# Chapter 2 The Man Who Lost His Way
The dawn prayer came with air colder than usual. The remnants of last night's rain still left the smell of wet earth in the yard of the little house. From the kitchen came the sound of boiling water, followed by a soft cough that made Azzam open his eyes earlier than usual.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his hair still a mess, his head heavy from thinking too much the night before. Yet something was different. For the first time in what felt like forever, he woke not because of an alarm he'd had to hit repeatedly, but because his heart was afraid of being left behind.
The dawn call to prayer from the mosque at the end of the alley had ended long ago. The house was still dim, with only the kitchen light on.
Azzam stepped out of his room. Mom Salmah was standing in front of the stove, her prayer garment not yet fully removed. Her face looked pale, but the woman still smiled first when she saw her son.
“Up already?” Mom asked.
Azzam nodded. “You just finished praying?”
“Yeah. I was going to make some hot tea first.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
Mom Salmah gave him a faint smile. “You looked tired last night.”
The sentence was simple, but enough to make Azzam’s chest feel tight again. His mother always understood, even when he himself didn’t know how to explain what was in his head.
Azzam moved closer. “Let me make it.”
“You can?”
There was a teasing note in her voice. Azzam almost smiled.
“God willing. It’s just tea, Mom. I’m not building a skyscraper.”
“In that case, I’ll sit down.”
Mom Salmah sat in the wooden chair near the dining table. Azzam poured hot water into two glasses, added just enough sugar, and stirred slowly. His movements were awkward, like someone who had only just learned to pay attention to small things.
“Is there any bread left?” Azzam asked.
“In the jar.”
Azzam took out some white bread and toasted it briefly on a flat pan. It wasn’t very neat. One side was slightly burned. But Mom Salmah accepted it as though it were the best breakfast she’d ever had.
They ate in a silence that wasn’t entirely quiet. Sometimes there was the sound of spoons, sometimes a soft cough, sometimes the noise of a neighbor’s motorbike starting up for work. In that simple house, morning felt like a fragile pause.
“Zam,” Mom called softly.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Azzam didn’t answer right away. His hand stopped around the glass.
“I just feel like... everyone else keeps moving forward. I’m the only one who’s stuck.”
“Who says you’re stuck?”
“I haven’t graduated. I don’t have any money. You still have to work. Sometimes I think maybe I’m just a burden.”
Mom Salmah set down her glass. “Don’t say that again.”
Her voice was gentle but firm. Azzam looked up.
“Every child is a sacred trust, not a burden,” she continued. “And everyone has their own time to grow. Being slower doesn’t mean you’ve failed.”
Azzam lowered his head. Her words soothed him, but they weren’t enough to put out the storm that had lived inside him for far too long.
After breakfast, he helped clean up the kitchen. Then, as if pulled along by something he didn’t yet understand, he performed ablution and headed to the mosque at the end of the alley. The sun had not truly risen yet. The streets were still quiet. The wet leaves reflected the pale morning light.
The mosque wasn’t large. Its walls were simply painted, the front fence was slightly rusty, and the potted plants beside the steps looked barely tended. But for some reason, that was where he had felt able to breathe the night before.
Azzam sat on the veranda. There was no one there except an old mosque caretaker sweeping the yard. He stared ahead without really seeing anything. His thoughts went everywhere.
About the thesis that never seemed to end.
About the messages from his thesis advisor that he still hadn’t answered.
About this month’s electric bill.
About his mother’s cough.
About himself, who felt more like a stranger with every passing day.
“You came back.”
The voice made Azzam turn. Sheikh Abdullah stood near the mosque’s side door, wearing a white shirt and gray sarong. His face was as calm as ever.
Azzam quickly stood. “Peace be upon you, Sheikh.”
“And peace be upon you.” He came closer, then sat on the long bench. “Go ahead, sit down. This mosque isn’t an office meant to make people nervous.”
Azzam sat back down, this time with a faint smile that was almost invisible.
“You’re a college student?” Sheikh Abdullah asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s your major?”
“Architecture.”
“No wonder you look like someone who hasn’t slept enough and has had too many revisions.”
Azzam startled, then laughed softly. It was an awkward laugh, as if he’d forgotten what it felt like.
“That’s right, Sheikh.”
