So this is what it feels like.

The thought creeps up in my mind as our laughter subsided. We were clutching our stomachs, catching our breaths; flushed faces and happy smiles. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this way. A while since I’ve felt connected. And there I was, feeling the way that I felt, at a time when I possibly had needed it the most.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have older sisters. In the first few weeks of coming back to Brisbane for my second year of studies, that wonder that I’ve always had was one that was met, because for the first few weeks back, I stayed in the Muttahad house.

Almost two weeks of living with four other girls under the same roof; all of whom were unrelated by blood but had bonds that were linked and strengthened by unity – which is the very meaning of the word Muttahad.

And to put it simply, it was an experience I will always treasure.

Tiptoeing around the house, too afraid to leave anything even remotely disturbed. My previous housemate and I were too nervous to use the kettle to refill our water bottles; too anxious to step anywhere in the house that wasn’t the bathroom or our sleeping area. I don’t belong, I thought.

Tell me that three days later, I’d be in the kitchen comfortably cooking a too-spicy dinner for the girls as they gasped and went crazy over Gone Girl on TV, and I’d laugh and say you’re joking. But it happened. Three nights in, and already the tiptoeing, the nervousness, and the feeling of not belonging that were there and ever so present not that long ago before, were gone.

I actually belong, I felt.

Marked by the welcoming feeling of opening the door and being greeted with a chorus of Assalamualaikum’s from inside; marked by the late nights spent talking about life and all its various antics, open and honest the way it’s usually hard to be; marked by the ease of knowing that you’re accepted and appreciated for being you.

It started with the kettle. Then the plates, spoons and cups, and all other kitchen utensils. It started with pillows and blankets, and space in the bedroom prepared just for us. It started with printers and papers, wifi and tv, and every other things in the room until it became something more than just use what’s mine because what’s mine is yours.

The generosity was extended into other domains.

Knowledge, life, love.

(photo credit to Zurai)

Mornings began with waking each other up for prayers; evenings spent sharing knowledge. Routines were made based on each other’s personal timetables – a Korean drama after classes, a dinner cooked while movies played on tv, and songs sang together to pass the time. Looking after each other and caring for each other – that love so palpable in the air, I felt it all the time while I was around them.

Knowledge, life, love.
But most especially love.

What’s mine is yours had never sparked such a connection before.

When the time came for me and my previous housemate to move out of the Muttahad house, and into our owns, it was hard. Harder than I thought it would be.

We agreed on dates for when we were going to move out, and dreaded the dates as they came. We pushed the dates farther, convincing ourselves that we didn't have everything that we need to move out just yet. And then we set new dates, push them out again, make up excuses as time went. And repeat.

And while we're no longer staying in the Muttahad house as I write this out, it is still a place that I find peace in. I come there and my whole being comes loose. It knows that it's in a place where it was taken care of so fondly and genuinely. It knows that it's in a place that taught it things that it vows to remember. It knows that it's in a place where five girls stayed together and created a sisterhood that will, In sha Allah, remain united.

It comes there, and it feels somewhat like it's at home. And dear Muttahad girls, it truly was at home with you.

So. The thought comes up once again as I looked at the circle of girls around me – the Muttahad girls at their best and brightest. This is what it feels like to be in a sisterhood.

With love, Iween

🎕