Ann Widdecombe, European Parliament, 2019

Last week, following the murder or assassination of the former Tory, later Reform UK, politician Ann Widdecombe (right) the week before, the Reform party started making demands that the public purse should pay for their security. I even heard a representative tell a Radio 4 interview that their politicians were under particular threat because they address issues of particular sensitivity and importance, namely immigration and asylum. Widdecombe’s suspected murderer, who was arrested in Rotherham, 250 miles away from the scene, is still being interviewed by the police and has not been charged with anything, though police released some information that said they believed it was politically motivated, though not what the alleged motive was, and that she was targeted specifically rather than at random. Widdecombe was last an MP in 2010; she had also been a Brexit Party MEP during their last term before we left the EU in 2020, and following that party’s relaunch as Reform UK, she had been their immigration spokesperson. She was also well-known for appearances on TV dancing shows and in pantomime and lived alone in a village in the Dartmoor national park in Devon.

Politicians often complain of verbal abuse directed at them by members of the public, especially since it became easy to email or tweet to an MP, but there have not been many assassinations of politicians in the UK; only nine in the UK’s history and none between 1922 (Henry Wilson) and 1979 (Airey Neave). There have been two since 2016: Joanne Cox in 2016, shortly before the Brexit referendum, and David Amess in 2021. Between Spencer Perceval in 1812 (the only assassination of a prime minister) and Jo Cox in 2016, all the assassinations were by Irish Republicans. The PM, Home Secretary and Defence Secretary all get state-funded security and armed bodyguards; other ministers may get security guards at their request or a security advisor’s advice, and since Amess’s murder (and an attempt on the life of the Labour MP Stephen Timms in the 2000s), MPs are offered security guards at constituency surgeries. Ordinary MPs are not usually offered bodyguards or other conspicuous security unless there is a demonstrable threat to their safety and Nigel Farage has never been part of any government, only an opposition MP, and his continued status as an MP depends on winning the by-election that has been called in Clacton, which despite a boycott by all the mainstream parties, he is not certain to win.

Since Cox’s murder in 2016, there has been a trend towards demanding that the general public be kinder to MPs and to remember that they are human too. Recent examples are this piece from the New Statesman and this piece by Gaby Hinsliff in the Guardian, though Brendan Cox (Jo Cox’s widower) has been banging this drum since his wife’s murder. Both the two articles mention that Reform politicians have contributed more than most to the vituperative tone of modern politics while demanding security for MPs that would cost the public purse billions if applied to all MPs. Yet they fail to appreciate that the tone of politics has an impact on everyone else, and that politicians and the media have used ordinary members of the public as scapegoats or hate targets, in particular portraying disabled people as scroungers or idlers, legal immigrants as illegal until proven otherwise (as with the Windrush affair) and immigrants in general (and anyone perceived to be immigrants) as thieves, thugs and rapists. Politicians make decisions that affect everyone, and can cause people to lose their jobs, or be expelled from the country despite it being their home, or to be deprived of healthcare, or to be criminalised for speech or protest, or to have to deal with rampant crime or sexual abuse because the authorities turn a blind eye or are not funded to tackle these problems. Politicians will often call these decisions ‘difficult’, but the difficulty is not borne by them. If they want us to remember that they are human, they might like to remember that we are also human beings, not pieces on a game board.

In some circumstances it is quite right that politicians or other officials receive state protection. One is during a civil war or a terrorist campaign; another is when there are professional criminals who would kill anyone who challenged them in any way; a good example is the Italian mafia which assassinated the judge Giovanni Falcone whose “Maxi Trial” had put hundreds of gangsters in prison in 1992, 19 of them for life, as well as another long-standing anti-mafia investigative judge, Paolo Borsellino. Nigel Farage belongs to neither of these categories; he is just a divisive, rabble-rousing politician. Maybe he wants the state protection because he really does feel endangered; maybe he wants it because it would make him look more important, and that isn’t a good use of public money. Generally speaking, politicians’ safety should be ensured by their own behaviour: a good leader, it has been said, does not fear the hand of his (or her) assassin. Some assassins or would-be assassins are just extremist, as with Thomas Mair and Ali Harbi Ali (the murderers of Jo Cox and David Amess respectively), but in other cases they are provoked by oppression, impoverishment or violence stoked by the politician’s own policies and behaviour. A politician who does not ensure the safety or quality of life of his constituents or those he rules does not have the right to expect those same people to pay for his security, and if he stokes hatred and violence, he has only himself to blame if he falls victim to it himself.

Image © European Union 2019, European Parliament, via Wikimedia.

Back in Zurich, I dissected the propaganda used to justify genocide and the political shift now rattling Israel’s defenders.

Congressman Ro Khanna urges Palestinians to employ nonviolence against apartheid and genocide, even as he accepts certain forms of Israeli violence.

Amid the hospitality of the Afghans, Longwei tells a story, and Darius’s duel with Meilin ends with an unexpected trip to the Hakim’s wagon.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16  | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

* * *

A New Recruit

Arslan asked permission to accompany the caravan to Persia. He said he’d always dreamed of seeing the great cities of Isfahan and Shiraz. From there, according to him, he would visit Al-Quds, then he would go south to see Makkah and Madinah – his lifelong dream.

Sergeant Karim replied with an annoyed wave of the hand. “We are not a taxi service.”

Weili jumped in. “You misunderstand, Sarge. He will work for his passage. He will be one of the guards. You’ve seen his ability with the bow. He can shoot farther than anyone here. That could be a great defensive asset.”

Karim regarded the young  man. “You follow my commands. Learn our rules, and abide by our discipline. If you want to know what happens when you break the rules, ask Kuangren.”

Arslan must have already heard about Kaungren, for he swallowed nervously, then nodded his head. “I be good in fight. I work.” He switched into a language I didn’t know, and Karim replied in the same language.

Ahmed leaned in and whispered in my ear. “He says he can speak Persian. Boss says fine, the kid is hired, but only to Isfahan. One way.”

“So you speak Persian too?” I whispered back.

“Persian, Arabic, Uzbek, Mandarin, some Cantonese.”

I was impressed by Ahmed’s knowledge. But I didn’t much like this development with Arslan. It had been fine when he was merely a handsome local that Weili had met, and who would soon be left behind. This was different. Why should we take him along? He wasn’t one of us. He hadn’t been trained like us, he hadn’t earned it. But I knew my place, and I kept my mouth shut.

We proceeded into Afghanistan. The green plain gradually gave way once more to stone.

For several days the caravan wound through the valleys of Afghanistan, following ancient roads worn smooth by countless horses and wagons before ours. Villages clung to the hillsides wherever water could be found, their homes built of rough stone and sun-dried brick, blending so naturally into the mountains that one sometimes did not notice them until smoke began rising from their chimneys.

The people proved as varied as the land itself.

As we passed by one village a man came out to welcome us warmly. He wore shalwar kameez, pointed leather shoes and a huge turban, and spoke Persian. He was, it turned out, the clan chief and the Imam. Before long, women appeared carrying baskets of flatbread still warm from their ovens, bowls of yogurt, dried apricots, steaming kettles of tea, and fresh goat cheese. The villagers brought goods for trade as well. Our merchants eagerly unpacked bolts of silk, porcelain, spices, and steel tools, and traded some for good quality wool, walnuts, honey, carved bowls, and sturdy mountain ponies.

The little girls, who all wore headscarves, seemed fascinated by Weili. No doubt they had never seen a woman who looked like her, tall and dressed like a man, carrying weapons and letting her hair hang free. Before long they had surrounded her, giggling as they tucked tiny wildflowers into her long black hair and carefully braided them among the strands. Weili laughed so freely that I scarcely recognized her. Meilin got some attention too, but not like Weili.

When the girls stepped back to admire her work, Weili and Meilin both bowed their heads solemnly as though they had just been adorned by a queen.

We all prayed Maghreb together, with the village Imam leading the salat. He recited part of Surat Al-Rahman, which I recognized but did not know by heart, then Al-Ikhlaas, which of course I did know. Once again I was amazed at the universality of Islam. Here I was, thousands of leagues from home, yet these people prayed as I did, and recited the same Quran I did. These men and women whose language I did not speak, yet we spoke the same language. We saw the world in the same way – more or less – and believed in the same things. They were total strangers to me, yet not strangers at all. We were children of one mother, for brother Ahmed had said one night that the word “ummah” – the universal body of Muslims – came from “umm,” mother, because we were all one family.

After salat the men made a huge fire to warm us against the chill night air, and everyone gathered around it. Someone made coffee, and served the guests. Sergeant Karim called for Longwei.

“Entertain us with one of your stories.”

Longwei’s Tale

Longwei smiled and settled himself beside the fire, extending his hands toward the flames.

Ahmed translated to Persian as Longwei spoke.

“Several years ago,” he began, “I was returning from Calicut on the southwestern coast of India with a small caravan of five wagons. Our merchants had purchased pepper, cardamom, cinnamon, and fine cotton cloth. I’d done a little trading of my own and had earned seven gold coins, which was all the wealth I owned in the world. I was happy. We had crossed most of the Indian peninsula without incident and thought ourselves blessed by Heaven.”

He sighed dramatically.

“That was our first mistake.”

Several of the Afghans exchanged knowing smiles. There was some muttering.

“They say,” Ahmed translated, “that they’d rather march to the gates of Jahannam than through South India.”

Longwei nodded. “Indeed. We entered a stretch of jungle where the trees grew so thick that even the sun seemed afraid to enter. One man was bitten in the eye by a snake hanging from a tree, and died in minutes. Another was swarmed by huge ants, and survived three days in terrible pain before dying.The road narrowed until two wagons could scarcely pass one another. Then we heard drums.”

He paused. “Not one drum.”

He looked slowly around the circle. “Hundreds.”

The listeners leaned closer.

“Are you sure,” Meilin interrupted, “that all of this didn’t happen in your imagination in a tea shop in Delhi?”

Our guards, used to Meilin’s sharp tongue, laughed, but the Afghan men frowned.

“Quite sure,” Longwei replied dryly. “It happened exactly as I say. The drums suddenly ceased. Men came pouring from the forest like ants from a broken hill. Men with painted faces, wild hair, and scarcely any clothing. They carried spears, bows, axes…” He shrugged. “…and very unpleasant expressions. We guards looked at one another. Their chief shouted a demand. No one understood him, but the meaning was clear. Our boss decided that living was preferable to dying.”

A ripple of laughter passed around the fire.

“We surrendered.” Longwei spread his hands. “They made every one of us climb down from our horses.”

He stood to demonstrate, climbing awkwardly to his feet before pretending to step down from an imaginary horse.

“Then they took our swords.” He handed an invisible weapon to an invisible bandit.

“They took our purses.” Another invisible handoff.

“They took our boots and our tunics.” By now everyone was laughing. Even Karim’s shoulders were shaking slightly.

“And then…” Longwei said gravely, “…they ordered us to remove every stitch of clothing.”

The Afghans around the fire erupted.

“No!”

“They did?!”

Longwei nodded solemnly. “I assure you, they were most thorough. We stood there, thirty respectable merchants and guards, as naked as newborn babies.”

The laughter became louder still.

Brother Ahmed wiped tears from his eyes as he translated into Persian.

One elderly Afghan slapped his knee so hard that he nearly toppled backward. More than a few men spilled their coffee.

“I’m glad I missed that scene,” Meilin commented.

Longwei gave her an annoyed glance. “Woman, you wish you had been there to see my beautiful body.”

I laughed at this. Beautiful was not a word I associated with Longwei.

The Hiding Place

“If I may continue? They searched every garment. Every saddle. Every wagon. Every bundle.”

He spread his hands. “They found everything.” He lowered his head mournfully. “Or so they believed.”

The laughter subsided.

“They left?”

“They left,” Longwei affirmed. “Very pleased with themselves.” He mimed watching them disappear into the jungle.

“When they were finally gone, we all began putting our clothes back on. There was much complaining.”

“‘My boots!'”

“‘My silver!'”

“‘My wife’s necklace!'”

“‘My pepper!'”

He acted out each complaint in a different voice until everyone around the fire was grinning.

“I dressed myself in silence. Then…” He closed his fist and shook it back and forth gently. “I jiggled my seven gold coins in one hand. Clink… clink… clink… I shall never forget that beautiful sound.”

No one laughed. Instead they stared at him in confusion.

Ahmed frowned.  “But… they searched you.”

He nodded knowingly. “They searched our clothing and purses.”

“Then where did you hide the coins?”

Longwei grinned. Then he stood, placed both hands upon his generous stomach, and lifted it with considerable effort.

Beneath it he tapped the front of his waistband.

