Reserve Surviving Book

We have received an overwhelming amount of preorders for the surviving book. We were only planning to print a limited amount of copies for the first edition. To ensure everyone that really wants the book gets it we have started a reservation system.

Please read carefully as most of your questions will be answered below.

1. You can buy the book directly from pick up point. There will be limited books there, first come first serve. The book may be sold out by the time you get there.

2. RESERVE your book – If you want us to keep your book for you and not sell it. Waiting for you at your pick up point or couriered/posted to you.

As we were intending only to print a certain amount of books with our limited budget, we need to see who is serious about the book so we don’t overprint or underprint. If you want a book waiting for you at your pick up point or launch day or posted/couriered to you please reserve the book by making payment. We will send the banking details to everyone in second week of March to reserve the book.

The only pick up points where books will be available on launch day  will be major centres

  • Johannesburg Nizamiye after book launch 21 March
  • Cape Town on 21 March after 3pm venue to be confirmed
  • Durban after 3pm on 21 March or only 22 March venue to be confirmed

All other pick up points will either be from Saturday or Monday unless other arrangements can be made.
We will only post and courier in the week after the launch.

We will inform you about pick up point addresses on Friday 21 March so you don’t start harassing people from now.

Anyone picking up a book at  Nizamiye launch will get it at opening special of R160.
Book Price is R180 everywhere else.
We will keep you updated as much as we can. We will let everyone know the address where to pick up books on 21 March.

Thank you for your understanding and patience .
to be updated Visit or
Once you click submit at the bottom scroll up to see message that  the form is submitted.


If you can’t see form below click here Surviving reserving form



Surviving Book Launch and Reserve your book

NanimaPurpleHeart Charity


Please indicate if you will be reserving it or take a chance first come first serve. In order to reserve book we will have to receive prepayment.

If you can’t see form below click here Surviving reserving form


Please note no softdrinks allowed to be sold, we already have a biryani, ackni stall. if you want to sell food apply and we let you know if you are successful or not. We are looking for especially handmade stalls and unique stalls. Baking, savouries etc.
if you can’t see the form click here on the link Nanima Home Industry Expo

Why are you scared of death?

Jummah Mubarak Beautiful Readers. Just thought I would share this piece I wrote some time ago and give us something to reflect on…. Happy Reading!

I would sit with her late at night as her body writhed in pain, I would dab her with a cool cloth when she felt too hot, wiping away the drizzles of sweat forming on her nose and forehead, and I held her close when she shivered. And finally I would watch her as she fell into a peaceful slumber. Only then would the tears exit the corners of my eyes, and roll down my cheeks, around my chin and into the crevice of my breasts, from which I nursed her so lovingly till she was a year old. I couldn’t watch my baby die, it was tearing me apart, ripping my soul into a thousand, million shreds. Was it even fair to watch one’s child, who you carried for nine months inside of you and cared for nine more years, die?  I could not wrap my mind around the thought of not having her around, my sunshine in the morning, my personal dose of daily hope.

She burst into our lives on her exact due date, just as the sun was bursting through the sky, bringing with her more joy to add to our family, and smelly nappies, loud burps and plenty giggles. She captured everyone’s heart who ever laid sight on her bright blue eyes and dimpled smile. And even now, when the effects of chemo has left her skin as grey as ash and she has lost her chubby cheeks to the point where you can trace her cheekbones with your finger, even now people are in awe of her sparkling blue eyes and beautiful smile.

But today she has moved everyone to tears, even the doctor, who has trained himself in the face of death, and watches people die on a daily basis, shed a tear for my daughter and her never-ending courage and determination in life and death, alike.

Today, as we all surround her in her final moments, she requests to be at home.

“Why sweetheart?” I ask her gently. “You will be more comfortable here, and they will be able to help you with the pain.”

“What pain, Mummy?” she looked at me with those crystal eyes, filled with sincererity and determintaion. “I feel no pain, other than in my heart. I would like to be in my own bed, surrounded by my family and smelling the smells I did all my life, the smells of love. I want to close my eyes and remember you there, in the room you made for me from scratch, choosing the colours and linen so carefully. I want that perfect image as my last.”

We were sceptical. We didn’t want her suffering any more than she had to. The doctors could do no more. The cancer that started like a leech on her spine, a year before she turned nine, had spread through to the rest of her body, attacking her and becoming larger than her. The fight was over. Nadia had quietly grown up, grown wise, and had put her zealous swords of courage away and invited the cancer to consume her with a frightening calmness. She wasn’t giving up, she was setting herself free.

