AL-BAYYAN CHILDHOOD |SEPTEMBER 2018|
Little Ones Introducing our 2018-2019 Staff
Javerea Ahmed Ummesalmah Abdulbaseer
Naba Durrani Samirah Alam Sumaiyya Ahmed
Nui Waris
Rafeed Hasan Muneeba Zehra
Zainab Naveed Shapla Shaheen
Saba Ali
Rafia Ali
Ali Nasaruddin
Huda Kalota
Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child, Listen to the DON'TS Listen to the SHOULDN'TS The IMPOSSIBLES, the WONT'S Listen to the NEVER HAVES Then listen close to me— Anything can happen, child, ANYTHING can be. -”Listen to the Mustn’ts” from Where the Sidewalk Ends By Shel Silverstein, 1974
POETRY Why does it snow in the desert M Hassan Saleemi 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39
sometimes in the forgotten 4x4's on the Albuquerque roadside in those quiet tense vivid and amorphous moments hazard lights flashing snows of Everest rivers paint soft whites the soundless desert the children, faces amorphous and innocent with confusion look up and ask me, floods on the edge of their lips why is it snowing in the desert? and i tell them with Nautilus calm why should it not? as the shifting dunes swallow the half half formed snowflakes how do you think God made the deserts but they look at me with knowing smiles laughter behind calcium dams and they tell me that snow isn't sand silly but i look down at them dull eyes dripping melted snow on Sahara cheeks a knowing smile and agree yes i am silly because the young are still drifting unmelted sand.
(im)perfect breath Sufyaan Kalota He lay there motionless Eyes glued shut Ears buzzing Tremors Sending shocks through his skin Limbs quivering Like a promise of movement Mind wandering A sunny day on the beach Perhaps weeks ago Lights across the floor Her face smiling at him Then a high whine Black and wretched Tearing through the air A sense of falling Into and on top of him It falls black again Emptiness No bedroom No blanket No sun The feeling of warmth without light Scratching above Pushing into him Waking him From this dream that lasted an eternity His head cool again His eyes still without movement Body shaking Fingers desperate To grasp the hand on his shoulder Lungs full With chalky air But air He gasped He took a deep breath
The Emerald Tomb Muneeba Zehra A dream, a daze A whisper in my ear. So soft, so nimble My heart, oh so sincere! The emerald tomb The crisp breeze The tears falling down As we read our nasheeds The smiles, the giggles The laughter in our eyes The sun,the fun! Beneath God’s blue skies. The ringing of Adhan Down those blessed streets Sitting in his (SAW) masjid A prayer In each heartbeat.
my world was just Arthur Ummesalmah Abdulbaseer I’m so close to graduating from college, but i swear, it seems like just yesterday, I was in fourth grade it’s crazy how many days have passed since then, and how quickly the memories did fade my world was just arthur and cailou, my happiness was just lollipops and ice cream my heart had never felt sadness or pain, all i really knew how to do was dream i did not know what was to come, unsure of the person I’d be but I’m telling you my childhood, was full of happiness and glee whether it was my grandpa lifting me on his shoulders, or my dad taking me to the mosque to pray, or my cousins trying to make me laugh, my world was never gray painted by the smiles of my mom and sisters, marked by bruises of me trying to ride a bike, covered with failed attempts of not drawing out of the lines, and full of days trying to find foods that I like i wouldn’t trade it for the world, but how i wish i could go back for a moment or two to appreciate the times, and really soak it in because growing up is a feeling you never get used to now I must look ahead to the future that awaits but my childhood will always be a piece of my soul no matter how busy or how tough life gets, reflecting on it, cherishing it, will make me whole
A rose is only forgiven for its thorns after its first blossom. When you learn of the secret love gift it was trying to protect. Yavus Baysal
REFLECTIONS My Mom Nui Waris Tears streamed down my face as I rode on that big yellow bus looking out the window alone in my seat. I was overcome with grief. I cried like this every day because I missed my mom. She was my familiarity, my comfort, my world. Over the years, leaving the house every day got easier and easier. I stopped noticing the emptiness, I stopped noticing that she wasn’t next to me, and I stopped noticing my heart’s attachment to her. One day, I got a call from her while on campus. Her words and her tone were that of anger. She was scolding me for coming home late every day, for being careless, for being “too free.” I felt my anger start to rise at all her accusations. I calmed myself and forced myself to listen and to not reply with any witty comebacks. I pondered and thought: whenever someone wronged me, whenever someone brought me to tears, whenever I had moments where I lost faith in humanity, I always thought the same thing: “I miss Ammu” As I heard her words more clearly now, I sensed something different, something that wasn’t anger. I could hear the echo of my childhood sadness masked in her voice. My anger disappeared, and my heart softened. The hidden lull in my heart that is always reserved for her, she has that too. I never realized that while I was on that big yellow bus missing her, she was probably sitting at home missing me too.