“Under my belly.”

For a heartbeat there was silence. Then the camp exploded. The Afghan merchants laughed the loudest of all. Several bent forward until their foreheads nearly touched the ground. One man actually rolled onto his back, pounding the earth with both fists.

Brother Ahmed laughed so hard he rolled too close to the fire. His shirt caught on fire, and he beat it out hastily, which only made the others laugh more.

Karim covered his face with one hand, shaking his head.

“So that,” Longwei said with perfect dignity as the laughter continued around him, “is one unexpected advantage of growing fat.”

A Duel

When all the excitement died down, one of the Afghan elders pointed to Meilin and asked a question. Ahmed said something and shook his head.

“What?” Meilin demanded. “What did he say?”

“It’s not important.”

Meilin stood. “Tell me.”

Ahmed sighed. “He wants to know what an impertinent little woman like yourself is doing dressed as a guard.”

Meilin’s face flushed with anger, but Karim held up a hand to forestall her. He called to one of the men: “Bring two training swords.”

The man hurried back with the swords. Karim called me over and handed one to me. These were very much like real swords in their size and weight, but they were wooden, with dull edges that could not cut. Karim handed me one then whispered in my ear: “Make her look good.”

I understood. He wasn’t asking me to play clumsy or go slow, but to play to Meilin’s strengths. She might be short and slightly heavyset, with a broad face that made her look more like a farmer’s wife than a caravan guard, but Meilin was astonishingly quick. I had seen her vault onto a horse without touching the stirrup, and once, when a wagon axle snapped, she had flipped clear before the wagon even hit the ground. I would not have been surprised to learn that she had grown up in a wushu school.

We saluted one another and began to circle.

Meilin eyed me seriously. I felt like a frog being visually dissected by a healer’s apprentice. “I’ll try not to bruise your pride,” she said.

I smiled. “Okay.”

She sprang forward.

I barely caught the first blow. The second rapped smartly against my shoulder before I could turn it aside, sending a sharp sting through my arm. Even with a wooden sword, a solid strike could leave a bruise that lasted for days.

The Afghan men murmured with surprise. Whatever they had expected from a woman of her build, it was not this.

Meilin pressed the attack without giving me time to recover. Her feet seemed almost to skim the earth as she darted from one angle to another, striking high, then low, then high again. Twice I saw clean openings that would have given me victory. I ignored them, giving ground instead.

She did not miss the hesitation. Her eyes narrowed.

A third opening appeared as she overextended herself on a downward cut. Instinct screamed at me to step past her and put the sword to the back of her neck. Instead I let the moment pass.

The next instant her sword cracked against my ribs hard enough to drive the breath from my lungs.

The villagers gasped.

I managed to smile through clenched teeth.

“You’re getting slower,” she observed.

“So I’ve been told.”

She came again, relentless now. She caught me off guard when, amid a flurry of sword strikes, she threw a kick. I tried to parry the kick with my left hand but her foot struck my fingers. My middle finger bent sideways from the middle knuckle, clearly broken. Meilin did not stop. I wondered whether Karim appreciated just how difficult his order to “make her look good” really was.

She ran at me and cut to her left. This was a standard tactic against a right handed fighter like myself. You moved left to flank the opponent and put yourself in a safer spot. I pivoted and began to raise my blade into a roof block to parry the expected strike. However, Meilin did not go left. The entire thing was a fake. Instead she leaped right, putting herself directly in front of me. This was almost never done, and my instincts told me it was tactically unsound. Yet I was unable to capitalize on it, for in an instant she parried my blade with her own and headbutted me, striking my chin with the crown of her head, stunning me. At the same time  she wrapped my sword arm with her free arm, then tripped me. I crashed to my back, and she sat on me with her sword against my throat. My own weapon had gone flying.

The audience was utterly silent.

I raised my hands.

“I yield.” As if it wasn’t obvious.

For a heartbeat no one moved. Then the Afghan men burst into applause. Several nodded approvingly. The elder who had questioned Meilin’s place among us grinned broadly and said something to Ahmed.

“He says,” Ahmed translated, “that any caravan with women like her should fear no bandits.”

The old man stepped forward and bowed respectfully to Meilin. She returned the bow with quiet dignity.

Longwei folded his arms and looked at her with pride. “And that,” he declared, “is why I love her.”

The words escaped before he seemed to realize what he had said. Longwei’s face turned the color of a ripe pomegranate.

“I mean…” he stammered. “That is why I… greatly admire her swordsmanship.”

Brother Ahmed coughed suspiciously into his sleeve, while Karim became intensely interested in the contents of his coffee cup.

For just an instant, Meilin’s stern expression softened. Then she sniffed. “You’d better keep admiring my sword,” she said. “It’s the only thing of mine you’ll ever touch.”

The camp erupted in laughter once more, and Longwei accepted it with as much dignity as a blushing poet could manage.

Give Your Best

As the gathering broke apart, I felt someone seize my sleeve.

“Come here.” It was Meilin.

She led me behind one of the wagons, out of earshot of the others. When she turned to face me, her cheeks were red with anger.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she hissed.

I blinked.

“You let me win.”

“I—”

“Don’t insult me. I have spent years proving I belong among these guards. I don’t need charity from you.”

“It wasn’t charity.”

I looked down at the bruises already darkening on my arms, and my broken finger.

She followed my gaze and I saw surprise in her eyes. “Your finger. I didn’t realize.” Her gaze hardened again. “You deserve it. Don’t ever give less than your best.”

I nodded. “Yes ma’am. If it’s any consolation, you really got me at the end. I didn’t fake that.”

She shook her head in disgust. “You need to learn how to talk to a woman. Forget it, go see the Hakim.”

I watched her walk away. My middle finger had begun to swell, and it sat at an angle that fingers were never intended to assume. I was deeply dismayed. This would seriously affect my ability to perform my duties. It wasn’t even about holding the dao – this was my left hand after all, and not my primary weapon hand. But I had to be able to hold Belly’s reins. I had to be able to load and unload crates from the wagons when we stopped at trading locations. Not to mention cleaning myself after… you know.

I would have gone to Weili for sympathy, but she was nowhere to be found. I’d seen less and less of her lately. When I did see her, she was often in Arslan’s company. She’d smile and greet me, but it wasn’t the same.

Feeling suddenly exhausted, I trudged to Hakim Yusuf’s wagon. Every step was a painful effort.

Hakim Yusuf

Yusuf ibn Rashid, who we called Hakim Yusuf, or sometimes just “the Hakim,” was in his early sixties, lean rather than frail, with a neatly trimmed white beard, alert brown eyes, and hands that seemed permanently stained with herbs and oils.

Unlike the merchants’ wagons, the Hakim’s clinic smelled of vinegar, camphor, dried herbs, lamp oil, and medicines whose names I did not know. Bundles of roots hung from the ceiling beside neatly labeled jars and little cloth packets tied with string. Mortars, pestles, knives, splints, rolls of linen, and shelves crowded with bottles occupied nearly every available space.

The familiar scents washed over me like a forgotten memory. For a moment I was back on Zihan Ma’s farm, sitting on a low stool while my uncle brewed a medicinal broth. I could hear the donkeys braying outside, smell Lee Ayi’s cooking, and see the afternoon sunlight falling through the paper windows of his treatment room.

“You’ve come after all.” Hakim Yusuf’s voice brought me back. He was seated beside a small lantern, grinding herbs with a stone pestle.

“I got hurt.” I held up my hand.

“Oh.” His mouth was a flat line when he looked up. “I thought you were here to keep your promise.”

“What promise?”

“After Kuangren’s punishment, you offered to assist me in the future.”

“Oh, right.”

“Then you vanished.”

I shrugged helplessly. “Hakim Yusuf, there hasn’t been a raid. No one’s been hurt.”

He took my hand in his and turned it over, studying it. His manner was gentle, and his confidence was reassuring.

“I broke it sparring with Meilin,” I explained.

“No, you didn’t.”

In spite of the pain, which was less severe than I would have expected, I smiled. “I think I would know how I broke it.”

He wrapped one hand around my wrist and took hold of the bent finger with the other. Before I could ask what he planned to do, he gave one quick pull. There was a sharp pop, and Hakim Yusuf immediately realigned the finger.

“I meant,” he said, “that you didn’t break it.”

I blinked. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

He smiled. “It’s remarkable what happens when things are put back where Allah intended them to be. It was dislocated. Try moving it.”

I curled my hand into a fist.

“It works.”

“That is the preferred outcome.”

My relief was so strong, I felt like I’d just ridden Belly for two days without pause, and was now relaxing in the cool water of a desert oasis. I was still sad and lonely, but suddenly it felt bearable.

Hakim Yusuf began preparing a salve for my bruised ribs and arms. He looked up over the rim of the little clay bowl.

“Darius… do you imagine I spend my days waiting for someone to be stabbed?”

I opened my mouth.

He raised one finger to silence me. “This morning I treated a merchant whose gums are swollen from rotten teeth, a muleteer with an infected blister, a guard with fever, three horses with saddle sores, and another guard who was convinced he had contracted a terrible disease.”

“What did he have?”

“An overactive imagination.”

I laughed. “Was that Longwei?” The big man always seemed to think there was something wrong with him.

Not answering, the Hakim continued stirring the salve. “Battle wounds are a small part of my work.” He spread the cool ointment gently across my bruised ribs. “When you helped me with Kuangren, I noticed something.”

“What?”

“You paid attention.”

“I just followed your instructions.”

“More than that.” He wrapped a bandage around my torso, tied it snugly and sat back. “You observed and anticipated. You asked sensible questions. Those qualities are difficult to teach.”

“My uncle is a healer. I have assisted him.”

He nodded. “Now it makes sense.”

Growing Up

I looked around the wagon once more.

It felt strangely peaceful here. Outside were guards laughing around the fire; merchants discussing politics, prices and the news of the war back home; and horses stamping in the darkness. Inside there was only the quiet clink of glass bottles and the comforting smell of herbs. The wagon was the oasis I’d been wishing for. It was familiar and comfortable.

Someone rapped twice against the side of the wagon, and Sergeant Karim ducked through the doorway, his broad shoulders filling most of the opening. His eyes immediately went to my bandaged hand, then to the bruises already darkening along my ribs.

“That was nicely done.”

I smiled despite myself.

“I didn’t know,” he said, “that she’d be that hard on you.”

“She knew I was holding back. That’s what made her angry.”

He scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “I should have known she’d see it.” For a moment he stood in silence, considering the matter. Then he nodded to himself. “You know what? I’ll confess to her that it was my idea. I’ll take the heat off you.”

“No.” The answer escaped my mouth before I had even thought about it.

Karim looked genuinely surprised. “Why not?”

I searched for the right words.

“Because right now she just thinks I’m a stupid boy who doesn’t appreciate how talented she is.” I smiled faintly. “Which, if I’m being honest, was true until tonight. But if you tell her it was your idea…” I hesitated. “It will hurt her.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “Explain.”

“You’re her sergeant. She looks up to you. She needs to feel that you believe in her.” I glanced toward the open doorway, where the sounds of laughter still drifted from the campfire. “We all do.”

The wagon fell quiet. Karim looked at me for a long moment. At last he reached out and rested one heavy hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re growing up, Darius.”

Without another word he stepped down from the wagon and disappeared into the night.

An Oasis or a Prison?

“You’re not a typical caravan guard,” Hakim Yusuf commented.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“So?” The Hakim folded his hands inside his sleeves. “I could use an assistant.”

“I don’t know if I’m typical or not, but I am a caravan guard. I already have duties.”

“There are many men,” Hakim Yusuf said quietly, “who know how to make holes in other people. “But you have hands capable of healing. Don’t waste that.”

Panic came up out of my gut like acid. It rushed up from nowhere, leaving me feeling constricted. The sense of this place as an oasis vanished. Suddenly it felt like a prison. I looked toward the wagon door as if it were an escape. My breath was shallow and rapid.

“I can’t go through this again,” I said. “I’ve been through this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being pressured to choose between medicine and the sword. You can’t force me to choose! If I’m good at one thing and the other, then so be it, that’s who I am. My father taught me to fight from the time I could walk. He crammed it down my throat, he made me bleed and cry, but it was all he had to give, and he gave it, and now it’s mine. Not you or anyone else will take it away. I am sick of people trying to decide for me what I should be.” I stood quickly, snatched up my shirt, and put it on. In my haste it caught on my finger, and I groaned in pain.

“Easy, Darius.” Far from being offended, Hakim Yusuf’s  manner was calm and soothing. “Of course it’s your decision. I’m not forcing you to choose. I just thought you might come assist me for a few hours a day, that’s all.”

