Threads Volume 21 Issue 2

threads

volume XXI issue II uc berkeley's muslim student publication

welcome to threads, volume XXI issue II

board

aamna abbasi editor-in-chief sania elahi photo editor

muzamil samimi managing editor

aliza siddiqui web editor

zahra ansari creative director

ceren fitoz video editor

javairia abbasi print editor

ariana haider marketing director

nawal seedat print editor

dina ghanim social media director

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table of contents

5 editor's letter 6 in the name of dissent 10 pathfinder '06 16 violet 26 my body has never been mine

32 la paz to uyuni 42 sultan education 46 a survey of a muslim living with depression 50 particles of the dunya 54 surah al an'am

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Readers,

It is not everyday that we are able to celebrate members of our community. This issue serves to highlight the people who worked to build our foundation and contribute to our growth. Working with threads over the years has taught me that the Muslim community is beautiful, diverse, and flourishing. These stories serve as a testament to that. I hope you enjoy reading and learning from them as much as we did.

Love, Aamna

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in the name of dissent words | momna taufeeq

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ikhtilaaf-e-raye kay naam Shair ki lalkaar say Sach kay ambaar say

Nihaton ki aah-o-pukaar say Tootâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ti zanjeeron ki chankaar say

Kaanptay hain yeh bandookon walay Yeh zulm kay alam bardaar botoon walay

Fasla ajj tay ho ga takht say takhta-e-daar ka Rehzan jo chand baithay hain waqt shuru hua haar ka

Khudai ka dawa yeh jo kartay hain Dil main sirf bughz-o-nafrat rakhtay hain

Ae mayri jaagti qoum kay mehkomon Gira dalo in khauf kay buton ko

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in the name of dissent The thunderous roar of the lion The crushing weight of truth

The cries and wailing of the innocent The melody of shackles breaking

See them tremble, these armed men These men in boots; flag bearers of tyranny

The journey begins, from the throne to the gallows These robbers on seats of power will be defeated

These men who profess Godhood In their hearts they hold only hate and venom

O people of my awakened nation Destroy these idols that inspire fear

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pathfinder '06 words | arebu

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ummer-ending Californian fires have forged the air into suffocating hellish spirit, and the Nissan is ill-equipped in coping mechanisms to process this trauma. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s our first rough exposure to the long road, three days shy of two months since. Thrust upon us by a good-eyed auntie with a desperate smile, we were non-vigilant in the rush to acquiesce her. Lately, we had limited drives to an hour each way, every minute over was stomach-eating, saliva-sticking, finger-fidgeting. Three hours left. Anxiety steams out of our ears. It rises, collects, and hangs in the hot air just below the roof.

Everyone, minus one, is in the V6, seating seven. My father and brother at the front are immersed in a think-tank of politics bubbling over into the rest of the car. It just barely penetrates the wall of high-pitched chittering of my aunt, mother, and grandmother, interrupted only by internal shocked gasps of local gossip. My sister, Imnet, and I, the two youngest now, are relegated to the rear, squished in, pushed back, given only leftover space. My sister plays candy crush on a borrowed cell, and I use my own to stalk an Instacrush or two.

On this occasion, we avoid Northern disaster in favor of a Southern road.

A dead phone motivates me to nag my way into the passenger seat, nabbing it while my brother cashes in his privilege to use nature as a restroom. I assume the duties the second-in-command position of navigator though I never know the best way. Conversation with my father isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t easy to start because I never know the best way. Usually, our favorite pastime is a silent chess match that I always lose.

I chatter to him, asking about his work, which he refuses to talk about.

I babble on about my disappointing major, so different from the work he refuses to talk about.

I prattle on about the weather, surprisingly the most unsatisfactory of the three.

I run out of slight-light-trifling words.

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Trusting a CD, Frank Ocean’s Channel Orange, an alien from my Toyota, fills the vast open empty space stretched over the center console. Light-years in miles of time are occupied explaining my significance with each song as it plays through. Poorly-timed automatic nods tell that he’s barely listening. My mother teases me, asking when I will grow out of my musical obsession. Grandmother notes the “Allahu Akbar” wailed out in the chorus of Bad Religion. I quickly have to clarify Frank doesn’t literally mean a bad religion- just an unrequited love, an unmatched devotion. I don’t tell them I feel cheated in my worship. The song switches to Pink Matter, anyways, and I switch my praise to Andre 3000, instead.