Later on, I can recall her smiling sweetly and asking for grape juice, her favourite juice, because purple was her favourite colour. She lay in bed, propped high by the large lilac pillows, as we surrounded her once again. Myself, her father, her elder sister and her baby brother. She took her time to look at each of us exclusively, for long moments, silently, her eyes piercing through to the depths of our souls. And then she spoke to us all.

“Why are you scared of death?” she asked calmly. It was the first time she had mentioned the word. We all gaped at her in shock, awed by her resilience, as tears stung our eyes again. “If you choose to look at death as dark and gloomy, it will scare you. You will be so petrified in your final moments that you will forget to remember the beautiful gift you been handed to by Allah. Your life is the packaging, wrapped in bright colours and pretty ribbons. It is what surrounds the surprise on the inside. Unwrapping the gift is living your life. If you do it slowly, meticulously, careful not to damage the pretty patterns on the wrapping and without ripping the bows so they unwind, you will have so much more appreciation for the gift that lies inside. And when the time comes to look at your gift and hold it in the palm of your hand, if it fits, you can finally close your eyes and savour the moment, and be grateful that you took your time. I have taken my time. My nine years with you may seem short, but slowly you all helped me unwrap my gift sent by Allah. Now I will take the final steps, there is one more layer, which I must undo by myself, but I would like you all to sit here while I do. I want to close my eyes, and hold these precious moments in my heart before I enjoy the incredible beauty of my gift. Hold my hand Mummy, and guide me as you always have.”

I didn’t understand what she meant, but I moved even closer and gently took her frail hand in my own, wondering how my child got so wise, and when? She smiled again. Her eyes twinkled as she captured each one’s memory in her heart. Then she closed them and whispered a single word, “Jannah.”

And as the sun disappeared below the horizon, Nadia’s soul fluttered away, leaving her lifeless body behind in her purple room. She had gone to collect her final gift. Finally, my baby could walk without pain, and maybe even fly, as she often wished. Her suffering had come to an end. She was home, her final abode. It wasn’t the end, but the beginning of another incredible journey for her.

Dedicated to my beloved Granny, who was a victim of Cancer. May Allah grant her direct flight into Jannatul Firdows. Ameen!

Painful Memories

Please Note: The following post contains disturbing scenes!!! Sensitive readers are not advised to scroll down!!!

Once upon a time I used to smile and laugh… I could talk your ears off. I was a happy-go-lucky kind of girl, didn’t have a care in the world. But not any more…. my past has changed me. I became miserable and full of hate. I abhored being in a roomful of happy people. I felt lifeless, as if that incident sucked the soul from my core. I didn’t understand then, that it was a test from Allah.

This is my story:

Growing up wasn’t easy. I lost my beloved father at a very young age. I know from family members that he treated my mother like a queen.

My mother remarried. He was nice in the beginning, but soon enough he began showing his true colours. He was a drug addict and would do anything for a hit. If he could have sold us also, I’m sure he would have. He would take all my mother’s money, not bothering whether we had enough food to eat or clothes that fit. There were many days that we went by hungry. My siblings and I became used to it, our bodies became immune to the gnawing hunger that clung to us, sometimes for days.

He began beating my mother up. It became an everyday occurrence. It reached to a stage, where if he didn’t hit her, the day wouldn’t feel normal. Then she fell pregnant with his child. That didn’t stop him. He continued beating her mercilessly. Soon, he started hitting us also. My mother tried to stop him from doing that, but he would turn his anger back to her, so she stopped trying to help us.

We wouldn’t go to school for days on end because of the blue and black marks he would leave us with. We grew immune to his beating too. We prepared for it by wearing extra layers of clothing just so it wouldn’t hurt so much. Not that it helped.

Their child was born. Shukr to Allah, the drugs stopped. But the beating continued. At times my mother would leave us at family or friends, but he would always find us and the hiding was the worst. He was in jail quite often, but he was bailed out by family or my mother.

I was about nine years old when he stared sexually abusing me. At first I didn’t even realise what he was doing. He would touch my butt or my breasts. I was young and innocent. I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know that what he was doing was wrong. My mother didn’t teach us about all this stuff. It got worse. He would come into the shower and watch me. If I tried to lock the door he would bang on it and create a scene. My mother worked so there was no supervision during the day. I was alone and afraid. I had enough of my own by then to understand that this was wrong, but who could I tell? I would look for friends to come home with me after school so that I wouldn’t have to be alone with him, but more often, no one would come.

He began inserting his finger inside me. It hurt and I would cry, but he would yell at me. He would send me to his room to “fetch something” but would follow me there and touch me. Other times he would open his pants and tell me to touch him “there”. When I refused he would grab my hand and make me touch him. He would lay next to me in bed and rub himself against me, until i was forced to jump out of the bed.

