Every dictatorship eventually collides with a problem it cannot solve by expanding prisons, perfecting surveillance, or laundering repression through emergency laws. That problem is conscience. Not the decorative conscience wheeled out in constitutional preambles or Friday sermons, but the dangerous, embodied kind: people who insist on calling crimes by their proper names, who refuse to perfume mass violence with the language of “security” or “complexity,” and who behave — almost scandalously — as if power were still accountable to principle.

Pakistan’s rulers understand this problem well. They have built an entire governing philosophy around neutralizing it.

In Pakistan today, Senator Mushtaq Ahmad Khan occupies precisely this intolerable space. He does not command mobs. He does not control institutions. He does not benefit from the romantic mythology reserved for martyrs or political prisoners. What he possesses instead is far more destabilizing to a regime addicted to fear and confusion: moral coherence. He behaves as if ethical clarity were not a public-relations liability to be managed but a responsibility to be exercised.

That posture — quiet, disciplined, unyielding — explains why he matters. It also explains why he is dangerous.

Moral Presence in an Age of Managed Brutality

Authoritarian systems are, above all, management projects. Pakistan is no exception. It manages narratives, crises, alliances, dissent, and public memory with the meticulousness of a corporate risk department. What it cannot manage — what consistently escapes its spreadsheets and talking points — is moral presence.

Moral presence is disruptive because it refuses translation. It refuses to convert injustice into “context,” mass killing into “geopolitics,” or repression into “stability.” It insists that some acts are wrong regardless of who commits them, how eloquently they are justified, or how many uniforms are involved.

Senator Mushtaq Ahmad Khan’s politics operate in this register. His participation in the Gaza solidarity flotilla was not a publicity stunt or an exercise in symbolic humanitarianism. It was a direct refusal to outsource solidarity to press releases. At a moment when Muslim rulers perfected the art of condemning genocide in the passive voice — where Palestinians are always “dying” but never being killed — he chose presence over prose.

He crossed a line Pakistan’s generals, bureaucrats, and their Western patrons desperately prefer remain blurred: the line between rhetorical sympathy and embodied accountability.

That decision reverberated far beyond Gaza. It landed squarely in Islamabad and Rawalpindi, and in the quiet calculations of a regime that understands — perhaps better than its critics — how contagious moral consistency can be.

Two Consciences, Two Cells

Pakistan’s current moment is defined by a grim symmetry. Its two most morally resonant political figures now occupy opposite sides of a prison wall.

Imran Khan, jailed, censored, and methodically erased from public life, embodies the conscience of mass politics: the inconvenient truth that popular legitimacy cannot be indefinitely manufactured, managed, or extinguished. Senator Mushtaq Ahmad Khan, still free for now, embodies something the regime finds equally threatening: proof that ethical clarity does not require state power, mass rallies, or electoral machinery.

The regime grasps this distinction instinctively. Mass leaders can be isolated, demonized, or imprisoned. Moral leaders are harder to neutralize. They do not rely on crowds or cycles. Their authority travels horizontally, through example rather than command. It accumulates quietly, beneath the regime’s noise, until it becomes impossible to contain.

This is why Senator Mushtaq’s activism has sharpened rather than softened. Through the Pak-Palestine Forum and the Peoples Rights Movement, he has rejected the regime’s preferred compartmentalization — one in which Palestine is mourned abstractly while Pakistan is governed brutally, one in which foreign oppression is lamented while domestic repression is normalized.

He insists, instead, on linkage. That insistence is unforgivable.

The Crime of Consistency

Dictatorships do not fear hypocrisy. They depend on it. Hypocrisy is the lubricating oil for authoritarian rule. What they cannot tolerate is consistency.

“Senator Mushtaq Ahmad Khan’s politics operate in this register. His participation in the Gaza solidarity flotilla was not a publicity stunt or an exercise in symbolic humanitarianism. It was a direct refusal to outsource solidarity to press releases.” [PC: @SenatorMushtaq, US Social Media Company X]

To denounce Zionist apartheid rhetorically while collaborating with its regional enablers is acceptable. To mourn Palestinian corpses abroad while disappearing Pakistanis at home is standard operating procedure. To oppose domination — imperial, military, or ideological — without qualification is destabilizing. It deprives power of its favorite alibi: “context.”

This is what unites the figures Pakistan’s current rulers find most intolerable.

Barrister Shahzad Akbar’s insistence that law should function as principle rather than weapon cost him safety and exile. Imaan Mazari’s defiance — amplified rather than tempered by her mother, Dr. Shireen Mazari — ruptures the convenient fiction that human rights must be suspended in imperfect governments. Dr. Mazari’s tenure as minister for human rights is dismissed not because it failed, but because acknowledging it would complicate the intellectual laziness of liberal gatekeepers.

Dr. Yasmin Rashid’s endurance, Ammar Ali Jan’s principled radicalism, and the courage of Baloch and Pashtun leaders resisting erasure under conditions bordering on colonial occupation all represent variations of the same threat: they refuse to turn politics into branding. They insist on substance where power prefers symbolism.

The regime’s response is uniform: criminalization, vilification, disappearance. Consistency is met with coercion because it cannot be bargained with.

The Unnamed Majority and the Regime’s Real Fear

To focus only on prominent figures, however, is to miss how resistance actually survives.

Dictatorships are not undone by heroes. They are undone by accumulation — by the steady aggregation of small refusals. A taxi driver who speaks honestly despite surveillance. A teacher who refuses to recite official lies. A lawyer who takes a case she knows she will lose. A journalist who documents one more testimony before the knock comes.

These people will never be celebrated. That is precisely why they terrify power.

Authoritarianism survives by convincing people that their courage is singular. Fear isolates. It interrupts accumulation. It persuades individuals that resistance is futile when, in fact, it is shared.

Pakistan’s rulers invest obsessively in fear because they understand this arithmetic.

Palestine as a Moral X-Ray

Linking Palestine to Pakistan’s internal crisis is not a rhetorical excess. It is an analytical necessity.

Palestine functions as a moral X-ray of the contemporary world order. It reveals how easily states abandon principle when convenience beckons. It exposes the vocabulary through which mass murder is sanitized — “security,” “self-defense,” “rules-based order” —  how those same vocabularies migrate seamlessly into domestic repression.

Zionism, as practiced by the Israeli state, is not an aberration. It is a concentrated expression of a global logic that treats some lives as disposable and others as strategically valuable. The same logic that justifies the annihilation of Gaza authorizes the pacification of dissent in Pakistan.

When Senator Mushtaq Ahmad Khan speaks against apartheid-genocidal Israel, he is not performing internationalism. He is diagnosing a system. That diagnosis unnerves Pakistan’s rulers because it collapses the distance they rely on. It reveals that the victims of empire recognize one another — even when their oppressors coordinate discreetly.

The Regime’s Dilemma

Pakistan’s rulers depend on fragmentation — between causes, movements, and moral vocabularies. They prefer activists who choose single issues and avoid dangerous connections. They are deeply threatened by figures who connect dots.

Senator Mushtaq Ahmad Khan does exactly that. He refuses to choose between Palestine and Pakistan, between anti-Zionism and anti-dictatorship, between faith-based ethics and universal human dignity. He insists these struggles are not adjacent but inseparable.

That insistence is his protection and his peril.

For now, he remains outside prison. History suggests this is rarely permanent.

The Final Accounting

A reckoning will come. Prisons will open. Files will be read. Silence will be reclassified as collaboration.

When that day arrives, many will rediscover their principles retroactively. Some will plead ignorance. Others will invoke “complexity.” A few will insist they were merely pragmatic.

Very few will be able to say they spoke plainly when plain speech carried a cost.

Senator Mushtaq Ahmad Khan will be among them.

So will the thousands whose names will never appear in essays like this.

Dictatorships do not fall because they are exposed. They fall because they are exhausted by the relentless refusal of ordinary people to surrender their moral vocabulary.

That refusal is Pakistan’s most valuable resource.

And it remains — despite everything — uncaptured.

 

[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.]

 

Related:

– Allies In War, Enemies In Peace: The Unraveling Of Pakistan–Taliban Relations

– The Graveyard Of Normalcy – New Report Uncovers Egregious Human Rights Violations In Indian-occupied Kashmir

The post Op-Ed: From Pakistan To Gaza – Why Senator Mushtaq Ahmad Khan Terrifies Power And Zionism appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

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

Equity In Eldercare

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

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

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

Cultural Expectations vs Islamic Obligations

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

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

An Unfortunate Bias

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

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

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

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

No Easy Answers, But Everything Is From Allah

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

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

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

Tips For Making Eldercare Easier

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusion

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

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

 

Related:

– Avoid Financial Elder Abuse Through Islamic Principles

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

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

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

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

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

* * *

Safe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” the boy said. “I’m Haaris.”

Questions

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

“It hurts,” I said honestly.

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

Cool air touched the wound. I hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you carry weapons?”

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

A Plea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recovery

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

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

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

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

Home Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Duties

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it have a pool with carp?”

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

Old Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My eyelids grew heavy, and I slept.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 5 – A Secret Revealed

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

 

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

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

Related:

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

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

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

A Companion In The Grave 

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

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

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

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

That Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Tonight, My Friend

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

 

Related:

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

– Surah Al Waqiah Paid My Tuition Twice

 

1    https://sunnah.com/tirmidhi:2891

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

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

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

Best Toddler Book

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

Best Picture Book

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

Best Young Adult

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

Best Adult Fiction

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

Best Holiday Book

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

Best Juvenile Non-Fiction

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

Best Adult Non-Fiction

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

Best Illustrations

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

Judges’ Choice

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

Bookseller’s Choice

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

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

Congratulations!

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

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

Related:

Muslim Book Awards 2025: Finalists

The Muslim Bookstagram Awards 2024 Winners

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neo-Liberal Extraction and the Culture of Capitalism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iqbal’s Relevance Today

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

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

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

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

به آدمی نرسیدی ، خدا چه می‌جویی

ز خود گریخته‌ای آشنا چه می‌جویی

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

     For what do you seek God?

From one accustomed to fleeing

     From himself – what do you seek?”

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

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

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

قلندریم و کرامات ما جهان‌بینی است

ز ما نگاه طلب ، کیمیا چه می‌جویی

“We are dervishes, and our miracle

     Is the ability to see the world

Seek the capacity to see from us – 

     For what do you seek alchemy?”

 

Related:

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

– Islam, Decoloniality, And Allamah Iqbal On Revolution

 

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

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

The Muslim Book Awards is the literary event of the year (at least, we’d like to think so!) – and we are delighted to announce the 2025 Muslim Book Awards Finalists!

Each year, the MBA judges dedicate their time to going through books by Muslim authors and illustrators, for audiences of all ages. Our mission is to find the best books of the year, combining Islamic values with storytelling craft, creativity, and publication quality. Whether self-published, Muslim-published, or traditionally published, MBA holds every Muslim story to the standard of Ihsaan… because Muslim readers deserve the best!

After many hours spent poring over the 2025 submissions, we present the 2025 Muslim Book Awards Finalists!

Many of the books can be ordered from our sponsor, Crescent Moon Bookstore, and a link has been provided for each title. Read through the whole post to find our special Coupon Code at the end, and get a discount off your order!

[Note: This year, we did not receive enough submissions for the Early Reader/ Chapter Book and Middle Grade categories to include them in the finalists.]

Toddler Books

Street Puppy, Masjid Cat is sweet picture book all about a street puppy and masjid kitten, who live very different lives – yet cross paths unexpectedly. The simple rhymes contrast the street puppy’s life to that of the pampered cat in the masjid, and the vibrant illustrations evoke the lushness of Southeast Asia.

Dark Nights and Light Hearts: A Muslim Book of Opposites continues Hena Khan’s series of toddler books introducing colors, shapes, and now opposites! The heartfelt rhymes, the centering of Islam, and the enveloping illustrations make these books timeless, sought after, and beloved.

Momo & Bronty’s First Book About Allah is a sturdy board book that uses bright illustrations and simple language to introduce the concept of Allah to the youngest members of the Ummah. This book covers concepts like the oneness of Allah, Allah as the Creator and the All-Hearing, and our ultimate goal of reaching Jannah.

My First Book About Ramadan is also a continuation of a great Muslim board book series that teaches little Muslims the basic fundamentals of Islam. The soft, glowing illustrations creates a loving positive relationship between young readers and what they’re learning about, establishing the beginnings of a lifelong connection to Islam, inshaAllah.

