Whispers on a Friday
It is Friday again—Yaum al-Jumu'ah—a day that has always stirred something deeper in me, whether joy or guilt, resolve or regret. Today I found myself weighed down by a heaviness I couldn't name, until the sound of a Tilawah Qur’an, recited by voices from Iran and Indonesia, moved something inside me. Tears came—not out of sadness, but out of release, like a soul remembering itself after forgetting. Perhaps it is the burden of missed prayers or the longing for a connection I have allowed to slip with time. Whatever it is, I write this to reflect, not to justify—to reach within rather than escape.
It is Friday again.
Not just a day on the calendar, but a whisper in the soul.
There are days when the weight of the world feels heavier, especially when the news feeds only pain, when the wars feel endless, when children cry in silence, and leaders thump their chests over ashes. Today was one of those days.
But something shifted, just slightly, as I listened, by chance, to a Tilawah Quran recited in the Iranian style. Two voices, brothers from Indonesia. Their tones weren’t just melodious; they tore through my melancholy. The tears came—not of sorrow, but of remembrance. Remembrance of the beauty of what once was in me. What could still be?
It is perhaps guilt that visits on Fridays the most. The echo of Adzan Jumaat not answered. The missed prayers—not just once, but over and over. The rituals skipped, the motions left unperformed, and yet the heart aches for something sacred, something whole.
I know my reasons. I could list them—years of wandering, of not belonging, of disillusionment. I could talk of trauma, loss, even the hypocrisy I witnessed in places of worship. But what would that serve now?
Even I can no longer convince myself.
And still, I write.
I write because it is Friday.
And perhaps that is still my prayer.
A Whispered Dua
O Lord of the Silent Spaces,
If my limbs have failed to bow, let my heart still kneel.
If my lips have forgotten Your names, let my soul still remember.
And if I die before my next prayer, accept this moment as my turning.
This is not the end of my search.
Nor the beginning.
It is simply another Friday.
And I am still here.
I may have wandered far from the disciplined rituals of devotion, yet the echo of them remains etched in my bones. On Fridays, especially, that echo grows louder. I do not write to absolve myself, nor to appease anyone. I write because the weight of silence is heavier than honest confession. And if anything lifts that weight, even momentarily, it is the sacred beauty of a voice reciting ancient truths—and the quiet promise that the heart can still turn back, no matter how far it has gone.
#JumaatReflections #SpiritualWrestling #GuiltAndGrace #WhispersOfTheHeart #TilawahTears #OldMuslimNewWounds #FridayPrayerUnspoken #CheeseburgerBuddha
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