How do you teach a child God? Esraa Elkossei This is a question I sometimes think about. I mean, most of us were lucky enough to be born Muslim, right? But sometimes I ask myself, “How can a child possibly grasp the thought that we worship essentially someone we can’t see?” From the way I was taught, my parents told me that Allah (SWT) is the One who we worship, who teaches us from right and from wrong. They told me that if I did good, He will give me whatever I want. If we’re looking at it from a psychological point of view, it’s basically positive reinforcement. When I first heard this from my parents, I thought to myself, “Anything?” If I’m a good kid, Allah (SWT) can get me the Pokémon cards I always asked for (not the old cards; I’m talking about the good cards with the most powerful Pokémon). When my parents taught me about Hajj and the Day of Arafah, I remember promising to myself that I would ask Allah (SWT) on that
day for Pokémon cards and all the fries I want. I know it seems like a totally ridiculous duaa to make, but, hey, I was a little kid. What more did you want in life then food and Pokémon cards? Looking back as a junior in college, I’m grateful that my parents taught me God in this way. Even though there’s always disadvantages to positive reinforcement when it comes to teaching or disciplining kids; I didn’t pray to just receive a materialistic reward. It was because of the dreams I had of the Day of Judgement.
reached its climax and crashed directly at my face, I woke up crying. I ran to my parents’ room, hugging and crying to my father about my nightmare. My father, rocking me back to sanity, told me that I had this dream because God loved me. In my head, I was like, “How could God love me when He just showed the worst possible day a child could imagine?” He told me that God showed me this dream because He wanted to protect me from ever experiencing that day. He told me that if I remember Him and do good, I would never have to see this ever in my life. You don’t know how relieved I felt when I heard this. But still.
Now it comes to the question: How do you teach a child about the Day of Judgement without scaring them away from Islam? I remember one night as a child, I had my first dream of the Day of Judgement. Waves crashing my house and the skyscrapers around me. Engulfing every inch of land. When those huge waves
I fear for my kids and all the kids in this life to ever witness a day of tragedy and loss. Maybe my dad wasn’t the best teacher for Islam, and maybe his discipline lacked certain teachings that psychology teaches us to be mindful of when it comes to child psychology. But I’m so grateful of how I was taught about the world. Alhamduillah, I didn’t see the
world as a punishment from God, but I saw it as a way for God to give me hints on how to please Him and succeed for the next life. I always tell people that when you’re a child, you hear these Islamic stories and you’re taught to automatically believe it because you know it’s true. Yet, we never really process it as something that actually happened years ago. And we don’t know why these things happen. It’s because when you’re a kid, you don’t think about this stuff. You try to live your life to the fullest before you reach that point where you decide your own destiny and what’s right for you. When you’re a kid, you’ve had your parents and the Muslim community introducing you to Islam and what they offer and why we
believe in it. You start with [learning] Allah (SWT), His creations, your existence and purpose, and then how our gratitude is returned to Him through worship. I know that, unfortunately, some of us weren’t blessed with this teaching and we just learned what is halal and haram around us. You just don’t teach a child haram and halal, Hell/Jahannam, and Shaytan all at once. The cruelty of this world and the next life can mentally and socially scar a child. They won’t fear Allah in the right way; rather, they would be horrified and shaken from what is to come to them if they remember all the bad stuff about this life. Teach them that Allah’s forgiveness is this big (extend both of your arms when you say this), and His mercy
is much greater than His punishment. Teach them Allah is your best friend, giving you hints in this life to protect you and to give as much Pokémon cards and food as you please in this life and in the next. As a kid, I would sometimes imagine God next to me, playing with me in the playground and talking to me about how He was my only friend in school (it sounds depressing I know). It’s always ok to teach your child to be bffs with God but teach them that He loves you enough for you to enjoy your life. Hopefully you can bless and remind your children of the beauty of this life while also introducing Allah (SWT)—your secret bff that guides you to happiness and consciousness.
