The Last Prayer Of My Heart by 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚 𝐉𝐮𝐛𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐚𝐳𝐥𝐢 at Inkitt

CHAPTER 1

"Islam keeps women locked inside their homes. Islam suppresses women." The words were spoken by the small voice of a child. Yet they carried the weight of an accusation far older than the girl who had uttered them. Walking past the small classroom of the village maktab, Zehra stopped. Her steps froze in the middle of the path. For a moment she simply stood there.

Inside the classroom, the voices of children rose and fell in careless laughter. It was the second class of the young hifz students memorizing the Qur'an. They had already completed the first para and were now working on the second. Normally this hour was reserved for Hadith lessons, but their teacher had not arrived that day. When teachers were absent, discipline disappeared as quickly as dust in the wind. Paper balls flew across the room. Children whispered secrets. Laughter echoed between the mud walls. But among the cheerful noise, one voice reached Zehra's ears.

A voice trembling with quiet pain. The building itself was simple and old, like most things in the village. Its walls were made of clay mixed with straw. The roof was supported by wooden beams darkened with age. The windows were nothing more than bamboo strips tied together with rope, allowing sunlight and wind to pass freely through the gaps. Zehra leaned slightly toward one of the windows and looked inside. She searched for the face behind the voice. Children sat in uneven rows on woven mats spread across the earthen floor. Some were laughing loudly. Others were throwing paper at one another. But near the back row, Zehra noticed her.

A small girl. At most ten years old. She wore a black burqa that seemed slightly too large for her thin shoulders. Her head was lowered, and her small hands rubbed tears from her cheeks. The girl beside her, dressed in a deep green burqa, leaned close and whispered softly, trying to comfort her. Then the crying girl spoke again. "My Baba said I have grown up now, so I shouldn't leave the house anymore." Her voice trembled as she continued. "He said it is enough that I can read the Qur'an. He said girls don't need to study more. Girls should stay at home."

For a moment Zehra closed her eyes. Not in anger. But in understanding. This wasn't the first time she had heard these words. And she knew it wouldn't be the last. Quietly she stepped through the doorway and entered the classroom. Her presence changed the atmosphere instantly. Zehra was wearing a simple black burqa. On her feet were old sandals made from rough jute straps, their edges worn from years of use. In her hand she carried a small cloth bag, handmade and faded with time. Yet despite her simple appearance, there was a calm dignity about her that commanded respect.

The moment the children noticed her, the room fell silent. Paper balls dropped. Giggles stopped. One by one, the children quickly folded their legs and sat properly on the floor. Then together they greeted her. "Assalamu Alaikum, Ustaza." A warm smile spread across Zehra's face. "Wa'alaikumus Salaam." She placed her cloth bag gently on the small wooden table near the wall. Then she turned toward the children. "Your teacher couldn't come today because he is ill," she said softly. "So I will take your class instead. Is that alright?" The children's eyes brightened. A cheerful chorus filled the room. "Yes, Ustaza!"

Zehra was beloved in the maktab. The children adored her gentle patience and warm voice. She folded her hands lightly in front of her. "So today," she continued, "we will do something different." The children leaned forward. "Instead of memorization, today we will talk about the questions in your hearts." She paused. "Questions about Islam. About the Deen. About the Qur'an." Her gaze slowly drifted toward Huda, the girl in the black burqa. "I will try my best to answer them." For several moments no one spoke. The children looked at one another, shy but curious. The crying girl kept her head down. Then the girl in the green burqa raised her hand. "Ustaza..."

Zehra nodded gently. "Yes, Asiya?" Asiya stood. Her voice was hesitant but brave. "Why does Islam keep women confined to the house?" A ripple of surprise moved through the class. But Asiya continued. "Why can boys study freely but girls cannot? Why does Islam suppress women so much?" Her voice grew stronger. "Why are girls not allowed to fulfill their dreams?" Silence followed. Some children looked nervous. Others watched Zehra carefully. But Zehra smiled. A soft, understanding smile. She had been waiting for this question. Instead of standing near the table, she walked toward the children and sat down among them on the mat. Immediately the boys and girls gathered around her in a small circle. Now she was no longer a distant teacher. She was simply one of them.

"Asiya," Zehra said kindly, "you seem to have many questions." Asiya lowered her head slightly. "But that is good," Zehra added. "Questions lead to knowledge." The children leaned closer. Then Zehra began. "Islam never said that women must remain locked inside their homes." Her voice was calm and steady.

