She stood at the edge of the abyss, the blinding darkness engulfing her, enticing her. It would be easy to let go, to wither away and join him. Her arms felt numb, and her powerful legs were weak. Violent tremors traveled up and down her body. A small compelling hand, wet with tears, tugged on her arm. “What will we do now?” a quavering voice whispered. She opened her eyes. The sky was a cerulean blue, and the blazing sun was beating on her torn straw hat, casting a slender shadow on the spring green rice fields. Her rapid heart was calmed by a wind that caressed her cheek. To her dead husband, to her children, to Vietnam, she dropped the condolence letter, and with her feet firmly planted on the ground, said, “We will live.”

To say it was easy is an understatement. Raising five kids as a single mother, in a country where women are expected to be docile, seemed infeasible. “I was taught at a young age that men were the head of the household, they were the heroes of the family,” Diep Ngo, aged 80, recalls sadly, her eyes distant. “I felt helpless. My brothers were charting new paths, while I was still, unable to move.” With a suppressed sob, Ngo recounts that at the twilight hour, she would drown with dark thoughts, but every morning when the sun rose, they would be vanquished. The roosters were the reveille that awakened her slumber, her empty stomach was the battle cry, and the last words of hope from her departed beloved, the mantra that carried her on. 

The war took its toll on the civilians of Vietnam; it was a disease that plagued families with deaths and injuries. Young girls were jailbirds, kept busy looking after their younger siblings, torn rags their striped attire and restrictions the bars of their prison. Dreams were locked away, replaced by the basic needs crucial to survival. Even so, when asked if she would take part in the war that claimed her husband, Ngo, her mouth in a straight line and her eyes ablaze, adamantly nodded. Raising both arms until her fists were level with her head, she mustered a grimace. Her nose crinkled and teeth bared, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “Do you think anyone would’ve thought twice about taking me on?”

Scraping bits and pieces of broken memories from her childhood, Ngo recalls that the only freedom she truly had was that from the pressures of education. “I never did well in school. Women were not expected to accomplish anything, so it was highly unusual for a women to achieve higher education.” Now, it seems clear that this supposed freedom transformed itself into another burden upon her shoulders, for she had to take on menial tasks when drafted into the position of “man.” For the first time in her life, she left the cage built by the patriarchal society and refused wealthy suitors. “They were bloated with pride… I would never submit to any man like that.” Ngo was ridiculed by her neighbors as a result, but she felt a strange sensation, absent from her life ever since the fateful, disappointed sigh that accompanied the doctor declaring her gender 80 years ago: the jewel of independence.

“As their father was gone, I had to step into the role of the provider. Oh, what a burden it was, but the power and purpose it gave me fueled the sleepless nights.”

Before the age of 30, her long, black hair turned a platinum gray, and impending wrinkles scarred her face as the war robbed her of youth. A moment to weep or reconcile with memories of loved ones was lost in the present.

“Losing my husband was truly hard, but myself, and other women of Vietnam, had to choke back grief and look to the future,” she remarked. Leaving the house militarily before the sun rose and coming back well after the crescent moon silently loomed in the sky, the only thing Ngo regrets is not spending as much time with her children. But, what she had to do was necessary, as every day was a battle. Even so, how could she explain to them the rough calluses on her hands, which toiled tirelessly, tending the infested wounds left after the hungry bullets pierced the heart of Vietnam? How could she explain yet another outline of a large palm on her red cheek, this time from an angry customer, unsatisfied by the knee-length trousers she had spent all night mending?

Through it all, she remained an eternal warrior, whose struggles rivaled those of men fighting raging wars. Diep Ngo battled gender inequality and injustice, all while leading her family through desperate times. An old poem by Xuân Diệu filled her thoughts as America, the land of rebirth and opportunities, slowly emerged on the horizon: “Your feet have hardly tread round this way… Open your arms to clasp the spring, then from your hand let there be light” (translated by Thomas D. Le). And for the first time since her husband’s death, she welcomed the moist tears, for the valiant soldier’s burden had been lifted. Her dauntless mission was complete. 

I’m forever grateful for her valiant decision to bypass social stereotypes and become a sort-of soldier, leading her family to survival, to new opportunities, to an education, to happiness, to America. It’s a natural, humane feeling that is respectful of the wisdom, the strength, and the sacrifices of the old. Every evening, after the tiring cycle of school, I retreat back into my place of comfort: my grandmother’s arms, and for the past 17 years, her past life was but a false, beautiful painting, rid of pain and hardships and suffering. That one night, under a blanket of softly twinkling stars, I retraced her hands, touching them, caressing them, tracing her old, calloused, scarred fingers and her bulging veins, to finally realize the truth: that there was so much I didn’t know about my hero.

Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) is a terminal illness of the nervous system, resulting in the degeneration of neurons. When the motor neurons in the lateral spinal cord degenerate, the muscle cannot be stimulated and gradually atrophies. As the disease progresses, the brain cannot initiate and control muscle movement, so voluntary muscle actions, such as reaching for your phone or typing on a keyboard, are lost. Currently there are no treatments or cures to reverse the effects of ALS and the disease process is still widely unknown. Some noteworthy individuals diagnosed with this disease have included Lou Gehrig, Stephen Hawking, Jon Stone, George Yardley, Henry A. Wallace, and Steve Gleason. These are the facts, but I could have never realized what living with ALS was like until I listened to a retired senior, a teacher, and a musician tell me their stories.

The older couple told us of their past year as the husband wrote on an electronic note pad to fill in the gaps of his spouse’s version of their story. They had first noticed his symptoms when he began choking on his food, and they had to adapt as the disease progression got more and more severe. His wife comically said that she doesn’t know where to look when he’s trying to talk to her – “Should I look at his eyes, his mouth, this pad?” Every day, they had to face a new challenge and overcome it together, as a family.

Another patient was a mother, a teacher, now wheelchair bound and with a respirator to help her breathe. Because of her age, none of her physicians expected ALS and thought she was struggling from carpal tunnel syndrome or an ulnar nerve injury. She told us her husband was her biggest caregiver and supporter; her husband joked, “She makes the list and I carry it out.” He talked about his struggles, working full time as well as being a full-time caregiver for his wife and their 3-year-old daughter, as well as still finding time for self-care. Even with all this juggling, he felt guilty. This guilt was expressed by many of the caregivers: some because they didn’t even notice the symptoms and others because they felt like they couldn’t help their spouses. Guilt was felt by the patients too. The mother was upset because her daughter would only remember her in a wheelchair. Despite the difficulties, family was a major support system for each patient.

