This poem is written by Hasna Abdul-Majid, the daughter of a longtime family friend, Saida Abdul-Majid. We first met them in Washington DC while I was a student at the American University. Hasna was born during those years. When we moved to New Jersey, I was pursuing a Masters Degree at Rutgers University, Hasna’s family stayed briefly with us as they were making their way to settle in Jersey City. One of the memorable experiences from those days was when little Hasna picked up a pair of scissors and proceeded to nonchalantly sever our phone cord. Hasna grew to become a very proficient Qur’an reciter and scholar, possessing an Ijaza from Syria. She is currently living and studying in Yemen. A deeply sensitive person she is also an accomplished poetess as the following piece reveals.

Either Way We’re Enslaved

My nafs…
The thoughts on my mind.
To think man could achieve a rank higher than angels,
always praising the Divine,
seems impossible for me Personally.
When I’m left to my own society,
I wonder…
“Am I made of lower stuff than others?”
Elements that come together in the form you see,
I feel as if I lack some inherent purity,
mixed with some hedonistic idolatry.

For what is base?

My purer tastes I succumb to,
my faith I have always have clung to,
but a darker self creeps behind me
attempting to ravage me…

Savagely!

Knowing in the dark I cannot see…

Clearly.

In this depression
I feel around,
blindly…

It takes advantage
of my diminished capacity.

Whispering doubt
about my own capability.

This comes when no one’s about…

When I feel empty and I am without Anyone,
to hold me,
tenderly scold me,
mother and mould me,
caress and enfold me…

I am cold.

See?

It is much easier to pass the time
in pursuit of fun.
Painting in the sun.
Beating on a drum.

Rather than sell yourself to the Almighty One.

But…
that is the Only worthwhile trade.
Either way we’re enslaved;

And we are all going to the grave.


So sell this life that is temporary,
full of difficulty,
for an ease that lasts
for Eternity.

Easier said than done…

But I turn to the Creator
of earth, sky, and sun; and
say…

Help me!

I beg you my Lord
to make you the only one that I truly live for;
the only one
that I absolutely,
resolutely,
unwaveringly, adore…


Make not my duties a chore,
but a pleasure;
in which I endeavor
daily to seek Your Face;
seek Your Mercy that others call grace and your Love!


Make my pursuits…

Not for lady Dunia,
but for Jennah’s fruits.

Hasna Abdul-Majid