Chapter Twelve: Questions Without Answers

 Nīkah Written by Qādr, Tested by Genotype

Chapter Twelve: Questions Without Answers

After everything we had been through, after the joy that once filled our lives and the pain that slowly replaced it, a question continued to rise within our hearts in a way that we could not ignore, no matter how much we tried to silence it or push it aside. That question came to us in the quiet moments of the night when sleep refused to come, and it followed us into the day when we tried to remain strong in front of others. We found ourselves asking, with hearts that carried both belief and pain, why all of this was happening to the four of us at the same time, why it had come at this stage of our lives, and why the same kind of difficulty had unfolded in such a similar way among us.

We were not asking out of rejection of what Allah had written for us, because deep within our hearts we knew and believed that everything that happens in this life is by His decree. We understood that this was Qādr, and we reminded ourselves of that constantly, even when the weight of our situation made it difficult to breathe. However, understanding that something is written does not remove the emotional weight that comes with living through it. It does not erase the fear that settles into the heart when you watch your child struggle, and it does not make the nights easier when you are left alone with your thoughts and your worries.

As time passed, we began to learn more about what we were facing, not because we wanted to, but because we had no other choice. We had to understand the condition of our children, the risks involved, and the reality of what it meant for our families moving forward. We came to understand that this was something that required constant care, something that would not simply disappear with time, and something that could become more dangerous if not handled properly. The knowledge we gained did not bring comfort; instead, it brought a deeper awareness of how serious the situation truly was.

Months went by after we gave birth, but those months did not feel like time that passed naturally. Every day felt heavy, filled with responsibilities that we had never prepared for and challenges that seemed to appear without warning. The routines we once knew were replaced with new ones that revolved entirely around the health of our children. We spent our days monitoring their conditions, giving them medications, and watching for any changes that might require immediate attention. The simple joy that usually fills a home with a newborn was replaced with constant alertness and an awareness that everything could change at any moment.

When the time came for the naming ceremonies of our children, it was not the celebration we had once imagined when we spoke about motherhood in our earlier days. Instead of laughter and excitement, there was a quiet atmosphere that carried both love and sorrow at the same time. Our families gathered, and we fulfilled the tradition of naming our children, but behind every smile was a sense of pain that could not be hidden. We made du‘ā’ for our children with hearts that trembled, asking Allah to protect them and grant them ease, even though we could already see how difficult their journeys might be.

It felt as though we were celebrating while carrying a deep sense of grief within us, grief for the ease we had expected but did not receive, and grief for the reality that had replaced our hopes. Despite everything, we tried to remain strong, reminding ourselves that this was part of our test and that we had to continue moving forward no matter how difficult it became.

Not long after the naming ceremonies, another challenge appeared in my life, one that I had never imagined I would face in such a short period of time. At first, the signs were small and easy to overlook, but they quickly became more serious and impossible to ignore. My baby’s condition began to change in a way that caused immediate concern, and I could feel that something was not right even before the doctors confirmed it.

We took him to the hospital again, and after careful examination, the doctors explained that he was suffering from sepsis, a dangerous condition that affects small babies and can become life-threatening if not treated quickly and properly. Hearing that diagnosis felt like the ground beneath me had been taken away completely. I had already been struggling to cope with everything that had happened, and now this added another layer of fear and uncertainty that I did not know how to handle.

The days that followed were filled with constant movement between the hospital and home, as we did everything we could to ensure that our baby received the care he needed. We spent money without thinking about it, bought medications without hesitation, and followed every instruction given to us with a sense of urgency that came from fear. Nothing felt stable, and nothing felt certain. Every moment carried the possibility of something going wrong, and that reality stayed with me constantly.

My baby cried often, and his cries were not the kind that could be easily comforted. They carried pain, discomfort, and a struggle that I could feel deeply every time I held him. His small body showed signs of the illness, and there were moments when I felt completely helpless, unable to do anything but hold him close and pray that things would improve. The nights became long and exhausting, filled with worry and a lack of rest that slowly began to affect every part of me.

There were times when I would sit quietly, watching him as he slept, afraid to close my eyes even for a moment. I feared that something might happen if I was not paying attention, and that fear kept me awake even when my body begged for rest. Julaybib remained by my side, doing everything he could to support me, but I could see that he was struggling as well. The weight of the situation affected him deeply, even though he tried to remain strong for both of us.

Outside our home, the reactions of people began to change in ways that I did not expect. Some people showed concern and offered support, but others kept their distance, unsure of how to approach us or what to say. There were moments when people hesitated to carry my baby, moments when their expressions reflected uncertainty rather than warmth. Even though I understood that some of their reactions came from fear or lack of knowledge, it still affected me deeply.

It was during those moments that I began to understand how quickly people can change when faced with situations they do not understand. The same community that once celebrated us now seemed uncertain about how to treat us, and that uncertainty created a distance that I could feel clearly. It was not always spoken, but it was present, and it added to the loneliness that was already growing within me.

The four of us tried to remain connected, but even that became difficult as time went on. Each of us was dealing with our own challenges, and the weight of those challenges made it harder to communicate as freely as we once did. When we spoke, our conversations were no longer filled with laughter and lighthearted moments. Instead, they focused on our situations, our struggles, and the small updates that defined our daily lives.

We listened to each other with understanding, because we knew that no one else could truly relate to what we were experiencing. However, even in those conversations, there were moments when words felt insufficient, moments when the pain was too deep to be expressed fully.

In the midst of all of this, we lost sight of ourselves. Our own needs, our own emotions, and our own well-being became secondary to the responsibilities we carried. Everything revolved around our children, their health, and the effort to keep going despite the difficulties we faced.

As I sat one night, holding my baby and listening to his quiet cries, I realized that life had changed in a way that I could never reverse. The plans we had made, the expectations we had held, and the dreams we had shared had all been reshaped by a reality we did not choose but had to accept.

I understood in that moment that this was a test that required more than patience. It required strength, even when I felt weak. It required faith, even when I felt overwhelmed. It required endurance, even when I wanted to give up.

And despite everything, despite the pain, the fear, and the uncertainty, I knew that I had to continue.

Not because it was easy.

But because there was no other path forward.

And sometimes, that is what life demands from a person, to continue moving forward even when the road ahead is unclear, and even when the heart is carrying more than it ever thought it could bear.

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Written By Ahmād Zāhir Enagi Abū-Khālif