“Oh.” I looked at the floor, feeling ashamed. “I don’t know if Sergeant Karim would like that.”

Hakim Yusuf put a hand on my chest and rubbed gently. “Get some rest. Think about my offer. If you decide you want to do it, I’ll talk to the Sergeant. I have some influence. And if not, it’s okay son. I’ll never bring it up again.”

I put a hand to my forehead and rubbed it. “I’m sorry, Hakim.”

“Don’t be silly. All is well. Now listen. The finger will be tender for several days. Be careful.”

“I’ll try.”

Far Away

Most of the camp had settled into silence. Here and there a few lanterns still glowed beside the merchants’ wagons, and somewhere in the darkness I could hear someone laughing at one last joke before turning in for the night. I walked with one arm pulled tightly to my side because my ribs hurt less that way.

I found Belly standing where I had left him, patiently chewing his hay as though the affairs of men had never been any concern of his. He lifted his head when he heard my footsteps and gave a low, questioning whicker.

“I’m alright,” I assured him. “Or I will be.”

I checked his feed bucket. He’d eaten all the oats and mash, and the bucket was empty.

“Good.”

His water trough was nearly empty as well, so I carried another bucket from the nearby stream and filled it. Belly plunged his nose into the water at once, drinking noisily until great drops ran from his whiskers.

“I suppose you worked as hard as I did today.”

He nosed my pockets. I smiled. “Sorry,” I told him. “It’s not Eid anymore. I’ll get you a few carrots in the morning.”

I fetched the curry comb and began working it through his thick black coat. Dust and loose hair came away beneath the brush in little gray clouds. Belly leaned into it contentedly, half-closing his eyes.

“I met with Hakim Yusuf tonight.”

One ear turned toward me.

“He wants me to become his assistant.” The words sounded strange spoken aloud.

“I don’t think he means instead of being a guard. At least… I hope not.”

I paused to work a burr from his mane.

“He says there are plenty of men who know how to make holes in other people, but not enough who know how to close them.” I smiled faintly. “That sounds like something Zihan Ma would say.”

When I finished brushing him, I put a thick blanket over him, as the night was cold. Then I crouched carefully and examined each hoof in turn. Belly shifted his weight obligingly as I cleaned away packed dirt and a few small stones.

“Good boy.”

I patted one sturdy leg before moving to the next hoof.

“You know…” I said after a while, “you’re my only friend now.” The words escaped before I had a chance to stop them.

I rested one hand against his shoulder, feeling the steady warmth beneath his coat. “You and my cat back home.”  I laughed softly. “His name is Far Away. Isn’t that funny? Because he’s so far away now.”

Belly turned his head and nudged my shoulder, nearly knocking me off balance.

“It’s okay, I told you. I’m okay.”

For a long moment neither of us moved. The mountains stood black against a sky crowded with stars, and the camp around us had become so quiet that I could hear the soft grinding of Belly’s teeth as he returned to his hay.

“But it’s alright,” I said at last, scratching him beneath the mane where he liked it best. “I’ll take care of you, and you’ll take care of me.”

I looked up at the stars.

“And Allah will protect us both.”

Belly snorted softly, as if entirely satisfied with that arrangement.

I smiled, spread my blanket beside his picket line, and before long the sounds of the camp faded into sleep.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 21 – Opium

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:

Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: The Cabbie and the Muslim Woman

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 20] – Among the Afghans appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Israeli army demolishes home of two families in Masafer Yatta.

Today’s aggressive settlement expansion builds on foundations laid since beginning of 1967 occupation.

State claims it cannot find body of laborer swept up in mass arrest.

There are scholars who interpret the world, scholars who flatter it, and scholars who quietly make it less cruel. John L. Esposito belonged emphatically to the third category. His passing deprives us not merely of a distinguished academic, but of something now far rarer: a genuine public intellectual — one who understood that scholarship is not an ornamental profession but a moral vocation.

Esposito may well have been the last great public intellectual in the field now called Islamophobia studies, although he used the term less frequently than many who later made an industry of it. Long before Islamophobia became a conference theme, a specialized vocabulary, or an academic career track, he was confronting its most consequential forms: the intellectual caricatures that shaped journalism, diplomacy, public opinion, and American foreign policy.

He did not simply describe prejudice against Muslims. He disrupted the machinery that produced it.

His method was deceptively radical: he studied Muslims in order to understand them.

That proposition sounds almost embarrassingly obvious. Yet Esposito entered a field in which influential Western scholars routinely approached Islamic movements as pathologies to be diagnosed, security threats to be contained, or civilizational irritants to be explained away. He refused this intellectual laziness. He treated Islamic revivalism not as a fever passing through irrational societies, but as a complex response to colonialism, authoritarianism, secularization, social dislocation, and the enduring human search for moral order.

An Italian-American Catholic Embraced By Muslims

He engaged figures such as Hasan al-Turabi, Rachid Ghannouchi, Hasan Hanafi, and Khurshid Ahmad when much of the West preferred to demonize them. He did not agree uncritically with everything they believed; serious scholars do not confuse understanding with endorsement. But he recognized that scholar-activists could not be comprehended through intelligence briefings, hostile newspaper profiles, or inherited Orientalist categories. They had to be read, questioned, challenged, and encountered as thinking human beings.

Through books such as Voices of Resurgent Islam and Makers of Contemporary Islam, Esposito introduced Western audiences to a vast intellectual world they had scarcely been told existed. He developed friendships across the Muslim world because he went there not as an anthropologist examining exotic specimens, but as an interlocutor. In societies accustomed to Western experts arriving with prefabricated conclusions, his seriousness felt revolutionary.

His mentor, Ismail al-Faruqi, helped shape this disposition, but Esposito made it unmistakably his own. He became perhaps the first Western scholar of contemporary Islam to be welcomed across Muslim societies with something approaching popular affection. He was not merely respected. In Pakistan, Malaysia, Turkey, and elsewhere, he was embraced.

When he visited Pakistan in 2017 to deliver the inaugural memorial lectures for my father, Dr. Mumtaz Ahmad, the reception was extraordinary. The lectures, co-organized by the US-Pakistan Intercultural Coalition, took him to the Lahore University of Management Sciences, the University of Management and Technology, the National Defence University, and the Institute of Policy Studies. The halls were packed. Audiences stood wherever they could find space. John Esposito, an Italian-American Catholic scholar from Brooklyn, arrived in Pakistan and was received like a rock star.

But the enthusiasm was not celebrity worship. Pakistanis understood what he had done. Here was a Western scholar who had spent decades explaining Islam without condescension, Islamic politics without hysteria, and Muslim grievances without treating Muslims themselves as guilty until proven moderate. They regarded him, quite simply, as the greatest living Western scholar of Islam.

“Uncle John”

For our family, however, he was also Uncle John — or at least the sort of figure who occupies that emotional territory.

Before my father and one of his closest friends, Dr. Mumtaz Ahmad, passed away in 2016, I knew Prof. Esposito primarily through telephone calls. He was hilarious. He would announce, with theatrical exasperation, that he was still waiting for my father’s hopelessly overdue essay for yet another edited volume. This happened repeatedly over the years. My father’s deadlines were elastic; John’s irritation was affectionate; and both men seemed to understand that the ritual would recur indefinitely.

His humor extended to his own career. He liked to say that before 1979 he barely had one and could hardly imagine writing a book. Then came Ayatollah Khomeini and the Iranian Revolution, producing what John jokingly called his first Lexus. Osama bin Laden and September 11, he would add, were responsible for the Mercedes. Behind the joke was a devastating observation: Western interest in Islam expanded most dramatically when Muslims could be represented as a crisis.

Esposito understood this danger earlier than almost anyone. In The Islamic Threat: Myth or Reality?, he anticipated the geopolitical temptation that followed the collapse of communism. Great powers, deprived of a grand enemy, rarely accept the inconvenience of peace. Islam was soon drafted into the vacant role. After September 11, Unholy War: Terror in the Name of Islam challenged both the appropriation of religion by terrorists and the exploitation of terrorism by those eager to indict an entire civilization.

Courageous Scholarship

His scholarship was courageous because it was published when misunderstanding Muslims was professionally safer than understanding them. The American media frequently preferred experts whose authority seemed proportional to their hostility. Esposito, arguably the leading Western authority on Islam, was often less visible in mainstream American discourse than ideologues who possessed neither his fieldwork nor his intellectual range. Apparently, the qualification for explaining Muslims on television was not knowing them too well.

Internationally, matters were different. He advised governments, addressed universities, consulted policymakers, edited encyclopedias, and wrote more than fifty books translated into dozens of languages. Yet the scale of his bibliography can obscure his larger achievement. He built an intellectual infrastructure for seeing Muslims as historical actors rather than permanent suspects.

After my father’s death, my own relationship with Prof. Esposito deepened. His emails were an improbable combination of erudition, outrage, gossip, warmth, and comedy. He was generous with his time and prodigal with his friendship. Together with Professor Tamara Sonn and Imam Abdul Malik Mujahid, he formed part of the intimate circle of intellectual powerhouses I had heard about since childhood — my father’s confidantes, critics, collaborators, and beloved interlocutors.

It was therefore only fitting that Esposito delivered the first Dr. Mumtaz Ahmad Memorial Lectures, and that Tamara Sonn delivered the following year’s lectures. They were not ceremonial selections. They were family.

Activism Beyond Academia

One of my final and most revealing exchanges with Prof. Esposito concerned an international appeal demanding medical transparency and humane treatment for former Pakistani prime minister Imran Khan. He was deeply disturbed by the situation. Still, I told him I would understand if he preferred not to sign. Pakistan had awarded him one of its highest civil honors, and he was habitually received there as a state guest. Public dissent could jeopardize relationships cultivated over decades.

He did not deliberate for two seconds.

“Add my name,” he said.

Soon afterward, representatives connected to the Pakistani Embassy approached him with exquisite politeness. They praised him, honored him, and then delicately suggested that he had misunderstood Pakistan and been misinformed. Esposito replied that he understood the situation perfectly well. When he recounted the conversation to me, we laughed.

Tamara Sonn signed as well. Both knew that their standing with Pakistan’s establishment might never be quite the same. They chose principle over prestige — an elementary moral decision that remarkably few intellectuals, Muslim or otherwise, seem capable of making when honorary treatment, official access, and personal convenience are at stake.

This was not an isolated act. Esposito stood by Dr. Sami Al-Arian through years of persecution and confinement, visiting him under house arrest when many respectable people found distance more comfortable. He advocated for him when solidarity carried consequences. Esposito’s bridge-building was never the bloodless dialogue of hotel conferences and polished communiqués. He built bridges toward people whom power had isolated.

That distinction matters. Plenty of people celebrate pluralism when pluralism is fashionable. Esposito defended human dignity when doing so was awkward.

He spoke of dialogue between “Islam and the West” before the phrase became institutional furniture. But he also knew that civilizations do not converse; people do. His genius was to create relationships where abstractions had produced antagonisms. The founding of Georgetown’s Center for Muslim-Christian Understanding was therefore not merely an academic accomplishment. It embodied his central conviction: that knowledge must become encounter, and encounter must become ethical responsibility.

John Esposito perhaps did more to combat Islamophobia than much of the contemporary Islamophobia studies industry because he worked upstream. He challenged the categories, assumptions, and foreign-policy fantasies from which anti-Muslim prejudice drew its authority. He did not merely denounce the fire; he examined the intellectual wiring that kept setting the building ablaze.

His critics occasionally accused him of being too sympathetic to Muslims. It was an inadvertently revealing charge. Sympathy, in their vocabulary, meant refusing to begin with contempt.

Esposito began with curiosity. He proceeded with rigor. He ended, more often than not, with friendship.

That is why the Muslim world mourns him not as a foreign specialist who wrote about Islam, but as a friend who stood with Muslims without romanticizing them, spoke for justice without seeking applause, and crossed boundaries that lesser minds treated as walls.

My father was blessed to call him a beloved friend. I was blessed, after my father’s passing, to discover that friendship for myself. His last lesson to me was also the lesson of his life: honors are pleasant, access is useful, and prestige can open doors — but none of them is worth the price of silence.

John Esposito built bridges in an age that rewarded walls. The finest tribute we can offer him is not simply to praise those bridges, but to possess the courage to cross them.

 

Related:

– Thinking Long-Term: The Legacy of Yahiya Emerick

– Khurshid Ahmad, Pakistani Jamaat Leader And Scholar, Dies Aged 93

The post The Legacy Of Professor John Esposito: The Scholar Who Refused To Turn Islam Into An Enemy appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Discover the beauty and power of tahajjud, the voluntary night prayer. Learn its virtues, rewards, and practical steps to make this intimate act of worship part of your life.