One day he forced his mouth on mine. My mother saw him holding me, but she didn’t say anything. The next morning I overheard her telling my someone that I was “trying tricks with her husband”. I was so hurt, but didn’t bother defending myself. I didn’t see the point. She wouldn’t believe me. I was now the girl trying to steal her husband. Everyday my life was getting worse.

And even though all of this happened, I was in no way prepared for what happened next. I didn’t think he would actually do something so vile. I was only twelve years old at that time, playing outside with the local kids like every other normal child. He was angry when he saw me playing with the boys. He chased them all away and demanded that I go inside the house. Once behind closed doors, he hit me with a thick iron pipe and ordered me to go to his room. I don’t think I was ever so scared in my life as I was on that day. My body was literally shaking. He came in, closed the door and pulled off my clothes. He still had the pipe in his hand while he removed his own clothes and raped me. I wanted to scream and shout but whenever I tried to open my mouth, he lifted the pipe and threatened to use it. When he was done, he laughed at me and teased me. I cried until I couldn’t cry no more. I felt so numb. I went to bath and scrubbed myself so hard, wishing that it was dream and that it never happened. I felt helpless.I was alive on the outside and dead inside. When my mother came home from work that evening, I was so afraid to tell her. She would blame me again. I wasn’t talking to anyone, but tears were falling out on their own accord. I couldn’t control it. In front of everyone he had the nerve to ask me what was wrong. I replied that I was feeling sick.

Eventually, I did tell my mother. She remained silent, but I do remember her being in shock. We waited for him for him to leave, so that my mother and I could talk properly. She wanted to call the cops. I refused. I was too afraid of what he would do. After about one or two weeks he touched me again. This time I did tell my mother. She called the cops. two female cops came. They questioned me, and when they were done I heard them  talking in hushed tones that it was “rape”. I did hear about rape before, but I never really understood what it meant. All I knew was that it was something serious. They arrested him. That day is so clearly embedded in my mind, it feels as though it just happened yesterday. I will never forget his bloodshot eyes, or the look in his face. He was angry and disappointed and embarrassed. And I knew that he wasn’t done. He would get revenge when he came out. When we went home that day, I couldn’t even sleep. His family had heard that he was in jail, and why. They came to our house and swore us, especially me. They asked me why I was making things up, and why did I lie. That demanded that I retract my statement and have him released. My mother tried to make them understand what he did, but they just continued yelling, so she gave up. They bailed him out after about a week and he came back home. He was calm for while, but I knew he’d never change. This was just the calm before the storm.

I woke up to screaming one night. I watched him beating my mother, asking her how she could have listened to me and believe that he was the liar. She apologised, repeatedly, saying that she would never do it again.

I was supposed to go to court and fight the case, but I didn’t. He told me he’s going to win the case, that I shouldn’t even bother because he has the best lawyer. My mother told me the same thing, that my lawyer didn’t stand a chance against his. She said that I should think about my siblings, and what this would do to them and stop being selfish. So I called it off. I refused to testify against him. I had no support. How could I fight with no one on my side? He never touched me again.

I was called so many different nasty name. Liar, slut, rubbish, scum…. I was given constant lectures about how accusation is haraam, and how I was going to get punished. I even remember my mother telling one of my teachers that she didn’t believe me, and that I made it all up. Her husband would never touch me. I’m very forward, so maybe I did something with a boy from school. That tore me apart inside. I hated myself and I hated my body. I hated everything and everyone. I couldn’t laugh any more, or even smile. My own family didn’t stand by me. My siblings wanted to know why I didn’t defend myself. No one took the time to sit down with me and ask me what happened. They just said that they didn’t want to get involved and they didn’t want to know anything. If I cried they would get angry. When my step-father came back home, everyone was acting all happy, eating together, while I sat alone and ate. They made me feel like everything was my fault, and I was a piece of trash. I went into a state of denial. I began to convince myself that it didn’t even happen. I believed that it never happened.

I have seen so many counsellors, that after a while I even knew what they were going to say to me. I hated living in the same house with that man, looking at his face everyday, and acting like nothing happened. As i grew older, I realised that my mother wanted him more than she wanted me, her own daughter, he own flesh and blood. Whenever he left, she’d always call him back home. A lot of people told me that I shouldn’t hate my mother because when I get married one day and have kids of my own, I would understand. I am married now, and Alhamdulillah, Allah has blessed us with a beautiful baby. I am a mother now and I don’t understand! I would never want my child to go through what I went through. NEVER! I’m not going to lie, and say that I’m over it now, because I’m not. That day haunts me over and over. Yes, I forgave him and accepted what had happened, because I know for sure that Allah is Just, and if not in this world then definitely in the hereafter. My step-father will be dealt with. Allah was with me. He was always with me, even when no one else was. I still do see my family, but we don’t ever mention what happened, not even a whisper. It is as if it never occurred.