Meditation Ali Nasaruddin Tha Carter V by Lil Wayne was released on Friday. The last time Lil Wayne had released an album, I was in high school. I had two loves in high school; basketball and music. Whenever I was stressed out about anything I would just go out into my driveway with my headphones and a basketball and shoot around for hours. But then, the ACT came around and college applications had to be filled. Before I knew it I was stressing out about my career path and bills and credit and mortgages. I just didn’t have the time to shoot around listening to music anymore. This summer though I made a promise to myself for the sake of my sanity, to take time out everyday to shoot around and listen to music at least for an hour. My basketball skills were rusty but that was okay because I just wanted a way to destress. But, it wasn’t working. I would just get more stressed out from missing and being out of shape and out of breath. It started to feel like a chore. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then, on Friday, I listened to the album while shooting around and I felt like I was 16 again. The carefree swagger. The confidence. The ease. The lightness. The happiness. It filled me up from my knees up to my hands as I let the ball go towards the net. Every shot went in. Then I would try to replicate the feeling and I would start missing again. I realized what my problem over the summer was. After graduating high school, I started stressing about so many things and tried to calculate five year plans and ten year plans and be prepared for retirement. I wasn’t able to focus and enjoy the current moment that I was gifted right now, in this moment. When I was in high school, I wasn’t worried about a thing. I was enjoying everyday of life that God was giving me and trusting that God would get me through the rest of my life just like how he’s getting me through today. Hearing Lil Wayne’s voice again reminded me of that lesson. Until we let go of all the weight on our shoulders and hand it over to God, we won’t be able to achieve the goal that’s right in front of us.
Rainbow Braids Naba Durrani “Naba! Stand still… stop moving… bas karo beta.” Ammi reaches for another lock of hair near the nape of my neck. Bangles jingle softly against her wrists. The smell of her lavender perfume drifts through the air, wrapping around me in a hug of comfort. Ammi hums as she beams at her creation: Two braids secured with fuchsia colored hair ties Each strand of hair woven into a rope of security The very rope tying back all nervousness and fear Ammi’s eyes flicker down at me as she presses her lips firmly on my head. I grab my bright yellow Bratz backpack and head out the door. Without a care in the world. ... “Naba! Hurry up... let's go!” My roommate strikes her knuckle on the door once more. I mumble in acknowledgement as I turn to look at myself in the mirror. Hair parted evenly on two sides, tucked behind my ears Both sides are secured tightly with bobby pins Slowly, little strands begin to peek out from the front. A flood of hair pours down my shoulders, sinking onto me like anchors. Nothing is held back, nothing tied away. I lead the tips of my fingers to tuck some hairs behind my ears, stopping at the fine lines under my eyes. No amount of concealer or foundation will mask them. No mother’s kiss to hide them. I reach for my gray backpack. With every care in the world, I close the door behind me.