A Special Invitation

What if I were to tell you that there is a special invitation that comes to you every night? It peaks around the corner after twilight, and drops into your lap before the morning sun beams’ brilliance appears. When all others are asleep, it almost unnoticeably slips into the pockets of your soul. As the distractions of the day let you be with the nocturnal darkness, it invites you to find yourself in uninterrupted seclusion with the Highest of High. It welcomes your heart to enjoy a private conversation with your Creator. It is tahajjud, and it tells you to come, come, be with your Lord.

Note: The night is considered the time in between isha and fajr prayer. Qiyam al-layl, “standing at night,” is often used to define the voluntary night prayers offered before sleeping, and tahajjud, “giving up sleep,” are usually the supererogatory nightly prayers prayed before fajr after having slept. For the sake of ease, this article does so too. Both terms, however, are generally applied interchangeably.

Among the Righteous

Tamim al-Dari was one of the sahaba who was well-known for his wholehearted dedication to the night prayer. He would be the first to light up the glimmering oil lamps at the masjid. Our beloved Messenger, may Allah send peace and blessings upon him, would stand in nightly devotion for hours and hours, so much so his feet would swell (Sahih al-Bukhari 4836). Sayyida Zainab once tied a rope hanging in between two pillars in the masjid so she could hold onto it when she got exhausted from standing in prayer at night, though the Prophet, may Allah send peace and blessings on him, advised not to go to such lengths. (Sahih al-Bukhari 1150). Commitment to voluntary prayers in the nighttime was truly a given in the early Muslim community. These moonlit hours were created for both sleep and worship.

“Allah makes the night into the day and the day into the night. Allah hears and sees all things.” (Surat al-Hadid 6; illumination by Nilgün Gedik)

The Prophet said so himself, may Allah send peace and blessings upon him: The best prayer after the obligatory prayer is prayer at night (Sunan an-Nasai 1614). It is the habit of the righteous who came before us. It brings us closer to our Creator, expiates our evil deeds, and prevents us from sinning (Sunan al-Tirmidhi 3549). Night vigil is an opportunity to be elevated in rank, as we know that Allah can raise us to a station of praise when we commit to it (Surat al-Isra, 79).

Through what is referred to as the Hadith of the Heavenly Dispute, we learn that our beloved Prophet, may Allah send peace and blessings upon him, once asked Allah in a dream what the highest angels dispute about. Alongside providing food and speaking gently, praying at night was one of the most virtuous deeds the angels argued about when discussing the expiation of sins (Mishkat al-Masabih 748).

Surat al-Furqan reminds us that the true servants of the Most Compassionate are those who walk on the earth humbly, and when the foolish address them improperly, they only respond with peace. They are those who spend a good portion of the night prostrating themselves and standing before their Lord (63-64). The upright? They are those who sleep only little at night and pray for forgiveness before dawn (Surat al-Dhariyat 17-18).

The knights of the night are among the real muminin. Surat al-Sajdah tells us so. “The only true believers in Our revelation are those who, when it is recited to them, fall into prostration and glorify the praises of their Lord and are not too proud. They abandon their beds, invoking their Lord with hope and fear, and donate from what We have provided for them. No soul can imagine what delights are kept in store for them as a reward for what they used to do” (15-17).

Calligraphy by Emre Sessiz of two Quranic verses: “And you did not throw when you threw but Allah did throw” (8:17), and “And We are closer to him than the jugular vein” (50:16)

What Happens at Night?

It is said that Imam Muhammad ibn Idris al-Shafii compared the dua made at the time of tahajjud to an arrow that does not miss its mark. In the last third of the night, Allah comes down to the lowest heaven, asking “Is there anyone to invoke Me, so that I may respond to invocation? Is there anyone to ask Me, so that I may grant him his request? Is there anyone seeking My forgiveness, so that I may forgive him?” (Sahih al-Bukhari 1145).

This means that in this last part of the night, your Creator comes and seeks you out. As the night prayer tends to be more concealed, some argue that it is closer in sincerity. It is kept between the worshipper and Allah, a little secret between you and Him in the stillness of the night. In those moments before you stand to pray at daybreak, you can get as close to Him as you can in this dunya. You are invited to pour your heart out, beg for forgiveness, and ask for anything you so desperately yearn for.

Night prayer brings comfort to the soul. It is a soothing balm of sakina that we need to make it through the day. Men of knowledge such as Muhammad ibn Muhammad al-Ghazali and Jamaluddin Abdul-Rahman Ibn al-Jawzi have dedicated endless writings to qiyam al-layl, the latter considering the night prayer as the ultimate spiritual weapon of the believer. Leaving sleep is a disciplining trial that is hard on the lower self. The battle with the bed is when tahajjud does its deepest work, even before the prayer begins. Do we want to snooze and snore, or does our heart long for closeness to Allah and choose it over rest and comfort? In addition, recitation in night prayer offers an opportunity to profound contemplation as our daily distractions are put to sleep.

Fireflies in Dark Times

Praying at night was one of the first sunan established. The Prophet, may Allah send peace and blessings upon him, stressed its importance in his first sermon in Madina (Sunan Ibn Majah 3251). Given its context, we can read the practices mentioned in this sermon as key elements to build a close-knit community: spreading peace to promote unity and social cohesion, offering food to those in need, and praying at night. It is a way to strengthen our spiritual wellbeing and resilience, a tool to purify our heart and make our willpower steadfast and our body more powerful. These are key elements to build a foundation on. Imagine the effect we can have on the Ummah, the relief we can bring. Imagine how it can allow us to excel in doing good and bringing our best self to the table.

When our Prophet was distressed in Makkah, Allah addressed him through Surat al-Muzzammil, may Allah send peace and blessings upon him. The Surah’s first verses (1-8) read, “O you wrapped in your clothes! Stand all night in prayer except a little, pray half the night, or a little less, or a little more, and recite the Qur’an properly in a measured way. For We will soon send upon you a weighty revelation. Indeed, worship in the night is more impactful and suitable for recitation. For during the day you are over-occupied with worldly duties. Always remember the Name of your Lord, and devote yourself to Him wholeheartedly.” For our beloved Messenger, may Allah send peace and blessings upon him, to be able to handle this weighty revelation, this heavy task that was looming, he had to prepare himself spiritually. For us to be able to carry our own role in this dunya gracefully, we need to do the same. Tahajjud can help us with that.

A lantern-lit room at night, by Franscisco Fronseca

Rise at Night and Rise in Rank

The broken-hearted, the sinners, the great, those who have tried and those who try, the virtuous, the ones that are lost and those who do well. Tahajjud is a call to us all. Even if you have not been able to fully commit to the five daily prayers consistently, you can try to pray a little at night. Perhaps it will offer you the strength you lack to fulfill the obligatory during the day. A waterfall of other good habits might sprout from it.

The struggle starts the day before. Fill your daylight hours with good deeds, avoid sins to avoid a heavy heart, steer clear of man-sized meals before you go to sleep, recite your evening adhkar, and sleep early with the intention of waking up for tahajjud. Make notes during the day on what to make dua for and turn your place of prayer in a serenely attractive spot. If you are a woman and you would like a circle of support, you can join Rabata’s Tahajjud Threads on WhatsApp. If you need a sturdy wake-up call, you can try the most irritating Fajr alarm ever developed. Remember, when you wake up your spouse and resort to sprinkling water in their face to do so, Allah shows mercy for this most romantic act (Riyad al-Salihin 1183).

Start with a pure intention. As tahajjud is voluntary, there is no fixed set of rakʿat required. It is prayed in sets of two and recommended to start with two short rakʿat (Riyad al-Salihin 1179). The Prophet, may Allah send peace and blessings upon, would pray eight rakʿat in total, four times two. Yet for you to build this habit, begin lightly. You can start by waking up 15 minutes before fajr and sticking to two rakʿat. Depending on the scholarly opinion you follow, you can conclude with the odd witr prayer.

Once you have been able to establish a recurring routine, you can wake up earlier and add more rakʿat. Remember that the actions that Allah loves most are the most constant, even if little (Sahih al-Bukhari 6464). Give yourself time to get used to it and do not despair. Our soul is changed by what we return to. Only steadily our bond of love with the Divine becomes rooted.

You can turn to longer ayat or shorter ones. In your dhikr and dua, focus on forgiveness. Recite out loud and let the meanings of the words seep into your heart. Did you know that the angels come down to listen to your recitation (Sahih Ibn Hibban 779)? If you follow the Shafii madhab, you can read from a mushaf in your sunna prayers and gradually complete a khatma in your night prayers this way.

Allah is calling you. You can be one of those pajama heroes whose limbs drag themselves out of their beds and who illuminate their homes like Tamim al-Dari did. Turn your house into a lighthouse for our people. You do not even have to adorn yourself with your best attire for this extraordinary encounter. Have a look, dig deep into the pockets of your soul. Are you answering the invitation?

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The post Tahajjud: A Call to All Pajama Heroes appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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Quiet service and a long-term vision for upcoming generations were the hallmarks of a little-known yet important Islamic teacher in the United States who passed away this week. Yahiya Emerick may not be a household name, but it is likely that Muslims growing up in North America will have encountered his books: he left a legacy of Islamic literature for various ages that is hard to match, certainly in the Anglophone world.

Yahiya John Joseph Emerick was born into an Irish-American Baptist family in the American Midwest in 1971. Having picked up a fascination with fantasy literature in his youth, he brought adaptable, creative writing skills and an active imagination into the world of Muslim writing after converting to Islam. That conversion came after some trouble during his teenage years in accepting the concept of the Trinity among Christians. In his first year of university during the late 1980s, he studied the Quran for some six months and, as he said during a rare interview, “couldn’t deny the personal appeal from God to the reader.”

By contrast Emerick was disappointed in the writing quality of many English-language Islamic books during his early years in the faith. “I saw,” he said in the same interview with the UmmahReads blog, “that a lot of Islamic books were written in a very one-dimensional way without much verve or imagination. I wanted to write books that would show people how I saw Islam when I came into it. For me, Islam was a blend of spiritual, emotional, intellectual and practical things all woven together in an artistic tapestry that one could use to decorate their inner and outer world.”

As a history schoolteacher, Emerick began an impromptu fictional series about Ahmad and Layla Deen that formed part of his oeuvre: such fictional stories about and for Muslims were much rarer when he started out than they are now. On the importance of fiction for Muslim children, he explained, “Kids look almost exclusively for inspiration and identity from their peer group. Books are another window into viewing and adopting attitudes and if our kids spend their reading time reading only about non-Muslims and their world, then our Muslim kids will feel that the non-Muslim world is the ‘real’ world…Having some books with Muslim characters allows our kids to see that, in addition to the non-Muslim world, there are places and spaces to be Muslim, also. The two can even mix, and in that mix, Islam can still remain.”

In addition to fiction, Emerick wrote a large number of books explaining Islam for readers of various ages: these included an addition to the famous “Complete Idiot’s Guide to Understanding” series, which publishes basic explainers for novices and was particularly widespread during the 1990s and 2000s. Several of his books were written to explain the Quran, especially to teenagers. “Muslims take it for granted that, well, a kid from a Muslim family will be and stay Muslim by osmosis and association.” In a secular environment, “Muslims have…to do da’wah to our own children in order to win their loyalty for life. I write books, therefore, to bring Islam to our young people in a way tailored for them. Too many of our ‘scholars’ live in ivory minarets and fail to see the lives of the real people below them.”

On the growing body of Muslim literature in the Anglophone world, he remarked that he would like to see more “teenage, real life experiences.  A lot more literature for the tween set. We need a monthly kids magazine and a separate monthly teen magazine. These have been tried in the past, but always failed, due to a variety of factors. We also need more diverse literature, not just flighty poetry or political books.”

Emerick’s body of work was particularly impressive given that he worked two jobs and largely self-published through his personal press, Amirah Publishing Company. In addition, he was involved in both activism and interfaith initiatives and founded the Islamic Foundation of North America bookstore. His books have covered a large number of topics and genres, and his death to cancer is a loss to the Muslim community.

One of Yahiya Emerick’s many books.

One of his former students, Fawzia Syed, expressed her shock in a social media post. “Brother Yahiya” was her first Islamic Studies teacher, the first convert she had met, and one whose work she still uses as a “starter kit” for young Muslims.

