Dearest Izaan,

      Do you remember when Mom and Dad brought me home for the first time? Probably not, right? You were only two. Well, neither do I. Something so monumental in our relationship as brother and sister—and neither of us remembers it.

      I think we have what a lot of siblings don’t have—we both reached our first milestones together. I learned how to walk and climb stairs when I was one, in London, right? I’ve seen the home videos. You learned how to walk around the same time, when you were three. And as we grew up, I taught you so many things without even realizing—how to drink with a straw, how to eat by yourself, so many little skills that we take for granted. But you know what many people don’t realize? What you’ve taught me.

      Hey, Izaan, remember that one time, when I went to Sunday school, there was this pizza party? We were running late because you were throwing a tantrum, saying you didn’t want to go. Mom and I had to convince you, and if my memory serves me correctly, I missed half of my party because of you.

      Hey, Izaan, remember that one time Mom, you, and I were going to Sears and you didn’t want to get out of the car? Remember how we had to coax you to go inside? Remember how you blew up in the middle of the store, crying and throwing a tantrum? I was blushing so hard as everyone in the store turned and stared at you. But I wasn’t blushing because I was embarrassed of you. I was blushing because I wished, in that moment, that I could stop people from staring at you like you were a freak show, because you were just being honest with how you were feeling—something the rest of us don’t have the courage to do.

      Hey, Izaan, remember that one time we went to that birthday party and the only other boy there was my best friend's cousin? Remember how you tried talking to him but he blew you off because he was a jerk? Remember how he wouldn’t talk to you? I saw the hurt in your eyes. I was ready to yell at him. I remember Mom asked that boy not to spray his cologne too close to you because the smell could trigger a seizure. But he did it anyway, and sure enough, you had a seizure. Yet you didn’t look down on him. You still don’t hold any negativity towards him whereas I find it so hard to forget him and what he did. My best friend told me he was asking about me, a little while ago, and I nearly blew up because of how disgusted I was at how he had the audacity to treat you like that and then try to befriend inquire about me. Yet you forgave him, didn’t you? When we left, there was no hate in your expression, no anger. I’m sad to say that I can’t say the same.

      Hey, Izaan, remember that teacher you had in middle school? She didn’t treat you right. She didn’t treat any of the other special needs children right either. It cut me so deep, and to this day I wish I had stood up to her directly instead of just ignored her stupid orders to behave a certain way around you. Ain’t nobody gonna tell me how to treat my brother. It didn’t matter that she was responsible for giving me my grade as your peer tutor.

      Hey, Izaan, you don’t know this, but I heard the times you got punished when I wasn’t there. My geometry class was right next to your class, and I sat nearest to the wall that our classrooms shared. Whenever we took a quiz or a test or whenever the room was quiet, I heard her yell your name.

      Hey, Izaan, you also don’t know this but in eighth grade geometry, Sara laughingly admitted to me that she wasn’t a peer counselor for your class because she actually cared about you guys. She did it for the easy A. And in that moment, I don’t think I’d ever wanted to hit someone so badly.

      Hey, Izaan, remember in eighth grade how James, that autistic boy, would push you around, wanting to fight? I was so scared you would hit back, because I knew you’d get in major trouble and I also knew that you would win if you got into a fight with him—he had nothing on you. I was surprised when you calmly walked away. I didn’t know it was possible for one person—any person—to be that tolerant and patient. But remember that one time James cursed me out and pushed me? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you react that quickly, so ready to give him a piece of your mind that when I tried holding you back, I was being dragged across that gym floor just trying to stop you.

      Hey, Izaan, have you realized that all these memories show how your condition has affected me in a negative way? At least, that’s how everyone sees it, right? Everyone says that you’re lucky to have me. Everyone feels bad how I’ve had to constantly sacrifice for you.

      But that’s my point. They’re wrong. I’m lucky to have you. I haven’t had to sacrifice for you. Sacrificing means giving up something that you’ll never get back. And maybe I gave up a part of my childhood for you. Maybe I gave up control of my own life because there was no other option but to go with the flow—your flow. But I would give that up any day because I have you. I have your smile. I have your happiness. And that sure as hell isn’t a sacrifice because what I got in return was so precious that no value can be attached to it.

      I’m convinced—so totally and utterly convinced—that you’re an angel that Allah gave me. Every day, you show me that it’s possible to smile despite the pain, and you know about pain more than any of us. You show me that it’s possible to love Allah even when He’s taken so much away from you. You show me that in life you have to persevere, like you do when you continue to draw and write even when your hand muscles contract without your command. You show me that when you make mistakes, you always need to apologize immediately, because that’s what you do when you yell at me and then realize what you’ve done is wrong. You show me how strong love can be, and you’ve taught me to love you with a love so strong that if Allah told me that you and I could switch spots, I would give up everything in a heartbeat to give you the life of opportunity that I have. You restore my faith in humanity when the world is cruel and selfish because you’re so damn kind and selfless. You inspire me to fight for the rights of people like you. You inspire me to love God. You’ve helped show me the perfect career path, as a pediatric neurosurgeon. You’ve taught me to appreciate every moment, to thank Allah for every capability I have, from speaking and articulating my thoughts to tying my shoes to sucking a straw without spilling anything. You’ve taught me perseverance, taught me how to be a good person, but most of all, you’ve taught me to love unconditionally. You’ve taught me to love you unconditionally, my family, my friends, Allah.

