We talk to Justin Podur about imperialism and collaborators and US “victories.”. Palestine’s resistance salutes Venezuela. Ali Abunimah wins a court victory in Switzerland and more.

The Israeli military has begun the first stretch of a $1.7 billion project to build a wall running from the occupied Golan Heights to Eilat, slicing through the occupied West Bank.

Pro-Israel extremists perpetrated violence, intimidation and harassment targeting Palestinian, Arab, Muslim activists, state finds.

The sandwich generation, or ‘sandwich carers’, refers to adult individuals who provide unpaid care to ageing parents or older relatives while simultaneously raising their dependent children. In the UK, around 2% of the population1 provides “sandwich care,” balancing responsibilities for both children under 16 and older adults in need of support. Whereas in the US, the percentage is much higher, with 23% of adults “sandwiched between their children and an ageing parent.”2

This study proved that – unsurprisingly – sandwich generation carers are at a greater risk of mental health struggles and need support. 

Equity In Eldercare

In my youthful naivete, I strongly believed that when it came to looking after one’s ageing parents, it had to be distributed equally according to the number of children. By my logic, if an elderly couple had four children, then all four of them had to take turns to look after their parents. Only children have the responsibility of caring for both ageing parents with no siblings to lean on, except for a loving and supportive spouse, if they have one.

Many decades later, I have come to realize that no matter how many children there are in a family, except in rare circumstances, the bulk of eldercare usually falls on one adult child and his/her spouse and children. One of my friends, a Malaysian cardiologist who encounters many ageing elders, echoes seeing the same thing in her clinical practice across both Muslim and non-Muslim families.

The rise of individualism in today’s world is probably a driving force in elder neglect. When families lived closer together, the norm was for all children to help in the care of their elders. With the rise in economic migration and diaspora Muslim communities, the elders who did not move with their children are often left behind in their old age. 

Cultural Expectations vs Islamic Obligations

There seem to be many cultural “myths” when it comes to caring for elders. In Malaysia, where I live, the responsibility for eldercare often lies with adult daughters, even if families have sons. This may be due to the strongly matriarchal society and women often being the main income earners. In other parts of the world, the emphasis is on adult sons looking after their parents, even if they also have daughters. Desis have an expectation of the eldest son caring for his parents, when the actual work gets shifted onto his wife. 

The reality is this: Islamically, eldercare responsibility lies on all adult children, regardless of gender. Caring for one’s parents is a fardul ‘ain (individual responsibility), and not a fardul kifayah (communal responsibility). One child caring for an ageing parent does not lift the responsibility from other children.

An Unfortunate Bias

“The reality is this: Islamically, eldercare responsibility lies on all adult children, regardless of gender.” [PC: Raymond Yeung (unsplash)]

Often, the hidden subtext of the adult son looking after his parents is this: while he goes to work and earns an income to support his family, it’s actually his wife who is expected to look after his parents. She’s the one already looking after their children, after all, so the cultural expectation is for her to extend her caregiving duties to her in-laws. Why not? She’s already at home, anyway, right? 

Caring for her in-laws is not her Islamic obligation – her obligation is to care for her husband, children, and her parents! Undoubtedly, she will be rewarded for caring for her in-laws, but once again, that is not her obligation. A daughter-in-law caring for her husband’s parents is a recommended act which is not lost on Allah . 

However, it’s important to realize a burnt-out daughter-in-law will be less likely to fulfil her actual obligations: her husband and children. May Allah guide and have mercy on all of our families, and help us all do better.

No Easy Answers, But Everything Is From Allah

When it comes to equitable eldercare, there is no one-size-fits-all solution for families who are spread throughout the globe. Even with all adult children in the same city, eldercare is probably not distributed equitably either. Someone will have to sacrifice something for an unknown period of time.

In the best case scenario, all adult siblings step up in their best ways possible, put their differences aside, and work as a team to care for their ageing parents. Sadly, this is not always the case. When eldercare is left to only one adult child and his/her household, it can be so frustrating to ask for help, only to have minimal response from other siblings. 

What helps is always turning to Allah and making choices that align with His Pleasure. If you are bearing the load of eldercare, please know that this is a sign of Allah’s Love and honouring of you, through service to your elderly parents. Their dua’s for you will bring about tremendous goodness to you – even if it may not be immediately apparent.

Tips For Making Eldercare Easier

If you are the main carer for both elders and young children, here are some tips that may help:

1) Build a strong support network: Nobody can look after elders or children on their own without burning out, let alone when looking after both age groups! Please don’t wait until you are on the brink of a mental breakdown, but rather proactively have a conversation with family and/or loved ones, and discuss how everyone can help support you in caring for the elders under your care.

2) Build in breaks: Try your best to build in regular daily, weekly, monthly and yearly ‘pressure release valves’ – for lack of a better term. When family comes to visit and spends quality time with your ageing elder, use that opportunity to rest and recharge.

3) Elder vacations: Before elders struggle with more severe health issues, arrange for them to go for a holiday in another adult child’s household. Even if they might be reluctant to leave their comfort zone, this break will give a much-needed respite for the main household of carers.

4) Acceptance: Sadly, as health issues often worsen in old age, there will come a time when ageing parents will no longer be able to travel. This is the time for them to be visited and cared for, especially by adult children who live far away or are absent for other reasons.

Imam Ahmad narrated that Usamah bin Sharik (may Allah be pleased with him) said, “I was with the Prophet Muhammad (Alla when the Bedouins came to him and said, ‘O Messenger of Allah, should we seek medicine?’ He said, ‘Yes, O slaves of Allah, seek medicine, for Allah has not created a disease except that He has created its cure, except for one illness.’ They said, ‘And what is that?’ He said, ‘old age.’” [Ahmad, Tirmidhi, Abu Dawud]

Conclusion

Marriage is a lifelong commitment that not only includes the care and raising of children, but also the care and burying of elders. When families were closer together and Islamic values were more prevalent, discussions around eldercare weren’t even necessary among siblings. Elders were cherished and cared for by their adult children and grandchildren until the end of their long and blessed lives.