When asked about how she felt after getting her diagnosis, the musician said, “I felt like a deer in headlights… I never pictured I was going to go out that way… with a terminal illness… Last year I had no trouble walking, singing, cooking, gardening, and this year…” Despite all of this, she said she felt relieved. Her struggle to find a neurologist who respected her was heartbreaking. She had gone to a physician because she felt helpless; she was having trouble playing guitar, she was losing her identity as a musician. However, the physician assumed from her past medical history of anxiety that she was having mental issues with memory, anxiety, and depression. As she continued to receive hostile treatment, she found a second doctor who listened to her. Unfortunately, even though he took her seriously, he didn’t have the courage to diagnose her with ALS, telling her instead that she had a motor neuron disease and referring her to a specialist. When she finally received the diagnosis of ALS, she was relieved. She no longer felt crazy. She was able to be heard. She was able to communicate with someone who wanted to help her. ALS is already a hard disease to diagnose; not having someone on her side only made her situation more difficult. She says now, as each symptom appears, she isn’t afraid anymore, because she knows it’s ALS. This relief of having a concrete diagnosis, of having a diagnosable disease, even one that is untreatable, was reiterated by several of the other panelists.

Although a diagnosis was a relief for many of the patients, they all saw the importance of taking part in clinical trials. They recognized that ALS affects everyone at different times in different ways and hoped that one day they could explain why this illness is so hard to detect and track. Participating in various studies and trials made them feel like they were helping future patients and physicians to be able to better understand why this terminal disease can strike at any time, with no discernable warning signs, affecting each individual uniquely in initial symptoms and progression.

Getting a concrete diagnosis gave these patients the freedom to seize the day and live in the moment. For the musician, as her ability to play guitar diminished chord by chord, and she started slurring her words, preserving her voice and her identity became very important to her. She is using a message banking app to preserve her voice. The software requires her to read thousands of words and sentences. Although she had to accept the things she could no longer do, she realized that she did not have to give up her identity or love of music because of ALS. Overflowing with her love of music, she told us about how when choirs sings together, their hearts become synchronized; and how music lowers blood pressure and stimulates all areas of the brain. As she interwove details about her symptoms with her favorite song, Fire on the Mountain by the Grateful Dead, the two had become part of the same spiritual transformation. Smiling peacefully, she explained, “Maybe nobody else hears it the way I do. I see death as the final healing, finally being released from your body.” She viewed her diagnosis as graduating early and the symptoms that came attached with it as her disappearing slowly, rather than all at once. The unavoidable indignities were just something she had to accept. What mattered most to her was keeping her individual personality in the face of intense daily struggles.

By the end of our discussion, I felt the weight of my white coat as I never had before and recognized that this would be the first of many times that I would have to carry this symbol of patient advocacy. As these patients spilled all their vulnerabilities to a group of 50 students, I realized the most important thing I will learn in medical school is opening my heart without getting crushed under negativity. I learned that, as doctors, we have the tendency to think the ultimate solution is life, when in truth, mortality is the reality. What matters is being present when there is a fire, realizing that “a pail of water” may not be enough to put it out, but continuing to carry that water for your patient.

Long distance runner, what you standin there for?
Get up, get out, get out of the door

There’s a dragon with matches that’s loose on the town
Takes a whole pail of water just to cool him down
-The Grateful Dead

In an era when many parts of the world were defeated by darkness, our horizon was everywhere emblazoned with colors, and the festivals of dawn came one after another. At breakneck speed were the heralds of light, with brightest torches in their hands, calling the people to revival in every land. Those to whom they drew near found new life, as though having felt the breath of the Messiah, and the lands through which they passed turned green, as though Al-Khidr had stopped by. With one eye on this world and one fixed upon the Hereafter, these entrancing countenances were turned to Divine whilst amongst the people. Their minds and hearts were joined hand in hand in this worldly adventure. With those magical travels sometimes here and sometimes beyond, they experienced a separate festival each day.

The firmaments were interwoven and converged with this world. Our cities and villages were like the layers of the heavens. We imagined journeying across these heavenly layers as if on land, from continent to continent. We were like children as our days and nights passed with the sweetest of dreams. We felt our existence anew with each dawn and sunrise, and we returned to life all over once more. Breezes of Paradise forever blew in our horizon of thought, and it was as though we heard the flutter of angelic spirits above us. We lived an entire past intertwined with this day, and this day with the near and distant future. At a time when our contemporaries writhed in different crises due to the narrowness of the present, we perpetually breathed an air of tranquility and joy, as though strolling across the spacious and relief-laden slopes of Paradise.

Once upon a time, our magical world was like the wellspring of life of the earth and the heart of the heavens.

In this world forever agleam with lights from eternity were our villages and cities dazzling with their celestial profundities and our glistening homes resembling a bridal chamber. In this world, the rose was reconciled with the thorn, the cat side by side with the pigeon, the nightingale friends with the magpie; everything oscillated so deeply while singing the song of eternity. In everything we saw and heard we straightened ourselves and rose up once again: as if having received the sound of the Trumpet of Resurrection, took to walking toward the Divine at an even greater pace, and felt as though our roads reached all the way to the heavens. Especially for the luminous souls who have attained the happiness of walking along the trajectory of a life of the heart and spirit, living in this world was a privilege, so to speak.

With the sounds of the call to prayer, a call to eternity at each dawn, we experienced a new resurrection and felt the faith with the freshness of the day it was first revealed from the heavens, feelings refreshed, hearts wakeful to the utmost, and our spirits neck and neck with the angels. It was as if we could see the smiling countenance of the Infinite Light, peace be upon him, just a few steps ahead and stood dazed with reverence. Our thoughts were as profound as to project to the beyond, evaluated life with the gravity of the angels, and spent every moment like hearts familiar with God.

Our magical world back then was like the wellspring of life of the earth and the heart of the heavens; this heart constantly proclaimed the Almighty with its rhythmic beating, and with its living and inanimate accessories it offered us unimaginable surprises reminiscent of the beauties of Paradise. Everywhere was aglow; looking to our surrounds, we felt the dazzling magnificence of the world beyond in the face of existence and creation.

Our nights always passed with the luminosity of a “daybreak” while our days were as bright as the slopes of the highest level in Paradise. The atmosphere hanging over us and the natural landscape it encircled were refulgent, as was spring, summer, autumn, winter, and indeed all creation. In this colorful climate, we always asked for that which surpassed our will by means of our supplication and entreaties and incessantly mumbled utterances that would please Him. With feelings alive and our hearts quivering like the lowest note struck, we always presented to Him melodies with a different tune each time! The lamentations breaking loose from our hearts from time to time and rising from our bosoms ascended like the heartfelt cries of Prophet Jacob, and the winds blew with the fragrance from the shirt of Prophet Joseph, peace be upon them. All around, the sugar-sweet words were woven with pure feelings, and accompanied with deeds of righteousness. These “good words” (Qur’an 14:24) rose to the best of their “dew points,” and then poured back upon us as another form of Divine favor.  Those days were the days promised to the believers, those places were places from the Ka’ba and Mount Sinai, and we were the auspicious inheritors of the earth.

Then, the day came when the ruthless assaults of the enemies combined with the disloyalty of friends, and we were no longer able to stand where we once stood. We experienced tremors one after another and thus toppled over suddenly. Who knows, perhaps if we had not been subjected to all those betrayals, this world would have continued to bedazzle until the end of time with its own particular beauty.

Then, the day came when the ruthless assaults of the enemies combined with the disloyalty of friends, and we were no longer able to stand where we once stood. 

