When The Scales Finally Balance Out

Justice – the compensation of all actions, good or bad

When I first set out as a blogger, I promised myself to post a blog once a week, usually on a Sunday when things are a little calm. 

Last Sunday, I reluctantly had to defer a new post but it wasn’t without good reason.  A significant change has recently occurred in my life which I would like to share and will also explain that aberration.

Alhamdulillah, I managed to find myself a part-time job and this week I started teaching online.  Whilst the administrative dimension of this new job is very much like plunging into the depths of an ocean, I have also managed to fumble my way onto the surfboard of hope and new adventures.  I haven’t fallen off yet and am enjoying the ride.  So, this is my reason for being otherwise preoccupied lately. 

But there are another two reasons why I mention my new job. 

Firstly, in a COVID-conscious world, where the words ‘unemployed’, ‘furlough’ and ‘financial ruin’ hang heavy across the rooftops of so many doomed businesses and indeed, homes, I understand how fortunate I am, Alhamdulillah.   The search for a stable income was always on the agenda.  In between, I have always dabbled in private tuition here and there, all of which has been great but none of which has been constant.  Although no job is ever going to be the panacea to all my problems, at least it gives me a purpose beyond my domestic roles.  For now, it is a reassurance that faith in Allah can – and does – morph itself into real change.

The second reason for elaborating on my new job is, in fact, more to do with an uncanny observation: synchronicity.

The very day I started this job, I later discovered, was the same day my former spouse finally left Saudi Arabia.  So, what is the connection I hear you ask?  Although these two events may be interpreted as mere coincidence, I see them as a direct manifestation of Allah’s delivery of justice.  Allah knows that in my early days of distress, I had repeatedly asked for retribution for the injustices I had been served.  It’s not that I had a sinister desire to see another’s downfall.  But I did want to know that the malice directed towards me would not go without consequences.  It certainly didn’t.

I always believed that the cries of a wounded soul are never lost on the Creator.  I knew my prayers and supplication were enough for I understood with total conviction that the power of prayer of the oppressed is something that should be reckoned with by the oppressor.  Whether I articulated any negative feelings on my tongue or not, my heart would not betray my thoughts.  All I needed was the patience to understand my pleas would be answered in a manner and timeframe that suited Allah, Al-Adl.  Indeed, He has responded with a resoundingly clear sign.  

Where I have just entered a modest but positive phase in my life, my (previous) tormentor retreats to a very ordinary existence having lost much more than he has seemingly gained.   The timing was pure perfection.  I feel vindicated. 

It is important to explain the backdrop against which the drama of these last few years has played out.  Saudi Arabia was the country where my ex-spouse had risen to superstar status amongst his own family and friends.  Over the years, I had noticed how that country had transformed him from a state of true humility and inclusiveness towards us (his wife and kids), to a gradual preoccupation with his singular self.   He was steadily feeding into his superior status and creating his own impenetrable bubble of emotional disinterest. I was seemingly becoming less relevant.  The culmination of all that was to detach himself and push me completely out of the frame.  Predictably, the children were always going to be an unavoidable casualty of that family breakdown. 

He was not the first victim of that societal influence.  I know of too many men who have succumbed to a similar fate out there.  The sequence of events goes something like this: a Muslim emigrates to Saudi Arabia with the allure of Islam’s holiest sites and the bonus of a well-paid job.  The intentions are noble to begin with but life becomes very comfortable; people become complacent.  The drive to work hard to achieve things is slowly lost.  So too begins the process of becoming emotionally moribund.  All the while, a comfortable life lulls the individual into a false feeling of being invincible.  Ultimately, everything become dispensable including family. 

To compound things, the country is predicated on a deeply entrenched patriarchal framework which serves to debilitate and demoralise the sanctity of womanhood.  It is important to stress that this structure has no basis in Islam where women, as wives, mothers and daughters, are honoured. It is a brave and unusual man who can remain unaffected by this endemic disease that permeates Saudi society.  The experiences I have had first-hand prove this is not the stuff of fiction.  Even the most self-conscious and self-aware individuals often succumb.  It was in this toxic environment that my ex-husband became inebriated by a desire for complete change.   The rest is history.

