The elephant in every room Into which I stride All eyes on Miss Never the Bride Walking down the lonely aisle of life Holding a wilting bouquet of pride Faith in God, Hope in community lost Receiving judgment, hurtful thoughts, Wrecking ball stares Pity for a state no one cares…
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LETTER 1 of 2 As-Salaam-Alaikum: I don’t mean to bother you but this is disturbing my mind and I need an educated explanation. I was at a Muslim Sister’s Fashion Show (predominately African American sisters) when during casual conversation a young sister (mid 20s) stated that her husband is Christian….
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According to empirical research conducted in 2004 on money, sex, and happiness, increasing the frequency of sex from once a month to once a week can increase a person’s happiness to the same extent as having an additional $50,000 in the bank. In a New York Times Magazine column, Gretchen…
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We are told that the word “beat” in this verse (4:34) is a transitive verb. That means it can only take a direct object. As this verb is transitive it can only mean “beat.” When it is in its intransitive form, it means “go away from them,” making “them” an…
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It took a while, but after protracted discussions, my late mother finally had come around to the idea. “Habiba, you don’t need to get married” she’d said. I had finally convinced her that the opportunity cost of marriage was too great to sustain. I read Fatima Adamou’s piece with great…
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Dear Salma, Ever since we got married four years ago, my husband and I have had a rocky relationship. We have two toddlers and I work full-time, while he is a stay-at-home dad. Two years ago, he began playing a certain video game in his downtime and since then,…
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At 21 I married a man five years older than me. The second time around, at 31, I married a man five years younger than me.*
Eight years into our marriage, it still sends little shock waves through people when I mention this. There are sometimes oooohs and aaahhhs, eyes get bigger and rounder, and I can almost see folks wanting to high five me and slap my husband on the back for biting the bullet and marrying an older, divorced, single mom. I have, no joke, been asked at least a dozen times how I managed to pull this off.
Read MoreMy husband’s heavy breathing assures me he is sound asleep. I cautiously tiptoe out of the darkened bedroom, careful not to stub yet another toe on a piece of furniture, and make my way downstairs to the kitchen. As I begin to prepare the French toast and tea, warm smells fill the first floor of our home, but at this early hour they do not strike me as appetizing: it is 4:30 a.m. and I am putting together my and my husband’s sehri.
Read MoreWhen my husband finally makes his way down the stairs, my frustration abates and he and I sit across from each other and share our early morning meal. We speak intermittently and keep one eye trained on the clock to ensure we finish our food by the time dawn prayers begin. Despite the sparse conversation and the hurried meal, I enjoy the feeling that we are both beginning our obligatory fasts together, as a unit.
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