      Hey, Izaan, remember that woman at that one party we went to last year? I was either feeding you or helping you put on your shoes. She looked at both of us and she said that we were both going to be granted heaven, inshallah. I met your eyes as she said this, and I swear, I swear, your eyes held an understanding of what she said.

      And just like you understood her, I know you understand so many other things that no one gives you credit for. I know you realize that when Mom and Dad are gone or no longer capable, I’m going to be looking after you. You know that I go to school for both of us, get an education for both of us, and I know you realize that it scares me sometimes, that I’m sixteen years old and I’m forced to think about all these responsibilities already.

      Remember that one time, I was doing homework and I was stressed out because I didn’t understand it? You were sitting in my room, and your eyes were on me. You asked me why I was doing it, and your innocence silenced me. You look at life so simply—how we’re supposed to look at it, and it hit me hard. It took me a few minutes, but I got up and knelt in front of you and I took your face in my hands. I looked you in the eyes and I told you that I was doing it for both of us. And you didn’t ask any questions, because I know you understood. I could see it in your eyes and I could hear it in your silence.

      Whenever you have a seizure and you fall asleep afterwards, I rest your head in my lap and I stroke back your hair and I wonder if this is what life is going to be like for us when it’s just you, me, and Asma. And I always think one thing: I’m going to give you the world, because you deserve it.

      You’ve shaped me and made me who I am. Everything I do, I have to thank you because you’re the reason, you’re the inspiration behind the action. Most people think that you’re lucky to have such a loving family, but I swear, Izaan, we’re so lucky that we get to have someone like you in our lives. We’re lucky enough to be loved by someone like you.

      Yesterday, I was thinking about this, thinking about how good of a person you are, thinking about how Allah gave you to me as my own personal angel. And I realized something.

      All along, for the past three years and for my entire life, I thought giving you the world meant being able to provide for you. I always think about the day that you’ll become my responsibility and I’ll be able to give you the best quality life that I can provide. I thought that was what giving you the world meant.

      I don’t know why I didn’t realize this, but it seems that I already have. You made me the person I needed to be to write Confessions of a Muslim Girl and thanks to you, I have readers from literally every place in this world. Every person who I’ve talked to has become a friend to me and every person who I tell about you is praying for you.

      This is it, kiddo. I gave you the world, in the form of support from amazing people worldwide. I don’t know where Confessions of a Muslim Girl is going to take us, but it’s taking us somewhere, and I have a good feeling about it because you’re by my side.

      As you turn nineteen today, it pains me, physically pains me, when I see my other friends with brothers your age. It hurts to know that if a few doctors had made another decision, that could have been us, and then maybe all three of us—you, me, Asma—could have had a regular childhood. You would be in college right now, majoring in something you’re passionate about. You’d be like the guys I see around at school, the ones who play sports and work out and go out and do so many things that you can’t do.

      But it’s okay, because I guess that wasn’t God’s plan. Just like my plan didn’t involve a book this popular, God’s plan must have not included that “regular” life for us.

      But just like you taught me, there’s no room for negativity, only optimism. You turned nineteen today, and I know those nineteen years were well-spent because you changed the life of everybody that has had the honor of meeting you. And indirectly, you’re the one responsible for changing the lives of every one of the readers who tell me that what I write has changed them.

      Nineteen years ago, one of the most amazing people I know was born, and as we get older, I’m excited to experience the rest of my life with you. Each of our days is filled with struggles, but the accompanying happy memories make it all worth it.

      Here’s to you, Izaan. Here’s to you and here’s to every other special needs child in this world that shows us human nature at its best. Here’s to all of you because as other people in this world make fun of people like you, throw around the word “retarded” like it doesn’t mean shit, and waste their lives and don’t appreciate what they have, all of you smile and have faith in us and humanity. Here’s to all of you because you’ve taught me to dream like I’ve never seen obstacles. Here’s to all of you because your innocence and goodness is the biggest contribution to our society, yet we so callously see all of you as a burden.

      Izaan, I think everyone has something in their life that motivates them to get up the next morning. That’s what you are to me, my angel. Happy birthday.

All my love,

Aaisha

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The realest piece I've ever written. For clarification purposes, Izaan is the oldest (19). I'm next (I'm 16), and Asma is our little sister, and she's 7.

I wanted this to be personal but I also wanted to raise awareness for a very special group of society. Please keep all of these children in your prayers AND...

....please share this with as many people as you can if it has impacted you. That means friends, family, etc. Don't do it for me, but do it for them. Believe me, this is long overdue and this is how you can help.