"sometimes writing is a channeling, and so the words we write are not always our own."

Words, As Fruit. #30

Tonight I sat down with a heavy needing and set the intention of writing out a prayer. As I began to write I was reminded that sometimes writing is a channeling, and so the words we write are not always our own. This is to say that words don’t always or only come from us, they come to and through us from hearts that beat outside of our own chests.

Tonight’s words come from a voice I heard, the voice of a young girl. This is what she said.

…

On day 14 of the war I began imagining having conversations with Allah. I mainly provided updates relating to the state of life, the confusion of my mind, and the aching of my heart. I asked questions, sorrowfully expressed rage and anger, and asked for the protection of my family, and the families that once lived next door to us, and the families that once lived next door to them, the families down the road, the families on the other side of my neighborhood, and the families in all the neighborhoods beyond my own.

To Allah I also prayed that the world would see us because, I thought, if they see us, and the horrors here, they will help us, and the massacres will end. But it seems my prayers have not reached them, or maybe I prayed the wrong prayer, because the world looks but chooses not to see, and sees and chooses not care. Bombs continue to fall like rain in a monsoon. Blood puddles inside the grooves of footprints along the roads we travel. We do not have food but we have ample supply of body bags. Martyrs that are found we place in the ground, not in single graves but bodies stacked, one on top of the other, on top of the other, on top of the other. I think, maybe they will not be cold this way, and at least they will not be alone on their journeys.

Yesterday was day 113 of the war. While away searching for food and water with my mother, they bombed the camp where we stayed. Some of my family was martyred. I am now without my father, my mother without her husband, and my sister and brother are gone from us too. Yes, my mother and I are still alive but we are just barely living.

How do you stay whole when pieces of you are missing?

Today in the midst of our search for another place to stay, my mother stopped to rest, and to pray.

“Mama”, I asked, “What do I say? I have prayed, and prayed, and prayed. And look around…”, I pointed to all the ruin.

My mother brought her palm to my cheek, gathered my face in her hands, let out a breath it seemed as if she had been holding in for a lifetime, and she said, “You breathe in the next breath you have been given. You see the beauty that remains despite the ruin. You hold precious your heart and all the love that, even in death, can never be taken. And you give thanks.”

As my mother finished speaking, I felt my father’s presence, and heard him say, “Hold on to your salah. Your salah will save you, heal you, and protect you.”

Alhamdulillah.