“The depth of my sadness has honestly surprised me,” she wrote. Emerick had been her first Islamic studies teacher and an accessible one. As he worked on his Islam edition for the Complete Idiot’s Guide series during recesses, she recalled, “my friend and I would bother him while he was writing, asking him all kinds of questions. We’d ask him what he was writing about, about Islam, why he became Muslim, and probably every random question curious middle schoolers think of. One of the things I appreciate most is that I was never too intimidated to ask him questions. He was never impatient with answering, nor did he ever make feel any of my questions were silly. He was an authority figure, but I felt like I could ask him anything — either he would answer us or laugh it away.”

Serving upcoming generations for Allah’s sake was a major theme in Emerick’s life, as explained in his final thoughts in the UmmahReads interview: “I believe we, as Muslims, need to transform ourselves to meet this challenge. We must come out of our cocoons, smell the chai and see how we can make Islam relevant for the coming centuries. Future generations will either have an easier time being Muslim or a harder time based on our groundwork today. That’s a big responsibility and it is what Allah (swt) requires of us. Strive together in His cause, the Qur’an tells us, and we will be compensated with satisfaction and Allah’s good pleasure. Truly that is what seekers should work to achieve!  Ameen.”

Emerick’s student, Syed, recalled that he had gifted her three of his books as his former student. After his signature at the end, he wrote, “Thinking long term.”

Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioun. May Allah accept his service.

The post Thinking Long-Term: The Legacy of Yahiya Emerick appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

An Inconvenient American in Syria: The Curious Case of Bilal Abdul-Kareem

Ibrahim Moiz

13 July 2026

Bilal Abdul Kareem has spent over a decade reporting in Syria.

That Syria would be shed of fifty years of grasping control by a dictator’s family was unthinkable ten years ago, when the war that would eventually see the ouster of the Assad dynasty was at its peak. In 2016 Syria was fought over by a bewildering kaleidoscope of actors: a crippled regime had invited in militias backed by Iran, mercenaries backed by Russia, and the militaries of both countries; a violent Daesh emirate had sprawled over the Iraqi border to take over much of the east; an American invasion had backed a largely Kurdish front against Daesh; and pitted against all these camps were a largely Islamist collection of rebels backed by either Qaeda or by a Turkish military that, in opposition to its American-backed Kurdish insurgents, had also surged into Syria.

Today the situation is transformed. Tens of thousands of Syrians have returned home under a government more benign than any predecessor in over a half-century. Daesh, always more an Iraqi than Syrian phenomenon, seems out for the count. Most foreign militaries have left, though Israel, that most bloodthirsty of regional spoilers, has continued brazen incursions beyond its occupation of the Golan Heights, hoping to break off the Druze minority in the south. Russia, preoccupied in Ukraine and Mali, has accepted its defeat; Iran, reluctant to admit a betrayal by the Assad family that would expose the wastage of its Syrian incursion, is now preoccupied in a war against the relentless aggression of both Israel and the United States.

The latest foreign military to leave Syria is that of the United States, who discarded years of support for Kurdish militants in northeast Syria to the satisfaction of Turkiye, given that many of these American-backed “Syrian Kurds” were in fact Turkish rebels. There has been a remarkable rapport between Ankara and the new Syrian regime led by Ahmad Sharaa, who was, ten years ago at the war’s peak, still part of Qaeda. Having discarded that link in summer 2016, Sharaa has worked closely with Turkiye to the discontent, ironically, of otherwise bitter enemies Iran and Israel, but to the evident satisfaction of Washington. Against more belligerent colleagues who follow the party line of former Israeli prime minister Naftali Bennett that Turkiye and Syria are now Israel’s major threats, American envoy Tom Barrack has worked out an arrangement where the United States cooperates in “counterterrorism” with Syria, purportedly against Daesh. The Americans who, ten years ago, were bombing and arming militants through northern Syria to fight against Sharaa have now embraced him as a counterterrorism partner.

An American Outlier

Yet one American who has not fared so well is Bilal Abdul-Kareem, an African-American journalist whose presence in Syria has largely conveniently been forgotten but who was, at the peak of the war, the boldest and most recognizable foreign reporter in the country and chose to live, marry, and settle there. Abdul-Kareem’s name brings to mind the Syrian war’s crescendo in 2016, when the battle for the major city of Aleppo was winding to a bloody conclusion in a campaign where tens of thousands were killed. In those days, English-speaking foreigners such as this writer could access Abdul-Kareem’s reports from the heart of eastern Aleppo, amid shattered buildings and choking rubble.

Journalists are often divided on to what extent they can become advocates for their subject. In Abdul-Kareem’s mind, certainly, there appears to have been no doubt on the matter; his reportage went hand in hand with advocacy, and his sympathy was squarely with the Syrian revolt against the Assad dynasty, and especially with the Islamic element that he believed was its conscience and underlying ethos.

Today some supporters of the new Syrian state, particularly those keen to dispel ideas of its being an extremist group, are uncomfortable with this Islam-centred viewpoint, believing that it would play into the hands of the 2010s revolt’s many enemies who frequently lumped in Daesh, which actually did very little fighting against Bashar Assad, with the revolt at large. Many critics of this type hail from the more socially liberal advocacy of the 2010s revolt, often based in Washington and sensitive to any charges of the “religious radicalism” that has been such a convenient enemy of the American elite, and much of the Western elite for that matter, in the twenty-first century. Added to this is the fear, often shared by some Syrian Muslims over the past century, that the emphasis on Islam might play into the hands of foreign powers who want to wedge off minorities against a long-suppressed Sunni Muslim majority.

The fact, however, is that it was precisely Sunni Islamist groups that held out in the Syrian battlefields and eventually managed to unseat Assad. There is no more glaring example than Sharaa himself, who had a bounty on his head for years by the same Washington that now welcomes him.

During the 2010s, many “liberal” advocates of the Syrian revolt in Washington would point out Sharaa as an example of a “bad actor” that might benefit if the United States did not support the revolt. As it happened, when the United States invaded Syria in September 2014 Sharaa and his group were second only to Daesh in their list of targets.

As it also happened, the United States has ended up reconciling with Sharaa, who is now cheerled by the same circles that once vilified him. If nothing else, Abdul-Kareem is more consistent in his views than his critics: today it is easy to dismiss him as a foreigner out of touch with Syrians, yet during the war he had far closer links and more interaction with the 2010s Syrian militant groups, and indeed much of civil society, that defeated Assad than do most of his critics today.

Aleppan Alamo

Once more 2016 Aleppo is instructive: at this peak of the war, when not only the United States was pointedly distancing itself from the actual revolt in favour of misleadingly misnamed Kurdish “rebels” that only ever fought the rebels’ Turkish backer, Abdul-Kareem was reporting from the beleaguered city. During that battle, Sharaa’s field commander leading a daring counterattack against the Russian army, Usama Nammoura (known variously as Abu Hajar and Abu Omar), was killed not by the Russians but by an American airstrike. In the heat of the multifaceted Syrian war, a Washington establishment that publicly criticized Russian brutality was quite happy to pick off commanders who actually led the fight against Russia. Although Sharaa had severed his ties with Qaeda shortly before Nammoura’s assassination, at that stage the United States was clearly not satisfied.

During this final desperate stage of the Aleppo campaign, Abdul-Kareem interviewed a prominent field commander, Abdul-Muin Ashidda (also known as Abul-Abed), who had recently left the Ahrarul-Sham group that was then the largest among Syria’s militant groups. As bluntly outspoken as his interviewer, Ashidda railed out at the rebels’ lack of coordination and especially at Turkiye, whose army had recently entered Syria but had, to his annoyance, failed to relieve Aleppo.

This was, it should be noted in fairness, a shortsighted view: it was then far beyond an extremely preoccupied Turkiye’s capacity to save Aleppo, and in fact later Ankara’s diplomacy and military would crucially and repeatedly shield the rebels against Russia. In short, contrary to Ashidda’s critique, the Turks helped when and where they could. Nonetheless these complaints, which Abdul-Kareem faithfully recorded and might have shared, spoke to frustrations among rebels then under severe fire in their biggest stronghold, which collapsed after a climactic months-long campaign in December 2016. Moreover, Ashidda’s call for independence from foreign reliance struck a chord.

Days later, in the early weeks of 2017, Sharaa announced a new group called Tahrirul-Sham, pointedly claiming to be independent of any foreign tutelage. It was built around his existing Nusra Front, and very quickly other rebels, including those from larger groups like Ahrarul-Sham, flocked to join what initially appeared to be a broad coalition: Ashidda himself was an early recruit. In fact, Sharaa and his inner circle maintained the key levers of power within the group, and used their newfound popularity to strike out at their former cohort-turned-competitor, Ahrarul-Sham, from whom they took much of Idlib in summer 2017. Ahrarul-Sham largely refused to fight their brethren, and Sharaa’s unilateralism shocked recent confederates, many of whom broke away.It  should be noted that Abdul-Kareem’s early coverage of Tahrirul-Sham was largely positive; he optimistically hailed the provincial government Sharaa subsequently set up in Idlib as Syria’s first elected government in years.

Sharaa proved a wily operator, first establishing his supremacy among rebels, including Ahrarul-Sham, then mending his fences with a Turkiye that sturdily shielded Idlib against Russian takeover, while sidelining and eliminating Qaeda loyalists who resented his defection from the group. As the years passed, both Abdul-Kareem and Ashidda soured on Sharaa: their problem was less ideology than the nature of governance and more specifically security, which was often secretive and arbitrary. Though Islamic courts and mediators aplenty existed, Sharaa had brazenly disregarded them in seizing Idlib from his former comrades in 2017; with the same cavalier attitude, his administration in Idlib occasionally seized and imprisoned people well beyond any rationale of emergency measures. At various stages both Abdul-Kareem and Ashidda, whose 2016 tirade had helped trigger the momentum behind Sharaa’s supremacy, were jailed and mistreated in ways that could not conceivably be justified under any implementation of Islamic law.

It is unclear how much of this can be attributed to Sharaa: what is clear is that his security forces behaved with wide latitude and little censure. The stirring changes in Syria since Sharaa’s takeover have yet to include security transparency. Though there is no remote comparison with the decades-long, industrial-scale abuses of the preceding regime under the Assad family, which included the summary torture and executions of tens of thousands of Syrians in a practical police state, it is clear that the “revolutionary” Syrian government has a long way to go to match rhetoric with reality in this specific and very important regard.

Abdul-Muin Ashidda, like Bilal Abdul-Kareem, initially supported but then criticized and fell afoul of Ahmad Sharaa.

None of this is an automatic endorsement of the personal views of Abdul-Kareem. It should be noted, however, that despite policy criticisms he has consistently expressed goodwill toward the new Syrian state and, especially, the largely Islamist fighters who led it to power. Abdul-Kareem’s criticisms were largely focused at overreach by the security forces and what he views as unedifying diplomacy with Donald Trump’s United States. In a social media video last winter, he publicly stated: “We simply cannot legitimise the presence of the enemy, and I said America is the enemy of the Syrian people.”  As a disenfranchised American citizen himself, who has survived airstrikes by his own country’s government, Abdul-Kareem perhaps has more reason for hostility than most, but this suspicion toward the United States is by no means unique in Syria.

One episode that might have landed Abdul-Kareem in particular trouble was his interview with Hani Sibai, a London-based ideologue who has never forgiven Sharaa for having abandoned Qaeda. Though there is no indication that Abdul-Kareem shares Sibai’s affinity for Qaeda, he certainly did oppose Syrian contact with the United States. To the Syrian regime, the danger of such an interview lay in the influence that such a figure might have over the Islamists, both Syrian and otherwise, that make up a large proportion of its army. It was perhaps this that precipitated Abdul-Kareem’s arrest: he had prefaced his public criticism of Sharaa with the words, “I’m not going to sugarcoat this, and it probably is going to get me in trouble”, and certainly that much was true.

The irony is that weeks after Abdul-Kareem’s arrest, Syria and the United States struck a deal wherby the American army did withdraw from the Syrian northeast and abandon its local vassals, who soon gave way. This might have satisfied Abdul-Kareem had he been at liberty to witness it, but there was a price to pay: American airstrikes have continued in Syria as before, principally focused on alleged Daesh holdouts though in at least one notable case a victim was found to not have been involved with Daesh at all.

Ahmad Sharaa’s diplomacy with Donald Trump has so far blunted Israeli aggression but raises longer-term risks for Syrian security with regards to the United States.

Good Cops, Bad Cops, Arrests and America

For a Pakistani citizen such as myself, the American role in Syria raises similarities with the Pakistan of my own youth, during the military regime of Pervez Musharraf. The comparison between military dictator Musharraf and Islamist commander Sharaa might not be obvious, particularly given that Islamists at large widely detest the former and have embraced the latter. But there are eerie parallels: it is often forgotten that, much as Sharaa earned credentials fighting a “jihad”, Musharraf benefited from the reputation he had garnered from having fought India and supporting Kashmiri “mujahideen” earlier in his career. When Musharraf took over Pakistan in 1999, he was originally welcomed by many Islamist circles and frozen out by the United States.

