By Aisha Bhoori

The ambulance was shrieking, and I was the unlucky patient being hurriedly transported to the local hospital. My body lay on a stretcher inside the vehicle, pain shooting through my left arm.

“It looks like a massive heart attack,” I heard one of the paramedics whisper. Not knowing the true severity of my situation, I shut my eyes, desperately praying to Ar-Rahman (The Merciful) to have mercy on His slave.

…..

I impatiently tugged at the oxygen tubes in my nose, wondering when I would be able to escape from this prison the public decreed was a hospital.  A cardiologist soon strolled into my room, her brown eyes vibrant with empathy as she laid my chart down on the side counter and turned towards me, exclaiming, “As-salaamu `alaykum ((peace be upon you)) Aisha.”

Believing her kindness to be merely the facet of a friendly facade, I brusquely muttered an inaudible “Wa `alaykum as-salaam ((and on you, peace)) .”

The doctor tucked a strand of loose hair back in her hijab and began the arduous task of diagnosing me.

“The EKG was abnormal. We found some…disturbing signs. The irregular rate at which your heart is beating and the atypical electrical activity occurring are typical signs of a very discontent heart. We believe you are suffering from qalb-ul-qasiyyah, a hardened heart.”

With this revelation she looked at me expectantly, but my apathetic eyes merely gazed at her in boredom. I was too tired—too weary—too hopeless to care about the dire condition of my heart.

“Aisha?” she asked, giving me a questioning glance. “This is a very curable disease, you know. I once suffered from it too.”

With this revelation my eyes flickered with mild interest. But even then, I was suffocating under the burden of my despair and believed whatever “cure” the doctor was referencing had ceased to exist.

Understanding my cynical mindset, she began narrating her story.

“I was in a situation very similar to the one in which you are now. I was spiritually lost, wandering about with this immense pain in my soul, and my heart was reaping the effects. One day, I collapsed from the sheer magnitude of helplessness and sadness, and I was rushed into a hospital, just like the one in which we are today.”

I was fully awake at this point, and my eyes perceived the doctor in a different light. Curious as to how she managed to recover from the disease, I asked, “How did you get better?”

A knowing smile played on her lips: “Never forget Aisha—Allah subhanahu wa ta`ala (exalted is He) says in the Qur’an, “Surely with every hardship comes ease” ((Qur’an 94:5-6)) . But to answer your question more directly, I recovered through tawbah ((repentance)) , dhikr  ((remembrance))  and du`a’  ((supplication))  . These three things are the key to maintaining a relationship with Allah (swt). And in every situation, you have to have tawakkul ((trust in and reliance on God)) . Believe me, when you put your trust in Allah (swt) and not in other people, or a drug or a pill, the results are miraculous; tawakkul is an alleviation of stress and despair. ”

“But I already do all of those things. I pray five times a day too, ” I grumbled. ” And look where I am now.”

“I used to feel the same way,” she responded. The cardiologist’s eyes seemed to see through my exterior into my conflicted interior. “But just think for a moment. Do we really believe La ilaha illallah ((there is nothing of worship except The God)) ? I think the problem I had, and the problem our Ummah  ((community)) as a whole suffers from, is that our hearts haven’t born witness to the shahada ((the testament of faith))  . Our iman  ((faith)) is merely lip service; it is neither manifested in our deeds nor nestled in our hearts. Rasulullah  ((the Messenger of God))  ﷺ (peace be upon him) used to make tawbah over 70 times a day. We barely say 3 heartfelt astagfirullah‘s ((I seek refuge in God)) a day. How often do we return to Allah (swt) when we know we have strayed off the straight path, and are distant from Him?”

The doctor paused for a few seconds, and then turned back to me, asking a strange question with a seemingly obvious reply: “What do you think about when you pray?”

“Allah (swt) of course, ” I answered, matter of factly. But, seeing her skeptical look, I answered again.

“Well, usually my mind wanders, and I start to think about what my friend told me at lunch, or what I’m going to do for my science fair project, or what outfit I should wear to the party on Saturday. It’s hard to focus on Allah (swt),” I admitted.

“Good. You realize sometimes your mind strays from the remembrance of Allah (swt). It’s a problem that everybody struggles with. And it’s the cause of inefficient salah ((prayer)) . Salah is meant to be a protection for us against sin—a protection against the ever persistent whisperings of Shaytan (the devil). But, more often than not, it becomes monotonous, ritualistic movements of the body, in which our minds remember everything but Allah (swt). And this inefficient salah leads to a very lost, discontent soul that wonders why it has ceased to feel alive.”

Recognizing the truth in her words, I asked, “How can I start remembering Allah (swt)?”