When I became the detritus of someone else’s life, I began to doubt my self-worth.  But I got to praying for justice very early on and knew I had to simply wait patiently.  In these last few years, there have been lots of positive changes in my life, directly and indirectly.  The biggest one is that I now use different criteria to assess my own worth – my faith and my service to my Creator.  I have also conscientiously tried to purge myself of any deep bitterness for that would be a form of ingratitude towards Allah Himself.   I liken my personal development to the phases of the moon; I have gone through a rebirth (new moon) and am moving onto a brighter phase (waxing moon).  I pray for the full brightness of Allah’s guidance to illuminate my path from here on.

  

I am a work of Kintsugi

Healed scars as a source of beauty

For many young Muslims looking to get married, the knowledge that “marriage is half their deen* is a belief that expectantly propels them forward with their mission.  What that hadith (prophetic saying) means is that marriage helps a Muslim to be emotionally stable and satisfies a myriad of needs within a legitimate structure.  Therefore, a Muslim is removed from other potentially immoral distractions in life.  Indeed, marriage is a noble aspiration and a decision which should not be taken lightly.   No doubt, in normal situations it brings happiness and security in its many forms to both husband and wife. 

I have had the fortune of knowing the security and happiness that a marriage can bring, Alhamdulillah.  Although that experience was abruptly terminated for reasons I still can’t quite understand, I do know that half my deen ≠ half my faith.  Even on my own, I continue to strive to bring together complex and composite parts to make me a wonderfully complete whole.  As much as I lament my loss, I look in hope to the future. 

Over time, I have been putting my life back together in small but positive steps.  I have read a plethora of material (to rebuild myself) across broad subjects such as narcissism, healing, personal development, mental health and, most importantly to me, maintaining faith in crises.   

Amongst that reading, I have often stumbled across some more tangential material as often usually happens when one is digging deep for answers. This included an article on Kintsugi (golden joinery) – a sedulous and traditional Japanese art that uses a lacquer typically dusted with golden powder to mend broken pieces of pottery.  Once restored, the item not only assumes its glorious past but essentially becomes stronger.   It is perfection in the imperfection.  Kintsugi is the epitome of resilience and reclaimed beauty.  The idea that something should not be discarded simply because it is broken, resonated with me deeply.  My experiences, negative and positive, had been for a purpose after all.   I knew I was going to emerge as a better version of my ‘yester-self’.  I am a work of Kintsugi.

Once broken, now whole

Nobody has ever died of a divorce”. 

Interesting thought.   As with Kintsugi, I don’t recall where I read that sentence but serendipity had struck again. I pondered on the above line for a long while and thought, “How crazily true!”  For sure, divorce causes chaos and grief in many lives but accepting that no ex-husband was worth dying for, unequivocally jolted me out of my emotional coma.  

And so all these chance encounters, of quotes, of art forms, of random conversations, of subjects seemingly unrelated, may seem accidental but I believe they were anything but that.  I mean, why had I never heard of Kintsugi before?   But I already knew the answer – Allah was choosing His means of gradually guiding me back to a place of contentment.  Loose strands were slowly weaving together to become one solid rope of hope. I was beginning my climb.

From that base level of contentment, I have been on a mission to push myself out of my comfort zone and explore my own hidden strengths.  Those strengths may not seem extraordinary but given the lugubrious apathy I had been suffering lately, it was no easy feat to get going.

One such memorable example is a trip to the Peak District in August 2019.  Having hired a 9-seater van and planned an itinerary, I took a large group – my four boys and five of their cousins – on a self-catering holiday to one of England’s most beautifully scenic locations.  We set off in two vehicles onto new adventures.  Being in the company of mostly teenagers, I had slight hesitations about how things would play out especially with ten different personalities.  Would there be silly conflicts or immutable differences?  Would we return miserable rueing the day we ever thought of such an audacious idea?  As the sole mature adult, I also secretly wondered how I would cope in the absence of a confidante to share the task of shepherding that group.  However, I never needed it.  The holiday was a resounding success so much so that we have already planned to go away together again! 