The musical notes ease slow into lento, lulling me into sleep. Robbed eyelids drooped dragged dropped low to close. Weaning from my backrest; leaning forward in imbalanced exhaustion.

Boom! Final in its sound. Cracking! Blue glass breaking to the left. I jump up. A fistheart threatens to punch out, beating my ribs. Vision blurs from weary-eyed teariness; I survey the scene.

Nothing. Only memory reimagined.

Shifting my body to face the green-tinted window, I turn my face into the arm of my sweater, ridding of the salt rocked evidence, saving my parents the guilt. The night before I spent an hour of stolen sleep wishing I was a better Muslim, good enough to pray away terrors. My youngest sister, Salli, was the best of four.

Two hours left. I ask my father if he wishes I was made more in his image, in English.

My brother is the most Ethiopian, an easy competition as he was raised partly there.

Respectful in his deference, quiet in his slow soft speech, he speaks the mother tongue. Silly monkey Salli, as American as the Kentucky she was born in, responded to Amharic always with a blank stare. I ask him about myself, somewhere in the gradient between the two, transplanted on my first plane ride when I was two. Imnet, in

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the same limbo, is listening. Our hard heads, hard hearts won’t bruise by his answer.

He wishes we had his values in life.

The world is being remade by the values that raised us. Isn’t that better?

He explains to me in his language: I am the fruit that fell 2000 miles and an ocean away from bitterness burrowed in foreign sweeter soil. Water filtered with a pinch of added afterthought authenticity; sun gildened not browned beaten into submission; tilled into success by better tools. The States as shelter: a spoiled babe wrapped in the strong-armed blanket of safety.

I frown. A long running tension between us had been the state of my mental health which I felt could be better. To this, my father thought of as a product of internalized munchausen’s. Tragedy be spared in the most obvious ways, but dead dreams, emotional injury, lost folk hide in areas of dim lighting. Heavy-handed on high expectations, life rests on the tired shoulders, lays upon weak-idealed foundations, till thoughts, things, people just disappear. The mental, the moral, drives itself into loss.

Loss. A purse in his lips reveals he thinks of Wollo.

Wollo, his Ethiopian childhood home, that we never got to see. My father, a lost boy of veteran refugee status, always expected me to remember lessons I have never learned as if his own mind was transmitted transferred to me in the birthing process.

Frustratingly, in his found comfort, he too has forgotten them, believing the world to be a life-giver. The road to Wollo has taught us both the pain when she takes abruptly.

It won’t let us forget again. A three-songed soundtrack sticks clings hangs on my ears.

A blasted bang; cymbals as shattering windows; a side-pressed double-fisted, neckcraned skybound wail.

A glazed face reveals he too thinks of Salli.

I avoid talking to my parents about the death of my sister. My mother once told me that it hurts those in heaven to speak of the pain of their loss. My father wouldn’t let me speak at the service.

One hour left. My mother makes an offhand comment on the road conditions. The wheels softly absorb most of the odd, crumbly, crinkly texture of worn concrete. Her mouth stays agape long after and her gaze softens to a far away thought. Looking in

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the rearview, the shiny reflection of a shy tear shaped memories slips down her cheek.

My grandmother gently rests her arms around her. The strange affliction diffuses and infects and in catching contagion, half the car is crying. Not me. My aunt once commented how jealous she was how strong-stomached I am. That’s not me either. Iman doesn’t cry, a habit I hope she hadn’t picked up from my bad influence. I swallow, and clear my throat.

I purify the air before alarms go off like my mom does when her daily coffee ceremony smokes the kitchen.

“She was meant to die when she was born, that’s what the doctor told us.” Two months early at five pounds, four ounces on a fall night when I arrived home to my mother bleeding onto the floor.

“Allah (SWT) let us have her for the time we did because we needed to experience unashamed goodness and greatness to soften and mold our hearts be better but life would have hardened her heart the way it hardens everyone else’s. Her sweet would have soured; smile eyes would have dimmed.” I think of this as true.

“It’s the way of the world; that’s why it’s a test. Salli was always going to pass. Her soul need not be burdened by taking it. We must be grateful for His mercy. Alhamdulillah.”

