Fatima Showkat,
with a caring heart
wherever oppressed Palestinians at.

Fatima, a Showkat
raising her Palestinian flag
and if she needed to defend others
would use a cat virtuous herself bat.

Fatima Showkat, a cat of purebred
bred from parents of the same looking, pro human rights activists for those too many unfed
a bred we recognize, a strand we know, Fatima Showkat
nurtured from Muslim communities of the same front stage act.

Mahdi's beautiful cat at a show turned beloved household pet
and one of Kibbutz Blinken's best fighting for justice and equality winning bet
purring No to settlements on a stolen land
hissing No US taxpayers' dollars to Biden's and Blinken's right filthy hand.

Showkat's water bowl filled of fake blood to dump swiftly on US Secretary of State rolling in corruption and lies command,
she with his hated Atefeh 'Rockband'
hardworking, repeated meowing, awarded pedigreed
chasing ***** of red, black, white, and green yarn and running with her fellow active kibbutz cats to successfully proceed.

Pro ALLAH's Adl, pure blooded Showkat is regularly scratching the rug of Zionism and colonialism
Her low-pitched meowing and long stretches to put an end to Israel's terrorism
Jumping at times and when necessary slow moving in the day or in the night
with her eyes glowing to outstare and rebuke America's funded Zionist imperialism.

Fatima, a Showkat worth thousands of ajr
purring, finding her cat's paws' way wholeheartedly with the people of Palestine
to God's heavenly canopy at dawn or fajr.

Fatima Showkatian,
the Showkat for the fight for oppressed peoples' freedom
we applaud you, Kat, for the world knows your bravesome
and it is better for your sacrificial bigsome.

By: Najwa Kareem

Am I born Today!!

My life’s journey hums along,
In quiet beats, a steady song.
Little joys and aches I hide,
All part of the walk inside.

From childhood dreams to growing old,
With tales I have  lived and hands I have  held.
Hands that reach and hearts that care,
Trying, failing, still right there.

Storms have come and winds have roared,
But still I stand, my soul restored.
Each heartbeat sings, a simple sound,
Proof I am here, still safe and sound.

Joy and sorrow trade their turns,
Each one heals, each one burns.
This heart still hopes, these eyes still seek,
For truth beneath the sky’s soft streak.

“Am I born today?” I ask, unsure,
The question is quiet, the answer pure.
Another year, both light and loss,
Moments missed, and lines I cross.

Still  in the hush between each tear,
A softer strength begins to steer.
Not all was right, not all was wrong,
Some hurt became my healing song.

So here I am, not fixed, not done,
But still beneath the rising sun.
Not reaching far beyond my hold—
Just moving forward, soft and bold.

And if you find me on this day,
Don’t ask for joy I can’t display.
But walk with me, just side by side,
And let the silence turn the tide.

I carry grief, but also grace,
And in my chest, I have  carved a space
For love, for hope, for one more year—
Still here, still human, drawing near.

Showkat shah

I spent years building myself
from what the world could see—
titles, praise, control,
all carefully held together
by the need to feel enough.

I called it strength,
but deep down,
it was fear;
fear of being forgotten,
fear of being ordinary,
fear of simply being.

Eventually, the weight became too much.
Not all at once,
just slowly—
a quiet tiredness I couldn’t explain.

So I stopped running.
I sat with the silence I once avoided.
And in that stillness,
something softer began to speak.

Not everything had to be proven.
Not every thought needed a voice.
The self I had been chasing
was already there—
just buried beneath noise.

The ego is still here.
It still rises when I feel unseen.
But now I notice it,
acknowledge it,
and let it pass.

I move with less urgency now,
and more intention.
I listen more.
I carry less.

I am no longer building a version of myself;
I am returning
to what was true all along.

Showkat Shah

The Wind Spoke Once
The wind stood still, waiting.
I thought it would pass,
but it watched me—
like a flame watches
a wick that forgot how to burn.
It moved,
not like a storm,
but like a thought
too vast for words.
“You think I’m just air,”
it said.
But I’m made of moments you missed—
before you spoke,
before you cried,
after your mistakes.”
“There was nothing to ask.“
Only understanding.
This wind had no direction;
only purpose.
It had touched prophets,
but never used its own voice.
“I carry what you lose,”
it said, almost gently.
“Not things—
but the weight
of what you keep inside.”
I stood still—
not in fear,
but in recognition.
Like a mirror
realizing it isn’t the reflection.
The wind leaned in,
touching my forehead—
as if we were one
before the world split us.
“When you’re quiet,”
it said,
“I’ll return.
And you’ll remember—
you taught me how to move.”

Showkat shah

The wind never asks where it is going,
the river never wonders where it ends.
The flame doesn’t chase its own light,
but I keep searching,
forgetting I was never lost.

I call myself a seeker,
but the path was never hidden.
I knock on doors
that were never closed.
The stars hum—
there is no distance,
only the space we create.

I hold the river in my hands,
the sky rests in a single drop.
I breathe, and the ocean moves through me.
I still ask, Who am I?
as if the rose ever doubts its bloom.

The moth enters the flame,
not to burn, but to belong.
The wave bows before the shore,
the night folds into dawn.
Nothing fights what it was meant to be.

So I stop. I let go.
No walls, no lines, no searching.
The questions fade, the knowing stays.
What I longed for was never far,
it was always within me.

Showkat Shah

I asked myself “What is Maturity “?

Got the answer ..,

Maturity is not a height you climb—
it is a descent
into yourself.

It does not arrive with age,
but with stillness.
It comes when you no longer raise your voice
just to be seen,
and begin to listen
to feel whole.

It does not live in answers,
but in the questions you no longer fear.
It is the calm after the storm
you no longer name.

It is the choice not to strike
when the wound rises.
It is forgiveness—
not to forget,
but to free your own hands.

Maturity is love without possession,
truth without cruelty,
presence without pride.

You no longer chase,
you allow.
You no longer cling,
you release.
You no longer harden,
you return to softness.

And somewhere,
between surrender
and the stillness that follows,
you see clearly,
you did not grow up.
You came home.

Showkat Shah