HARF, the story of words.

 Bismillah rahman rahiim, alhamdulillahi rabbil alamin, aarahma-nir rahim, maliki yaumiddin, iyyaka n’abadu wa-iyaaka nasta’in.. The first poems I ever knew, ever loved, were written in a language I didn’t (and still don’t) understand. In my very early childhood, I would just watch my family, mimicking their movements as best as I could. Mostly, their prayers were whispered, barely audible, so instead of sounding like them I focused entirely on moving like them—cupping my hands before my face as if they were full of water, then “splashing” my hands up to my ears, bending at the waist, kneeling, touching my head to my janamaz, my own tiny embroidered prayer mat. So every day my family gathered together to pray in a language we didn’t understand, to repeat these gorgeous, rending strings of sounds together as a way of building direct channels to God. For most of my early childhood, I just moved through the postures along with my family, listening to their whispered words,...