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

Picture Books

The City of Jasmine is a celebration of a land beloved to Muslims, one which has finally been freed from decades of tyranny. Nadine Presley’s gorgeous descriptions of the Umayyad masjid, Qal’at Dimashq, the Barada river, marketplaces and bookstores and kitchens and courtyards, are a love letter to the blessed lands of Shaam.

Hilwa’s Gifts is a beautiful slice of Palestinian life, showcasing joy and tradition. Ali is visiting his family in Palestine, and it’s olive harvest season! Seedo teaches Ali the traditional method of harvesting olives, with love and care, and the journey that the olives will take into becoming gifts that keep on giving.

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

All the Ways to be Pretty provides an Islamic approach to internal beauty to counter the societal emphasis on external appearance, by drawing on the examples of Ai’shah (RA), Khadija (RA), Sumayyah (RA), Maryam (RA), Hajar (RA), and Rufaidah (RA), may Allah swt be pleased with them all.

Young Adult Books

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

“Odd Girl Out”  is a Muslamic take on quintessential YA: a teenager going through big life changes, dealing with the drama… and in this case, also facing Islamophobia. Maaryah Rashid’s life is uprooted by her parents’ divorce, in more ways than one. She has to leave behind her glamorous life in Dubai to live in the middle of nowhere, Essex; she’s the only hijabi at her school and the target of a nasty Islamophobic bully; and her mom is so busy falling apart after the divorce that she doesn’t seem to notice Maaryah’s own grief, loneliness, and struggles. There are repeated references to salah, hijab as an act of worship, and what being Muslim means in the West.

As with all Muslamic YA that touches on various teenager-y things (boys, parties, various haraamness), I recommend this for 15+ and for parents to be willing to have discussions with their children on these topics.

Hand Me Down Your Revolution is a collection of short stories, poems, and memoir essays produced by Muslim Youth Musings, a fantastic literary organization for aspiring Muslim writers. From the magical realism of “Where the Crimson Roses Bloom” to the amusing “Jamal’s Kufi,” the deeply moving “A Love Letter to Muslim Kids in Public Schools” the gorgeous prose of Rituals for the Grieving” and “Mother Wound,” there’s a little something for everyone.

Adult Fiction

 

“The Slightest Green” is a multi generational novel weaves a narrative that will stay with the readers for the warmth and depth it explores of a fictional Palestinian family. The characters and their stories, their trauma and dreams are very tied to Palestine and the occupation, but the focus on the individual and the ripple effects will linger.

“Detective Aunty” is on the case! Kausar Khan is a widow who’s always had a knack for figuring things out, and when her daughter is accused of murder, she knows she has to do more than cook, clean, and keep an eye on her granddaughters. The problem is… no one else, including the real killer, is happy that she’s investigating! Billed as a cozy mystery, this book also touches on larger themes of grief and loss, estranged family relationships and healing, and even thoughtful reflections on growing older as a desi woman.

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

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

Holiday Books

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

“Ramadan on Rahma Road: A Recipe Storybook” introduces us to Rahma Road, where Muslims of many diverse backgrounds get together to observe Ramadan together. Each spread features a glimpse of a family’s iftar prep, and a recipe for the meal that comes from the diverse backgrounds: roti bom for Malaysians, koshary for Egyptians, and even South African rep with bunny chow!

“Ibraheem’s Perfect Eid” is a sweet story about a little boy realizing there is more to Eid than presents. While Ibraheem is very worried about whether he got presents or not, this also incorporates references to the Sunan of Eid, shows Eid salah (and Ibraheem actually listening to the khutbah!), and niqabi rep in the illustrations.

Juvenile Non-Fiction

“40 Hadiths for Children” covers 40 short, easy-to-understand ahadith about good actions, good character, worship, and daily life. The hadith text is featured on the left page, while the next page briefly explains the hadith in child-appropriate language, alongside practical tips on how to implement the hadith. This is great for parents to read with their kids (short and sweet to incorporate into a daily khaatira), and madrasah teachers

“Eliyas Explains What Prophet Muhammad (sallAllahu ‘alayh wa sallam) Was Like” continues Zanib Mian’s unique storytelling style of goofy-but-relatable kid escapades as a vehicle to delve into Islamic themes and discussions. Eliyas learns all about RasulAllah (sallAllahu alayhi wa sallam) from his parents and uncle – and how to apply the Prophet’s character to his own everyday life. As with every Eliyas Explains book, this one is perfect for kids who have otherwise short attention spans. It’s an easy to read early chapter book, there are different fonts and little illustrations to engage young readers’ attention.

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

“Game Changers: Stories of Hijabi Athletes from around the World” features Muslim women (specifically hijabis) from around the world, engaged in a wide variety of sports. From hockey to archery, parkour to skateboarding, it was impressive to see all the fields Muslimas have excelled in. Detailed backmatter discusses why Muslim women wear hijab, and touches on related issues such as modest sportswear and perseverance.

“The Prince of Stars: Ulugh Beg’s Quest to Map the Stars and Seasons” is a rich, visually stunning exploration of a figure of Islamic history. Ulugh Beg was a Timurid Muslim prince whose true passion lay in studying astronomy, leading to discoveries that would change the course of science forever. While this is targeted at 4-8 year olds, even older children go back to this book to read, learn, and re-live the adventure!

Adult Non-Fiction

“One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This” is a blistering reckoning of the genocide of Palestinians, and the larger geopolitical context in which Zionist occupation and Western imperialism have become the status quo. This book is for a generation that understands the west can no longer be trusted to police and guide the world, or its own cities and campuses. It draws on intimate details of Omar’s own story as an emigrant who grew up believing in the western project, who was catapulted into journalism by the rupture of 9/11.

“Bigger Than Divorce: A Muslim Woman’s Path to Healing and Purpose” is unique contribution to non-fiction, tackling the difficult subject of divorce and its aftermath. The book’s approach is pragmatic; there is no wallowing in angst and self-pity, but rather acknowledging the hard emotions of divorce, and then moving forward in a spiritually and emotionally healthy way. The author grounds her work  in spiritual wellbeing, beginning with considering one’s purpose in life as a slave of Allah, and using our relationship with our Creator as the foundation of building the next chapter of our life post-divorce.

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

Illustrations

“Lulu in the Spotlight” is a delightful romp through a typical desi wedding! Lulu is finally old enough to have a plan of her own for winning the prize during joota chupai, and Natasha Khan Khazi’s illustrations truly convey the excitement, emotions, and colors of South Asian weddings.

“Animals Love Qur’an” is the official songbook for the classic Dawud Wharnsby Ali nasheed of millennial childhoods! Azra Momin’s signature illustrations bring the classic lyrics to life, evoking nostalgia in us parents and passing on this beloved childhood song to the next generation.

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

“Ibraheem’s Perfect Eid” is a sweet story about a little boy realizing there is more to Eid than presents. Nabila Adani’s illustrations show important parts of the story, like Ibraheem listening to the Eid khutbah, and the wide diversity of the Ummah being represented.

“Sunflower Kisses” might be another hijab story for girls, but Hatice Kubra Erkut’s bright illustrations create vivid imagery of a magical glow flowing from Ayah’s hijab. Celebrating Muslim illustrators and artists starts with appreciating their work in all its forms, and “Sunflower Kisses” is a lovely way to witness Erkut’s work for the first time.

Bookseller’s Choice

Check back on January 12th to see our reveal for the Bookseller’s Choice book this year!

Don’t forget to stay tuned for our announcement of the winners next week, inshaAllah!

[SPECIAL COUPON CODE: Use the coupon code “MBR” for 15% off all products ordered from Crescent Moon Bookstore!]

Related:

The Muslim Bookstagram Awards 2024: Meet The Finalists!

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

A mistake in a crowded street leaves Darius wounded and sick.

Read Part 1 | Part 2

* * *

Both Sides Match

Criminals were criminals wherever one went. Having been a low-level criminal myself, I knew the culture, expectations, and rules. These men saw me, a 13-year-old boy, as an easy score in a town that was apparently lawless.

My father had taught me never to reveal my skills before the fight begins. In this way, I could catch the enemy off guard. But I didn’t want to engage in a public brawl that could end up with either me dead, or the blood of these men on my hands. Perhaps if I were to demonstrate my ability to defend myself, these ruffians would seek easier prey.

I settled on a compromise. I already had the spear in my hand. I would strike one of the men hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to kill, and then wait to see what the other would do.

A piercing sound made me flinch. A constable came running up, blowing a silver whistle and swinging a baton. So the town was not lawless after all. Like me, the constable wore dark trousers, a knee-length jacket, and cloth shoes with white socks, but he also wore a tall, cone-shaped hat. A badge hung from his waist identifying him as an officer of the law. The overall effect was comical, and I smiled. The constable was not coming for the ruffians or me, but for the two brawling men.

As I was distracted by this spectacle, the thug with the scarred mouth lashed out with a kick aimed at the inside of my knee. I reacted instinctively, sweeping the spear across the front of my body to redirect his kicking leg. Scar Mouth was fast, however. The kick had only been a feint to distract me from the knife, and he now lashed out with the blade, aiming for my neck. I tucked my head and took the cut across my shoulder, and at the same moment brought up the point of the spear and raked it across the attacker’s face, opening a deep wound from the corner of his mouth to his temple. He cried out and stumbled back, blood pouring from the wound.

“There,” I said savagely. “Now both sides match.” Even as I said these words, I knew I sounded like my father – cold rage was the essence of his personality – yet I did not care. I was furious, more at myself than at Scar Mouth. Like a fool, like a day-one novice, I had allowed myself to be distracted from an imminent threat, and it had nearly cost me my life. Nor had I entered River Flow, the combat state of mind my father had taught me, in which one moved without thought or emotion. What a debacle. My father would be ashamed.

The other ruffian, the red-eyed one, drew his knife and stepped forward, but at that moment another constable came running, whistle piping. Red Eyes picked up his companion, who had fallen to the ground, and tried to hustle him away, but the constable caught them and struck Red Eyes on the back of the head with a wooden baton. He collapsed like a dead man, and the constable proceeded to beat them both.

A Bloody Grin

I took the opportunity to walk quickly away, clutching my wounded shoulder. I ducked into a narrow alley between two shops, where laundry hung on ropes overhead, and the ground was littered with broken tiles and scraps of paper. Pressing my back to the wall, I drew a slow breath to steady myself, then removed my jacket – which was now sliced open across the shoulder – and peeled my shirt down to get a look at the wound. The cut ran like a bloody grin across the top of my shoulder. It was long but not deep, yet the edges already looked angry and dirty. Blood ran freely down my arm and abdomen. I was sure the ruffians’ knives were filthy. If I left the cut alone it would surely get infected, and I had no wish to lose an arm… or my life.

The alley was not as empty as I’d hoped. A woman paused at the far end, a basket of scallions on her hip, and stared at me with wide eyes. A pair of boys lingered nearby, whispering to each other, one pointing at the blood on my arm. An old man shuffled past slowly enough to make it clear that he was taking his time so he could watch. He grinned in embarrassment and looked away. Soon, two more people stopped. The city, it seemed, always had eyes.

I had been cut many times while training with my father. My father had always washed the wounds, poured rice wine over them – his drink of choice – and wrapped them in clean cloth.

I ignored the watchers and went to a public water pump at the end of the alley. The water smelled faintly of iron, but water was water.

I gritted my teeth and splashed it over the wound, rubbing gently with the corner of my shirt to wash out any dirt. Blood and water ran down my chest. It stung so badly that my hands shook, but I kept going until the water ran mostly clear.

A vendor’s stall stood just beyond the alley. I pressed a coin onto the counter without meeting the owner’s eye. He frowned at my age, at the blood, but handed me a small clay bottle of liquor. I uncorked it and poured it over my shoulder.

The pain roared up my arm like a wildfire. I might have collapsed if not for the fact that I had been through this before and knew what to expect. My breath hissed out between clenched teeth; my vision wavered. Someone gasped. Someone else muttered that I was mad. I braced my good hand against the wall and waited. When the fire subsided, I dared to look. The blood had slowed. Good enough.

Trust No One

As I tore a strip from the bottom of my shirt, a shadow fell over me. A woman — middle-aged, with a face like weathered bark and kind eyes — crouched beside me.

