Voice of British Muslim Women

What really holds us together in a world designed to pull us apart?

Saira Bhatti, Slough

We live in an era of infinite connection – notifications, followers, viral trends – and yet never before have so many of us felt so… untethered. The rope that binds isn’t likes or retweets. It’s not an algorithm. It’s a lifeline you can’t see. A rope of faith.  

The Quran gives the blueprint in one verse: “And hold fast, all together, by the rope of Allah…” (3:104). A verse both simple and profound. Simple, because the command is clear – hold tight. Profound, because it demands something harder than ever – unity in a world wired for division.  

And the Ijtema is a live demonstration.  

So, what is an Ijtema? It’s a large-scale Ahmadiyya Muslim gathering, usually spanning three days; the women’s Ijtema is where people come together for sisterhood, inspirational talks on science, health, and Islam, motivational speeches, competitions, exhibitions, sports, and plenty of meaningful conversations between bouncy castle queues (for the kids, of course) and food stalls. Think of it as a faith-based festival of unity.  

Picture it: a crowded hall. Phones dim. Conversation thickens. Names from different towns and faces from different backgrounds form one sound, dua after dua, step after step, shared meals, shared Prayers. There is, for a few days, a gravity that pulls us toward the same centre. The energy is not a coincidence, it’s the rope being held.  

Because here’s the thing; when your phone’s battery dies and the Wi-Fi drops, the online mob moves on. But the rope? The rope does not. It’s not a trend. It’s not fragile. It’s an anchor. Where hashtags fray, it strengthens. Where opinions clash, it offers purpose.  

And yet, daily life pulls hard. Work. Worry. Identity wars. Political battles. We feel stretched thin, even torn apart. The Quranic verse doesn’t ignore that reality, rather it acknowledges it and still calls us to hold fast. Not with passive, performative gestures, but with intentional, active commitment.  

But what if you’ve let go? If life has dragged you under, distractions chipped away, faith slipped through your fingers? The beauty of this verse is that the rope is always there. Always. Waiting to be gripped again. It doesn’t matter if you’ve lost your hold. What matters is that you reach back, grab tight, and don’t let go.  

At Ijtema, you see that in action. Teams organising. Hands distributing food. Quiet volunteers fixing. The rope is not abstract here. It’s practical. It’s visible. It moves through the small acts of service that make a large gathering feel like home.  

Contrast that with the online world, the flash mobs of solidarity that vanish just as quickly as they appear. They give you a story to post, but they don’t heal loneliness. They don’t build resilience. They don’t sustain you in the shadows. The rope of Allah is different. Durable. Personal. Transformative. It requires trust, vulnerability, and the willingness to hold on until your last breath.  

And when all hope feels lost? That’s when the rope pulls closest. You place your forehead on the ground in sajda, (a prostration before God in Prayer) at your lowest physically, and yet your soul is being heard in the highest levels of heaven. That paradox is the essence of our community. What looks like weakness becomes strength. What feels solitary binds us together.  

That’s why the Ijtema matters. It’s more than a gathering,it’s a laboratory of cohesion. Young people running tech-savvy logistics. Elders carrying wisdom and service. Children learning that faith is lived daily. Generations weaving themselves together, strand by strand, to keep the rope alive in 2025. 

And here’s where you come in. Unity isn’t just a banner for big events, it’s a daily practice. Hold the rope when it’s quiet: visit an isolated neighbour, teach a child a prayer, volunteer at a food bank, be the shoulder someone leans on. Small acts, repeated often. That’s how unity moves from performance to permanence. 

So, my ask is simple. Let us be the person who stays when the crowd thins. Be the hands that reach again when the rope slips. Be the one who forgives even when it costs us. Because when shadows creep close and the days grow heavy, the rope is the difference between drifting and surviving. 

Ijtema is our reminder, our recharging station. We gather to practice unity in public, so we can live it in private. We return not just lighter, but stronger and more rooted. 

So, won’t you hold on with me? To this rope of unity, of peace, of love.  

Won’t you hold fast, all together, by the rope of Allah?