When Sacrifice Is No Hardship
Sacrifice: \ sac·ri·fice, ˈsa-krə-ˌfīs\ noun — destruction or surrender of something for the sake of something else; something given up or lost
Nobody truly knows their whole story. The path is unseen, but the trust in Allah swt and His plan, is what allows us to be happy making the sacrifices necessary to move forward. Behind every sacrifice is a lesson learned.
Imagine at the young age of 19 leaving everything you know in an attempt to build something out of nothing for your future family. Imagine being an OR nurse at a respectable hospital that had to pick up and move to an entirely new continent where absolutely everything is foreign for a chance at a better life. Neither scenario is anyone’s first choice, but my parents made the decision to sacrifice being in their homeland, Egypt, to give their children the best chance to succeed.
My father, Adel, worked endless hours to make sure we had everything we needed and then some. In every childhood memory I have, he was either coming from or going to work. Rabina yidee ilsiha wil’afiya ya rab. My mother, Amal (hopes); sacrificed her career when she came to America. In staying home to raise her children and eventually grandchildren, Amal allowed their hopes and dreams to flourish.
A goal my parents had when relocating to the states was to instill the love of religion and culture in their children. They went about that by sending us to a private Islamic school, the best in the tri-state area. It’s worthy to note that they were forced to move again from Brooklyn to New Jersey to make this happen: another sacrifice. My parents did everything in their power to ensure we never stood out for the wrong reasons. We were surrounded by people who looked like us, spoke like us and practiced religion like us, in a country that was foreign to them. Holding on to our Arab identities, but even more so our Muslim identities was not an option. It was a must. It was the least that could be done to maintain our connection to the Motherland. As adults, my siblings and I couldn’t fathom how our baba was able to manage that financial weight of sending his five children to private school. He would always say, “This is all baraka (blessings) from Allah (swt), and with each child comes their share of baraka as well.” We never heard him complain about the hours he had to work to secure the future of his family. He was proud to make the sacrifice because he knew it was going to pay off. He reminded us:
لا يكلف الله نفساً إلا وسعها
“Allah burdens not a person beyond what he can bear.”
{Quran 2:286}
I’ve spent every Fourth of July marveling at the fireworks and having bbqs. I sport the red, white and blue every Olympics and I’ve belted out Star Spangled Banner more times than I can count.
I am American.
There’s a “Ta7ya Masr’’ keychain on my rear view mirror. I add cumin to everything, ful is the perfect side dish to any spread, humming Um Kulthum tunes is always a good idea, and there’s always a tea kettle on the stove.
I am Arab.
Day in and day out, the calls for prayer fill my home. I meet with Allah swt five times a day on my prayer mat. I fast during Ramadan, read Quran every chance I get, and I ask myself, “What would Prophet Mohammed pbuh do?” every time I need to make a decision.
I am Muslim.
I’m incredibly proud of the intersections of my identity. I wear each as a badge of honor. Because I attended Islamic schools, many of my peers came from similar backgrounds. I never stood out for dressing a little differently than my classmates. I didn’t ever have to explain why we pray five times a day because they were familiar. My mahshi (stuffed grape leaves) was never looked at with disgust or confusion at lunch; everyone knew of their lemony goodness. The hijab I wore as part of my uniform, but eventually grew to love and became a permanent part of me, was never questioned. I could shift between English and Arabic seamlessly and without thought while speaking to my friends because we all spoke both languages. The school I attended gave us so much more than a good education. It was a home away from home where our truest selves were welcomed. We built lifelong friendships and the extension of our family only grew with people who became sisters and mentors through some of the most important milestones of my life.
I am able to read, write and speak Arabic, the language of my ancestors and my holy book because of my parents’ sacrifices. I can read, recite and memorize the Quran with a level of ease and use it as a comfort to my soul. It may seem like a humble brag, but having the ability to embrace who I am and where I come from without need for an explanation was one of my greatest blessings in this life. Alhamdulilah. Life is a rollercoaster though and one that twists all around. My struggles and sacrifices may not have been visible to the naked eye, even to those closest to me, but they were definitely there.
At the age of 11, I learned of my diagnosis. It would change everything in my life overnight. I never let it get to me or get in the way of my good grades or my everyday life. I told myself I could handle whatever came my way. I was surrounded by people who loved me and I knew I could get through anything with them in my corner. Through elementary, middle and high school, I learned invaluable lessons, but one of the most important: not everyone was a friend and not everyone would understand, but I’d be fine regardless. Always echoing in my mind, a constant reminder:
لا يكلف الله نفساً إلا وسعها
“Allah burdens not a person beyond what he can bear.”
{Quran 2:286}
I kept my head in my books in college. I graduated and went on to teach at the same high school I attended. Crazy, right? I also went back to get my masters degree and honestly, none of it was easy. Times of remission were great, and times of flares were challenging, but I did it.
لا يكلف الله نفساً إلا وسعها
“Allah burdens not a person beyond what he can bear.”
{Quran 2:286}
I got married and needed life altering surgeries during what was supposed to be my honeymoon. It was hard to process and wrap my head around. Those dearest to my heart and soul reminded me that this world is still full of amazing and selfless people who will do anything for you, purely out of love. With their help and support, I managed.
لا يكلف الله نفساً إلا وسعها
“Allah burdens not a person beyond what he can bear.”
{Quran 2:286}
Motherhood was something I always envisioned for myself, but with my diagnosis, I never knew if it was a realistic possibility. In 2020, I was blessed with my daughter and in 2023, my son; the coolness of my husband and I’s eyes.
قدر الله وما شاء فعل
“It is the decree of Allah and He does whatever He wills”
More than being an Arab American, being Muslim makes me the purest form of “Nevine” I can ever be. My faith is at the center of who I am and everything I do. The source of my strength and courage is my faith. The way I’m choosing to raise my children comes from my faith. My ability to put my life on cruise control and have complete trust that I’ll be alright, despite the obstacles that arise, comes from my faith.
I pray that we have faith, in all that we do, we have trust that God is the all-knowing. He sees the sacrifices we make. He knows what is best for us. He knows WHEN it is best for us.
This blog post is part of the #30DaysArabVoices Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of Arabs as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Jinan Chehade.
