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An Asian female radiation therapist places markers on a short face mask fitted to a patient model to ensure the correct position within a computed tomography (CT) scanner and later in the radiation treatment room. 2010

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God reaching out to a lost sheep. Religious conceptual theme.

In Surah Al-‘Adiyat, Allah paints a powerful image: of horses charging forward, panting, sparking fire with their hooves, invading at dawn with suddenness and force. On the surface, this scene depicts the momentum of war or pursuit. But beneath the surface, there’s something far more relevant to our everyday lives—the way groups of people, societies, or ideologies charge together toward a goal, often under the illusion of authority or justice.These verses can be read as a metaphor for how the collective energy of a society can build adrenaline toward suspicion, and how this suspicion is sustained—not by truth—but by a shared emotional charge to validate their narrative. That adrenaline becomes addictive, convincing participants that their involvement is necessary, even noble. But in truth, they may be chasing not justice, but control—control over perception, over outcomes, over others’ lives.And so Allah reminds us:"Indeed, mankind is ungrateful to his Lord." (100:6) This ungratefulness is not just about denying provisions or blessings—it is the moral blindness to the responsibility we have in preserving truth when we act, speak, or judge. "And indeed, he is to that a witness." (100:7) Allah declares that we already know our faults before we act on them. Deep inside, we are aware of the moments we’re tempted to gain favor, to hide our insecurities behind pride, or to play a role in social dynamics just to stay accepted. This self-witnessing is the wealth Allah refers to—not gold, not status—but moral clarity. Yet,"And indeed he is, in love of wealth, intense." (100:8) The "wealth" here, as you powerfully noted, is not material. It is social capital—being seen, being needed, being validated. It’s the currency of influence. And we often chase it at the cost of our integrity. Society programs us to respond through fight, flight, or fawn—especially in environments where judgment and speculation are treated as tools of control. People carry heat for others’ lives as if they own them, projecting their fear of loss, their jealousy, or their ego. This heat isn’t authority. It’s noise.But Allah is not distracted by this noise."Does he not know that when the contents of the graves are scattered, and what is in the breasts is obtained..." (100:9–10) Allah warns us that every hidden thought, every motive disguised as virtue, will be exposed. Because ultimately, the truth doesn’t belong to people—it belongs to Allah. And the soul’s real duty is not to be validated by others, but to uphold the truth embedded in its chest. This surah, then, is a sharp reminder that the illusion of control and influence in groupthink or society is not power—it’s peril. We can run from Allah in shame or hide in the crowd, but that won’t change the truth we carry within.Integrity, therefore, is the only true wealth. And Allah, Al-Khabeer (The All-Aware), already knows the intentions behind every step we take.