The Curiosity of a Child Safa Shameem I used to hug my mom’s brightly colored kurta everywhere I went, especially in malls. I always had a distinct fear of strangers (which were usually middle-aged white men who had vans), aliens coming from outer space, and of course...the dark. My night-light never failed to provide me comfort. I wasn’t allowed to sleepover at anyone’s house when I was a kid, not even Tiffany, my childhood best friend who literally lived next door to me. Tiffany and I did everything together—and I mean everything. We use to ring people’s door bells and run away, sit next to each other on the bus, talk about how dumb the boys in our school were, watched in horror how our bus driver would drink a two-liter of Coke every single day while she drove on the bus… My elementary school days were pure curiosity and adventure. All I did was want to play outside with my friends. I’d fall and get bruises from trying to roller-skate and attempting to ride my brother’s big bike. I knew that someday I would be much older and we would outgrow the house we were living in. I knew the days of my mom sleeping next to me would fade away. Or the days my dad would always wake me up
with a smile on his face and pack my lunches with so much love. I miss those days but I also remember how badly I wanted to be a “grown-up”. Whatever that meant… Fast forward… Junior high was a blur. And high school was just a bubble. A bubble of AP/honors kids that I proudly surrounded myself with, only to realize they weren’t actually that smart…just book smart. I remember joining the debate team and then quitting it. I remember joining the newspaper club, wrote two articles, and quit. I didn’t know what the heck I wanted I to do, but I had a good group of friends who always kept things light-hearted and made me feel like I could do anything. Weekends were random in Schaumburg. I would go over to my friend’s house and we’d have a game night with Cards Against Humanity, bonfires, Halloween parties, secret Santa exchanges, and movie nights with all of the girls in a crowded living room. But all we could ever think and dream about was post-high school life… College is here. Now College is leaving. I’m a grown-up now, but at least I still carry the curiosity I had when I was a child.
Transitional Loss Hoda Noureldin Perhaps one of the most interesting and real transitions between childhood and adulthood, is the reality of loss. Loss can come in all forms, death, illness, romantic break-ups, friendship break-ups, geographical relocation and so on. From personal experience, having had no true prior experience of loss, it was always a very abstract idea to me. Yes, death occurs. Yes, partners leave. Yes, friends abandon. But really what’s the ruckus about? “Pick up and move on, there is still life to live.” That was the timeless motto I would both personally live by and also convey to others. Then a divine lesson of the temporality of this world is imparted. Here, strikes loss. Loss of any kind - death, illness, romantic break-ups, dissolution of friendships, displacement or any form of loss that you may have experienced, but I’ve yet to even conceive of, it is all profoundly jarring. Loss is the divide between childhood and adulthood because it is with loss that there is a divide between sympathy and empathy. Though one may sympathize and with surprised eyes, lament at your demise, try as one might, they cannot empathize. To empathize is not to walk in another shoes, but to have shoes that you can give to another and say, “See, those are your size.”
To Him We Belong S. Maham Fatemi When my father passed away, I lost a part of myself that I’ll never regain again. It was like Allah lifted a veil from my eyes and showed me how truly ugly this world is, and how truly powerful He is. To Him we belong, and to Him we shall return. It was a concept I understood, but I never thought it would happen so soon. I never thought that my father wouldn’t see me graduate. I didn’t think he wouldn’t see my future family. I didn’t think he wouldn’t hold his future grandchildren. I didn’t think he would be gone so soon. The lenses that lifted from me showed me how truly colorless the world is. With him gone, I fell into an abyss. Life had no meaning. I saw the world around me in gray-scale. The people around me were suddenly childish with their materialistic, immature problems. They didn’t see the world the way I did. They weren’t forced into adulthood with the pain of loss. I divided myself from everyone. Their pain, in my head, couldn’t rival my own. Everything around me was cold, and as a result, I was cold too. I dove into the world of words, losing myself until I didn’t have to think. Because thinking was the enemy. My own mind was an escape and a prison. The feeling of falling was accompanied with the feeling of rootlessness—of being lost. And so I was lost. I was alone. I was cold. I simply felt too much, and that was something I didn’t want to do. Ramadan was suddenly bleak to me, so close it was to my father’s passing. I was fasting, but I didn’t feel connected. I cried, but my tears went nowhere. I felt the world around me crushing me. I didn’t want to live with all the pain inside me. I didn’t want to live without his hand in mine. I didn’t want to leave my father behind. But solace came to me. The prophet Muhammed (pbuh) lost much more than I did. It made me feel like I was closer to him— that I felt and understood a pain that he had felt. And making dua for my father, knowing that Allah was listening to me and would relay my message to my father, consoled me. Knowing that my only connection to my father was now through Allah brought me closer to Him. And Alhumdulillah, the colors of my world returned, bit by bit. I will never be the same person I was, but that’s ok. Because to Him we belong, and to Him we shall return. In the end, Allah is the one that will have all of me—the whole me—and it is only through Allah that I will ever be completely in peace.
