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Miriam Patel

@miriam_p1

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There is fear in our communities right now.

The recent discovery of the bodies of women in and around Kempton Park has raised deeply disturbing questions. While authorities have not confirmed that these deaths are the work of a serial killer, the fear women are feeling is very real.

But perhaps that is also the point.

We should not need the possibility of a serial killer to be horrified by violence against women.

Because long before these particular headlines, women in South Africa have been changing how they live in order to stay safe.

We share locations.
We send “I'm home” messages.
We avoid certain roads.
We reconsider the time of day.
We clutch our keys.
We look behind us.
We teach our daughters to be vigilant.

And somehow, these behaviours have become so ordinary that we barely recognise what they represent:

women adjusting their freedom around the possibility of male violence.

Yes, let us tell our women and girls to be careful.

But let us be equally relentless in asking what we are teaching our boys.

Let us speak to our sons about consent, anger, rejection, entitlement, dignity and the sanctity of another human being.

Let men challenge the conversations, jokes, behaviours and attitudes of other men that women may never even hear.

Let families stop protecting reputations at the expense of victims.

Let communities stop confusing silence with dignity.

And let us stop waiting until another woman becomes a headline before we decide that this matters.

As Muslims, we know that every human life carries sanctity. Our response cannot only be fear for our own daughters and sisters. It must also be a refusal to tolerate injustice against someone else's.

May Allah protect every woman who leaves her home today expecting simply to return to it.

May He bring justice to those whose lives have been taken.

May He give strength to the families waiting for answers.

And may He give us the courage to become part of the change we keep asking for.

Enough.

#TheInnerRihla #Enough #ViolenceAgainstWomen #GBV #SouthAfrica ProtectWomen EndGBV WomenDeserveSafety by @miriam_p1

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15

a month ago

“But I would have done it for you.”

Sometimes that sentence isn't really about the thing that wasn't done.

It's about what we believe it says about our place in someone's heart.

I would have noticed.
I would have remembered.
I would have checked.
I wouldn't have needed you to ask.

And somewhere between what we would have done and what they didn't do, we can arrive at a painful conclusion:

Maybe I don't matter to you the way you matter to me.

But I'm learning that reciprocity may be more complicated than that.

People don't always anticipate love in the same way. And expecting someone to know what I have never communicated can quietly turn love into a test they don't even know they're taking.

But there is another truth too.

Once I have let you know me — once I have told you what matters, what hurts, what helps, what makes me feel held — then what you do with that knowledge matters.

A repeated need is no longer unknown information.

Perhaps reciprocity isn't about finding someone who will always do exactly what I would have done.

Perhaps it is about two people who are willing to keep paying attention.

To speak.

To notice.

To learn.

And to allow what they learn about one another to change the way they love.

Because maybe one of the quietest forms of intimacy is being able to say:

“I'm learning you.”

And knowing that somewhere along the way...

they are learning you too.

— the inner RIHLA
A journey within.

#reflection
#growingdaily by @miriam_p1

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1

a month ago

Sometimes belonging has less to do with whether there is a seat for us and more to do with who sits down in it.

Is it me?

Or the carefully edited version of me who has learnt what to say, what not to say, when to laugh something off, when to stay quiet, how much to need, and how much of myself is safe to bring into the room?

The difficult part is that adaptation isn't always self-abandonment.

We compromise.
We practise adab.
We accommodate.
We grow.

But somewhere between considering others and constantly managing ourselves so that others remain comfortable, the line can become difficult to see.

And sometimes, nobody in the present room drew that line at all.

Sometimes we walked in carrying the memory of another room — one where disagreement cost us connection, having needs felt burdensome, or being fully ourselves didn't feel safe.

So perhaps belonging requires more than asking:
“Do they want me here?”

Perhaps it also asks:
“Am I still here — as myself?”

And maybe that's the yardstick.

Not whether I can move through relationships
without ever having to adjust.

Not whether everybody accepts every part of me.

But whether I can remain connected to others
without repeatedly disconnecting from myself to do it.

And when I cannot tell the difference, may Allah give me the wisdom to know when adaptation is adab, when silence is wisdom, when speaking is necessary — and when my fear of losing a place is costing me too much of myself.

What have you used as your yardstick for belonging?

#TheYardstickSeries #Belonging #TheInnerRihla #AJourneyWithin by @miriam_p1

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2

2 months ago

Sometimes we are not arguing about what happened.

We are arguing about what we believe what happened means.

