Muhammad

In times to come, I will question my decision to give my son the name Muhammad, the name that makes an exception of him, the name that seems to turn his settings hostile. I will, for example, watch a thirty-eight-week pregnant woman on a news clipping which has gone viral double over in fear; I will see the attacker hurl Islamophobic abuse at the woman made visible by her hijab, alongside his fists in a small café in the bright cityscape of Parramatta; I will ache for the child in her belly as I will for the safety of my own two children. In times to come, I know my body will become too small to shield my son's, my presence around him will flicker to a shadow and I will not always be there to deflect the glare that his name seems to attract. In times to come, I will sink into the darkness of questioning myself, my intentions, and the foolishness of the defiance that his name suggests; ask a mother, love builds and breaks in unspeakable ways. But right now, I see Muhammad sitting with a book in his lap, searching in its pages for the meaning of his name; I see him carry on the prophetic tradition, and in this moment, there is only light.