“Final semester?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you look like someone who’s just lost his entire future?”
The question was too accurate. Azzam fell silent.
Sheikh Abdullah didn’t press him. He gazed at the still-wet mosque courtyard. A small bird perched on the fence, then flew away again.
“Can I be honest?” Azzam asked at last.
“If you’re in Allah’s house, you should try to be.”
Azzam swallowed. “I’m tired, Sheikh. Tired of being myself.”
The words came out just like that—raw and unadorned. He didn’t even know how long he’d been holding them inside.
“I feel like I keep taking the wrong step no matter where I go. I’m afraid to move forward. I’m ashamed to stop. And even when I want to talk about it, I don’t know where to begin.”
Sheikh Abdullah nodded slowly. There was no surprise on his face, as if he had often heard the human heart breaking in all kinds of ways.
“Sometimes,” he said, “what makes us tired isn’t life itself, but the fact that we try to carry everything without Allah.”
Azzam was silent.
“Your thesis, your future, your livelihood, your mother’s health, other people’s judgment, the wounds of the past... you’re carrying all of it by yourself. No wonder your inner back has broken.”
The morning breeze moved gently. Azzam lowered his head. For some reason, the advice didn’t feel judgmental. Instead, it felt like someone finally calling his wound by its proper name.
“When we draw close to Allah,” Sheikh Abdullah continued, “our problems may not disappear. But our hearts are given somewhere to stand.”
Azzam closed his eyes for a moment. Somewhere to stand. Those two words felt impossibly luxurious to someone who had spent so long falling without end.
“What if I’ve gone too far?” he asked softly.
Sheikh Abdullah turned to him. “Far from whom? From Allah?”
Azzam didn’t answer.
“If you’re still troubled because you’re far away, that’s a sign Allah is still calling you. People whose hearts are truly dead usually no longer feel the loss.”
The words pierced his chest, gentle and sharp at the same time.
Azzam had felt restless for a long time. He had long felt that something was empty, but he kept busy covering it with reasons that sounded sensible. Schoolwork. The pressures of life. His financial situation. The future. All of those things were real. But there was another reality he had avoided all this time: he had drifted away, then lost his way, and then pretended everything was fine.
“What should I do, Sheikh?”
“Start with the basics.”
“Like what?”
“Keep your prayers on time. Seek Allah’s forgiveness often. Read the Quran, even if it’s only a little. And don’t make despair part of your everyday language.”
Azzam nodded slowly.
Sheikh Abdullah smiled. “When a house is cracked, you repair the foundation first. You’re an architecture student. You should understand that.”
This time, Azzam really smiled.
After their conversation, he didn’t go home right away. He sat in the mosque for quite a while, opened a Quran from the wooden shelf, and read several verses in a very soft voice. His recitation wasn’t steady yet. Several times, he stopped. But for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t reading simply because he felt he was supposed to. He was reading because he wanted to hold on.
Around nine, his phone vibrated. Rafi’s name appeared on the screen.
“Peace be upon you, future delayed graduate,” his friend’s boisterous voice said as soon as he answered.
Azzam exhaled. “And peace be upon you. What a wonderful prayer.”
“How’s that living creature who’s impossible to advise?”
“Still alive.”
“Praise be to Allah. That means it’s not too late for repentance and revisions.”
Azzam smiled faintly. Rafi was always like that. He teased without ever hurting him.
“Where are you?” Rafi asked.
“At the mosque.”
“Praise be to Allah. I’m starting to suspect you’re not the Azzam I know.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“Seriously. What’s going on?”
Azzam was silent for a moment. “I just want to be quiet for a while.”
Rafi’s voice softened. “Is everything safe at home?”
“God willing.”
“How’s your mom?”
“She’s still coughing.”
“Have you taken her to get checked out?”
“Not yet.”
Rafi sighed softly. “I’ll come to your house this afternoon, okay?”
“You don’t have to.”
‘You don’t have to’ is what people say when they actually need someone to keep them company.”
Azzam didn’t get a chance to argue because Rafi had already ended the call with a farewell.
Around noon, Azzam went home. There, he found Mom Salmah sewing in front of an old sewing machine. Pastel-colored fabrics were piled on the small table beside her. Her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
“You’re home?” Mom asked.
“Yeah.”
“From the mosque?”