Memories from a wonderful trip to the Peak District

The success of our trip wasn’t attributable to the wonderful sights and sounds per se.  It was also largely because the ten of us brought the best of ourselves to that time and space and effortlessly made it work.  In the time we shared together, I realised I was functioning just fine as the head of this motley crew.   They reciprocated wonderfully by allowing me inclusivity into their worlds so much so there were many times I forgot my parental status amongst them.  No boundaries were crossed and yet the fraternal fluidity amongst us was seamlessly present. 

Unbeknown to the others, the planning and execution of the Peak District holiday was an ambitious goal I had set myself.  In some ways, it was a microcosm of my life.   It is quite difficult to put into words.  Suffice to say, I needed to prove to myself that I could handle new situations and not simply get through them but excel.  As a Muslim, everything I do in life is circumscribed by my faith.  Yet that faith should not be viewed as a limiting factor.  On the contrary, understanding it helps me distinguish the impossible from the possible.  That is why I am now insha’Allah (God willing) on a path to create a bigger world of possibilities  

deen* – a way of life for Muslims which encompasses religious law, character and beliefs

On a beautiful path to new adventures

Every Cloud has a Silver Lining

Divorce only happens to those who are in abusive relationships or just hopelessly mismatched, right?  Or so I thought.  I never imagined that this fate would befall me.  After all, I thought my marriage was quite strong and functioning fine.  But I was given a rude awakening and my Happy was replaced with a huge Hole.   I will never forget the first time when the word ‘divorce’ was uttered by my ex-husband.  We were out walking and he casually mentioned it as something we both might want to consider.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  It was as if someone had just poured cement in my shoes.  My feet felt like solid blocks of concrete, unable to move…. 

                                                             Surah Baqarah: 216

Eighteen years, four children, three thousand miles and twenty-six cargo boxes later, my life post-divorce was about to enter into new unchartered territory.  Despite my desperate attempts to avert this outcome, here I was and there was absolutely nothing I could do to reverse the course of events.  The guillotine had come crashing down on my marriage and my head was a constantly spinning top in that debris.   

Even now, the pain of those memories resurfaces from time to time.  However, slowly, over the months and years, life has surely regained a sense of balance.  I have learnt to try take back control of my life and completely remove the negative influences.   Alhamdulillah (praise be to Allah), the harmony which I thought would forever elude me, has gradually found its way back.  No doubt, my many private conversations with Allah have helped me in my darkest hours.  Whilst He may not speak to me in a way a teacher does with his/her student, I know that the peace I feel within is His way of reassuring me that He is there responding to my call.  Nothing escapes His attention.

There is one other huge element of my life which has been pivotal in my recovery.  That is my four boys, Alhamdulillah.  In any divorce, children are the inadvertent victims and have the unsavoury job of watching the drama unfold and yet have no right to talk.   I promised myself that, despite my own inner turmoil, they would be given the right to as normal a life as possible. Their tenacity has been admirable. 

In the early days, I had many moments where I had let the façade of normalcy come down and regrettably, my children witnessed moments where I became madly unleashed.  Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do to stop my emotions from peaking.  It was difficult enough to be strong for myself let alone four other young people in my care.  However, one day I was fortunate to have had a conversation with a friend who had also gone through a divorce years before.  She gave me a piece of advice which would hugely impact me.  She told me to never let the boys see a mother who is weak as they would be taking their cues in life from me.   They were depending on me as their remaining role model. I needed to be strong if not for anything but to pass that baton of strength to my children so that they could deal with the ravages of life for themselves.  It was an absolute turning point and I am forever grateful for that advice.  At that point, I told myself I was no longer a single mother but a “double parent”.  I would compensate the loss of their father.

In the most unlikely places, beauty will persist.

