Spoiler: This piece is not about how to attract a man. I don’t know how. Sorry.

“Delete that”. “Re-phrase this”. “Take that out”. “No one needs to know that”. You’d think I was writing a tell-all memoir, the way everyone keeps telling me to minimise information about myself. Only, we’re not writing a lengthy book, we’re not even writing a letter. We, and by we I mean I, am writing a CV. Specifically a marriage CV, or biodata, as one may refer to it in the Asian community.

This little Word document, often adorned with the Arabic phrase Bismillahi Rahman-Ar-Raheem, in a little show of piety, captures the most basic details of a person’s life; their name, location, education, occupation. And, unnecessarily in my opinion, it includes details of a person’s family, including what their parents do, their siblings, their grandparents details (yes, really), and their village back home. Then there is a ‘personal statement’ bit where a potential bride or groom can write a bit more about who they are, their interests, hobbies, and what they’re looking for in a partner. Then with a swoosh it will be sent off on Whatsapp and Facebook marriage groups, to be scrutinised by eagle-eyed third parties.

My marriage CV has gone through more revisions than my professional CV. Like an angry editor red-lines parts of a writer’s article and suggests changes, my mum, siblings, friends, neighbours, aunties, people I’ve just met, have offered me these edits. My biodata looks like anyone else’s now, with nothing to separate me from the next unlucky-in-love woman also diluting herself lest a man should be too intimidated.

The biggest change my CV has gone though is omitting my occupation. No one wants to marry a journalist, apparently. No, really. I have been rejected specifically for this reason - a potential suitor’s family said they didn’t want their son to marry a journalist. I then replaced ‘journalist’ with ‘writer’, with my army of editors - mums and aunties basically - mollified by the difference, perhaps in hopes that a man may mistake me for a bookish writer and not a journalistic one, you know, opinionated, loud, inquisitive. Then ‘writer’ got bypassed by ‘teacher’, which isn’t a lie, as I do have a part-time job tutoring students with special education needs. It’s not the profession that I trained in though or, you know, worked in for the past ten years. Men much prefer teachers to journalists, it seems.

The next thing to go was my hobbies. I shouldn’t say I go for runs, apparently. A Muslim woman running through the streets, her boobs boobing boobily for all to see? A wily temptress! Astagfirullah. Never mind that I wear a hijab on my runs, wearing more layers than an onion. But a good Muslim woman doesn’t go on runs! She doesn’t exert herself in public, lest a lusty man should see. Haram! So delete delete delete. I rephrase it to ‘I often go to the gym’.

I’m not sure that gym-going even counts as a hobby but this piece of information is of utmost importance to men. Almost every single male CV I’ve received has said they are seeking someone who is active and in shape (read: skinny). I have seen many biodatas where men have outright said they want a Slim Woman. One man highlighted it and underlined slim. Then there’s the height preference (on both male and female CVs). I’ve only recently added my height, which may soon become a point of contention, who can say.

Then, there’s the picture debacle of it all. All I’ll say is who needs enemies when you have your loved ones picking apart images of you; the ones that make you look too fat, too tanned (a big one!), too catfish, too ugly? While some will tell you outright (my mum), others will couch it as, “do you have better pictures of yourself?”

The saddest deletion for me was my preference for a pious man. Supposedly, I laboured the point too much that marrying a man who prays five times a day was a dealbreaker. I should tone it down, they said. Prayer is a journey, anyone who prays five times a day now can stop in the future. Or, optimistically, someone who doesn’t pray now may become a regular prayer in future. There’s some truth in this, of course.

In fact, navigating piety is the hardest part when it comes to receiving and writing a CV. In theory, everyone who submits to Islam practices in some senses, but there are levels within that. One person’s piety is another person’s bare minimum. How does one encapsulate their relationship to God in a Word document?

And so, we all became the same person on these CVs, each tailored by a different meddling parent, aunt, uncle, loved one, or even by ourselves when left with the dizzying question: Who are we and what do we want?

This piece isn’t to lambast well-meaning people who take the time to share sincere advice, they are offering me valuable insights and are earnest in their hopes for me to find a decent match. I love them for this time and attention. Any annoyance reflected here is at the cut-through culture of match-making and the rigidity within which it operates. Does it matter that someone is dark-skinned, or that they are a certain height, or, heck, that they enjoy running outside? Chances are, if these matches approached us on the street, we would gleefully accept. So why the harsh criterion when receiving them in written form?

For the umpteenth time, I’ve just changed my biodata with the latest batch of edits sent my way. Now I’m a 5”4 teacher, who values quality time with my loved ones, goes to the gym, and prays. Like everyone else.

Saved as ‘Faima CV 2026’.

I’ve written about marriage CVs before! You can read about it on Wired.com (it’s behind a paywall and even I can’t afford to access articles I’ve written myself!). Fin.

The airport tannoy ominously calls my name and asks me to come to the front desk of the gate. Except they say “Fatima Baker” which I know is a butchered version of my name. A shot of adrenaline runs through me as I wonder whether I am about to get ‘randomly searched’ - given that I am a hijab-clad Muslim woman - or pulled in for interrogation and possibly deported (these fears are real for racialised people, given Current Times). But the woman at the front desk smiles warmly at me. “You’ve been upgraded to a business class seat”. For free, to be clear. This sort of thing has never happened to me, but this time, I had a sneaky feeling, or hope at least, that it might. Because the day before, I had squeezed my eyes shut in sincere prayer and asked Allah for an upgrade. I told Him, The Responder, to allow me to fly in comfort to my destination and upgrade me. Because He says be and it is, it was.

Similarly, after months of worrying about two events with clashing dates – a freelance work trip to Tahiti versus a family trip to Istanbul where my mum had been wanting to go for years – I invoked the names of my Lord, the Opener, the Wise, the All-Knowing to open up my path in the best of ways. A few days later, I got an email saying the Tahiti dates have changed due to flights being booked up, meaning I could go on both trips without issue.

These may seem like lucky flukes or the random fulfilment of duaas (prayers) but I knew I was going to get those things because of one thing. Yaqeen. I knew with certainty that Allah was going to grant me them, because I truly believe He is the Giver, the Bestower, the Listener. This knowledge is my greatest superpower. When I ask for worldly things, like the privilege of travelling in comfort, I am sometimes granted them in beautiful ways, or Allah reserves my asks in a different realm, to be enjoyed later. But any single thing I’ve asked for that will help me feel closer to Allah, He has never rejected.

This Ramadan I set out to pray Taraweeh in the mosque every night, and I did (barring non-fasting days), but towards the end, I longed to pray in the first row of the congregation because Allah bestows mercy on the first row, and the angels invoke blessings upon them. On the 29th Taraweeh, I got real close, just a few shy from the front - which was no easy feat, as the last odd night saw heaving crowds and I had offered the first eight rakah from the back. In the flurry of crowds exiting after the eighth rakah, I tried to zig zag through the rows of women to reach the front, but the imam had already started praying and I had to settle for my place a few lines behind the front. But I knew in my heart, Ramadan wouldn’t end until I reached the front row. And behold, we had one more day of Ramadan this year as the moon hadn’t been spotted. So I made the same duaa, to pray in the front row, believing with certainty it was going to happen.

On the last night of Ramadan 2026, time had escaped me in the evening as it usually does in the post-iftar hurry, so I hadn’t reached the mosque as early as I would have liked. So, again, I settled on a row a few places behind. Eyeing the front row from my spot, I asked Allah to take me forward. And just as we stood up to begin praying, a woman from the front row turned around. She didn’t scan the room, she didn’t say anything or look around absentmindedly. She simply turned her body, her gaze cutting through a number of rows behind her, and she looked at me directly and said “do you want to come to the front?”. My Lord, The Opener, had opened up my path with ease, and for the first time this Ramadan, I offered my entire prayer in the blessed front row. Yaqeen. Thinking about this now makes me feel so emotional. Allah called me to the front. Because I asked. Because He is The Responder.

The probability of being called to the front row isn’t particularly low, but for me on that last night, it wasn’t very high. But I knew in my heart that Ramadan wasn’t going to end until I had collected all my rizq (provision). And praying front row was my rizq. It wasn’t early, it wasn’t late, it was perfectly timed, just as everything else is in His Decree.

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It’s such wonderful comfort to know that no amount of chasing or worrying is going to hurry your pre-determined portion, whether that portion comes to you in a tangible or non-tangible way. The harder part is having faith when you’re not granted a physical manifestation of your prayer - like business class seats or front row mosque spaces and dates that magically worked out. This is tawakkul. The unwavering trust and reliance in Allah, knowing that as long as you ask of Him, He will deliver. This might look like the duaa being answered right away, it being delayed or waiting to be answered in the hereafter, or the duaa could avert you from a calamity that was headed your way. A sign that your duaa is accepted is your belief that it will come true in one of those ways.

But remember, that while He is the Responder, He is also The Just (Al-Adl, Al-Muqsit), He won’t grant you an impermissible ask. Like the time I had squeezed my eyes shut and asked the Responder sincerely to allow the ticket inspector on the train to let me off after I hadn’t tapped in with my travel card. Reader, I got fined £105. And I had to pay. I guess bumping the train isn’t honest behaviour (neither is daylight robbery, @TFL!!).

I share these stories to remind you that your rizq, like your death, is chasing you. It won’t pass you by. And it was the Most Wise, the Most Kind, the Most Generous One who wrote your rizq. The One who prescribed upon Himself mercy toward you when He didn’t need to. And He is in no way lessened by your asking. Is the ocean diminished if a pin falls into it? So ask to your heart’s content - as long as it’s not an impermissible ask - ask Him for more and more, knowing He will deliver them in the most beautiful ways.

Because He loves to be asked.

Allahu Akbar.

You're welcome to buy me a coffee

I sleepily enter my fourth hotel in a row, expecting another grandiose room that will showcase the finest authentic Japanese craftsmanship. Previously, I’ve stayed in a ryokan, complete with a futon, ocean-views, and a tea ceremony masterfully performed by a yukata-clad woman with the sweetest smile. This hotel room comes with its own sauna, onsen (natural spring) and omakase chefs that will expertly make you breakfast in the morning. But I am too tired to fully appreciate the amenities, and collapse on the bed. Given the nine-hour time difference between Japan and the U.K, I fall asleep quickly and wake up a few hours later around 5am. Might as well run a bath and use the sauna, I decide. As I bend down to turn the faucet on, orange streaks creep into my peripheral. I turn towards the window and realise that it’s the sun greeting me, awash with orange and yellow hues, rising over the sea of Japan. I am watching a sun rise over a bougie hotel room bigger than my whole house, more expensive than I can afford, experiencing an all-expenses paid trip because this is the world of opportunity my writing has opened up.

The only words that escape my mouth, without thinking, are “Ashhadu an la ilaha illallah…” to bear witness that this is the creation of my one and only God. The next thing I do is grab my phone so I can take pictures and videos for my Instagram. Because, if I didn’t document it, did it really happen? This entire trip has been well-documented for the Gram, as all my press trips are, because I am well aware that not everyone gets to be flown out to all corners of the world for free and then gets paid to write about it. I mean I’ve been to Japan three times, people, that gives me insufferable bragging rights, given how it seems to be everyone’s bucket-list destination.

Every work trip, every holiday, every PR gift, freebie, exclusive event, activity, and access has been posted all over my account because that is the purpose of Instagram; to show how cool, happening, interesting and exciting your life is. Because we all covet that one elusive thing; the delicious attention of others. And boy, do I like attention.

I’ve been online since I was 15 years old, posting my thoughts, musings and half-baked observations, revelling in the flurry of likes and comments it instigated. At the peak of my career as a reporter, I would fire off tweets that would go viral and fuel conversations on BBC Asian Network and they would invite me to come into their studio where the discourse would pop off some more. Of course, I would snag a selfie in front of the BBC-embellished microphone. Another one for the Gram to show what I have to say is interesting. My Instagram account became witness to most of my journalist career.

I have enjoyed social media for decades, for the connection, for the networking, for the visibility and opportunities that have arrived my way. But a month ago, I decided to leave Instagram for good. Reader, it was the hardest thing I’ve done in a while. And I say that as someone who started wearing hijab a year ago and also gave up music.

Instagram was my perfectly curated world and I knew what to post to garner applause, intrigue and camaraderie. I didn’t have a large following but I had a highly engaged audience. DM after DM, that sometimes I would have to put my phone on do not disturb, like I was some sort of highly-sought after celeb. People would tell me they enjoyed my confessional posting, that I was a good account to follow, so I found myself wanting to curate more and more content, because of this dopamine drop. People would especially lap up my stories of dating, much of which I have documented here, and I knew in real-time when recounting someone’s behaviour would make great Instagram fodder. Like the guy who took me to a chicken shop for my 30th birthday, or the one who followed me from New York to London, or the one who wrote me a six-page letter after two weeks of knowing me (Hinge, more like unhinged ammirite?).