“Child,” she said gently, “you’ll ruin that shoulder if you leave it like that. Come to my house. My husband was a soldier. I know how to treat these things properly.”

I hesitated. She did not smell of wine or filth. Her hands were clean. There was nothing cruel in her eyes, only concern. For a heartbeat, I wanted desperately to go with her — to be tended to, spoken kindly to, looked after.

But I did not know her. I trusted no one in this place. My father had drilled this into me quite literally, that no one in this world could be trusted but family, and even then, with reservations. “Do not trust even me,” he used to say, and I knew he meant it, for he had been my tormenter as well as my caretaker.

“My aunt is nearby,” I lied. “She’ll see to it.”

She studied my face, as if weighing my words. Then she sighed, nodded once, and pressed a hand briefly — almost motherly — to my uninjured arm.

“Make sure you keep it clean,” she said. “And change that bandage in the morning.”

She left, and the little audience, sensing the show was done, drifted away. Only the boys remained long enough to give me a last curious stare before running off.

I pressed the folded strip of cloth to the wound and tied it in place with another strip looped under my arm and across my chest. It was clumsy work, but it held. The bandage soon grew warm and damp with blood, but not soaking. I could still move my arm. It was painful, but it moved.

“There,” I muttered under my breath. “So much for my first day in the city. Get it together, Darius.”

I pulled my bloodstained jacket back on, though the movement made me wince, and tightened the spear strap. I smelled like wine, sweat, and copper. I needed to find my aunt. This town was too much for me. The noise, stink, and sense of danger were overwhelming. I felt as out of place as one of the temple carp would be if taken out of the pond and placed upon a horse charging into battle.

For a moment, the image made me smile. A giant carp riding horseback, wearing battle armor and holding the reins, its mouth working as it gasped for air. I laughed out loud, drawing a few open stares from passers-by. The sound of my own laughter, as much as anything that had happened to me so far, frightened me. I sounded like a crazy person.

A woman passing by slowed at the sound. She held the hand of a little girl, perhaps ten years old, who was chewing thoughtfully on a glossy brown sweet skewered on a thin stick. The girl stopped to stare at me openly, her steps lagging until her mother tugged at her hand.

“Come on,” the woman said sharply, not unkindly but with impatience.

The girl resisted, craning her neck to look at me as if I were something curious washed up from the river. Then, to my surprise, she pulled free. Before her mother could stop her, she trotted toward me, the sweet bobbing in her hand.

“Lihua!” the woman called, startled, hurrying after her.

The girl stopped a few paces from me. She did not come too close. She looked at my bandaged shoulder, then at my face, then held out the sweet without a word, her arm fully extended, her eyes lowered in sudden shyness.

I stared at it, uncertain. No one had ever offered me food unprompted before. I took it carefully, as if it might vanish if I moved too fast.

The mother caught up, breathless. I braced myself for her to snatch the child away, to scold her, perhaps to curse me for frightening her daughter.

Instead, she looked at me and said sternly, “What do you say?”

I did not understand. I stood there holding the sweet, mute. “Hello?” I said finally. I looked the girl up and down. “Your dress is pretty.”

The girl giggled, but the mother frowned. “You say, ‘thank you,’” she snapped.

“Oh.” Heat crept up my neck. I had not been raised with such polite expressions. “Thank you,” I said quickly. I bowed deeply to the girl, deeper than necessary, the movement tugging painfully at my shoulder. The girl giggled again, pleased, and allowed her mother to take her hand.

They went on their way, the girl glancing back once, smiling.

I stood there holding the sweet until they were gone. Then I ate it slowly. It tasted of sesame and sugar, and might have been the best thing I had ever eaten. My heart lightened a bit.

I had been told by the Mayor that my aunt’s name was Jade Lee, her husband was Zihan Ma, and they had a child whose name the Mayor did not know. I walked through the streets asking about them. People waved me off, shook their heads, provided conflicting answers, offered to sell me things, and, in the case of one noble, spat on me.

Ming

When I presented my question to an old woman who owned a stand heaped with some kind of orange flower, she looked me up and down skeptically. “Are you Darwish Lee?”

I frowned. “No. I am Darius Lee.”

She snorted derisively. “How does someone not know how to pronounce his own name? Your father is that miserable lout, Yong Lee?”

I was stunned. How could someone know my father’s name in this town? “He’s not a lout,” I said hotly. “He was a peanut farmer, and he is in the army fighting the invaders. He’s… well… the Mayor says he died.”

The woman’s face softened. “I am sorry. To Allah we return. I will not speak ill of the dead.”

So this woman too worshiped the God called Allah. Before I could ask about it, she went on: “Your auntie’s husband, Zihan Ma, is my brother. My name is Ming.” She studied me more carefully. “You have been wounded.”

I tipped my head to the side as if to say, “I suppose so.”

“I am working now,” Ming said, “but if you are hungry you can go to my house and my daughter will feed you.”

I was, in fact, hungry, tired, and hurt, but I had come this far, and I wanted to meet my aunt. I told Ming so, and she gave me directions. I should follow the main road, then turn right when I reach a huge elm tree that shades the entire road. Continue past the temple, walk until I can no longer hear the temple bells anymore, then turn left. From there, it would be a quarter day’s walk. My aunt’s house was set back from the road, but they were the only farm on that road growing safflower, so when I saw the safflower, I should enter through the gate. There I would find my aunt’s house.

“I don’t know what safflowers look like,” I said.

Ming shook her head sadly. “You have a wooden head, don’t you?” She picked up one of the stalks heaped on her stand and shook it in my face. It had small green leaves and a roundish orange flower with spiky petals. Its scent was sweet but mild. “This is a safflower, strings-for-brains. From your auntie’s farm, in fact.”

A Long Walk

Before setting out, I bought a wedge of cheese and filled my gourd flask at a public well. I slung the spear over my good shoulder and started down the road Ming had described.

The town fell away behind me, swallowed by dust and distance. The sounds of carts and hawkers faded, replaced by the quiet tapping of my own footsteps and the soft slosh of water in the gourd. The road was lined here and there with elms and poplars, their leaves whispering in the breeze. Fields stretched on either side, some green and thriving, others bare and brown, like my father’s land in the bad years.

After a while, the cut in my shoulder began to throb – slowly at first, then harder, beating in time with my heart. The bandage felt hot against my skin. I shifted the spear and immediately regretted it. Pain shot down my arm like fire. I took the jacket off and tied it around my waist, then lifted my shirt and checked the bandage. The cloth was dark with fresh blood, and something thicker and sticky seeping through. I re-tied it as tightly as I could manage and kept walking.

By midday, the world seemed brighter than it should have been. The sun pulsed like a fevered eye. I felt sweat trickling down my back, but at the same time a strange chill crawled over my arms, raising gooseflesh. My mouth tasted bitter, my head felt stuffed with wool, and my shoulder was as hot as a coal burned beneath the skin. I tried rolling my arm to loosen it and nearly cried out. I could not lift the arm properly anymore. I noticed that my jacket had come undone from around my waist and was gone. It had fallen somewhere on the road. I could not go back for it.

I thought of Far Away and Lady Two. Were there thieves in my house even now, digging up the bare earth floor, searching for gold that did not exist? Would the Mayor sell the house, or simply take it? Would some stranger sleep on my straw mattress, or would it all be left to rot? I had worked so hard to bring that land back from the dead. The thought of it slipping from my hands made something tight form in my chest.

To distract myself, I ran through the Five Animals forms in my mind. Tiger claw to the throat, crane beak to the eyes, leopard fist to the ribs, snake flick to the groin, dragon kick to the head. I pictured my father correcting me, rapping my legs with a stick when my stance was not deep enough, shouting at me to sink, sink, sink. Now I could barely keep myself upright.

The truth that my father was almost certainly gone pressed up from the inside of my mind like hot, bubbling mud. He had been the foundation of my life as well as its bane. He had beaten me, starved me, and abandoned me, yet he had also trained me, fed me when there was food, and wept when he saw what his absence had done to me. Now there was no one between me and the world but myself. I felt sorry for myself in a way I never had before. The feeling was like a weakness in my legs, as if they had turned to noodles.

Step, step, step. One foot in front of the other. I tried to imagine my aunt, Jade Lee, and her husband, Zihan Ma. What kind of people were they? Would they welcome me, or see me as a burden? More beatings, more shouting, more nights going to bed hungry? If that proved to be the case, I decided, I would not stay. I knew how to steal without getting caught, how to move quietly, how to run. I could live as a thief if I must. I did not want that life, but I would survive. I had already survived worse.

By the time the sun tilted toward late afternoon, every step was an effort. My feet were sore, my back ached from the weight of my pack and the dao, and my shoulder burned as if dipped in boiling water. A faint buzzing filled my ears. The world swam slightly if I walked too fast. Twice I stumbled, and once I had to stop and lean against a poplar tree until the dizziness faded.

I followed Ming’s directions as best I could: past the great elm that shaded the road, past a small roadside shrine, past a temple whose bells I could hear faintly behind me even after it vanished from sight. The sound seemed oddly distant, like something heard underwater. At last, I saw a field blazing with orange flowers – safflower, I knew now – from which rose the low hum of bees. I hoped my aunt’s door was not far beyond it, because I was no longer certain how much farther I could walk.

Farmhouse

A low stone wall bordered the road. A gate of rough-hewn wood stood open. As I stepped through, a man in a blue jacket and soft shoes was coming out, leading a horse by the reins. He had the soft hands and weak shoulders of a city man, and he smelled faintly of incense and wine.

“He’s in fine form today,” the man said to no one in particular. “Totally cured my gout. His needles are blessed by heaven.”

I stepped aside to let him pass. As he passed me, he got a better look, or perhaps a whiff, and reeled back, covering his mouth with a sleeve. He mounted his horse with a grunt and rode off toward town.

Inside the gate, I found myself on a working farm. A few young men – hired hands, I guessed – were out in the fields tending the safflowers, wearing wide-brimmed hats, and moving carefully between the rows with baskets slung from shoulder poles. In a nearby pen, goats cropped at a low wooden trough, their bells tinkling softly. From a barn with wide double doors came the sound of cows mooing, deep and content. A henhouse squatted beside it, chickens scratching in the dust around the door. Two gray-brown donkeys grazed freely near a stack of bundled firewood, occasionally flicking their tails at flies.

An old gray and white cat lay perched atop a carriage near the barn, paws tucked under its chest, watching me with half-lidded eyes as if it had seen a thousand boys like me and expected nothing new.

It was a far wealthier farm than that which my father and I had owned. The buildings were straight and well-kept, the fences repaired, the tools neatly stacked under the eaves. Smoke rose from the chimney of the main house in a steady plume, carrying with it the faint smell of cooked vegetables and something savory.

I stood there in the yard, dust on my shoes and sweat drying on my back, and thought that they must be eating supper. I felt as weak as a newborn calf. My clothing was drenched in sweat, and my heart beat too hard as I stepped up to the heavy wooden door, and heard voices talking inside. I raised my hand to knock, hesitated, and dropped it. Then I took a breath, let it out, and knocked on the door.

Unwelcome

The man who answered was of average height but stocky and a bit chubby, with muscular arms and shoulders. His face was dark and handsome, with a thick black mustache and inquiring black eyes. His hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves – very unlike my father, who had kept his hair short or shaved.

He did not look like a native of this land, and I wondered for a moment if he was an invader, but that was silly. The invaders were said to be tall and ivory-skinned, wearing armor that shone like moonlight. This man was of average height, and darker-skinned than me.

Close behind him stood a woman, and a boy of perhaps 10 years old. The boy was lean and used to hard work, I judged, but nevertheless had a softness about his face, as if he had never faced any great hardship, never been abandoned, never been beaten. I almost hated him for that.

As for the woman, she was short, and her eyes had pronounced folds. Her teeth were white, and even from the way she stood I could tell that she was martially trained, as there was a restrained power in her posture. Even relaxed, she appeared poised to strike.

The man’s eyes shot to the dao on my back and spear in my hand, then roamed over me, perhaps taking in my calloused hands, young but muscular body, and my altogether wretched condition. The torn and bloodstained shirt, the sweat and grime.

“Are you here for treatment?” His voice was not welcoming. “I do not work after sundown. And if it’s trouble you’re looking for, you’re in the wrong place.”

