The Silent One

My Lord,
grant me a bigger house,
a sleeker car,
a job that pays more
for doing less.
Let my life gleam,
polished, calm,
a picture of success.
Give me the nicer, brighter,
better things.
My Lord, make them mine.

And yet,
sometimes the quiet after prayer weighs on me,
as if the very air leans in to listen.
The walls of comfort feel fragile,
and the world beyond presses closer, louder.
My blessings start to echo
against the distant cries
of someone I can not see,

yet I hear their prayers reaching me.
I hear another voice:

“My Lord, the noise is deafening.
The ground trembles,
walls collapse into dust.
My Lord, the sky burns red,
the air tastes like fear.
My Lord, the screams won’t fade.
My child is silent
why is my child silent?
My Lord, they laugh as we shatter,
mercy nowhere in their eyes.
My Lord, please, take me back to You.”

Such is the paradox of this world.
One God, divided nations.
The oppressor counts their riches
and calls it favor.
The oppressed count their graves
and call it faith.
And the watchers,
we scroll,
we sigh,
we say “that’s sad,”
and move on, like its all a fiction.

Tell me,
what name do we give this madness?
When innocence bleeds
and we change the channel.
When tired means
we’ve watched too much pain
from behind a screen.

So tell me,
in whose hands are the oppressed safe?
The oppressor’s,
the watcher’s,
or the silent one’s?

Never say that those martyred in the cause of Allah are dead—in fact, they are alive! But you do not perceive it. (Q 2:154)