Dear Black Muslim Families,
When was the last time you received a love letter?
Not the kind that you seal with a kiss or tuck into a drawer to savor the sweetness in the gift of that letter, but the kind written in du’a and memory. The kind that speaks through the quiet ache of longing and the loud joy of reunion. A letter that sees you fully, not just as an individual but as part of a lineage. One written to you, to us, to the generations who prayed us into existence, and the ones still learning to walk in our footsteps.
Have you ever received a love letter like that? Or has it been so long that you are not sure you remember?
If you have ever received a love letter like that, even just once, you know how it feels. The way your name looks in someone else’s handwriting. They have written your name in ways that the letters curve and lighten at certain points to make an effort to demonstrate the emotion associated with their love for you. Small things like this become so big because they cause your heart to soften when someone sees you clearly and chooses to say it out loud. Many of us have not received that kind of letter in years. Some of us never have. But we remember. We remember what it felt like to be chosen, cherished, and spoken to with care.
That spirit of remembrance, of tenderness, of return is what we carried into the Black Muslim Family Retreat. We did not just gather. We came home. We returned to each other. Returned to the sacredness of our skin, our names, our laughter, our grief. We returned to the truth that Black Muslim love, in all its forms, is not just beautiful. It is necessary. It is revolutionary.
And would you believe that we were blessed to be invited to write love letters at the retreat? During one of the most powerful sessions held, we were invited to remember the power in writing love letters and to practice what that feels and looks like. We learned to write to each part of ourselves. That started with letters directly to ourselves. To the people we carry in our hearts. To the relationships that ache for healing or remembrance. I was there to witness it. I saw the quiet, intentional space we created together. I heard the conversations about love between spouses, between siblings, between parents and children, between friends, between community members. I did not read the letters. I did not need to. I imagined.
I imagined grown men writing to their mothers. Women writing to their fathers. Husbands writing to wives. Wives writing to husbands. Some writing to exes, not to reopen old wounds but to release what was never spoken, to honor what shaped them, or to close a chapter with grace. Children writing to their future selves. I imagined tears falling onto pages that held decades of silence. And I saw, in my mind and in my heart, what happens when we make space for our pain to speak and our love to answer.
Because that exercise was more than a prompt. It was a portal. A sacred invitation to speak the truths we have buried beneath survival. A way to name the grief we have inherited, the tenderness we have been denied, and the love we still long to give. It was a practice in softening. In remembering that we are worthy of gentleness, of forgiveness, of being held. Even when the world forgets us. Even when the ummah overlooks us. Even when we have learned to armor ourselves just to make it through.
And yet, even before the letters were written, love was already happening. It was woven into the fabric of our gathering. In the way elders greeted children by name, as if blessing them with belonging. In the way meals were passed without hesitation, hands extended like du’a. In the way prayer wrapped around us like a balm, reminding us that Allah sees us whole. We were not just participants. We were family. And in that family, we found safety, beauty, and belonging, not in spite of our Blackness and our Islam but because of them.
So to every Black Muslim family who has ever felt unseen m the masjid, unheard in the movement, or unheld in the narrative, this is for you. To every parent carrying the weight of legacy. To every child searching for a mirror. To every couple trying to love through the storm. To every soul craving a place to exhale, this is for you.
I invite you and your family to join me and so many other AHAD families next year at the annual Black Muslim Family Retreat so that you can be a witness to the beautiful experience I’ve shared here in this letter to you.
Please bring your stories, your questions, your JOY, your rage, your softness, your umque dopeness as a Black Muslim. Bring your du’as, your doubts and most importantly, your determination to be renewed and to be prepared to offer things that lead to renewal. Bring your hijabs, your locs, temp fades, your kufis, your grief, your brilliance. I can assure you that there wi11 be room for a11 of that at the retreat inshaA11ah.
I hope that you will receive both my invitation and love letter to you. And I also pray that you will reply in person inshaA11ah next year. Ameen.
With deep love and unwavering solidarity, Jaasmeen.
Read other articles about the retreat here and here.
Most photos courtesy of Jaasmeen. The last three photos courtesy of The Black Muslim Family Retreat
Read other articles about the retreat here and here.
Jaasmeen Hamed is a Product Education Manager at athenahealth and a first-year doctoral student at Clark Atlanta University pursuing an EdD in Higher Education Leadership. She has nearly 20 years of experience in project management, curriculum development, and community health education. Jaasmeen holds a Bachelor of Architecture from Tuskegee University and a Master's in Community Planning from Auburn University. She is certified in Inclusive Leadership through FranklinCovey and advocates for culturally responsive programming. A health advocate, vegan food entrepreneur, and dedicated volunteer, Jaasmeen is a proud Northern California native and mother to one young adult son.
One Response
Absolutely beautiful written reflection.