By Hana Ibrahim
You can run your pen-stained fingers along the panes, feeling the rough bricks of Cairo’s minarets and the smooth tiles of Samarkand, feeling the scent of barakah seep into your veins. Or you can retreat into the depths of ʿAllāmah Kashmīrī’s library, searching for the volume that sticks out a little more than the others because you have to find out why the fāʿil is always marfūʿ. Maybe you’ll watch the underpaid hands of the local imam next to you, taking notes on the ṭahārah of well-water. A tired mother might pass you in the halls, trying to remember which kid has gym tomorrow and whether it’s yaḍribu or yaḍrubu. Humility is the men standing for the teachers, and the shaykh who immediately tells them to please have a seat.
One day you’ll learn that “beloved brother” is an insult, and the next you’ll keep smelling your hands because the bathroom soap smells like Mecca, and the next you’ll be in Karachi with Mawlānā’s classmate who built his library out of scraps. You suddenly find comfort in an industrial-dressed building with its golden gates and bold sign that wears a kurta not a suit. You’ve embarked on the journey. Sinking your raw footsteps into the path. The brush of the willow tree on your palms.