I tried to speak, but what came out was a croak. A bout of dizziness washed through my head, and I planted the spear to steady myself.

Someone said something, but I didn’t understand the words. My vision had gone entirely gray. I felt myself falling. I dropped the spear and reached out for purchase, but found only air. And then I was aware of nothing.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 4 – A Safe Place

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

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

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

Related:

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

The post Far Away [Part 3] – Wounded appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

2025 was an eventful year; for the world, our ummah, and surely our own personal lives – alhamdulillah for both the ups and (what we see as) downs.

Here at MuslimMatters, we published around 250 articles and podcasts: from timely current affairs pieces to community updates from across the world, from Islamic book reviews to investigative articles, from deep-dives into Islamic history, to of course, faith-led discourse around various modern-day themes.

Just in case you missed out – or even if you wouldn’t mind a re-read! – we’ve put together a roundup of articles that most piqued our readers’ interests over the past year.

We give you: The MuslimMatters Readers’ Choice Most Popular Articles From 2025:

 

THE TOP THREE

1.

Over 85 Muslim Scholars, Leaders And Institutions Say Muslim Nations Can Take “Concrete Action” To End Gaza Genocide

 

2.

Pro-Israeli Dating Company Quietly Buys Out Popular Muslim Marriage App

3.

The Fiqh Of Vaginal Discharge: Pure or Impure?

Islam & Spirituality

The Perspective of Khalwa from the Quran and Sunnah: Advice For Modern Day Interactions

My Rabb Will Never Abandon Us: A Personal Journey Through Love, Loss, And Tawakkul

The Muslim Woman And Menopause: Navigating The ‘Invisible’ Transition With Faith And Grace

Society

MuslimMatters Still Stands With Imam Nick

Beyond Badr: Transforming Muslim Political Vision

The Expansion Trap: Why Mosques Are Struggling Despite Fundraising

 

Life

Money And Wealth In Islam : The Root Of All Evil?

Is Your Temu Package Made With Uyghur Forced Labour?

10 Lessons After 10 Years Of Marriage

Culture

The Promise of SAIF: Towards a Radical Islamic Futurism

A Prayer On Wings: A Poem Of Palestinian Return

K-Pop Demon Hunters: Certainly Not for Kids

Current Affairs

The Elon Musk Anti-Islam Crusade

American Patriotism and Israel – How Should Muslims Navigate the Two?

Is Syria’s New President The Type Of Political Leader Muslims Have Been Waiting For?

Podcasts

Podcast | Happily Ever After (Ep 2) – What Are The Limits Of Wifely Obedience?

Podcast: Is Harry Potter Haram? Islamic Perspectives Of Poetry And Literature With Sh. Shahin-Ur Rahman

Podcast: Manifest(ing) Shirk – Zodiac Signs, Crystals, And Manifestation | Shaykha Aysha Wazwaz

Special Mention

In the midst of everything else that we published, a special shout-out has to go to Moonshot: the riveting and beautiful Islamic short story series (by our very own Wael Abdelgawad!) that saw us through the year, having us eagerly waiting for Sundays for the next chapter to be published.

Moonshot: A Short Story [Part 1]

And finally, a great, big jazakAllahukhair to all of our readers, both loyal and new. Please do keep commenting, sharing, and of course, reading!

 

Related:

The MM Recap – 2024 Reader’s Choice Articles

The MuslimMatters Ramadan Podcast Playlist 2025

The post MM Wrapped – Our Readers’ Choice Most Popular Articles From 2025 appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Introduction: Faith Meets Technology

Have you ever found yourself late at night with a question about your faith, scrolling through search results and forum posts, wondering which sources you can actually trust? It’s a modern dilemma in the timeless quest for knowledge.

However, in an age saturated with information, authenticity has become the scarcest commodity. This challenge is particularly acute for Muslims when seeking guidance on matters of belief, practice, and spirituality.

We live in an era where artificial intelligence is reshaping nearly every aspect of human life, from how we work and learn to how we seek meaning. The question isn’t if technology will touch our faith, it’s how. This article explores the intersection of Islamic Ethics and Artificial Intelligence (AI), the current state of innovation in the Muslim world, and finally examines Ansari Chat as a case study in how these ethical principles can be translated into code.

Navigating AI Through the Lens of Islamic Ethics

AI is growing fast, promising incredible benefits but also raising complex ethical questions. For Muslims, this necessitates a careful evaluation of how AI aligns with faith and values.

Islamic scholars and institutions, including the International Islamic Fiqh Academy (IIFA), Al-Azhar’s Islamic Research Academy, and the Muslim World League, are already actively debating these issues. In the West, the Assembly of Muslim Jurists of America (AMJA) has centered its 2026 Imam’s Conference around this very topic. These institutions draw on centuries of Islamic legal reasoning to ensure AI serves the common good (maslaha) while protecting the higher goals of Islamic law (maqasid al-shari‘ah).

To be clear, the goal is not to reject AI, but to provide frameworks that ensure the technology reflects the values of justice, compassion, and accountability. The real challenge is not whether Muslims should use AI, but how to use it responsibly while avoiding harm (darar).

The Current State of Islamic AI Innovation

Before diving into specific ethical frameworks, it is important to recognize that the “Islamic AI” sector is already bustling with innovation. The landscape is rapidly expanding beyond simple chatbots. We are seeing:

• Quranic Verification: Apps like Tarteel are using voice recognition AI to correct recitation in real-time, aiding in memorization (hifz).
• Islamic FinTech: AI-driven robo-advisors are being trained to screen stocks for Shari’ah compliance, automating complex financial rulings.
• Personalized Learning: Education platforms are utilizing large language models (LLMs) to tailor Islamic curricula to the specific level and school of thought (madhab) of the student.

However, this rapid innovation is not without risk. Without ethical guardrails, these tools can inadvertently amplify bias, commodify sacred knowledge, or present hallucinated information as religious fact. This is why a robust ethical framework is not just theoretical—it is an urgent necessity for developers.

Core Islamic Principles for AI

Islamic ethics is not a fixed rulebook; it is a living system that guides moral choices. When applied to the development and use of AI, four key principles stand out:

“The real challenge is not whether Muslims should use AI, but how to use it responsibly while avoiding harm (darar)” [PC: Masjid Pogung Dalangan (unsplash)]

1. Protecting the Higher Goals of Shari‘ah (Maqasid al-Shari‘ah): These include protecting faith (din), life (nafs), intellect (aql), family (nasl), and property (mal). Every AI system should be judged on its impact here. For example, generative AI that produces deepfakes threatens the intellect and social cohesion, whereas AI used in medical diagnosis actively protects life.
2. Justice (‘Adl) and Fairness (Qist): Islam mandates fairness. Training data often reflects historical social inequalities. If an AI used in hiring or credit scoring is trained on biased data, it perpetuates injustice. Technologists have a duty—each according to their capacity—to audit systems and remove these biases.
3. Trustworthiness (Amanah) and Responsibility (Mas‘uliyyah): Humans are entrusted (khalifah) with stewardship of the earth, including technology. Developers must build AI that is safe and transparent. Crucially, responsibility cannot be outsourced to a machine; humans remain accountable for the AI’s effects. This also extends to environmental stewardship, considering the massive energy resources required to power data centers.
4. Striving for Excellence (Ihsan): Ihsan means doing the best one can, as if in God’s presence. In software development, this means going beyond bare functionality to create technology that is beautiful, efficient, and truly beneficial, rather than predatory or addictive.

AI and Religious Rulings (Fatwas)

A critical distinction must be made regarding religious authority. While AI can search the Qur’an and Hadith faster than any human, the IIFA and Al-Azhar agree: AI cannot replace a human jurist (faqih).

Key reasons AI cannot replace human jurists include:

• Understanding the Spirit of the Law (Fiqh): Legal rulings require nuance and moral insight, not just pattern recognition.
• Understanding Real-Life Context (Waqi‘): A ruling must fit the specific situation, culture, and needs of the person asking. 
• Spiritual Insight (Taqwa and Basirah): Fatwas come from a life of faith, study, and devotion. AI has no soul or spiritual consciousness.

AI excels at pattern recognition, but it lacks the soul and consciousness required for moral adjudication. It is a powerful research assistant, not a scholar.

A Simple Ethical Framework for Users

For the everyday Muslim engaging with these tools, the following guide ensures responsible usage:

• Verify and Validate: Treat AI output as a starting point. Always cross-reference with the Qur’an, authenticated Hadith, and qualified scholars.
• Clarify Intention (Niyyah): Use AI for learning and solving problems, never for deception, finding “loopholes,” or generating deepfakes.
• Recognize Limits: AI is a tool, not an authority. It is fallible.
• Promote Good: Use AI to spread beneficial knowledge, while avoiding the spread of unverified information.

Perhaps one simple way to reflect on the use of AI is on the collective good (ummatic welfare). We should ask not only, “What can AI do for me?” but also, “What can AI do for the whole Muslim community?” In his article on Ummatic Soft Power, Ashraf Motiwala emphasizes how the use of AI will influence the future of the ummah: “Ummatic soft power must therefore operate on three fronts: (1) developing substantive Islamic perspectives on AI ethics; (2) influencing global discourse such that these perspectives are seen as viable and attractive; and (3) implementing them in actual technologies, through ummatic research labs, ethical standards, and applied AI platforms.” The consequence of this is that AI should be seen as a means of helping Muslims with the issue of revival, unity, and good governance.

By applying these principles, Muslims can ensure technology becomes a tool for ummatic welfare—helping with revival, unity, and good governance—rather than a source of confusion.

Operationalizing Ethics: The Case of Ansari Chat

How do these high-minded principles look when translated into actual code? One prominent attempt to answer this is Ansari Chat. Led by Dr. M. Waleed Kadous, Ansari serves as a useful case study in how to bridge the gap between Islamic scholarship and Silicon Valley engineering.

The project began in 2023 with a “proactive” philosophy. Rather than waiting for big tech companies to build Islamic tools as an afterthought, the Ansari team asked: What if the community shaped the technology to serve its unique values from the very beginning?

Transparency as Trust (Amanah)

The first ethical decision the project made was regarding trustworthiness (Amanah). In a landscape dominated by proprietary “black box” algorithms, where the decisions made by the developers are hidden, the Ansari team committed to being open source. 

This was a strategic ethical choice. For a tool dealing with sacred knowledge, the community needs to know how the answers are derived. Open source acts as a “public recipe,” allowing scholars and developers to inspect the code, verify the sources, and ensure there are no hidden agendas. This transparency builds a relationship of trust that proprietary models cannot easily match.

The Technical Fight Against Hallucination

“The community response suggests a hunger for tools that respect religious context.” [PC: Zulfugar Karimov (unsplash)]

Applying the principle of accuracy and verification, the evolution of Ansari highlights the technical challenges of “Islamic AI.” Early versions, like many LLMs, were prone to “hallucinations”—sounding confident while being factually incorrect.

To address this, the team shifted from a simple chatbot model to a Retrieval-Augmented Generation (RAG) system. In simple terms, this gives the AI an “open-book test.” Instead of inventing an answer, the AI must first look up relevant facts from a trusted database—including the Qur’an, Hadith collections, and extensive Fiqh encyclopedias—before formulating a response.

This shift drastically reduced inaccuracies. Furthermore, later iterations introduced citations, ensuring that answers include verse numbers and links to original texts. This feature supports the user’s duty to verify and validate, empowering them to check the primary sources rather than blindly trusting the machine.

Impact and Utilization

The community response suggests a hunger for tools that respect religious context. By mid-2025, data showed that users were not just asking for trivia; they were asking about Fiqh (Islamic law) and Deen/Dunya balance. The tool has been accessed in over 20 languages, highlighting the global demand for accessible knowledge.

However, the project explicitly respects the boundaries of authority. It is designed to provide information and context, but stops short of replacing the scholar in complex, personalized rulings, aligning with the consensus of the IIFA and Al-Azhar mentioned earlier.

Conclusion: An Ecosystem of Ethical Innovation

Ansari Chat, as an example, acts as a proof of concept for a broader vision: an ecosystem of Islamic AI. Whether through integrating with educational curricula, supporting local adaptations like Tanyalah Ustaz in Malaysia, or developing tools for academic research, the goal is to plant a “forest” of innovation.