Azzam nodded.
Mom’s face looked a little more relieved, though she didn’t say anything else. There were small joys that only a mother’s eyes could catch.
That afternoon, Azzam tried opening his laptop again. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting for something. His thesis folder was packed with confusingly named files: revisions_fixed, revisions_fixed_new, revisions_for_real, revisions_final2. They all looked like evidence that he had intended to start far too many times, only to give up halfway through.
He read his thesis advisor’s notes one by one. His head began to grow heavy again.
“The analysis isn’t sharp enough.”
“Improve the structure of the discussion.”
“The references aren’t relevant enough.”
“Please schedule a consultation soon.”
The word “soon” felt like a threat.
Azzam closed his eyes. His breathing quickened. Panic came again like a guest who knew the way home. His fingers clenched. In his mind came the whispers that never truly went away:
You really can’t do this.
You’re late.
You’re only making things harder for your mother.
You’ll never finish.
He got up, moved away from the table, and performed ablution. A few minutes later, he stood to pray the noon prayer. His movements were not entirely calm yet, but at least he no longer left his heart to drown alone.
After the prayer, he sat for a long time on his prayer mat.
“Oh Allah,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, “I don’t know where to begin. But if You’re still opening a path for me, don’t let me run away again.”
The prayer was simple. Not beautiful. Not long. But perhaps that was precisely why it felt honest.
That afternoon, Rafi really did come. As usual, without much small talk, he walked straight in carrying a box of martabak and a bag of fruit.
“Peace be upon you! I’ve arrived as a righteous friend and the family’s nutrition savior.”
“And peace be upon you,” Mom Salmah replied from the living room with a small laugh.
Azzam, who was sitting on the veranda, shook his head. “If you’re not loud, your identity disappears, huh?”
Rafi sat beside him. “If you get any gloomier, I’m going to have to work twice as hard.”
They fell silent for a moment. Small children ran around at the end of the alley. A meatball vendor passed by, tapping a bowl and creating the familiar rhythm of the afternoon.
Rafi glanced at his friend. “Want to talk, or should I start with a free sermon?”
“Don’t sermonize.”
“Fine. Then talk.”
Azzam stared at the road in front of the house. “I feel like I don’t have any direction.”
Rafi didn’t interrupt.
“Everything’s a mess. My thesis, money, my head... Mom’s sick too. Sometimes I think that if I’d been more diligent before, if I’d done things right, maybe it wouldn’t have turned out like this.”
Rafi let out a soft sigh. “Regret is necessary, Zam. But when there’s too much of it, it turns into poison.”
Azzam looked at him.
“You know why the car in front has a big windshield and small side mirrors?”
Azzam narrowed his eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because the past only needs to be seen in moderation. What matters more is the road ahead.”
“Look at you, a philosopher all of a sudden.”
“Thank you.”
Azzam laughed softly, then fell quiet again.
Rafi continued, more seriously this time. “You don’t have to fix your entire life in one day. Try breaking it down piece by piece. Call your advisor tomorrow. Go over the revisions again tonight. This week, find a way to take Mom to the doctor. Don’t put everything in your head without a plan.”
Azzam nodded. The advice was so simple, but that was exactly why it felt possible.
“Want to come to the religious study session tonight?” Rafi asked.
“Where?”
“The mosque at the end of the alley. Turns out Sheikh Abdullah is leading it after the sunset prayer.”
Azzam was silent for a moment, then answered, “I’ll come.”
The evening sky slowly turned a dull orange. From inside the house came the scent of hot tea. Mom called them inside. Rafi was the first to stand, as if he really were the second son of the household.
Azzam watched his friend’s back, then looked at the little house growing dusky beneath the yellow light. The problems were still there in his chest. His thesis wasn’t finished. Money was still tight. His mother’s cough hadn’t gone away. The future still looked hazy.
But for the first time in a long while, he felt that perhaps his direction hadn’t truly disappeared.
Maybe he had simply been walking without light for too long.
And perhaps, as Sheikh Abdullah had said, what he needed to do now was not run very far, but return and rebuild the foundation that had been quietly cracking all this time.
Night had not yet fully fallen when the sunset call to prayer began to echo from every direction.
Azzam stood.
Then he took a step.
Slowly, but this time not without a destination.