Now, there needs to be a revival of more intentional conversations around eldercare, especially with the rise of individualism and the cultural bias that expects only eldest/youngest sons to do the heavy lifting. Every single adult child has a role to play, even if it’s inconvenient. The door of service to our elders is a golden opportunity that only lasts for as long as they are with us in this dunya. Once they pass away, that door closes, never to be opened again.

 

Related:

– Avoid Financial Elder Abuse Through Islamic Principles

– Restoring Balance In An Individualized Society: The Islamic Perspective on Parent-Child Relationships

1    https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S00333506240049792    https://www.pewresearch.org/short-reads/2022/04/08/more-than-half-of-americans-in-their-40s-are-sandwiched-between-an-aging-parent-and-their-own-children/

The post The Sandwich Carers: Navigating The Islamic Obligation Of Eldercare appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

No information offered about Awad Nofal, a father of seven with a heart condition who was captured by Israeli forces in January 2024.

Israel refuses to disclose the number of people it has abducted, bodies it still holds or has bundled into mass graves.

Abuses by Israel-linked Fedpol director Nicoletta della Valle led to my illegal arrest so I couldn’t talk about Gaza.

The New York Times downplays anti-Palestinian racism and a genocidal chant at a New York City demonstration.

Gravely wounded and fevered, Darius wakes among strangers who may become the first real family he has ever known.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

* * *

Safe

I drifted in and out of a gray place. Sometimes I was in my father’s house and the rats were chewing at my shoulder instead of the crop. Sometimes I was in the temple pool, and the carp had human faces and they were all my father, all of them judging me in silence.

Once I woke up enough to feel something sharp slide into my skin near the wound, and I tried to fight, but a strong hand pressed my good shoulder down and a calm voice said, “Lie still. I am drawing the heat out. Do you want to keep the arm or not?” Then the darkness pulled me under again.

When I finally woke properly, I lay on a narrow pallet in a small, clean room. My shoulder throbbed dully. The air smelled of herbs, smoke, and something bitter I did not recognize. Light filtered in through a paper-covered window, soft and white. Shelves on the walls held clay and glass jars containing herbs, and I knew not what else. A rectangular plaque on the wall displayed words in a flowing script that I could not read, and an ornate wooden desk and chair stood beneath the window, with a stack of books atop the desk.

I had never seen so many books, and thought that this family must be very wealthy. I saw my traveling pack in the corner, but there was no sign of my weapons. My tunic had been washed and repaired.

I suddenly remembered my money kept in a secret pocket inside my tunic. I clutched frantically and felt the purse beneath the shirt, the weight of the money still there. The movement sent a bolt of pain through me so sharp that I gasped.

“Easy.” The word came from my left and just behind me.

I turned my head. A woman sat on a low stool beside the bed. She was short, with strong hands stained faintly with safflower dye. It was the woman who had stood at the doorway, though she no longer seemed as fearsome as she had then. Even if no one had told me, I would have known she was my aunt, as she looked so much like my father she could have been his twin. Maybe she was his twin, for all I knew. She was a beautiful woman, lean and strong, with smooth features and high cheekbones. It occurred to me for the first time that if she was beautiful, perhaps my father was handsome. I had never thought of him that way.

“Your purse is intact,” she said. “We are not thieves. You are safe here.” She held a damp cloth, and now she reached out and wiped my face with it, as if I were a much younger child. Then she helped me sit just enough to sip from a cup. The water was cool and tasted faintly of some bitter root. I grimaced.

“It will help,” she said. “My husband boiled it with herbs for the fever. Now stay here, do not move.” She rose and stepped out of the room, and a moment later, the man I’d encountered at the door earlier stepped into the room. His face was dark and handsome, with a thick black mustache and inquiring black eyes. His hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves. Behind him peered the boy I had seen behind him at the door, his eyes bright and curious.

“Hi,” the boy said. “I’m Haaris.”

Questions

“Hush, do not speak to him,” the father said. He nodded to me. “I am Zihan Ma. I am a healer. How is the shoulder?”

“It hurts,” I said honestly.

“That’s normal.” He stepped forward and laid a hand on my forehead. “The fever has broken, alhamdulillah.” Gently, he pulled the tunic off my shoulder. A strip of cloth was wrapped around my upper arm to hold the bandage in place. With quick, practiced fingers, he loosened the cloth around my arm and lifted the edge of the bandage.

Cool air touched the wound. I hissed.

“Hold still.” He studied it for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “The flesh is no longer angry. It will leave a scar, but you will keep the arm.”

The boy edged closer. “Can I see?” he whispered.

“Let him breathe.” Zihan Ma glanced down at me. His eyes were measuring, weighing me as my father used to weigh a prospective victim with a single glance. “You can stay another day and night to rest, but then you must leave. This is not a hospital, nor an orphanage. We cannot care for you.”

“But -” I stammered. I felt as if I’d just been struck in the stomach. “Where will I go? I have no one else.”

Jade Lee touched my arm gently. “Where are your parents?”

I breathed deeply, trying to get myself under control. “My mother died when I was seven. My father, Yong Lee, went to fight the invaders. They say he is dead. I came here to find you.”

Jade Lee drew her head back, staring at me. “What is your name?”

“I am Darius Lee, son of Yong Lee, son of Cai Lee.” That was all I knew of my ancestry.

“Eh?” Jade Lee seized me by the shoulders. “Darweesh? Is it really you? Of course it is, look at you! You look just like your mother. I am your aunt!” She seized me and embraced me tightly, and I went completely stiff. No one had ever hugged me except my mother, and my father just that one time. Sensing my discomfort, she pulled away again. “You say Yong is dead?” Her voice softened. “Was it the drinking?”

I shook my head. “He quit drinking in the end. He enlisted in the army and died fighting the invaders. The Mayor would not let me stay on the farm alone, even though I brought in the peanut crop by myself.”

She looked stunned. “He enlisted? But why? He never cared about anything but himself, and certainly never cared about politics or patriotism. He did not even care about his faith.”

“Rats destroyed our crop. I believe… I think he wanted to do something for me. To provide me with a future.” I shrugged. “We never spoke of such things.”

“How did you get the shoulder wound?” Zihan Ma asked. His tone was firm but not accusatory.

