They Call Me Kāfir
They call me kaffir
and the word stings sharper than blades —
not from strangers,
but from those who turn to the same qiblah,
those who fold hands beside me in prayer,
yet break my heart outside of it.
I walk among them —
those who say La ilaha illAllah,
yet leave me alone in the cold.
They smile with their lips
but curse me with their silence,
as though loving Your Chosen Ones
was a sickness I was born into.
Ya Allah…
You who sees the secrets of my heart,
You who hears the du’as I whisper into my pillow —
was it wrong that I learned love from Ali?
Was it wrong that I mourn for Husayn?
They say I worship men.
But You are my Lord,
and You alone.
I bear witness —
none is worthy of worship but You,
and Muhammad is Your servant and messenger.
I never said otherwise.
I never will.
But how could I turn my heart
from the ones You purified with fireless flame?
How could I forget the five beneath the cloak,
when the Prophet called them his Ahlulbayt,
when Jibra’il stood at the door
and did not enter without their permission?
O Allah,
they do not know what it means to love You
through those You loved.
They do not feel what I feel
when I raise my hands at night
and say,
“By the tears of Fatima… please, answer me.”
They do not tremble
when Karbala is spoken.
They do not cry
at the sound of Sakina’s thirst.
To them, it is history —
to me, it is a wound that never closed.
They say I have strayed,
but I wander not from the path —
I wander to it,
step by bleeding step,
toward the dust where Husayn fell,
toward the cries of a thirsty child
echoing in the plains of Karbala.
To them, my grief is innovation.
My love is rebellion.
My identity — heresy.
Tell me,
did the Prophet not weep for Hasan?
Did he not carry Husayn on his back?
Did he not say,
“Whoever loves them, loves me”?
Then why does my love offend you?
You claim Tawheed with your lips
but deny the stars that orbit the Sun of Guidance.
You dress your hate in piety
and call it deen —
but your heart is void of Fatima’s pain.
Still —
they mock my mourning,
call my majlis a festival of lies,
my black clothes a sign of ignorance.
But they do not know
the black I wear
is the ash of tents burned on the 10th,
the grief of a sister watching her brother’s head raised to the sky,
the cry of Zaynab
when the skies forgot mercy.
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They do not hear
the shattering of my heart
when I picture a child lying lifeless by the river,
or a six-month-old pierced by the arrow
of a man who once claimed belief.
They do not smell the smoke of Sham,
or taste the hunger of the captives.
Yet they call me kaffir
as though my tears are not prayer,
as though my heart is not prostrated
before the blood of the righteous.
They tell me I exalt men.
But I do not worship Ali —
I follow him
because the Prophet pointed to him
when the crowd was blind.
I follow him
because truth clung to him like the sky clings to stars.
My Lord,
am I to be hated
for keeping my chest open
to the blood of those You honored?
Am I to be shunned
for choosing the path
of those who suffered in Your name?
When they asked who is your imam,
I answered Ali,
not because I forgot the Prophet,
but because he never did.
When they asked why do you cry,
I answered for Husayn,
not because I enjoy sadness,
but because his head was raised
on a spear that once bowed to his grandfather.
O Allah,
I have been cast out
by those who claim to walk Your straight path.
They have built walls
between us and the ummah,
and wrote in stone
what was never in Your Book.
Still, I do not hate them.
I cannot.
For did not the Prophet weep
even for those who threw stones at him?
Did not Ali weep
for his assassin?
So I weep,
not just for Husayn,
but for those who have forgotten him.
I weep for a nation that cuts its own roots
and wonders why it no longer flowers.
I weep because we are broken,
and I do not know how to fix it —
except with du’a.
Still, I am exiled
by my own ummah.
Treated as though my love has disqualified me
from the mercy of the Most Merciful.
But if loving the family of the Prophet
makes me an outcast,
then let me wander
with the same loneliness they endured.
Let me walk barefoot,
like the widows of Karbala.
Let me sleep on stone,
like Sajjad in chains.
Let me carry the sorrow,
if it means I carry even a shadow of their light.
Ya Rahman, Ya Raheem —
if this love is a crime,
then I carry it willingly.
If this grief is a burden,
then let it break me.
Call me what you will.
I am Shia.
I am servant to the sorrow
that poured from the Prophet’s eyes.
I am a mourner
who still hears the whisper of the wind in Karbala:
“Is there any helper to help us?”
If they call me kāfir,
then let them.
You are the only Judge.
You are the only Knower.
And You know —
You always knew —
my heart was never against You.
It was only full of those You chose.
So let me be raised
beneath the banner of the one they left alone,
let me enter behind the Lady of Light,
let me kiss the feet
of the child who died in his father’s arms —
and if I am called a disbeliever,
then let me be one
in the eyes of those
who forgot how to love.
