the prophet's sujood
a poem about the people dying on my phone.
the prophetโs sujood
now that my mother is away, my prayer is rushed,
a thing to be gotten through,
checked off a list so long
I canโt keep up.
my motherโs prayer is slow
deliberate
in part because to move
from standing to prostration at 74
is tricky
and in part because she prays as if
sheโs speaking to God
and God deserves
her undivided attention.
I remember the words of a thousand shuyukh
in a thousand sermons
saying
the prophetโs sujood was longer
than our whole salah
so long
the men of Quraysh had time
to walk to the edge of Mecca
to pick up the carcass of a camel
to dump on his back while he was
lowered in humility before God
and point
and laugh
like children
so long
his ten year-old daughter had to come
remove the entrails
with her small, bare hands.
my friend Jen asks me
if there are words I say to God
in thanks
in hope
in wanting
and there are so many
but Iโm so busy watching people
die
on my phone
that I rush through my prayer
say the shortest words I know
so I can scroll some more
and cry some more
and watch and like and share and comment some more
as if the people Iโm pleading to for mercy
can make a bigger difference than the God Iโm barely
acknowledging.
years ago, I took a dua course
to learn how to beg God properly
but now my sujood is seconds long
or short
except that sometimes
I turn the tap
and the torrent of all the pleading is unleashed
sometimes
I ask God
for everything the people wonโt give me
for safety and courage
for words that reach to the farthest edges of the world
words that convince veto holders and lobby groups
that brown bodies bleed and brown eyes cry and brown hearts break
the same way white ones do
and then (embarrassed) I ask for insignificant things
like
weight loss
and clear skin
and lower blood pressure
and more vacation days
a housekeeper who comes once a week to tidy up
and a resistance to chocolate and poutine.
I am ashamed to admit that I stand in front of my stocked fridge
with the kale salad
pomegranates
and organic lemons
craving sushi
or maybe butter chicken.
now that my mother is away, we take the train into town
to join the protests
shout the slogans
ceasefire now
end the siege
no more genocide.
on our way home
my boys play makeshift soccer
with a chunk of ice pulled off the ploughed Ottawa sidewalks.
their voices ring out
impromptu groans and cheers
at goals that hit the garbage bins
nutmegs on the curb.
they remind me of the videos
of children
playing in the rubble
sliding down the sand
a lifetime and sixty days ago.
the last thing I do
before bed
is check for posts
from local journalists in Gaza
just to make sure theyโre still alive,
foolishly hoping
one more reel
one more child
covered in dust and blood
lying on the floor of an overcrowded hospital
will be the thing that breaks the spell.
I am continuing to share resources, links, and information that I have found helpful regarding the crisis in Gaza and the West bank. The โhumanitarian pauseโ has now ended, and conditions are worse than ever. Those Palestinians who havenโt died or been brutally wounded are starving. People have reported going days without food. Please continue to apply political pressure for a permanent ceasefire, an end to the blockade, and an end to the occupation. Please read and add your voice to those calling for equality for all.
If you havenโt yet spoken out, and you feel embarrassed to start now, itโs never too late. Iโm here if you want to discuss this. Thereโs lots to work through, and maybe you have questions. Itโs not too late to add your voice.
It can be hard not to go numb at the suffering weโre seeing. makes it real again, which brings the horror into light. I will say again that it is the least we can do to bear witness.
pays tribute to Refaat Alareer, a poet and academic killed in Gaza last week.
A lullaby for Gaza.
Bisan, a young journalist in Gaza whoโs been bravely reporting since the start of the genocide, speaks about the layers of humiliation and suffering you might forget about. Women in Gaza cannot access sanitary menstruation products.
Again, the starving.
The oldest mosque in Gaza has been destroyed. Imagine Notre Dame destroyed. Imagine the leaning tower of Pisa destroyed. This is heritage. This alone is a travesty but weโre so inundated with death itโll be forgotten in days.
For scale.
To keep trying to do the little we can and not loose hope in spite of hopelessness is tough, but we must. Thank you for your consistent hope and spotlight on our shared humanity ๐
Your poem, Noha. Achingly beautiful. Thank you. xo