So, the past few years have brought joy too.  The five of us have taken a seemingly tragic situation and, together, turned it around and made something beautiful.  Of course, as their mother, I have had a watchful eye on all aspects of their wellbeing – educational, emotional and spiritual. We had always been close but in retrospect, perhaps their father bailing out was the opportunity for us to grow even closer.  Together we have ranted, asked questions and even tried to provide answers about how life panned out for us. It’s here that I must pause for a moment.

Many people would argue that I am wrong to give an audience to the rants of my children, claiming it would be encouraging disrespect towards their father etc. I beg to differ. I saw back then, and still do, that allowing my children to grieve and vent their frustrations is both a human need and a cathartic process. We have had countless frank conversations about emotional pain, confusion, anger, sadness and even guilt.  More importantly, I wanted my children to know their opinions mattered. Besides, how could I tell them to hold their silence when I myself was bursting to explode? It would have been a complete hypocrisy to expect that from them. Each knew the other was finding their own way to a place of acceptance of loss. As time moved on, we allowed ourselves to reflect on things gone by and not allowed ourselves to be stuck in the quagmire of the past.

My sons have been the best counsellors I could have asked for.  They are usually in tune with my emotions as much as I am with theirs.   I have endeavoured to make happiness a palpable reality for them and, therefore, for me.  Life will not collapse into chaos simply because their father opted out. I refuse to let them suffer the stigma of divorce and be deemed as the pariahs of society.  They have every reason to hold their heads high and demand to be counted as fully fledged members of society. Some of the finest men in history have been raised without their fathers. My own personal belief is that is precisely because their mothers have restored within them a greater sense of compassion and humility.

Happiness is not about plying our children with gifts; it is more the lesson that we are grateful for the circumstances we find ourselves in, knowing that many others are worse off than ourselves.  In my own case, rather than waste my energies on the many “if only” situations, I resolved to invest in something much more worthwhile – my present reality which includes my sons.  I have watched in awe as they mature into young adults with a nuanced perspective on life which so many of their peers do not have.  Through adversity they have learnt kindness, humility and patience – and this is where Allah’s wisdom comes together.   

It is usually in our most difficult times that we turn to Allah for help.  Therefore, I take a very philosophical view to life.  Never become too attached to anything be it people, commodities or a given situation….and yes, that includes my own children. Even though they are the focal point of my life and I am heavily invested in them, I am mindful of the fact that they too will one day pursue their own desires. I don’t expect reciprocal affection simply because a mother’s love can never be matched. Happiness has many formulae but, ultimately, it depends on us to find it and make it work.   Any adversity we encounter is an added opportunity to recognise Allah as the real focus and demonstrate our reliance upon Him and nobody else. 

The Autopsy on my Marriage

One of the things that I have had to admit to myself in recent years, is that I had often mistakenly handed over the responsibility for my happiness to another human being, namely my other half.  BIG mistake.  

Today, I have that wonderful thing called ‘hindsight’ which allows me to answer some stark questions which I had asked myself back then.

For example:

  • Now that I was no longer a wife, what status did that leave me?  
  • Who would be responsible for me, my children, my happiness, my safety, my wellbeing?  
  • How was I going to face the world as a deemed failure?
  • Would society pity me or blame me?
  • How does someone move on?
  • Had the role of wife really subsumed everything else I had ever been?

That last question was perhaps, surprisingly, the one that resurfaced frequently in my mind.  Not so much because I didn’t know the answer.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  I always knew I had an identity before marriage.  I existed in my own right before, during and after and it was that conviction that sustained me in my otherwise chaotic mind immediately following my divorce.

The fact that a Muslim woman should not take on her husband’s surname upon marriage speaks volumes about her right to exist alongside him and not become a part of him.  Perhaps it even hints at the impermanence of marriage itself.  Great female figures in Islamic history have not only been wives and mothers but they have simultaneously occupied so many other labels such as entrepreneur, warrior, educator and public orator.   These are not post C20th Muslim women but women around the prophet (peace be upon him) himself! 