Comparatively, putting on a hijab after spending my entire adult life without covering, didn’t feel so loaded. It was a personal change which, if anything, won me even more social kudos. Though it was difficult to delete the hijabless digital footprint and give up my cute crop tops, the spiritual high of filling a divine obligation outweighed the hard parts.

And of course I posted a dramatic video on the Gram to show off Hijabi Faima which racked up all the likes and DMs. When you receive consecutive likes and comments in this way, it feels like everyone is sat in the same room applauding you when in reality, people fire off likes and comments without a second thought. And so, my relationship to social media engendered a hubris that I think is detrimental to a person of faith. My camera roll bloated with selfies and pictures of things I saw, experienced, and thought. Some of which I posted, others that were saved in the bank for more optimal timing.

But I became tired of thinking about myself so much, of contorting my face in pictures in a way that was Insta-worthy, of thinking of quirky captions. I grew tired of worshipping myself. I wanted to glorify Allah instead.

I know it’s very possible for a social media presence and religious practice to co-exist but I wanted to reclaim my time, to take back the space that occupied thoughts of performance and focus on how I can become a better Muslim instead. Time is of the essence, the akhira isn’t going to build itself and I don’t want to waste it all away scrolling and curating when I could be using it to perfect my deen, knowledge and character.

But I do miss Instagram terribly, and not just because of the lack of attention, but of knowing what my friends are up to, of sharing my life with people with whom distance is a barrier. A friend, who I love dearly but don’t see much, texted me yesterday to say my social media allowed her to see a glimpse into my life and still feel connected, in lieu of an in-person meeting. But now no one knows what I’m doing, which is amazing in its own way, but it also means there’s more pressure on our catch-ups to cover more ground. Maybe that’s better.

I would love to say that in the the near-two months of being offline, I’ve become a more present person, that I arrive everywhere with a sincere heart and don’t want to perform for people anymore. But when I picked up my camera the other day to take a picture of something hilarious I realised that photography became a pavlovian response to witnessing something interesting. And I had nowhere to post it. But that fleeting exclusivity where I was alive and seeing with my own eyes was delicious in itself.

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I miss you my Instagram friends!! I’m no longer there but please do share my work so it reaches more people Inshallah. And DM me if you want my number to stay in touch x

“What would you do if you found out I killed myself?” he asks me over the phone, knowing we’ve both imagined that scenario before.
”Sadly, it’s something I think about more than I’d like to,” I admit, wondering who would be the one to break the news to me, considering I haven’t been part of his world for years. “I would be devastated, and I’d want to go and talk to you about it. I hate the idea of being the only person on earth who contains the memories of us. And I’d feel guilty.”
”Why?”
”Because I’d feel like I didn’t do enough, that even though I couldn’t ‘save’ you, I could have at least been there for you, or done something, anything.”
”But that’s not on you, we haven’t been together in more than two years, and you telling me that feels like…a lot.”
”I’m sorry, I don’t want to guilt you, it’s just how I would feel, and I think you’d feel the same if the roles were reversed.”
”Yes.”

I don’t know how else to begin this piece, except with a recent conversation I had with him, discussing, now with a degree of distance and separation, the thing that worried me the most then and now. His life. It feels inadequate and ungenerous to look back at a relationship that ended almost three years ago and let mental health hijack its entire existence, as though that’s all there was. Because in truth, the good outweighed the difficult.

But loving a mentally unwell person does get difficult. When someone is clinically anxious and depressed, to the point of suicidal intent, it – in his words – ‘sucks up the energy from the room’ and anyone in the vicinity needs to tread very carefully. At first, I didn’t know how to breathe in this airless room. But I adapted.

The first time I realised we were having two different experiences of the relationship was early on, when we were sat in a Thai restaurant, hidden in the affluence of High Street Kensington where I worked at the time. He had been quiet for a while – something I later realised he did when he was going through a depressive episode. His walls were up but he eventually confided in me about how he was feeling. I was taken aback by how he could look and act so normal but in the confines of his room, want to, and later try to, end it all.

I learned how high functioning depressed people can appear and be. Quickly, I attuned to his ways, greedily learning about him and trying to pull him back into the land of the living. On his 32nd birthday, I bought him two goldfish in a cute call-back to his childhood pet, but really, I wanted him to have something he could take care of, something else that required his routine existence.

I became aware of his triggers and touchy points. I wanted to hide the jagged ends of the world from him, like a parent lovingly baby-proofs a house. Once, we were walking on a bridge suspended over a busy dual carriageway. Instinctively, I wanted to walk towards the railing side, as if I could conceal this dangerous edge from him, lest he should consider this a way out. Recently, I walked through the same bridge and found notes on the railing left by a mental health charity with the words “you are not your illness, you can beat your depression”. Clearly, others experiencing similar battles had found themselves here.

Without knowing how to take care of an unwell person, I leaned into his comforts and indulged him even though it may have been detrimental to his healing. I adapted to his routine, like boarding the train carriage that arrives nearest to the exits to limit how much time we’d need to spend in public, and staying indoors, and minimising how much attention I was drawing to us in public because it made him highly anxious if he thought people looked at him.

Mostly though, I felt useless. I didn’t know how to pull him out of it, I thought simply being around him was enough. But the thing about chemical imbalances, compounded with childhood traumas, state failures and societal ills, is that they always creep in on you, like a thief in the night. And when they seduce you into darkness, they abduct you from yourself. During one episode, when he became more withdrawn, I showed up at his front steps with food in hand. I almost didn’t recognise the person at the door; his sunken eyes, his speech slurred, even the cadence of his voice, off.

I became a nag. I nagged at him for everything, to go to a doctor, to take anti-depressants, to go back to therapy, to exercise, and then I felt shit for being a nag. On one desperate occasion, I spoke to his doctor, before we later called the Samaritans hotline together. He was met with a kind, non-judgemental volunteer who kept tabs on him through the night. He spoke so highly of that volunteer, in the way that he immediately warmed to anyone who showed him a bit of kindness, because he didn’t think it was something he deserved. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the volunteer wasn’t exceptionally kind, they were just trying to do their job.

But I wasn’t a perfect companion; sometimes I pressed on his wounds in moments of anger or feeling unseen, like telling him I wasn’t his therapist, or that he needs to change a lot about himself if he wants to keep me. I was selfish, I longed for normalcy, I wanted to go out, be in public, around newness, which is the last place an anxious, depressed person usually wants to be. And sometimes, I wondered if he loved me for me or for self-preservation; after all, I was the thing that made him feel better.

When listed like this, it makes it seem like poor mental health was all there was but the list of all the good things would take much too long to write. I have never known a more kind, tender or generous person than him. He loves as you’re supposed to; unconditionally, unlazily, attentively, amenably. He is the best person to have in your corner. This piece might disclose some of his most vulnerable moments, but he asked me to write about it, because he was always aware of the impact of his health on me, and also because of how I am able to process my feelings through writing. This permission, to me, is liberating.

Andrew Garfield once eloquently said that you don’t fall in love with people, you fall in love with their stories, and it always resonated. I didn’t mind the worry, the living on edge, the walls going up, the arguments, the same conversations. Because I saw his story: the extraordinary effort of someone battling their demons daily and still showing up; showing up for his parents; his work; for himself; for me; and for God, even if all he could muster was ‘thank you’. And he did it with great self-awareness that made my experiences feel valid.

I don’t know how much of these experiences he remembers – that’s the other thing about our mental state, sometimes it wipes out memories completely for self-preservation – and I had to really work hard to remember these instances myself. They do not define the time we spent together, and it’s not what I remember the most.

I remember love, laughter, a rich new language and universe with him.

To J,
I’m rooting for you.

Mahal kita.

If you are experiencing mental health issues, please seek professional help and lean on your friends and family. They love you, they accept you.

In the second leg of a 21-hour travel journey, I’d landed in L.A and connected to the patchy customs Wi-fi. In the flurry of notifications landing in my phone after 11 hours of airplane mode, one email stopped me in my tracks. The subject line: ‘Offer letter for Editor and Head of Features’. My bleary eyes zoomed into sharp focus and jolted me awake. The figure following ‘monthly salary’ rendered my mouth agape. I felt sick. And I still had a subsequent eight-hour journey until I landed in Tahiti in French Polynesia where I was going for a work trip.

It’s uncanny, the similarity between this offer and another life-changing offer that came in similar circumstances a year ago. In late 2024, I had landed in New York after travelling through Arizona for a freelance work trip, when I got the offer for a Head of Features role while standing at the airport waiting for my luggage. Spoiler alert, in case you hadn’t guessed, I left that job shortly after I joined. And both jobs were respectively offered to me despite me not actually applying for them.

This new offer was different though. For starters, it was in a totally different continent. Anyone working in journalism who’s familiar with our paltry salaries might have guessed – this job was in the Middle East. Doha, in Qatar to be more precise. While relocating for work enticed me in my 20s, in my early 30s, I hadn’t envisioned moving away – 4,000 miles away at least.

I didn’t tell anyone about the interview, except a man I was seeing at the time, who was all too enthusiastic about the prospect of me moving away (sus). Emboldened by his sweet encouragement – he had a dentist sister in Doha who testified to the elevated lifestyle of a Qatari expat – I radiated enthusiasm, professionalism, and what turned out to be a genuine curiosity about the role during my interview. I began really wanting the job. I could do it. I could be someone who lived in Doha and earn, without being taxed, upwards of £5,000 a month – the UK equivalent for which, including tax deductions, loans, pensions would be between £85,000-£90,000 a year (eek!). I could live a life of luxury, to counteract the peanuts I had been living on in the last three years. Bear in mind, the month before this job offer, I had only been paid £25, despite being owed more than £2,000 by various media companies. The life of a freelance journalist is not for the weak.

I may not have lavish earnings from my freelance career but I had cultivated a meaningful rhythm. Commissions, press trips, down times (more often than not), leisure time, uni time (I am still doing my masters). And yet, I was contemplating uprooting everything for this new life. And part of me really wanted it. So I did the only thing I could do – deferred to God for guidance.

Anyone who’s ever read my Substack before knows how much I value Istikhara - the prayer of guidance, asking Allah to reveal the best decision by clearing the right path while closing all other avenues. Or, if it’s not the right decision, there may be obstacles, difficulties or feelings of unease towards that outcome (in the past, I’ve had stomach aches, a bad ‘gut feeling’, as a result of my istikhara prayers). But the signs of your prayer can in themselves be confusing; after all there’s confirmation bias, you may affirm your own wants by reading a sign as positive. Ultimately though, if you are asking for true, omniscient guidance, you should yield to the path shown by the Most Wise.

So I made sincere prayers, asking Allah to show me, in no uncertain terms, without any ambiguity what was best for me. You know what was the outcome? I forgot about the job. Over the next few days, I failed to even remember that this job offer was in my inbox, as if it wasn’t a life-changing piece of news. How can you want something that you can’t even remember? I understood this as a nudging from God that perhaps this wasn’t totally right for me. But still, I weighed up the pros and cons.

Pros: Money (erm, hello, rich people? yeah, it’s me calling to join your ranks); a challenging new role; an esteemed new newsroom; a brand new lifestyle (they were also willing to pay for flights, accommodation, and a stipend for me to eventually find my own place); and truthfully, I had wanted a personal rebirth.

Cons: Start date imminent; incomplete masters; losing the scholarship for my masters; losing my affordable housing; no remote working allowed; and the clincher, no annual leave permitted within the first one year of employment. What if I didn’t pass probation? I would have given up everything and come back to nothing. Most importantly though, I’d be missing my family and friends, namely one huge event I was unwilling to compromise on – the birth of my first and only nephew.

While everything else could have been managed or missed; I could continue my masters at a later date, I could lose my scholarship but pay the remainder of my fees outright, I could give up my current house and afford a shinier new house in the future, I would not budge in missing out on the rich and unfolding lives of my people. Eventually, to the detriment of my bank account, I said no to the offer.

Yes, technology and the accessibility of travel make it easier than ever before to stay in touch with loved ones. But you can’t substitute the mundaneness, the realness, the excitement, the tangibility of in-person connection for two-dimensional moments on a screen. I didn’t want the access to my loved ones to be packaged in this way; phone calls and FaceTimes that would never compensate for being in the same room as them, or spending a finite number of days together with the pressure to enjoy, to foster closeness and catch up on the highlights of one another’s lives. How could I smell my newborn nephew’s head through a screen? Or offer a shoulder to cry on to a friend? Or potter around my parents’ house to give them the quiet satisfaction of having their children under one roof?

