouldn’t exist” (The Station).

Who am I?

The Show

I am a human. A person full of faults just like everyone else. Someone who strives for happiness. Someone who gets knocked down. We all have troubles. We all go through heart break one way or another. Our lives are full of ups and downs. It’s easier to say “get over it” than to actually do it. Why must we, as Muslims, as humans, as creations of Allah Swt make life even more difficult for each other? Not every day is great but that’s what makes you cherish every day that is great. As humans we should be there to help each other. As Muslims we should be there to lift each other up every day. A simple compliment instead of a nasty remark to your brother or sister in Islam doesn’t hurt you. It only helps you. We all know what it feels like to not be so hot so why take a chance and put someone in that place. A simple smile could fix someone’s day. Be careful with your words. Be Muslim. Be Human. Be Happy.

Who am I? I hear laughter, but I can’t see anyone. Tears continue to flow down my newly discovered face. Everyone is just watching me. Am I part of a reality show? How will I know who I am when I don’t know where I am? But, I guess the show must go on. I grow up seeing what I’m supposed to see. Learning what I’m supposed to learn. Listen to what I’m supposed to listen to. I must act out the script society has given me perfectly. Who are these people around me? I see them timeto-time, however what happens to them when I leave. There are new characters everyday. Sometimes I wonder whom I will meet in the next episode. What happens if the show doesn’t bring in any more characters to continue? Will I still exist? Is my life meant to be a source of entertainment for others to leach off of? Who am I to them? Maybe I’ll find out when my show is over.

Jay

Anonymous

I. Am. A. Human. Manar Ihmud

Who am I? I. Am. A. Human. A simple answer for a simple question, but did the answer “human” truly define me? Islam has taught us to refer back to the Quran with our questions, so that is what I did. In Arabic, the word human is “insaan”. The word “insaan” is mentioned in the Quran 58 times. These repetitions are categorized in three groups: Commonness for both believers and nonbelievers. “For the human being was created weak” (4:28) “Taught human what he never knew.”(96:5) “We created human from a liquid mixture, to test him.” (76:2) The first category describes the basics of every human being. Every human in this world started off as a bit of clay. Allah swt transformed us into this being, taught us everything we know, and made us weak with faults. Believers or non-believers, we all share these same characteristics. Potential happenings for both believ-

ers and non-believers. “The human being prays for evil as he prays for good. The human being is very hasty.” (17:11) “We have elaborated in this Quran for the people every kind of example, but the human being is a most argumentative being.” (18:54) “We have advised the human being to be good to his parents.”(29:8) The second category shows a message or order from Allah swt, and when a human takes a side, he defines himself as a believer or non-believer. Simply, those who commit to Allah swt’s message are labeled as believers and those who oppose are disbelievers. The non-believers specifically “Does man think that we will not reassemble his bones? Yes indeed! We are able to reconstruct his fingertips. But man wants to deny what is ahead of him.” (74: 3-5) “The human being is in loss.” (103:2) “Indeed, the human being is ungrateful to his Lord.” (100:6) The last category is as-

sociated with the traits of non-believers. A non-believer opposes everything Allah swt says even if Allah gives him all the evidence and proof there is. They are stubborn. They are ungrateful. These people will always be at a loss. Now that we know the definition of a human and the traits of a human being, we can go back to our original question “Who am I?” This is the question we should thrive our best to answer. From the holy verses above, my answer would be… I am a Muslim. I was made from clay. I was made to be weak and make mistakes. I should strive to listen to Allah swt’s orders and advice. I should do my utmost to make Allah swt proud of my actions and words. I should constantly be grateful to Allah swt. I should realize Allah swt’s mercy and forgiveness and learn from my mistakes. I am a human, a slave, and Allah swt is my creator.

flock. The man agreed and repeated the words. Ibrahim (pbuh) was again so captivated by the beautiful words that he asked the man to repeat them once more, this time at the price of the other half of his flock. Again, the man agreed and repeated the aforementioned words of praise. Ibrahim (pbuh) was so overcome with ecstasy by these words that he implored the man to repeat his words once more. The man responded, “You have nothing left to give me. What will you give me this time?” Ibrahim (pbuh) replied, “O brother, I will tend your sheep forever if you recite these praises of my Beloved one more time.” The man then said, “Ibrahim Khalilullah [friend of Allah], I bring you glad tidings. I am an angel sent by Allah, who told

me, “Go and take my name before my Khalil [friend] and see how much he values it.” SubhaanAllah! How much love for Allah must Ibrahim (pbuh) have had to give away his possessions just to hear praises of his Beloved! When was the last time our hearts filled with awe on hearing Allah’s name? May Allah bless us with His love, and the love of those who love Him. Ameen.