The story of Ansari demonstrates that technology does not have to distance Muslims from tradition. When built with Ihsan (excellence) and Amanah (trust), AI can function as a bridge, making sacred knowledge more accessible and verifiable. It offers a blueprint for the future: a generation of Muslims who are not just consumers of technology, but architects of it, ensuring the digital age is navigated with faith, responsibility, and moral clarity.

 

Related:

– AI And The Dajjal Consciousness: Why We Need To Value Authentic Islamic Knowledge In An Age Of Convincing Deception

– The Promise of SAIF: Towards a Radical Islamic Futurism

The post Faith And Algorithms: From An Ethical Framework For Islamic AI To Practical Application appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The provincial government of Quebec, led by Premier Francois Legault’s Coalition Avenier Quebec (CAQ), has proposed sweeping new measures that would severely restrict the ability for Muslims to practice their faith in the province.

Bill 9, titled An Act for the reinforcement of laïcité in Quebec, lays out several new measures that aim to prohibit religious practice in the public sphere. While the Act doesn’t single out Islam explicitly, Muslim religious practices are the prime target of this new proposed law.

Among the proposed restrictions in the new law are the banning of public day care workers and even private school workers from wearing religious garments such as the hijab. The secularism law from 2019 had already banned public employees such as teachers, judges and police officers from wearing religious symbols. This law further advances those restrictions. Public institutions would be restricted from offering halal meals exclusively and would be required to offer non-halal options on the menu as well.

Public congregational prayer will also be banned for the first time in Quebec’s history under this new law. Individual prayer or a religious gathering with a permit in a public space would still be allowed. However, permits are said to be handed out on a case-by-case basis if they respect Quebec charter rights, such as the equality of men and women. Depending on how compliance with Quebec’s charter is interpreted, Muslim groups would likely face obstacles in receiving such a permit, considering the separate prayer for men and women in the Islamic tradition. Fines for individuals could go up to $375 and up to $1,125 for groups.

There has been uproar over public prayer in Quebec ever since it became a regular sight in the streets of Montreal over the last two years. These prayers have been happening in the context of weekly pro-Palestine rallies to protest the genocide in Gaza. The rallies usually end with a public prayer for Gaza and garnered headlines when pro-Palestine marchers prayed in front of the Notre-Dame Basilica. There was also backlash when a Muslim group held Eid prayers in a public park last year.

The situation has led the Secularism Minister Jean-François Roberge to declare that the “proliferation of street prayer is a serious and sensitive issue”. Furthermore, Premier Legault stated that “Seeing people praying in the streets, in public parks, is not something we want in Quebec,” and added that he wanted to send a “very clear message to Islamists.”

The most extreme measure proposed by Bill 9, however, is the plan to ban prayer rooms on university and college campuses. In defending his proposal, Minister Roberge explained that “Universities are not temple or church,” and argued that Quebec had “gone too far” in accommodating religious practices.

Prayer rooms on campuses are the centre of religious life for Muslim students across the province. They serve not only as a safe space for daily prayers but also as a hub for social programs like chaplaincy services, mental health counselling, and religious education. New students, especially those from abroad, use the prayer room to congregate and build social bonds that help them navigate the complexities of practicing faith in a secular environment.

Pragmatically, the prayer room also ensures that Muslims students, who are required religiously to pray five times a day, are not forced to pray out in the open. Samy Khelifi, president of Concordia’s Muslim Student Association, which hosts the biggest prayer facility on a Quebec campus, warned of students being pushed to pray in hallways: “People won’t stop praying because there’s not a prayer space. What happens to those 5,000 people if they all go pray out on random corners?”

Bill 9 will be subject to parliamentary commission hearings over the coming months; the government hopes to have it passed by next Spring. The provisions outlined in it are the latest in a long series of attacks, led by the CAQ, on the religious rights and liberties of Muslims in Quebec. Disguised in the name of secularism and presented with nationalistic overtones, the legislation is nothing more than an attempt to score political points by capitalizing on xenophobic sentiments in CAQ’s voter base for the upcoming elections.

 

Related:

– Poem and Reflection on Banning Prayer in Public Places | Ammar AlShukry

– The Duplicity of American Muslim Influencers And The ‘So-called Muslim Ban’

 

The post Quebec Introduces Bill To Ban Prayer Rooms On College Campuses appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Alone on the farm, Darius must survive hunger, violence, and the quiet ache of abandonment as he clings to hope that his father still lives.

Read Part 1

* * *

The Mayor’s Account

The Mayor lived in a narrow wooden house behind the tax office. Its roof tiles were mottled with moss, and two faded lanterns hung by the door. I knocked and waited. Through the thin walls I heard the clack of an abacus, then footsteps.

He opened the door wearing a simple hemp robe, belted high on his waist. His eyes flicked to the dao on my back, then to the calluses on my hands, then to my face. Something in his expression softened. Perhaps he saw how I had grown.

“Darius Lee,” he said, according me an unusual degree of respect. “Have you harvested already?”

“Yes,” I replied. “And I have come for my father’s salary.”

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat. A man with nothing to hide does not hesitate.

“Salary?” he repeated. “Boy… Darius… the army sends what it can. There are many delays. Your father may have-” He lifted his hand vaguely. “You understand. He might have fallen. Or the messengers may have been robbed. Highway bandits prey on couriers these days. You must consider -”

“I have considered,” I said.

He fell silent. Behind him, in the dim interior, I saw a low table with a tea set arranged neatly on a lacquer tray. Steam curled gently from the spout. The smell of roasted barley drifted through the doorway.

“What I mean,” he continued more firmly, “is that many soldiers’ families never see a coin. There are piles of unclaimed payments at the garrisons. Dead men whose names no one remembers. I am sorry, but it is likely your father is dead.”

I was only a boy. Another child might have been frightened by this commentary, or intimidated into submission. But my father had been a proud man, unafraid of anyone. He had always spoken his mind, could never be bullied, and would never, ever walk away from what was rightfully his, even as he stole from others what was rightfully theirs.

I had learned from my father what it meant to be a man. So I nodded and said, “Of course, if he were dead, I would not expect anything, Mayor. But you know what my father is like. If he is alive, and someone has withheld his pay…” I lifted my gaze to meet his. “He would come for it. And whoever kept it from him would not fare well.”

The Mayor swallowed. His hand twitched once, then settled on the doorframe.

“Well,” he said with a thin smile, “now that you mention it… I do recall something. A delivery arrived last month. A single gold coin, marked for your household. I must have… misplaced the record.”

He stepped away from the doorway with unconvincing haste. I heard drawers sliding open, the rustle of papers, a quiet curse under his breath. Then he returned, holding a coin between two fingers as though it burned him.

“Here.” He dropped it into my palm. “This belongs to you.”

The coin was cool and heavy. I closed my hand around it.

“Thank you, Mayor.”

He gave a stiff nod. “If any further payments arrive, I will notify you at once. Immediately. You have my word.”
I inclined my head politely, though I did not believe him.

As I stepped out into the street, the sunlight glinted off the coin in my fist. I slipped it into the hidden pouch sewn inside my tunic and walked away without looking back.

Down the street, I paused to observe the people entering the temple of the statue. I went to the door and watched. I was fascinated by them. They left food or coins in front of the statue, then sat before it cross-legged, chanting. Their chants were mesmerizing. Part of me wanted to join them. I had money, I could leave a few coins for the statue. I would be part of something bigger than myself.

Just inside the temple gates stood a small stone-lined pool, its surface broken only by the slow glide of bright orange carp beneath broad lotus leaves. Now and then, a ripple spread across the water as one of the fish snapped at a drifting petal, while the lanterns hanging above reflected in wavering, fractured lines. A few children lingered at the edge, tossing crumbs and laughing softly. I wondered at the lives of those fish, living all their lives in that small pool, but then I realized that there was nothing to wonder about, as my life was just the same.

The interior of the temple was peaceful and hushed. It was inviting. I could relax there a bit, and be among other people without conflict or expectations.

But I could not do it. I knew my father was right, that the statue was no more than an inanimate object. If I were to walk up and slap it, it would do nothing. No evil would befall me, no curse would tumble onto my head. Well, the worshipers would hang me from the nearest tree, but that was entirely physical and real.

I sighed. My father considered these people fools. I walked on.

I knew that the God my father had mentioned – Allah – could never be a statue, or my father would not have believed in him. And he must not have a temple, or I would have seen it. So I put the matter aside and turned to things more solid and immediate.

Lady Two

With the profit from the harvest, I bought a cow, whom I named Lady Two. She was large and was white with large brown patches, and was a lot of work.

I was already fatigued to exhaustion most of the time, not to mention distracted by the incessant gnawing of hunger in my belly. Certainly, I had food, but it was mostly a meager diet of rice and vegetables, and it did not sustain me well. Now, on top of my other work, I had to purchase and haul hay for Lady Two to eat, shovel her manure from the barn, and cart it out to the field to be used as fertilizer. I had to brush her coat, let her out to walk – I bought a cowbell to keep track of her – and milk her in the mornings.

Ah, but the milk! The first time I milked Lady Two and drank, I smiled and teared up at the same time, because it tasted so good, and it took me back to my younger years when I used to help my mother milk our cow, Lady, before my father sold her for drinking money.

Within a week of drinking her milk each morning and evening, I began to feel changes I had not expected. The constant trembling in my limbs eased, and the dull ache in my bones softened. I no longer felt as if I might topple over if I worked too long in the sun. My head felt clearer as well; I did not lose myself so easily in hunger and weariness, and I could think, plan, and even hum to myself sometimes as I worked. I slept more deeply too, without waking in the night to the pangs in my stomach.

After two months, the change was even more profound. I was startled to notice that my pants, which had previously come down to my ankles, now only reached midway down my calves, while my shirt was tight across my shoulders. I no longer dragged myself through each day but plowed and sowed the field with newfound strength. I had the energy to train with the dao in the evening. My movements were fast, and the occasional bruises from training faded faster.

I maintained my mother’s grave, just as my father had done. The flowers flourished, and I kept the plot clear of weeds. Often, when my work was done in the evening, I would sit beside her grave and look at the distant mountains, or the stars in the sky. Where was my mother now? I did not remember her well, but I remembered her gentleness, the songs she used to sing, and the small sesame cakes she made every Friday. I would like to be able to say that I missed her, but what I missed was the idea of her. The idea of being loved and cared for. But it seemed very distant now, and did not sadden me.

Far Away

A stray cat came to the house, an orange tabby that I named Far Away. My father had no patience for animals, but he was not here, so I took Far Away in, let him sleep with me on the straw mattress, and gave him a saucer of milk every morning. I found myself talking to him at times, just random things about farming, Five Animals, and memories of my mother. When I talked to Far Away, he winked and purred, and this made me happy, which was a strange sensation that I never truly got used to. I had never had a friend, and didn’t understand what friendship entailed, but it occurred to me that Far Away was my first ever friend.

The Mayor continued to send my monthly coin, to my surprise, yet another confirmation that my father was still alive. I didn’t talk about my father to Far Away nor anyone else. If I did not talk about him, he must stay alive, for the dead must be honored and remembered, but the living can be ignored. It became a superstitious rule that I imposed on myself.

The next crop came in even better, and I sold it for a pretty penny. I saw people whispering as I collected my coins, and noticed more than a few envious and even angry glances. The Mayor, when he handed over my father’s salary, was surprised to see the changes in me. “You are taller than your father,” he said. I had not realized this, and I felt embarrassed. Somehow, it seemed a betrayal of my father that I should surpass him in any way. I knew objectively that I had done more with the farm than he ever had, and this made me feel guilty. I was also ashamed that my mental image of him was growing dim.

I let the field lie fallow through winter, as my father had told me to do. I spent the winter days running through my Five Animals forms, and training with the dao and spear until the ground in front of the house became muddy with my pouring sweat. Far Away watched me, sometimes with interest, other times grooming himself as if all my leaping, striking, and kicking were meaningless. Perhaps it was.

Sent Away

I planted again when spring came. This time, however, at the 100-day mark, the Mayor came to my house in a horse-drawn wagon and informed me that my father had died in the war, and that I would be sent to live with my aunt. I did not truly believe that my father was dead, and knew that I must be here when he returned. Besides, I had been caring for myself for two years.