“Two robbers attacked me in the town. A constable stopped them.” I did not mention that I had sliced a man’s face open.

“You smelled strongly of wine. Are you a drunk like your father?”

“Husband!” Jade Lee rebuked. “That is no way to speak of the dead.”

“It is the living I am worried about. You know what Yong was like.”

Zihan Ma’s words angered me, but I restrained myself and spoke calmly. “I do not drink. I poured wine over the wound to clean it. And my father was more than what you say.”

“Why do you carry weapons?”

“The dao was a parting gift from my father. The spear, too, was his.” I did not tell him that I had killed two men with the dao. That was definitely not something he needed to know.

A Plea

It was obvious that Zihan Ma was not happy about me being here, and suspected that I brought trouble to his door. Maybe he was right. My whole life had been a struggle. I was like a piece of metal being shaped by a blacksmith. There might be a moment of quiet, but another hammer blow was coming soon enough.

But I sensed that Zihan Ma was a good man. Judging by Haaris’s health and apparent innocence, and Jade Lee’s overall well-being, I knew that I would not be beaten here, I would not be cursed. I would be fed and treated decently, and I needed that so badly, I was desperate for it. I had told myself that I could take to the road and survive on my own, stealing and grifting, but now that I sat in this comfortable home, with hot food on the table, I cringed at the thought of leaving.

“Sir,” I said. “Ma Shushu.” (It was hopeful of me to address him formally as Uncle Ma). “If you’ll let me stay, I won’t be a burden. I brought in two peanut crops on my own, without help. I had a cow. I’m used to hard work. I know what my father was like, everyone does. But I won’t steal from you or make trouble.”

I reached into my coat, took out my purse, and tried to empty it onto the bed. But my hand shook, and the nine gold coins spilled out, some onto the bed and some rolling across the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I was growing increasingly panicked. “This is the money from my father’s enlistment, and the monthly salary he sent, and from my last peanut crop. You see, I have no need to steal. You can take it. You’ll see how hard I work. Please.”

With the last word, my voice broke, and I began to sob. I was deeply ashamed of this, and pulled my tunic over my face. I had not even wept for my father’s death, and here I was crying to be allowed to stay in the home of virtual strangers. My aunt leaned in quickly and pulled me to her.

“You poor boy,” she said. “Of course you can stay. Isn’t that right, husband?”

I pulled out of my aunt’s embrace and wiped my nose and eyes with my coat.

“Please, Daddy,” Haaris said. “Let him stay.”

Zihan Ma gave a slight nod. “All this pleading is unnecessary. You are family, Darweesh. Of course, you may stay; that is a given.” Haaris had already picked up the fallen money, and Zihan Ma returned it to me. “Keep your money, put it away.”

From that moment on, I was part of the family. I always addressed my aunt as “Lee Ayi” – Aunt Lee – and Zihan Ma as Ma Shushu.

Recovery

They let me sleep again after that, and the rest of the day blurred. In the evening, Lee Āyí changed my bandage, then fed me a delicious chicken soup that, by itself, nearly made the entire ordeal worthwhile.

After that, Haaris sat cross-legged on the floor and told me stories of the goats and the donkeys and the cat named Bao, as if he had decided that words alone could keep me alive. The younger donkey, he said, loved to eat watermelon. “He takes huge bites,” he laughed. “Gobbles it right down to the rind.” I tried to imagine this, and found myself smiling. At the same time, I was a bit jealous, as I had never eaten watermelon myself!

The next morning, I woke to feel thin, hot needles pricking the skin around my shoulder; I tensed, but Ma Shushu’s voice came calm and unhurried: “Breathe. In and out. Let the qi move.” I did not know what qi was, but I obeyed. I felt vastly improved. The pain in my shoulder was down to no more than a slight ache. By lunch time, I was out of bed and walking. My head felt clear, and my limbs were my own again.

My aunt helped me sit on a cushion in the main room, then proceeded to set food on the table. It was a low wooden table polished smooth by years of elbows and bowls, and on it were dishes that made my stomach clench with hunger. Steamed greens glistening with sesame oil, soft white rice piled in a clay bowl, slices of beef in a dark, fragrant sauce, pickled radish, braised eggplant, and a tureen of soup filled with mushrooms and tofu. To me, it looked like a feast for a noble.

Home Now

We sat on woven mats. The warmth of the room seeped into my bones, and for a moment I simply breathed in the scents – ginger and garlic, simmered broth, cooked meat. Lee Āyí took her seat beside Haaris, and Ma Shushu settled across from me, his knees cracking softly as he folded his legs.

Before anyone lifted a bowl, he raised his hands slightly and said, “Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem.” Then he spoke a short prayer in a steady, calm voice, asking Allah to bless the food and the family and the guest who had come into their home.

I stared blankly, unsure if I should bow my head. I desperately wished not to offend these people, but I could not bring myself to worship something that, for all I knew, was yet another statue. My aunt noticed. Something in her eyes softened – not pity exactly, but a recognition of what had been missing in my life all these years.

“Darweesh,” she said gently, “your father taught you nothing of our faith, did he?”

Her tone was neither surprised nor harsh; rather, it held the sadness of someone confirming what they already suspected.

“No, he did not,” I said quietly. “I once heard the name Allah, but I do not know what it means. My father… disliked the worship of statues. If that is what you do, I cannot participate. I do not mean to offend you, truly. Please forgive me.”

Ma Shushu said, “Statues?” and his face reddened. I had indeed offended him. But my aunt put a hand on his arm to still him, and spoke to me: “We do not worship statues. We are Hui people, you, me, and both your parents, and their parents, and so on. Our people have been Muslim for over a thousand years. We worship Allah, the Creator of all. The One who gave us life, provides this food, who has always existed and will always exist, and who knows all things. Unlike the idols, we did not create Him. He created us.”

I mulled this over, trying to conceive of such a being. “But,” I finally said, “if this – Allah – created all things, then who created him?”

“No one. He is Eternal. This world, the sun and moon” – she waved a hand – “and the stars in the sky are like grains of sand in Allah’s Hand. He is a merciful God, full of generosity and forgiveness. He hears our prayers and is closer to us than our own jugular veins.”