My mother chokes through that I should’ve given a speech. I agree. I used to do it at every event: graduations, holidays, birthdays. On my parent’s 25th anniversary, I opened with a funny joke, still remembered. But my father wouldn’t let me speak at the service.

“Enough of this.” He coughs out, barking quietly, speaking for the first time in a while.

“There will never be enough of this.” My voice over his.

The car is at the apex of stress just before a breath of relief. We have been stuck there for months. Caught in one breathe, the same breathe, held deep within the bottom of lungs that are giving out. Our heads spin; our knees weaken; our bodies give in.

My father gives up. Moments pass.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Your sister wanted to be a teacher, and I want to honor that,â&#x20AC;? he begins. The fourdoored, high-heighted, steel-gray vehicle fuels the inception of an organization in memoriam that we all contribute to.

Once we arrive, we spill out of the car like dripping hot oil. Water, atmosphere-absorbed, treats our wounds, cooling quickly with sea-salt. The ocean smiles its borrowed shine at us. I return the favor.

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violet

photos | sania elahi

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my body has never been mine words | aleenah ansari

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hey tell me that I need to cover up “The boys will look,” my mother warns As she delicately drapes a scarf around my neck Pulls down my pant hems until they’re brushing the edge of my worn combat boots Then, she adorns me with earrings and a bracelet that glints in the sun Holding me by the shoulders, she says “Now, you are beautiful” And so I’ve learned That my body wasn’t for me it never was for my love just for their gaze and so I listened.

So, my body is often dressed in the notions of what others think of me.

These days, my mother still tells me to put on a different shirt to be respectful of my grandfather. My dad looks at my shorts and asks why I have to do this, in reference to buying something with a hemline so short. My aunt points at my shirt and says, “you’re going to wear that in public?” as if I’m offending someone with the clothes on me. I know that their shoulders were weighed down by the weight of societal expectations about what a Pakistani Muslim should be—modest, humble, and respectful of others. My mother just wanted to keep me safe from a world that had never been kind to her womanhood. Unfortunately, this seemed to come at the expense of policing my body.

I’ve always been so modest, I thought. I remember one day I paired a teal sweater with a high-waisted skirt, full of vibrant colors painted like brushstrokes. Last minute, I decided to ditch my tights—I mean, it was my decision to wear them or not, right? I’m not trying to put my body

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on display, I thought. I smoothed the fabric over my legs, and smiled at myself in the mirror before sneaking around my mother and jumping into the car. 8 hours later, I stood embarrassed as my female teacher scoffed at me and asked, “can that skirt get any shorter?” in front of my class. Other people giggled as I looked away, hoping that my cheeks weren’t blushing in any obvious way.

For a long time, I let other people’s comments let me feel mortified of my own body, the one that enabled me to see the world and be seen and express love to others. I just wanted to be seen for my mind, for my work, for the way that I tell stories and empower my friends and do my small act of good as an educator and writer. Instead, I grab a shirt off my hanger and wonder if it will make me a target for unwanted attention.

This means that I don’t put together outfits for day-to-day wear that show off my collarbone or a skirt that’s too high above my knees because I’m afraid of how others will perceive me. To this day, I can’t wear tank

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tops in public and am often covered head to toe in fabric even as the sun beats overhead. And even when I decide to get done up with makeup that makes my cheekbones and face glow, I find myself checking every reflection and wondering if that Starbucks cashier was extra nice because I looked put together.

The way I viewed my body was fueled by shame, a fear of comments I received as I walked down the street at every hour of the day, and the pressure to “cover up.” So maybe my mother was right—maybe my clothes and naked face could be a form of protection. Until it wasn’t.

I was walking to my favorite concert, covered head-to-toe and strutting my black combat boots while listening to my favorite song.

I had taken this path so many times, so I’m practically floating there as the words to “No Problem” by Chance the Rapper echo through my mind. In this moment, my body is mine again.

He stops me I like the way you carry yourself, he offers Pointing to my thighs Taking me in with each blink My brow furrows but I hear myself thank them We’re just saying that you have a nice body His friend adds I don’t hear that very often anymore I thank him graciously Why am I grateful Where are you from, he implores as he falls in line with my step.

India?

