When I began practicing Islam in my early twenties, I found myself searching for a sense of community and connection. It was during this transformative period that I met Celina1, one of the first Latina Muslims I encountered. Celina, a soft-spoken sister, was already married and a mother. She worked as a teacher at a local Islamic school, alongside her Indian husband. Our shared heritage and faith created an immediate bond, and she became a reassuring presence in my life. Our community in Maryland was diverse; among a sea of South Asian and Arab Muslims, there were also some Latinos, including Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Panamanians, and Salvadorians. Every individual or family brought their own stories and flavors to our gatherings.
During Ramadan, Celina would contribute her signature arroz moro, a Caribbean dish of black beans and rice, to the community iftars, joining other Latina sisters who brought dishes like arroz con gandules, empanadas, and baked chicken. These moments of togetherness made me feel at home, and it was in this environment that I began my own journey in dawah work, working with the mosque’s outreach committee and participating in open houses and interfaith events. Celina was an active and well-loved member of our community, also lending her Spanish skills when needed. She was present at my wedding, bringing sweets to share during the small ceremony at a local mosque. Alongside my other Latina Muslim friends, Celina formed part of the support system that helped me navigate my new life. Her presence was a source of comfort and strength.
However, life’s paths are rarely straight and easy. After I got married and moved to another state, Celina and I lost touch. Social media was not yet a fixture in our lives, and our communication dwindled to occasional emails. Years passed, and after living abroad and returning to the US, my family and I found ourselves back in Maryland, now with two young children. The community had changed as islamophobia gripped the nation and fueled an era of suspicion between Muslims and non-Muslims. Celina’s husband had been accused of terrorism-related charges and was sentenced to prison. The post-9/11 atmosphere was tense; the FBI monitored our mosque, and fear permeated our gatherings. The community rallied to support Celina’s husband, believing in his innocence, but Celina herself faced immense hardship. She became, in effect, a single mother of two, struggling to make ends meet and facing scrutiny from the very community that once embraced her.
Celina’s resilience was tested. She worked multiple jobs, took her children to visit their father in prison, and endured the pain of seeing her children grow up without him. The community tried to help, but Celina often felt unsupported and mentally exhausted. It eventually led to a divorce from her incarcerated husband. She confided in me about the loneliness and the lack of understanding from both her Muslim and non-Muslim families. The only consistent support she received was from her non-Muslim relatives, who still struggled to understand her faith.
Despite my best efforts to remain supportive, our friendship, which had once been a source of comfort, became strained. Celina leaned on me, but over time, resentment grew between us. “I envy you,” she once admitted to me openly, to my alarm and disbelief. She confessed that she saw in my life the stability she longed for. She often reminded me of how “lucky” I was to have a loving family, and her search for something similar led her into complicated relationships, including another marriage to a Latino man who turned out to be abusive and ended in divorce. Things between us worsened as Celina began criticizing my work, questioning my life choices, and constantly pointing out my flaws, to the point that I felt anxious around her. Our interactions became fraught with tension, and eventually, I chose to distance myself for my own peace of mind. We lost touch, and our once-close friendship faded into a polite distance.
Years later, I moved to another community, only to discover that Celina had also relocated to the same area. I felt a mix of angst and defeat, worried that our paths would cross and old wounds would reopen. But Allah had other plans. In 2020, as the world grappled with the COVID-19 pandemic, I learned that Celina had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. She was undergoing chemotherapy, and the news shook me deeply. This was the turning point in our relationship. The walls that had built up over years of hurt and misunderstanding began to crumble in the face of her illness.
I started visiting Celina regularly. When she was too weak to cook for herself, I would bring her the Latino food I knew she loved. Empanadas, the flaky dough filled with beef, chicken, and cheese, became her comfort food, and sometimes the only thing she could stomach. Our visits became moments of silent connection, free from the old tensions and conflicts that plagued our relationship. Celina no longer wanted to pick battles with me or anyone else because she needed all her strength to fight her illness. She looked eerily beautiful during those days; her face filled with delicate radiance and weary determination. In those final months, we found peace with each other. The past grievances faded, replaced by compassion and understanding.
Eventually, Celina became too ill to receive visitors, and the pandemic further complicated matters. When she passed away, she left behind two children, her youngest still in high school, her oldest in college. I attended her funeral, moved by the outpouring of love and respect from the community. In Islam, a well-attended funeral is a sign of a good person, and Celina’s was a testament to the impact she had on those around her. As I stood by her grave, I whispered, “Celina, you are loved.” I dedicated one of my children’s books to her, as a small tribute to a friend who had shaped my journey in both joyful and painful ways.
Reflecting on my relationship with Celina, I have learned that friendships can fade and people’s needs change, but ultimately, what matters most is being at peace. When we are faced with illness and the nearness of death, it is an opportunity to mend relationships and support one another with compassion. Sometimes, stepping away is necessary for healing, but if the time comes, returning with an open heart can bring closure and comfort. Supporting those who are ill or nearing the end of life can take many forms. Aside from physical care, there is a dire need for presence, understanding, and forgiveness. Celina and I found peace in the end, and I am grateful for the chance to have been there for her when she needed it most. Her journey reminds me that the walls we build can be torn down, and that love prevails even in the worst situations. The Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, said:
“The gates of Paradise are opened on Monday and Thursday. Allah forgives every servant who does not associate anything with Him, except a man with enmity between himself and his brother. It will be said: Delay these two until they reconcile, delay these two until they reconcile, delay these two until they reconcile.” (Saḥih Muslim 2565)
I pray that our reconciliation in this life has earned us Allah’s forgiveness in the next, and I advise anyone going through a similar experience not to wait for illness or loss. Remember the value of forgiveness and connection. Some relationships end because they are supposed to, but the doors of mercy are always open for those willing to reconcile. In honoring Celina’s memory, may we strive to mend our healthy relationships, so that when our time comes, we too may meet our Creator with hearts at peace.
- Names and identifying details have been changed to safeguard privacy.
Bio:
Wendy Díaz is a Puerto Rican Muslim writer, award-winning poet, former educator, and mother of six. She is the co-founder of Hablamos Islam, a non-profit organization that produces educational resources about Islam in Spanish (hablamosislam.org). She has written, illustrated, and published over a dozen children’s books and currently lives with her family in Maryland. Follow Wendy Díaz on social media @authorwendydiaz and @hablamosislam
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