All this isn’t to say that I made a noble, big-hearted decision to sacrifice my dreams in favour of my community, because you can have both, but with limitations. I don’t come from money nor have a lot of of it but I simply choose to not have a scarcity mindset, as though this would be the only lucrative offer to come my way. There will be more to come Inshallah. My Lord has never forsaken me and I don’t believe He will start now. He will provide, as he has done these last three years. I know it. Alhamdulillah.

Please make duaa for my sister and nephew, read Al Fatiha for them, pray for them to have good health and live a life of service to Allah. Ameen.

Buy me a 'coffee' if u want

Two weeks ago, I made a big mistake, a fault so grave that it unravelled my sense of self and destroyed my idea of who I am and where I’m going. My imaan (faith) suffered as a result and, in the classic devilish whispers, I found myself feeling worthless, misguided and reluctant to face the only One who could mend me. I texted one of my best friends about my feelings of despair. She responded with a heartfelt message, meaning well and offering me sound advice. Except, she interpreted all my emotions simply as frustrations at being unmarried. Still.

It’s understandable why she would interpret it this way; I am a 31-year-old Muslim woman from a South Asian family, of course I am expected to be married, I write about love and romance, of course I want to be married, and I have expressed my jadedness at the dating market, so it’s natural she would think I was referring to this now. But my drop in imaan had nothing to do with my struggles of finding a husband, I wasn’t even thinking about it. Instead, what I was really expressing to her was shame at having failed at piety in the way I had imagined I wouldn’t, not after I started wearing hijab. It was about my relationship with God. And my relationship with Allah isn’t solely about being granted a husband.

Marriage, famously, is half your deen (religion). But what about the other half? We speak of Allah like He is a duaa machine. You slot in a prayer and wait a reasonable amount of time till it’s granted. Rinse, repeat. One of the most common things single Muslims ask for, unsurprisingly, is marriage. And why shouldn’t it be? Allah is the creator of the Heavens and Earth, He simply has to say be and it is, so ask to your heart’s content. My concern, however, is that marriage has become the biggest, and sometimes the only, aspiration we keep coming back to. But being married is not our purpose for existence, no matter how much society and meddling aunties will have us believe.

I know everyone knows this in theory – that we exist for reasons beyond matrimony – but it seems romantic love is universally put on a pedestal, as if it’s better and more meaningful than anything else. Of course, like the Aquamarine quote, love is the closest thing we have to magic, but in its pursuit or in its maintenance we’ve started neglecting equally significant endeavours, like friendship, community, world-building. Or from an Islamic perspective, even God. Some of us have began worshipping and glorifying a hypothetical romance over Allah. Astagfirullah.

We’ve grown accustomed to art that moves us as it speaks of lost love, unrequited love, and chasing love. Music, film, television, books, social media all speak to this grand, elusive and beautiful experience that we should all, in theory, have. But not all of us will get to have it, and you haven’t failed if you don’t. We must learn to be okay with that. And the only way we can do that is to build a meaningful and fulfilling life to the best of our ability, that works towards our own goals but also serves others; family, biological or otherwise, friends, neighbours and even strangers. Especially strangers. We’ve become so untrusting, skeptical and surveillant of one another that we clutch our pearls, gatekeep resources, judge, ignore, belittle or abandon anyone outside of our bubble.

Do you know how we decentre romantic love, and thus, marriage? By showing up for other types of relationships and purposes. Famously, inconvenience is the price we pay for community but how many of us are actually inconveniencing ourselves for the sake of other people (not just our loved ones’) happiness? And community isn’t just people that orbit our neighbourhood, culture or background, it’s the stranger you don’t know or the future you might not be around for. It looks like moving a Lime bike laying on the pavement out of the way because you don’t want a person in a wheelchair to be stuck, it looks like offering a cooked meal to someone you don’t know all that well because they may be enduring a hardship, or giving money to a homeless person questions unasked, it’s picking up litter you didn’t throw, and not filming someone in public, it’s not waiting for a bystander to do something and just doing it yourself, it’s helping someone with a pushchair or luggage up a flight of stairs, it’s supporting a cause financially or otherwise because they do important work, it’s donating, recycling, upcycling, mending, it’s compassion and understanding, it means paying to support people’s art, to not have a scarcity mindset, it is trying all over again the next day.

To be clear, doing these things make you a better person, but they may not fill the void of wanting companionship, which, as humans, we are wired to want. And we shouldn’t simply do these things in hopes that someone will one day notice it and want to marry us. These actions are just worthwhile in their own right. They may make a lonely life a little better and remind you of the value you have.

Don’t get me wrong, you can have romantic love and friendship, community and world-building – in some cases, love can make those things easier – but we know there’s a hierarchy among it all. That you may be treated as though you lack something if you don’t have the former over the latter. But surely marriage can’t be at the centre of it all. If it is, then what does it mean for those who can’t acquire it, or don’t even want to?

We’ve got to a place where it’s acceptable to make grand gestures, to make sacrifices and show up first and foremost for romantic relationship. But why can’t we chase a friend down the airport to catch one last glimpse of them before they leave, or move homes or countries to be closer to them, a sibling or even a work friend turned bestie, or fly across the world to be there for them at an important moment? Why are our friendship anniversaries less celebrated? Why are milestones mostly individual or romantic? Why is a wedding supposedly the best day of our lives? Why does everything have to pale in comparison to romantic love?

Love, like death, will come when it’s ready, you can anticipate it but don’t grow paralysed at the weight of its expectation. Find love and meaning in other things too. Muslims, especially, remember happiness is a byproduct of the worship of Allah. Nothing is more meaningful than the remembrance of Allah. In His cause, follow the actions of the Prophet (SAW), embody the lessons of the Qur’an, become more ummah-minded, rack up your good deeds in pursuit of Jannah (heaven). That is truly our purpose.

None of this is to say I am anti-marriage, and if you’ve read my Substack before you know I’m such a lover girl, but I only want to find a husband if he, and our marriage, is genuinely something that will bring me closer to my Lord. In the meantime, I’ll remind myself of the virtues of patience and try to pour into everything else that makes me, society and the world better. Inshallah.

وَمَا هَـٰذِهِ ٱلْحَيَوٰةُ ٱلدُّنْيَآ إِلَّا لَهْوٌۭ وَلَعِبٌۭ ۚ وَإِنَّ ٱلدَّارَ ٱلْـَٔاخِرَةَ لَهِىَ ٱلْحَيَوَانُ ۚ لَوْ كَانُوا۟ يَعْلَمُونَ

“This worldly life is no more than play and amusement. But the Hereafter is indeed the real life, if only they knew.” (Qur’an, 29: 64)

I have a hot neck. I don’t mean that in a sexy way, but in terms of temperature. In fact, this is one of the main reasons I avoided wearing a hijab for so long. But after waiting years to be ready to put on the hijab, four months ago, I, as I wrote in my diary, “just put it on”. And I haven’t looked back, Alhamdulillah. It sounds stupid to say but I didn’t realise how much of covering your hair would be about covering your neck.

On my first outdoor run as a hijabi, I wrapped my headscarf around my head and secured it with a safety pin at my nape as opposed to under my chin. My neck was exposed. I didn’t like it. Not because someone had told me hijabis should cover their necks or that this wasn’t ‘proper hijab’, as some hijabis who show some hair or skin, often are. I just didn’t like it. So now I don’t show my neck.

In the last few months of being a hijabi, I’ve been thinking a lot about necks and what they represent, how they’re perceived, how they’re treated, what they mean.

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Necks are sexy, seductive, dangerous, policed, on the line, bitten, beaten, tied like in a race or game, or saved. Choked til orgasm. Choked to death. Necks are used for gender-affirming. Why is your Adam’s apple so prominent? Or your trapezius muscles? Why do you have hair on your neck? Sorry you can’t use this bathroom, sorry you can’t play this sport. Except there are no sorrys.

You might not know this but necks are also holy. Both Muslim women and men, though the latter treat it with abandon, have to cover up certain parts of the body. This is called aura; for Muslim women it’s the entire body except face and hands, for Muslim men it’s the area between their navel and knees that has to be covered. I’m not going to argue with you about fairness and equality. I accept this as Divine Decree.

Divine as it may be, I can admit it’s still difficult to follow sometimes. “My neck gets hot, God” I want to say. There’s a popular adage in the Muslim community that goes “hellfire is hotter” but I’m not confident that we should be chasing people into faith with the threat of fire. Freewill is also Divine Decree. You can ask God “Rabbana atiq riqabana minan naar” (Oh Lord, save our necks from hellfire) without inserting yourself as judge, jury and executioner.

At the base of my neck is my clavicles which I used to take quiet pride in showing off. I have a fat face (I use fat as a descriptor, not a slur) so people assume I’m larger than I am. My protruding collar bones say ‘she has some skinny in her’. I wish I didn’t care about this but I grew up in heroin chic and meatless bones are coveted. It felt like a punch to the throat when I read the words ‘sometimes skinny is the outfit’ meaning it’s not about the clothes, perhaps it never was, it’s about the body wearing it. As a hijabi, I think of how this is true even for modest fashion. Modesty is when you have a flowing burqa resting on a petite frame underneath it. God forbid you have breasts. It’s not very modest of you to wear something that may outline the shape of your flesh, is it?

If you asked me about the one thing I miss about life before hijab, I would say it’s the ease with which I could get dressed. I never thought twice about how I would cover my neck. Now I layer and layer, borrowing fabric from here, from there, pinning myself with metal, lest any skin should be exposed.

I’ve also stopped wearing necklaces, even though I still can. Like my Bangladesh map necklace which said so much without saying anything. People instantly recognised where I was from, like the Bangladeshi woman at Dallas Airport, the first person I had spoken to in Texas, or the aunties at Dunkin Donuts, and other strangers around the world who recognised the jagged outline of our hard-fought country.

This week, trolls are coming for my neck. An article I wrote more than five years ago, which has incensed them since its publication, has been shared by a large far-right account. The article is about Muslim men’s perceived predation. The messages questioning my credentials, my morals, my worth, amass over all my accounts. They want a noose around my neck. I’ve walked this road before. Last time, I enlisted the help of the Met Police in a long and arduous process that saw only one perpetrator charged.

I can handle the trolls but then I scroll the thousands of comments and see something that stops me in my tracks. It’s an image of me without hijab, and my hair, my neck, my shape exposed. I deactivate my accounts.

Wearing hijab is like wearing a hat; you forget it’s there sometimes, until someone reminds you with a look that lingers for too long, or a comment expressing surprise that you are as interesting as you are, or they’ll remind you by ignoring you altogether. This is the price of covering.

Despite its social cost, the spiritual price of fulfilling an Islamic obligation leaves me on a high I’ve been riding for months. I have the honour of being recognised as part of the ummah of the Prophet Muhammed SAW. People wish me peace on the street, little girls look at me with curiosity and are assuaged by my warm smile. I think of the London Marathon runner spotting me in the crowd of cheerers, because her hijab matches my one. “Sis it’s so hard,” she tells me as she propels herself forward. “Allah is with you,” I tearfully assure this stranger.

It dawns on me that if I ever run a marathon, I’ll look like her, and maybe I’ll see a hijabi in the crowd cheering me on. I’m so glad for this piece of cloth covering my hair, my neck. I chose to do this and I am happy to. For my Lord, a thousand times over.

I think of the first day I chose to wear my hijab. An hour before, I ran 5km, my neck free in the wind. I was just a woman running in the wild. An hour later, I got home, showered, my neck still hot from the exertion, and watched a YouTube tutorial on how to drape a headscarf. I said a full-throated statement out loud to no one in particular as I wrapped the cloth around my head, covering my neck. “Bismillah”.

In the name of my Lord, most Merciful, the most Compassionate.

Sling me a 'coffee'

I got the call just after I arrived at JFK, New York, following a red-eye flight from Arizona, where I’d explored 600 miles of Route 66 for a freelance travel commission. For the previous two and a half years, I’d managed to make a livelihood in the precariousness of a freelance journalism market. Shift work, commissions after relentless pitching, rogue opportunities like being a film extra (coming to a screen in 2025??), teaching, and other unstable zero-hour gigs – I’d done it all.

The call was to discuss the interview I’d done the day before I left for America – an interview I had since forgotten about and assumed would soon join the sky-high pile of rejections I’d come to expect. As my weary eyes scanned the luggage carousel for my pink Beis bag, the recruiter on the WhatsApp call told me straight up that they wanted to offer me the job. It was 7am, and I’d just spent five hours strapped into the middle seat of a shaky Spirit Airlines flight – my attention was shot. “You’re kidding me,” was my first response. How could this executive position at a seven-day national newspaper just land in my lap like that, after a single interview? Previously, I’d been through multiple stages, unpaid editing tests that took anywhere from 90 minutes to four hours (unpaid, of course), and countless interviews even for freelance gigs. This, I reasoned, could only be the fulfilment of my Tahajjud prayers. A gift from my Lord. Alhamdulillah.

