Fifty Thousand

So it is the day after May Day once more. While I often forget my birthday, this bank holiday and the day that follows it in the UK calendar is stuck in my memory. Eight years ago this wee holiday was the weekend I concluded that I believed in Islam. The Tuesday that followed was the day I uttered those few significant words: None has the right to be worshipped except God and Muhammad is his messenger. I am not alone in this however. I did not meet my future wife for another three years, but by God’s will she too had become Muslim over that same early May bank holiday in 1998. So we’ve both been living this life for eight years. It is some kind of reminder for us: the little we have done, and how much we still have to learn. And it could all have been very different: I trapped my ankle in a revolving door that bright sunny morning and almost turned right around to hobble my way back home. I had also decided, while believing Islam to be true, that I’d talk to my family about it first. Instead, I uttered those words that I have repeated at least fifty-thousand times since.

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