When I got married I understood most of the things he would do to me, back then I was too small and naive. I still have nightmares. Sometimes I think about the past and fall apart inside. But I want to be stronger. I now have a loving husband, and a gorgeous child. I have a reason to get up in the morning.

I decided to tell my story, not because I need or want sympathy, but because I want to tell all women out there who went through any kind of abuse, and those who are still going through it:


I know you feel like you’re the only person in the world suffering so badly, but are NOT! There are people out there who do care. And Allah is always, always there. Stay strong!!! You are loved and you are special.

If you have a story to share, we have an ear to lend, hoping to put you on the path for your heart to mend. Your anonymity is guaranteed. You send me your story, I edit, send it back to you for approval and only then do I post. To the readers, please continue encouraging these survivors with your comments. Through your duas and kind words, they will find strength!

Send in your stories to

Seeking Strength

We tend to build an invisible barrier around our communities and pretend that abuse does not exist.

This is my story.

My husband came from a very unstable family where they became immune to abuse. It was ‘normal‘ for them. I suppose he didn’t know any other way. That doesn’t mean I condoned his actions, then, or now.

I suffered in silence, while he physically and mentally abused me. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone. He was obsessive and possessive to the point that I could not even attend my own sisters wedding.

It eventually got to the stage where I couldn’t take any more. My body was tired from the beating. I was loosing my mind. The words he used were the worst, they cut through me like a knife. I almost had a nervous breakdown. Then I realised that I couldn’t do this any more. I had very little fight left in me, and what little there was I wanted to use to fight against him. I filed for divorce.

What followed, to this day haunts. I keep it locked away, deep, down in my heart. I wish I could completely erase it. My husband murdered my son. And then the coward hanged himself. The pain continues to reverberate through my soul each and every day. He killed my baby and took the easy way out.

If I thought that life before this was bad, things just got even worst for me. I felt tlike a was always on the edge of a cliff, and I wished someone would just push me over. Depression clung to me. I changed jobs. I began neglecting my other son, and then I handed him over to my parents, because they would take better care of him than I could at that time. But the gap I put between us, just drove us further apart. Eventually it has come to a stage where I don’t even see my son any more. I was so afraid that if I allowed him to get close to me, something horrible would happen to him too. It was an irrational conclusion, but I was hardly in the correct frame of mind any more. I could never forgive myself. If I hadn’t filed for divorce, my angel would still be alive.

Remember me in your prayers. Pray for my strength so that I may endure this pain, pray for more strength so that I may lay the past to rest, and pray for further strength so that I may be a mother to the only son I have I have left. And pray for my little boy, smiling down on me.

Hope everyone is well this beautiful, rainy day! I will be sharing stories from victims and survivors a few times a week. Please share your thoughts, your encouragements and your support. May Allah ease the pain of all those that are suffering. Ameen!

If anyone has any stories to share please email me

Have a fabulous Monday! Go out and find your ray of sunshine!

The doormat or the Go-getter

In life you get two types of people. The doormat and the go-getter. Lucky for you guys I’m the doormat. Those who know me well know that I can never say the word ‘NO’! Yesterday has been a real emotional roller-coaster for me. My heart swelled when people understood why getting published was always my intention, and so important but each time I read a negative comment it struck me to the heart. Yes, I do not know each and every one of you personally, but we have developed some sort of relationship. All my life I have sacrificed, as all women do daily, to make sure that everyone’s else’s comfort comes first. And today is no different. Yes, those negative comments do matter to me, those insults have hurt me. You said I used you… I will prove you wrong, because that is what I do! I know what was in my heart, I was on this journey alone. No one came and whispered words into my ears for me to write this story. I was the one who decided to share it with the world. What right do I have to snatch it away? Mumtaz’s story will continue from Monday. And NO! not because I want the readers, those who have unsubscribed please you are under no pressure to return. I am not ungrateful to my readers, but I do want to prove that I am not a user. I rather let my dream slide, than to prove you right.

Yes, I can write another story, but if this one took me five years to complete, how long will another, with three kids, a husband and house to clean? Yes, this is not your problem.

Those who wish me well may ask why should I care about the negative comments, they are not in my life that I need to prove something to them. It’s not me, it’s not who I am. I aim to please…. everyone else but myself. At the end of the day Allah is the one who makes things happen. If my book is to be published, then it is already written out. If not, then at least it reached the world somehow.