An Ode to a Pile of Books Rafia Ali I have a stack of books on my desk. The rest of my desk is pretty clean. A cup full of pens in one corner. A desk lamp. Motivational sticky notes on the wall. A sticker from a box of Cracker Jack popcorn. And that stack. That stack of books is pretty normal for college kids. You know what I’m talking about. The haphazard pile of lab notebooks and textbooks you have to read seven chapters of before Thursday. Some old quizzes shuffled on top of the stack that you have to review before the midterm next Monday. An odd book recommended by a friend. You probably expect me to explain how that pile of books is an analogy for the life of the student, the weight of our knowledge and the precarious balancing act of our lives and how we want to buckle under the weight of the stack of books. But it’s like 12:19 at night. And I have to so much to do. I’m sitting in bed and if I turn my head, I see that stack of books. It’s a disgustingly poetic scene. The only light is coming from that desk lamp, diffusing against the wall. Violin music is softly playing in the background. It smells like the coffee I paradoxically brought to bed with me. The sound of raindrops is filtering through my open window. Everything seems a little muted. And I keep looking at this stack of books. It’s really not that deep. I just have this stack of books on my desk that keeps growing and it’s full of papers I need to sort through, book I want to get through, notebooks I need to fill and probably more crap. But it’s midnight and it’s just me and that pile of books. And maybe I’ll get through it. Maybe one day I’ll see that patch of my desk that shoulders the burden of this giant stack. But right now, it’s kinda nice to look over and see that single pile of books illuminated.
ARTWORK
Photos taken by Esraa Elkossei Saba Ali
Untitled #1 “The first piece to a comic book style storytelling I wish to portray of my life and my adventures at UIC throughout the semester.”
Zainab Naveed
Khanan Chaudhry
“The piece's focus is a figure made of corruption, distraction, and sin who is falling but then finds faith and himself (the light) when he looks into his heart and discovers stability in his roots and his childhood.” Zainab Mohammad
Staff Writers: Muneeba Zehra Rafia Ali Naba Durrani Ummesalmah Abdulbaseer
Illustrator: Sumaiyya Ahmed
Staff Artists: Saba Ali Zainab Naveed
Executive Board: Nui Waris, President Ali Nasaruddin, Vice President
Cover Photo by: Shapla Shaheen
Nabeeha Bakhrani, Treasurer Shapla Shaheen, Creative Director Saba Ali & Samirah Alam, Social Media Director Rafeed Hasan, Technology Director Huda Kalota, Outreach Coordinator Javerea Ahmed, Executive Assistance
Al-Bayyan has served the UIC Muslim community for over 10 years by giving Muslim students a platform to express themselves. The publication along with Al-Bayyan’s annual live showcases have allowed a means for Muslim students to be honest, authentic and true to themselves. From this effort, has emerged an incredibly beautiful and diverse amount of artwork. Students have shared their passion through poetry, reflections, singing, storytelling, spoken word, comedy acts and many more. In whatever way it may be, Al Bayyan is an invitation for all forms of selfexpression.
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