"A woman can go outside for any permissible reason while maintaining modesty and following the guidance of Deen." She looked around the circle of young faces. "Islam doesn't imprison women. In fact, Islam gave women honor when the world had none to offer them." She continued gently. "We are commanded to treat women with kindness. And Allah has placed a child's Jannah beneath the feet of the mother." The children listened carefully. Then Zehra shared a hadith.

"Once a man came to the Messenger of Allah, Subhanahu wa Ta'ala, and asked, 'O Messenger of Allah, who deserves my best companionship?' The Prophet Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam replied, 'Your mother.' The man asked again, 'Then who?' The Prophet Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam said, 'Your mother.' Again he asked, 'Then who?' The Prophet Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam said, 'Your mother.' Finally he asked, 'Then who?' And the Prophet Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam replied, 'Your father.'

Some of the children smiled. Zehra continued. "Islam gave women the right to own wealth. The right to receive mahr. The right to seek knowledge. The right to speak. The right to chose your partner." Her voice softened. "There was a time when baby girls were buried alive. But Allah called daughters a rahmat for families." She smiled gently. "Veiling is not a prison. It is protection that increases dignity. In Islam, the responsibility of providing for a woman lies with her father and later her husband. Her wealth belongs entirely to her. No one else has a right over it."

Then Zehra's eyes brightened slightly. "Let me tell you something beautiful. The prophet Muhammad Sallallahu Alayhi wa Sallam, used to stand up whenever his beloved daughter Fatimah RA entered the room. Out of love. Out of respect." The children looked amazed. "Islam also forbids forcing a woman into marriage. No girl can be forced against her will. Allah has given both men and women dignity and the right to seek knowledge. These accusations against Islam are misunderstandings created by people." Zehra's voice grew warmer. "Within the guidance of Islam, a woman can pursue knowledge, fulfill her dreams, and even become a successful businesswoman." She smiled. "The beloved wife of the Prophet Sallallahu Alayhi Wa Sallam, Khadijah RA, was one of the richest and most respected merchants of her time." The classroom remained silent. But this time it was not a heavy silence. It was thoughtful.

Slowly, the girl in the black burqa lifted her head. Her eyes were still wet. But a small smile had appeared on her face. She stood up and walked toward Zehra. "Ustaza..." Her voice trembled again. "I want to study." She clasped Zehra's hands. "I want to be a hafiza and become a teacher like you." Her voice broke. "But Baba says girls don't need that much education." She looked up with hopeful eyes. "Please talk to him so he lets me study."

Zehra felt her heart tighten. She gently pulled the girl closer and cupped her cheeks in both hands. "I will talk to your father," she said softly. "Alright?" The girl nodded. A bright smile spread across her face. The first real smile she had shown all day. And one by one, the other children began asking their questions. Outside the classroom, the wind moved quietly through the olive trees. And somewhere in that small village, the first seeds of change had just been planted.

In the year 1993, when the world was advancing and growing more modern with each passing day, in a small and undeveloped village of the sacred land of Palestine lived Zehra with her father, Qasim ibn Hasan al Hashimi. Her mother, Maryam bint Abdullah al Qurashi, had passed away when Zehra was still very young, leaving behind a silence that time never truly filled.

Their village rested quietly among the dry hills of the South Hebron region, a humble place known as Khirbet Susya. The land was harsh and rocky, yet it carried a quiet and timeless beauty. Olive trees rose stubbornly from the soil, their twisted trunks older than many of the homes that stood around them. In the spring, small wild flowers spread across the hills like gentle strokes of color. In the summer, the sun burned the earth until even the stones felt warm beneath bare feet.

Life in Khirbet Susya was simple and slow. Most families lived in small homes built from clay, stone, and wood. Water had to be carried from distant wells, and electricity was rarely seen. The mornings were not filled with the noise of machines, but with the soft bleating of sheep, the crowing of roosters, and the distant voices of farmers guiding their animals across the hills.

Though her father carried the blood of kings, Zehra's life was no fairy tale. She grew up in a small house made of clay, wood, and stone. The roof rested on old wooden beams, covered with packed earth, strong enough to stand, but never strong enough to keep every storm out. Their home was simple and worn, yet it held a quiet kind of peace. There were no golden halls or soft comforts, only patience, hard work, and a love that never faded, no matter how harsh the world outside became.

Under the burning sun, she worked beside him in the fields and olive groves. She guided their sheep across the dry hills, walking barefoot over warm stones while the wind gently lifted the edge of her scarf.