But, as the Tolkien quote goes, not all that is gold glitters. What looked like a dua come true turned out to be a well-paid life lesson. On the call, the recruiter offered £50,000 pro rata for the role – but even in my sleep-deprived state, I knew I was being lowballed. This was for a national newspaper where I was to lead a growing team of 24 people (by the time I signed my contract, my role had expanded to include magazine features, which had merged with the paper). For my interview, I’d been sent an organisational chart, so I knew exactly how many Features desks I’d be heading up – and £50k didn’t feel like adequate compensation. Luckily, I had a trusted confidant in the industry who knew I could ask for more. “Shoot for £80k,” she said. “Or at least £70k.” Before I had the chance to make my case, the recruiter called me back a few days later, offering £60k for the first six months, rising to £65k thereafter. Reader, I would have settled for £45k. But Alhamdulillah, again.

I know that in other industries, a head of department role would come with a much bigger pay cheque, but after years of scraping by on £600–800 a month, this felt like winning the lottery. When I arrived at my cousin’s apartment in Queens after the call, I could barely nap through my jet lag – I was so excited. I offered a shukran prayer and thought of my incoming new life.

I signed the contract a few weeks after I returned from the US, setting my start date two months later as I had other shifts and a press trip to Japan already booked. In that time, I started worrying less about expenses. I bought better-quality versions of things I needed and wanted, and made a list of what I’d buy for my parents, siblings, and friends with my new salary. I even bought extra virgin olive oil – a luxury I’d denied myself during my years of living paycheque to paycheque as a freelancer. There’s a delicious freedom in the weeks before starting a new job, cushioned by the security of upcoming earnings.

But a few weeks into this prestigious role, I realised money can only motivate you so much. Just a few months later, I stepped down. No more extra virgin olive oil for me.

The first time I thought about quitting was three weeks in, after what I texted my friends was “the worst day of my career”. I won’t get into specifics – reliving that time feels, for lack of a better word, triggering. Also, journalism can be a toxic, spiteful place, and being too candid might cut me off from future opportunities (if I haven’t already). In earlier drafts of this post, I had detailed the specific incidents that drove me out, but I’ve realised that – bar a few of my loved ones – most people reading this are strangers who don’t need to be privy to the private details of my life.

I will share that this was an educational time for me. I learned that you can’t ignore how your body reacts to toxicity. I couldn’t escape the nausea I felt in the mornings while waiting for the lift to the office. I lost a bunch of weight in a short time because, for the first time in my life, I’d lost my appetite. I struggled to be present with loved ones. My sister once asked me why I would suddenly go non-verbal mid-conversation. I was thinking about work all the time. My friends had organised a sleepover (adult sleepovers are healing, trust me), something I’d looked forward to for months – only to be delayed by work that evening. I cried in the Uber on the way to her house. We ended up still eating dinner at 11:45pm. Nothing is worth missing out on the rare quality times you get with the people you love.

What they don’t teach you in management training (of which I received very little) is that when you’re in charge of people, you’re really in charge of their emotions – all while having to regulate your own while liaising between senior and junior colleagues. I learned that by virtue of being someone’s boss, some people will resent you – and workplace dissatisfaction may cause them to act up. That the nature of work under capitalism is tedious, laborious and unsatisfying, mostly benefiting the employer over the employee - even the jobs that are ‘fun’. That jobs are also just made up. Things are the way they are become some people at some time decided to make it so.

I’m not an idealist, nor am I wealthy. I know that in a scarce industry like journalism, sometimes you have to grit your teeth through unpleasant experiences – for the pay, for the reputation, for career longevity. I could have, and late at night in bed think I should have stayed – but at what cost? My mental health? My physical health? My relationships? Still, it was refreshing not to worry about money for the first time. To be able to throw things into my shopping basket without overanalysing the price.

It might have been fleeting, but I gleaned many other lessons. First, to trust my gut – I should have done Istikhara before starting, not once the cracks had already begun to show. When I started the job, I realised I should’ve done more while I was unemployed – spent more, enjoyed the freedom more. That you don’t need to say yes to everything. That money is nice, but only you know how miserable you truly are. That you can even be tested with the very fulfilment of your du’a.

I learned that, in that job, part of me was waiting to be granted permission – to act, to decide, to lead. As a woman of colour in media, I’ve felt sidelined, underestimated, and surveilled throughout my career. I internalised those feelings. So when I was finally handed authority, I crumbled under its weight. Even making the announcement that I’d landed the job felt scary – I knew people would doubt my abilities. I’m sure they feel vindicated now.

Now that it’s all over and I’m back to freelancing – where earning even £600 a month is once again a struggle (the gigs I had lined up before I accepted the role quickly dried up) – I am happier. Poorer, but happier. And not to sound insufferable, but I’m rich in so many other ways: in quality time with my siblings, parents, and friends; in my free time, my ibadah, my hobbies. That’s what life is meant to be about. (Just with a tad bit more money.) Alhamdulillah.

Freelancing is tough! I write this newsletter for free, so you’re welcome to sling me a ‘coffee’ so I can keep this page going inshallah:

Buy me a virtual coffee

It’s official—London is the worst place for romance. But you didn’t need Time Out’s 18,000-strong study to tell you that—just look at all the duds I’ve had the displeasure of meeting, like the one who took me to a chicken shop for my 30th birthday (KHF, in case you’re wondering). Finding love sometimes feels like trying to lure the attention of a cat; the more you want it, the further away it gets.

And singletons are tired. Dating apps are in their flop era, house parties where love once blossomed are seldom had (thank you, renting crisis—who even owns a house to have a party these days?), and WFH has made office romances more difficult (though, should we really be trusting a Proximity Crush in the first place?). More and more people are now turning to their nearest and dearest to ask to be set up, which at least adds a layer of vetting not usually possible through apps and the like.

If it takes a village to raise a child, as the African proverb goes, then why not love too? Why does seeking romance have to be an individual pursuit? Recently, I came across a clip of Trevor Noah’s What Now podcast where he talks to noted therapist Esther Perel, who explained why we need to bridge the disconnect between our romantic life and ‘real life’. Esther explained—much to Trevor’s amusement—that our dates should look like inviting a potential suitor to events with friends: a picnic, a party, drinks, a group activity. Why do all the vetting alone, watch out for yourself, and trust that you aren’t being clouded by your own feelings when we can lean on our loved ones to help us? Esther pointed out that this segregation is stopping us from relying on our networks, who may be better judges of character than we are. This community-centred model of love can also mean increased safety for women (though the opposite can also be argued if she is being asked to join a group of strangers—which is all the more reason to date in public spaces surrounded by people).

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In Islam, this concept of accompanying suitors is a necessary component of the courting stage—in the form of a wali, or chaperone, usually a family member. While their presence doesn’t have to be an oppressive force (the wali can be in the general vicinity, at a separate table to give privacy to suitors, etc.), it adds a layer of protection for both parties and ensures nothing untoward can happen. Many Muslim women choose to bring a wali (usually a male relative) or alternatively, a female guardian on their ‘dates’. Though I personally have not enlisted the support of a wali, I know many who have, including my cousin’s wife, who brought her brother to every single meeting before they wed.

In the era of apps and the general do-it-yourself milieu, wali-supported courtship has fallen by the wayside for many Muslims, including myself, for various excuses we give ourselves: the logistics of planning a three-person date, who to ask, embarrassment over being perceived while trying to court. But love is too big, too important, to leave solely in the hands of two affected people. While capitalism and neoliberalism (more on that later) might have us thinking we’re independent, self-reliant people who only need to serve ourselves, the reality is the opposite—humans are wired for connection and dependence on our networks, from the moment we’re born to our old age and in death. In Islam, it is our family members and loved ones who perform our last ghusl—the washing of the body and wrapping it in a shroud.

There’s a reason why there’s a loneliness epidemic (this has a gendered element, which I might discuss in another post). Not only are there few spaces to socialise and forge new communities, but finding romantic love has also become a minefield. The individual has to handle rejection, attention, emotion management, abuse, hope, and then rinse and repeat, over and over again, until successful—if at all. Finding love this way feels like a high-stakes part-time job that only you know about.

But the system is deliberately built this way. Love under neoliberalism operates insidiously, recasting people as human capital and capital-enhancing agents. Last week, my lecturer made a joke that if you say ‘neoliberalism’ in the mirror three times, a SOAS student appears. And in the spirit of being a SOAS student, I have to point out that under neoliberalism, personal relationships are affected by market influences, whereby we’re considered autonomous, self-defining individuals who take care of ourselves and are less reliant on state support. Love in the age of neoliberalism is not a new idea, but it certainly rings true—not only for established relationships, where economic precariousness blurs love and need, but also for those at the early stages of romance.

At worst, this neoliberalism has turned us into consumers; when one situation is broken, we look for the next one—which is the fundamental premise of dating apps that gamify love. It’s no wonder Hinge and Match.com are getting sued, considering how they use slot machine-like styling on their apps to encourage people to swipe, swipe, and swipe again, lest the next match should be better (no, seriously, the lawsuit explains how Match.com “employs recognised dopamine-manipulating product features” to turn users into “gamblers locked in a search for psychological rewards”). But the grass will always be greener if you think it is.

I don’t think inviting more people into your search for love will necessarily be a silver bullet to the issues faced by the modern dater, but it can help the process feel less lonely, less onerous. And for the Muslims reading, let’s not forget Allah’s wisdom behind mandating a wali—as with everything He has ordained, it’s for our own good. Bear in mind, too, that we are raising the next generation of walis, so let’s bring up guardians who are protective but compassionate, stern but soft, and always loving.

So perhaps Esther’s advice to integrate suitors into our communities—rather than creating a separate stream for them—might be a way to make sure our lives run cohesively, that the sting of a break-up and the burden of chasing ‘the one’ is eased by the love and camaraderie of our support systems. If they meet your matches early on, then at the very least, it can save you from showing a poor-quality photograph of them, with your pleas of “they look better in real life.”

One of the wisest pieces of advice I’ve received was, ‘Never underestimate the power of a good apology.’ Saying ‘I’m sorry’ can sometimes be the only way to mend a relationship, acknowledge your faults, and make a promise to do better. But even the most forgiving and patient person you know has their limits. Not Allah though. Allah’s mercy prevails over His wrath and many other attributes. In fact, the word mercy appears in the Qur’an approximately 348 times, with many of His names reflecting His forgiving nature. Even so, this is just one part of His rahm (mercy); He has saved the remaining 99 parts for the Day of Judgement, where we will need it in abundance. Subhanallah.

We Muslims are a flawed people. While we have the most merciful Lord, it is imperative that we seek His forgiveness perpetually. Not only is it good for us in the Hereafter, but istighfar—seeking Allah’s forgiveness—is also the answer to all goodness on earth.

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Over a year ago, I began doing daily istighfar. This happened around the time I was heartbroken over a man who did not want to marry me. I found solace in this daily ritual. It would take me six or seven minutes to say, ‘Astaghfirullah’—I seek forgiveness from Allah—every day. Initially, I did it almost absent-mindedly, but the more I persisted, the more intentional I became. After some months, I wanted to graduate to a lengthier form of istighfar, so I switched to saying, ‘Astaghfirullaha wa atoobu ilayh’ (I seek Allah’s forgiveness and I repent to Him).

My tasbeeh has 100 beads, so I recite my istighfar in ten sets, making a total of 1,000 repetitions. This takes me 30 minutes—40 if I recite it slower. The Prophet (peace be upon him), who was in a constant state of istighfar, did a minimum of 100 repetitions each day. This is a totally achievable number. You can start with 100—or even 10. Be intentional. With each rotation around my tasbeeh, I ask forgiveness for different things: my anger, giving in to my nafs, sins against my parents, siblings, and friends, exposing myself, self-admiration, pride, ego, riba (usury), riya (showing off), and for the sins of my limbs, speech, thoughts, and actions. Later, I will ask for forgiveness for the pride I feel in sharing a post like this (my intention is to make istighfar accessible to you, not to show off my piety).

I fit istighfar into my day, always carrying a tasbeeh or relying on my fingers if I forget. I recommend having a separate device for istighfar; not only do they serve as physical reminders, but they may also act as a form of dawah. I’ve been approached by Muslims on the street as I performed dhikr. On one occasion, a woman in a mosque handed me a tasbeeh when I forgot mine (where you have the intention, Allah always provides—alhamdulillah). Over the past year, I’ve been gifted tasbeehs that I’ve used repeatedly until the beads ripped off their threads and scattered on the streets. The beautiful thing is, the person who facilitated the act of worship by gifting me the tasbeeh will also reap the rewards. Alhamdulillah.

