On a dry Sunday morning, a thin haze of smoke covered the sky and held back the sunlight so it would not touch the earth too quickly. In that quiet, he stood for a moment on the terrace of his house and looked inward. There, in the calmest corner of his soul, a Phoenix was regenerating. Its wings folded neatly, the red-orange fire glowed slowly like carefully tended embers that must not be allowed to die out. Body and spirit, worn after days of burning themselves before the classroom, were now recovering, while still carrying the remaining weight of the family’s home mortgage. Rest was not laziness. It was a sacred process of recharging, so the fire of dedication could keep burning for his students tomorrow.
He began the day with biscuit bread and a glass of warm tea, sitting with his children at the simple table. Thin steam rose gently from the cup and mixed with the scent of the still-warm bread. Between small bites and quiet smiles, he felt a warmth that needed no words. After breakfast he took his wife shopping and at the same time brought the youngest child to a cousin’s house. Since the roads led the same way, he carried them both on the motorcycle. Masks stayed in place, shielding them from the dusty city streets under the dry season sky. The fifteen-minute ride felt long as they passed along the dusty roads beneath the still-hazy sky. After leaving the child at the cousin’s house, he continued to the market, carefully choosing chicken meat, then stopped at a petrol station because the motorcycle was nearly empty. Every movement was unhurried, like someone who knew that this day was not for rushing but for restoring the strength that had been spent.
Arriving home, he sat on the red sofa that had long been his favourite place to rest. His body felt lighter, the stiff muscles slowly softening. Suddenly he discovered that his eldest child’s phone was broken from the carelessness of playing while it was still charging. He wrapped it carefully, ready to send it after the noon prayer to his wife’s nephew, a skilled phone technician who lived out of town. As midday approached, the call to prayer rose softly from the mosque inside the housing complex. He invited his children to walk with him to the place of worship, joining the neighbours who also arrived with quiet steps. Inside the cool mosque they stood side by side. The movements of prayer felt warm, never rigid or formal, but a space where body and soul gently greeted each other in a calming silence. Afterwards he sent the phone package through a delivery service, then returned home for lunch with his wife and children. Rice, simple side dishes, and their presence at the same table became a reminder that the greatest strength often comes from the most ordinary things.
After the meal he opened his laptop and sent his work again to The Art Club Collective in the United Kingdom. His fingers typed slowly, fully aware that even on a day of rest the commitment to the Education Impact Fund continued to be kept. Then he slept through the afternoon. In the soft darkness the accumulated fatigue of many days slowly melted away. His breathing grew deeper, the mind that had been full now empty and peaceful. When late afternoon came he went with his wife to collect the child who had been left that morning. On the way home they stopped to buy avocado and dragon-fruit juice. The sweet, fresh taste felt like a small gift after a day lived in quietness.
Night arrived. He walked once more with his children to the mosque together with the neighbours. After the prayer they did not return home at once. In the space still filled with gentle fragrance and soft lamp light, he carried out his duty in the community. He held the microphone with steady hands and began to recite the verses of sholawat. His voice flowed slowly, accompanied by the rhythm of hadroh that filled every corner of the mosque. The notes did not hurry. They rose and fell like a breath that was calming itself. Every word that left him carried a deep gratitude, binding the hearts of those present in the same warmth.
The rhythm of hadroh continued to sound, touching the wooden walls and the listening hearts. He felt how that voice was not only a spiritual reminder but also a bridge connecting weariness with hope. In the middle of the recitation he realised that leading the sholawat was another way of keeping the fire inside him alive, not by blazing wildly but by tending the embers together. When the last sound faded, the mosque remained full of a meaningful silence, as if each person carried home a piece of the same peace.
They returned to the house as the night grew late. A simple dinner was shared, then he folded the clothes that had already dried. His youngest child leaned against his back and he laughed softly, feeling that small warmth sink into his bones. Before sleep he took a moment to send his work once more to the art magazine Feels Zine, Issue 27 “Belonging,” in Canada. In the quiet of the room he closed his eyes. Fatigue had turned into peace. A quiet pride as father and teacher rested in his chest. Hope continued to glow slowly, like embers that never truly go out. From ashes to fire, from weariness to new strength, he knew that tomorrow he would fly higher again, carrying the same light for the students who waited.
And at the end of this quiet day he understood that everything had been a silent way of carving warmth beneath the light. Not a blinding light, but a soft and restrained light, enough to keep the fire alive, enough to refill the spirit, and enough to remind him that an educator is also human and needs time to fold his wings for a while before flying once more.
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