The Mayor produced the cloth badge that had been sewn onto my father’s uniform, indicating his unit, rank, and duty. It did not bear his name, but the Mayor explained that badges never carried names. I asked about the iron chain my father wore around his neck bearing the symbol of Five Animals style – a dragon clutching a golden ball in one clawed hand and a dao in the other – for my father had worn it every day and night since I had known him. The Mayor replied that no such chain had been sent, and that the sad reality was that bodies on the battlefield were often looted.

Yet I noticed that the Mayor would not look me in the eye. If he was lying about my father’s death, there would be much for him to gain. He could keep my father’s salary for himself. And I suspected that now that my land was producing a healthy cash crop, the Mayor wanted it for himself.

I refused to go, but the Mayor said it was against the law for a 13-year-old to live alone, and that if I did not go willingly, he would send soldiers to take me.

Anger coiled in my belly. I was tired of this man and his deceptions. I remembered how easy it had been to kill the two robbers, and pictured myself doing the same to the Mayor. The image repelled me. I was not a murderer. Besides, I could fight the Mayor, but I could not fight the soldiers who would come if I hurt him. I had no wish to be whipped and sent to prison.

There was nothing I could do. I mentioned the cow I’d purchased, and the Mayor reimbursed me half of what I had paid for her.

I told the Mayor. “If… if a mistake has been made, and my father turns out to be alive, tell him where I went.”

The Mayor nodded but still did not meet my eyes, and I knew he would not do as I asked.

I filled a peanut sack with my meager belongings, strapped the dao to my back, and concealed my purse within my clothing. The spear I took as a walking stick. I put Far Away in another sack and took him with me. Before leaving, I turned to look at my home one last time. It was a sad, pathetic place. The house had chinks in the walls through which the wind entered, and one of the walls of the barn was listing. The parcel was small, and if we had been a full-sized family living here, it would barely have sustained us.

Yet it was the only home I had ever known, and it had provided for me. I walked to the back of the house, stood beside my mother’s grave, and inhaled the cold morning air. I did not speak to her out loud. My chest rose and fell. I would have said a prayer if I knew one, and knew who to direct it to. Who would maintain her grave now? Who would water the flowers, and pluck the weeds? I shook my head helplessly, then turned and left with the Mayor.

I was put on a transport carriage bound for a city three days’ journey away.

Thoughts of my father swam through my head like the carp in the temple pool, circling endlessly. Was he truly dead, or was that a lie? And if he was dead, how had it happened? Had he killed any of the invaders? Where was his body buried? Was his spirit with Mother now? And if so, was he treating her better than in the past? Yet I did not weep for him. Alive or dead, he would not have liked to see me cry.

Loss of a Friend

When Far Away ran away, however, I did weep.

He was constantly unhappy in the sack, yowling and scratching, and the other three passengers on the carriage complained incessantly. The carriage always camped overnight, and when I woke up the second morning and opened the sack to feed Far Away, he was not there. Either he escaped, or someone let him out.

I walked through the woods, calling and calling for him, then finally fell on the ground sobbing. I felt as if my heart was a crop that had died on the vine. For my father I did not cry, but losing Far Away nearly broke me, for he had loved me with nothing but tenderness and gratitude. He was the only friend I’d ever had, and the only truly good and sweet thing in my life. Why had he left me? I was only trying to keep him safe. Why did he have to go?

I remember very little about the rest of the voyage.

The town where my aunt lived was large and bustling. I found myself disoriented by the sounds of carriages rumbling through, hawkers calling out wares, two men brawling in the street, the stink of garbage and sewage, and music drifting through the open doors of a saloon. I had never seen anything like this town, nor imagined so many people so close together.

My sweet mother used to play the flute, and I could hear one now, along with a lute, erhu, cymbals, and drums. They played a slow, sentimental tune that pulled at me. I might have gone in to listen. I was still deeply sad over the death of my father and the disappearance of Far Away, and I even missed Lady Two, and the way she greeted me by nuzzling her head against mine when I entered the barn. A little music would have been a welcome distraction, but as I took a step in that direction, two young ruffians stepped up, blocking my path.

They were thin in the way hungry dogs are thin, all sharp bones and restless movement. Their hair was greasy and tied back with filthy strips of cloth, and their clothes hung in mismatched layers that smelled of sweat and smoke. One had a scar that pulled down the corner of his mouth so that even when he wasn’t smiling, his face looked cruel.

The other had red-rimmed, feverish eyes, and filthy hands with long nails. The two of them reached into their jackets, no doubt ready to draw knives. They stood too close to me, and I could smell the alcohol on their breaths.

The one with the scarred mouth said, “That’s a pricey looking sword on your back.” And the other snarled, “Let us have a look at it.”

* * *

 

Come back next week for Part 3 – The New Town

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:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

No, My Son | A Short Story

 

The post Far Away [Part 2] – Alone appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

We’ve raised children who know how to take, but have we taught them how to give? This article dives into the Islamic response to a culture of entitlement.

In today’s increasingly individualized society and entitlement-driven culture -shaped heavily by Western ideals of autonomy and self-fulfillment- a worrying trend has emerged: many young people have come to see their parents not as figures of reverence, guidance, and gratitude, but as service providers; even well into adulthood. This shift is particularly visible in children who, while benefitting from years of care and sacrifice, respond with entitlement or neglect. Some even say, “We didn’t ask to be born, it was your choice!” This perspective, although widely normalized in modern Western discourse, is deeply misaligned with the values and principles of Islam.

The Islamic Understanding of Parent-Child Relationships Life as a Divine Trust

Islam offers a profoundly different understanding of the parent-child relationship; one rooted in divine purpose, obedience, and honor. Contrary to the notion that parents choose to bring children into the world, Islam teaches that it is Allah Who creates life and chooses its circumstances. He says in the Qur’an:

“To Allah belongs the dominion of the heavens and the earth. He creates what He wills. He gives to whom He wills female [children], and He gives to whom He wills males.”
[Surah Ash-Shuraa 42;49]

The arrival of a child is not merely a human decision—it is a manifestation of Allah’s Will. The argument “we didn’t ask to be born” overlooks this spiritual truth. Children are not random by-products of human desire but are sacred trusts (amanah) from Allah , and parents are the vessels through which Allah’s Decree is fulfilled.

Obedience to Parents as a Divine Command

In Islam, obedience to parents is not a personal choice—it is a divine commandment. The Qur’an establishes this in clear terms:

“And your Lord has decreed that you not worship except Him, and to parents, [show] excellent treatment. Whether one or both of them reach old age [while] with you, say not to them [even] ‘uff’ and do not repel them but speak to them a noble word.”
[Surah Al-Isra; 17:23]

The prohibition of even uttering “uff”—a mild sign of frustration—shows how seriously Islam regards the dignity of parents. Islam does not tie this obedience to whether parents are perfect, modern, educated, or emotionally ideal. It is a matter of obedience to Allah and a sign of piety.

The Prophet ﷺ also listed disobedience to parents among the gravest major sins, placing it alongside shirk (associating partners with Allah ):


“Shall I not inform you of the biggest of the major sins?” They said, “Yes, O Allah’s Messenger!” He said, “To associate others with Allah and to be undutiful to one’s parents…”
[Bukhari and Muslim]

When Parents Are Imperfect

And what about those who say, “My parents don’t understand me. They’re too harsh. They weren’t perfect.” To such people, Allah presents us with one of the most profound and emotionally rich stories in the Qur’an: the story of Prophet Ibrahim and his father, Azar.

Azar wasn’t just a difficult parent. He was an open enemy of the truth. He built idols with his own hands and forced his son to conform to the same false religion. He didn’t just disagree with Ibrahim’s faith—he threatened him. He rejected his dawah and even said:

“If you do not desist, I will surely stone you. So leave me alone for a prolonged time.” [Surah Maryam; 19:46]

Why is this story in the Qur’an? It’s not just for bedtime storytelling.

Every word in the Qur’an is deliberate. There are no filler verses. So, when Allah preserved this conversation between father and son for over 1,400 years, it’s not for entertainment—it’s for transformation.

Have we taken the time to reflect? His example demonstrates that Islam does not permit disrespect, rebellion, or cruelty toward parents—even when obedience cannot be maintained. In most family situations, parental shortcomings do not resemble Azar’s extremity. The Qur’an instructs believers to continue accompanying their parents with kindness and patience, even amid disagreement, so long as no sin is involved:

“But if they endeavor to make you associate with Me that of which you have no knowledge, do not obey them but accompany them in [this] world with appropriate kindness and follow the way of those who turn back to Me [in repentance]. Then to Me will be your return, and I will inform you about what you used to do.” [Surah Luqman; 31:15]

Within a Muslim family ethics framework, coping with parental conflict involves maintaining adab, engaging in respectful dialogue, practicing sabr, and making duʿāʾ for guidance and reconciliation. 

Proactive Obedience as a Virtue

Moreover, the Prophet ﷺ described the most virtuous child as the one who serves and cares for their parents before being asked.

In one narration, three men were trapped in a cave and sought Allah’s help by mentioning their most sincere deeds. One man said he never fed his own children before feeding his elderly parents, even after a long day of work. His devotion was accepted, and the rock shifted. [Sahih al-Bukhari, no. 3465]. This powerful story illustrates the blessings that come from proactive, sincere obedience and care.

The Impact of Individualism on Parent-Child Relationships

“Many young adults are quick to point out their parents’ flaws but slow to recognize their sacrifices.” [PC: Nadine E (unsplash)]

Unfortunately, the culture of individualism has produced a generation that is often emotionally disconnected from its roots. Modern individualism prioritizes personal autonomy, self-fulfillment, and independence, often framing family obligations as burdens rather than responsibilities. Within this framework, relational sacrifices—especially those made quietly by parents—can become invisible or undervalued. As a result, many young adults are quick to point out their parents’ flaws but slow to recognize their sacrifices. Islam teaches that gratitude to parents is second only to gratitude to Allah :

“And We have enjoined upon man [care] for his parents. His mother carried him, [increasing her] in weakness upon weakness, and his weaning is in two years. Be grateful to Me and to your parents; to Me is the [final] destination.” [Surah Luqman; 31:14]

The entitlement culture has produced children who often consume more than they contribute, and who question the very people who sacrificed the most for them. But Islam calls us back to a sacred standard: a life of duty, compassion, and humility.

Restoring Balance Through Duty, Compassion, and Humility

Islam does not leave the parent-child relationship to culture or personal judgment—it elevates it to the level of ‘ibadah (worship). Obedience to parents is not optional; it is a spiritual duty. But this obedience is not blind servitude—it is a meaningful act that reflects humility before Allah and gratitude toward those through whom He gave us life. Just as prayer and fasting are acts of worship that earn reward, so too is every moment of kindness shown to one’s parents—even in the moments when it feels difficult.

Self-Reflection Questions for Youth

Ask yourself today:
Do I rush to help my parents the way I rush to answer my phone?
Do I speak to them with the same softness I use with strangers?
Do I honour them in private, or only when others are watching?

If we want to restore the balance eroded by individualism, we must revive these teachings—not just in books or lectures, but in our homes, hearts, and everyday behavior. A generation raised with these values will not only honor their parents—they will carry the legacy of Islam with dignity and grace.

And if you’re a young adult reading this—ask yourself: Am I writing a story that Allah will be proud of? Or one I’ll regret on the Day of Judgment? The answer lies not in grand gestures, but in the quiet, consistent choices we make every day.

Practical Ways to Honor Parents

Restoring balance begins with small, consistent actions. Here are a few ways youth can bring these teachings to life:

 – Begin by checking in on your parents daily, not out of obligation but out of love. Ask them about their day, seek their advice, and make them feel seen and valued.

 – Express gratitude openly—a simple “JazakAllahu khayran” or “thank you” softens hearts more than silence.

 – Offer acts of service without waiting to be asked—make them tea, help with chores, drive them to appointments, or assist with technology. These seemingly small gestures are weighty in Allah’s Sight.

 – Pray for them regularly, even when they are not present, for the Prophet ﷺ taught that a child’s dua for their parents continues to benefit them after death.

 – When disagreements arise, choose patience over pride; lower your voice, listen before responding, and remember that respect is a form of ibadah.

 – And finally, educate yourself and your peers—revive conversations in your circles about honoring parents, so that this forgotten sunnah becomes part of our generation’s identity once again.

