The Procrastinating Islamist

He had been staring at the screen for a long time now. The blue and white shades, coupled with an admixture of colours, seemed to melt into the background as he strained his vision, squinting at something beyond the glowing screen in front of him, hoping against hope for some hope. One could see from his intense gaze, and the deeply furrowed brows, that he was deeply absorbed in his thoughts, here but not here.

Yes, he wanted a revolution; yes, he wanted change, but he hated feeling so utterly helpless and useless, as the plethora of words in fine print, motley collections of harbingers of death, destruction, strife and hopelessness, seemed to stare dispassionately at him across the screen, portending nothing but utter despair.

They called him an Islamist. A morbid name on the tongues of many, a fashionable fad for others. But for him, it was a choice, laced with belief, and pregnant with a sense of responsibility to none other than God himself. He knew that sometimes he was prone to slipping along the path, but he knew that there was no turning back, and neither was there to be any straying on either side. In fact that was precisely what he asked his Creator for, every time he felt overwhelmed to lower his face into his hands and let the tears slowly flow; plain Hidayah.

But there were moments when he despaired, and he despised himself for them. Moments when it seemed that there was no one to stand beside his Palestinian brothers and sisters, the starving Syrian kids and their parents, the tear laced sisters who had lost their brothers, fathers and husbands, the men and women who had lost their children, those kids searching frantically for their parents, and for a childhood destroyed and wiped out forever. Amidst the horror, the hollow expressions of the oppressed never ceased to pierce right through his soul, and cause pain. Because there was nothing he could do, except write, and make dua. And day by day, he was losing interest in the former, and becoming more lax in the latter. And yes, he only hated himself more for it.

Hope, salvation, redemption; where could he find them and………

The sound of the azan of the muezzin suddenly cut through his thoughts, jarring him back to reality and an unequal world. He gave a long sigh as he stretched his limbs before standing up. It was time to go for Asr.


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