Hana nodded, thinking hard with her lips pursed. Mr. Harun smiled at the teenager’s serious expression. In the living room, Humaira was still explaining all sorts of things to the children staying at her shelter. Every so often, she glanced over and flashed Hana a smile.
“It seems Bunda knows we’re talking about her,” Hana whispered.
“That’s all right. We aren’t talking about anything bad she’s done, but about the reality she’s facing. Personally, I hope our conversation can become medicine for Bunda.”
Hana nodded in agreement. In her heart, she felt a surge of admiration for the man known in daily life as the Quran teacher at the mosque in front of her shelter. Mr. Harun was known for being friendly. He never treated anyone differently when they came simply to talk with him. His knowledge was broad, his words wise, and his greetings gentle and unassuming.
“Why are you spacing out?” Mr. Harun asked, startling Hana out of her daze.
“Oh—yes, sir,” Hana replied shyly.
“What were you daydreaming about?” Mr. Harun teased.
“Um, nothing, sir. I was just thinking about how Bunda could free herself from that kind of fear.” Hana dodged the question by steering the conversation back to its original topic. Mr. Harun chuckled when he saw how nervous she was.
“In the midst of that fear, all they really want is one thing: to breathe safely, to love God without hating themselves. To obey without having to lose their humanity. The distance they create isn’t rejection. It’s space to survive. A place where the heart can learn not to break. A place where faith can continue to stand.”
“Can Bunda find that space?” Hana asked.
“Of course. What Bunda has done is right. She’s already in a space where, as a woman, she’s finding her right to be human again, as well as a servant of Allah. Women who have been hurt often remain faithful. They still pray, still make supplications, still perform good deeds. But with their chests constricted. With a sense of caution. They want to come home, but they also carry an honest fear: will they be accepted?”
Hana nodded repeatedly, trying to understand Mr. Harun’s words.
“Sometimes they create distance. Not to leave the religion, but to survive. To save themselves from falling apart even further. There, they learn to breathe slowly. To find a way to love God without having to hate themselves. To find a path of devotion that still protects their humanity,” Mr. Harun continued.
“But Bunda still often attends Quran study, prays on time, and sometimes even fasts voluntary fasts,” Hana protested.
“Yes, that’s how it should be. What Bunda is doing is Islamic law. Islam, of course, should be welcoming to women—not an Islam that frees them from responsibility, but an Islam that gives them a sense of safety. An Islam that reminds us Allah’s mercy is wider than human mistakes. That asking questions isn’t a sin. Being tired isn’t a sin. Wanting to come home gently isn’t a sin either. Religion should be a home, not a courtroom. It should be a place to grow, not a place to be afraid.”
“Hana... I don’t know whether I understand,” Hana said at last. She looked toward the living room, where Humaira appeared to be preparing lunch for the children.
“Hana’s going inside now, sir. I want to help Bunda. Hana wants to thank you. Hana will remember your explanation, and someday, if she needs it, she’ll be able to apply it when she’s grown up.”
“You don’t have to understand it now. Someday you’ll know that Bunda’s silence wasn’t born from anger, but from a wound she’s come to understand. It may be that Bunda once felt afraid within her own faith. That doesn’t mean she’s broken as a believer, nor that she’s failed. She’s only learning to come home more slowly.”
“Hana hopes Bunda gets better soon someday.”
“Of course. It’s the presence of all of you that will bring Bunda home again,” Mr. Harun said as he stood. Hana, too, walked inside, bringing their conversation that day to an end.