I thank you again for reading my blog. I know that no matter what I say, there are always going to be haters. Fame and fortune was not my intention, else I would have wrote something along the likes of “Fifty Shades”. I wanted feedback. Someone is going to say I am doing this because I don’t want to loose readers, but I repeat to those that unsubscribed please note you are under no obligation to return, while I appreciate your visit, I am not begging you to return. The decision is yours to make. I am continuing to prove to you that I am not a user! As a Muslim, this is more important to me than publishing my book.

Please note that trashy name calling will not be allowed and your comment will be deleted.

I thank everyone else for the well-wishes and duas and kind words… yours is the messages that should have stuck, but somehow my brain got screwed on the wrong way and I hear only the negativity. Jazakallah for believing in me! Jazakallah for the kind words and make me maaf if I have offended any person who has ever visited this blog.

My day will come… there is still hope!

New Beginnings & Old Dreams

After so much thought, sleepless nights and tormenting guilt, I have decided not to continue Mumtaz’s story. I understand the deep disappointment the readers will have, like unfinished business, you will wonder what would have been…. but please understand that this is something I am doing for myself! I am a woman too, with dreams and wishes.

I am avid reader, an addiction inherited from my mother, and my late grandfather. Read my grandfather’s story here. Now maybe you can understand this deep, almost desperate need for me to see my work in an actual paper-back. It is a dream I have had ever since I can remember. I always said one day, tomorrow, next year…. and then my one day came, and I began scribbling a few words in that notebook. I pushed myself day and in and day out, and felt a sense of self-guilt when I had no words and suffered writer’s block. And it took me FIVE years to complete it. To read it again and again, and change things and edit mistakes, and make sure the words flowed in exactly the right way. I sat into the wee hours of the night clicking away. Sometimes the words came by itself, at other times I felt as though I could bang my head and empty nut shells would fall out. But I persevered. I worked hard. I need, just for this one time, to be selfish. To accomplish my dream.

There were many times when I lost hope, I thought it was all rubbish. Who would read it? Who would believe that there are Muslim women out there getting abused? Who would think there are Muslims maids out there? It’s so cliche that a millionaire’s son fell in love with the maid. It’s all fake, it’s all dumb, it’s all childish….

And there were other times, when I would read my work as if someone else wrote it, with tears pouring down my cheeks. Who put these words in my heart? I’m not that intellect with her glasses perched on her nose, using words in clever circumstances. I doubted myself, I was proud of myself, I was scared of what people would think, I was excited when I shared Mumtaz’s story with a few close souls while I wrote. This has been a learning journey, I grew as much, if not more than Mumtaz!

I humbly apologise, Dear Readers! You guys have made this  blog what it is! This blog s not not only about Mumtaz and her journey. It is about ALL women! The survivor! The Victim! The Mother! The Nurse! The Maid! The Teacher! The Intellectual! Ths is where we unite as one and just be ourselves. Of course, the men are welcome. To learn about us, to see the world through our eyes. We will help you understand why we cry, why we want chocolates and why we remain silent (if we can understand it ourselves).

On Monday I begin a new story. The story of Bilkis. A very naive, sheltered girl, whose breaking point is tested again and again. Bilkis’s journey is meant for my blog readers. We will all be travelling with her up the hill and back down and up again on the same pace. I will not know what is next much sooner than you will. If your heart is too broken and you are sorely disappointed in me, I understand, but please give Bilkis a chance…

Wish me well in my dreams for Mumtaz’s story. Pray and make dua that whatever is best for me Allah will hand to me.

Much Love


P.s. If there are any women out there that would like to share their stories, please email me

I will share one story with everyone every Saturday, the authors identity will not be revealed, and utmost discretion will be observed.

The Great Reader

In the early 1900’s an African Princess from a Zulu Tribe wed an Indian man in Natal.

He fell in love with her striking beauty and silent dedication to life and truth.  He knew she would bore him beautiful children, filled tremendous inner strength, and her determination and drive would continue to flow through their veins generation after generation.

She fell in love with the powerful aura that seemed to float around his majestic built.  She fell in love with his kindness and spongy soft heart.  She fell in love with his religion, so much so that she threw her whole heart and life into this new religion that she had found through him, her Rajah.

People who didn’t know her thought that she was born into Islam, as she flowed so wholeheartedly into Deen (belief).  She gave up her family wealth and disowned herself from them, she knew that far greater wealth awaited her in the Aakhira (Afterworld). She lived to see her children happy, to make sure her husband was always in comfort and to please her Allah!  And when she died, the people who laid her down to rest got the sweet smell of musk and the pungent aroma of saffron from her grave. Allah had answered her duas that there be great Scholars of Islam from her progeny.  There were Muftis, Alims, Hufaaz and Qaris (learned scholars of Islam).  And there were doctors, lawyers and teachers.

