Reflection of Juz’ 8 by Habibatou (Habibah) Camara

Juz 8 Reflection

By Habibah Camara

The timing of writing this feels perfect. I sit here a few days into the new year with an optimistic feeling — a sense that this year, my twenty-first year, will be one of dramatic change. Frankly, this feeling comes to me every year. I am always waiting for that big year, the year when everything will change. And every year, things do change, but never quite in the way I imagine. Still, even with that naïveté acknowledged, I find myself believing again: this is the year of change.

When I reflect on my childhood, my mind paints vivid memories of my father lying next to me in my twin-sized bed after I signaled it was time for my bedtime stories — a ritual I took very seriously. As he recounted the stories of our beloved Prophets, my imagination would stage the scenes: Ibrahim (peace be upon him) thrown into the fire, Nuh (peace be upon him) urging his family to board the ark. Yet I struggled to imagine the Prophets with human instincts or emotions. A gap formed in my mind between Prophethood and humanity.

Allah (glory be to Him) chose specific people to deliver a specific message, and their trials felt so immense that I could not fathom drawing from them as guidance for my own small struggles. It almost felt irreverent to compare the trials of Ibrahim or Musa (peace be upon them) to my worries about school or my attempts to negotiate a later bedtime.

In hoping for change each year, I have returned to the stories presented in Juz 8. In Surah al-A‘raf (7:59), Allah says: “We certainly sent Noah to his people, and he said, ‘O my people, worship Allah — you have no deity other than Him. Indeed, I fear for you the punishment of a tremendous Day.’” Prophet Nuh (peace be upon him) was entrusted with calling his people for 950 years (29:14). When I think about that, I wonder whether each year he hoped it would finally be the year of transformation — similar to how we approach new year’s resolutions with fresh determination each December.

Nine hundred and fifty years. The number leaves me speechless. I cannot pretend to grasp it. What anchored him when year after year brought rejection? Many of us struggle to sustain hope for even a single year. Our resolutions fade quickly; our motivation dissolves.

The gap between his endurance and my own struggle once felt unbridgeable — until I encountered a verse that reframed everything. In Surah al-An‘am (6:162), Allah commands the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings be upon him) to say: “Indeed, my prayer, my sacrifice, my living and my dying are for Allah, Lord of the worlds.”

My immediate reaction to this ayah was: finally.

Looking back, I recognize that I have always been seeking — searching for a way out, an anchor, something that would ground my life. In what felt like its absence, I grasped at motivational quotes on Pinterest or devoured novel after novel, hoping that reading about others finding their way would somehow help me find mine.

“Indeed, my prayer, my sacrifice, my living and my dying are for Allah, Lord of the worlds.”  – Surah al-An‘am (6:162)

Years later, encountering this ayah made me smile. The Book that contains all answers — the Book I have been reading since I was four, the Book that filled my afternoons during hifz — had the answer all along. There is a saying that those born into Islam must still rediscover it for themselves before tasting its sweetness. To realize that the pledge was always there — that my prayer, my sacrifice, my life, and my death belong to Allah, Lord of all worlds — shifted something in me. The change I seek is not hidden. It begins with intention.

 

When every atom of life — from the mundane to the monumental — is offered for the sake of Allah, existence itself transforms. Life no longer feels senseless or crushing; it becomes part of a coherent whole, a story in which each moment carries divine purpose. Even exhaustion acquires a subtle sweetness, like a whisper of the reward awaiting beyond struggle.

 

The trials of Prophet Nuh (peace be upon him), enduring centuries of rejection, and Prophet Ayyub (peace be upon him), losing everything yet never wavering in gratitude, were not detached from their surrender — they were expressions of it. In Surah al-A‘raf (7:42–43), Allah promises: “As for those who believe and do righteous deeds — We do not burden any soul beyond its capacity — they are the companions of Paradise; they will abide therein. And We will remove whatever is within their breasts of resentment. Rivers will flow beneath them.”

 

With that promise in mind and this pledge in my heart, I can say with conviction that the change I seek will happen — not because circumstances will dramatically shift, but because my orientation has. The years in which the Prophets waited for change among their people were not stagnant years; they were years of devoted service, each one a renewal of commitment to Allah, Lord of the worlds.

 

The distance between Prophethood and my small struggles is not as vast as I once believed. The Prophets teach us how to carry difficulty — with surrender, with steadiness, with every breath oriented toward the Divine.

 

My prayer. My sacrifice. My life. My death. All for Allah, Lord of the worlds.

 

That pledge does not eliminate struggle, but it anchors me in something far greater than any single year’s resolution. Perhaps that is the change that endures.

Habibatou (Habibah) Camara is a daughter of Malian immigrants and a Bay Area native. She graduated from UC Berkeley with a degree in political science and a minor in Arabic, where her research focused on West African governance and political history. Since 2023, she has been a Sapelo Square Freedom School intern, where she has deepened her commitment to Black Muslim civic life and community education. She is currently preparing for law school, where she intends to pursue immigration and civil rights law.