A silence becomes rejection.
A disagreement becomes disrespect.
Someone needing space becomes abandonment.
The absence of conflict becomes peace.
Still hurting becomes proof that we haven't healed.

And sometimes, our interpretation is right.

But sometimes we have taken what we can see from where we stand — through our history, our hurt, our hopes and our fears — and mistaken it for the whole picture.

Perhaps the work isn't to distrust ourselves.

Perhaps it is to become curious enough to ask:

What do I know?
What have I concluded?
And what might I not know?

And then to have the discernment to recognise when something deserves another perspective…

and when a repeated pattern has already given us the information we need.

A lens doesn't have to be false to be incomplete.

May Allah grant us the clarity to see beyond assumption, the wisdom to recognise what is being shown to us, and the humility to know the difference.

What lens have you discovered you were looking through?

#TheYardstickSeries #TheInnerRihla #Perspective #AJourneyWithin by @miriam_p1

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2 months ago

I didn't go looking for progress.

I wasn't trying to "get myself out there."

I wasn't testing whether I was ready to be around people again.

I simply saw someone I love working incredibly hard, trying to find her feet in something new...

and I felt she needed a little help.

Something in me responded.

So I showed up.

And somewhere between welcoming people, learning things I knew absolutely nothing about, watching someone else's drive and determination up close, staying long after I technically needed to be there, and coming home exhausted...

I realised something.

Helping her was helping me too.

Not because my grief had become smaller.

Not because I had suddenly become the person I used to be.

But because, for the first time in a long while, I felt useful.

Curious.

Interested.

Inspired.

I found myself admiring not only how my cousin was building a business, but how deftly she seemed to handle life itself—the problems, the pressure, the constant decisions, the commitment to doing things well.

And I was learning.

Not because I needed to.

Simply because I wanted to.

That mattered.

We live in a world that so often operates on WII-FI: What's In It For Me?

So from the outside, perhaps giving up my time to do something I'm neither employed nor paid to do doesn't make much sense.

Except there is something in it for me.

It just can't be measured in money.

Purpose.
Usefulness.
Learning.
Connection.
Inspiration.

And somewhere amongst all of that...

a tiny glimmer of myself.

Perhaps progress isn't always something we deliberately pursue.

Sometimes we reach out because someone else needs a hand...

and only afterwards realise that, somehow,

they gave us somewhere to place ours.

Maybe my grief hasn't become smaller.

Maybe...

my life is simply becoming a little larger around it.

And for now, I'm willing to call that progress. 🌿

The Yardstick Series | PROGRESS by @miriam_p1

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2 months ago

There is another memory this building holds.

For years, I spent endless hours in its prayer room making dua for my father.

So many times we thought we were losing him.

And so many times I begged Allah that, when his time eventually came, we would be there.

That he would not leave this world alone.

That his family would surround him.

That we would be praying for him as he returned to Allah.

I had imagined that ending so many times.

Yet when my father's time came, it wasn't there.

He died at home.

And when my mother entered that hospital years later, death was the furthest thing from my mind.

I never sat in that prayer room asking Allah for that ending for her.

And yet...

when her time came, we were there.

Around her bedside.

Praying.

Making dua.

Accompanying her as she returned to her Rabb.

Almost exactly as I had once pleaded with Allah for my father.

And that realisation has stayed with me.

Perhaps some duas are not unanswered.

Perhaps the answer travels a road we could never have imagined.

Perhaps it arrives later.

Differently.

In circumstances we would never have chosen.

And perhaps that is another illusion we have to surrender—the belief that because we can imagine the answer, we somehow know what Allah's answer should look like.

I still don't walk into that building without feeling it.

But I'm beginning to remember that those walls did not only witness my loss.

They witnessed my hope.

My fear.

My service to my parents.

And countless hours of turning to Allah when I had nowhere else to turn.

Maybe I don't need to reclaim the building from grief.

Maybe I simply need to stop allowing one memory to own all the others.

Because even there...

Allah heard me.

The answer may have been delayed.

The recipient may not have been the one I imagined.

But the dua was never lost.

Allah had heard it all along.

The Yardstick Series | PLACE
What happens when one painful chapter becomes the measure of the whole story? by @miriam_p1

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2 months ago

The things that stayed with me...
were never the things I could unwrap.

As I reflected on my birthday,
I realised something unexpected.

When I replayed the day in my mind,
I wasn't thinking about things.

I was thinking about moments.

A conversation.

A shared meal.