But from this Zulu Princess’ children there was one who outlived all his siblings, and lived to soak up all he could, from all walks of life.  He was born to her in the early 1920’s, olive-skinned like his father, tall and majestically built too.  He possessed the strong-will and determination of his mother.  Due to lack of finances he could not continue his schooling beyond the fifth grade, but his quiet drive to gain knowledge found him reading books in the street, stealing whatever light he could under dull street lamps.

History, geography, religion…his thirst for knowledge knew no bounds.  As the years went by, he started building up his little library.  One book here, another there.  In between he took care of family, he grew up his nieces and nephews and looked out for his sisters.  He travelled and made friends.  He gained a wife that stood staunchly by his side and never wavered till her last breathe.  And when she finally laid her head down for all eternity his heart had weakened.  His library had grown to shelves and shelves of authors and biographies and encyclopaedias and holy books.  And his three children had grown and had children of their own, some of which had children of their own.

Both his library and his family were bulging at the seams, but he missed his wife dearly and he was lonely.  It was his books that gave him comfort, and that continued to help him live for the next five years without his life partner.  He jumped at opportunity to show off his life-times hard work and collections to anyone that was interested, or wasn’t.  And if they were not, the minute they stepped into that tiny room filled with thousands of books, they were immediately impressed by this man who had outlived almost everyone of his generation and could still read and continue collecting every piece of worthy information, book or article.

He was an inspiration!

Read! He advised his children.

Read!  He advised his grandchildren.

Read! Read! Read!

And when he finally laid down to rest and took his last breathe, his legacy silently continued through the hearts of all those who knew him.  He is an inspiration!  He is an icon!  He is a legend!

For every time I read and every time I put pen to paper in an attempt to scribble a few words that make sense I will remember that majestic Grandfather that was so strong-willed and had a fire for knowledge till his last breathe, and that will give me the determination to continue my story and seek the answers I thought were never there.  But more than that, his 87 full years on this earth has given me an understanding that life is about more than fast cars and modern finishing’s in my home.  It is about what you have learnt, the knowledge you have gained, and the basic teachings you will pass on to your own family. With diligence and perseverance nothing is impossible.

I am fourth generation of that striking Zulu Princess, but I can feel her quiet energy rippling through my blood.  I can feel her drive and determination, it gets weak and isn’t as strong as hers was. It comes and goes, and I forget sometimes.  But when I think about my Grandfather and his mother I am inspired and I can look at life with new meaning.  I can wake up on a cold day and decide that I have enough warmth in my home if I love the way they did, if I gave more, with open arms, if I dedicate myself wholeheartedly to the causes I believe in.  I can finally feel that fire beginning to ignite…

This is the story about the Late Ahmed Ebrahim (Mamajee) Laher! It is dedicated in honour of him and his life’s work, his pride and joy the “Abul Kalam Azad Library” (founded: Ramadhan 1394/ English year:1974) home to more than ten thousand books.

From the mouths of SURVIVORS!

Alhamdulillah! Never in a million years had I imagined that my words would reach so many corners of the world, so many people, and even those out there who have been slapped in the face by abuse! Since this blog began many victims have had something to share, their experiences, their words of encouragement…. I want to share it with you, in the hope of giving someone out there some “light at the end of the tunnel” kinda hope! And I encourage you all to continue lending your kind words to the victims, and for more victims to stand up and speak, for yourself, for you are worth so much more!

Your Words:

*This has really left me shaken. It is truly sad that these kind of things happen in reality and nothing or noone is there to help. We should be so grateful for our lives, with our silly little problems that we think are so huge.

*This is so gruesome, have to make shukr for all Allah has blessed us with… Feel like I can’t read more yoh*

*i waited the entire day to read this blog with anticipation and now i am shaking with the horror of how wicked a mother this poor child had…i want to reach out and hug her tight and take her pain away….Ya allah have mercy on parents that do this to their kids :(

*Shame that poor child.. Our lives and upbringing are soo sheltered its hard to comprehend someone going through all this or rAther someone being so evil and capable of being so heartless, shame man

*Its sad to know that physical abuse does happen in our Muslim Homes, but what makes this so Sickening is the fact that the mother wanted Mumtaz to live with her, so why is she allowing Riaz to abuse her. But then again she can’t even fight for herself & what was right to have left him long ago cos its a sin being married to someone that’s not a Muslim. Ya اللَّه I can’t even imagine what is to happen next. . . Gripping blog. . Keep up the good work. .