The tables turned in 2001, when Musharraf supported the American invasion of Afghanistan and provided counterterrorism coordination with the United States. Much like Sharaa’s vaunted diplomacy today, the Pakistani dictator fell in line with a regional pattern where other countries, from Kyrgyzstan to Uzbekistan to even Iran, backed the American war in Afghanistan: Pakistan simply hopped on the bandwagon, with certain crucial limits, in the ignobly opportunistic spirit of “If you can’t beat them, join them”. Similarly today Syrian diplomacy with the United States is simply joining a regional bandwagon where other governments, from Lebanon to Jordan and Egypt, have already acquiesced, indeed to a much greater extent, American militarism in the Middle East. As Pakistan’s history with Islamist militants was seen as a valuable asset for intelligence in Washington in 2001, so too is Sharaa’s history with various militants today.

Another similarity lies in the fact that diplomacy with the United States was seen, in 2000s Pakistan and 2020s Syria, as preferable to pressure by a nastier neighbour: in Pakistan’s case this was India and in Syria’s case it is Israel. India had not only lobbied for the American war on Afghanistan but also for its expansion into Pakistan, and the winter of 2001-02 exploited a murky militant attack on its parliament to amass half a million soldiers on the Pakistani border. It was this threat, and the fear of an Indian-American coalition, that pushed Pakistanis to accept acquiescence with Washington as a supposed alternative: the logic ran that if Musharraf embraced American leader George Bush, it would prevent Bush from embracing India. In retrospect, however, this apparent compromise only enabled a Washington that only drew closer to India to infringe on Pakistan in other, more indirect ways: the United States proved simply the “good cop” to India’s “bad cop”, and the airstrikes it began in northern Pakistan with increasing unilateralism set off a civil war in Waziristan that has since spread and has yet to abate to the current day.

Switch India for Israel a quarter-century later and Syria is in an analogous position. Proponents of Syrian rapprochement with Trump often cite a very real Israeli threat: Tel Aviv has made no secret of its hostility toward Damascus and, much like New Delhi with Pakistan a quarter-century ago, is lobbying the United States to let it expand its war into Syria. In flattering Trump, Syria hopes to stave off this immediate threat. Yet this bonhomie comes at a real price of facilitating American airstrikes in Syria, and as Musharraf found out to Pakistan’s detriment this is a slippery slope that could lead to longer-term repercussions. In short, there is no guarantee that the United States will not return to its “good cop-bad cop” routine, particularly given the Washington establishment’s long, stubbornly symbiotic relationship with Syria.

Of course, the parallels are not exact. Pakistan was a nuclear-armed state; Syria today is a weak, recovering country still under partial occupation. Conversely, the international climate in 2001 was almost uniformly conducive to unilateral American aggression; today, there is far more dissent against a declining United States. Pakistan was more or less regionally isolated in 2001; Syria is today supported by a major regional power in Ankara. Perhaps this is why Damascus feels it has more to gain and less to lose from diplomacy with a pointedly unreliable Trump: that remains to be seen.

The question of Syria’s relations with the United States, their context and dangers, pose a very real debate. Unfortunately, there is scant debate to be had on one hand with the likes of Sibai, whom Abdul-Kareem was perhaps unwise to give airtime, but also when Syrian security can so quickly abandon its promises of justice and jail a longstanding sympathizer without pretext. Again writing as a Pakistani who witnessed the impact of American-backed autocracy during Musharraf’s regime, this is an unhealthy sign and Sharaa’s government would be well-advised to at least provide some clarity as to the rationale of Abdul-Kareem’s arrest, if not release him outright. Given that even members of the former regime, with its numerous well-documented crimes, are set to receive a public day in court, there is no conceivable reason to imprison a well-wisher of the Syrian people and state without explanation.

Conclusion

Syria has some impressive achievements in the year and a half that Bashar Assad fell. Sharaa has done a fair job of building a governing coalition, and withstood severe pressure by an Israel that lost no time in vilifying and attacking southern Syria. The new regime has also faced genuine, serious emergencies: its first year alone saw Israeli bombardment and support for Druze separatists, the American-backed Kurdish militia in the east, and remnants of the former regime in the west.

Despite this, most of Syria is at least for the moment more secure, and by all accounts most of its population better-placed than under the tyranny that fell in 2024. A rebuilding Syrian state has reached out to numerous actors across geopolitical camps, staved off numerous challenges that were supported by hostile neighbours, and negotiated conditional withdrawals, including by the American military without joining the pro-Israel camp that so many other Arab states have under far less duress.

But injustices can multiple quickly if left to fester, and that can have a deteriorating effect on other aspects of governance and life. A Syria that cannot afford such deterioration can redress the issue by extending the justice and transparency it has long promised to its inconveniently outspoken prisoner Bilal Abdul-Kareem.

[Disclaimer: this article reflects the views of the author, and not necessarily those of MuslimMatters; a non-profit organization that welcomes editorials with diverse political perspectives.]

The post An Inconvenient American in Syria: The Curious Case of Bilal Abdul-Kareem appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Five years after the ultra-conservative Islamists retook Afghanistan, students describe male pupils being beaten for minor rule breaches and inexperienced teachers struggling to deliver lessons

Before he leaves for Kabul University each morning, Hashmat* checks his face for the beard he has been ordered to grow. Male students are required to grow their facial hair and wear traditional Afghan clothes and those who fall short are punished. Hashmat says he recently saw a classmate beaten for wearing trousers.

“They look at you before they listen to you. If your appearance is wrong, you are already in trouble before the class begins,” he says.

Continue reading...

The caravan enjoys a brief sanctuary in Mazar, where Darius reflects on turning sixteen and watches Weili form an unexpected new friendship.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16  | Part 17 | Part 18

Please note that I moved the ending of the previous chapter to this chapter, and made a few small changes.

* * *

An Incredibly Decent Man

Most nights, once the caravan was secured for the night, I found Weili, and we sat and talked. But sometimes she could not be found. She had her moods, and some nights a kind of darkness would come over her, when all she could see was what she had lost, and what she didn’t have. On such nights she wanted to be alone. She’d sleep in one of the cargo wagons, or even lay her bedroll in the trees far from camp. I’d told her that the latter was unsafe, but she persisted.

On such nights I might find Ahmed’s campfire. There was always a circle of brothers sitting with him as he talked about the meaning of a Quranic surah, or told the life story of one of the sahabah. The number of his followers had grown steadily, and some nights there were fifty men sitting around his fire. Many of the guards were Hui Muslims from non-practicing families, with little knowledge of Islam, who had never attended any Islamic services beyond Eid prayers or the occasional janazah when a relative died. Now, however, many were praying regularly, and memorizing the Quran with Ahmed.

It wasn’t just his knowledge, or the stories he told. Ahmed was a fortyish, compact man of medium height who carried himself with a quiet dignity. I was an observer of people, and I’d seen many things. When a man was overcome with depression at being so far from his family, and sat alone in the darkness, feeling as if no one in the world cared, Ahmed would show up to sit with him and put a hand on his shoulder. When a mule was overloaded and struggling, Ahmed would whisper a word to Sergeant Karim, who would redistribute the load.

Once, when we passed through a town near Samarkand, I followed Ahmed from a distance as he rode off alone. He went to the local market and spent what must have been a month’s salary to buy dozens of pairs of shoes, which he distributed to barefoot children who had likely never owned such a thing. Their smiles and squeals of delight touched me, and I almost cried. Ahmed never told anyone in the caravan about that or his other acts of charity, and I never mentioned it either. But people knew what an incredibly decent man he was, and they loved him.

Other nights I might find Longwei, who had his own group of fans who enjoyed his raucous tall tales.

Yet other nights I practiced Five Animals, and that drew a crowd of its own. I ran through my empty hand forms, then spear and finally the dao. Many of my watchers had never seen a classically trained martial artist, and even if they had, likely not one of my caliber. That sounds vain, but it’s true. People gasped and applauded. Occasionally some shouted derisive comments:

“You’re very good at massacring imaginary opponents, Bridge Killer!”

“I think you missed the jinn on your right, farm boy!”

Yet I knew that behind their derision was envy, for they had seen how I fought. Sergeant Karim sometimes paid bonuses to guards who fought especially well in defense of the caravan, and three times I had received such bonuses. So no matter the comments, I walked away from my practice sessions with my head high – maybe too high.

Orange Bellbird

One night, however, I was tired. My horse Belly had been giving me a hard time all day, balking at bridges, shying away from odd-shaped sticks or stones, and at times simply stopping for no discernible reason. Weili could not be found, I was not in the mood for Longwei’s travel tales, and while I always enjoyed Ahmed’s lectures, on that night I wasn’t in the mood. So I made camp, read my medical textbook for a while, then doused the fire and prepared to sleep.

I had just closed my eyes when a voice I knew well said, “Have you considered my poem?”

I opened my eyes and looked up at Longwei’s tall, powerful form standing over me, his pot belly bulging over his belt.

“Which one?”

He regarded me solemnly. “Never mind the poem. In the forests of Southeast Asia there is a bird called an orange bellbird. It’s small, but sings more beautifully than any lute or harp. When you hear it, you are reminded of Allah’s angels. You feel that the world is beautiful, and that everything is possible. Yet if you catch it and cage it, you will be disappointed, for it will sit silently, and will soon die. You can never own an orange bellbird. You can only appreciate it from a distance.”

I made a helpless gesture. “Are we talking about flowers or birds?”

Longwei pursed his lips. “Neither.” He walked away, and I fell asleep and dreamed that I fell into a hole and found myself in a cave, and when I emerged I was on the other side of a mountain range from the caravan, and could not find my way back.

Safe Harbor

For two weeks we passed through unrelenting mountains. We traveled roads that hugged the sides of cliffs, where a single wrong step would send a man to his death. Strangely, my horse Belly, who was normally so willful and independent minded, took every step carefully, and obeyed my every command.

We crossed mountain passes where we layered our clothing and put blankets on the animals. We shivered through the nights, even with fires burning. Anyone who was not on guard duty slept inside the covered wagons, crammed in among the goods we transported.

One particularly cold night I found a group of guards huddled around a blazing fire, listening to Memdooh. He was a young man in his early twenties, thin with a scraggly beard. A decent fighter, but not spectacular. He engaged in a unique art form in which he created poetry that he made up on the fly. It was always boastful and sometimes funny. Sometimes I found him annoying, but one night I was passing his campfire, and the applause from the watchers drew me in, so I paused to listen. It was a long, arrogant rhyme about his fighting ability, which I did not care for. But one stanza made me smile:

I ride from a northern land
curved sword in my hand.
I’m young but I’m hard
for I’m a caravan guard!

I remembered those lines. Later I turned them into a little song that I would sing to myself as I rode.

A few days later we crossed a pass and in the distance saw a wide valley filled with green orchards and blue streams. Far in the distance was a city. My heart soared to see it, and my grin nearly split my face.

Sergeant Karim called everyone together.

“This region,” he announced, “is part of the Khanate of Bukhara, but the city you see ahead is a Tajik city called Mazar, and it is a safe harbor for Five Stars. We have a relationship with them. We bring them goods from other lands, we buy their glassware and woodworks, and they host us. They are friends.

“Tomorrow is Yawm Arafah. I know many of you will be fasting. We will roll on tonight until we reach the walls of Mazar, and there we will camp. Though you may be fasting, there is a lot of work to be done. We will remain in Mazar for the three days of Eid ul-Adha, and you will have the time off to relax and enjoy as the merchants conduct their trade.”

A loud cheer went up at this.

“After Mazar,” Karim continued, “we will enter Afghanistan. It is a wild, lawless land, and you will have to be on guard. I will need you at your best. After Afghanistan, we will be in Persia.”

Again the audience applauded.

“Back to your stations,” Karim concluded. “Mazar awaits. Oh, and by the way -” He looked around for Weili. “Mazar always has a huge archery competition on Eid.”

We traveled all night long, and shortly before dawn pitched camp a short distance outside the walls of Mazar. We prayed Fajr, and then nearly all of us – with the exception of a handful of guards – slept the sleep of the dead.

Yawm Arafah

The following day proved that a stationary caravan was no idle caravan. If anything, there was more work than usual. Nearly all the Hui guards were fasting, largely due to Ahmed’s influence.