The irony is that modern Muslims have forgotten the amazing legacy they inherited.  I now see that, like so many other women, I had fallen into an emotional dependence where my husband had become the source of my spiritual wellbeing.  Had I really pondered deeply over what those early Muslim women taught me, perhaps I would have had a healthier outlook on all the trials and tribulations of life.  However, the status quo of 18 years of marriage had inadvertently led me to give responsibility for all aspects of my wellbeing to someone else. It had blurred my vision of reality.  What was that reality?  That we encounter people along our own journey of life.  Some stay for the whole ride, some join us midway but many get off.   It is a fallacy to think that the route to bliss lies in the hands of another human being.  Maybe it is even a sort of arrogance on my part to expect them to want to commit their whole lives to me.  It is a lesson which many daughters would benefit from being taught by their mothers.  The book of life can end with “happily ever after” but the narrative that precedes that ending does not have to be the same each time.  

From my own experience, I have learnt that contentment in your lot is found only through knowing Allah.  In the vicissitudes of life, He is the only unwavering constant.    Human interdependencies are very much like spiders’ webs – complex but tenuous.  It doesn’t take much to dismantle them.  Our ties to any person, especially our spouses, are inherently tenuous not simply because of mortality itself but, because individuals themselves are always evolving in their own desires and aspirations.  Quite literally, it is a process that may lead to ‘uncoupling’.  I have learnt that post-divorce, I must not voluntarily throw myself onto the scrapheap of society.  There are a myriad of reasons to live even beyond a failed marriage.  Alhamdulillah (praise to Allah), I look forward to watching my children grow into young men and be part of their journeys and achievements.  Then there are my own personal goals, however big or small.  Where one door has closed, I have been able to walk through many others instead.

Islam teaches us that we belong to nobody except Allah, our Creator. That Quranic ayah (verse), like so many others, can only be understood in its entirety when life puts us through the grinder and delivers us on the other side of tribulations, wretched but strangely purified.  It is usually associated as a condolence to offer a grieving person after the death of a loved one.  Yet it is a truism that we should be mindful of at all times.  We were only ever destined to return to Allah.  We do not own anyone nor are we owned.   

So, whilst I no longer exist as a wife, I still exist nevertheless.  I am a mother, a sister, a daughter, an aunt and a friend.  I am still me.  With or without any of those labels, Allah has put me on this earth to live in a multi-dimensional way.  He created all of us as wonderfully complex and creative beings; it has always been our choice to exploit the best of us in any given situation.  So, as the pain of divorce ebbs and flows over time and the realisation that I actually have so many reasons to embrace this beautiful life, Alhamdulillah, (all praise be to Allah), I find myself silently carving out a new niche for myself.

In the post-mortem report of my marriage, records may point to natural causes for demise.  The truth is that sometimes we don’t have the answers we are looking for.  Nothing in life is guaranteed. 

Yet from the embers of that past life, I learnt the most valuable lesson of all – I needed validation from nobody but He who created me.   There are opportunities in every situation we are in, however seemingly difficult they may be.  However, recognising them must come from a place of gratitude first.   If we start from this base point, the only way is up.

The name, Mymotherhalf, is clearly a deliberate departure from ‘my other half’.  For me, motherhood forms a hugely significant part of my life; it is a label I cherish.   As it is, there is no longer ‘the other half’ in its commonly assumed sense.  I understand now that the other half always lay within me although I was searching for it in someone else.  I am my other half.  How I wish to express that part of my identity is for me alone to decide. 

The Eye of the Storm

As a mother, I wouldn’t be unusual if I said that most of my life is dedicated to my children.  I wake up each day thinking what lies ahead of them for that day.  Then I go to sleep reflecting on the day done and wondering whether they managed to meet their personal goals and where my role was in all that. 

That sense of responsibility is, I believe, an inherit trait in any mother.  However, for me, it became exponentially larger when I found myself left to manage my four boys on my own.  Back in 2016, life had thrown an unexpected curve ball which I was not able to dodge.  Like a bolt from the blue, everything I had ever known, was thrown into complete disarray.  My husband wanted out.  The best analogy I always use to describe my situation is that I was left steering the ship and its occupants whilst our captain jumped ship.  In that vacuum, I reluctantly took control and together with my boys, we rode the rough waves until we set down our anchor.   This is how I’ve always imagined my life since my divorce, had it been narrated through pictures.

