saying?”
“That God forgives? And He does good?”
She smiled. “That’s exactly right, Hayat. And I want to tell you something else, something very special…” She leaned in, her voice lowered, her lightly British accent more pronounced than usual as she went on: “Something no one told me until I was older than you…and I don’t want you to forget it. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Allah will always forgive you, no matter what you do. No matter what you do. All you have to do is to ask to be forgiven. That’s what it means that He is merciful. And Allah is also benevolent. And that means He will make sure that whatever happens to you is always for the good.”
“You mean that even the bad things that happen to us are for the good, right?”
“Exactly, sweetie.” There was a fire in her eyes now. “This surah is telling us about Allah’s nature, behta. That it is His nature to forgive us. And it is His nature always to do what isfor the good. And what it means is very simple: You never have to worry. Never. You are safe. As safe as if Allah Himself were holding you in the palm of His hand.” She put out her palm, its narrow, waxen surface glowing above a network of crisscrossing lines. Like the page—and her fingers on it earlier—her hand struck me as startling, vivid, breathing with life. She kissed me on the forehead again. “Allah be with you, behta. ”
That night my nerve ends teemed and pulsed. I still recall the vividness of my cotton pajamas against my arms and legs, the fabric pressing here and there, distinct points of contact alive with pleasure. And this was only the surface. Deep inside, things were stirring as well. Even my bones seemed to be breathing. My body felt whole, one, unified, filled with air, expanding with light.
I fell asleep and dreamt all night of Mina’s hands turning the yellow-white pages of my new Quran.
The next night, half an hour before bedtime, I washed up, tied the muslin Mina had given me to my head, and went to see her, my new Quran in hand. Having spent recess at school memorizing the verses we’d gone over the night before, I recited them for her now from memory.
“How wonderful, behta! ” She was so surprised. She took me into her arms, and all at once I felt it again: that exquisite shudder running along my limbs, up my back. “I have a feeling about you,” she said into my ear. “I have a feeling you might just end up a hafiz someday.”
4
A New World
T he months that followed were witness to a series of spiritual experiences that would remain singular in my life, all revolving around the Quran and my evening study hour with Mina. I would leave her room feeling lively, easily moved, my heart softened and sweet, my senses heightened. Often, I was too awake to sleep, and so I took to my desk—white muslin still bound to my head—to continue memorizing verses. After long nights like these, the mornings were not difficult, as Mother warned when she would find me at my desk past ten o’clock. If anything, these mornings were even sweeter: the trees stippled with turning leaves and bathed in a glorious light that seemed like much more than just the sun’s illumination; the white clouds sculpted against blue skies, stacked like majestic monuments to the Almighty’s unfathomable glory. And it wasn’t only beauty that moved me in these heightened states. Even the grease-encrusted axle of the yellow school bus slowing to its morning stop at the end of my driveway could captivate me, its twisting joint—and the large, squeaking wheel that turned around it—seeming to point the inscrutable way to some rich, strange, and holy power.
At school—I was starting sixth grade—I would find myself, inexplicably, in states of eerie calm and awakeness. For hours, something as simple as the play of sunlight against the classroom’s green chalkboard could occupy me completely. Not to mention the food in the cafeteria. I recall sipping from my carton of milk
“That God forgives? And He does good?”
She smiled. “That’s exactly right, Hayat. And I want to tell you something else, something very special…” She leaned in, her voice lowered, her lightly British accent more pronounced than usual as she went on: “Something no one told me until I was older than you…and I don’t want you to forget it. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Allah will always forgive you, no matter what you do. No matter what you do. All you have to do is to ask to be forgiven. That’s what it means that He is merciful. And Allah is also benevolent. And that means He will make sure that whatever happens to you is always for the good.”
“You mean that even the bad things that happen to us are for the good, right?”
“Exactly, sweetie.” There was a fire in her eyes now. “This surah is telling us about Allah’s nature, behta. That it is His nature to forgive us. And it is His nature always to do what isfor the good. And what it means is very simple: You never have to worry. Never. You are safe. As safe as if Allah Himself were holding you in the palm of His hand.” She put out her palm, its narrow, waxen surface glowing above a network of crisscrossing lines. Like the page—and her fingers on it earlier—her hand struck me as startling, vivid, breathing with life. She kissed me on the forehead again. “Allah be with you, behta. ”
That night my nerve ends teemed and pulsed. I still recall the vividness of my cotton pajamas against my arms and legs, the fabric pressing here and there, distinct points of contact alive with pleasure. And this was only the surface. Deep inside, things were stirring as well. Even my bones seemed to be breathing. My body felt whole, one, unified, filled with air, expanding with light.
I fell asleep and dreamt all night of Mina’s hands turning the yellow-white pages of my new Quran.
The next night, half an hour before bedtime, I washed up, tied the muslin Mina had given me to my head, and went to see her, my new Quran in hand. Having spent recess at school memorizing the verses we’d gone over the night before, I recited them for her now from memory.
“How wonderful, behta! ” She was so surprised. She took me into her arms, and all at once I felt it again: that exquisite shudder running along my limbs, up my back. “I have a feeling about you,” she said into my ear. “I have a feeling you might just end up a hafiz someday.”
4
A New World
T he months that followed were witness to a series of spiritual experiences that would remain singular in my life, all revolving around the Quran and my evening study hour with Mina. I would leave her room feeling lively, easily moved, my heart softened and sweet, my senses heightened. Often, I was too awake to sleep, and so I took to my desk—white muslin still bound to my head—to continue memorizing verses. After long nights like these, the mornings were not difficult, as Mother warned when she would find me at my desk past ten o’clock. If anything, these mornings were even sweeter: the trees stippled with turning leaves and bathed in a glorious light that seemed like much more than just the sun’s illumination; the white clouds sculpted against blue skies, stacked like majestic monuments to the Almighty’s unfathomable glory. And it wasn’t only beauty that moved me in these heightened states. Even the grease-encrusted axle of the yellow school bus slowing to its morning stop at the end of my driveway could captivate me, its twisting joint—and the large, squeaking wheel that turned around it—seeming to point the inscrutable way to some rich, strange, and holy power.
At school—I was starting sixth grade—I would find myself, inexplicably, in states of eerie calm and awakeness. For hours, something as simple as the play of sunlight against the classroom’s green chalkboard could occupy me completely. Not to mention the food in the cafeteria. I recall sipping from my carton of milk
Similar Books