It is a great pity that in an inauspicious age, all the lights of this luminous world were ravaged, the hands holding the torches broken, the mouths speaking the truth gagged, and a group of monstrous souls sat upon our life springs. The sun no longer rose with its own color. In the shadow of the stains upon its countenance, the moon was like a poor creature, and the earth had taken on the form of an arena of savagery where malicious demons ran wild. The damage had been done and no longer were the roses with which we were familiar blossoming, nor the flowers diffusing their fragrance to their surrounds, nor the nightingales singing. Replacing the people showering smiles upon their surroundings with serenity and jubilation were dark-spirited night demons who were overwhelmed by hatred, rancor, and enmity, and dejected souls growling with wrath. It seemed as though all people of heart and spirit had dissolved into thin air, along with that luminous era. Villages and towns were abandoned and our minds were as empty of spirit, meaning, and respect for our own values, as were the plains and prairies of life.

The masses were dead on their feet as though subjected to an illusion, those holding the reins in their hands were in pursuit of a different fantasy each day, people scattering helter-skelter away from their own values, and disorder on the societal scale was experienced. There was no respect left for the family tree, nor regard for its fruit; axes hacked away at the tree’s roots and our thousand-year legacy was cast away to the scrapheap just to spite our forebears. Hypocrisy was popularized and dissension reverberated in all quarters. Deception was considered prowess and subterfuge, in the hands of its professionals, witnessed its golden age in favor of besmirching the believers. Deviators were wilier and quicker than ever before; on the contrary, many of the believers were worship-weary, service-spent, and addicts of rewards, and matters requiring patience, determination, sacrifice, and resolve had of course been entrusted to extraordinary occurrences. As a matter of fact, how many people believing in extraordinary manifestations had actually remained, God knows!

Considering our recent history, was it at all possible for us to get back up on our feet and pull ourselves together as a society facing such a degree of disarray? Were we going to be able to stand on our own feet once more as ourselves? It was very difficult to say anything positive with respect to the apparent causes; however, for believing hearts, causes were not everything. After all, what could not happen when God manifested His Favor! How many times humanity had encountered surprise springs until the present day, at the very moment when they fell defeated to sleet and snow. How many times they had witnessed “coolness and peace” (Qur’an 21:69) in the bosom of the most formidable infernos. Each and every time humanity turned to the door to which they needed to turn with faithfulness, confided and expounded their troubles to Him, the death pits in which they found themselves were transformed into ramps of elevation and at a stretch, in the very same breath, reached peaks that had hitherto appeared unattainable. Why could it not happen once more!

Indeed, no one who had turned to Him sincerely until now had ever come away empty-handed, and there were none amongst those remaining independent of Him who had been delivered. Thus, with all these considerations at the present time, our faces are darkened, but our hearts tremble. Fixing our hopes on the vastness of His mercy, confiding our inadequacy, inconsistency, and of course our helplessness to Him, we ask that He enable us to reach a fresh phase of revival with a brand-new celestial calendar and entrust our hopes and aspirations to His favor.

Happiness is an ideal for which everybody longs. People endure all kinds of sacrifice for its sake. But what exactly is happiness? Is this question not one of the biggest enigmas bewildering mankind?

To some, happiness may be physical love and intimacy; to Caesar, it was fame and glory; to Pharaoh, it was protecting his might and position; to Korah, it was possessing masses and masses of fortune and treasure. None of these, however, is either real happiness or a means to happiness. Those who seek true happiness through these means have always fallen into delusion and disappointment.

Real happiness is to be saved from both material and spiritual dishevelment and wretchedness, and for the heart to be settled in perfect confidence and repose. Those who look for it by the seaside, on mountain tops, or in secluded woods or bays have always been mistaken. In fact, these can also be counted as the means of happiness for ordinary people, people who do not know any other way to satisfy and rest their soul. However, real happiness and felicity requires no need for a specific time or place. Happiness can be found everywhere with everyone, attributable to mankind’s inner luminance and freewill. Every person, whenever they want, can attain happiness by setting sail to the eternal climates of their hearts with their unbounded flying soul. This is true, especially if the treasure of the heart is equipped with the purest and most lucid of thoughts. To paraphrase Samuel Boyce, the author of The Rover, or Happiness at Last, how fortunate is the person who holds such a shrine in the depths of his heart.

Surely, in order to be felicitous, the soul, the inner-self of a person, should be well-equipped, and the heart should be furnished with pure and exalted thoughts and emotions. Then the elating memories of the past and hopes of the future that are pertinent and accomplishable should be considered together. As a result, it will be possible to resist evil, to control carnal and lustful feelings, and to reinforce uplifting emotions and adorn every stage of life with meritorious deeds and behaviors. After all, the only principle of living a moral life is to conduct virtuous and meritorious deeds. In this respect, the happiness we seek can never be considered separate from virtue, and it is the result and reward of virtuousness.

The only thing that can elevate and uplift the spirit and keep the heart alive is to have virtuous thoughts and to strive on the path to becoming virtuous. To mention happiness without carrying any thought of virtuousness is meaningless and vain.

The Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, that exclusive person who impressed the seal of felicity in our lives, was utterly virtuous and contentedly happy. He was so resolute and determined that in his whole life, he never, not even once, consented to anything that was not approved by the Exalted Creator. He was so righteous and honest that he was never unfair and never acted unjustly to anyone, even in insignificant matters. He was so attached to the most high, heavenly worlds, and was satisfied with sublime reflections and manifestations to such a degree that he never preferred any worldly flavor to virtuousness. He acquired such an outstanding capacity of perception and comprehension that he did not, not even once, fall into hesitation when distinguishing good from bad. He always remained respectful to people’s ideas, but never felt any need for any exhortation. He used to solve even the most complicated matters very comfortably and easily, and he used to instantly elevate those who were trapped in inadvertence and misguidance to a virtuous and meritorious state. In all his statements, intelligence and wisdom were side by side; he was absolutely resolute about things that he knew were acceptable and right. He was so God-conscious and pious that the lucidness in his behaviors and attitudes, the tenderness and pureness in all his actions and treatments, were all admiringly elegant and gentle; they were even envied by angels. Boasting and arrogance burnt away and melted in his soul, and they never had the opportunity to be revealed. He never used to retort any condemnation directed against him; he endured all this and, with the utmost care, avoided blaming people. Timidity has never come close to his environment, and he never experienced anything like anxiety, apprehension or hesitation. As he was never discouraged from his mission when he had to face his own tribe, he also remained unfaltering when he had to settle accounts with others. His room, his bed, his clothes and his food were so simple that only the poorest could live like him. And he was the most humble, among a community of humble men and women. His fellowship was unprecedentedly steady, firm, and powerful. His faithfulness was so graceful and generous that everybody felt gratitude and indebtedness towards him.

He was perfectly equipped with all these qualities and was outstandingly virtuous. Just as he was virtuous, he was also tranquil, serene, and happy.

To be able to acquire a conscience as lucid and pure as his, we should take him as an example and adorn ourselves with these qualities of virtuousness and never allow thoughts, which carry the reflections and colors of our souls, to be putrefied or soiled.