I swallowed, not knowing what to say. This sounded like a wonderful fairy tale. On the other hand, I’d had a lifelong fascination with temples, and a yearning to lose myself in the worship of a deity who was actually worthy of my adoration. Wasn’t that a sign of some knowledge inherent in my soul? Some recognition that such a being must exist?

Ma Shushu put up a hand. “It does not matter for now if you believe as we do. You will be required to learn this religion, which is called Islam, but you will not be forced to practice it. Now let us eat while the food is hot.”

“Yes, Darweesh,” my aunt said. “Husband is right. You will learn. You are home now.”

The word home struck me strangely. I did not know what to do with it, so I pretended not to hear.

We began to eat. The cat, Bao, appeared as if by magic, and sat beside Haaris, licking her lips. As we ate, Haaris dropped small pieces of beef fat for Bao, who chewed them so noisily that I almost laughed. I tried to restrain myself and to eat in a civilized way, but after the first few bites, my hunger overcame my manners – what few I had. The food was soft and warm and rich in ways I had forgotten were possible. When I devoured a bowl of rice and tofu too quickly, Haaris grinned and pushed the pot toward me. “We always cook plenty,” he said. “Mama says growing boys eat like wolves.”

Aunt Lee swatted him lightly. “Do not tease Darweesh.”

I cleared my throat. “Actually, Lee Ayi, my name is Darius. That is what my father always called me.”

She smiled. “Very well. Darius. You gave us quite a fright, you know. You arrived at our door stinking of wine and rot, then fell like a sack of millet. We didn’t know what to think. And your wound was already poisoned. One more day and you would have lost the arm. Alhamdulillah that you got here when you did.”

“I… walked,” I said. “I saw Auntie Ming in the town. She gave me directions.”

“And gave you a few sharp words I imagine,” said Ma Shushu. “She never liked your father.”

“Never mind that,” Lee Ayi said. “We’re just glad you didn’t walk yourself into an early grave. Here. Eat.”

Duties

As we ate, Ma Shushu wiped his mouth with a cloth and cleared his throat. “Darius,” he said, “you will have duties here, as every member of this household does. Work must be done properly.”

I nodded, a piece of beef half-chewed in my mouth.

“For now, we will give you light work only. But when you are recovered, you will rise at dawn with Haaris. First task: milk the cows. They must be calm, so move slowly and speak softly. When they are milked, let them and the donkeys out to graze in the west field. After that, shovel the dung from the stalls—take it to the compost heap behind the barn. Then feed the chickens and collect the eggs before the sun grows strong. The goats receive their feed as well, and check that none have wandered into the safflower rows.”

I was nodding along. “Yes, Ma Shushu.”

“Good. When the morning tasks are done, you will return to the house for lessons. Reading, writing, arithmetic, and the basics of our deen.”

I had no idea what he meant by deen, but I remained quiet, and he went on:

“In the afternoon, you are free. The hired hands tend to the fields. You may help them if you wish, but it is not required.”

Nothing he said dismayed me. Compared to fighting off rats with a shovel, killing thieves in my doorway, or tending a field alone from dawn until darkness, these tasks felt almost light. The idea of studies was strange, but not frightening.

“I understand,” I said. “I can do all of it.”

“Certainly you can,” he replied. His voice held no doubt, only calm assurance.

My Lee Ayi refilled my bowl again, and this time I forced myself to eat slowly. Haaris asked questions about my father, my farm, crops, cow, and my dao. I answered what I wished and ignored the rest. The soup warmed my chest; the rice softened the edges of my hunger; the quiet murmur of family around a table – something I had never known – settled over me like a heavy blanket I did not want to shrug off.

For the first time since leaving home, the tightness in my chest eased.

“Your God, Allah,” I asked. “Does He have a temple?”

“We call it a masjid,” Ma Shushu replied. “There are many. There is one in town, you probably walked past it.”

“Does it have a pool with carp?”

Haaris grinned widely. “It does! How did you know? And there’s a cat that sleeps there too. And it has soft carpets and pretty designs on the walls.”

Old Friends

When the meal was finished, Lee Ayi brought out a small plate of sweetened peanuts, roasted and glazed. I stared at them, at the familiar shape and smell. My father had grown peanuts with his bare hands, cursing the heat and the rats and the soil itself. He had tried to build something that would provide. These peanuts were nothing like ours, for they were larger, sweeter, and coated with honey. But they brought my father’s face to my mind in a way that hurt with a sweet kind of pain.

“You are safe here,” my aunt said again, as if answering a question I had not spoken.

I lowered my gaze and nodded. I believed her, though some part of me was sure that something would happen to wreck it. Such comfort, food, and care were not meant for me; they never had been.

That night, the cat, Bao, tried to climb into my small bed. I pushed her away. I was still mourning the loss of Far Away, and was not about to replace him with some old farm cat. Bao hissed, and went to Haaris’s bed instead.

When everyone was asleep, I crawled out of bed and padded silently to the small storage room where my weapons had been placed. I took the dao in its scabbard and strapped it to my back. My aunt said this was a safe place, and I believed her, but I couldn’t truly comprehend that word, safe. How could anyone guarantee that? I had been on my own for a long time, and had killed men in my own home; men who had come to murder me. Safety was in my hands, not anyone else’s. Safety was something I purchased with daily training, sweat, blood, and aching muscles. Sleeping without a weapon felt like sleeping with my hands tied behind my back.

Returning to bed, I pulled the blanket over me. My shoulder still ached, but pain and I were old friends. Pain, hunger, fear, loneliness. These were real things, things I believed in and trusted, because they were honest.

I thought about the – what had Ma Shushu called it – the masjid? The Muslim temple, with its thick carpets and outdoor pool. The concept of childhood was alien to me, but when I imagined it, I thought of sitting beside the pool, trailing my fingers in the water, and watching the fish, without worry or fear. Perhaps I could go to the masjid one day and watch the carp, and listen to the prayers, and be a child for a while. If such a thing was ever meant for me.

My eyelids grew heavy, and I slept.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 5 – A Secret Revealed

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

 

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

The post Far Away [Part 4] – A Safe Place appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Police allege a 47-year-old imam was assaulted after he and his wife were forced off the road by three people in Melbourne’s south-east

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A Victorian Muslim religious leader was punched in the face after he and his wife were allegedly forced from their car on a Melbourne freeway in what police allege was a racially motivated attack.

