“Historically, what is or isn’t mainstream (in Islam) has always been a function of power, not of truth” -Iyad El-Baghdadi, Arab Spring activist
Misha Az-Zahra is a highly unreliable narrator and perplexing in her descriptions of herself. She has large, dark teardrop eyes and hair like the curling strands of time that tend to straddle mist-enveloped realms. She adores music, art, fantasy landscapes, stories, songs that sound like pure longing put to a delicately fragrant melody, creatures from other worlds yet undiscovered, biomedical literature, Desi makeup, Bollywood, the Qur’an, golden jewelry, and whimsical sapphire waterfalls against which rainbows softly croon. She drinks too much iced strawberry tea. Words fall against her lips and shatter at her passionate tears. Writing is her compulsion. Kisses are her guilt. Her voice sounds like wind chimes. Beautiful children make her breathless, as do many other things.
She lives in an enchanted forest at the edges of a buried kingdom where softly glowing will-o-the-wisps lead her deeper into tangled enchantments and miscalculated magic.
Nothing makes her happier than doing everything she doesn’t have time for. She is obsessed with making beautiful things, and it consumes her.
She writes Qur’anic exegesis and stories and poetry, and on occasion scientific papers. She plans to write a novel in a few years called The Music of the Spheres.
Take care, and good night. Don’t let the jinn steal your sleep. And listen as the angels sing gently, brushing your windows with their diaphanous white robes and coruscant smiles.