The Urgency of Acting Now – Healing Families and the Ummah

One day, the voices of our parents will become memories—their footsteps in the hallway will fade, their advice will no longer be heard, and we will wish for just one more chance to serve them. Before that day arrives, let us honor them while they are still within reach. Let every message we send, every errand we run, and every word we speak be a sadaqah in disguise. The world tells us to chase independence; Islam calls us to embrace interdependence—with Allah , with our parents, and with our ummah.

If we, as the youth of today, can realign our hearts with these timeless teachings, we will not only heal our families but also mend the fractures of our ummah—one act of kindness, one softened heart, and one obedient prayer at a time.

 

Related:

– Podcast: The Rights of Parents vs Parental Oppression | Sh Isa Parada

– Family Relationships in Surah Maryam: IOK Ramadan Reflections Series #16

The post Restoring Balance In An Individualized Society: The Islamic Perspective on Parent-Child Relationships appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Introduction

Discussions surrounding a wife’s obedience in marriage are often erroneous and misinformed. Certain scholarly articles online have wrongly attributed to the Hanafi madhhab (school of law) the claim that a wife must obey her husband in all permissible matters; whether something as significant as serving his parents or as trivial as replacing a shampoo cap. This article will explain why such claims are incorrect and will clarify the Hanafi school’s actual position using the most authoritative and widely relied upon books of the school.

When a well-seasoned ustadha—who has been serving and educating women for over two decades—approached me with questions about a wife’s obedience, I was dismayed to find that her understanding and research stemmed from the same online articles. This begs the question: If those who dedicate their lives to educating and supporting women still hold misconceptions about such a fundamental matter, how can we truly serve our sisters?

Fiqh, the Sunnah, and our Dīn are our greatest sources of empowerment; we must reclaim them through sound knowledge and take them from those grounded in authentic scholarship.

Important Points to Keep in Mind

Firstly, it was a challenge to write this article in a way that stays true to scholarly, fiqh-based discussions while considering sisters from all walks of life—especially those who have been wronged through misapplication of the fiqh. Additionally, as someone who teaches a six-month course dedicated to expounding these issues, it is of the utmost importance to me that they are given the attention they deserve—something this article alone cannot fully accomplish. Hence, it is important to acknowledge its limitations: this is merely a technical study on the topic of obedience, not a reflection of Islamic marriage as a whole.

Secondly, before discussing the details of obedience in marriage, it is essential to remember that all rulings in fiqh are subject to the broader maxims of the Sharīʿah (qawāʿid fiqhiyyah) and the principles of usūl al-fiqh. This means that rulings are not absolute in every situation but must be applied within the correct context.

For example:

• A wife does not need her husband’s permission to leave the house if staying poses a threat to her safety.
• She is not obligated to engage in intimacy if it would cause her harm.

These exceptions and others are explicitly mentioned in classical fiqh texts, and demonstrate that Islamic law always considers necessity (ḍarūrah) and harm (ḍarar) when applying rulings. Understanding these nuances ensures that we do not misapply legal rulings in ways that contradict the broader objectives of the Sharīʿah (maqāṣid al-Sharīʿah), which emphasize the preservation of essential interests—religion (dīn), life (nafs), intellect (ʿaql), lineage (nasl), and wealth (māl)—together with consideration of human capacity and the prevention of harm.1

Lastly, as this article focuses solely on the issue of obedience, it does not address a wife’s rights in marriage. Women have rights parallel to and in addition to those of their husbands. Just as a husband has the right to intimacy, so does his wife. She also has the right to privacy and personal space, free from anyone who annoys or harms her. In practice, this means that a husband must ensure his wife’s comfort and consent before bringing guests into shared spaces within the home. These are a few examples, and a comprehensive treatment of a wife’s rights requires deeper exploration beyond the scope of this article.

With these points in mind, we begin the topic at hand: 

Our Beloved Prophet ﷺ said, “If a woman prays her five prayers, fasts her month, guards her chastity, and obeys her husband, she will be told: Enter Paradise from whichever of its gates you wish.”2

This and other narrations like it have been understood literally to mean a wife must obey her husband’s every request. However, fiqh is taken from fuqaha (the jurists/scholars of fiqh) and hadith from muhadithoon (scholars of hadith)3. So, what is the ruling of obeying one’s husband according to the jurists? 

When we go back to the books of fiqh (Islamic law), we find that obedience to the husband is very specific and can be summarized in two points: 

1. Intimacy and what it entails;
2. Permission to leave the house.

According to the Hanafi school, these are the only domains in which obedience is required. The following discussion presents the textual evidence from authoritative Hanafi works that establishes this position.

I. Intimacy

Zayn al-Din ibn Ibrahim ibn Nujaym al-Misri, a distinguished Hanafi jurist, outlines the limits of a wife’s obedience in his authoritative work Bahr al-Ra’iq (The Clear Sea)4. He says: 

“…a woman is not obligated to obey her husband in everything he commands. Rather, obedience is required only in matters of marriage (nikah) and its related aspects, especially if his command would cause her harm…”5

Obedience, therefore, is obligatory only in marriage-related issues. “Marriage” here—i.e., nikāḥ as used by the jurists—“is used literally for sexual relations.6” In other words, in the language of fiqh, the word nikāḥ refers to sexual relations, not merely to the contract or to marriage in general. This is further confirmed in Ibn ‘Abideen’s Hashiyah:

“[Sexual relations] is the meaning of [the word nikāḥ] in the Sharīʿah and in the language.7” 

This is demonstrated by the fiqh rulings. For example, it is imperative to seek the husband’s permission when he is home, and the wife wants to fast a nafl (optional) fast, as this may come in the way of his desire for intimacy. Also, if he asks her to take a ghusl (the obligatory purificatory bath) upon completion of her menstruation in order to be intimate, it would be obligatory upon her to do so, as this relates to his right to intimacy.

The aforementioned explicit text (nass) from the Bahr qualifies all general texts on a wife’s obedience in the Hanafi school. Accordingly, the Hanafis interpret all hadith narrations on a wife’s obedience as referring specifically to intimacy-related matters. 

Likewise, this is affirmed in other major Hanafi works. In Badāʾiʿ al-Ṣanāʾiʿ fī Tartīb al-Sharāʾiʿ (The Marvels of the Crafts in the Arrangement of the Legal Codes), Abū Bakr b. Masʿūd al-Kāsānī (d. 587 AH/1191 CE) says in the chapter on the legal consequences of the marriage contract: 

“Section: The obligation of a wife to obey her husband if he calls her to the bed.

(Section): Among [the legal rulings of marriage] is the wife’s duty to obey her husband if he calls her to the bed.8”

Al-Kāsānī is known for the meticulous detail of his legal analysis. By qualifying obedience specifically to the instance when a wife is called to the marital bed, he indicates that obedience is not intended to be absolute in all matters. Had he understood it as general, he would have simply stated, “Among the consequences of the marriage contract is the wife’s obedience to her husband,” without mentioning any such qualification.

A question may arise here: what about the many other texts that speak of obedience in general terms? Why set those aside in favor of this more specific understanding?

This approach precisely follows the guidelines for issuing fatwas (legal edicts). Muhammad Amin ibn ‘Umar ibn ‘Abideen (d. 1252 AH/1836 CE), known as the “Seal of the Scholarly Verifiers” (خاتم المحققين), outlined these principles in his work ‘Uqud Rasm al-Mufti (The Treatise on the Duties of the Muftī), stating explicitly: “… specifying something in textual transmission implies the negation of anything beyond it.9” 

This means that when an authoritative text qualifies, or places conditions on a general ruling, that qualified ruling becomes the main and definitive position of the madhhab (legal school). It must then be applied consistently, even to other texts that discuss the issue in broader or more general terms.

Hence, no one can argue here that these few texts may not specify the more general texts, as the Bahr al-Raa-iq is an authoritative text and the rules of issuing fatwa (i.e., a formal legal opinion) dictate that this understanding/qualification of obedience is therefore applied to all texts in the Hanafi school10.

II. Permission to Leave the House 

A wife’s obligation to remain in the home unless given permission by her husband to go out is closely connected to the obligation of intimacy, as it is regarded as a means of fulfilling that right.

Imam al-Haskafi says in his al-Durr al-Mukhtar: 

“There is no financial maintenance (nafaqah) for the woman who leaves [her husband’s] house without right…”11

This ruling establishes that if a wife leaves the home without justification, she forfeits her financial rights as a wife, since marital maintenance (nafaqah) is provided in return for her physical presence in the marital home.

There are details to what is considered ‘justified’ in going out, as Imam Ibn ‘Abidīn highlights in his commentary on al-Haskafi’s Durr al-Mukhtar:

[Al-Haskafi’s] statement “so she must not go out, etc.”… meaning: “If she has received (the dowry), then she must not go out, etc.”…According to the apparent implication of the text, if she has received her dowry, she is not allowed to go out—even for necessity or to visit her family without his permission.

However, there are cases where she is permitted to go out, even without his permission12, as mentioned by the commentator (shāriḥ). This is explicitly stated in his commentary on al-Multaqa (The Joining of the Two Seas), citing al-Ashbāh (Analogies and Similar Cases): “Similarly, she may go out if she wishes to perform the obligatory Hajj with a maḥram, or if her father is chronically ill and requires her service, for example…”13

There are also other exceptions to the rule requiring a wife to seek her husband’s permission before going out—such as when she is a midwife or a woman who washes the deceased—as noted by Ibn ʿĀbidīn. The detailed discussion of when a wife must seek permission and when she may go out without it warrants a separate article.

Clarification On Household Duties

Household duties are not from the husband’s rights but may be considered the wife’s responsibility based on customary practice (‘urf) and her socio-economic status.

This is mentioned explicitly by al-Haskafi in his commentary, al-Durr al-Mukhtar (The Chosen Pearl) on Tanweer al-Absaar (The Illumination of Insights):

If the woman refuses to grind flour and bake bread because she is not someone who serves [but is rather served, i.e., has servants], or if she has an illness, then he must provide her with prepared food.

However, if she is someone who normally serves herself and is capable of doing so, then he is not obligated to provide prepared food, and she is not permitted to take payment for it, as it is considered obligatory-religiously (diyānatan) upon her.14

Therefore, this duty is tied to a wife’s socio-economic background. If she comes from a wealthy family with servants and is not accustomed to cooking or performing household tasks, she is not obligated to do so in her marital home; rather, her husband must provide her with prepared food. Conversely, if she is accustomed to serving herself, then cooking becomes obligatory upon her. However, even in such a case, if she is ill or in a state in which she would customarily be cared for—such as during the postpartum period—her husband must provide her with prepared food.

The term “obligatory-religiously” (diyānatan) is used in contrast to “obligatory by law”  (qadaa-an), which is enforceable by the courts. When something is ‘obligatory-religiously’, it still means that she must fulfill it, and failing to do so would be sinful, but it is not enforced by a judge in a court of law. 

This is why household duties are not a “right” of the husband; rather, they fall under personal religious obligations, similar to a wife’s duty to nurse her child or pray witr (according to the Hanafis). These are matters between her and Allah , not something the husband can demand. A key implication of this is that the extent and manner in which she fulfills this obligation—how much she cooks and what she prepares—is her decision, as the duty rests upon her, and does not involve her husband.

Further proof that household duties are not the husband’s right is found in al-Kāsānī’s discussion on the legal consequences of marriage. When listing the obligations of the wife and the rights of the husband, he does not include household tasks such as cooking and cleaning.15

This omission is particularly significant given that al-Kāsānī is highly detailed in this chapter, addressing matters such as inheritance, in-law relations, and even the permission of the spouses to look at and touch one another—yet this so-called “right” is never mentioned.

Conclusion

Misunderstanding obedience in marriage has led to serious consequences. The expectation of absolute obedience places an immense burden on women, resulting in stress, resentment, and, at times, oppressive treatment. For example, some husbands demand that their wives serve their in-laws—visiting their homes to clean—while still maintaining their own homes; a combination that causes significant stress and anxiety. Many women from traditionally rigid fiqh backgrounds who follow this erroneous position find themselves overwhelmed by these supposed “duties.” Sadly, as this has been accepted as the status quo, it is no wonder women are struggling in their marriages, as these expectations are both unrealistic and unfeasible.

Additionally, husbands take their wives’ service for granted, viewing it as an entitlement rather than an act of kindness. Such an understanding can readily lead to an abuse of authority, where the husband’s demands are never-ending, and the wife can never fully satisfy them. This breeds resentment and undermines the very foundation of a healthy marriage.

