Tangled in Review

Two of the saddest realities I’ve ever come to face were happening right under my nose—and yet, somehow, I remained in the dark. Not by choice, but by force. These weren’t just unfortunate coincidences or small misunderstandings. They were deep, sorrowful secrets—entangled in the lives of my children—and wrapped so tightly in deception that even when truth surfaced, it barely made a ripple in the hearts of those watching.

It’s heartbreaking to admit that even with so many people aware, the truth is still not fully acknowledged. As if recognizing the weight of the problem would demand more than most are willing to give. The truth isn’t light. It isn’t simple. It doesn’t fade overnight. It requires proper attention, sincere effort, and spiritual humility. But instead, what I’m met with is a crowd under a spell—believing that I’m not worthy of Allah’s guidance. That the secrets I’ve carried, the pain I’ve endured, and the reality I’ve tried to protect have no worth beyond a cheap attempt at sympathy. That I’m just fraudulently trying to achieve something I didn’t earn. All while being under the limelight—or what I can really say is the skylight—visible, exposed, invalidated, exploited, and taken for granted.

The people who know me best—who can actually connect the dots between who I am and the circumstances I’m in—have turned their backs. Worse, they’ve used the special access and attention they’ve received from authorities and systems to keep the narrative going. What was meant to be intervention became performance. The questions keep circling back to the same places, the answers lost in repetition, because the very people who were “invited” to step in and help have instead turned this into a series—dragging it out to keep feeding the story. They keep switching their stance—not because they’re waking up, but because they’re clinging to the real issue at the core.

That’s exactly why Allah warns us in Surah Al-‘Ankabūt about those who weave webs—deception so fragile it should fall apart, but held together by arrogance and mockery. They laugh. They joke. They find ways to keep dismissing everything because they’re committed to the allegations. They’re nourishing the case’s title, keeping the label alive, instead of standing with true integrity before Allah. Because God forbid someone actually thinks a little deeper, questions the assumptions, or entertains the idea that maybe the one being painted as the perpetrator is actually the one who needed protection all along.

They don’t realize the severity of putting someone under that kind of light. It’s not a compliment. It’s not a gift. It’s exposure. And if they hear even one thing that goes against the narrative they’ve stood by, they take it personally. Like they’ve betrayed the person they’ve been defending. But that’s part of the problem—when people base truth on loyalty rather than principle. When someone’s personality and ego become the reason for division, for choosing sides, and for keeping someone like me stuck under the surveillance

What they’ll come to find—whether they like it or not—is that I’ve been straightforward the entire time. Receptive. Present. I’ve been the victim in need of safety in every way. I haven’t changed—my circumstances changed. I’m not a fraud. I made a decision that reflected the reality I was facing. I had to stand up, shift, and protect what I needed to survive. But people don’t want to see that. To them, it looks like a cry for attention—too dreamy, too needy. The general tempo they work from is: “Go get a job, get a life, and stop using God.” That’s the mindset. And it’s not going to change. 

The whole truth is that the court was right to keep my husband and I separated, because Allah knew if I found out that my daughter was being molested and my son was abused while I was sleeping-- then the problem would've been much bigger than it is now if we didn't have these restrictions.