Yes, adopting and acquiring all these sublime merits and attributes can only make us virtuous. Then the doors of real happiness will be opened to us. However, any defect or shortcoming shown in this way will appear as a rupture in our world of virtuousness and, consequently, will blur our felicitous world. Just as it is necessary to keep the water clear by not throwing anything dirty in it, establishing the tranquility and happiness of the soul can only be possible if it never leaves virtuousness, even for a moment.

Rise up, because my heart is lamenting…

During the days having passed without you,

I went back over the yesterdays,

Grieving all the while, and saddened

Since you had deserted your country.

O my valiant one, appear now!

Appear, for we are depressed.

Our hearts come into our mouths;

Our last words are on our lips…

The people need your smile,

And we’re thirsty for your zeal.

No more strength is left to us:

We, a multitude of orphans,

Are pushed to and fro,

And detained along the way…

Wasting time in distractions,

We cannot bear anything extra…

You appear in dreams every night,

You are in words and in hearts…

This is so the whole life long:

Come to make your influence felt,

Have some pity upon us, please:

We go down on our bended knees…

“Honey, you already fasted last year for three days, didn’t you?” replied her mother, hardly able to hide her smile.

“Mom! I don’t mean a ‘kid’s fasting’. I am talking about the real stuff,” she said raising her soft voice.

“It is wonderful that you want to fast but you need to grow up some more. Why don’t you first try your ‘kid’s fast’ again tomorrow, fast until noon, then have your lunch. I am sure even angels will look down at you with admiration. They will say ‘Wow! Such a brave girl! She is only five years old and yet she already fasts for half of the day.'”

Rolling her eyes, she protested to her mother once again:

“Mom I am not a baby anymore! My sister is fasting, my older brother is fasting, you are fasting, and dad is fasting. Everybody is fasting except for my baby brothers and I. Please mom, I can do it, I want to do it, please…”

“Dear, you are a very strong girl, I know, but you see your stomach is still very little. Your hands, your mouth, you are still a little person. You already know that children don’t need to fast until they are a lot older. Maybe next year, or the year after you can try to fast a day or two, and when you become a teenager, you’ll be fasting the entire Ramadan. But this year you’ll only be doing the kid’s fast.”

As she looked at her little daughter hoping that her words would end the discussion, her heart was overflowing with such a joy and happiness, in the midst of compassion. How proud she was! She uttered a silent little prayer inside, “My little angel, O my dear Lord, please keep the love of worship and devotion overflowing from her heart her entire life with a child-like purity and sincerity, just like now.”

As soon as the little girl’s dark eyes caught her mother’s lips moving, she jump off of her seat. She must have had thought that it was a green light, and that her mother was about to say “yes.”

“Great!” she screamed, her face was enlightened with an excitement. Hardly grasping a breath, she continued: “Then you can wake me up for the early morning breakfast before dawn. Then I can have enough food and water and then be prepared for a day of fasting. I am so happy. And then…”

Her mother and father looked at each other, somewhat reluctant, and then her father interrupted her. “Dear, it seems like you are not listening to what your mother is saying. I know you are a brave girl, and your mother told me that your friends have been calling you ‘fearless’ since the day you challenged them and climbed all the way up to the top of the power pole on the street. I also know you love God, and you want to begin your journey as an obedient servant, and you are excited about your first full fasting, but you are missing something my dear…”

Ready to protest again, her little fingers swayed back and forth over her fork and spoon, and she asked: “What? What is it that I am missing?”

“You also have to be patient. God willing, next year you could try to do one full day of fasting.”

About to burst into tears, she mumbled with a barely audible voice:

“I am fasting tomorrow, whether or not you wake me up for the early breakfast. I am ready and I am fasting tomorrow!”

Her older sister sitting next to her couldn’t help hearing her murmuring and she whispered into her ears: “Oh, you are more stubborn than a goat!”

As she left the table and went back to her room, she wasn’t sure who the winner of the argument was. She climbed up to her bunk bed and closed her eyes tight. She murmured: “Tomorrow will be my first real fasting!”

As soon as she opened her eyes in the morning, she jumped out of bed, almost falling down as she climbed down, and ran to the window. It was already very bright outside. Was it already morning? Had she missed the dawn? Did everybody oversleep? She ran to her parents’ room, screaming:

“Mom, dad, wake up! We overslept, we overslept!”

She saw that her father had already gone, and her mother was about to finish her daily reading of the Qur’an.

“Honey,” said her mother. “I thought we had reached an agreement last night.” She wasn’t able to get any answer from her daughter, so she continued: “Our Creator is so merciful that He never asks us to do anything that is more than we can bear, it is not only children, but many adults are also excused from fasting. For instance, do you remember when I had your baby brother, I didn’t fast for a while, or when your grandmother got very sick and had to take so many medications, she skipped some days of fasting. When you become old enough and your body gets stronger, I know you will be super cool with your fasting, but now I don’t want you to rush into something before you are ready and lose your enthusiasm for later.” She was ready to continue but when she saw the tears in her little angel’s eyes, she stopped and hugged her: “Okay, okay young lady, let’s make an agreement then. You can try and keep your fast as long as you can but it is a summer day, it will be long and very hot so when you get really thirsty, hungry or tired, you can take a few minutes break, then you can continue your fasting. If you forget that you are fasting and eat or drink something, that’s okay, that means angels are trying to help you with the blessings from heaven. And don’t forget, no matter how you do, I am proud of you.”

Finally all the shine and happiness came back to her eyes and the little girl answered: “Deal mom!”

A couple of hours later, she decided to go outside to play. It was really warm outside. She looked around to see if any of her friends were around but she could only see a few shadows from the distance. First she thought about running over to play with them, but then she felt a little tired. Instead, she sat down on the brick pavement.

” I guess I am tired, and it is not even noon yet!” She bent over her stomach and began to chat: “Hey there! How do you feel? Are you hungry?” The only response from her little stomach was a rumbling voice. She smiled and patted herself on the stomach: “Listen, we are growing up today and learning to be patient. Think about all the poor people in the world, they cannot find food most of the time, now do you understand them better?” It seemed like her stomach was convinced and stopped rumbling, she was so proud of herself. With a big smile on her face, she started to watch people passing by on the street.

All of a sudden she heard her favorite sound of summer. A street vendor was calling out: “Snow cones! I have snow cones! Snow cones with all the flavors!” She forgot about everything and quickly checked her pockets. Yes! She had enough money to buy whichever flavor she liked. She rushed to the snow cone vendor and shouted: “Hey, wait! Wait for me! May I have a chocolate flavored snow cone please? You know what, give me the one with lemon and strawberry flavor as well.”

The vendor was a dark skinned young man. As he handed her snow cones wrapped with blue papers, he greeted his favorite customer with a big smile: “Look at you! You have grown up a lot since last year.”

She giggled and handed the money. She was hardly able to hold all three snow cones in one hand, the weather was so warm that they started to melt and drip all over her hands. She didn’t seem to mind, the coolness of the icy drops helped her cool down a little, but it also made her feel her thirst even more. In a hurry as she was trying to unwrap the blue paper from the first one, she noticed the vendor’s dark face, now even darker due to walking under the sun trying to sell all the snow cones and his lips were cracked probably because of thirst. She felt so selfish to have all these three snow cones for herself. A little shy and hesitant, she extended one of them to the man and said: “Please have one of them, three is too much for me anyway.” The man answered: “You are a generous girl, but thank you, I am fasting.” Suddenly, time stopped and she remembered that she also was fasting. “Oh ok,” she said nodding her head goodbye to the vendor and headed back to the brick she was sitting on a few minutes ago. With her stomach rumbling, she mumbled: “So am I, so am I!”

As her vendor friend disappeared around the corner, she didn’t know how to feel. She looked around, there was no one watching her. Well, nobody would think that she was fasting anyway. Her stomach started rumbling again, her lips felt dryer than ever, her hands were covered with the cool-sweet snow cone drips. She took a deep breath, stood up, and began to run towards to children playing in the distance. As she was running her heart was pounding, the ground under her feet felt like it was slipping away and her lips were constantly moving: “I am fasting, I am fasting. My dear God, I promised you, I am fasting today.” As she reached the children, she was gasping for the air and her legs were shaking, she could hardly call out to them: “Hey guys, do you want some snow cones?”

As she walked away from the children enjoying the cool sweet snow cones, her stomach had stopped rumbling, her lips were still dry but wide open with a big smile. Her heartbeat had slowed down and felt like it could fit into it the entire universe. She took her every step with such confidence, she felt like a big oak tree. Her fingers were still sticky and wet, and her lips were still moving: “I am fasting today, I am fasting. I am fasting for the sake of My dear God.”

***

“Excuse me, could you speak a little louder?” With the kind voice of the moderator, she was pulled back from her childhood. It was an interfaith group meeting where people were discussing various faith related topics including their stories in regards to how they shaped them as adults. She must have zoned out in the midst of the last question.

“Oh I’m sorry!” she said, clearing her throat nervously and a little embarrassed. “Where were we?”

As her group-mates smiled at her, the moderator answered:

“So it was your turn. Would you care to share with us your first memory of when you felt the presence of God in your life? It might be very difficult to pin-point, maybe in your teenage years or later? It’s okay if you can’t recall the exact moment, we are just causally sharing.”

She quickly glanced at the wondering faces of her friends. After 20 some years, she could still feel the cold-sugary drips on her hands. With a smile, she took a deep breath before she started to tell her story….

“That’s okay, I know exactly what moment it was.”

Ayse Kubra Coskun, MD, is currently serving as Vice President of Boston Dialogue Foundation.

Not long after, I saw a minuscule thing coming to me from that direction; I thought it was a bird of some kind. Strange enough, the bird came to me so abruptly that I heard its sound only after it passed me… Guess what? It was not a bird; it was a fighter jet. This time, I knew where to look, and I followed it for the short while it played pick-a-boo with me.

The following day, mom took me to the celebration arena for a national day. I couldn’t believe my eyes, everywhere was full of fighter jets; but my eyes looked for the one that mesmerized me the day before. And, it was standing right there, waiting for me to come. I approached it with respectful steps, and carefully touched it. It was so cold and tough, yet so beautiful. That day, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. The smell of the jet fuel coming from the engines was so powerful that even I could fly with that kind of a drink.

“Hey; come here” I heard someone calling me. There was really nobody around. “Follow the sharp smell, come on here,” insisted the voice. Was I daydreaming, or had I been poisoned by the jet fuel and lost my conscience? Yeah, yeah, the voice was coming from the rear-end of the engine. It was the nozzle that was talking to me.

The moment I realized who was talking to me, I found myself in the circular, hollow structure of the nozzle. I was too nervous and surprised at first, but after a moment of looking around admiringly, I spoke with the words: “I know the inferno fire that you are exhausting. Isn’t it beautiful? You are so powerful. You are the one that is powering this beauty in the sky.”

The nozzle was not happy to hear my words of flattery. “Hey little boy, you know something, but you don’t know everything. Yes, it is true that I am exhausting that violent river of gas. You are right that this stormy exhaust is in the heart of this beauty in the sky. But you have got to learn more. I am only a solid duct that is accelerating what comes into me. I have no power to compress that humongous amount of air into a volume as small as a bird’s nest. I am completely unable to heat up the air to inferno level. And, the beauty in the sky is not taken up there by me either.”

I was totally disappointed and frustrated by the nozzle. I had thought for an instant that it was my hero; but now, my dreams were destroyed. I felt all alone in a desert. The nozzle must have realized my situation, so it picked up again: “Come on. I am going to introduce you to the unseen heroes behind our mysterious beauty. I am going to show you the inside.”

I was truly perplexed. What else could be more mysterious than a speaking nozzle? The voice of the nozzle slowly diffused into the deep and dark hallway into the engine, and I followed it. Soon, I came by long towers that had a nicely curved shape. As soon as I stepped near them, the floor that the towers were built on started moving. In the midst of this earthquake and a blinding darkness, I could faintly see another row of towers that were stagnant. I threw myself towards them. As I was dealing with my horrified and troubled soul, I heard a thunderous voice that reverberated everywhere:

“How nice to see you here, Adam!” I was doubly shocked. Not only was this unseen thing talking to me, but it also knew my name. “Do you know me?” I replied. “How could I miss your glittering eyes fixed at us whenever we pass over you? I am the turbine, one of the unseen heroes. I am the one that powers the compressors that squeeze the air. I am the one that faces the hot air before it goes into the nozzle.”

Wow, this was the man; this was the legendary hero behind the beauty in the sky. I looked at its towers that displayed nobility and their curved surfaces that embodied beauty. As I was losing myself in admiration, I heard the voice again:

“These are the eyes that I have been seeing every time we passed over you. But I have to tell you something. What you are looking for is not me either, because I cannot create the hot air that energizes everything, including me. Despite the beauties and power embodied in me, I am not the essence that bears the real beauty you are looking for.”

What was that supposed to mean? First the nozzle, now the turbine; every time, I am being attracted, and then I am left alone with a sense of deception. Are these heroes making fun of my admiration of their beauty? If so, they don’t deserve my admiration anymore; if not, then why am I having this feeling of deception? Is it wrong to attribute hero status to something?

Lost in feelings and thoughts like these, I left the turbine, and proceeded further into the darkness. Not only didn’t I know where I was, but also I had no means to determine my whereabouts. In total silence and darkness, I sat at a place that felt like a smooth and large room. Suddenly, a wind started blowing with growing speed, and a constant noise occupied everywhere. I was alarmed and sought somewhere to cling to. With the help of lightning that seemed to come out of nowhere, I saw a cavity that looked safe. After a challenging crawl, I was there. Then, a second lightning came and everywhere burst into fires. As if winds from the hell were gushing out. My jaw dropped down, I stared at this miraculous display of fire.

“Welcome, finally you are here,” told a voice that was distinctly heard despite the violent storm. I felt like I am being driven through a scenario so that where ever I enter, I experience things that I was meant to. “Am I the hero of this scenario?”, I asked myself inside, and laughed at the idea. Upon seeing so many extraordinary things, my awe of the strange things was veiled with habituation. So, I couldn’t pay the respect that was due the voice I heard. Maybe because of this, I received a kick from behind, and I had to struggle against the winds of fire to get back to my seat where I was safe and comfortable.

“Hello, are you still there?” I asked. “Can you tell me where I am?” That distinct voice appeared again in my ears: “Indeed, I am here, but you weren’t!” I bowed my head with shame. Having hurt the only one that could help me in this situation was as foolish as it could be. “And I was with you all along from the start.” What was this? I didn’t know whether to feel ashamed because of my selfish and pragmatic sense of respect, or to burst into a thousand pieces for not having recognized the one who has been with me all along?

“This is as far as you can go in this story. You are in the place where the energy that empowers everything is revealed. It is the heart of the beauty that you have been admiring.” After a second of silence, “Did you find what you were looking for?” asked the voice. I had seen strange things, but none of them had satisfied my heart nor quenched my curiosity. A sad face was my response to the question, but I didn’t know if the voice could see my face. Apparently it did, so that it directed me to another place. “You see this violent fire going on, would you like to fly away with it?” Was this guy crazy? How in the world could I survive in fire? “Well then, there are two ways to get out of here. Either you go along the fire back to where you came from. Or, if you are not able to do so, you go forward.”

With that directive, I started crawling towards the front, into the strong wind. I came across a thing similar to the turbine, and then another hallway similar to the nozzle. At first I was puzzled, because I had seen the same things that I had seen on my way previously. Had I made a mistake and proceeded backwards? That mustn’t be the case, since I had moved away from the fire.

After this stupefying similarity, I was at the mouth of the cave where everything starts. I was able to see the wings too. But now, the aircraft was moving. All of the storm that was going on inside was for accelerating. The force of the acceleration was so strong that I slipped from where I was clinging, and found myself stuck at the beautiful front curve of the wing. Strange enough, the same voice welcomed me again: “Finally you are here.” I didn’t know whether to reply to it or to lose myself while watching the beauty of the aircraft as it soared into the air with an ever increasing speed. It definitely felt like the divers who hear that beautiful voice when they go deeper than they should. I could not resist melting my body in the excitement of the maneuvers. After a while, we were hundreds of meters above where we had started. Now, the aircraft was cruising, and despite the rareness of the experience, it felt like sitting in the living room. With the steadiness of my state, I found myself emerging from the depths of excitement.

“Have you found the beauty you are looking for?” asked the voice again, to which I said yes. “Where do you think that beauty is coming from? From the engines or from the wings?” That question was most unexpected. The engine itself was not able to fly, it was only able to create a strong push. The wings were only beautiful. They did not actively do anything. They only stood there in the wind, and then, lift was there. Without the air, the wings would not create anything. As for the air, we are completely sunken in it, let alone flying. “I don’t know where the beauty is coming from. There seems to be something missing in the ingredients that created the beauty of flight. None of the ingredients seems to originate it. It looks like you put the engine, the wings and the air in the pot, and suddenly something that you did not put comes into being.”

“But you did not realize this point until you made this journey, despite that you have been witnessing the same beauty all along. “

Why was that the case? Why did I have to make this incredible journey in order to become aware of this uncertainty in the source of beauty?

“When you are not actually in a journey like this, you take all the mysteries for granted, because you consider them natural, ordinary. But once you are in the journey, you realize something different that exists neither in you nor in the things you come across. It is as if somebody is tracking what is going on, and whenever the necessary ingredients are there, he secretly adds the missing spice into it at the right amount. And, then? Behold the beauty!”

Funny though, sometimes while walking in the enchantment of the awakening nature around me, I run into a tree, and I hug it as if I met a friend. You can imagine how entertaining I am to the passers-by.

It was one of those days when I felt the presence of a second person near me. Strange enough, though, he wasn’t laughing at my hugging the tree.

“Hi fellow, what is wrong with you? Why aren’t you laughing at this lunatic who is in love with trees instead of people?” I asked.

I was shocked upon hearing his answer:

“The sight of people is of no value to me because I cannot see the light coming from them. But you are certainly shining through your voice.
“For me, people shine through their presence; they change my heart beat.”

I exhaled the air that was hiding in my lungs with anxiety, and teased: “So, I should be careful when I am talking to you since I cannot hide my true feelings from you!”

“You bet. But don’t worry; your voice is giving me positive signals.”

Then, I quickly returned: “I am happy to hear that. So, shall we play a game together?”

“Like what?”

“Alright. Only by listening, we are going to try to predict the coming of the next person.”

“I’ll take your challenge,” he said.

And, we kept silent in order not to miss the clues of an approaching person. Believe it or not, we waited for minutes and not a single person passed by. We could hear voices of kids running in the distance, wind rubbing the leaves, trunks of the trees squeaking as they swing, flies, birds flying or landing, etc., but not a single person passing by. Suddenly he said:

“Maybe we should play something else.”

“You know what? You are the ever first person with whom I can play the game of solitude. We are together but not like cans on a shelf. We are together like two flowers smiling at each other although we cannot see or hear one another. Outsiders may think we are lonely. But in essence, we are hand in hand in the depths of our hearts.”

“It is strange that you say this. Why should you enjoy solitude?” he asked.

I did not answer that question. Actually my silence was the answer; and I think, or hope, he got my answer. I didn’t want my discovery of a solitude-mate to disappear so abrupt.

“Here comes one!” he exclaimed. I could feel his joy of catching the first person. I smiled; and he felt it because I give out a warm and vibrating breath when I smile.

“It is so alive,” he said.

“What? The person?” I was startled. Why was he using “it” for a person?

“No, your smile. I don’t feel many smiles like yours. I usually hear frozen laughs and smiles of mass-production, which carry no sincerity.”

I was embarrassed by his compliment. Again I kept silent, but my face was burning up, and he felt that as well.

“Now you are as flushed as I was when we started talking.”

“Yeah, what had happened to you? Why were you so flushed earlier?” I inquired.

“I climb this tree often. I actually do this whenever there is nice weather. Sometimes, I feel the footsteps of someone, whom I want to catch. I rush down to the ground hoping not to miss the encounter. But always, I miss the person. Now, that spirit is standing before me.”

Once more, I was embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say. We both kept silent for a while. Then, I heard my daughter calling: “Dad, it’s time.”

She was the one predicted by my solitude-mate.

“Forgive me for disturbing your conversation,” she added.

“A conversation by presence cannot be disturbed by words,” replied my friend. We all chuckled.

I felt my daughter pulling my arm – an authoritative sign meaning “let’s go.” I grasped her hand firmly, turned back to my solitude-mate, and gave a goodbye silence, and he did the same to me. Then I gave him that lively smile, and he went through that shower of heat. I picked up my cane and started knocking on his ears again as I returned home with my daughter as my guide.

Katharine, “Kadriye,” Branning was one of the passengers on a Turkish Airlines flight to New York on September 9, 2011, a flight which could not reach its destination that inauspicious day. Taken from her book Yes, I Would Love another Glass of Tea: An American Woman’s Letters to Turkey, the following is one of her imaginary letters to Lady Mary Montagu who lived in Turkey three centuries ago.

Unbelievably, about an hour out, the Kaptan came back on the intercom and stated in Turkish that we needed to return to Istanbul yet again. The entire cabin groaned and grumbled, and I began to doubt that I would ever get home that day. Only this time, his voice sounded odd, and he said, very vaguely, that we needed to return because “All American airspace has been closed.” I was immediately seized with panic, for I knew that something very, very terrible must have happened, for American airspace has never been closed in our entire history.

You certainly survived some dangerous scrapes on your travels, both on route to Turkey and on the return trip home to London. In one of your early letters, you relate a hair-raising crossing of the Alps, where your carriage almost plummeted over the precipice into the Elbe. The hazards of snow and Tartars awaited you at every turn on the road after that, and your boat almost capsized during your Channel crossing on your return home. I would like to relate to you the story of a difficult travel experience I had, one of an eventful return to my homeland after a stay in Turkey.

This trip started out on a warm and crisp late summer morning in Istanbul. It was the last day of a glorious voyage to eastern Turkey, where I saw some of the wildest beauty known to man: from the white snowy peak of Noah’s Mount Ararat to the deep cobalt blue of Lake Van and to the intense dark emerald green of the Kaçkar Mountains. It was a day when I felt particularly blessed because I had been lucky enough to witness such stunning examples of nature, God’s most loving gift to man. It was a day with a crystal clear sapphire sky and bright sun. It was the morning of September 11, 2001.

The return trip home announced itself like so many others before it. I traveled the familiar road to the airport filled with an infinite sadness to be leaving Turkey at the end of an intense time of learning, joyful play and living history, mixed with anticipation of the happiness of being reunited with loved ones at home. Candy, halvah, bonjuk blue bead trinkets, lokum, and Turkish coffee were purchased in the duty-free shop; and the last copies of the newspaper Hürriyet were tucked into my carry-on bag. As I passed through the first, second, and third security checkpoints, I commented to myself how thorough these Turks were when it came to ensuring security in this often volatile point of the world. I felt safe.

There was a delay of almost 2 hours before we could leave, due to the proverbial and mysterious “engine problems.” Finally we took off, but after only one hour out in flight, the pilot (“Kaptan”) came on the intercom to tell us that we needed to head back to Istanbul because the pesky problem was apparently still not cleared up. The stewardesses stored away the food service carts, seatbelts were fastened, and we returned, deplaned, and waited another two hours in the same embarkment area. A Turkish Airlines (THY) employee finally announced that a new plane had been found and that we would be heading out shortly. Once again, off we took, convinced that surely this time, all problems were behind us.

Unbelievably, about an hour out, the Kaptan came back on the intercom and stated in Turkish that we needed to return to Istanbul yet again. The entire cabin groaned and grumbled, and I began to doubt that I would ever get home that day. Only this time, his voice sounded odd, and he said, very vaguely, that we needed to return because “All American airspace has been closed.” I was immediately seized with panic, for I knew that something very, very terrible must have happened, for American airspace has never been closed in our entire history.

About a half an hour later, the Kaptan came back on, still in Turkish, and said that it looked like the problem was that a “big building in New York City has suffered some kind of attack.” And then I knew in the pit of my stomach what that “big building” had to be: it could be none other than the one I see day and night from my window of my apartment, standing like a sentinel for the whole world to see: the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. And I knew somehow that the assault was not a mere accident, but had to have been a terrorist attack.

At last the plane landed back in Istanbul. The cabin hostess made an intercom message requesting that everyone remain in their seats. The Kaptan came on and gave a message in Turkish, and then made another one in English so that the few Americans on the plane would be able to finally understand what was going on. He spoke very clearly and slowly, not because his command of English was weak, but because he was searching for the right words to communicate his message as gently and carefully as possible. In a voice obviously trembling with emotion, he said: “Dear Ladies and Gentlemen. I must inform you of some very sad news. There has been a terrorist attack on the big building in New York City, the World Trade Center. It is very, very bad, and many people have been hurt. To all the American people on this plane, I want to say I am so so sorry for you and your country today.” And then we heard him sob. To hear that sob made me realize how intense it must have been for him, an ever-gracious Turkish host, to announce that news to us, his “guests” in his aircraft home. The Kaptan must have felt devastated that a plane, object of his livelihood, had been used as an instrument of destruction. He was surely heartbroken, too, because he already knew the terrorists were fellow Muslims. His soft sob made the imagined bang of the crash in my ears all the more loud, and the whole incident became very real for me, although at the time, I had no idea that the Towers were to fall and that the terrorists were allegedly Muslims.

Because of those engine problems, we had been saved the fate of so many others who were flying home to America that day. Instead of being stranded, the few Americans on that Turkish Airlines flight that day had the great fortune, in the midst of all the ensuing chaos, to be returned to a country that would open its arms and take care of them.

When we stepped off the plane and came into the airport terminal, there stood in front of us a platoon of people of all kinds, lined up in total silence. The entire airport staff had gathered there to wait for us: some were officers dressed in suits and ties, some wore THY service uniforms and ties, some were baggage handlers in their grey tunics; there were the char women in their pink aprons standing attention next to their cleaning carts, police officers with their thick black leather belts, food service attendants in their white paper hats, security clerks in their black blazers, and so many others in a blur of colors and clothes. It seemed as if the full airport had come forth to form this very human wall to surround us with their protection. After that point everything became a slow motion blur, as if I were about to faint or as if I were underwater, with people moving towards us but no sounds coming from their mouths. But I do remember clearly all the hands coming forth – those famous magic Turkish hands that appear whenever there is a need – taking us by the elbow and guiding us to the baggage claim area. I do not recall what was said to me at this point; all I remember were their eyes – and it was the sadness that I saw in those eyes that made me realize the gravity of the situation. I distinctly remember, however, a grey-haired, handsome man in a charcoal suit with a walkie-talkie in his hand, who came up to me. In perfect English he said, “Please do not worry, you are being taken care of. We will be taking you by a van to a nearby hotel to stay. It is very beautiful and nice, do not worry. You will stay there for the time it takes for things to normalize and for you to go home again. Do not worry. We will take care of you. But know that when you go into your room and turn on the television, you will see images of a brutality never before seen, and that you will be very upset. There will be someone at a table in the lobby, a health worker, who will be there for you to speak with if it all becomes too much for you. Good luck and God bless you.” And to this day I can still see the sharp dark features of the unshaven face of the skinny man in a ragged black suit coat who stuck out his hand to whisk away my suitcase and to load it in the van for me.

When the few Americans on that flight arrived at the hotel, we were ushered to our rooms with the hushed consideration usually reserved for funeral services. After I entered that room, in that indeed very beautiful hotel, sat down on the edge of the bed and saw those images on the television screen, I knew that the grey-haired man had not exaggerated. I learned of the story of the “attack on the big building in New York.” I learned that it was done in the name of Allah, the most Merciful and the most Compassionate.