“Simple. Dhikr and du`a’; strive to remember Allah (swt), and make du`a’. Ask As-Sami` (The One Who Hears) to bless you with the remembrance of Him. And remember it is recorded in a hadith  ((record of the words and actions of the Prophet ﷺ ))  that ‘Whoever does not ask of Allah (swt), he is angry with him.’ ((Tirmidhi)) Ask Allah (swt) and expect to be answered, because Allah (swt) loves to hear and answer the supplications of his humble servants.”

By this time I had shifted positions from laying on my back, to sitting upright, my head leaning against a few fluffed out pillows. The telemetry machine beeped encouragingly; my heart was beginning to beat at a more normal pace. I felt as I did after a rigorous cardio workout or an exhausting yet satisfying  game of basketball at the YMCA.

The cardiologist was quiet—lost in her thoughts. It seemed as if her speech had ended. Her hand was on the doorknob and she began to open the door.

“Where’s my prescription?” I quickly asked, assuming she had forgotten.

She merely chuckled. “I think I’ve given you everything you need to recover from this disease and have a qalbin salim—a sound heart. Read the Qur’an. Remember Aisha, in the Qur’an there is a healing—a healing that can heal even the hardest of hearts. ”

And with that, she opened the door and exited the room.

And isn’t that just it? Isn’t jannah that place after all,
that place that Allah describes over and over and over in 2 ways?
La khawfun alayhim wa la hum yahzanoon…
On them shall be no fear…nor shall they grieve.

But I’m still here, aren’t I?
The scar on my flesh reminds me of that.
The burn on my arm left a scar that I love.
I love it because it reminds me how weak I am.
How human.
That I burn. That I bleed. That I break. That I scar.
Yes. It is here that I am. Here that I fall. Here that I cry.
Here, just the same, that You filled that room, and lifted me to humbleness, and an acute knowledge of my own powerlessness and excruciating need for You.
And then you took care of it.
Of course You did.
Of course.
Like Younus, and Musa, and his mother. You took care of it.
You are the Peace of the peaceful.
The Strength of the strong.
The Lighthouse of Truth in this storm of lies.
So, I found myself praying for peace today.

dunya: this world
Jannah: Paradise
Younus: Jonah
Musa: Moses

Listening to the sound of wailing, she watched as medical workers lay out the bodies of the dead. The corpses, wrapped in white, were loaded onto the back of a pick-up truck.

“I will never forget this time,” Loewenstein recalls.  “I stayed in the camp for two days, picking through the ruins and debris of people’s former lives—watching children and families look for their belongings—anything they could salvage from the wreckage.”

Loewenstein was in Jenin.

She had spent much of the previous two years working as an editor and freelance journalist at the Mezan Center for Human Rights in Gaza. During that time, she traveled frequently to the Rafah refugee camp to visit friends. It was in that way that she came to know Rafah so well and later started the Madison-Rafah Sister City Project in December of 2002.

But Loewenstein’s decision to take on the plight of the Palestinian people was not an easy one. She has since been shunned by her community and accused of being a “terrorist sympathizer” and “self-hating Jew”—a term she considers as ludicrous as calling her a “self-hating human” for opposing human rights abuse.

Despite this opposition, Loewenstein continues her struggle to expose an injustice she wasn’t always aware of herself.

“I never really knew much about the plight of the Palestinians until I was much older,” says Loewenstein. “I didn’t begin to question all the information I’d gotten on Israel and on Arabs until I got to college (at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem).”

Loewenstein grew up in a secular Jewish family, but was instilled early on with a concern for Israel. She still remembers the day when her favorite dress was sent to her cousin overseas. She was only six, but gave up the dress because her family in Israel needed it.

Although her parents were not “avid Zionists”, their loyalty to Israel was strong. But even stronger than their loyalty to either Israel or Judaism was her family’s loyalty to peace.

“One year at Christmas/Hanukah time we refused to celebrate either holiday,” remembers Loewenstein. “Instead we made a ‘Peace Tree’ and celebrated our hope for peace.”

Her mother’s concern for peace was complemented by her struggle for civil rights. Because it has devastated her mother so much, Loewenstein never forgets the day that Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.

It was this early awareness of civil rights that Loewenstein carried into adulthood and would bring with her to Jerusalem. In 1981, she traveled to Israel for a semester-long study abroad program. During her stay she was exposed to a world she never knew existed.

One day during a tour of Gaza Strip instead of listening to the tour guide, Loewenstein sat at the back of the bus and looked out the window. She discovered “thousands of people living in tents and shacks.” Loewenstein was appalled.