*Can a mother be so heartless,you dnt feel for you own child,this blog is sooo heart sore,I agree,we always complainn bout small thing in life and dnt think that there are people or kids going through worse things,loving the blog,keep up the good work,its like my daily dose of tears

*Thank You for making a Difference in the World! Your Blog may just have stirred just one person in an abusive relationship to finally Stand Up! She may just have realized: ‘its OK to stand up!! I’ll survive! If I have God then nothing else matters!! ‘ Thank You! Thank You! Thank You! For this great blog!!

*Its a fucking reality that we choose not to see cos our ‘belief’ system has kept us so sheltered for so long. Everyone has a story and a journey to learn lessons that ultimately define the Whole person you were intended to be and I’m sure that Mumtaz’s journey was meant to be This way to make her rise above her limitations and BE a Winner!! What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger! Her lessons I would imagine is to shift to Forgiveness and not be a victim of her circumstance.. She Survived thus far, hasn’t she??

*This story is a real eye opener. Many of us are not exposed to this kind or rather any kind of abuse. Jazakallah for touching on a subject that is sheltered in the muslim community. May اللَّهُ help all those who are going through any form of abuse. آمِيْن

*Life is about challenges and growth and overcoming these with a new found sense of self and I hope that Mumtaz story highlights this :)

*I was just thinking about your blog earlier and realized how sheltered we live our lives… May Allah accept your efforts for creating this awareness. The least we can do is make dua for the abusers and victims

*it’s gripping and has us in tears whilst bringing to us the reality of what is happening on our society
To all those suffering out there, may ALLAH make it easy for all of u and grant u a way out of ur suffering

*What sheltered lives we live! How ungrateful and petty are we?! Thank you for opening our(my) eyes to some of what goes on out there,I won’t lie at times it was extremely difficult to continue on reading as your writing is so descriptive yet so gripping, Alhamdulillah for being able to be grateful,may Allah make us a means to help ease the suffering of people like this,people who feel alone and forgotten! Aameen

*From all thats happening around us and from the inspiration mandela was i think we should all say a heartfelt prayer as well as try our best to change try to be a helping hand seek out people who need care and just a shoulder and most of all let us all stop the judging please oh Allah hear their cries relieve them make it easy and grant the oppresors hidayat and a way to chAnge too -the oppressors sometimes comes from abused backgrounds too let us try to help them aswell -not condoning ther behaviour ofcourse

*After reading ths, I cried my heart out αη∂ finally found d courage to tell Ʊ……. It felt like I ws reading my own story on ths chapter….

*a heartfelt Duaa for all those going thru any kind of abuse wether phsically or emotionally…may الله ease ur pain n suffering n remove it …rememeber the help of الله is always near…dont ever give up hope on that …for those of us that arent going thru it اَلْحَمْدُ لِلّه n may we be a means of support for all those victims that are no matter wat race colour or creed they may be…

*For many years I was an introvert, insecure and couldnt make friends. I think I got married just because it was a ‘good’ proposal and expected of me. With hindsight, I could have dealt with a difficult MIL differently, but I was young, and didnt have the courage to seek the right guidance. When my 3rd child was a lil girl, all my memories of being raped by the neighbours son came rushing back. I was determined not to let my LG go through what I did.
Alhamdulillah Allah gave me a wonderful and supportive husband, and with his help, I went for counciling. I helped my LG grow into such a strong, self confident young woman, that she sometimes scares me with her courage.
I wish I hadnt lived so many years in a shell, I didnt forsee getting help from people I least expected to understand me.
To all you survivors, it is Never too late to face your fears and seek help. You never know who your saviour will be untill you reach out.


*Assalamu alaykum, amazing blog sister may ALLAH reward u 4 ur efforts n give u the strength 2 carry on writing so we can c reality n help those who r in need 2 escape emotional n physical torture. I went thru something similar, but not as worse alhamdulillah, I had an evil drunken violent step dad who would beat my beloved mum evry single night over the smallest excuses n I had 2 witness this n alot of other bad things for 5 yrs of my teenage life going thru school n college,truly the worst part of my life, when reading this it brought back all the nightmares n I found it hard 2 carry on but at the same time wanted 2 c mumtaz break free, thruout the 5 years me n my mum would try 2 escape but my mum has a very soft heart n my step dad would cry n apologise n say he’ll change but he used to go back to being the same again after a few weeks, alhamdulillah me n my beloved mum managed 2 finally escape from my evil step dad after 5yrs after telling someone n we got help alhamdulillah, ALLAH gave him hidayat after 6months of us leaving n he stopped the drinking n violence,my mum went back 2 him as he had completely changed n it’s been 6yrs they’ve been together n he’s a completely different man n regrets his actions alot alhamdulillah,altho very few change when they say they will. Alhamdulillah I got married so I didnt have 2 go back n remember those nightmares in the house we used 2 live in before. To all the readers out there these things r unfortunately real n we need 2 make dua 2 ALLAH 2 protect everyone who’s going thru this n make dua ALLAH gives hidayah 2 the abuser n always listen 2 someone when they need 2 talk, it can make a huge difference n insha ALLAH they can get the courage 2 break free!

