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The Hour Between Day and Night
Tasneem Al Hayah There is a moment in every evening when the world holds its breath. The sun hovers at the edge of the sky, slipping lower as the shadows stretch. Birds go quiet. The air cools. Light softens until it looks like an artist’s dream. Maghrib comes like a whisper in that hour, neither day nor night, just a thin line between two certainties. Growing up, this familiar in-between time was the one moment that never felt rushed. No matter how busy life felt, no matter how stressful the day had been, the call to prayer would sound across the evening, and everything—conversations, homework, noise—would pause. We washed up for prayer, and the adhan echoed softly; the world outside could wait. As a kid, I didn’t think much of it; it was just “time to pray.” Now, I realize it was something else too, a reminder to slow down when everything feels like it’s moving too fast. It’s about living through transitions rather than rushing past them. Life is full of hours like this, not on the clock, but in the soul. Not fully one thing, not fully another—just in between. The moment after childhood, before adulthood starts making sense. The silence after a loss, before the heart begins to heal. The pause between letting go and moving forward. We like to pretend life happens in clean chapters, but much of it unfolds in the blur, where certainty is out of reach and all you can do is stand still and trust the sky to change on its own schedule. You don’t rush the sky; it changes when it’s meant to. That’s where tawakkul sits, trusting Allah SWT in the time between what you want and when it comes. Trusting that even when you can’t see what’s next, He can. You might not feel progress, but Allah SWT may still be working on your path, opening doors or preparing your heart for what’s coming. Sunset has always been short, blink, and the light is gone. Maybe that’s the point. That small window reminds us that not every stage of life has to be long and defined. Some moments exist simply to teach us patience, stillness, and trust. Faith doesn’t only live in clarity; sometimes it lives in the discipline to pause, in the humility to recognize that transitions deserve reverence, too. The sun doesn’t snap into darkness. The day doesn’t fight the night. It hands the world over gently. I’m learning to do the same, to let change happen without forcing it, to pause without panicking, and to trust that whatever comes after this in-between time is written with care. Sometimes, the most honest thing you can do is to simply be willing to step into the night, trusting that the light will return. The Value of One Life, Dictated by the Recognition of their Death Sumayya Mohammed According to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, I am entitled to my right to life just as any other person is. The seemingly perfect application of this law reassures so many people around me of their safety and protection, except for children like me. I cannot find comfort in the law’s promise of equality and justice, because I learn from the news headlines every day on every electronic device that my life is not worth the same as another person’s. The joyous personality that I once emanated no longer exists, because I have been forced to shed my childlike innocence and face the realities that society has created only for me. I should be playing with my classmates during recess and learning how to write new vocabulary with precision, but I cannot view myself as the same person I was before, and I can no longer pretend that what I see in the news does not affect me. This space does not offer me a sense of belonging, because even as I craft buildings made of Play-Doh and popsicle sticks with my friends, I carry the heavy weight of knowing that, from all of my colleagues, I will be the first one to be forgotten because of my identity. The death of any white man named Charlie, Liam, or Rick sparks outrage over the internet, but the internet fails to blink an eye at the murder of thousands of children who are only guilty of their innocence. Does society only pay attention to people who are famous or people who possess authority? Does my pain not matter because society perceives children like me as things that should not have existed to begin with? If my name were Hind, Qisma, or Abdullah, or any other name that once represented a lineage and history so rich in culture and meaning, would I, too, be erased from the world’s new and improved, colonized history upon my passing? Will I, too, become like the Indigenous Peoples who remain in my school’s history texts only as chapters and not rich cultures, lineages, and peoples of powerful resistance and resilience? Will I become like the Indigenous girls and women who were unjustly removed from their homes and subjected to violence, only for the world to remain silent at their violation? Will I become like the Sudanese children who are caught in the crossfire of a corrupt political regime, known neither for their beauty and brightness before nor after their deaths? Or, will I become like the Uyghur children who are forced into labour, stripped of their rights to life and religion, only to be forgotten as people across the world benefit from their suffering? Every social advocate and activist emphasizes the importance of schooling and education, but how can I exist in these institutions while knowing that the bodies who build these curricula and policies are the same who dictate the value of my life based on my identity? How am I to thrive in the very societies that sell me utopian discourses of inclusivity and equity, while showing me that the value of one life is dictated only by the recognition of their death on television? you cannot pray here. |
