My dear, when I tell you about hope,
I want you to imagine
the sweat dropping off Hajra’s skin
as she insistently runs for water
in the midst of the desert.
I want you to feel
the pain and the strength
of a father like Ibrahim
when he looked into his son’s eyes
as a sacrifice to God;
Feel the betrayal in Yusuf’s heart
when his own flesh and blood
tossed him away like garbage
and the thick darkness inside a whale
where Yunus resided, alone.
I want you to picture the wide sea
in front of your feet
as Musa fled from the pharaoh
and how terrified Asiyah must’ve been
as she resisted her violent husband.
Scream, as Bilal’s bones get crushed
while his mouth uttered the shahada
and wonder how Rasulullah
could still continue his path
as blood was flowing down his head
and soiled meat was thrown at him.
And maybe then
when you see it all, feel it all, imagine it all,
you would learn that
thirst didn’t win over Hajra and Ismael,
and Ismael wasn’t slayed.
Neither did Yusuf end up unsuccessful
and Yunus forgotten.
Musa and his people still crossed the sea,
Bilal saved out of nowhere
and Muhammad’s mission is blooming
like never before -
because my dear
hope means not seeing an escape yourself,
but knowing that Allah
always does.