Police allege the pair were travelling along the South Gippsland Highway in Melbourne’s south-east at 7.40pm on Saturday when they were “racially abused” by three occupants of a small black hatchback.

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A monthly digest of key developments in Palestine showcasing powerful images by photojournalists.

Beneath me is a thin, extra-long twin mattress. In my hands is a tattered mushaf, too thick to easily hold even in two hands. I’m sitting in a dorm room for the first time at UC Santa Barbara with the ocean’s waves playing softly in the distance. A mustard yellow dupatta pulls itself uncomfortably around my neck as I stumble through reading Surah Al-Mulk in Arabic. I hope my roommate and friend isn’t watching too closely as she sits on the bed next to mine with her phone, but I’m struggling so much to finish reading in time for dinner that I don’t have much energy to spare for feeling self-conscious.

A Companion In The Grave 

This devotion to reading Surah al-Mulk is new, and something I’m doing solely for myself. Some random lady at a masjid wearing a niqab told me that reading it every night will make it a companion in my grave that will save me from being punished.1 That sounds like a hack I’m willing to believe in and implement.       

The fear of the punishment of Hell is supposed to be a great motivator for Muslims; otherwise, why would it be mentioned in the Quran in horrifying detail? But when I hear about the punishments of Hell, I don’t break a sweat. Sorry…Hell? It’s just too abstract and theoretical to impact me. I’ve got to die first, wait for the entire world to end in an insane earthquake, be resurrected, and go through the Day of Judgment with all of humanity, and then maybe eventually I’ll be thrown into a pit of fire. I’ve got a lot of time before any of that happens.

But what truly scares me is what is real in this world: that’s the punishment in the grave. If I read a few words about life in the grave, I’m paranoid for a whole day and sobered up for a good week. Why? Because I’ve been to a cemetery, prayed a funeral prayer with a dead body in front of the congregation, smelled the sickly scents inside of a morgue, and seen a fresh pile of earth next to an empty grave. To me, that’s real, and I could be in my own grave tomorrow night, for all I know.  

So, I spend the hour break during student government camp at sixteen years old, making sure I deal with my life in the grave adequately. It is a miracle I am there in the first place–but a miracle with conditions. I could go if and only if I promised I would not a) attend the dance, and b) perform in the skit/dance competition between schools. It was something I put on the table outright when negotiating going on a multi-day-and-night co-ed trip. My parents were already not fans of my decision to join the student government, and going to this camp was unofficially mandatory for everyone. I knew I was pushing my luck, but they eventually signed the permission slip and I packed my bags before they could change their minds!

That Night

It’s from out of these very bags that I pull the full-blown carpet janaamaz, my yellow namaz dupatta with the tiny Sindhi mirrors studded all over it, and my mushaf every day of the trip. I admit, it’s an assortment of odd additions to what could easily be a trip brimming with unabashed rule-breaking away from home. There are two things I would guard on this trip, no matter what: praying all five prayers every day, even if they are all late, and reading Surah Al-Mulk before I sleep. These are not things I promised my parents. These are not things they ask me to do or keep track of at home. These are things I do to prepare myself for my grave.

“There are two things I would guard on this trip, no matter what: praying all five prayers every day, even if they are all late, and reading Surah Al-Mulk before I sleep.” [PC: Md Mahdi (unsplash)]

My friend disturbs me as our free time concludes, saying she’s off to meet the others for dinner if I want to join her now. I haven’t finished, but I’ll wrap it up before bed. The next couple of hours aren’t extraordinary–eating dinner in the cafeteria and attending a leadership seminar of some sort. After that is the big dance, which I am not attending, of course. I run into some minor problems, though: nobody else is going to the dorm, and I’m worried about walking by myself at night on an unfamiliar college campus, and I’ll be passing right by the dance that’s happening in a courtyard along the way. I’m already feeling hesitant about being alone, and I’m very aware of the fact that I’m definitely the black sheep in the student government group. As I try to figure out how to get back to the dorm on my own at the top of the steps towards the festivities, some of the seniors press me to join them. It only takes a couple of entreaties, and my curiosity takes the best of me.

I descend the concrete steps into Dante’s Inferno with the gaggling group of senior girls, a reluctant smile on my face. I’m going to my first high school dance and I know this is the only time I’ll ever get away with it. Maybe prom won’t be too much to ask for in two years…? I pass Mr. Garcia, the teacher in charge of our high school’s group, and see a smirk flit across his face. He knows I’m breaking my moral code because I expressly told him I need to be excused from all dancing activities for religious reasons. I push it from my mind and tell myself to see what this quintessential high school experience is all about. 

The rest of the night goes poorly. Although I’m no stranger to dance parties with my sisters and our friends, I can’t relax here. My shoulders are tense, my throat is tight, and my jaws feel hot the same way they get when I’m lying. I can’t make myself smile, and my limbs jerk in an awkward way when I try to groove along to a beat. I have danced to these very songs so many times, but here, I’m too aware that the air is heavy with teenage sexual angst. I try to ignore it, but I’m too busy being disgusted and feeling guilty for breaking my promise to my parents and going against my personal code. I finally see what grinding looks like in person, and I am horrified; particularly to see some girls I look up to partaking in what looks like a pre-mating ritual. I get what all the hullabaloo about banning it from school dances is about now. 

I think of another tactic: I take in the oppressive air and use the energy to my strategic advantage towards a cute, unassuming white guy from my school that I’ve been nursing a crush on for a while. This is my chance to make a tiny move–nothing too extreme. I’m trying to muster up the courage, but I can’t breathe enough to propel myself into action. Is the air as thick as slime, or is it just me? I look around and want to close my eyes to everything I see. 

All I wanted to do was have a good time! I scream at myself in my mind. Grudgingly, I know it’s not going to happen here. I’m not like the rest of them, even the other Pakistani girl who is also Muslim and has been empathetically nudging me towards all the haram things that the others do. I can’t be like the rest of them, even if I want to be. 

