Once, during one of those quiet moments of my life when my heart felt heavier than usual, my maternal uncle sat beside me.
He looked at me and lovingly advised me that
“As far as I have known you, it seems you will face many intellectual battles which will eventually lead you to deep emotional battles too, not just in life, but in your heart, as well. When you do, always remember who you are. Remember whose grand daughter you are, remember your strong paternal grandmother.”
SubhanAllah! It carried me away, as he was not talking about my maternal grandmother, even though he was my maternal uncle, and my maternal grandmother too was a woman of grace, and smile. But he wasn’t talking about her. He was talking about my paternal grandmother, may be because he saw my paternal grandmother taking strong stands, unlike my maternal grandmother who was wholly submissive with all smiles, without questioning/reasoning anything.
SubhanAllah! Ever since that day, when I am overwhelmed by sorrow, pressure, or had to fight the unsaid battles, I hear his words echoing in my heart,
“Remember who you are. Remember whose granddaughter you are.”
And somehow, through this thread of memory, I find myself reaching far back past my grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and further still until I meet Hajar (عليها السلام).
She عليها السلام is not a story to me. She is not just a historical figure. She has a rich legacy for us all to look forward in thick and thorns.
Hajar عليها السلام was placed in a barren desert with her infant son, Ismail (a.s) with little water, and few dates.
Her husband, Prophet Ibrahim (a.s.), walked away under Divine command. And she asked just one thing.
“Did Allah command you to do this?”
When the answer was yes, she didn’t argue. She didn’t beg. She simply turned back, with a heart that surrendered but a spirit that did know the real meaning of tawakkul.
She was a lactating mother of her infant Ismail (a.s) when she ran out of little provision of dates and water she had, she عليها السلام ran between Safa and Marwah, the two hills again and again.
Not once or twice, but seven times in that scorching heat.
No water. No people. No shade. Just sand, silence, and the scorching sun.
In those hills, she wasn’t just searching for water. She was pouring out her will, her desperation, her courage. Yet never losing her faith in The One Who sees all the struggles, Allah Al-Baseer.
And it was there in the middle of that dry, forsaken place that Allah Al-Azeem caused the blessed Zamzam to burst forth.
Not near a river. Not in a garden. But in the most hopeless corner of the earth, the barren desert!
SubhanAllah! She was blessed with such a profound blessing that the barakah of that blessing will remain till the end of times in the form of the blessed zam zam.
This alone would have been enough to learn from her. But Hajar’s wisdom didn’t end there.
When the tribe of Jurhum saw water, they came and asked to settle in the area, she welcomed them because she knew community was needed. But when it came to the well of Zamzam, she made it clear that they could stay, but the well would remain hers.
This, too, teaches me something very deep.
Even in deep need, even in longing for connection and support, she knew her worth.
She didn’t hand over her blessing out of desperation.
She didn’t let others take control of what Allah Al-Wahaab had given her.
She protected it with grace and with dignity.
So now, when I walk through my own deserts, the emotional kind, the unseen, unsaid battles, I remember her.
When I feel lost, I think of how Allah Al-Kareem made her story eternal. He Al-Azeem placed a woman, alone with her child, at the center of a pilgrimage followed by millions to walk on her footsteps while doing Sa’i.
Allah honoured her pain, her search, her struggle, her perseverance, her tawakkul, and through her, honored us all.
Being a daughter of Hajar means I carry her legacy not just in name, but in spirit.
It means I know that even in barren places, water can flow.
That even when left behind, I am never forgotten.
That even when the world offers help, and I am utterly desperate for that help, I must still guard what is mine with all dignity.
That my strength is not loud but it is lasting.
It means that when I am weak, I remember I come from a woman who ran in the heat and cried in the silence and found mercy beneath the barren.
عليها السلام
May Allah Al-Azeem be pleased with her.
And make us realise whose daughters we are!
Ameen ya Al-Mujeeb.