11/05/2026
I Sacrifice Myself for You!!!
Today, the world is celebrating Mother’s Day. At first, I wondered what I could possibly write about it. Because not just mine, but all of our entire lives are indebted to our mothers in such a way that their favour keeps us bowed before them forever. For us, every day is Mother’s Day.
But then I thought that perhaps such a piece of writing could become a reason for hope and life for many mothers whose children fail to value them.
Allah created woman from the left rib of man and from the most curved one at that. Humanity learned much later that clarified butter never comes out with a straight finger. This delicate gender was meant to straighten many men, nurture and protect them, and prepare many more responsible mothers like herself.
So Allah granted this “crookedness” such a straight path that, because of this divine guidance and her own beauty of spirit, she endured every pain whether the pain of childbirth, sleepless nights raising children, repeated disappointments in life, humiliation suffered while fighting for her children’s rights, crying before Allah in prayers for the sake of her beloved children, or swallowing the bitter poison of her children’s betrayal with a smile.
That crooked, fragile being was elevated by a divine attribute to unimaginable heights. Many rivers of fire were bridged by a single drop of the water of life from Paradise. Just one quality transformed her into a source from which Zamzam springs forth in the barren deserts of this world.
By entrusting this oppressed, burdened, and often condemned gender with the weight of mercy, Allah raised her rank three times above man.
The beloved Messenger of Allah, my master and yours, ﷺ, said that while the father is a gateway to Paradise, Paradise lies beneath the mother’s feet.
Sa‘id ibn Abu Burdah narrated that he heard his father say:
“Ibn Umar (RA) saw a Yemeni man carrying his mother on his back while performing Tawaf around the Kaaba. The man was reciting poetry:
‘I am her obedient camel; if her mount becomes frightened, I do not.’
After completing the Tawaf, the man asked Ibn Umar:
‘O Ibn Umar! Have I fulfilled my mother’s rights?’
Ibn Umar replied:
‘No, not even for a single contraction of childbirth. But you have done well, and Allah will reward you greatly even for this little service.’”
(Al-Adab Al-Mufrad, Hadith 11)
In my own life, I have seen many women fight fiercely for their children’s rights women once thought to be quiet, simple, and submissive.
My relationship with my mother was unique. Today, when I reflect on it, I realize she was my truest and closest friend.
Strong, graceful, courageous, and deeply devoted to knowledge, she influenced all three of us sisters through the power of her own character.
Neither she nor my father taught us to fear the world or men. They taught us only one thing: fear Allah, and everything else is manageable. Love humanity, remain humble, serve creation, stand firmly for the oppressed, stop the oppressor from oppression, live life with purpose, know yourself and your Creator, stay connected to your roots Compassion, courage, and strength these were qualities we saw embodied in our parents.
At the age of two, my mother the daughter of a Kashmiri freedom fighter from Srinagar came hidden inside a fruit truck to Pakistan, clinging to her mother during migration Her father could not survive the grief of the unlawful occupation of Srinagar and was buried in the soil of his homeland.
My grandmother was exiled during her mourning period with nine children all young, and she herself a young widow. These freedom fighters had sacrificed everything for their homeland.
A new country, new struggles, and severe financial hardship followed.
My mother was crushed beneath all this. She was emotionally isolated too burdened by the favors of older siblings, by feeling like a weight on her mother, by being unable to support her brothers enough, and by their constant struggle for survival and education. These experiences made a small child emotionally lonely but strong. Gradually, she formed her own understanding of people, attitudes, and circumstances.
She often told me:
“When your father came into my life, I was like a flood wild and uncontrollable water. He transformed me into a peaceful river. My life partner introduced me to tenderness, love, trust, and self-awareness. From him, I learned worship like angels and humility like prophets.”
My mother also shared a beautiful bond with my grandmother. A month before grandmother’s arrival, the house would be decorated like a bride. Anything that might hurt her was removed from her path. New shoes, dresses, and beautifully carved walking sticks were prepared for our saintly grandmother, who would accept them gratefully and then gift them away to granddaughters, for she never kept more than two dresses and two pairs of shoes for herself.
She, too, had migrated. Her husband, too, had passed away after migration. Yet her children became influential leaders and strong personalities.
