Like a lot of Muslims I travel the lands of my forefathers to search for a home. I want to return home. I want to apologise for being away for far too long and be invited in. I believe the story of the Muslim diaspora needs to be told. Never in our history have we moved in such large numbers to a non-Muslim land where we moved with the intention of never returning. The world once came to us to glow and bathe in our culture but today we leave a richness, though covered in mud, to run to lands where godless values are seen as progressive, where material wealth and career prospects are seen as prosperity. I'm tired of being away from home. I want to open old doors, pull back curtains and dust off the lamps and sit and think about what we have done.
Many will say strive to succeed here. This is better than home. I find myself handcuffed. But look at us. We learnt their language and mastered their game. But at a point many of us will find our heart absent as it returns to memories of lands where our climate suited our values. Where the beauty of summer evenings was more than this, where the sights of jugnoos and the churpring of small birds was the food that fed our creative spirits, where the taste of fruits were the nourishment that bought pure joy.
There will come a time when your heart will ache and you will wonder why. Don't silent it with distractions. Don't silent it with a thud. We all want to go home whether we realise it or not. I'm not talking about a melancholy that crushed our poets and authors. They were mere lambs that cut their own throats for us to feel a momentary sense of belonging. I'm talking about returning home where our hearts open up, flower, where our chins raise and rather than gravel for an opportunity we rebuild lands, homes and lives that were ours but we left in a rush and would now forget about.
You can disagree, but why would you?