I decide to leave before I can witness more of my classmates’ t strange escapades, not sparing a care about getting back to the dorm on my own. I nudge my roommate and tell her I’m not feeling well and need to bounce. Luckily for me, she has a headache and wants to knock out. We walk towards the steps, and I make sure to wave down my teacher and let him know we’re leaving. I hope he chokes on the fact that I only spent half an hour here and had a horrible time. 

Not Tonight, My Friend

Twenty years later, I admit that I have thought about that night often, particularly when I feel tired and would rather sleep than read Surah Al-Mulk. They say that the Quran can be a companion, and when I hope it can be a companion in my grave, I remember wearing the dupatta while reading the surah and hearing the ocean. I remember walking down the steps to the dance into the muggy air pregnant with teenage titillation. I remember feeling like I was moving through sludge even though I thought I could indulge in a secret night away. I wonder how I could do such opposing things in the same night. I feel the surah wrapping its mustard yellow wings around me in an embrace. Holding me, it whispers–not tonight, my friend. I’ve got you. Somehow, it was my wingman back then, saving me that one night and thus probably on many others.  I remember that night when I can hardly look at myself in the mirror from the shame and guilt from my sins of the day and feel that I am not worthy of reading Surah Al-Mulk. But we’ve experienced so much together since that night at UCSB. I owe it so much and I know I can’t leave it hanging now.  Once I’m six-feet under, I I hope it returns the favor and clings onto me.

 

Related:

– Lessons From Surah Al-Mulk: How The Bees And Birds Teach Us About Tawakkul

– Surah Al Waqiah Paid My Tuition Twice

 

1    https://sunnah.com/tirmidhi:2891

The post Why I Can’t Leave Surah Al-Mulk Hanging Every Night appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Bombings, drone strikes and artillery shellings accelerate.

Imprisoned by Israel for years, Mahmoud al-Arda, Ahmad al-Dahidi and Muhammad Imran were deported to Egypt upon their release. 

Each year, the judges of the Muslim Book Awards spend time and thought on choosing the best Muslim books of the year. We look for quality of writing, rich and unique stories, and most importantly, Islamic values being upheld and highlighted.

After much reading, discussion, and passionate thoughts, the judges have finally cast their ballots – and the Muslim Book Awards 2025 winners are in!

Best Toddler Book

Here’s Our Religion is a unique giant-sized board book that kids will turn to over and over again! Rather than telling a story, this book introduces images and short descriptions of important Islamic concepts and themes, such as Ummah, Qur’an, Salah, Ramadan, Zakat/Sadaqa, Hajj, and Sunnah.

Best Picture Book

Saif’s Special Patches is about a little boy who is shy – but also much more than “just shy”! The patches in his special quilt represent all the different instances that Saif has been persistent, helpful, brave, and smart – and remind him that even though it’s not easy learning how to swim or knowing how to help out at the masjid, he can do it!

Best Young Adult

Huda F Wants to Know? does a lot more than just crack jokes. This latest installment in the Huda F series starts with Huda preparing for her junior year of high school, with laser focus on ACT exam prep, applying for scholarships, and getting her driver’s ed done. What she didn’t expect was her parents telling her that they’re getting a divorce. This graphic novel does what I never expected a comic series to do: explore mental health, friendship, and family relationships with care and nuance.

Best Adult Fiction

“Far Away from Home” is a brilliant debut that brings us the story of three Black Americans Muslims in New Orleans, set after Hurricane Katrina. Weaving together spiritual journeys, personal struggles, and the history of Black Muslims in the American landscape, this book is deeply immersive and reminds readers of the power of faith in Allah.

Best Holiday Book

“The Eidi Bag” isn’t just a story about celebrating Eid al-Fitr; it’s a story of culture, faith, anticipation, disappointment, change, and appreciation. It is Sarah’s first Eid in a new country and she has made herself a new Eidi bag just for the occasion! But it turns out that Eid traditions in this different place aren’t quite the same as back home. Sarah longs for Pakistan and the traditions that she is used to, but she slowly realizes that different traditions can also be fun and filled with love and joy.

Best Juvenile Non-Fiction

“Shining Hearts: Sahabah Stories for Kids” by Marium Uqaili introduces both male and female companions (five of each) in a way that isn’t dry or too detail-heavy. The text is spaced out well on the pages, with small side facts and questions laid out as well. This is excellent for 5+ as a learning resource!

Best Adult Non-Fiction

“The Heart of Design: Spirituality, Creativity and Entrepreneurship” is a brilliant examination of Islamic principles in the context of design, business, creative pursuits, and more. The book connects personal spiritual lessons with external practice, highlighting how one can cultivate a holistic higher praxis. Lush in layout and rich in content, this book will linger with readers long after they’re done, inviting them to return over and over again.

Best Illustrations

“Dear Moon” is a visually gorgeous book that serves as the perfect coffee table book or gift to loved ones. Characterized by soft colour schemes, sweet hijabi characters, and Islamic reminders, this book is a delight to the eyes and the heart. This book is a collection of Zayneb Haleem’s best work, quoting Quranic ayaat and other gentle Islamic reminders. Whether you’re an adult who just needs a glimpse of joy, or a young one who loves pretty illustrations, this book will definitely be picked up and flipped through often.

Judges’ Choice

“A Mouth Full of Salt” is a tale of long-ago (and yet not that long ago) Sudan that meanders like the Nile, but with a powerful undercurrent that pulls you to its end. A little boy drowns in a village, setting off a chain of tragedies and discoveries that uncover generational secrets. The women at the peripherals of the village are much more than sideline observers; their lives underscore the village’s past and future.

Bookseller’s Choice

Everything Grows in Jiddo’s Garden is the story of a young Palestinian girl and her Jiddo.

Jiddo’s garden is a wonder. In it grows so many amazing things—to see, smell, and taste. But helping him to tend the garden teaches this young girl about even more than fig trees. It gives her a chance to discover just who she is. Many years ago, like so many Palestinians, her family was forced to leave their homeland. But Jiddo shows her how, until they can return, tending a garden can connect them to home—and to each other!

Congratulations!

Congratulations to all the winners of the Muslim Book Awards 2025!

