We think that good intentions can transform even the most foolish or most impractical acts into the most amazing and good. Well, yes, of course we say: may they be rewarded for their good intentions.
Last night I had a major meltdown. The trigger was relatively minor, but I blew my top. The morning-after is worse than a hangover. In truth, I’ve probably been carrying anxiety around with me for a year or more.
I have no idea why you were unjustly stopped and questioned, but I am sure it has absolutely nothing to do with that press conference you called for the international media, in which you described the alleged lead-executioner of the latest bogeymen of the West as (formerly) a really lovely chap.
I get hypertension whenever I wander onto the news feeds of our starlets of social media. That’s probably because, reading their shares and forwards, I soon conclude that I can only be a turncoat, so completely cut off from this thing we call community. But the truth of the matter is that I have never …
Consider this: I may have been inspired and guided to the light of faith by the way you carried yourself: by a smile, the appearance of modesty, the appearance of humility, a kindness imagined.
Yes, dear reader, you have just witnessed a full-blown nervous breakdown… a flurry of posts in quick succession, spread over twelve days, which I blame on: Withdrawal symptoms from taking a week off work. A sure sign I am a workaholic. Rejoining LinkedIn, comparing myself to others and concluding I am an utter failure. The …
Daft as it may seem, it has taken me four decades to realise that there are over seven billion people on earth, and most people we come into contact with in our lives we will never encounter ever again. If you’re lucky enough to live in a little village, then you may be surrounded by …
I still don’t understand why the pious Hanafi insists on bashing Muslims who hold positions wholly consistent with those of Abu Hanifa, by appealing to the opinions of the most rigorous contemporary Hanbali scholar any of us know.
First, there’s the perpetual pinging from Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and the compulsive gaze which cannot help glancing back, just in case it is missing something.
Looking back now, I realise that university was quite a traumatic experience for me.
Sebastian just cannot stop himself liking my posts without even reading them. Within three seconds of me hitting the publish button, he will be there, affixing his face to the bottom of my latest post, like a rubber stamp.
It’s true. I’ve been time-travelling again, prising open doors that were never properly closed. Now an inner voice rebukes me. Remember O soul, it says, the world is the realm of tests and trials. Those tests are finished. If you failed them, no matter: try to pass whatever is to come. Verily with hardship comes …
Blues, blues, always lose. Now I feel compelled to apologise for my apologies. My eyes hold me ransom, threatening to spill a river of tears down my face. I can feel my hand gravitating towards the big blue delete button. Yes, I think a week’s worth of posts are about to be obliterated. Such is …
It is possible, of course, that I am simply losing my mind. Perhaps it is a consequence of experiencing Groundhog Day over and over through the pandemic. Or perhaps it is a whisperer whispering into my heart.
I confess that, with the exception of my wife, I don’t really know how to behave around women—and practising Muslim women, in particular. I have a long history of putting my foot in it, with that eternally awkward and self-conscious behaviour of mine.
