The factory lights flickered as I folded yet another piece of fabric, my fingers raw from the day's work. The clock above the exit ticked with indifference. Twelve hours gone, stitched into a hundred sleeves I’d never wear. I shifted on the stool, my spine aching, old back injury flaring again. No one noticed. Not that I expected them to.
I didn’t always work like this. There was a time — not long ago — when I had dreams that stretched past the city’s borders. A scholarship I'd prayed for, days spent at the library until dusk, my mother's hopeful smile when she saved for my entrance exam fees. But when she fell ill, life stitched a different pattern for me. Hospital bills don’t wait for diplomas.
I remember the first time I cried in sajdah — prostration — not for something I wanted, but just to say, “Ya Allah, I don't understand why.” That prayer felt like silence thrown into a well. Dry. Echoing. Unanswered. That’s when the quiet battles really began.
In this factory, surrounded by humming machines and tired women who rarely raised their eyes, I became good at looking okay. I made jokes. I clapped when someone hit a quota. But inside, over time, I had stopped even asking. Dua felt like stretching a hand into the dark.
Until yesterday.
It wasn’t even dramatic. I was folding shirts, thinking about how many more hours I needed this week just to buy my mother’s insulin, and my wrist started to cramp. I winced. My supervisor saw — just for a second — and walked away. I don't know why that made something crack inside me.
I stepped outside during the break and sat on the curb. The alley smelled like oil and rust, but the sky… SubhanAllah, the sky was soft with maghrib light. That deep indigo before night takes everything. The call to prayer echoed from a nearby masjid, muffled but insistent. Hayya 'ala-s-salah…
I whispered, “Do You see me?” Eyes closed. It wasn't a question. It was a grief. A longing. A child’s small reach. And in that moment — only that moment — something shifted. Not the situation. The knowing.
I remembered a verse my father taught me when I was young and impatient, waiting for a mango seed to grow: “Indeed, Allah is with those who are patient.” (Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:153). He’d buried the seed himself, told me to water it, wait, trust. I never saw fruit. So I stopped believing it was growing. But he saw me one day, sulking by the pot, and said, “Who told you nothing’s happening under the soil?”
That memory came back like a mercy.
Waiting doesn’t mean being forgotten. Struggling doesn’t mean being unseen.
I stood slowly. My wrist still hurt. My problems didn't run away into the sunset.
But I felt seen.
And somehow, that helped me finish the shift with quiet strength stitched into every motion.
The night came — as it always does — but so did Fajr. And this morning, I found myself making dua again.
Not because everything is okay.
But because I know He sees everything that isn't.
Qur'an and Hadith References:
The factory lights flickered as I folded yet another piece of fabric, my fingers raw from the day's work. The clock above the exit ticked with indifference. Twelve hours gone, stitched into a hundred sleeves I’d never wear. I shifted on the stool, my spine aching, old back injury flaring again. No one noticed. Not that I expected them to.
I didn’t always work like this. There was a time — not long ago — when I had dreams that stretched past the city’s borders. A scholarship I'd prayed for, days spent at the library until dusk, my mother's hopeful smile when she saved for my entrance exam fees. But when she fell ill, life stitched a different pattern for me. Hospital bills don’t wait for diplomas.
I remember the first time I cried in sajdah — prostration — not for something I wanted, but just to say, “Ya Allah, I don't understand why.” That prayer felt like silence thrown into a well. Dry. Echoing. Unanswered. That’s when the quiet battles really began.
In this factory, surrounded by humming machines and tired women who rarely raised their eyes, I became good at looking okay. I made jokes. I clapped when someone hit a quota. But inside, over time, I had stopped even asking. Dua felt like stretching a hand into the dark.
Until yesterday.
It wasn’t even dramatic. I was folding shirts, thinking about how many more hours I needed this week just to buy my mother’s insulin, and my wrist started to cramp. I winced. My supervisor saw — just for a second — and walked away. I don't know why that made something crack inside me.
I stepped outside during the break and sat on the curb. The alley smelled like oil and rust, but the sky… SubhanAllah, the sky was soft with maghrib light. That deep indigo before night takes everything. The call to prayer echoed from a nearby masjid, muffled but insistent. Hayya 'ala-s-salah…
I whispered, “Do You see me?” Eyes closed. It wasn't a question. It was a grief. A longing. A child’s small reach. And in that moment — only that moment — something shifted. Not the situation. The knowing.
I remembered a verse my father taught me when I was young and impatient, waiting for a mango seed to grow: “Indeed, Allah is with those who are patient.” (Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:153). He’d buried the seed himself, told me to water it, wait, trust. I never saw fruit. So I stopped believing it was growing. But he saw me one day, sulking by the pot, and said, “Who told you nothing’s happening under the soil?”
That memory came back like a mercy.
Waiting doesn’t mean being forgotten. Struggling doesn’t mean being unseen.
I stood slowly. My wrist still hurt. My problems didn't run away into the sunset.
But I felt seen.
And somehow, that helped me finish the shift with quiet strength stitched into every motion.
The night came — as it always does — but so did Fajr. And this morning, I found myself making dua again.
Not because everything is okay.
But because I know He sees everything that isn't.
Qur'an and Hadith References:
