LIFE OF A MUSLIM BLACK MELANIN

Dreaming about the past.

*(Rahma's POV)*

Do you know what's the worst part of living sometimes? It's when the pain never goes away, when you cry yourself to sleep and wake up feeling lonely, when there is no one there for you, when you have passed through hell alone, when you think you've finally found a shoulder to cry on just to be disappointed. I thought I was done being hurt; I thought I became numb and used to the pain, but deep down it's there. Living becomes so hard for me sometimes; I just want to die because I know that maybe in my grave, I'll find peace. Maybe the hurt will be less.

What have I done to deserve this cruel life? I'm just a girl born to be black, a girl born to worship Allah. Where is my fault in all this?

Breathing became harder as the dream I was having became more vivid.

There I was, a four-year-old me holding onto the hands of her father. I looked up to him to see my father smiling at me. I always looked up to my father; he was very handsome even if he was black. He always treated my mom like a queen while treating me like a princess. My mom was white, but she loved my dad nonetheless. We weren't rich, but we were very happy. My father reached down to carry little me into his arm, which made me giggle. We didn't usually go out much because of what society thought about us.

Today was Jumu'at, so my Dad decided to take us to the little masjid beside our house. My mom wanted me to follow her into the women's praying section, but I wanted to hang on to my dad, so I decided to follow him instead. Although I wasn't really praying, I was still mimicking what they were doing as they prayed. My Dad and other men were still praying when I heard gunshots. I clung on to my father because of how frightened I became, but they kept on praying. They just did their Salam (concluding prayers) when some men in black shot through the imam's head. I got a good sight of it because we were seated on the second row from where the imam sat.

I started crying and shouting, and my father did his best to console me and close my eyes to prevent me from seeing what was unfolding. I was hugging my father tight, scared to let go. He stood up and tried making his way out of the masjid to find my mom. We were almost at the women's side when two bulky men dragged my father.

He screamed and tried to fight while calling Allah's name, but they didn't budge. I tried pulling them away from my dad, but nothing worked, so my brain told me to go look for my mom so that she could send the bad guys away.

The Muslims kept on running, crying, and kept on calling Allah's name. I kept on running in an attempt to find my mother. Luckily, I found her looking for me.

"Rahma!" My mom called my name with tears dripping down her face.

"T-they w-won't l-let d-dad g-go," I said while shaking, but my mom understood everything I said, so I dragged her to where I left my dad last, but he wasn't there. My mom became worried and took me to hide in a corner and wait for her.

I obeyed her and hid. I sat there for hours with my little body shaking. I waited and waited, but she never came back, and I never saw my dad again. Soon, a woman came to pass by and took me with her to the orphanage. I kept on crying and asking about my parents, but all they kept on saying was that everything would be okay, and my parents would come to get me, but they never did.

A year went by with my little brain never forgetting the incident that happened. At some point, I lost pictures and images of how my parents looked like. I tried so hard to hold onto the happy memories, but nothing helped as everyone around me called me ugly. The kids never wanted to be my friends, and no one ever wanted to adopt me.

I started questioning why I was created black, why I was a Muslim, why my parents never came back, why everyone hated me so much, why the thought of suicide became so frightening. At some point, I stopped believing in Allah. I might have been young, but my father raised me well, teaching me all about Islam and why Muslims are so special and why we should believe in Allah no matter what because He knows us and loves us.

So when I stopped believing, things became much harder for me, and I knew that I had to find my way back to Allah. Since nobody wanted to talk to me, I always talked to Allah. Since no one wanted to hear me complain, I always complained to Allah. Since there was no shoulder for me to cry on, I always cried in my Sujud. I was messed up, yes, but I always kept believing in Allah, and that was the only thing that kept me going.

Soon my lashes fluttered open as I woke up from my dream. It just reminded me of the past and how much struggle I passed through and how much struggle I still am passing through. It was currently 1:00 am, and I didn't feel like going back to sleep. I was sleeping in the store when I had that dream, now I'm drenched in my sweat. It started raining outside, and I became much more calm.

I wasn't wearing my hijab, but I was wearing my pajamas. I felt the urge to go out into the rain, and that's exactly what I did. I slowly stepped into the rain, letting myself get drenched.

It felt peaceful again, so I sat down there on the grass, looking up at the sky and making different wishes to Allah. I know he hears me, and I know he has better plans for me.

After staying in the rain for twenty minutes, I decided to go back inside. It was cold, but nothing I couldn't handle. I went back into the store and soon started dozing off.

Well, tomorrow is going to be a new day. Maybe I get to see Asif, and with that thought, I fell asleep again.

**A/N**
Not that long, I know, but I hope you guys enjoyed reading it. I'll try my best to update more often. Keep reading and supporting Black lives. Please follow my account on IG @toprankingnovels.