A familiar voice.

A message that was not generic but simple and sincere.

Words spoken with sincerity.

The kind that quietly find a place in your heart and remain there long after the day has passed.

It made me wonder...

Perhaps we spend so much of our lives trying to give people things,

when what they carry with them are the moments that made them feel seen, remembered and loved.

Maybe the most meaningful gifts aren't the ones we hold in our hands...

They're the ones we carry in our hearts.

This is another reflection from The Yardstick Series.

Perhaps before asking,

"What can I give?"

we might first ask,

"What will endure?"

🌿 What is one memory that has stayed with you for years—not because of what you received, but because of how someone made you feel?

##InnerRihla
#yardstickseries
#reflections
#emotionalmaturity
#bdaygiftsideas by @miriam_p1

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1

2 months ago

We often assume we're all talking about the same thing.

Strength.

Success.

Love.

Faith.

Grief.

But are we?

A conversation this week made me realise that two people can look at the same person and come to completely different conclusions—not because one is right and the other is wrong, but because they're measuring with different rulers.

It made me stop and ask myself:

What ruler have I been using?

Who handed it to me?

My family?

My culture?

My experiences?

My wounds?

Or has Allah been gently inviting me to measure life differently all along?

Perhaps that's the beginning of every inner journey.

Not changing who we are...

But examining the measure by which we've been judging ourselves and everyone else.

This is the beginning of a new Inner Rihla reflection series.

The Yardstick.

Because before we ask "Am I enough?" perhaps we first need to ask...

"Am I using the right ruler?"

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

When you hear the word "strength," what does it mean to you?

Leave a comment ! by @miriam_p1

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1

3 months ago

Had the honour of spending the evening in the bosom of my late mums family. Felt such a strong, kindred connection, like she was enjoying this impromptu get together and knowing all our hearts were full...May Allah protect our bonds always! by @miriam_p1

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14

3 months ago

🌷 Because mothers deserve somewhere to exhale too.

Join us for a gentle morning of practical tools, reflection and connection as we learn to navigate emotions, difficult conversations and raising emotionally resilient children, all rooted in tawakkul and Allah-consciousness.

☕ Tea and treats included.

🤍 Includes our signature "5 Minutes of Uninterrupted Bliss."

Limited to 12 ladies.

Dm now. by @miriam_p1

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1

4 months ago

I have been thinking a great deal about fathers.
Not Father's Day.
Just fathers.
And I have been thinking about a man who was strong.
Not the kind of strength that announces itself.
The kind that simply exists.
The kind that fills a room without demanding attention.
The kind that becomes the mountain against which a family quietly leans.
My father belonged to a generation that understood honour.
A generation that valued respect.
Respect for faith.
Respect for elders.
Respect for family.
Respect for bonds.
Respect for oneself.
Long before I understood his strictness, I lived under it.
Only later did I understand that beneath the discipline was a man trying to build character, not comfort.
He had left school young, carrying responsibilities far beyond his years. Yet he remained a student for life. Self-taught. Well-read. Curious. He mastered languages I still marvel at. He taught himself what circumstances had denied him.
He believed in excellence.
"Even if you become a street sweeper," he would say, "do it so well that when people walk past, they know you did this job."
He taught us never to "spit into the sky."
He taught us that dignity mattered.
That your name mattered.
That faith mattered.
And though many stood in awe of him—and perhaps a little fear—those who knew him best witnessed something else.
A quiet tenderness.
A sensitivity hidden beneath enormous strength.
He was physically strong.
Mentally strong.
Spiritually strong.
He served his family.
He served his community.
He faced hardship the same way he faced everything else—with courage, determination and resilience.
Until life demanded of him something no amount of strength could overcome.
And I watched, with a pain I still cannot fully describe, as independence slipped away from a man who had spent a lifetime standing tall.
Not because his spirit had weakened.
But because even mountains bear the scars of time.
Today, when I look around at a world that moves quickly and forgets easily, I realise that what I miss most is not merely my father.
I miss what he represented.
Family meant everything to my parents.
Hospitality was not an occasion; it was a way of life.
I am forever grateful O Allah for my by @miriam_p1

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4 months ago

This young man is continually pursuing his passion, honing his skills ! Makes me so proud to see his resilience and determination. Join me as I pray that Allah elevates him in deen, dunya and aakhirah aameen. @taaseen.10 @taaseen.equastrian_unashamedly I am your greatest supporter💞 by @miriam_p1

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3

4 months ago