Footprints of Jannah Fazila Vhora

Prophet Ibrahim (peace be upon him): The story of a true lover Once Prophet Ibrahim (pbuh) was grazing his flock of sheep when a man passed by, loudly reciting the following words in praise of Allah: Glorified is the Master of the Earthly and heavenly kingdoms. Glorified is the Honored One, the Exalted One, the Venerated One, the Powerful One, the Magnificent One, and the Omnipotent One. When Ibrahim (pbuh) heard Allah being praised with such beautiful words, his heart leaped in exultation. He said to the man, “O brother, can you recite those words once more?” The man asked what he would be given in return to which Ibrahim (pbuh) replied that he would give him half of his

This story is translated from Ishq-e-Ilahi by Shaykhr Zulfiqar Ahmad Naqsh-bandi.

A Singing Bird Humaa Siddiqi

Odd. That is what I figured my name was growing up. Humaa. See? Pretty odd. I remember the second grade very well. It was the year when I started to feel ashamed of my name. Back in 2002, Lou Bega’s “Mambo No. 5” was the most overplayed song. Unfortunately, it was my childhood. At a friend’s birthday party, they played the song for all the kids to dance to. Almost every girl had their name in the song. They would all holler and raise their arms when their name came up, and I would just stand there—awkwardly swaying my hips left to right with my arms pinned to my sides. Why wasn’t my name mentioned? Why didn’t he say, “A little bit of Humaa by my side?” I should have known my name would never have been featured in a pop song. Of all the beautiful names out there, it wasn’t likely one would pick an ugly two syllable Arabic name. And so, ever since that day, the song has always been a constant reminder of a name I wish I didn’t have. It’s WHO-MA. Like puma, but with an ‘H’ instead… If I had a dime for every time I said that to help someone pronounce my name, I would be a millionaire. Maybe even a billionaire. I didn’t always hate my name, but as I got older it was the constant mispronunciation, people mistaking me for a boy, and confused looks on my teachers’ faces as they read aloud the class list for attendance that made me realize how strange of a name I really had. My name was not pretty. It wasn’t girly or delicate like Summer, Michelle, or Kelly. It sounded like an old, stumpy, fat man wearing a stained wife-beater, chomping on chocolate long johns. At least, that’s how I felt about it. Never once has someone told me I had a pretty name. It was always my sisters who got those compliments I so desperately wanted. Najla and Safa… what were my parents thinking when they had named me? Had they used up all the pretty names for my sisters and couldn’t think of one for me? “We planned on naming you Jasmine,” my dad said one summer day when I was eight years old. “But the second I

saw you after your mummy gave birth… you didn’t look like a Jasmine, but a Humaa.” I remember scrunching my eyes up at him in confusion as the afternoon sun glared down on us. He was pulling weeds from our front yard while I sat on a stone bench fidgeting with the hem of my plaid shorts and digging my jelly shoes into the mulch of our landscape. Man, I must have been one ugly baby, I thought as I buried my feet deeper into the dirt, trying not to think of the beautiful name I almost had. To help me cope with the illness of living with this horrible name, I would always find ways to switch things up. When I would play pretend house with my best friend or when a barista from Caribou Coffee needed a name to call me up, I would find some way to change my name. “That will be $3.25,” a cashier would say, “May I get your name, please?” “Sarah,” I would reply, or Sophia, Rachel, Fatima, Vanessa, etc. For that split second, I had a pretty name; a name worth telling people without cringing or using my Humaa, the Puma reference. To me, it was something small I could always look forward to. It was a time when someone might say I had a pretty name, even if it was mine only for that moment. “Why did you tell the cashier your name was Sally?” I sighed as I stuffed change into my wallet, shooting a nervous glance at my brother as we waited in line for our Jamba Juice. “I don’t want to confuse them.” The downward ‘V’ creasing on his forehead became more pronounced as he stared down at me. “Confuse them with what?” How long does it take to make a smoothie? I thought. “I never use my real name…” I replied weakly. “It’s too embarrassing.” My eyes shot to the ground, trying to avoid his stare as best I could. I saw his eyebrows rise as he nodded. It seemed as though he understood that it was more than just me using a different name for my order. He knew I wasn’t just trying to be funny or simply because I was bored—it was more than that.

At times like this, I knew my brother could see right through me. He always did. “Hmm,” he murmured. “Do you even know what your name means?” My head shot up as I peered sideways at him as I tried not to look too eager. “What?” “Your name means singing bird.” A small frown crept on his face as he watched my horrified expression. “I don’t even sing!” I snapped, feeling all the blood drain from my face. Great, my name sounded lame and its definition was lame too! I had certified proof now. He sighed impatiently. “It doesn’t literally mean you sing, you dope!” My eleven-year-old self shrugged, not knowing if what he was saying was supposed to comfort me. “What does it really mean, then?” My brother explained, “It’s a bird which lives in a quiet area and whenever it flies to the city it fills people with joy. A bird of paradise—a singing bird.” That caught me off guard. “Really?” He nodded. “Does that sound ugly to you?” No, it doesn’t. Not at all. It was very… pretty. Most meanings behind names were usually the typical wisdom or beauty, but I had a little story behind my name. It was at that moment when I realized that I had been wrong. So completely wrong. It was at that moment in the crowded little smoothie shop when I realized it didn’t matter that my name wasn’t girly. It was unique. I was unique. It was a name I could be proud of and would be proud of for the years to come. And for that, I’m grateful. Grateful that my parents hadn’t named me Jasmine after all or that my name wasn’t mentioned in that ‘90s song from my childhood. I would never try to conceal my name again. I made a promise. “A small razzmatazz for Sally!” The cashier behind the counter held my drink out, waiting for me. I took in a deep breath as I made three long strides toward her. “It’s Humaa, actually,” I said as I reached for the smoothie, not feeling the least bit ashamed.