I often do my istighfar while travelling—to the gym, coming home from work, or in transit. It’s a great use of time and also keeps me from listening to music. Istighfar has led me away from some sins I once loved. Alhamdulillah and Astaghfirullah. There have been days I avoided a sin because I didn’t want it to become tomorrow’s istighfar. Equally, though, I’ve done istighfar on the way to sinning. May Allah forgive me.

Istighfar is the ultimate win-win act of worship. Not only are you in constant repentance, but you are also paving the way for your duas to be accepted. Istighfar, coupled with sending salutations upon our beloved Prophet (peace be upon him), is the best way to have your prayers answered. Since I began istighfar, I’ve seen some of my most persistent anxieties—like joblessness—disappear. Not only was that burden lifted, but I was also given a job beyond anything I could have imagined. Our Lord provides from sources we never thought possible, and such blessings often begin with istighfar.

Istighfar doesn’t have to be laborious. It can even be incorporated into salah. Following the sunnah of the Prophet (peace be upon him), say ‘Astaghfirullah’ three times immediately after completing your fard prayer. Between sujood, say, ‘Allahumma ighfirlee, warhamnee, wahdinee, wa’afinee, warzuqnee’ (O Allah, forgive me, have mercy on me, guide me, grant me good health, and provide for me). However, I encourage dedicating a specific portion of the day solely for istighfar.

Make tawbah an automatic response on your tongue—after a sin, when you think of a sin, after a good deed, or when someone praises you, as only Allah knows our deficiencies. Definitely do it when you feel stress. Our Prophet (peace be upon him) said: “Whoever is consistent in seeking Allah’s forgiveness, Allah will appoint for him a way out of every distress, relief from every anxiety, and provision from sources he could never imagine.”

Start small—100 repetitions a day saying ‘Astaghfirullah.’ Replace times you listen to music with time for istighfar. Once it becomes a daily habit, you can increase the amount or diversify your vocabulary of repentance. More often than not, I say, ‘Astaghfirullaha wa atoobu ilayh’. You can also say, ‘Rabbigh firlee’ (My Lord, forgive me). There are lengthier forms beloved to Allah, including the one below, narrated to wipe out one’s sins if recited in the morning or evening.

The Best duaa for seeking forgiveness, sayyidul istighfar:

Allahumma anta rabbi la ilaha illa anta, khalaqtani wa ana abduka, wa ana ala ahdika wa wa’dika mastata’tu. A’udhu bika min sharri ma sana’tu, abu’u laka bini’matika ‘alayya, wa abu’u bidhanbi faghfirli fa-innahu la yaghfiru adh-dhunuba illa anta.

(O Allah, You are my Lord. None has the right to be worshiped but You. You created me and I am your servant. I am committed to Your covenant and promise, as much as I can. I seek refuge with You from the evil I have done. I acknowledge all the blessings You have bestowed upon me, and I confess to You all my sins. So, forgive me, for indeed, no one forgives sins but You.)

The one above is quite a lengthy one which may take a while to memorise. There are shorter alternatives including:

Astagfirullah (I seek Allah’s forgiveness)

Astagfirullaha wa atoobu ilayh (I seek Allah’s forgiveness and I repent towards him)

Astaghfir ullah-alladhi la ilaha illa Huwal-Haiyul-Qayyumu, wa atoobu ilaihi (I seek the forgiveness of Allah, there is no true god except Allah, the Ever-Living, the Self-Subsisting, and I turn to Him in repentance)

May Allah accept our forgiveness and have mercy on us. Ameen.

I never skip a "get ready with me before a date” TikTok, nor its counterpart, the post-date debrief shared with thousands (and sometimes millions) of viewers, as if we were all on an intimate FaceTime call. As Vox writes, we single gals have become like Carrie Bradshaw, sharing our dating horror stories with the camera, gleefully soaking up the attention that comes with it. More often than not, these stories are wild and unhinged, a testament to the behaviour of Bad Men (dating diaries on TikTok are often told by women), and, as Bustle puts it, dating apps are in their 'flop era'. I completely agree that dating apps are dreadful – everyone morphs into the same generic, sauceless creature (if I see one more pineapple-on-pizza debate or "unusual skills: getting my hoody back," I will scream). But the next stage, the offline stage, in my opinion, is the best part. It turns out, first dates are actually pretty fun?

Until this past year, I hadn’t dated much, but in 2024, I’ve been on a first date with nine different men (though I’m not sure five of them count, since they were at a halal chaperoned matchmaking event, where we did various activities before our ‘date’). None of them have worked out so far, but I’ve realised that I don’t actually care? While my intention is to find someone to settle down with, I seem to be content collecting these stories as entertaining dinner party anecdotes? (Remember the guy I matched with whose wedding celebrations I ended up going to? Or more recently, my New York harasser?)

After my ninth first date, I scribbled the following on my Notes page at 1 am last night, trying to make sense of who I am as a dater, a creative, and a person. Apologies if it’s a bit jumpy and scattered.

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In the words of Taylor Swift, maybe I’m the problem, it’s me. Because perhaps I don’t want a man at all. I want an audience. I want to be thought of as charming, delightful, and to hear questions like, ‘Where have you been all my life?’ or the slightly more clichéd, ‘How is a girl like you still single?’ I want to bask in the glory of being an enigma (I’m not that mysterious, you just haven’t asked me a single question, man).

I want to collect first-date stories like charms and share them at brunch with my girlfriends, who listen in horror from their cushy monogamous relationships. I want to be entertaining. I even want the soul-crushing sting of not being liked because it makes me feel alive and lean into my emotions, obsessively indulging in Atif Aslam and Arijit Singh songs.

I love telling men who are out of my league that they’re beautiful, and then ghosting them because I couldn’t bear to stand next to them (or have a conversation with them, because sorry, you’re dull – be ugly and grow a personality like the rest of us, babes). I do it for the plot. My mum met my dad on her wedding day! Do you know how sexy my autonomy is? All the freedom denied to my ancestors is now at my fingertips. I’m buzzing with agency! I’m dancing with choice!

And I don’t just like dating because of the ego boost and validation when someone likes you - men’s desire has cheap membership. Listen to them talk about themselves and be attractive to them, that’s all. Truthfully, men solely with desire in their eyes frighten me, I feel like a disposable object. In fact I want to ascend to the state of being a sexless thing for them where they say things like “I wasn’t attracted to her but, my, was she a character”. I don’t want to be lusted after, I want to be thought interesting (yes, I realise they are not mutually exclusive), even if they reject me because they find me ugly. Because I can’t control ugly but I can control interesting.

My mum met my dad on their wedding day! Even in the worst pits of dating hell, I am privileged. Every date reminds me of this. I know I get to go home, back to the place I fund entirely on my own, filled with things I’ve bought for myself, paid for through a career I painstakingly sought out. In the warm empathy of my friends, sisters, and cousins, I get to regale them with my Muzz Match miseries, as they share their commiserations. But it’s okay! I’d rather have stories for days than marry the wrong ‘un!

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I want to be the good guy in the story who’s vindicated, because everyone knows I was in the right, and he shouldn’t have done those things! I want the delicious solidarity of other scorned women, bonding over our bruises, a feeling akin to sharing compliments with strangers in the girls’ bathroom.

Last night, on a first date, a guy told me he admired my writing prowess. I said that when I don’t write for a while, I feel the words swell inside me (I know, I’m insufferable), which keeps me up at night. He gave me a look of commendation, and I briefly saw myself through his eyes. He saw someone passionate, driven, and admired the commitment I’d made to my career. He doesn’t know I haven’t written anything I’m proud of in years. Or that I don’t create what I want to, because I can’t bear to create something people hate – or worse, something people don’t even think or care about. It’s much easier to bask in the potential of my unreleased work. He doesn’t know I’m lazy and scared.

I like dating because these men only see the glimpses of the best foot forward I put out. I don’t want them to know the entirety of me. I think that’s what marriage is. I want to be unknowable, spontaneous, untethered. Because when you’re mysterious and fleeting, you become an idea, an unreachable, unquenching concept – and who can compete with that? There will always be someone prettier, someone more interesting, but no one can compare to the idea of you. I think I can only be enjoyed in small doses. Maybe that’s a self-hatred thing (or maybe I think too highly of myself – narcissism, is that you??), but I enjoy myself in these moments with strangers. And when it inevitably doesn’t work out, it’s fine because I got to enjoy myself for a little while. Until the next one.

Maybe I’ve got Stockholm Syndrome with my singledom, convincing myself that it’s fine! I actually like it here! But, I think at the end of everything I want to be rescued by one man who appreciates all the frogs I had to kiss (figurative) to find him and doesn’t mind me for all my flaws. He doesn’t mind my entirety and I don’t mind his.

*Use Jo Little Women pic

*Yes, my Notes page really said use Jo Little Women pic lol. She tells her sister who is about to marry: “You will be bored of him in two years, but we will be interesting forever”. I want to be interesting forever.

(I feel like i need to apologise for this post lol)

Buy me a 'coffee'

Warning: I won’t come across very well in this piece. As a journalist who’s very public, it’s not easy to play the demure and sexy mysterious person. On my dating apps (which, as a Muslim woman, I use for the purposes of marriage), it says Faima, occupation: journalist. If you Google those words, any of the 4,000+ articles I’ve written, or my Twitter, Substack, or public Instagram page will come up. And men have done that; researching me during the talking stage. After matching with one guy, he found an article I’d written in 2018 about being sexually assaulted as a child by a religious figure. The silly, light-hearted vibe we’d had in our initial conversation turned solemn as he earnestly apologised for what I’d experienced and said things like, “I’m here for you, Faima,” “Sorry, Faima,” and wanted to talk about it. But maybe I don’t want to talk about being molested, guy! I ended the chat after that. He graciously unmatched.

When you date, the playing field has to be level, but when guys know such intimate things about me, there’s an imbalance – they’ve been privy to too much of my vulnerability. That’s not their fault, of course. As a lifestyle writer, I’ve made a career writing about my life, and this Substack (which is also public) is very personal and vulnerable; anyone can read it.

I don’t have a huge following, so I wouldn’t call myself a public figure, but I am pretty public, and while that’s not always a bad thing, when it comes to dating men, being so available online can even become a dangerous thing when things turn sour.

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Recently, I was in New York, where I spent three weeks (readers will know I spend a lot of time in the U.S), and I decided to start dating there as I’m open to relocation and journalism pays better in the States. A man with traits I would never usually go for popped up on my Muzz app with that typical American enthusiasm (my friend Rez described the boisterous American persona perfectly in her Substack – Americans act like they constantly have a camera on them). He wanted to meet up. I was reluctant at first, but my cousin was also going on a date on Sunday and said we could both have our dates at the same time, so I agreed.

The date and I actually had some pretty rare things in common, and he had an easy silliness in him that I liked, not being afraid to be goofy; he suggested karaoke as a first date (London boys would never!), which I declined lol. He was also open to relocating to London. After we matched, he stayed up late reading this Substack, telling me I was a good writer and that I made him feel all sorts of emotions. He knew the speech I wrote for my sister, my heartbreak, my joblessness. Things you tell people organically in your own time, he knew before I even met him.

The day we met, I was a bag of nerves, feeling nauseous beforehand—not as a reflection of my feelings for him, but because I hadn’t been on a date in eight months. On the date, he brought that goofiness with him, which eased my nerves. But he also held my hand, which, as a person with sweaty palms, made me very uncomfortable. This also gave me the ick, especially as a Muslim woman, for obvious reasons. That was my first indication that this man was not for me.

I don’t know if it’s because I was a tourist in New York and wanted to date a local, or if I was affection-starved (he was extremely generous with this), or if I’m just a bad person, but I saw him a few times after that date. But after a week, I knew it wasn’t right and ended it. It turns out people can reject a break-up because that’s what he did, not taking no for an answer.

Over the next few days, I mollified him via WhatsApp, thinking it was the kind thing to do, to let him come to terms with me ending things (we had only met ten days ago!). He insisted he was going to see me off at JFK when I left New York, which I told him not to do multiple times, but eventually I relented and said he could say goodbye in person. He showed up with a gun.

Before you get too alarmed, he didn’t come to shoot me. He has a federal job for which he has a gun (he’s not a cop). But, still, it’s very weird to show up at the airport to say goodbye to someone you supposedly have feelings for, with a weapon. My skin crawled. He even started crying, but I shushed him and left to go through security, even though I had three hours before my flight.