Wagons that had groaned and rattled over thousands of miles were finally inspected properly. Wheels were removed, axles cleaned and greased, loose iron bands hammered back into place, cracked planks replaced, ropes re-tied, canvas repaired, and inventories checked against the merchants’ ledgers.

The horses required even more attention. Their hooves were cleaned and trimmed. Shoes were replaced where necessary. Harnesses were mended, saddles repaired, manes combed free of burrs and tangled hair. A few animals had rubbed sores beneath their tack, requiring medicine and several days’ rest. Others were bathed in the nearby river until their coats shone once again.

We did all this while fasting. There we were, in sight of the walls of a safe and friendly city, and we spent the entire day working on empty stomachs. By the end of the day my stomach ached with a deep hunger of a kind that I had not felt since I was a child living alone on the farm while my father was in prison. But I knew that it was ‘ibadah, and that the hunger was its own kind of barakah. I wasn’t hungry because I’d been abandoned and forgotten, but because I had chosen to make a sacrifice in service to Allah. That made all the difference.

As a result, neither I nor anyone else complained about the work. We were too immersed in the spiritual state of the fast, and the introspective thoughts that came with such a state.

As the sun dipped below the horizon that day, Ahmed called us together. A large group of townspeople had come out to greet us, bringing with them dates, roasted mutton, fresh bread and yogurt. We broke our fast with them, and I felt content. Only then did I understand Sergeant Karim’s strategy. He had also somehow managed to have an entire caravan repaired from axle to harness without anyone complaining very much. I suspected he had planned it that way from the beginning.

As we ate, Weili peppered the townspeople with questions about tomorrow’s archery competition. All these peoples of Central Asia spoke some variation of Turkic – so Longwei said – and many of us guards had picked up the common words. So some level of communication was possible.

Every time Weili asked about the competition, however, the locals slid their eyes over her recurve bow, smiled, and shook their heads. Weili gave me a puzzled glance, and I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe they don’t let women compete?” I offered.

“I don’t think that’s it. It’s my bow they’re looking at, not me.”

Salat Al-Eid

The following morning, before sunrise, the town came alive.

Streams of people flowed toward the great field where Salat Al-Eid would be held. This field was in fact outside the city walls, and within a long arrow shot of our caravan.

Families walked together carrying prayer rugs beneath their arms. Children skipped ahead in new clothes, scarcely able to contain their excitement. Old men embraced one another before the prayer had even begun.

I had never seen so many Muslims gathered in one place.

Nor had I ever seen such beautiful clothing.

The men wore embroidered robes in deep blues, emerald greens and rich crimson, with woven belts and elaborately wrapped turbans. The women seemed to have gathered every color Allah had placed in the world. Flowing dresses shimmered with intricate embroidery, and silver jewelry caught the morning sun.

The people themselves seemed remarkably handsome.

I found myself wondering whether the mountain air or the clear water somehow made them that way.

“Don’t stare at the women,” Ahmed murmured beside me.

“I wasn’t,” I said indignantly.

“You were.”

“I was observing the people.”

I noticed a boy no older than twelve weaving quietly through the crowd. His eyes never lifted higher than the waists of the worshippers around him. I watched him slip two fingers toward the purse hanging from an elderly man’s belt.

I reached out and caught his wrist. He froze.

I looked him in the eye. “Not today, kid.”

His face turned crimson. After a moment he nodded sheepishly, and I released him. Without another word he disappeared into the crowd.

The prayer itself was unlike anything I had experienced before. Row after row stretched across the field until they seemed almost to merge with the horizon. Ahmed stood somewhere among the worshippers, yet from where I stood I could no longer pick him out.

The imam delivered the khutbah in the local language. I understood very little beyond the occasional Arabic verse from the Qur’an. It was something about the Muhajireen and the Ansar. Something about the generosity of the Ansar? I wasn’t sure. I wondered if it might be about us, the caravan. Were we the Muhajireen, and the locals the Ansar?

Thousands of voices answered the takbirs together. Thousands made ruku’ and sajdah. I was reminded that I belonged to an ummah larger than any city or nation.

After the prayer workers immediately began setting up in the same field for the archery competition. Meanwhile, people embraced one another. Children compared sweets and toys. Merchants hurried to construct and open stalls that offered grilled meat, fresh bread and sweet pastries drifted through the air.

I purchased two skewers of roasted lamb wrapped in warm flatbread, along with a small paper cone of honey-coated almonds. I thought about the last Eid I had spent with my uncle, aunt and cousin, and something suddenly occurred to me. Excited, I went looking for Weili.

A Realization

I eventually found her sitting alone beneath a broad tree at the edge of the field, watching families celebrate in the distance.

“There you are,” I said, dropping down beside her. She and I had grown very close by this point. We spent a lot of our free time together, though always in public. Our relationship was not physical, but I found myself dreaming about her occasionally. Even though Kuangren’s wedding had been a fiasco held at swordpoint, I thought about it a lot. Kuangren’s bride was no older than Weili. Yet whenever I considered the prospect of marrying Weili, my mouth became dry, and sweat broke out on my forehead. I knew that Weili liked me, but beyond that I was not sure of anything.

She smiled.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“I just realized something.” I could not keep the grin from my face.

“What?”

“I’m sixteen.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I turned sixteen. A few months back, actually. It hadn’t occurred to me until today.”

“Oh.” She looked at me for a long moment. “Are you serious? You’re only sixteen?”

I laughed. “What do you mean, only sixteen? Yes, I am sixteen! I feel like I’m saying the word sixteen a lot.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

She tilted her head.

“I thought you were older.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

“You carry yourself like someone older. You take your duties seriously, you’re literate, you study. And your fighting ability…” She trailed off, still looking faintly puzzled. “I just assumed.”

I laughed. “Well, now you know.”

She smiled politely, but there was something thoughtful behind her eyes that I couldn’t quite read.

“You know that I’m nineteen, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I know that.”

She lapsed into silence. I noticed she wasn’t watching the festivities at all. Her gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the crowds.

“Why are you sitting here by yourself anyway?”

She was quiet for a while before answering.

“Eid always makes me think about my parents.”

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded absently. “It’s alright.”

Another silence settled between us.

Then, almost as though speaking to herself rather than to me, she added, “You’re too young to really understand.”

I frowned. It struck me as a bizarre thing to say. I had outlived both of my parents. I had seen men die, and had killed them myself. I supported myself and worked hard. What did age have to do with anything? Yes, she was three years older than me, but three years was nothing.

These words rose to my lips, but I swallowed them.

Instead I simply sat beside her beneath the tree while the laughter and scents of the festival drifted toward us on the warm afternoon breeze.

Tournament Rules

Within a few hours, the field had been transformed. Banners hung from rooftops and fences. People continued to arrive. Families rode in on carts and horseback. Musicians played, and there was hardly a space to stand. Apparently competitors traveled from throughout the region to participate in the archery competition, and the winner received not only a substantial prize but considerable prestige.

Even Kuangren came along to the competition, accompanied by his wife Gulnur, which I thought was a singularly strange name, though in light of her beauty, who really cared? Kuangren walked with a cane, and leaned on Gulnur for support.

He hadn’t been the same since the lashing. He walked bent over like an old man, and didn’t like for anyone to touch him. He still had not been able to resume his duties. Yet Sergeant Karim continued to pay Kuangren’s salary, and to give him and his wife a wagon of their own. I wasn’t sure I would ever understand Karim.

When I’d first beheld Gulnur, riding hard at her father’s side with a knife on her hip and a bow on her back, her long chestnut hair streaming behind her, I’d thought her a wild thing. I imagined the wars that would rage between her and Kuangren as he continued his scandalous ways, and she tried to reform him.

There had been no wars, however. Maybe it was just Kuangren’s physical incapacity, but he seemed different. For all his protests at the wedding, I saw the way he looked at his wife now, as if she were the brightest star in the sky. I never would have expected it. SubhanAllah. Allah could change anyone by means of anyone.

Weili came out of her funk and grew excited, bombarding the locals with questions about the competition, the rules, the bows and the previous champions. Her excitement was infectious, and I was excited for her.

Unlike the tournaments I had known, this gathering was divided into three separate contests. They were all archery contests, but there were categories based on skill level or strength. In the first, the targets stood at perhaps sixty paces. In the second category the targets were twice that distance away, while the third row of targets seemed so impossibly distant that I wondered whether anyone could strike them at all. Each contest required its own entry fee and offered its own prize, with the greatest reward reserved for the archers bold enough to attempt the longest shot.

Each archer would get only three shots.

I watched Weili, curious to see her reaction. She had, after all, won the archery contest back in Deep Harbor. That’s why she had been hired by Five Stars. And her skill wasn’t just theoretical. I had seen her shoot men down in combat, drawing her arrows as fast as a man might fling pebbles, one after another, with people screaming in rage or fear, horses whinnying and enemy arrows flying past her. I’d even seen her shoot from horseback, on the move, firing while she controlled the horse with her knees.

To my surprise, it was not the targets that captured Weili’s attention. It was the bows. She wandered over to a group of competitors preparing for the contests and stopped short. The bows they carried were enormous. Even unstrung, many stood taller than the men themselves. The bows were thick and powerful, built not merely to shoot arrows but to hurl them extraordinary distances.

Now I understood why the villagers had been giggling at Weili’s bow.

“I’ve never seen anything like these,” she murmured.

One of the local archers, a thick-bodied young man with a bald head and a lazy smile, grinned at her curiosity and, with a friendly gesture, offered her his bow. He tapped his chest. “Arslan.”

Weili gave her name, and accepted the bow with both hands, then laughed aloud.

“It weighs as much as a child.”

I took the bow from her, planted my feet, and attempted to draw it. I got the string halfway to my chin. Several nearby spectators chuckled good-naturedly.

“You see?” Weili said with a grin.

“I think these people must have grown up lifting yaks over their heads.”

One of the older men clapped me on the shoulder approvingly. I had no idea if he’d actually understood me. Some of these people, especially the merchants, did speak our language.

Arslan

A man stood on a podium and made an announcement.

“Did he just say,” I wondered, “that you can only enter if your name is rainbow?”

Weili punched me in the shoulder. She had learned more of these languages than me. “He says last call to enter, and you must bring your own bow.” She flashed me a smile. “I’m signing up for the middle one.”

“You aren’t serious,” I said.

“I am.”

“These people have probably been shooting since they could walk.”

“So have I.”

She paid a few silver coins and entered the middle competition.

There were a number of women in the short-distance competition, but Weili was the only woman in the middle range category. The local archers regarded her slender recurve bow with open amusement. Beside their towering longbows it looked like a child’s toy. A few exchanged smiles, and one elderly competitor shrugged as though indulging an enthusiastic foreigner.

Then the shooting began.

One after another the contestants loosed their arrows. Most struck the target somewhere upon its face. A handful found the center.

Then Weili stepped forward.

She inhaled slowly, raised her bow high to account for the distance – it looked like she was aiming at the sky rather than the target – and drew the string with smooth confidence.

The arrow flew high and clean, arced down and struck almost dead center.

The murmuring stopped.

Her second arrow landed scarcely a hand’s breadth from the first, and the third split the edge of one of her earlier shafts. It was an unparalleled, stunning performance. Of course I had seen her shoot many times, but never like this.

When the scores were announced, there could be no doubt. The foreign woman had won the middle-distance category.

The applause was warm and genuine. Smiling broadly, Weili accepted an embroidered riding cloak, a small purse of silver, and a carved wooden plaque bearing the seal of the local archery guild. She bowed awkwardly to the crowd, provoking another round of cheerful laughter.

As she stepped away from the field, the broad-shouldered young bald man – Arslan – approached her. He looked perhaps twenty years of age, with sun-darkened skin, powerful forearms and the easy confidence of someone who had spent his entire life with a bow in his hands.

“You win,” he said. “Very good.”

Weili grinned and bowed with a flourish.

Arslan pointed toward the farthest range, then mimed drawing a bow. “I shoot. You come?”

Weili nodded enthusiastically and we joined the crowd watching the long distance competition. It proved astonishing. Several competitors failed even to reach the distant targets. Others managed only glancing hits upon the outer rings. Then Arslan stepped forward carrying his immense longbow.

He drew it as effortlessly as I might have drawn my dao. The bow bent into a graceful arc, the string sang, and the arrow flew straight and true, with only a slight arc. It struck on the middle ring of the target, not at the center but close. The second landed closer, and the third buried itself squarely in the heart.

The field erupted in cheers.

Children chased after him while older men embraced him proudly. Even the competitors he had defeated smiled and applauded.

Weili applauded as enthusiastically as anyone.

“I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that,” she said quietly.

I hadn’t either.

