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Jihad
It is an hour past midnight; the children lie asleep,
Her body aches from labor, her heart buried deep.
Beneath the stars, she crawls through metal and barbed wire,
Her jihad is survival, her spirit will not tire.
No guns, no bombs, no planes in the sky,
Her fight is love, her will to try.
In the folds of her hijab, unseen by the world,
Lives a warrior’s heart, a banner unfurled.
Not the Taliban’s vengeance, nor a soldier’s might,
Her battle is quiet, fought each night.
To feed her children, to mend her home,
Through darkness and danger, she silently roams.
She moves on her knees, her elbows scraped raw,
Dodging the soldiers, evading their law.
Her hands bring the bread; her soul bears the strain,
A life filled with struggle, yet she won’t complain.
If she returns tonight, she’s a hero, a light,
A ghazi, a jihadi, a symbol of might.
But should she fall to a soldier’s aim,
Her name becomes sacred, eternal her flame.
Her jihad is love, her weapon her grace,
In life or in death, she’s won her place.
In heaven or earth, she will rise,
A mother, a warrior, beneath God’s skies.

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