The Daughter of Sabr
Still here. Still healing.
Still rebelling — just quieter, wiser, more real.
For nearly two years, I gave everything, my body, my faith, and what little was left of my sanity, to bring my husband home. Not from some simple, “civil” immigration detention. But from statelessness. From being erased. From being forced back to a place that stopped being his home decades ago. I fought systems meant to crush us. I prayed for ease. I fell apart. I kept going. Yet still, I was judged not just for staying but for how fiercely I believed we deserved more.
And somehow, me: raw, irreverent, sacred, soft, sharp, all at the same time… I DID IT! I brought my husband home to the safety and protection of our marriage, which I valued more than anything.
And then? We galloped into the sunset, cue soft music and Instagram captions about #blessedlove…
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Except, no. That fairytale ending never came.
Two weeks later, I was broken in places I didn’t even know could crack.
Not by immigration. Not by the courts.
By the man, I fought like hell to bring home.
I stayed proudly married, until there was nothing left to do but save myself. I am left sifting through the wreckage of love, betrayal, healing, and hope. I stayed for so long, not because I’m weak, fuck no, but because leaving wasn't the only way to be strong. I wanted a successful marriage more than anything I have ever wanted in my entire life. I truly believed my husband was/is the partner written for me. In Islam, we call this qadar or qada', (القدر), divine destiny and decree. Facing the end of my marriage feels like facing the death of my closest confidant. My heart breaks with every breath I take alone. But, I am not alone. Allah سبحانه وتعالى, Al-Razzaq, is the ultimate provider. As I forge ahead with the broken pieces of what remains of my heart, I am committed to yielding to the plan of Allah سبحانه وتعالى. I know my Creator loves His ibad, and even the path of pain is rooted in Allah's سبحانه وتعالى love for me. So, when the path is painful, I will have tawakkul, (تَوَكُّل), knowing that Allah سبحانه وتعالى promises to "rightly guide [my] heart through adversity" Surah At-Taghaban 64:11.
Here we are. This blog isn’t a pretty little story of survival. It’s the truth. Messy, painful, holy truth.
This space is for the ones who stayed, left, went back, and left again. The ones who grieved and loved at the same time. The ones who cursed God and then begged Him for mercy in the same breath. The ones who are stitched together with prayer and profanity and still manage to get out of bed and try again, albeit with coffee in one hand and absolutely no fucks left to give in the other.
I don’t have answers. I’m not here to sell healing.
I’m here to write the shit I need to write to heal the parts of me that silence tried to kill.
I’m here to write the shit I needed to read while I am drowning.
To say the things, I wasn’t allowed to say.
To tell the truth out loud, even when it shakes.
This is me, unfiltered, unpretty, and mine.
He does not love oppression, neither do I.
This is The Quiet Rebellion.
Welcome. You’re not alone.