Does it matter Pakistan, I offer feebly He follows Cooing mashallah and shukria in my ear Words that weren’t meant for this, That were never meant for him My body doesn’t feel like home anymore And when he finally leaves, I shake and wonder What did I do to deserve it?

Surely I wasn’t showing too much skin? I posited. The only skin that was to be seen was my face and collarbone peeking out of my t-shirt.

Was this enough to warrant this attention that’d leave me hot red

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with embarrassment? But a voice in my mind whispered, this attention just means that you’re beautiful. Isn’t that what you wanted?

Maybe not.

Because their attention didn’t come from a place of respect or kindness. Because I never invited for their attention, this commentary, and my clothes could never protect me from their gaze. They only saw me as a walking dartboard, and they had locked in on the target.

Has it ever been about my clothes?

Or is it about me, this body and womanhood that will never protect me from people’s attention? Because covering up my entire body didn’t save me from their gaze or comments, and neither could my mother’s wisdom.

I now realize that my body and my beauty have ever been mine. I understand the narrative of reclaiming it, of being confident as a way to take back what’s ostensibly mine. I’m still trying to figure out if I should cover my body, show it off in an effort to reclaim my skin, or stop trying to strategize the way I interact with the world.

Nothing I wear will ever teach me how to love and respect my body regardless of what I put on it. I could wear a tank top on the way to a party and no one would bat an eye. I can wear jeans and a turtleneck and get catcalled while walking down the familiar streets of Downtown Seattle. No matter how much the rhetoric of modesty echoes through my mind, men still try to touch me when I go out.

I can’t take a bus after 10 p.m. without fearing people’s comments that’ll make me regret not getting home from work before sunset.

When will I truly feel safe as a woman of color in this world that wasn’t made for me? Part of it comes from realizing that there truly is no right way to be. Part of is realizing that we should teach boys where to look instead of teaching women how to dress in armor that will never protect them from the judgment and unwanted gaze of others.

I have fought every day to believe that my body belongs to me and me alone, and I will keep fighting until I learn to love the parts of myself that will never be respected or validated by others. I want to dress myself with the notion that nobody’s expectations, comments, or stigma should govern the way I value my body. This realization is a good thing—maybe the best of things.

Because of this realization, I decided that I wanted to get a tattoo of

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something on my body that made me feel a little more authentic and proud of the skin I’m in, which is why I picked a little wildflower to grow on the back of my shoulder. This flower is an embodiment of the way I’ve grown, and it’s part of a garden on my body that complements pretty thoughts in my head about the woman I’m becoming. When I got it, I promised that I would only dress my body for myself.

Whenever I catch a glimpse of my tattoos in the mirror, I think of how my Dad calls me his wildflower and the time he asked me, “when did you get so strong?” If I can love my tattoos, my body, and the way that I have always been unapologetically myself, then I can find love for myself when others’ comments try to reduce me to the sum of my physical parts. If I can love the wildflowers on my body that I’ve chosen for myself, I must be able to love myself a little bit better too. I shouldn’t have to demand respect from any man or woman or person walking down the street who uses my body as their full. So if my body is a temple, I’m cleansing it of all the words that have weighed it down for so long.

So, I’ve realized I am not a problem or solution or a punching bag or place for others to project their expectations about what and who a woman should be. I am no one’s fill or a home for people’s insecurities. Instead, I am a queer woman of color who has found love in herself. I’m learning to water myself with kind words and not prickle with thorns when people try to tell me what kind of woman I am or the attention I deserve. Instead, I approach every conversation with patience and the belief that I have something important to say.

I like this version of me—the one with a nose ring, wildflowers, and pretty thoughts about myself and the things I’ll create.

So the next time I walk down the road and hear catcalls, I will not return to a place of guilt and shame. Instead, I’m learning that I can love my body tattoos, jiggly parts, brownness and all—and no one can take that away from me.

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This life is a test I scale the rocky terrain, sizing up the misfortunes ahead and behind I feel in my pocket for comfort and control but find neither this life & this womanhood is a trial not a life without hope Instead of wrapping myself in a scarf as armor and put in on display What if I dressed myself in kindness, humility, and strength This is how I move forward Lifting myself to the skies I move not with great speed but with will and force Their words and gaze will never be the thing that defines me I am stitched together with the stories of your ancestors and the light I find in everything And in the darkest moments, I must keep this in mind

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la paz....

