Sharing widows’ stories has taught me so much

particular verse will be forgiven for their mistakes, or that human rights provide an ethical set of rules for being a decent person in a modern world, the stories that we create and share shape almost every aspect of our lives. Our commitment to them can bring the greatest of comforts. And it can also cause the deepest of conflicts.

It doesn’t really matter if these beliefs are underpinned by science, faith, policy or magic – to the believer’s mind they are the same: the truth.

Throughout this project, I’ve been forced to reflect on my own truths, the norms that I expect my kids to take with them when they head into their own adult worlds. I’ve had to ask how these beliefs got into my head – that respect is important, that service is too, and that walking and talking with my friends is good for my overall health.

I’m pretty sure that working with Muslims over the past year made me a better person. Goodness, discipline, and kindness are known to be contagious. Stopping five times each day, for example, becoming quiet, introspective, and checking-in with ourselves seems a wonderful practice for everyday life.

While regular prayers may seem a hindrance in a non-muslim’s busy day, science now tells us it’s good for our brains and bodies. Switching off noises, focusing inwards on our breath, and shrugging off distractions that take us away from our purpose and centre in life – many call it mindfulness and take corporate courses on it, but Muslims have built it into their lives for more than a thousand years.

I’ve learned a lot about grief and recovery from these four widows, women I’ve laughed with, advocated for, cried, and switched off the microphone so we could talk offline. The grief journey is undulating, never straight. It is full of quiet surprises and new opportunities, as well as dark and angry moments. One of the series’ widows is seeing the strength of her parents’ unconditional love with fresh eyes since the tragedy; another has changed her entire life’s trajectory – the country she lives in, her education and future career, how she raises her child – because of her widowhood.

Every healing journey is different. One of our widows actively prays in her road to recovery, saying she spends ‘‘a lot of time with my forehead on the mat, talking to [Allah], invoking Him, complaining to Him, being thankful to Him because He’s the only one that can help me. And He has helped.’’ Another’s journey is closely connected to overcoming the trauma of witnessing the massacre, and having the quiet and space to heal, even while living in a crowded, noisy house.

In the middle of all this is their faith. Islam comes with clear instructions for recovery: surrender to Allah’s plan, don’t question it, forgive, and move on. But sometimes a vast well of other emotions like loss, anger, powerlessness and confusion can understandably get in the way.

Being a small part of the widows’ lives as they carve out new paths for themselves has helped me believe in a better world, where stories of love, not of bullets, are the greatest force of all.

Widows of Shuhada, an eight-part series, launched on RNZ and Plains FM yesterday.