“It was the first time I had ever seen this kind of poverty and the first time I understood the meaning of ‘occupation’ in a concrete way,” says Loewenstein. “I saw a woman with about three children carrying a jug of water on her head and a soldier watching her and the others around her with his gun slung over his shoulder.”

It was at that moment that she first realized “something was terribly wrong.”  But nothing she saw that day would prepare her for what she experienced in April of 2002.

Loewenstein was among the first internationals—and only a handful of Americans—to enter the destroyed Jenin refugee camp the day after the Israeli incursion.

“When I got into the camp area I could not believe my eyes. It had been devastated. Thirteen thousand people had lost their homes,” describes Loewenstein. “The camp was destroyed beyond recognition—flattened into a heap of rubble and dust. The smell of death was everywhere.”

What was most traumatic for her was the discovery that many of the dead were unarmed civilians. “Not all the dead were fighters,” says Loewenstein. “Some were old men, women and children.”

The horrors that Loewenstein experienced in Jenin made her struggle all the more urgent—a struggle she fights, not as a Jewish woman, but as a human being.

You begin by calling the coast guard. No reply. You try again to redirect the boat. No use. You look for the lifeboat. It’s gone. You reach for a life jacket. Torn. Finally after you’ve exhausted every means, you turn your face upward.

And ask God.

But there’s something completely unique about this moment. At this instant, you experience something you otherwise could only theorize about: true tawheed. Oneness. See, on shore, you may have called on God. But you called on Him along with so many others. You may have depended on God. But you depended on Him along with so many other handholds. But for this singular moment, everything else is closed. Everything. There is nothing left to call on. Nothing left to depend on. But Him.

And that’s the point.

Do you ever wonder why when you’re most in need, every door you seek of the creation remains closed? You knock on one, but it’s slammed shut. So you go to another. It’s also shut. You go from door to door, knocking, pounding on each one, but nothing opens. And even those doors you had once depended on, suddenly shut. Why? Why does that happen?

See, we humans have certain qualities which God knows well. We are constantly in a state of need. We are weak. But, we are also hasty and impatient. When we are in trouble, we will be pushed to seek assistance. And that’s the design. Why would we seek shelter if it’s sunny and the weather is nice? When does one seek refuge? It is when the storm hits. So Allah subahanahu wa ta`ala (exlated is He) sends the storm; He makes the need through a created situation, so that we will be driven to seek shelter.

But when we do seek assistance, because of our impatience, we seek it in what is near and what seems easy. We seek it in what we can see and hear and touch. We look for shortcuts. We seek help in the creation, including our own selves. We look for help in what seems closest. And isn’t that exactly what dunya (wordly life) is? What seems near. The word ‘dunya’ itself means ‘that which is lower’. Dunya is what seems closest. But, this is only an illusion.

There is something closer.

Think for a moment about what’s nearest to us. If asked this question, many would say it is the heart and the self that are nearest. But, Allah (swt) says:

“It was We Who created man, and We know what dark suggestions his nafs (self) makes to him: for We are nearer to him than (his) jugular vein,” (Qur’an 50:16).

In this verse, Allah (swt) begins by showing us that He knows our struggles. There is comfort in knowing that someone sees our struggles. He knows what our own self calls us to. But He is closer. He is closer than our own self and what it calls for.  He is closer than our jugular vein. And why the jugular? What is striking about this part of us? The jugular vein is the most important vein that brings blood to the heart. If severed, we die almost immediately. It is literally our lifeline. But Allah (swt) is closer. Allah (swt) is closer than our own life, than our own Self, than our own nafs. And He is closer than the most important pathway to our heart.

In another verse, Allah (swt) says:

“O ye who believe! give your response to Allah and His Messenger, when He calleth you to that which will give you life; and know that Allah cometh in between a man and his heart, and that it is He to Whom ye shall (all) be gathered,” (Qur’an 8:24).

Allah (swt) knows we have a nafs. Allah knows we have a heart. Allah knows that these things drive us. But Allah tells us that He is closer to us than even these. So when we reach for other than Him, we are not only reaching for what is weaker, we are also reaching past what is closer, for what is further and more distant. Subhan Allah (Glory be to God).

So since this is our nature, as Allah (swt) knows best, He protects and redirects us by keeping all other doors of refuge closed during the storm. He knows that behind each false door is a drop. And if we enter it, we will fall. In His mercy, He keeps those false doors closed.

In His mercy, He sent the storm itself to make us seek Him. And then knowing that we’re likely to get the wrong answer, He gives us a multiple choice exam with only one option to choose from: the correct answer.  The hardship itself is ease.  By taking away all other handholds, all other multiple choice options, He has made the test simple.

It’s never easy to stand when the storm hits. And that’s exactly the point. By sending the wind, He brings us to our knees: the perfect position to pray.