Between Leverage and Light

The verse in Surah Al-Hajj — “And [mention, O Muhammad], when We designated for Abraham the site of the House, [saying], ‘Do not associate anything with Me and purify My House for those who perform Tawaf and those who stand [in prayer] and those who bow and prostrate’” (22:26) — has been a repeated sign for me in recent months. It’s as if Allah keeps showing it to me to remind me of the example He was setting — not just for me, but for my kids.

We are a Muslim-born family, but life came with circumstances that led to what I now call a “speedy modern twist of a reverted family.” My husband was the only one not born in America, yet he was the one who most encouraged and embraced the American lifestyle. My parents, both naturalized citizens, naturally adapted to many American customs. My dad was a Westerner at heart. My mom admired the structure of American law and order — she was fascinated with systems that made sense, and she loves watching Anderson Cooper on CNN. Not because he was a celebrity, but because he stood for the ideals she respected: law, structure, and accountability.

In our house, there was little tolerance for anything that didn’t seem legitimate. My father set that tone. He built our safety around logic, order, and control. So yes, I was raised Muslim —but I believe in America as the big village that shaped who I am as well. 

Which is why wearing the niqab caused such a sharp shift. It wasn’t just a fabric change — it challenged everything around me. I didn’t even fully explain the personal reason behind why I wore it. When I did speak, it often got lost in translation — not because of language, but because of how bottled up it was. I downplayed it. I minimized it just to keep my day moving. My voice sounded calm, maybe even cold, but that was the voice I had to build after years of inner chaos.

So when people heard me speak about the niqab or Islam or my journey, they heard strong statements — but in an effortless, emotionless tone. What they didn’t hear was the struggle I had already endured alone to earn that strength.

Maybe that’s why it drew attention — suspicion, even. But this isn’t political. This is truth. And the truth is: I started to notice signs. Allah was notifying me in a way only He could — a series of subtle cues — that I was being watched. Not a direct revelation. But patterns that became clearer over time. Looking back now, I see it came in phases. I wasn’t scared. I had nothing to hide.

I was already under surveillance — not just by people, but emotionally, spiritually, energetically. My own home was a place of observation. And besides the FBI, the only One who truly saw me was Allah. The pressure I lived under was deep and quiet. But whew — I didn’t know this kind of help from Allah existed. Even though I didn’t fully understand it, I recognize now that it was all part of a phase — a manifestation of Allah’s mercy,

like what He says in Surah Al-Hajj 22:37:

"Neither their meat nor blood reaches Allah. Rather, it is your piety that reaches Him. This is how He has subjected them to you so that you may proclaim the greatness of Allah for what He has guided you to, and give good news to the good-doers."

This was how I began to understand how Allah distributes His grace. It’s not always in the form we imagine — but it’s always perfect.

Then came November. A dramatic shift. My arrest. It was as if a draft had been written and finalized that week to put me away. A very annoying, manipulative scheme — one that involved my mom, sister, brother, my husband, and even my daughter — who was brainwashed into thinking it was for the best.

That changed everything. That set the playing field for what I would come home to. I was patient, yes — but I was also vulnerable. I didn’t belong in that place. Not from arrogance, but from truth. I didn’t deserve it. It was just the culmination of unfortunate responses to a family matter I was figuring out. 

Allah gave me the patience to endure because I had never left my children before. I knew this would shift our dynamic. Because Allah was reminding me: Stay the course. You’re almost there. Just wait for your daughter. Because Allah knew. The angels knew. The squad — the real one — knew the truth of our matter.

“Leverage.” That’s the word my father always used when talking about arguments with my husband. He’d say, “Never leave your house. If you do, you lose leverage.” And it’s like he pierced that in my ear — because that’s exactly what happened.

Regardless of how society views it, what people choose to believe — we were enduring a series of issues that proved the spiritual work was real. It wasn’t just sprung on anyone. It wasn’t forced. I introduced it gradually. I tried my best to teach it, to make it digestible — to frame it with the intensity it deserved.

That’s why I always call this a family trial — because it reveals mischief, but it also reveals innocence. It shows what was hidden, and what was real. And I know, without a doubt, Allah would never place a burden on me that I couldn’t handle.

The leverage that my husband and sister think they gained — it’s not going to produce the truth. It’s only going to allow the truth to unravel naturally. And for those with a watchful eye — a sincere eye — they’ll know the difference between what was crafted and what was lived.

I always say: Allah’s clock is not our clock. His timing is set to the details we overlook. His balance comes with perfect wisdom. So this family trial — it won’t last forever. It will end when we restore regard, respect, and balance — not just in our home, but in our hearts.

Because Allah’s higher calling is always there. His ways — subtle, obvious, or wise — never cease.

As He reminds us in Surah Nuh: verses 8 and 9:

 “Then I invited them openly.”

“Then I announced to them and also confided to them secretly.” (71:8-9)

Allah never stops inviting us — no matter how quietly, how boldly, or how secretly. He speaks in layers. And I know now, He’s been speaking to me the whole time.