I have always known about the prophetic hadith (saying) above through which we are taught the superior position of a mother vis-à-vis a father.   It made perfect sense to me as history shows us time and again the sacrifices a mother makes for her children in every regard.  It was my own reality as a child and for many others who I have ever known.  Yet when I revisited this hadith in my mind, post-divorce, it took on a completely new meaning.

I actually realised how intense and deep the role of a mother is.  She is the one person who shrinks her own desires and expands her life to accommodate her children’s aspirations first; she buries her own pain and consoles her children first; she walks patiently behind whilst her children run ahead chasing their dreams. 

Mother is the eye of the storm.

All of this became so starkly apparent when I was left to manage my brood without their father.  I would be lying if I said I did not feel bitter and angry about that daunting prospect.   Almost four years later, however, I see life differently.  I understand the hadith differently.  I now hear the words, “your mother, your mother, your mother,” and understand how the repetition is not just an emphasis on the honour of a mother.  The fact that the father features further on, shows how he pales into insignificance in terms of his input into his children.  My own reality bears witness to this truth.

Imagine that hadith ringing in my ears as a woman going it alone.  I feel vindicated.  Allah has honoured me with an even greater share of reward than those mothers who have the physical presence and help of their husbands.  However deep that hadith is, it just got deeper.  I take great comfort from it being where I am in life on my own.  Allah has put the reins of my young family in my hands but He is there with me.  He always was and always will be, as long as I care enough for that to happen.  The truth is, I am not alone.  I never was. 

Why ‘MyMotherHalf’ ?

For years I’ve had a desire to write about that huge chunk of my life called Motherhood and yet all that time I told myself that others would have heard it all before; I’d be writing a soliloquy and speaking on a stage without an audience. Yet I always believed that the experience of writing had the potential to be cathartic for me. And so, the idea of writing a blog, I confess, is primarily a selfish one. Though I have been a terrible proscratinator, I knew one day I would take the plunge and simply get started.

Creating a blog is a daunting prospect for me.  Not because I’m a Luddite or that my thoughts and ideas are muddled but because I have no idea where it’ll lead.

What I do know is that I have lots to say.

I want to reflect on my experiences of being a Muslim mother at the helm of a family of four young teenage boys; steering the ship alone without an adult male presence and sharing the highs and lows of that unpredictable journey.  I also want to help others understand that being a mother is only a part of my life – that there are so many dimensions of existence that come within a single being. Whilst being a mother is arguably the noblest of all roles a woman may be blessed with, it isn’t the only label she wears. Simultaneously, mothers juggle so many other roles even though they are often sidelined without choice.

What might surprise readers is that this blog isn’t invariably going to be a sombre place to empty out my jar jammed with frustrations. (I’m sure I will have those moments).  But, insha’Allah (God willing), in this blog I hope others will – more than occasionally – find quite the opposite happens.  Through writing, there will be expressions of laughter, tears and just good old-fashioned inner reflection.

I write from the perspective of a Muslim and a woman and a warrior – someone whose battles are sometimes with herself and sometimes with those who have their misaligned perceptions of being a lone parent.  I don’t speak from a male-hating podium.  I stand from a platform simply to let other women, in a similar boat to me, know that they are not alone.  We serve as mirrors to one another.  No two people have identical life experiences but I hope those who stumble across my future posts will find relatable anecdotes.  What do I hope to achieve here?  I hope my musings will help women, especially Muslim women, reconcile their faith in Islam with their own daily struggles. 

I am not on a proselytising mission. Let’s get that clear from the start.  My posts will be honest and open insights into parenting alone.  By taking my readers as passengers on my own journey, I hope to give them the quiet confidence and courage to map out their own inner travels in life.


Sabia A.