Eventually Arslan made his way over to us, still surrounded by admirers. Spotting Weili, he smiled and approached. They attempted a conversation using little more than gestures, smiles and the occasional borrowed word supplied by passing merchants who knew fragments of both languages.

Watching them, I found myself smiling as well. At that moment there was no jealousy in me. Only admiration for remarkable skill, and amusement at two strangers trying so earnestly to understand one another.

I like this as a closing scene. I made one small change: rather than having Darius say, “I have a lot of good things in my life,” I let him realize it gradually. It feels a little more like him, and I think it lands harder.

Belly

The camp had grown quiet by the time I wandered back among the wagons. Here and there a few low conversations drifted through the darkness, punctuated by an occasional laugh, but most of the caravan had already turned in. Tomorrow the festivities would continue, and after that we would leave Mazar behind and enter Afghanistan.

Belly lifted his head as I approached. Moonlight gleamed faintly upon his black coat. He gave a soft whicker that might have been a greeting, or might simply have meant he hoped I had brought him something to eat.

“I know,” I said, smiling. “You always think I have an apple hidden somewhere.”

He stretched his nose toward my pockets anyway.

“And guess what?” I said grinning. “I do. You think I’d forget you on Eid?” I took a large, juicy green apple out of one pocket and fed it to him. He chewed noisily, head tipped back, dripping juice.

I laughed quietly and fetched the brush.

“You were a good horse today. Better than yesterday, anyway. Remember when you refused to go over the mountain pass the night before last because you couldn’t see what was on the other side? At least today you didn’t decide a stick was a snake, or that a perfectly ordinary rock was secretly a tiger.”

He flicked one ear back at me but otherwise ignored the criticism.

As I worked the brush through his thick coat, he gradually relaxed. His head lowered, and one hind leg cocked comfortably beneath him.

“You know,” I said after a while, “looks like Weili’s made a new friend.”

Belly twitched an ear.

“Good for her.” I wasn’t sure whether I really meant it. Maybe I did.

For a time I brushed him in silence, then another thought returned to me.

“Isn’t it funny that I forgot my own birthday?”

Belly breathed warmly through his nostrils.

“My birthday is sometime in the summer, when the cicadas are loud. I don’t know the day. So Zihan Ma decided that from now on it would be the fifteenth day of the eighth month.” I smiled to myself. “Seems as good a day as any.”

I paused, running the brush slowly down his neck.

“What’s wrong with being sixteen anyway?”

Belly seemed to consider the matter deeply before turning his head to investigate my pockets once again.

“No more apples, sorry.”

He snorted.

“You wouldn’t know this,” I continued, “but last year Zihan Ma gave me a white kufi cap and a sandalwood sabhah for my birthday.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

“No one ever gave me birthday presents before.”

The brush slowed in my hand.

“Of course…” I swallowed. “No one gave me anything this year.”

The words hung in the cool night air. To my embarrassment I felt my eyes begin to sting.

“But…” I said softly, “…that’s alright.”

I rested my forehead against Belly’s neck. He smelled of leather, clean hair, and the faint sweetness of hay.

“I have a lot, don’t I?”

He answered by nudging my shoulder insistently.

I laughed despite myself. “No, I still don’t have an apple.”

He searched my pockets one last time, unwilling to believe me. I scratched him behind the ears.

“Afghanistan next,” I murmured. “Let’s hope you’re a little less stubborn over there.”

Belly merely snorted, as if making no promises at all.

* * *

As-salamu alaykum dear readers. I was stuck for a bit. I needed to get to the heart of the story. After a conversation with my daughter, I figured it out, alhamdulillah.

Come back next week for Part 20 – Bloody Afghanistan

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:

Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: The Cabbie and the Muslim Woman

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 19] – An Apple For Belly appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A reflection on spiritual counsel, political authority, and the ethics of justice.

By Dr. Bekim Belica

With love.

The Key That Opens Hearts

There is a quiet wisdom in the belief that good speech opens what force cannot. A heart rarely yields to command, pressure, or display. It opens when language carries sincerity, restraint, and mercy. In this sense, speech is not merely a tool of communication. It is an ethical act. It can protect dignity, guide conscience, and awaken responsibility.

The tradition of spiritual counsel has long understood this. A word spoken with humility can correct without humiliating. A word spoken with love can reveal a truth that power might otherwise resist. The human heart has its own lock, and good speech, when rooted in sincerity, becomes one of its keys. Praise be to Allah; the hearts of people are not opened by harshness alone, but often through the gentleness of a word placed at the right moment.

A Sultan Seeks Spiritual Counsel

A story is told of Sultan Mehmed II who approached Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa after learning that many seekers had been welcomed into the lodge, while he himself had not been accepted among them. The question could have been asked with royal authority, but he asked it with humility.

“Honored Friend of Allah, you accepted everyone at your door. Why did you not accept us? Did we make a mistake? Did we do something wrong? Did we neglect something?”

Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa did not answer as one trying to flatter a ruler. Nor did he answer as one trying to distance himself from worldly power in order to appear pure. His response carried a more difficult wisdom. He recognized that the palace and the lodge were not identical spaces, and that each carried its own form of accountability.

“My Sultan,” Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa replied, “you are entrusted with justice, leadership, and the protection of the people, while we are entrusted with supplication. Each of us must remain in our appointed place.”

The answer did not diminish Sultan Mehmed II’s spiritual capacity. Rather, it placed his political responsibility within a moral and sacred frame. To govern justly was not presented as a lesser path, nor as a distraction from devotion. It was a form of service with consequences that extended beyond the ruler’s private soul.

Justice as an Act of Worship

Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa then said something that unsettled any simple hierarchy between the spiritual life and public duty.

“My Sultan, one day that you spend ruling with justice is better than a thousand days that we spend in remembrance of Allah.”

Such a statement is not a dismissal of remembrance. It is a reminder that worship cannot be reduced to the visible gestures of devotion. A person entrusted with authority serves Allah not only by withdrawing into prayer, but by preventing oppression, protecting the vulnerable, and judging without favoritism. Justice, when sincerely upheld, becomes a form of remembrance enacted in the world.

Sultan Mehmed II, hearing this, wondered aloud whether he was being judged unfit for the path of supplication. Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa answered with tenderness.

“No, my Sultan. Your heart is softer than ours.”

The response is striking because it reverses expectation. Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa does not accuse the ruler of hardness. He does not suggest that political life has made him spiritually incapable. Instead, he identifies softness as both a gift and a danger. A heart deeply moved by divine love may long to leave behind the weight of office. Yet not every longing, even when noble, should be followed without discernment.

The Weight of Leadership

Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa explained that if Sultan Mehmed II entered the lodge and tasted the sweetness of spiritual absorption, he might not return to the duties of governance. The concern was not that the sultan would become worse, but that he might become absent from a responsibility only he could fulfill. Love, when it is not disciplined by duty, can become a form of escape. The path to Allah does not always lead a person away from the world. Sometimes it sends him back into it, carrying a heavier awareness of what has been entrusted to him.

“The ruler of the empire and the nation of Muhammad is a trust placed in your hands, my Sultan,” Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa said. “If you neglect your responsibility, harm will come to the people. The consequences of that neglect will weigh heavily upon both you and us.”

Here Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa offers a political theology of responsibility. Leadership is not treated as privilege. It is treated as amanah, a trust. The ruler does not possess the people. He is answerable for them. His authority is morally legitimate only insofar as it serves justice. If he abandons that trust, the damage is not private. It enters homes, courts, markets, families, and the vulnerable places where ordinary people experience the decisions of those above them.

Guarding Hearts from Dependence

Sultan Mehmed II understood, yet another question remained in his heart.

“I wish you had at least come with your disciples, the seekers who gather in your lodge,” he said. “Why did you deprive us of your kind words?”

Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa’s answer again revealed the subtlety of spiritual leadership.

“I feared that the disciples might see your generosity and begin to rely upon your kindness rather than Allah’s kindness.”

This was not ingratitude toward Sultan Mehmed II. It was a protection of the seekers. Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa knew that spiritual communities can be tested not only by hardship, but also by patronage. Generosity from the powerful can relieve material need, but it can also shift the inward gaze from the Provider to the benefactor. The danger is not wealth itself, but attachment. A heart may claim to trust Allah while quietly becoming dependent on the favor of people.

Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa was therefore guarding both sides. He was protecting Sultan Mehmed II from abandoning governance in the name of spiritual longing, and he was protecting the disciples from confusing royal generosity with divine provision. His restraint was not coldness. It was love governed by insight.

Then he said to Sultan Mehmed II:

“We are always here for you, my Sultan. Your heart beats within our hearts.”

This sentence carries the emotional center of the story. Distance did not mean rejection. The closed door was not a denial of love. It was an act of care shaped by knowledge of station, capacity, and consequence. Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa did not need Sultan Mehmed II to become a disciple in order to honor him. He needed him to become more fully accountable as a ruler.

The Foundation of Just Rule

Sultan Mehmed II, moved by this exchange, asked whether there was anything Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa desired from him. Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa’s request was simple, but it held the whole meaning of the conversation.

“Judge fairly, my Sultan. Judge justly, so that we may remain loyal to this blessed city of Constantinople, a city opened to receive the glad tidings of our Noble Messenger.”

Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa asked for no wealth, no title, no estate, and no personal advantage. His concern was justice. This is important because justice is the public face of mercy. Without it, devotion becomes sentimental and authority becomes dangerous. A society may admire piety, celebrate heritage, and speak beautifully of sacred ideals, but if judgment is corrupted, the moral order begins to fracture.

The request also reveals that love for a city is not sustained by nostalgia alone. Constantinople, in this telling, is not merely a place of conquest or memory. It is a trust that must be honored through fairness. A city opened with sacred hope must not be governed through negligence, arrogance, or favoritism. Its spiritual meaning must be renewed through the conduct of those who rule and those who pray.

Good Speech and Sacred Responsibility

The story should not be read as a rejection of public life in favor of private devotion, nor as a romantic elevation of power. Its deeper teaching is that each station has its own adab, its own discipline. Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa serves through counsel, prayer, restraint, and purification of intention. Sultan Mehmed II serves through justice, protection, judgment, and responsibility. Neither station is complete without humility, and neither is safe without accountability.

Good speech is the thread that holds the encounter together. Sultan Mehmed II asks without pride. Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa answers without fear. Correction is given without insult. Authority listens without defensiveness. Spiritual insight does not humiliate political responsibility, and political authority does not demand spiritual submission. Their exchange becomes possible because both men speak from recognition rather than ego.

This is why the opening claim matters. The secret of creation is good speech, not because words alone build worlds, but because speech reveals the condition of the heart from which action proceeds. A just command can protect a people. A merciful correction can redirect a life. A sincere word can prevent a ruler from mistaking escape for holiness, and can prevent a seeker from mistaking patronage for reliance upon Allah.

Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa’s wisdom lies in knowing that love is not always expressed by bringing someone closer. At times, love returns a person to the place where his duty awaits him. It says: your longing is real, but so is your trust. Your heart may wish for retreat, but your people need justice. Your tears may belong to the lodge, but your accountability belongs to the court, the city, and the lives affected by your rule.

A Timeless Lesson

In an age that often separates spirituality from governance, and private feeling from public responsibility, this story offers a more demanding vision. It asks whether devotion can shape power without being consumed by it. It asks whether rulers can receive counsel without resentment. It asks whether spiritual people can speak to authority without seeking its favor. It asks whether good speech can still open the locked doors of the heart.

The answer is not found in ornamented language alone. It is found when speech becomes truthful, measured, and merciful. It is found when justice is treated as worship. It is found when leadership is understood as trust rather than possession. It is found when the people of prayer and the people of authority recognize that both will answer to Allah for what was placed in their hands.

May Allah grant us speech that heals without flattering, corrects without wounding, and guides without pride. May He grant those in authority the courage to judge fairly, and those who counsel them the sincerity to seek nothing but truth. May He keep our hearts attached to Him alone, while making our actions a mercy for His creation.

Ameen.

Related:

Practical Spirituality Part 1: The Inaugural Address of the Prophet

The Spirituality Of Gratitude

The post Good Speech and Sacred Trust: Lessons from Sultan Mehmed II and Shaykh Abu’l-Wafa appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

Whenever I wore the baggy green, I was reminded of what that cap represented – a team that was stronger because each player brought something different

A cricket scorecard is pretty straightforward.

It shows you how many runs you scored, how long you played and whether your team won or lost. Cricket has always been appealing to me because of that honesty. The numbers don’t care about your appearance, where you were born or what you believe.

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Israeli prison guards beat Gaza pediatrician Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya with hammer, batons in administrative detention.