My paternal uncle, a spiritual, political, and social leader of his region, deeply admired my mother’s personality. Before making political decisions, he would sometimes ask for her opinion from behind a curtain after showing her the concerned person. Despite being the younger brother, my father was deeply respected within the family because of his spotless character and wisdom.
My father empowered my mother in every way. He never buried her under sermons and lectures he simply stood beside her and gave her opportunities. Wherever he saw flaws, he covered them with his own righteousness.
My mother used to say:
“He is not merely a benefactor by name; this man covered me from head to toe. He became the garment of my honour.”
She also taught us how to love and quietly serve our father. It was her practical expression of gratitude toward the man who had protected her.
Whenever we hugged and kissed our father and spent hours talking with him, she would quietly watch us. Then she would softly ask me:
“What does it feel like? Can one really love a father this way? I only knew a mother’s love. I can not fully comprehend this bond.”
I pray Allah reunites her with her father in the highest paradise. Ameen.
One night from my childhood can never leave my memory.
It was a freezing December night with storm and rain. Suddenly, someone began banging violently on our gate in the middle of the night. My father was away.
My mother wrapped herself in a dark brown woollen shawl and sent the watchman to investigate. He returned, saying that the gardener had attacked his wife with an axe and was beating her brutally.
My mother was tall and strong. She rushed out like lightning. I ran behind her and reached the servants’ quarters moments later.
There, I saw my mother twisting the man’s arm behind his back while holding the axe in her own hand. His wife lay unconscious on the floor in a pool of blood while another woman tried to stop the bleeding with her shawl.
My mother thundered:
“You trusted an outsider over your own wife? If you could not live with her, you could have left her, but why did you beat her?”
The terrified gardener begged forgiveness.
My heroic mother held the raging man helpless with one hand and shouted:
“Tell me now which leg of yours should I cut off for falsely accusing and abusing a defenceless woman?”
There are countless more stories of her courage. If I continue, you will keep reading, and I will keep writing.
Our home became a refuge for many abandoned and helpless women from nearby villages. Whether they were trapped in court cases, fighting for child support, or working women solely supporting their households they came to our house, ate lunch, rested, cried, shared their pain, told my father their stories, and he would go fight the world for them while my mother embraced them, comforted them, made them laugh, and restored their hope.
When my uncle became a political prisoner, she became deeply broken until my father finally brought him home. It was a trial lasting three to four years. During this grief, my grandmother also lost her will to live. She had migrated believing she was coming to the land of Islam she could not bear that enemies would arise here, too.
Then came my father’s illness.
My mother transformed completely. I saw with my own eyes a woman who sacrificed herself alive for her husband. Psychological fears surrounded her like venomous snakes, and she built fortresses of loyalty and service around the man who had protected her all her life. She had only one wish:
“May my daughters never become orphans like I did.”
Eventually, my father too passed away.
That final day is unforgettable.
I was holding him against my chest while he coughed blood. Seeing this, my mother collapsed unconscious. My father’s lips trembled:
“Compose yourself, Farhat! I am alright!”
There was blood everywhere a pool in which my father and I seemed drenched. My red tulip was giving me his final farewell.
I cried out:
“Mother, get up!”
She moved… and stood up.
And with that, the chapter of my father ended in her life too.
She often said:
“Men were never destined for me. I never saw my father. Allah did not grant me a son. And then my husband also left.”
She spent twenty-two years of widowhood with dignity and independence. Never once did she burden her daughters with responsibility or even speak of her own pain. She became a source of compassion and comfort for countless women in the neighbourhood.
In her final days, she stayed with me, my greatest blessing.
Cancer had eaten into even her bones.
One day, I developed a fever and severe body pain. While feeding her, she immediately sensed from my face that I was unwell. She touched me, then with her weak hands pulled me into her skeletal chest and tried comforting me.
Ah… the pain that rose within me at that moment what unbearable shame I felt!
How does one honour such greatness? Death stood before her, yet even then, she was concerned only about protecting her child.
One day, she said to me:
“I sacrifice myself for you.”
And I looked at her fading body, wondering how I could dissolve into my mother’s veins and restore her to health again.
Mother!!!!how can I sacrifice myself for you?
“My Lord, have mercy upon them as they raised me when I was small.”
Syeda Numera Mohsin Sherazi
May 2026
