Inside a small, warm flat, Emine cradled her newborn son, Yunus, in her arms. He was six days old—the age of naming, of blessing, of welcoming into the community of faith. His tiny fingers, no bigger than matchsticks, curled and uncurled against the soft wool of his swaddle. His eyes, still adjusting to the world, blinked slowly.
Baby Yunus’s eyes, which had been half-closed, suddenly opened wide. He did not cry. He did not startle. Instead, his tiny mouth formed a perfect little ‘o’, and his gaze lifted—past his grandfather’s weathered face, past the lamp on the table, as if he could see through the ceiling into the vast, blue dome of the sky.
Ashhadu an la ilaha illa Allah… (I bear witness there is no god but God…) azan in baby ear
Emine gently laid baby Yunus on a soft sheepskin rug in the center of the room. He squirmed for a moment, then stilled, as if sensing something sacred was about to happen.
Ashhadu anna Muhammadan Rasul Allah… (I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God…) Inside a small, warm flat, Emine cradled her
Yusuf placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Now,” he said softly, “he belongs. Not just to us. To something much bigger.”
For a long moment, no one moved.
Gülnur leaned over and dabbed a drop of rose water on Yunus’s lips. “Taste the sweetness of faith, little one,” she whispered.