I got back to London on Thursday, and by Saturday he had already booked flights to come and see me in London, even though I expressly told him not to. In those two days of my return, I should have blocked his number, I should have stopped replying to him, I shouldn’t have entertained him. I convinced myself I wasn’t leading him on because I told him every day that I didn’t want to be with him. So why did I keep responding to him? It wasn’t for attention, because male attention isn’t hard to obtain, nor is it a flex. I guess part of me just missed New York, and he was a slice of the Apple.

As his trip approached, I gave one final push, spelling out that he had crossed a boundary by not respecting my wishes on multiple fronts. I told him I wouldn’t see him in London and blocked him on WhatsApp and Instagram. It took him a short few minutes to find my email. It’s in my Twitter bio so I can get journalism commissions. He got on the plane and emailed me every two hours.

When he landed, he got in touch through iMessage (I forgot to block him on this, as WhatsApp was our main source of communication). He sent his location. I blocked him here too. He found me on other apps and persistently messaged me. I got a call from an English number and picked up, thinking it was for a job interview. It was him, pleading to see me. I told him never to contact me or try to find me.

But it wouldn’t be that hard to find me at all. Last week on Instagram, I said I was doing freelance shifts in Canary Wharf and showed the building (I’m doing WFH shifts now, don’t worry). I’ve taken selfies in front of my doorstep, which has a unique tile pattern not seen on my neighbours’. He could even covertly get my address if he disguised himself as someone trying to send a PR package (journalists are way too lax with giving out our addresses). Hell, he could trace my emails to my address; it’s not that difficult.

I know I sound victim-blamey (as though I caused him to harass me just because I’m available online) and like an apologist for an obvious harasser, but truthfully, I feel so disappointed in myself for giving my time to someone like that, who is such a red flag, for jeopardising my safety, for acquiescing to his tantrums and persistent pleas. But I also realise I’m not above being manipulated (even where I felt I had autonomy) and am also human and susceptible to ostensibly earnest words.

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He’s now blocked on several accounts but, as I say, they’re all public, so he can find me using a different username. He could read this public piece and want to take revenge. I wouldn’t put it past him, and given the extremely misogynistic climate we live in, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to hurt me. Little girls trying to dance to Taylor Swift are getting stabbed, mums and daughters are being attacked in Leicester Square. Ex-soldier Kyle Clifford murdered his ex-girlfriend and her family with a crossbow. In recent years in the UK, a woman has been killed by a man every three days on average. Men don’t seem to hesitate when it comes to being violent towards women.

He’s still in London, and while I tell everyone, “I’m fine! He won’t hurt me! He won’t come near me!” the truth is, I don’t know. I jolt when I hear a noise in my house. I get scared in the shower because it’s too loud to hear if the front door has opened. I’m not the first or the last woman to feel like this.

I regret meeting him. I regret all of it. Maybe I just need to get offline for a bit.

In South Asian Muslim culture, when a woman gets married, she leaves her parental home to move in with her husband, and in most cases, his family.

So at the culmination of wedding events (we have several), there is the bidai – the goodbye – where the bride bids farewell to her family and is driven off to her husband’s home.

The bidai is a huge affair – brides are expected to go from big smiles to being downcast and cry on cue (but still maintain some decorum so as not to make anyone too uncomfortable), and everyone knows their place.

The parents, the brothers and sisters of the bride, friends, cousins, and families queue up to hug her as emotions swell inside them and the groom uncomfortably tries to comfort her.

A few days ago, my little sister got married. We all joked she was going to be the first bride in the family not to cry at the bidai. She had always been stoic. In fact, the only person to have seen her cry and comforted her was actually me, someone who has no problem crying in front of people at any given place.

So when it came to her bidai, my parents began with the tears immediately on cue. It was watching my dad’s sausage fingers wrap his face as he shrouded his tears that broke my sister, and all of us, on her wedding day.

He cried unbridled, like a baby, clumsily wiping away his tears. She hugged him long and deep, and I, standing behind them, pushed back the lump rising in my throat before eventually giving in.

We weren’t crying solely because we’d miss her (though this is a huge part of it), and it wasn’t because she was leaving her paternal home. My sister had lived away for medical school for eight years. When she was 18, we dropped her off to Nottingham, waving at her from the car, tears escaping our eyes as we left her on her own for the first time. That was our first bidai, to much less fanfare.

So eight years later, when I no longer live at my parents’ home, we once again said goodbye to my sister, for a different reason this time. But the hurt was all the same.

We were sad because she isn’t a student anymore who’s going to come home for long summers and Christmas breaks. She won’t be at the door to greet me when I go to my parents' or text me to bring her a coffee as I come home. Now she’ll come home for a few hours before she goes back to her husband, and Eids will be divided between family and in-laws, and Ramadan won’t look like iftar at the table with the whole family nor groggy suhoors spent together.

The feelings remind me of what Steve Martin says of his daughter in Father of the Bride:

‘I realised at that moment that I was never going to come home again and see Annie at the top of the stairs. Never going to see her again at our breakfast table in her nightgown and socks. I suddenly realised what was happening. Annie was all grown up and was leaving us, and something inside began to hurt.’

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I didn’t make a speech at my sister’s wedding, though I wanted to.

Just four days before she got married, my cousin also got married and I made a speech at his wedding, referencing inside jokes and trying to find the right balance of silly and sincerity. The mic didn’t work properly and as I walked to the stage, a man behind me fell and had a seizure. As I made cracks at the groom on stage, I saw my little sister, the doctor, behind the crowd, leaping to the man as quickly as she would tend to her patients in hospital.

I didn’t make a speech at my sister’s wedding, but there’s so much I want to say. I would’ve got up and said congratulations and commented on how breathtaking she looked. I would have made thinly veiled threats to my brother-in-law as I implored him to take care of my little sister while welcoming him to the family. I would have shared esoteric anecdotes and told stories of her that people didn’t know.

I didn’t make a speech at my sister’s wedding because, despite writing for a living, I don’t even have the words that would encompass or do justice to what my little sister means to me.

So here I am, in my newsletter, professing the deep and irrevocable love I have for my little sister.

I didn’t make a speech at my sister’s wedding, but if I had, I would have turned to her and said:

‘You are dearest to me. To borrow the words of our beloved Palestinian martyrs, you are the soul of my soul.

‘Like that terrible Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear film Stuck on You, you are like a limb attached to me, or an organ; vital and necessary for living.

‘I love you and like you so much – I think you’re so fun and funny, and humble even though you literally save lives every day and then just come home and watch Community re-runs all night.

‘You have a wicked memory that should really be studied – how do you recall faces so well? And my portion of game-playing skills was clearly attributed to you because there isn’t a single game you’re bad at.

‘Beyond all the joy you’ve brought me, the single greatest thing you’ve done for me is bring me closer to my Lord by allowing me to follow your example. You might be my little sister, but you’re my biggest inspiration.

‘You are my heart beating outside of its chest’.

There is no way I could have said any of those things to her on her wedding day because even writing this now, I feel like a leaky tap, tears dripping out of me.

At her bidai, I managed to compose myself and only tap into my feelings briefly to let out a few tears. If I had leaned into my emotions completely, I would never have let go of my sister’s embrace.

Because she is home.

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This post is, as you might have guessed, in dedication to my dearest Suts. I love you, I miss you. Allarhowla.

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Writer babe Annie Lord writes, in Notes from Heartbreak, that the first person you want to tell about a breakup is the person you've just broken up with. Because, despite everything changing in such a short amount of time, the universe you built with that person hasn't yet shattered. In the first days and weeks of a breakup, you're still wearing the other person – they're in the way you now laugh without sound, or their silly esoteric phrases you've adopted as your own, or in the enjoyment of things you never liked before, like Dr Pepper and grape-flavoured things.

Today marks a year since the end of those things.

In the first few days of the breakup, before anyone knew and therefore it hadn’t felt real, I would lie in the foetal position in my living room, ugly crying before my housemates got home from work. I’d drink water in the kitchen, looking absent-mindedly into the garden, thinking how empty and devoid of colour life felt. Safe to say, I was all up in my feels. My phone camera is full of crying selfies from that time. I’m not sure what I was trying to document it for, but maybe part of me felt like I needed a physical manifestation of the intangible hurt I’d felt?

When I was first studying for my journalism diploma, I was talking to a guy (not a journo, thankfully) for a few weeks until we decided we were too different and thus went our separate ways. The next day I told my journo pals, and the way everyone comforted me took me by surprise. They hugged me and consoled me, telling me all the usual things you tell people going through a breakup; there’s plenty more fish in the sea, one thing ends to make way for better things, etc., etc. But it honestly felt like overkill. Are breakups that deep, I thought? It didn’t even feel like a breakup, we’d only been seeing each other a few weeks. Truthfully, part of me thought people overreacted a bit when going through a breakup, no matter the length of time. Yeah, it’s sad you’re no longer with someone, but is it that deep, I thought, it’s not like they’ve died? And if you’ve broken up, it was clearly a sign they’re not the one? In hindsight, it was a harsh assessment of breakups – I just never took stock of all the pain involved.

Then May 11, 2023, happened, and it all made sense. I read Notes on Heartbreak when I was still in the relationship, and while I sympathised with Annie (her boyfriend of five years abruptly ended their relationship), I couldn’t quite relate. Now, sadly, I can. Because it wasn’t just the end of my first and only real relationship; it was the end of a friendship with my favourite person, it was the end of Friday takeaway and movie night, the end of ‘I’m craving X, shall we get it tomorrow?’, and last-minute plans because the sun came out, the loss of a travel buddy, someone to watch the films everyone else is too busy to watch with you, someone to text the mundaneness of your day to, or to call on work lunch breaks, the perpetual plus one to your invites, and the loss of someone whose sole goal is to make you happy. When you’re in a relationship, that person is your habit and hobby. So the end of it means the end of all those things.

The day we officially called it off, I took my siblings to Wingstop. The feelings still fresh in my throat, I couldn’t make an announcement and tell my family it was over – after all, in the weeks prior, we were talking about my wedding. But later that day, I told them separately, each one more shocked than the previous, thinking I was joking. The more they comforted me, the more adamant I was that I wouldn’t cry in front of them. I decided to take myself for a run, as though the endorphins would replace the pain I felt. I didn’t even finish my run before the tears swelled within me. I looked out to the Thames in front of me and put myself back together. I reminded myself that my God had guided me to this decision, and He doesn’t make mistakes; I couldn’t be sad over it, everything had happened as it should have. It was just time for the next part of my life to begin.

The past year has been good to me, alhamdulillah; I’ve traveled, I’ve worked new jobs, I’ve had new adventures, made new memories with old friends, I even developed an intense crush that ended as quickly as it began. I’m no longer the mopey mess I was, but sometimes I have moments where I indulge my sadness and loneliness, because I’m me and I’m alive.

You guys, it’s so embarrassing and vulnerable to write about my feelings like this and sorry if I’ve made you cringe!! But this is my newsletter and it’s my feelings, so please read, share, support.

And because this is a labour of love I do for free, I’d love if you wanted to sling me a coffee (you can donate it virtually down here).

Buy me a kofi

I was on a PureGym treadmill, slogging uphill, watching One Tree Hill reruns to mask the exertion, when my phone vibrated with a new message. ‘I need to tell you something,’ the message said. ‘I’m gonna cancel tonight, and I think we’re not on the same page anymore.’ My heart sank. This was from a man who, in the month prior, told me he was hoping to get married soon – (silly of me to think he might have meant to me). And yet, here he was, offering meagre words that felt as small as the 4cm watch screen I was reading them off of. He hadn’t even afforded me the decency of a phone call or a face-to-face conversation. He ended things so casually – despite how invested I was – which you can read here – without warning. I read the message before running to the loo to have a cry. But it felt like an inadequate place to lay open my feelings. So, I went home, showered, did wudu (ablution) and headed to the mosque. It was the only place that was going to comfort me.

Mosques are bustling with people for blessed Jummah prayers every Friday and during prayers in Ramadan. On this day, when my heart was so fragile, the mosque was quiet. The sisters’ entrance wasn’t even open, so I snuck in by a side gate and walked around 'til I found an opening. On the busiest days, you can seldom stand straight in congregation, but on that Wednesday, I offered my Asr salah spaciously, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with just two other women. I was glad for the solitude – I could cry my heart out to my Lord in quietness.

The mosque isn’t just a place of worship; it’s a community hub, a sacred space, and a reminder of the welcoming nature of God. In spending time in the mosque, I have been touched by the mercy of Allah, which has strengthened me in ways that previously didn’t seem possible. Last year, my wobbliest year to date – in a fit of self-pity, I did call it the lowest point of my life – I found solace in the mosque.