Bonus Submissions Candle Lights Focus. Shift. Focus. My eyes dart from paper to paper, Word to word, analyzing the definitions, Absorbing the information, breaking the Restrictions. For once, I'm finally learning. I'm pushing myself. The lights of the candles flicker. My mother would be proud. My ears transcribe the voices, My hand scribbles the notes, My pen hits the paper, Blazing a trail of fire with every smooth stroke, Every square inch of knowledge floating Into my head Like vapor. "I can do this." Three is the lucky number, I studied three hours for three days For one exam, for one subject. I glance at the clock. Three in the morning. I close my notebook, my laptop, And my eyelids. Even the most harmless objects like clouds Aid their own potential, They’ve wrought destruction with Thunder and lightning. My own heart, my instinct, Thumping, booming out loud solutions to the exam, But my brain is zapping, quick secondguessing, Correcting, erasing, Correcting. There were four questions and I answered only

Three.

Time.

Cold sweat. Hands trembling. Eyes darting, analyzing, Attempting to make sense. The candles are flickering.

There is never enough of it.

The tick-tock is looming over me.

My heart was speaking faster Than my thoughts were forming words.

My pencil is scribbling, but it’s making no sense. The professor glances up, I’m focused, But the thunder and lightning is too loud. My heart is pounding, I cannot fail this, The words are there, The answer is on the tip Of my tongue and “TIME.” Pencils, hearts, confidence, spirits drop like Dominoes across the lecture hall. I stare wide-eyed at the test in disbelief. Three days, for three hours, for One exam, for one subject. The most I could have scored was three times 25, Assuming I got all three full answers correct. The average, I studied well above average, And earned an average grade, I studied so much and learned So little. My mother would not be proud. Tears brim my eyes. I give the exam to the TA. I am not a religious person. I very well may not even believe in God. But that day I dragged cement-like feet to the lounge Where the Muslims were gathered, And my knees, my spirits hit the floor, I can't stop thinking about

I don’t know if you’re there, But there wasn’t enough time.

I couldn’t catch my mind. I can’t catch my breath. I failed. I'm a failure. The tears hit the carpet, One droplet, after another droplet, I have no idea what to “Believe.” That word, Just spoken In my head by another voice. Shivers sprint down my spine, Skin sprouting with goosebumps. I blink back the tears, look around, dazed. I felt your presence. You were there. I know you were. I place my forehead gently to the ground. Creator, Your candles Are so bright. Elijah Hernandez

Untitled There was once upon a time when we told stories for fun. Stories of chalk-filled sidewalks with Bittersweet memories that seemed to run On for ten miles. Stories of saving up enough pennies for A someday trip to Neverland. And stories of the scary monsters under Our beds But Those stories are no longer because We aren’t faced backwards anymore. We are living in the now. They are no longer because the world Possesses 5x6 pictures that speak A thousand stories of a Child’s open mouth where we could See the screams crawling out of it. They are no longer because the Doctors who left a trail of dark Blood leading up to the two starving Children that are being carried on Each arm is now lifelessly leaning Over their entrails Silently stuttering, “I could have saved you my little angels.”

They are no longer because the parents Of the same little girl who died In the baby blue shirt are now Wailing out her name that has lost Its meaning. They are no longer because the boy Whose precious green eyes That became tattooed onto the Red swing set across the filthy Street are now fixed upon his Deceased mother’s.

With infinite layers of glass And rocks are now glued right In front of the men gripping The guns and the bullet-proof shields, are now Waving the beautiful red, black, white, and green flags Around their faces over, And over, And over Again. Anonymous

They are no longer because the Screams with the spluttered Blood flowing out of the tongues That happen to be the only possessions That have not been occupied are now Speaking from their tired souls They are no longer because the Missile that has just hit the house In the tiny corner next to what was The pre-school has stolen the skin From the left side of the teen aged Girl’s head is now searching for her Father shouting, “BABA, BABA. I AM ALIVE! I AM ALIVE!”, Only to be placed adjacent To a bloody mirror that revealed The dead parent lying on the Debris-filled concrete floor.

And They are no longer because the Millions of swollen, shoe-less Feet that have been smeared

Editors in Chief Fazila Vhora Farooq Chaudhry Staff Writers Abdul Basith Basheer Sarah Basheer Copy Editors Ibrahiem Mohammad Asif Mazhar Lilian Maali Layout Nuha Abdelrahim Creative Direction Noor Abdelrahim

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