[DON’T FORGET! SPECIAL COUPON CODE: Use the coupon code “MBR” for 15% off all products ordered from Crescent Moon Bookstore!]

Related:

Muslim Book Awards 2025: Finalists

The Muslim Bookstagram Awards 2024 Winners

The post The Muslim Book Awards 2025 Winners appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The author narrates her journey accompanying her sister to register at university.

I took the BBC's Palestine training course in 2006.

In a year-end special, co-hosts answer questions and speak to Ahmed Alnaouq and Abubaker Abed.

Zurich authorities violated the Swiss constitution and the European Convention on Human Rights.

In 1937, philosopher-poet and perhaps the foremost intellectual of Muslim India, Allamah Muhammad Iqbal, wrote a series of letters to the leader of the All Indian Muslim League and eventual founder of Pakistan, Muhammad Ali Jinnah.

Over the years, Iqbal and Jinnah had come to share a deep respect and admiration for one another – a respect that had not always been the case. When Jinnah agreed to the Lucknow Pact almost 20 years earlier, for example, Iqbal fiercely criticized and refused to acknowledge it.1 Over time, however, Jinnah would recognize Iqbal as “the sage-philosopher and national poet of Islam,”2 and Iqbal would recognize Jinnah as “the only Muslim in India today to whom the community has the right to look up for safe guidance.”3 When coupled with the poetics of Iqbal, these letters offer us tremendous insight into Iqbal’s own thought, particularly his emphasis on the integration between the theological, cultural, political, economic, and social.

Perhaps the most important of these letters is the seventh, written on the 28th of May, 1937. In this letter, Iqbal confronts the problem of the Muslim League’s popularity with the very population it claims to serve. To Iqbal, the primary problem of India was not simply British rule – it was colonialism as a social, economic, and political ordering of society. In his warning to Jinnah, Iqbal presciently warns the statesman of replacing one colonial class with another. If, Iqbal warns, the offices of the Muslim League are simply made up of aristocrats and their friends and relatives, the Muslim League will not achieve its primary objective: the economic and cultural advancement of Muslims in India. Iqbal warns Jinnah that:

“The league will have to finally decide whether it will remain a body representing the upper classes of Indian Muslims or the Muslim masses who have, so far, with good reason, taken no interest in it. Personally, I believe that a political organization that gives no promise of improving the lot of the average Muslim cannot attract our masses. Under the new constitution, the higher posts go to the sons of upper classes; the smaller ones go to the friends or relatives of the ministers. . .the question therefore is: how is it possible to solve the problem of Muslim poverty? And the whole future of the League depends on the League’s activity to solve this question.”4

Although the problem of the Muslim League lay in the framework of its governing structures and could be remedied by smart politics, in contrast, Iqbal was deeply pessimistic about Congress’s capacity to do the same for Hindu India. In particular, Iqbal was suspicious of the political leader of the Indian National Congress, Jawaharlal Nehru, and what he called his “atheistic nationalism”:

“I fear that in certain parts of the country, e.g., N.W. India, Palestine may be repeated. Also, the insertion of Jawaharlal’s socialism into the body-politic of Hinduism is likely to cause much bloodshed among the Hindus themselves. The issue between social democracy and Brahmanism is not dissimilar to one between Brahmanism and Buddhism. Whether the fate of socialism will be the same as the fate of Buddhism in India, I cannot say. But it is clear to my mind that if Hinduism accepts social democracy, it must cease to be Hinduism. For Islam, the acceptance of social democracy in some suitable form and consistent with the legal principles of Islam is not a revolution but a return to the original purity of Islam.”56

The structure of his argument, and particularly his fierce critique of Nehru, reveals much about Iqbal’s own thinking about society. If the primary objective of politics is the cultural and economic upliftment of society, then that upliftment is dependent on the political structures that organize it; those political structures themselves, however, are dependent on the cultural base that supports it; and that cultural base is dependent on the self-imagination of the members of that society. In his dual critique of both Congress and the Muslim League, Iqbal makes a prophetic assertion: the failure of the Muslim league will be due to the aristocratic and landed-elite’s dominance over the political structure; the failure of the Indian National Congress will be because Nehru’s “atheistic socialism” will create a civil war within “Brahmanism” itself, because the very basis of political structures – culture – will be incompatible with the political structure Nehru will try to erect.

The centrality of caste-based thinking that acts as a lens in the mind of contemporary Hinduism would create significant tensions with Nehru’s utopian socialism; a tension that would eventually erupt in a socio-cultural civil war within Hinduism itself. For the Muslim mind, however, such ideas of “social democracy” as he called it – a shorthand for economic parity and meritocracy – were ideas embedded within the Muslim’s imagination of his own past. The shari’ah itself guaranteed economic justice; the sunnah of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, recommended a meritocratic distribution of labor regardless of lineage.

Iqbal proves prophetic in both his critiques: India, which is embroiled in an intense socio-cultural civil war over the nature of Hinduism, is one of the world’s most unequal countries today; and the military-landholder alliance of convenience that dominated Pakistan’s politics after the assassination of Liaquat Ali Khan in 1951 has concentrated all political and cultural power in the hands of a small aristocratic elite and brought the country to the brink of civil war.

Iqbal would also anticipate the post-colonial and subaltern thinkers who began writing in the 1960s: colonialism is not simply a form of conquest built upon the imagination of a civilizational hierarchy; it is a particular manifestation of a general category of extractionary governance that is built upon the nexus of socio-cultural beliefs and practices that are enshrined in a political structure which extracts economic benefit from the many and collects it in the hands of a few.

Colonialism may have ended in its most explicit forms, but colonialism as a form of governance is more prevalent today than it was in the 1850s.

Neo-Liberal Extraction and the Culture of Capitalism

The fall of the Soviet Union marked a distinctive shift in the world’s socio-economic imagination. There was no longer any need to debate the merits of capitalism and liberal democracy; we had, in the words of Francis Fukuyama, reached the end of history. Liberal democracy and neo-liberal capitalism had clearly demonstrated themselves in a cold-war of social darwinism as the most ideal forms of human socio-economic organization, and all that was left was for the rest of the world to “catch up” to these discoveries. The last 40 years, in general, and 34 years in particular, have been a global experiment on a general cultural framework: individual greed is the driver of all goodness in society.