I spent a significant amount of time in mosques in the past year. In these houses of God, I found the strength and courage to do what was right, even when it was the harder thing to do. A year ago, I was doing a lot of istikhara – prayer for guidance – for marriage. For the first time, I started seeing an imam too, at London Central Mosque, colloquially known as Regent’s Mosque. During my visits there in Ramadan, I saw a couple get married on the mosque grounds, I saw files of divorce papers land on my imam’s desk, and I saw the signs of my istikhara in it all. I developed a love and attachment for Regent’s Mosque – it was the place that guided me towards an answer that changed my life. I was sad to hear that in recent times they welcomed Prime Minister Rishi Sunak into the mosque. The same man who refuses to call for a ceasefire in Palestine and won’t stop arms sales to Israel. Sometimes, it’s okay for mosques to not be so welcoming.

Mosques are political for various reasons. And because they’re segregated, they are gendered too. Recently, I was upset and disappointed to see that East London Mosque – which has a sizeable female attendance in its Maryam Centre counterpart – was not going to be open to women for nightly Tahajjud prayers, but it is to be available to men only. The argument, many cried, was that these late prayers - from 1am onwards to sunrise - were too late and unsafe for women to attend by themselves, and that if women went, there might be temptations to freely mix with the opposite gender, which is not what Ramadan, or indeed Islam, is about. But that argument falls weak when you realise that it’s the responsibility of both men and women to not do anything that displeases Allah (such as free-mixing), but also that Muslim women can travel in groups or with their family if they have safety concerns, and that during the time of the Prophet (pbuh), and indeed in Muslim countries, mosques are and were open to women at all hours. Some will say Muslim women can simply pray at home where there is more reward. Reader, do you understand this is a provision of God because he knows women inevitably have domestic duties and that it does not negate their right to worship in a mosque?

The fact that mosque-going isn’t mandatory for women often means mosques don’t prioritise women. This is a great travesty and essentially banishes Muslim women from public life. If we have to pray five times a day and there aren’t enough prayer spaces for us outside, we’re forced to stay home, or worse, miss our prayers due to a lack of spaces outside. Given that most Muslim women work (who can afford not to?), or you know, go outside, it means there just isn’t enough space to accommodate our worship. But men’s worship is not more important than women’s worship.

Ur welcome to buy me a 'coffee'

I’m so thankful that where I live in London, at least, there are female-friendly places I can go to to experience the tranquillity and ease that only a mosque brings. Thankfully, in Central London, we have the beautiful Regents Park Mosque, Finchley Mosque, Holborn Mosque, 46 Goodge Street just to name a few, as well as the plethora of local mosques dotted around the capital and country. For me, the mosques that put me back together include Regent’s Mosque, Greenwich Islamic Centre, and Poplar Mosque (may Allah reward its gatekeepers).

All Muslims, and even non-Muslims who have ever entered a mosque will know, these places are uniquely peaceful. I think of how it was only after spending so much time there, Allah showed me how to be closer to Him. Would I have found the same answers left to my own device? Would I have chosen wrongly? I am so thankful to have access to sacred places of worship to top up my imaan. I only pray more Muslims, especially Muslim women, have the option to do so too.

May Allah unite and strengthen the ummah, especially at a time we are so divided. Keep praying for Filisteen, especially in these precious last nights of Ramadan.

When I saw an Instagram snippet of the great scholar Omar Suleiman talking about love and romance in his yearly Ramadan series (this year’s theme is "Why Me"), I had to tap away; I was not in the right headspace to receive the pearls of wisdom he was about to drop. I had to save this for later. For those who don’t know, Dr Omar Suleiman from the Yaqeen Institute shares 10-minute videos each day in Ramadan related to questions we have about ourselves and how we can reframe our mindsets to get closer to Allah. On Day 15, he addressed something singletons probably think about every day – love.

Later, a friend I was having iftar with mentioned the video but I instinctively shushed her; I didn’t want any spoilers. She encouraged me to watch it and take in his message. I knew this video was going to @ me. I decided to watch this clip after the weekend ended, in quiet solitude so I could cry if I needed to. And obviously, I did. One line in the video that had all the girlies gagged was understanding love and romance as rizq, or provisions from God. In Islam, rizq is such an important concept – it encompasses everything tangible and intangible. Rizq can mean sustenance, gifts, wealth, property, peace, family. We understand rizq as blessings from Allah, they may be things we’re privileged to have or things we don’t necessarily have but can still achieve goodness through.

What was compelling about this video was the understanding of love and romance as rizq – this too is a provision from God. Naturally, Muslims believe that everything comes from God so this idea that love also comes from Him isn’t so shocking. The real astounding realisation was that, like other forms of rizq, not everyone is going to have romance in this life. Of course, some of us singletons have suspected we’re going to be alone forever (spend five minutes on Muzz Match, singleness doesn’t seem so bad now eh?), but to know love is not in your divine decree is a sobering realisation. And this is the bit people are struggling with.

I’m such a lover girl. You’ll know from my writing here how quickly I can imagine my life with someone who seldom deserves it. When I like someone, I like them like them, quickly. I’m a romantic at heart. Even writing this now, I imagine myself sharing this on Twitter, and then a six-foot single Muslim man in his early 30s with a stable career, a fun and funny disposition, and a beard that connects, DMs me to tell me how much he enjoyed my writing, and it’s the start of a great romance. We fall happily in love and become one of those couples who share side-by-side images of ‘how it started versus how it’s going’. But alas, that’s probably not written for me.

Sometimes I see comments of unmarried Muslim women sharing how they’ve been searching for a spouse for 5/6 years and I feel a pang in my stomach. They, too, have been doing tahajjud (voluntary night prayers) every night, why are our arrows missing their targets? Is that an insight into my future? Will I still be sharing tales of missed connections on this Substack in the next five years?

But, alhamdulillah, I don’t feel defeated. Dr Suleiman’s video isn’t to make singles feel worse, in fact I felt much comfort from the reminder that romantic love, like all of Allah’s blessings, will only come to me if Al-Hakim, the Most Wise, has written it for me. And if He has delayed it or denied it, it means He’s going to bless me with something better, if not in the dunya (the world) then the hereafter. Let’s not forget that those of us who don’t have romantic love are still open to pleasing Allah in other ways. As a single 30-year-old woman, I’m not busied by the duties of a mother or wife – this opens me to extra ibadah, a blessing I’ve felt especially in Ramadan. This is my rizq. The fact that I can get up with speed for tahajjud and fajr every morning without issue is rizq. The freedom that has allowed me to read the Qur’an everyday, learn about the Prophet’s (PBUH) life and do my daily istighfar is rizq. It’s not to say married people don’t have these privileges, but life does get in the way and free time is such huge rizq – this is something I have to remind myself when I get upset about being unemployed for almost two years. My top-tier friendships are rizq. Look around you, rizq is everywhere!

But I can understand why people are upset with the idea that love may not be written for them. Regardless of whatever culture you come from, love is one of the most aspirational things to have and do. Sometimes it feels like marriage is the sixth pillar of Islam, the way this goal is projected onto us, especially as women. So now to contend with the fact it might never happen? That’s a tough pill to swallow.

Since seeing the video, I feel a sort of contentment because as a Muslim, I feel like you can’t really lose. Either I’ll make so much duaa (prayer) that Allah will grant me what I want, or one day I’ll go to Jannah (heaven) Inshallah and be blessed with all my unanswered duaas. There’s a hadith that says when you see the beautiful form your unanswered duaas take in Jannah, you’ll wish none of your prayers were ever answered. And how can we despair about the things we haven’t got when our Lord is so kind? The Prophet (PBUH) said: ‘There is no Muslim who calls upon Allah, as long as it’s not a sinful ask or cutting off families ties, that Allah will give them one of three things; fulfilling your ask, Allah will avert an evil or similar away from you, or Allah will store it in the hereafter like a treasure”.

Let’s be more like Umar Ibn Khattab (RAA) who said ‘When I make duaa, I only concern myself with the ability to ask, not the answer’, meaning he only wants to be guided to duaa, because he knows Allah will give him something good through it, whether the duaa is answered or not. We should only be concerned if we aren’t able to make duaa because it means we aren’t relying on Him.

So when we grow frustrated because it feels like our duaas are not being answered, remember that Allah could actually be saving you from a bad marriage, He could give you something better than what you ask, avert a calamity from your or your family, or He could be waiting to give it to you in Jannah. Do any of these things seem like a consolation prize to a spouse? Like I say, when you’re a Muslim, there’s no losing. Alhamdulillah.

There are lots of duaas you can say specifically asking for a good spouse, don’t ever lose hope, Allah’s mercy is so strong it can rewrite your qadar (fate). Allah is shy to turn away from our duaas so ask Al-Wadud, the Most Loving, Al-Wahab, the Bestower of gifts and Ar-Razzaq the Provider to grant you the prayers of your hearts.

And while you’re there, pray for me to be granted a smart, funny, deen-conscious Muslim man. Ameen.

I’m guessing you’re here because you’ve seen Netflix’s gut-wrenching retelling of One Day, a novel by David Nicholls previously adapted into a film with Anne Hathaway. The story (not a true one, I Googled) follows two friends over the course of 20 years and their relationship of yearning, resentment, and growth. Only this time, Emma Morley, the female lead, is a brown woman played expertly by Ambika Mod, pining after the devastatingly handsome Dexter Mayhew, played by Leo Woodall.

I found that the decision to cast Emma as a brown woman really effective because of the subtext it adds, even if it never really addresses it. Dexter’s inability to choose Emma in their youth adds a layer of complexity – is it because she is not the blonde-haired, blue-eyed slender (or any) white woman he is used to courting? Are their class and racial differences insurmountable as a romantic pair that they naturally fall into a friendship? As a person of colour, race is something that plays on my mind a lot. I hate when they don’t address it at all in film and TV, especially where it definitely is likely to play a part irl (I enjoyed that in Sex Education, Eric calls Otis out for not seeing race). As an Indian woman, Emma’s entire heritage, her family, her upbringing is omitted from One Day. She simply orbits around the white men in her life (Dexter, Ian, the headteacher whose name escapes me). I understand that in the book, Emma is written as a white woman but I do think if the show’s creators are going to capitalise off optical diversity (loads of people will watch simply to see a brown lead), then they should at least do it justice and add details their audience want to see, in a meaningful way.

The only mention of Emma being different is administered through Dexter’s eyes. Emma is othered when Dexter asks if she doesn’t sleep with him due to religious reasons, and I’m reminded of all the white boys who’ve asked me something similar.

I also would like to have seen the appeal of Dexter (other than the fact that he played by a gorgeous man) because I kind of only saw him as this wounded thing that needs to be taken care of. I have sympathy for him given that he is in mourning for his mum but I also wish he’d self-soothed a lot more or at least tried to seek help or therapy instead of causing destruction in his way. I guess that was his character arc. If I was his friend IRL, I would have kept it platonic and moving, supporting him only as a friend.

I do feel Emma acquiesces in some ways. Sure, she loved him in a schoolgirl way at first (writing poetry for him), but through their adolescence he doesn’t really do anything to win her over. She says she doesn’t want to be Dexter’s consolation but almost immediately concedes after that one conversation. I can’t help but feel her life in Paris would have been full of art and culture and a man who doesn’t dither for decades to make a move, hell she might have even been alive if she stayed in Paris. Dexter just doesn’t seem to me like her intellectual or emotional equal (maybe this isn’t a necessity for some??).

‘Afghanistan is a mess’ Emma says, inviting Dexter to comment on the ‘war on terror’, which should have been the main topic of conversation in 2002. He finds political conversation ‘boring’, replies Dexter. His privilege stops him from being engulfed by its importance and relevance, same of people who blithely ignore what’s happening in Palestine today. She says ‘it’s different for you’ and I think yes finally they’ll talk about the race thing and how as a racialised person it’s hard to separate yourself from the terrors inflicted on people in the global south, but it’s diverted into a conversation about fertility. I know One Day is not a political show and it might have even lost the audience’s focus if it did veer into it, but I couldn’t help but put myself in Emma’s shoes (isn’t that what representation is all about??) and how skeptical I would have been of it all.

I could not be with a man who doesn’t care about Afghanistan or Palestine, especially if he were white. As boyishly handsome Dexter is, and as gentle as he is with Emma, especially in the latter years, I could not say yes to a man like him. As a single woman looking to find a partner for the purpose of marriage, I am confronted with the question of racial preferences on the apps I use (Hinge and its Muslim equivalent Muzz). My faith settings are set to Muslims only but my race preferences are open to all, but I know my criteria is a bit wider if the person is white. Even among white converts, I have to consider how their families perceive our faith, if they are racist, if they are culturally insensitive, if I would have to bat away questions that make me feel othered. I’m reminded of a friend’s family barbecue in which one of their family friends, emboldened by alcohol, called me a Paki. Or how my white housemate called me coloured and makes culturally insensitive comments about race all the time. I want to close off any opportunities that put me in that place again, so I am extra vigilant of whiteness.