*These are the things sisters should read to broaden their horizons and open their minds. They live in these shells, not knowing the ugliness of this world. I applaud you on writing this blog. You giving a voice for the unspoken. I have officially become a fan and I cannot wait to read more about the life of Mumtaz.

*To all those who’ve shared their thoughts on looking @ both sides of the coin by offerinf Forgiveness and Dua to the perpertrators… They too deserve a chance for Forgiveness and Change as it is a vicious cycle that needs to be broken.. From abused to abuser, they probably don’t know any better.. I learnt that by Forgiving my perpertrators I really set myself Free- and YES too to the fan who spoke on forgiving doesn’t mean condoning the action it means just letting the whole thing GO.. Let Allah judge. After all our Beloved Prophet (PBUH) endured so much and yet He could Forgive.. So too had our Madiba stood for: Forgiving means releasing yourself from Prison … For the abused: Well Done… You have come this far… You have survived.. Your journey had a Purpose.. To lead others to Allahs Divine Light.. Much Love Always… From a Survivor xx

*Thoroughly enjoying it. Portrays the sad reality of the world that we’re living in.

*Side note: don’t know if people have heard about the “blow the whistle” campaign. It’s an anticrime campaign to protect women and children in SA. They’re selling these cute whistle necklaces for R30 at Cross Trainer. Seems fitting to let people know about it on this blog. They also have a website if anyone wants to know more about it :)


If you have a message for all victims out there please share and let them know that someone cares! WE CARE!

And if you’re a victim who wishes his/her voice to be heard, even if you want to do it anonymously please do so… we will listen, we will not judge, we will pray for you, and if it is within our capabilities we will try to help you!

Stop judging! Start acting!

Catch you in the new year Readers! 😉

Tribute to the Victim

My dear loyal readers….

Before I continue let me offer my humble apologies for not posting part nineteen today. Today is dedicated to all those victims of abuse!

I sincerely thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to come back, day after day, to read Mumtaz’s story. Thank you for taking the time to comment and sharing your thoughts.

Unfortunately no post will be uploaded today. Today we will have a moment of silence for all those victims of abuse. Those who managed to get away, all those still suffering and trying to gather the courage to reach out and break free, and to all those who are past the agonising pain and unbearable heartbreak…

Remember, dear readers, that somewhere in the world, what I had written because of a hobby, someone is experiencing in REAL LIFE! Someone is getting raped, or beat to a pulp by a father, or husband, or even worse, a mother. And remember, more often than not, these children and women never find escape, they never break free, because they are judged by society, they are afraid. They have no one to turn to, they have no support structure, and if someone does offer assistance, most of the time it lasts mere minutes. Almost the moment they are free, the very people who helped them think they their work is done, they have taken them out of the harmful situation, and leave them to fend for themselves. These poor victims then find their way back in the dire positions they are trying so desperately to flee.

And their abusers knows that they have no true way out! They are helpless. They know that no one is going to save them, so they take further advantage and take the abuse up a notch each time, each day, each hour…

Read out, dear readers, let us remove ourselves from the shell that we have created in our societies and try to make their lives better in any way we can! For those of us that can, help them break free, or just lend an ear for those that need to unload their burdens. And if you can do none of that, then at least acknowledge them and their situations, and pray for them as hard as you can, asking Allah to ease their pain and suffering and remove them by some means from their harmful situations.

Abuse is not only physical. It is emotional and spiritual and mental too. Crushing the spirit and every ounce of hope that the victim may have left. Take a minute to make a dua, say a prayer. Close your eyes and open your heart.

To any victim that may be reading this. Whether you are still going through the abuse or you have left it behind you, I am talking directly to you! I feel for you, I feel your pain, I want to help you in some way. Reach out to someone, even if it just to talk, that is the first step… Don’t be afraid! Allah is always with you. Close your eyes and feel His presence. Talk to Him! Cry to Him! Plead with Him! Believe in Him!

Please feel free to leave your message for the victims of abuse. And if their are any victims out there feel free to share your story. Your anonymity is guaranteed.

Have a beautiful weekend!