Reflection on Surah Al-‘Adiyat: The Wealth of Integrity

The deepening of my faith over the years has honestly turned out to be the biggest misunderstanding—mostly because of the attention it got along the way. I’ve explained before in my blogs: I’m Muslim, I grew up that way. But I didn’t embrace it wholeheartedly from the start. It happened slowly, indirectly—more like a gradual unfolding. As life moved forward, so did my need to understand my issues.I was always at some kind of crossroads—or just plain stuck. And that’s why my father’s death ended up being Allah’s way of seizing my heart and forcing me to finally confront things I didn’t even know I was ignoring. I had already been doing my own version of self-discovery—unlearning bad habits, eating healthier, exercising, spending time alone—because I could feel the heaviness of my circumstances. I was trying to manage things in a thoughtful way, filling my time with meaningful distractions like helping others, while still trying to give myself some attention too.When Allah prompted me to wear the niqab, it came at a time where had I ignored that guidance, I would’ve left myself open—vulnerable. It would’ve cost me all the internal work I had put into deepening my faith. The niqab wasn’t just a piece of cloth—it came to secure me from the insecurities I had let run the show for too long. It protected the part of me that needed spiritual arbitration, and it simultaneously taught me about Allah’s presence, His help, and all the layered details involved in the different aspects of my divorce.Wearing the niqab reflected the struggle within—but it also showed me how easy Allah actually is with us. We’re the ones who assume He’s waiting for us to hit some impossible standard, when really, He just wants sincerity. As I transitioned outwardly, the inward challenges kept adjusting, retracting, shifting too. It was a constant internal machine in motion—I was trying to stay in flow with Allah’s guidance, and remain as open and receptive as possible.And I can’t say that wearing the niqab made life easier—but I can say Allah made life hard enough that wearing the niqab became the easier path. It steadied me through a lot: exiting my marriage, grieving my sister at a sensitive time, managing social dynamics for the sake of my children, and preserving the respect they deserved while their parents parted ways. And in the midst of all that, I was still trying to hold space for the misunderstandings that came with the bold decisions I had to make.But what I didn’t expect was that it was also preparation for another chapter—one I could’ve never imagined. The arrest. A wrongful judgment after an altercation with my husband. What happened that morning was misread, but I knew even then—it was naseeb. Because I wouldn’t have had the strength to process and close out the difficult phases of my divorce without that moment pushing me to face the deeper truths. Everything I had learned—through my marriage, my kids, parenting, even having my mother-in-law live with us—came to help me navigate what followed after my arrest and time in jail.None of it was a coincidence. It wasn’t fair. But it was part of what had to happen. And for someone like me—someone who always sees the paradox in every trial, and the contradiction in what seems normal—it made sense in its own way. Whenever I felt bound, or misunderstood, or completely alone, I reminded myself: this wasn’t personal from the outside. It was internal. I was chasing a balance that could only come through Allah.Because I know Allah talks business in His own way. He finds ways to buy me time—but that time is the test. And it always comes with results, lessons, and knowledge I didn’t know I needed. That’s why He emphasizes patience. Because the more you learn, the more you grow. And He set me apart from the kind of growth society praises.I had to let go of the fact that I went from being an honor roll student to someone life seemed to set up for failure. I had to accept that I had a free ride—didn’t have to worry about money or providing—and instead of wasting that, I used it to get real. To face life raw, truthfully, and with gratitude for whatever I had.“With hardship comes ease.” Not before. With. That verse doesn’t just repeat—it circles back again and again. Because ease is found inside the hardship. Not after the checklist is done, not once the story wraps neatly.I’ve been misunderstood, misjudged, and unfairly underestimated—not just because I wear niqab, not just because of what happened during and after my arrest—but because this entire path was never for the people watching. It was by Allah’s design.And if there’s any so-called coincidence in it all, it’s that there are no coincidences. Not when Allah is the One flipping the script. Not when He’s the Executive Producer of it all. And how far we drift when we start thinking a simple veil is enough to vilify a person—as if what’s covered could somehow be more offensive than what’s been exposed. But that’s the test, isn’t it?Not of the veil itself. But of what you think the veil is trying to hide.That is exactly why Allah chose me to embark on His journey—to get to know all the ins and outs I needed in order to learn the truth of my circumstances, while simultaneously protecting me from knowing the whole truth. Because that’s how He hones us—for the so-called “coincidence” He always had instilled.Giving your matters to Allah doesn’t ever just mean we speak it in prayer. It means He raises descendants who are coincidence slayers—those chosen to break the cycle, live the paradox, and walk the path that doesn’t make sense to anyone else… until Allah reveals the meaning.

Taking Off to Veil

Statue of Liberty and New York City Skyline with Manhattan Financial District, World Trade Center, Empire State Building and Blue Sky.

Many people live under the illusion that free will means freedom from consequence. They think that if they choose not to participate in something, or if they turn their gaze away from it, they are exempt from the weight of responsibility. In the same way, here in this country, freedom of speech is often misunderstood as a personal badge of authority — as though simply having the right to speak elevates every opinion into an untouchable truth.But reality — the deeper, more sobering reality — is that both free will and freedom of speech come with limits. Limits that are woven into the very fabric of creation, decreed by Allah. Free will is not a shield against the natural law of cause and effect, nor against the divine law of accountability. Similarly, freedom of speech does not mean freedom from the consequences of what is said — especially when words are used to harm, mislead, or corrupt.As Muslims, we are especially vulnerable to being caught between these two worldly pressures. On one side, we may fall prey to the intimidation that comes with the misuse of "freedom" — whether it's the pressure to stay silent in the face of falsehood, or the fear of being labeled, judged, or isolated for speaking the truth. On the other side, we may find ourselves tempted to believe that because we are free to choose, we are free from responsibility — that if we simply abstain from the chaos around us, we will be untouched by it.But Allah reminds us otherwise. "And fear a trial which will not strike those who have wronged among you exclusively, and know that Allah is severe in penalty." (Qur'an 8:25) Silence, ignorance, and avoidance do not grant immunity. Choices, even the choice to look away, bear fruit — whether good or bad.This is why even personal choices have limits: not to suffocate us, but to protect the delicate balance between individual freedom and collective justice. Free will teaches us where our freedom ends and where someone else’s right begins — and that is how we preserve fairness while still honoring the trust Allah placed in us.If free will is exercised without accountability, it becomes oppression. If freedom is pursued without moral boundaries, it becomes chaos. Thus, the very existence of free will teaches us that real freedom only survives when we respect the rights of others, when we uphold justice, and when we acknowledge that our choices are seen by Allah, who is the ultimate Judge.In a society that glorifies individual authority, it becomes even more critical for the Muslim heart to stay anchored. Free will is a gift — but a test. Freedom of speech is a right — but a trust. They are both a responsibility. Both are weighed, measured, and judged by Allah, not by public opinion. It is our duty to use them carefully, to recognize their limits, and to remain steadfast in our submission to divine truth over worldly clamor.

How to Say Know

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