There was little wealth in their home, yet there was no absence of dignity, hard work, or respect. The village madrasa stood near a small cluster of olive trees at the edge of the settlement. It had been built by Qasim ibn Hasan al Hashimi with his own hands, with the help of the villagers. The structure was simple, with only a few rooms, wooden benches, and shelves filled with Qurans and worn books. Yet to the people of Khirbet Susya, it was the heart of their community.

Every morning, children gathered there to learn to read the Quran. In the evenings, men would sit together in the courtyard, speaking about village matters while Qasim listened with patience and guided them with quiet wisdom.

In every joy and every sorrow, he stood beside his people. When someone fell ill, he visited them. When disputes arose, he listened to both sides with calm fairness. When a life was lost, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave.

Whenever there were matters to be discussed or decisions to be made, the villagers placed their trust in Qasim and in Zehra's uncle, Hamid. After Qasim, it was Hamid whom everyone respected deeply. Though younger, he carried a similar strength and calmness. Yet in the presence of his elder brother, Hamid spoke with humility, like a student before his teacher, filled with respect and quiet love.

That noon, the two brothers sat together in the yard with a few villagers. They were seated on simple woven mats beneath the shade of a fig tree. Their voices were calm, yet serious, as they discussed grazing land and the repair of a broken well. As Zehra passed by, carrying a clay water jug, she greeted them with salam and quietly entered the house.

When the discussion ended and the villagers slowly returned to their homes, Qasim rose to his feet and walked toward the house. His steps were slower than before, though he tried not to show his weakness. Inside, the small clay house was filled with the quiet warmth of the noon sun. Golden light slipped through the thin woven curtain, scattering soft patterns across the mud walls and the worn wooden table. Dust drifted slowly through the air, glowing in the sunlight.

Zehra had already prepared their meal. At the low wooden table, she sat quietly, arranging the bowls. Her long dark braid rested over her shoulder as the sunlight touched her face with a gentle glow. Qasim entered and took his place across from her. His face bore the marks of years spent under the open sky. Fine lines rested around his eyes, and strands of silver had begun to appear in his beard. His strong hands paused on the table before he slowly lowered himself onto the stool.

Between them lay their simple meal. Fresh flatbread wrapped in cloth, a bowl of lentil stew, and a small plate of olives and tomatoes. The warm scent of bread filled the room. Zehra tore a small piece of bread and placed it beside her father's bowl before sitting properly. It was a habit she had formed long ago, a quiet act of care. Qasim watched her and smiled softly. "You always serve me first."

Zehra looked up at him, her eyes gentle yet concerned. "You work harder than me, Baba. And day by day you are becoming weaker. You should eat more and take care of yourself. You are unwell. Have mercy on yourself. Don't work this much, Baba."

Qasim smiled and took a larger bite than usual. "Look, I'm eating more, just as you said, my amirah." Zehra shook her head, her expression firm. "No, Baba. This is not enough. Your treatment must begin soon. Tell Uncle Hamid to arrange for your treatment in Turkey. I will not compromise when it comes to your health."

Qasim let out a soft breath. "You already know our situation. Where will your father find such money to travel abroad. And if you and I leave, who will look after the madrasa."

"Baba, the madrasa is not more important than your life," Zehra replied, her voice steady. "Uncle Hamid and brother Abdul Rahman are there. They can manage everything for some time. And if the problem is money, then we will sell all the sheeps. We can also sell the jewelry that Mama left for me."

Qasim looked at her with quiet concern. "But those are meant for your future." Zehra lowered her gaze for a moment, then spoke softly but firmly. "Baba, I don't want any future where you are not there. I know that everyone must return to Allah one day, but that doesn't mean I will ignore your illness. I have already said it. You must go for treatment."

There was a gentle stubbornness in her voice, one that carried deep love. Perhaps this side of her was known only to her father. Qasim looked at her for a long moment, then smiled with warmth. He leaned forward, broke a piece of bread, and fed it to her with his own hand. "Alright, my amirah. Tell me, has Baba ever disobeyed Zehra before." Then he added softly, "Now smile for your Baba and eat."

At last, Zehra smiled. As she chewed the bread, she gently pushed a few dried dates toward him. The quiet house once again filled with the soft sounds of their laughter and quiet conversation, a warmth that seemed to soften even the weight of unspoken worries. Outside, the sun continued its slow journey across the sky, casting long shadows over the hills of Khirbet Susya. And within those humble clay walls, amidst simplicity and struggle, lived a bond of love and devotion so profound that it gave strength to face whatever trials the days ahead might bring.