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...to uyuni

photos | zahra ansari

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sultan education words | khizar khan

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didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t realize the Power I had until I did it.

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There are so many factors that hold us back from working on something we think about. When the time comes to act on our plan, we question its worth. I did. I questioned myself. I questioned my Ability. I questioned my Power.

After a long summer of planning out what we wanted to teach and how we get the resources to teach, such as raising funds to buy laptops and finding a place, we finished our curriculum, reaching out to people that would help us with our project, and raising funds. My friend, Hamza, and I were ready for the next step. But Hamza had to back out due to a work commitment. A hold back. A white noise. My Ability and Power challenged.

What became a pushing factor was my friends. My friends who became the strong force which reminded me of my Ability and Power. We have a saying, KFC. Keep Focused Collective. The energy within was brought back. The energy to do it not just for me. But also for my People. I just had to be reminded. I bought my ticket and flew to Barazai Punjab, Pakistan.

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During the set up, my cousins, my uncles, and other elders kept telling me how it was useless to teach these kids because theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not worth it. It was insanely discouraging to hear all that. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t true. It was just another white noise. These kids are worth more than this. And this was the most useful decision I had ever made. This time, no question raised of my Ability and Power. No hold back. I travelled across the world for this. No more of that.

I taught kids Web Development and English. During the program, there was absolutely nothing that would have questioned or stopped any of it. Kids traveled, on feet and bicycles, from so far during Ramadan under the hot, burning summer sun. There was nothing holding them back. They came to learn. The love I received from the students helped me realize what it was all about. To give back. To help. To share the knowledge we attain. I gave them my all. And so did they.

Time flew. I blinked, and it was all over. FEAR OF FAILURE, HOLD BACKS, QUESTIONS were just the white noise I laughed at in the end. I simply just did it.

I have much more than I know. I realized I was capable of so much I never knew. I realize I had the Power to change.

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a survey of a muslim living with depression words | alana arman photos | maysoon suleiman

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inpricks, I want to suffocate myself with my own ribs.

I can wrap myself up carefully in swathes of blue and grey And put tiny morsels into my body when the sun decides to retire (till the next one, and the next one) Ramadan is my favorite because no one asks questions.

Glass frames, to showcase the bags, the ones I’ve drenched in the color of my own skin.

“Be modest,” mother says.

All the better mama, the big sweaters hide the disappearing frame, you know, the one made out of glass?

Longer sleeves cover seemingly endless highways of scars; track marks of self-hate.

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“We affirm that angels are real,” teacher says.

A blessing in disguise because I like to think that angels are pushing on my chest.

My way of dealing with the dull ache, the one I’m scared of (ANXIETY—anxious of ), is trying to make it whimsical anyway.

“The Muslim ummah is like a body,” student says.

I am like cartilage, I hold all the places up and make sure no one gets hurt.

I slap on a smile and continue to mime my way through other peoples’ expectations.

Am I convincing?

Who is going to make sure my bend doesn’t break?

“Praying in the night is one of the best forms of ibadah,” imam says.

My muscles wage war when I try to lift myself from the prison of my bed at any time of the day.

A thin layer of pale liquid the only thing keeping my under-eyes the same color as the rest of my face.

I play out the same act on the stage behind my two eyes every single morning and matinee.

The price set too high for anyone else but the director to see it, but the show persists and drags on.

“Inscribed in God’s throne is ‘my mercy outstrips my wrath’,” teacher (2) says.

I am in this in-between, trying to believe that everything I’ve done to try to drown out these feelings of heaviness will be forgiven.

Trying not to despair.

Trying not to think about stopping short what has been decreed, even though that’s already been decreed.

“It’s because you don’t pray enough,” mother used to say.

I wanted her to know that my kneecaps had bruises.

And that there were permanent trenches that the tears had eroded into my face.

My voice cracked like a whip on my dry tongue repeating the arabic over and over.

But every time I said salam to those angels that sat heavy on my shoulders, I didn’t feel better.

“I’m not getting better mama, teacher, student, imam,” I wanted to say.

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*Think here of years passing like the scene outside of a train window* I met someone.

His name rang like nerve endings and signals lost: chemical imbalance.

Middle name: genetics.

Being with him made me realize that I wasn’t actually doing anything wrong.

I wasn’t a bad Muslim.

Just like surah yasin slipping effortlessly off my lips, I’ve practiced and memorized my breakup speech to a T. I can’t mess it up, hopefully, hopefully.

I’ll have a bouquet of small white pills in my posession.

And I’ll hand off all of the built up resentment, pain, and missed meals in a box.

All his things, not mine.

And I’ll slip into something more my style.

In about a week, I won’t have to write sad things anymore.

If this were a movie, I’d hold up that slate and yell “CUT!” for all the world to hear.

But alas, I go quietly (and you can too).

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particles of the dunya words | kauser adenwala photos | maysoon suleiman

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xamining Islamic revivalism as a global phenomenon in the 19th and 20th centuries allows to realize how truly expansive Islam is—how the beacon of hope in it being a force to reckon with is more so than just hope, but a reality. The transmission of Islamic knowledge makes it clear how revolutionary the last two centuries have been for western hegemony in the Muslim world.

Even today, there seems to be a reinstated fresh sense of obligation amongst a younger generation of Muslims to take action, become civically engaged, and urge others to become more educated. The language of Islam has come to represent a force in the secular epistemology, a long trajectory of political struggle, especially in the era of the righteously guided caliphs.

The Abbasid caliphate was successful because of its advancements in science, philosophy and medicine but after the thirteenth century, its road to prosperity was short lived because of the rising European colonialism that dominated — Islamic empires were thus shadowed.

These are the postcolonial predicaments we are attending to, especially today, when questioning why Islam is not thriving as well as we want it to.

It is important to have a certain amount of self-scrutiny and skepticism in regarding one’s personal political commitments when trying to understand the lives of others who don’t share the same commitments. What animates part of the Islamist movement? How should we, as Muslims in the West, think about postcolonial predicaments in the Muslim world? Our identities with our faith and our nationalities are also carved with a sense of otherness, sparking a convergence between the secular and the com-

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munal perspectives. We’re strangers of faith in a dunya that cannot make room for Islam without regulating or reshaping it. Islam does not need to be regulated or reshaped; it's perfect in its strangeness. Prophet Muhammad said, “Islam began as something strange and will return to [being] something strange just as [it was] in the beginning, so glad tidings to the strangers” (Muslim).

It’s fascinating to connect tradition back to all of this.

How does probing traditional values enable us to connect back to our Islamic heritage? 1400 years of Islamic scholarship is no blessing to simply turn a blind eye to; in fact, it’s the reason why what is asked of us is so explicitly clear. Islam has traditional roots that has fueled the beauty and vibrancy to continue to override any modernist’s agenda to “reform” Islam through social movements.

As Muslims, we shouldn’t begin any of our learning processes with preconceived conclusions established in our minds. This leads to finding only the ideologies that deride much of Islamic historical thought and confining ourselves to profound movements. Trials and tribulations are inevitable, especially when it comes to our faith, but understanding that Islam is perfect and that what is asked of us should not sway us. It will be difficult, but we must continue this legacy of showcasing the beauty of Islam wherever we go.

“Do the people think that they will be left to say, ‘We believe’ and they will not be tried? But we certainly tried those before them, and Allah will surely make evident those who are truthful, and He will surely make evident the liars” [Surah Al-Ankabut, 2-3].

And how profoundly Allah (SWT) created Adam from the dust of the earth is just how profoundly we leave insignificant marks in this world. Despite our vast understandings of the world, we must realize that the past 1400 years of Islamic scholarship cannot succumb to being questioned for the rise of modernity to usurp our understanding of the beauty of our creed. Islam’s perfection transcendences an everlasting legacy, leaving us as emblems of dust or as simply particles of the dunya.

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surah al an'am photos | maysoon suleiman

(6:99) He it is Who sends down water from the sky, and there with We bring forth vegetation of every kind (from their seeds under the soil), and then from it We bring forth a lively shoot, from which We bring forth close-packed and compounded ears of grain, and from the palm-tree from the spathe of it dates thick-clustered hanging (ready to the hand), and gardens of vines, and the olive tree, and the pomegranate: alike (in the fundamentals of life and growth) and diverse (in structure, look, taste, and smell). Look at their fruit, when they begin to fruit and as they ripen. Surely in that, there are signs for people who will believe and who will deepen in faith (as they see new signs).

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