Essa was eleven years old, with wide, curious eyes and a quiet way of studying the world. Most people who met him noticed his gentle smile before they noticed anything else. But if they paid a little closer attention, really looked, the way Isa looked at things, they would see there was something wonderfully unique about him.
Essa was neurodivergent. Some adults still used old words like “Autistic” or “on the spectrum,” but Essa simply saw things… differently. He didn’t always look people in the eye. He didn’t always know what to say first when meeting someone new. Sometimes his hands fluttered, or he hummed softly when he felt overwhelmed. But none of that ever made him any less than the other kids. It just made him Essa.
He lived in a cozy neighborhood with sidewalks perfect for chalk drawings, curbs perfect for balancing on, and a big circle where all the kids practiced riding their bikes. Every afternoon, boys and girls zoomed around on bright red, blue, or yellow bicycles. Essa never joined them at first. He would stand a little away from the group, clutching the sleeves of his thobe or gripping the edges of his hoodie, and he simply watched.
At first, none of the kids thought much of it. They figured Isa wasn’t interested. But Essa was very interested. He studied the way the wheels turned when the pedals moved. He watched how the kids leaned slightly when they made sharp turns. He even noticed how their fingers squeezed the handbrakes right before coming to a stop.
Day after day, week after week, Essa observed without saying a word.
Then one bright Saturday morning, Essa rolled his own bike out of the garage. It was a simple blue bike with training wheels, at least, it used to have training wheels. His father had taken them off resigned to Essa just not being interested in bikes, not because he thought Essa was ready, he just figured that Essa’s siblings or other kids in the neighborhood would be able to benefit from there being an extra bicycle. The bike was supposed to stay in the garage until someone else needed it.
But Essa had a different idea.
He pushed the bike to the sidewalk, climbed on with surprising confidence, and began to pedal. His balance was steady. His back was straight. His eyes focused ahead with a determination he never showed during small talk or classroom games.
Around the cul-de-sac he went, no wobbling, no wobbling at all.
His mother gasped as she looked out the window.
His father nearly dropped the mug in his hand.
And the kids who had been riding circles in that same cul-de-sac stared with their mouths wide open.
Essa didn’t fall once. Not a single scrape. Not a single bruise. All the learning had happened in his mind, quietly, carefully, through observation.
That was how Isa learned things. Not always with words. Not always with repeated instructions. He watched. He listened. He absorbed the world like a sponge in still water.
Reading had been the same way.
His parents didn’t realize he could read for a long time. They hadn’t started lessons yet because he was still nonverbal for the most part. They thought they still had time to let his speech develop more. But whenever they drove around the city, Essa would sit calmly in his four-point car seat, his little headphones comfortably snug around his ears.
As the car moved through neighborhoods and busy streets, Essa’s eyes flicked from one sign to the next.
STOP. SPEED LIMIT. GREENWOOD AVENUE. MASJID NOOR. ONE WAY. EXIT 23A.
He didn’t say anything. But he followed each letter, each symbol, each building moniker as if he had memorized the world outside his window.
One day, as they drove past a bakery with a bright yellow sign, Essa suddenly whispered, “what does renovations mean?”, in that weird toddler accent of his.
His mother blinked. “What did you say, habibi?”
“The sign,” he murmured, still looking out the window. “it says closed for renovations.”
That was the day they realized Essa had taught himself to read, quietly, by noticing everything. The bigger challenge was figuring out how to explain renovations to a 3 year old.
The masjid was where Essa’s uniqueness shone brightest and, sometimes, where he felt most overwhelmed.
The main prayer hall was full of movement, endless voices chattering, footsteps, and echoes, all the things that could feel too loud inside Essa’s head. Sometimes he wore a weighted vest under his thobe to help him feel grounded. Other times, he wore soft, padded headphones that muted the sounds around him. The other kids wore sneakers, slides, and jeans. Essa wore those too. But he also wore what kept him balanced, what helped him stay calm when his senses grew too loud.
Before salah, he often stood near his father’s side, rocking gently on his feet or tapping his fingers together. To some, it looked like nervous fidgeting. To Essa, it was a rhythm, a way to steady the world.
But when the imam began reciting Qur’an, Essa’s entire being shifted.
His shoulders relaxed.
His fingers stilled.
His ears opened with stunning focus.
Essa knew Surahs his family didn’t even begin to memorized themselves. He absorbed Qur’anic recitation the way he absorbed everything else, with quiet intensity.
One afternoon, after Asr, the imam recited a verse from Surah Ar-Ra’d. Essa’s head tilted. His brows pinched. When the prayer ended, and the men began offering salams, Essa tugged gently at his father’s sleeve.
“Daddy,” he whispered, “the imam skipped an ayah.”
His father looked startled. “Are you sure?”
Essa nodded with confidence.
The imam overheard and smiled warmly. “Come here, Essa. Show me.”
Shyly, Essa recited the passage, his small voice steady and clear. The imam blinked, impressed. He had indeed skipped a verse.
“You have a gift, my boy,” he said. “May Allaah preserve your memory and your heart.”
Essa smiled, small, quiet, but proud.
Some kids at the masjid didn’t understand Essa at first. They wondered why he didn’t always answer right away or why he sometimes hummed softly during gatherings. They didn’t know why he covered his ears during loud events or why he preferred to sit on the edges of the room rather than in the center of the group.
But over time, they learned.
They learned that Essa wasn’t ignoring them; he was thinking.
They learned he wasn’t scared; he was adjusting.
They learned he wasn’t disinterested, he was simply processing the world differently.
And they learned that “different” didn’t mean “less.”
One day, a new boy asked Essa, “Why do you wear those headphones?”
Essa thought for a moment, then answered honestly, “They help my ears stay calm when the world gets too loud.”
“Oh,” the boy said. “That makes sense.”
Just like that, the question wasn’t scary anymore.
Soon, Essa was teaching other kids small things without meaning to. He showed them how to notice details they often overlooked. How to listen more carefully. How to be patient when someone needs extra time. How to understand that every person has their own way of moving through the world.
One evening, as families gathered for community night at the masjid, Essa’s father placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“You see, Essa,” he said, “you are the same as the other kids. You laugh, you learn, you explore. You wear thobes and jeans, slides and sneakers. You love bikes and books and Qur’an. But you are also different, and that difference is a gift from Allaah.”
Essa looked around the room. Kids played tag in the hallway. Adults shared food and conversation. The imam greeted families. And somewhere in that warm, bustling space, Essa knew he belonged.
He was the same as everyone else.
He was just different.
And that was perfectly, beautifully, wonderfully okay.
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