Miriam Mohamed

Death is not a stranger to the believer, yet it never arrives without pain. No matter how strong our īmān, grief still shakes the heart. Islam does not ask us to deny that pain; it teaches us how to carry it—with patience, dignity, and trust in Allah’s mercy. 

Isam does not rush the believer into transformation. Instead, it invites the heart to arrive slowly, intentionally, and with awareness.

This summer our (my two youngest and I) journey to understanding collective suffering began with: oppression is not confined to one people or one moment in history. It is a pattern—repeated, documented, and carried across generations.

“There is no compulsion in religion. The truth has become clear from falsehood.”
-Surah Al-Baqarah (2:256)

For most of my life, I was taught—explicitly and implicitly—that putting others first was a virtue. That sacrificing my own needs for the sake of others was not only noble, but necessary. I believed it for a long time.

Genocide—the deliberate targeting of people based on their identity—is one of the gravest injustices of our time. For Muslim families, responding to such atrocities is not only a matter of humanitarian concern but also a profound spiritual duty.