I stayed there for a week, unable to get personal news of the tragedy, with only the droning reports of CNN and those never-ending images of the impact of the crash played over and over as if one time was not enough to gouge it in your memory forever. Was my husband safe? Was my assistant, who crossed under the Towers every morning on her commute in from New Jersey, lying flattened under the tonnage? How was everyone in my downtown neighborhood, now closed off from the world, coping with the tragedy? Over and over again as I saw those images of that hole ripped in the sky, I felt as if a hole had been ripped in my heart. When I saw those crushed beams, I felt as if my own bones had been crushed. I clearly remember the next morning when I went out of the hotel to get some air, there fluttering in front of me on a giant flagpole was the Turkish flag – its red color symbolizing the blood of its own fallen – at half mast. It was then that I understood that this tragedy was not one that had just struck my city, but it was affecting the entire world as well.

One night that week when I couldn’t sleep I got up to write a letter. I did not know exactly to whom I should address it, but I just felt that writing a letter would help me in that moment of stress, for putting emotions to paper seemed the only possible outlet for my grief, as the shock of it all had pushed my tears way down deep inside of me. At least for that moment in time, I could control something in the world: the flow of words onto paper in my own proper universe.

One morning about eight days later, the hotel staff called to say that we were to be ready to leave in an hour: the US airspace had opened and that we were being sent home. We were to be picked up at the hotel by a special THY van and taken to the airport.

Before leaving, I went to the front desk of the hotel to ask what I owed them for all the expenses I had incurred staying there: the luxurious room, the breakfasts, the vain phone calls, and faxes home. I did not know the protocol of such a situation, but I wanted to make sure I had taken care of everything. The young woman at the front desk just looked at me, bowed her head, and whispered, “You owe us nothing.” I could not bear to look at her, overwhelmed by the hotel’s charity, the intensity of this tragic event and my incapacity to thank her for the role she played in my well-being. I could not speak but handed to her the envelope with the letter I had written on that night I was unable to sleep. She looked at the addressee, visibly moved, and then back at me, and quietly said “Thank you.” And it was only then that my tears started to fall, as if all the immeasurable solace and tender consideration provided over the past week made the horror of the event suddenly too much to keep inside.

We piled in the busses and arrived at a still-hushed airport and boarded the flight to New York City, mirroring the same steps of a week prior. No one talked much on that 11-hour flight home: everyone was either too frightened to be in the cursed skies, in one of these apparatus now associated with an instrument of mass destruction, or quite simply because we were all apprehensive about what we would find once at home. The city I found when I arrived that night was as quiet as the plane. The former glorious view onto the World Trade Center from my Greenwich Village apartment was now filled with a billowing, yellow-grey cloud, glowing in the day from the sun reflecting off all its dust and in the evening from the giant high-intensity lights set up at the site. The furnishings of my home were covered, that day and for many months to come, with the pulverized dust of those fallen Twin Towers and the ashes of its 3,000 victims. Each day as I cleaned it away, day after day for months, I ceremoniously repeated prayers and recited Scripture for all of those innocent souls reduced to the dust I was wiping away.

New York City healed, the United States healed, and I healed. We are still living the consequences of that ignominious event up to this day, some small, some large, some local, some international. In many ways, I wonder if the recovery from that day was for me harder than most Americans. Although I personally suffered no loss of life in the crash, I still felt a tremendous loss to my city and in my faith in my fellow man. I felt betrayed by Islam, this faith that had earned a special respect in my heart; I felt betrayed that several fanatics of this religion I considered so pure and so noble had tarnished it beyond apparent forgiveness. I could not believe that the Islam I knew, through my studies, through my life shared with Muslims, through the many Muslims I had met in Turkey, those who believed in a God, the most merciful, the most compassionate – could be anything like those who had done this act. When I saw the dangerous turn my grief was taking – veering towards doubt, bitterness, and deception – I knew it had to stop. It was then that I made a vow. I perhaps could not control the outcome of all the events in the world, I reasoned, but I could control my immediate sphere, the orbit around me that I influence. It is said that perhaps everything in life happens in order to help us live. And so from the horror of that day, I told myself that I needed to recommit my efforts to support understanding between people and religions and that I needed to continue more than ever my dedication to fostering cross-cultural relations. It made me realize that if a person like me, who had such respect for Islam, was feeling such negative emotions against Muslims, what must the average American be thinking? I needed now to be a bridge-builder more than ever.

The Turkish part of my 9/11 story has one last chapter. About five months after the incident, I returned to work after my lunch break one day, and the front desk receptionist handed me a very large wooden box. A THY envelope with my name on it taped to it. The letter was from the New York director of Turkish Airlines, extending his wishes for my well-being and telling me that he desired to offer this token of appreciation on behalf of the THY staff for my letter, the one I had addressed “to Turkish Airlines and the People of the Republic of Turkey” and left at that hotel desk months before and which had finally come into his hands. It was inconceivable to believe that after all that had already been done emotionally and materially for me, that the warm arms of the Turks were continuing to surround me with compassion and goodness.

Inside of that giant box, encased beautifully in an elegant walnut and glass frame, was a large, oval plaque in silver. On this plaque, inscribed in fine cursive calligraphy, was the iconic message “Maþallah” which translates as “how beautifully God created” and is used by Turks to mean “may God protect you from all evil.”

Yes, Turkey – this magnificent and most generous of nations – has shown me that I must never doubt the infinite goodness of my fellow man.

Sincerely,

Al-Aqsa was fortunate to exist in the same time period as the Kabah. And, just like the Kabah, it emerged from the ground as if bursting forth to comply with orders coming from above. Sometimes it was exalted to the rank of being the niche for devout people, and at other times it served as the pulpit of holy individuals. For centuries, this sacred and blessed place opened its wings to its inhabitants, even at the most pitiless times of disbelief. It let believers breathe security while becoming the paradise of this life.

This sublime temple now looks at our faces with sorrow and exhaustion. Her face has been darkened by suffering, for she is far from what she once was: the source of thousands of holy experiences. When we contemplate al-Aqsa Mosque in this pitiful state, it feels like we are bleeding internally and can no longer breathe. This auspicious niche, this honored pulpit that once had celestial whispers coming to our hearts, now looks like a candle that has been put out, a skeleton about to collapse.

Al-Aqsa Mosque is a victim of injustice and cruelty. Her existence is squeezed in between her friends infidelity and her enemies torture. Once she had her lips at our hearts whispering tranquility, not knowing that in the future she would become a stammering tongue singing a song of sadness.

When I first saw her current appearance, I was deeply saddened. From now on, faithful hearts will not be able to meet and hug each other with love, or to roar Allah’s name among the walls of this place in which Prophet Adam’s voice still echoes, Prophet Abraham’s breaths are still felt, Prophets David’s and Solomon’s cries are still heard, and Prophet Muhammad’s journey to infinity to unite with his Beloved is still known. Alas, these doors will not be able to open wide to believers “ neither slowly nor quickly and without happiness and enthusiasm.

It looks like all of her dreams and fancies are now over, her surrounding lights turned off, the prayers to God heard no longer. It is said that even the rocks and trees have ears. Would that they had tongues too! Yes, for then they could express what they have been through. Perhaps then the people who did this would be afraid and abstain from their evil. Maybe then her faithless companions would come to their senses and rescue her from this tragic slavery.