Silent Struggles: A Cousin’s Journey in the Gulf

My cousin lives in Saudi Arabia. Starting in Allah’s name feels necessary because what follows is not just a story of geography or nationality—it is a story of human dignity, patience, and quiet suffering.

He is bright, hardworking, and deeply devoted to his studies, yet every day he navigates a world that challenges his faith in humanity. On the surface, the rules seem clear. Respect, morality, and justice are principles upheld in religion, law, and society. Yet, in reality, people bend those rules, choosing selfishness and cruelty over fairness. Some wield wealth, social status, or nationality as shields, asserting dominance over anyone they see as “less than.” And all too often, that “less than” is someone from Pakistan, India, or another poorer country.

He has shared stories with me that still make my heart ache. At university, during a group project, classmates openly dismissed his ideas, mocked his accent, and undermined his contributions. They did it subtly—sneers, passing comments, laughter under their breath—but the message was unmistakable. He was not equal in their eyes because he did not belong to the “preferred” social or economic circle.

I asked him if he had spoken up. He paused. “I did not,” he said quietly. “Sometimes, Allah asks you to endure. Silence can be an act of faith. But it is a heavy weight to carry.”

And it is heavy. Imagine doing everything right—studying, respecting others, offering kindness—while still being made to feel unworthy simply for where you were born or what you look like. The injustice is not always violent, but it is no less real. It coils around your stomach, twists your chest, and sharpens your senses until even silence becomes a warning. He feels it every time someone glances at him with disdain, every time a word is thrown carelessly, every time he notices the subtle hierarchy that defines who is “respected” and who is invisible.

Sometimes, he retreats to the library late at night. There, among the fluorescent lights, towering shelves, and the quiet hum of focused students, he allows himself to breathe. And yet, even in that quiet, he feels the echo of those same injustices. The library becomes both sanctuary and mirror, reflecting the inequities of the world outside. He watches how some students use their power—social, economic, or racial—to assert dominance, and he thinks about the teachings of Islam. Justice is not just a principle written in books. It is something you live by. And when others choose to ignore it, the heart grows heavy with grief.

He told me about the fear that never fully leaves him. It is not fear of violence, but fear of invisibility, erasure, and constant diminishment. He has learned to navigate it with caution, speaking only when necessary, weighing every word. Yet, beneath the restraint is a quiet storm of frustration, sorrow, and longing for fairness.

This story is not meant to vilify any one person or place. It is a reflection of reality that too many endure in silence. It is about the gap between what is taught and what is practiced, between principle and behavior. And it is about the courage it takes to endure daily injustice while holding on to faith, dignity, and hope.

By sharing his experiences, I want to honor his patience and perseverance. Silence is not weakness. It is a shield, yes—but it is also a burden, a reminder that morality and justice are not guaranteed simply because they are promised in scripture. They must be lived, practiced, and defended.

And so, I tell this story in Allah’s name, with hope and prayer that the world may move closer to justice, that the powerful may remember their responsibility to the vulnerable, and that every act of cruelty is seen, even if not immediately corrected. My cousin’s journey is a testament to resilience, patience, and faith in the face of human indifference and arrogance.

Because the hardest battles are often fought silently, in hallways and classrooms, between glances and whispers, and the ones who endure them quietly carry a strength that few ever see.