So I guess my assessment of Dexter is biased and maybe unfair because I can’t help but see it through the lens of a woman of colour who is easily agitated by the connotations of whiteness. So sue me, I guess.

And just one last thought to finish off – do culture creators know that interracial relationships don’t automatically mean one person definitely has to be white? lol.

U can pay me for my writing if you like

I was never supposed to be a writer. I didn’t know I wanted to be a journalist in school, college, or even university. I was barely interested in news or magazines, or seldom heard the news playing at home (unless we’re talking about the lightning-speed broadcasts of Bangladeshi news channels), or saw publications lying around the house. I came to the UK with my parents, and most of my adolescence was spent moving from house to house and watching TV shows with my sisters or taking care of my youngest siblings. By the age of 25, I’d lived in nine different houses (fun fact: in two of these houses, I was sexually assaulted – once by a male tenant also living in the overcrowded house). In the three years of my undergraduate degree, I lived in three different social homes with my family, one for each year of study. All this violin-playing to say I’m just a proud working-class gal from Tower Hamlets. I had no idea how differently people lived until I became a journalist.

Journalism is one of the most exclusive professions in the UK. Just 7% of Brits are privately educated, and yet 43% of the 100 most influential news editors and broadcasters, and 44% of newspaper columnists went to private schools. Things are getting worse as 80% of journalists now come from elite backgrounds, compared to years prior. No one chooses their class or background, of course, but people can choose how annoying they are about it. And journalists seem to have a tough time admitting just how posh and/or well-off they are.

I’ve sat in newsrooms and dinner tables at lavish events and trips, often the only brown face in there, listening to incessant conversations about people’s supposed working-class origins (or at least their parents’ adorned as their own struggles). When I lived in Bangladesh (where I was born and spent the better part of a decade), wealth was something to flaunt, not hide away. No one certainly cosplayed as poor (‘cause we already were lol). I was astonished to find the opposite happening in the UK. Maybe it’s because in the world of journalism, identity – particularly those who are oppressed in some way – earns kudos and authenticity.

When I first began studying for my journalism diploma, I was the only person on the course who had won a scholarship to be there (thank you diversity fund). At the time, I worked part-time at Waitrose. When I got the call that I’d been a successful recipient, I cried in the work toilets. Alhamdulillah. I ended up studying with someone whose dad owned a literal Premier League football team lol. Not everyone’s wealth in journalism is obvious like this; some are wealthy because they own their own homes (often thanks to the bank of mum and dad), because they have connections in the industry, because they have cultural capital ‘cause their parents exposed them to the arts, because of their whiteness, because of a confidence and tenacity that comes with having a safe, secure, and stimulated childhood.

I sometimes think my creative synapses are burnt; maybe that’s why I don’t get writing work anymore. I am constantly thinking about money and how I’m going to make rent next month that there’s little room for creativity and idleness which begets creativity. I hate how money has changed who I am and who I thought I was.

The hardest part to face in all this is that I feel like I hadn’t scratched the surface of my capability. I was lazy and jaded and quickly realized how you could get by doing the bare minimum. I didn’t challenge myself as much as I should have or put in more than what was necessary. I hope I get the chance to remedy it Inshallah.

Buy me a 'coffee'

Maybe I just didn’t see any potential in progression. I felt like a perpetual trainee who could only get so far. There definitely weren’t enough people with my class or ethnic background in leadership positions to inspire me (not that it’s their fault). And now there aren’t enough opportunities for me to prove myself.

What’s the point of all this, is it to garner sympathy or amass validation from people telling me my writing is good and important? ‘Cause neither pays my bills and it doesn’t dull the voice in my head that says I was just never good enough or opportunistic enough or smart or lucky enough to be in this industry.

Alhamdulillah still, because Allah put me on this career path, He saw something in me that I didn’t and don’t. So I’ll honor that and seek to write better things to make the world more beautiful and fair and make people feel seen. Inshallah.

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I just want to add that I made about £1.3k in writing opportunities for the last few months. To be fully transparent I made money doing non-writing things including teaching and as a film extra for a Riz Ahmed film which was one of the most fun things I’ve ever done!

What I’m reading:

• Hostile Homelands, the new alliance between India and Israel by Azad Essa (which is spitting so many facts)

• Big Fan by Sheena Patel (there’s a chapter here about why we write, particularly as diaspora, which inspired some of this piece). Read this if you’ve ever experienced unrequited love *cries*

What I am watching:

• One Tree Hill reruns ‘cause you know Nathan Scott is my babe

• The Tourist ‘cause Jamie Dornan was also bae till I heard he actually stalked women to get into the mindset of a stalker for his role in The Fall. Dur beta.

• TikToks, particularly siblingtok ‘cause the love of my love, my whole heart, my baby sis moved to Singapore. Keep her in your duaas inshallah.

• Speaking of duaas, please keep praying and showing up for Palestine.

The great philosopher Taylor Swift once wrote, “So it’s gonna be forever or it’s gonna go down in flames”, and it’s a mantra I’ve been acutely aware of for the last four months. Because, reader, despite hearing all the harrowing testimonies of the modern dater, I began seeing someone after my Big Breakup in early 2023.

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Early subscribers will recall that I started this Substack after the end of a serious relationship. For what felt like a long time, I was a mopey mess, writing about heartbreak coupled with year-long joblessness, marking the lowest point of my life so far. Although I didn’t intend to move on so swiftly (I know there’s a saying about adding a month for every year you were together before moving on), after some months, I somehow found someone new who made everything sing.

If you’ve read my previous bits, you’ll know I spent quite a lot of time in the U.S this year and my first foray into online dating was testing the waters with American guys. I wanted to flex old muscles and see if I could entertain the idea of flirting with someone new. As you may know, that didn’t end well when I matched with someone whose wedding celebration I unknowingly attended later. After leaving New York and returning home, I chose to delete my Hinge. I wasn’t looking to jump into a new relationship; I just wanted to explore what was out there and how it made me feel.

Just as I was about to delete it, a new match appeared. “Such a tease,” he wrote, responding to my claims of doing a convincing Bane from Batman impression. He enjoyed barbecue wings and Phil Collins, sharing seven fun facts about himself as an opener. He made me laugh. I was hooked. We spoke for three weeks, covering the basics and trying to outbanter each other. Then finally, he shared links to restaurants in Central London, asking me to choose one for dinner. I was so smitten I hadn’t considered acting unavailable and coy, agreeing to meet him that day. It was a balmy September evening and I went for a swim before our date, thinking about what I’d say to him, what I’d wear, whether he’d like me, in between strokes.

We slurped on laksa (a risky choice for a first date unless you’re prepared for soup stains), he complimented my Bangladesh necklace, and paid for dinner. I treated him to dessert. The next three months fell away in blissful fashion, walking around London, eating burgers, sending memes, voicenotes, making jokes (oh so many jokes), going to protests, playing Chess, buying matching T-shirts (yes, cute I know), and on my end, daydreams of a shared future.

Anyone who encountered me during this period recognised my euphoria. Some might have read a piece I penned for my talented friend and writer, Tahmina Begum, detailing the overwhelming feelings that accompany a crush. I wrote: “This crush reminds me of the elasticity of my heart. That even after it’s separated into several pieces, it can snap back together, contorted in a different way but whole nonetheless’. ”

Friends, colleagues, and acquaintances with whom I shared tales of our blossoming relationship rejoiced with me in the relatability of a new romance. They offered advice on conduct, establishing boundaries, avoiding pitfalls, and shared in my enthusiasm. Crushes are truly for the gorls. We know how to commit to liking someone.

During the four months of our connection, I visited three countries. Despite time differences – eight hours behind in California and nine ahead in Tokyo – I woke up early and slept late just to talk to him. I re-read our Whatsapp conversations again and again, I listened to his voicenotes just to hear his voice, I starred the sweet and silly things he’d say.

I wish I could say he reciprocated my intensity. While he displayed sweetness and commitment early on, he unexpectedly messaged one Wednesday morning to end things, having been distant in the preceding weeks. He wasn’t generous with his time, energy, or resources. But I was.

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My loved ones wonder why I invested so deeply in someone who reciprocated minimally, but I have no regrets. The affection I showed him was evidence of the love to be found within me. I think part of the reason I felt things so intensely was that when my big breakup happened, I didn’t know what to do with all the excess love I had. I didn’t want to put it down, so instead I channelled it onto a new person. This wasn’t a rebound; I was genuinely committed.

Whether a relationship lasts four years or four months, the pain is comparable, with the latter merely offering fewer memories. And I still have all this overflowing love, just without a recipient. Like the weepy background character in Mean Girls who doesn’t even go here, I have a lot of feelings lol. And while neither of these men were the one, I’m hopeful that one day I’ll write about a different one, but it’ll end differently.

I never did show him my Bane impression. After reading his first message to me, I joked in my head that it would be funny if the last thing I ever said to him was a Batman quote, because I’m a sucker for cyclical structure. Maybe that was the first indication there was to be an end. I guess it went down in flames, after all.

Thank you for your support this year! I hope you’re enjoying the holidays with your loved ones.

Remember as you celebrate Christmas that if Jesus was born today, he would be born under rubble. Please pray for Palestinians who find themselves under rubble now. Also, mark the 13th of January on your calendar; we continue to march for the liberation of Palestine, Inshallah.

My heart breaks for Palestine every day. The death, the destruction, the displacement. Nothing hurts my heart more than watching the children of Gaza, the way they smile and talk of dreams about simple things like eating bread with their mothers, or their barely developed voices as they wail for their families, and how they wipe away their tears with their little fingers, or the way they gleefully collect rainwater because they have no access to water otherwise. I can’t even bear to think about the dead children. So, so many children. I see my own little brothers and sisters in the youth of Gaza. I cry for the children and people of Palestine every day. Last night I dreamed I had two starving babies in Gaza and I couldn’t feed them. The irony was I was stuck in a mansion at the time but no one would give us any food. It feels like a metaphor for Palestine; stuck without anyone coming to their rescue.

The only solace in all this is Allah. Faith is our anchor and it lets us know there is more for the martyrs of Palestine. As the writer and speaker Yasmin Mogahed eloquently reminded us early on this new nakba, the believer must remember that there is an unseen reality that is happening around us. One of Allah’s names is Alim Al Ghaib Wa Shahadah - Knower of the Unseen and Witnessed. He sees things and knows everything we don’t. It is the conviction of the believer that Allah has a plan for everything.

When a sweet little Palestinian-American six-year-old, Wadea Al-Fayoyme, was stabbed 26 times and killed for his faith in Chicago, he said to his mum ‘Mama, I’m fine’. There’s a hadith that reminds us those who die for their faith will experience death as a small pinch. Abu Huraira reported: ‘The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The martyr does not feel the pain of being killed except as one of you feels the pinch of an insect bite.”’ And in the Quran (2:154), God says: ‘Never say that those martyred in the cause of Allah are dead – in fact they are alive, but you do not perceive it’.

The martyrs of Palestine and others who are killed for their faith will be given Jannatul Firdaws inshallah, their deaths will feel like a pinch inshallah. The children will be returned with their parents at the gates of Jannat inshallah.

Knowing that Allah is with the victims of Palestine, as He is with all believers, is such huge comfort. How can we despair when the Most Sovereign, Most Wise, the All-Mighty presides over the affairs of our brothers and sisters? Allah says ‘Do not lose heart nor fall into despair. You will be the victor if you are true believers’ (Quran 3:139).

But just because we know Allah is with them doesn’t mean we do nothing. Our beloved prophet Muhammad (PBUH) said when we see evil, we must change it with our hands, tongues, and hate it with our hearts. When we die, we will be asked what we did in the face of injustice. How will we answer?

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Duaa for Palestine:

Allahumma aslih ahwaalal-muslimeena fi filisteen, Allahumma aslih ahwaalal-muslimeena fi filisteena wa fi kulli makaanin ya dhul-jalali wal-ikraam.

O Allah! Rectify the affairs of the Muslims in Palestine. O Allah! Rectify the affairs of the Muslims in Palestine and in every place, O Lord of Majesty and Bounty.

Allahumma aslih Ummata Muhammad. Allahumma farrij ‘an Ummati Muhammad. AllahummaRham Ummata Muhammad [sallAllahu alayhi wasalam].

“O Allah! Improve (help) the state of the Ummah of Muhammad. O Allah! Grant ease to the Ummah of Muhammad. O Allah! Have mercy on the Ummah of Muhammad.”