A warm, respectful flicker of an eye can fill you up with all that you need and more as compared to words served to you which are meant to nourish you but consume you instead. Words meant to clothe you but unclothe you. Words and actions that haunt you and not secure you.
We think what we say or do not say can be said and unsaid and not said at all, unlimitedly.But the reality is that everything has a time limit. Nothing is forever. Not love founded on need. Nor claims of love.
We nurture love and celebrate it not by words born in our sporadic moments of mood or when personal need wakes it up from slumber. We nurture it by embracing actions that make love truly the focal point.
Her love is like a flower, capable of pleasing the senses; yet more important than the mere sensual pleasure, she reveals the promise of life. Of hope. Of birth and fertility. Of progress and reaching new heights…of so much more.
However, her love must be nurtured for her love is not a trophy that if once attained, it lives a forgotten, suffocated life in the cupboard, uncared-for and only boasted about. When you care about something’s longevity, you nurture it. Perhaps as easy as that sounds, it is as difficult as nurturing a positive attitude. Maybe even more.
For her strength in her unwavering love despite the grief she holds is deemed as her fickle-nature, you know utterly nonsensical because a moment ago she said she was angry. And her God-gifted femininity is used interchangeably with a woman’s weakness.
Only one man by His Mercy, Rasoolalah salalahu ‘alayhi wasalam taught the entire mankind the ways to love her. Value her, respect her when she was considered a commodity. Value her, respect her when she is still considered a commodity. Not a power tool: an easy political and domestic target. Not to unclothe her and increase your sales. Not to silence her by demonizing her and increasing your ego. Just to love her, her imperfect being. Not damage her beyond repair.
The West or the East. Both have monumentally and colossally failed in honoring the One in Whose Name she can lawfully be approached.
Where is she to exist then and live a life without dying a hundred deaths? Where is she to belong? Where is home? Where is security? Perhaps Aasiya AS never seemed closer to her than now. She can feel her cry for it is hers too:
Clothe me Ya Allah for I am unclothed.