When Milton Friedman declared that “greed is good,” he also declared that all good is a product of human greed. This thinking has become increasingly indicative of the Western mind, a continuous shift from the glorification of austerity and poverty by the Catholic Church centuries earlier. And, so, as a practice of social, cultural, and political policy, all the Western world has continuously unleashed greed, positioning it not as a vice to be remedied but the primary producer of the greater good of man. And, as always, it is the Quran that is most prophetic:

“Know that this worldly life is no more than play, amusement, luxury, mutual boasting, and competition in wealth and children. This is like rain that causes plants to grow, to the delight of the planters. But later the plants dry up, and you see them wither, then they are reduced to chaff. And in the Hereafter, there will be either severe punishment or forgiveness and pleasure of Allah, whereas the life of this world is no more than the delusion of enjoyment.” [Surah Al-Hadid; 57:20]

Unleashed capitalism, undergirded by a the conception of the self rooted in material individualism (as opposed to Islam’s radical spiritual individualism), has wrought untold destruction on the earth, perpetuated the televised genocide of entire peoples; thrown country after country into social and political upheavel; all in the name of greater capital accumulation which has turned the whole world’s economy into a vacuum that sucks the wealth of the many into the hands of a few.

Returning to our frame story of Iqbal’s letters to Jinnah, and to the greater thinking of the philosopher-poet himself, we are confronted with a significant problematic of our own conceptions. After the genocide in Gaza and the utter ineffectiveness of Muslim politics in all its manifestations – from access-based establishment politics to anti-establishment protest movements – there has been a greater call for Muslims to “create” power. While well-meaning, many of these calls prove to be simplistic and counter-productive in their understanding of achieving power in a thoroughly broken world order.

Projects for wealth generation perpetuate structures of extraction; projects for culture reinforce the structures of material individualism; projects for political participation reinforce the illegitimate dominance of elites over social systems. The discourse of “navigating” the system quickly turns into one reinforcing it – to simply become integrated into a ruling class of destruction to further advance one’s political objectives.

And, yet, power is indeed very powerful; and simply ignoring the mechanisms of power or refusing to participate within them leaves one at the mercy of those who would deploy the levers of power against you. Muslims are therefore trapped in a conundrum that seems impossible to solve: refusing to engage in existing structures is to become exploited by them; engaging in them turns one into a participant in competitive exploitation.

Iqbal’s Relevance Today

This, perhaps, is where Iqbal is most prescient and informative. At the core of Iqbal’s entire philosophical project, one which I will write about more extensively, is a critique of modern modes of social organization as a critique of the very imagination of being itself. To Iqbal, the material reality is created by conceptual understandings; and those conceptual understandings are rooted in an imagination of the self as a purely material being. Where Western thought has seen the world in binaries, the most important of which are the body and the soul, Iqbal, as an inheritor of the Islamic philosophical tradition, rejects every binary possible.

The root of Western dysfunction is the abandonment of the soul, where Christianity abandoned the body. The root of Christian dysfunction is where Christianity abandoned law for spirituality. The root of philosophical dysfunction is where philosophy abandoned intuition for thought. All dysfunction is rooted in imaginations of oppositional binary, where one of two concepts must be chosen at the expense of the other.

In the Quran, however, all matters are integrated: the soul is integrated with the body; the legal is integrated with the material; the material is integrated with the metaphysical. The rectification of human society, therefore, is to remind the human of what they truly are, of what the world is, of what all of reality itself is. The human is most alone when he attempts in vain to find meaning in materiality alone. He is most prone to his own self-destruction – and the destruction of all of the world and humanity itself – when he seeks to fill the God-sized hole in his heart with materiality. It is when man is most estranged from the reality of himself that he becomes entirely estranged from God.

Iqbal encapsulates it best in a couplet, when he says in the Javidnama:

به آدمی نرسیدی ، خدا چه می‌جویی

ز خود گریخته‌ای آشنا چه می‌جویی

“You haven’t reached (the reality of) Man;

     For what do you seek God?

From one accustomed to fleeing

     From himself – what do you seek?”

Man has forgotten himself, so man has forgotten God; but the world only makes sense when it finds its sense in God. The world is in need of a return to God; nothing can escape the need for God – not as a trite contemporary spiritualism which assuages the guilt of materialism, but as an inextricable part of self-imagination that manifests in an ethic of action rooted in passionate pursuit of the love of God.

We lack the love to seek Allah , so we lack the vision of ourselves, the world, and the universe that is a gift from Allah .

There is much more to be said, much more to be written, much more to be explored, but, for now, let it suffice to say:

قلندریم و کرامات ما جهان‌بینی است

ز ما نگاه طلب ، کیمیا چه می‌جویی

“We are dervishes, and our miracle

     Is the ability to see the world

Seek the capacity to see from us – 

     For what do you seek alchemy?”

 

Related:

– The Tolling Bell Of Revolution – Why The World Needs Allamah Muhammad Iqbal Now More Than Ever

– Islam, Decoloniality, And Allamah Iqbal On Revolution

 

1    The Lucknow Pact was an early agreement between the Indian National Congress and the All Indian Muslim League in which Muslims were given greater representation in Hindu-majority provinces in exchange for non-Muslim majority in representative bodies in Muslim-majority provinces. Iqbal was a vocal critic of the pact, as he saw it as a majoritarian ruse of tokenizing Muslims in Hindu-majority provinces in exchange for stripping Muslims of agency in Muslim-majority provinces.2     Letters of Iqbal, 2363    Letters of Iqbal, 2584    Letters of Iqbal, 2545    Letters of Iqbal, 2556    Iqbal likens the struggle between social-democracy and “Brahmanism” – that is, Brahmanic control of all Indian levers of political and economic power – to the struggle between Brahmanism and Buddhism. Buddhism started in India but never truly flourished there and found most acceptance in non-Hindu regions. Iqbal intimates that this is due to the logic of caste in Hinduism which is incompatible to the core message of Buddhism.

The post An Iqbalian Critique Of Muslim Politics Of Power: What Allamah Muhammad Iqbal’s Writings Teach Us About Political Change appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.