In conclusion, we see that it is not obligatory to obey one’s husband in matters related to in-laws16, guests, or yes—even the shampoo bottle cap. The reality, as defined by the fuqaha (jurists), grants women far more autonomy than is commonly assumed. The correct understanding of obedience, rooted in legal texts, safeguards against the misuse of religious rulings to justify control, suppression, and injustice. 

As scholars have long emphasized, “rights are for the courts and the miserly,” whereas true companionship is grounded in the sublime Sunnah of our Beloved Prophet ﷺ and his Noble Family; sunnahs of mutual kindness and iḥsān (excellence). Just as a wife is expected to help fulfill not only her husband’s needs but also his preferences, he is equally expected to support hers, honoring her hopes and aspirations beyond mere needs. Ultimately, a marriage that focuses solely on rights and obligations—without regard for each other’s hopes and aspirations—may be doomed to failure or misery.

May Allah grant us the success and ability to follow the Sunnah in our marriages and bless them with love and mercy.

والحمد لله ربّ العالمين

 

Related:

– Podcast | Happily Ever After (Ep 2) – What Are The Limits Of Wifely Obedience?

– A Primer On Intimacy And Fulfillment Of A Wife’s Desires Based On The Writings Of Scholars Of The Past

 

 

1    Human capacity means that obligations only apply within a person’s ability. For example, if one can’t pray standing, she sits. 2    Ahmad ibn Hanbal, Musnad Ahmad, Hadith no. 1661. 3     In a well known narration, Imam al-A‘mash, the exegete and hadith scholar, says to Imam Abu Hanifa, the jurist and founder of the madhhab: “O group of jurists, you are the doctors, and we are the pharmacists.”4    Zain al-Din Ibn Ibrahim Ibn Muhammad Ibn Nujaym (d. 970 AH/1563 CE), Bahr al-Ra’iq (The Clear Sea) is a commentary on Kanz al-Daqaa’iq (The Treasure of Subtleties), one of the foundational texts of the Hanafi school by Abū al-Barakāt ʿAbd Allāh b. Aḥmad al-Nasafī (d. 710/1310), a prominent Hanafi scholar.5    Ibn Nujaym, Al-Bahr al-Ra’iq Sharh Kanz al-Daqa’iq, vol. 5, p. 77, Dar al-Kitab al-Islami, 3rd ed.6    ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn al-Ḥaṣkafī, Al-Durr al-Mukhtār Sharḥ Tanwīr al-Abṣār (The Chosen Pearl on The Illumination of Insights), vol. 3, p. 5, Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 3rd ed., 1984.7    Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Ḥāshiyat Radd al-Muḥtār ʿalā al-Durr al-Mukhtār Sharḥ Tanwīr al-Abṣār, vol. 3, p. 5, Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 3rd ed., 1984.8    Abū Bakr b. Masʿūd al-Kasani, Badāʾiʿ al-Ṣanāʾiʿ fī Tartīb al-Sharāʾiʿ, vol. 3, p. 613, Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2nd ed., 2003.9    Muhammad Ameen Ibn Umar Ibn ‘Abideen, Majmu’atu Rasaa-il Ibn ‘Abideen, quoting Ghayat al-Bayan, p. 41 (Beirut: Dar Ihya al-Turath al-Arabi, n.d.).10    A more detailed explanation of intimacy and its conditions will be covered in another article, in shā’ Allāh.11    Al-Ḥaṣkafī, Al-Durr al-Mukhtār, vol. 3, p. 604-5.12    Emphasis added.13    Ibn ‘Abideen, Ḥāshiyat, vol. 3, p.154.14    Al-Ḥaṣkafī, Al-Durr al-Mukhtār, vol. 3, p. 608.15    Al-Kāsānī, Badāʾiʿ al-Ṣanāʾiʿ, vol. 3, p. 605.16    . When it comes to significant matters that affect both spouses, such as in-laws and family dynamics, both partners must exercise due consideration to ensure that each feels valued and fulfilled. Neglecting this balance can lead to resentment, ultimately undermining the maqāṣid (higher objectives) of the Sacred Law in fostering a stable and harmonious marriage.

The post The Limits Of Obedience In Marriage: A Hanafi Legal Perspective appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A brutal childhood under a violent father forges young Darius into a skilled fighter, setting the stage for a life shaped by hardship, survival, and a search for meaning.

* * *

Author’s Preface

I woke up recently with the idea for this story in my head, and immediately sat down and began to write. Maybe it was a dream I had, I don’t know. I’ve never been short of ideas, alhamdulillah. I have more ideas than I know what to do with.

If you’re a long-time reader of mine, you’ve noticed that my early novels focused heavily on action and international intrigue. Later stories, such as Day of the Dogs, The Things He Would Say, and the most recently completed Moonshot, were more about family dynamics. All That Is In The Heavens is, of course, straight-up sci-fi. I do plan to return to that, by the way.

I like changing things up. I’m not one of those writers who churns out dozens of novels based on a single formula. Maybe I should be, since some of those authors make a lot of money. Speaking of which, I met Danielle Steele once at a charity auction at Fort Mason in San Francisco, and bought her old antique typewriter. Another time, I made a delivery to her mansion, which occupies an entire block in Pacific Heights. There’s someone who took a formula and alchemized it into pure gold.

But no, I prefer to push myself and explore new fictional territory. This next story is a first. I hesitate to call it a fable. It is based in the real world, and rooted in the culture and historical circumstances of 1700’s rural China, featuring a Hui Muslim family. The Hui are an East Asian ethno-religious group that is predominantly Muslim. Today, the official Chinese census says there are 10 million of them. They are not segregated, but live intermixed with Han Chinese, and their practice of Islam tends to be low-key.

I did a lot of research to keep the story historically accurate. However, I never name China as such.

The narrator’s tone is brutally honest yet distant, as if narrating these events from a time many years removed. As such, it is not extremely detailed. That’s why I almost call it a fable.

It won’t be a full novel. Maybe 20,000 words, of which 10,000 are already written. Eight to ten chapters. I hope you enjoy it. – Wael Abdelgawad, Author

* * *

Father and Son

When my father, whose name was Yong Lee, wasn’t in prison, he taught me to fight and to steal. He was a small man and a drunkard, and he treated my sweet mother badly. I despised him. When Mother died of a breathing disease, all I could think was that instead of taking me with her into the realm of silence, she had left me behind. I was seven years old. I remember that I cried for many days, and struck my father, blaming him for Mother’s death. He was a violent man, yet, when I hit him he did not react.

Someone had taught my father to fight very well – not street brawling, but a fighting style that he called Five Animals, that consisted of rapid, fluid movements, deep stances, dramatic leaps and kicks, and the use of the spear and sword.

The sword was curved, single-edged, and about as long as my young arm. My father called it a dao. He had long since sold his genuine dao to buy wine, but he’d made two replicas out of hardwood, and a pair of spears as well. We owned a small rice paddy that had gone to seed, and was a rat-filled nest of weeds and mud. My father would take me out to the paddy and run me through dao and spear forms, and then we would fight. He was not gentle, and by the end of the session I was always bleeding and bruised.

Failed Defiance

One time, I defied him, throwing down the dao and screaming that I hated him and would not do it anymore. He seized my shirt with both hands and put his face very close to mine. His breath reeked of wine. “This is the only thing of worth I have to give you, Darius,” he said. “You will take it, or I will kill you, then kill myself.”

I believed him, and I never refused to train after that.

Once, when we went into town to steal, the Mayor approached us. He looked me up and down – my ragged clothes, split lip, cut cheek, and a gash on my arm – and told my father plainly that if he did not treat me better, they would take me away and send me to live with my aunt. This was the first time I knew that I had an aunt.

My father raged that the Mayor could not do that. The Mayor cowered, for everyone knew my father’s fighting prowess, but to his credit, he held his ground and said that he would do it anyway. After that, my father treated me a little better, for though he still forced me to train, he did so less violently.

My father stole food from local vendors, cheated at card games, and picked pockets. He excelled at these things, and on the rare occasions he was caught, the locals would decline to press charges, for they knew my father’s temper and abilities.

In the town there was a temple with a great statue, and the people went there to pray, meditate, and leave offerings. My father scoffed at this, saying these people were brainless idiots, and he would sooner stab himself in the eye than waste his time and money on a hunk of bronze that could not see, speak, nor even defend itself. “The only one to worship is Allah,” he said, but when I asked him about the meaning of this word, and who was Allah, and where was his temple, my father fell mute.

Wake Up Hungry, Sleep Hungry

My father was not foolish enough to steal from nobles, but some traveling nobles dressed plainly so that you did not know their status, and every now and then, my father would be caught stealing from such a one; or from a traveling businessman or functionary. These people had no fear of him and always pressed charges, whereupon my father would be whipped and sent to prison.

Whenever this happened, I was left to fend for myself. After seeing my father whipped, I was not brave enough to pick pockets, so I confined myself to going out at night and stealing corn, potatoes, and tomatoes from local farms. The amounts I stole were so small that either no one noticed or they pretended not to, for they feared my father even in his absence. When I was younger, I had sometimes helped my mother cook, and I knew enough to boil the vegetables, which I ate plain with a bit of salt.

I was very thin, and my clothes were so tattered they were nearly falling off. I was lonely, but I did not despair. My days of crying myself to sleep were long past, and I knew my father would return. I did not know how far away the prison was, but I did not feel that my father was far away. His presence was commanding and inescapable, even in his absence. In addition, I was long since used to waking hungry and sleeping hungry. To me, it was a normal state of existence, and in fac,t I could not imagine what it might be like to have companionship and a belly full of food.

Hiding

Three times, the Mayor and a few others came to the house looking for me, but each time I hid. I barred the door with a chair, doused the candle, and crawled beneath the straw mattress, which was silly because if they managed to enter they would see my form anyway. I held my breath and watched the movement of shadows beneath the door as the men stood outside calling, “Darius Lee!” But they did not enter, for they knew better than to enter the house of Yong Lee without permission, even in his absence. Eventually, they went away.

I did not know if they wanted to punish me for stealing, or to send me to live with my aunt. I did not want to be sent away. Though I hated my father, I also loved him and missed him. I cannot explain this except to say that he was all I knew, and I felt a strange loyalty to him. He had spent countless hours teaching me Five Animals style, and though he was brutal, it was personal and intense. In his twisted way he cared about me and perhaps even loved me, though he had never expressed such a thing, and I had only ever heard that word – love – from my mother.

There was an enemy invading our lands from the south. It was said that they came on great ships, and wore armor of a kind our weapons could not penetrate. Wherever they went, they massacred our people and burned our homes. They were said to be tall and ivory-skinned, and fought with long, straight swords. I had never seen such a person, and could not imagine why they wanted our hardscrabble rice and corn fields. But every time I went into town to beg for a little money to buy salt, I saw more and more refugees either passing through or living in shacks on the outskirts of town.

There were posters in the shop windows. I knew how to read and write, as my dear mother had taught me. The posters said that anyone who volunteered to fight the invaders would be paid five gold pieces upon inscription, and one gold piece a month. The minimum age was fifteen, however, and at that time I was only eleven.

Return

My father came home from prison. He’d always been a strong and hard man, yet he returned from prison with new scars, and a terrible rage in his eyes. I thought he might take his anger out on me, in training, but when he saw my condition – I was so thin that my cheeks were hollow and my ribs protruded – he squatted down, covered his face, and wept. I had never seen my father crying, and did not know what to do. Torn between comforting him – how would I do that exactly? – and walking away to preserve his dignity, I sat down in front of him and said nothing. He suddenly seized me. I tensed up, ready to fight or flee, but he only embraced me and whispered, “I am sorry.” At this, I did flee, for it confused and saddened me more than all the beatings.

My father had quit drinking. He was not an affectionate man, and he still stole from time to time – but our training, though still exhausting, was no longer bloody. Furthermore, he began working the land. He would wake me up at dawn, and we would labor and sweat, clearing weeds, planting peanuts, and fertilizing. My father worked feverishly, as hard as any horse or donkey, and I understood that this was his way of pouring out of himself the terrible anger that – like a horse carrying a millstone – he had carried home from prison.

When the first peanut crop came in, he took me into town, where we sold the crop to a merchant. Then he took me to an eatery, where we sat at a table like normal citizens. My father ordered a huge quantity of food, and we gorged ourselves on rice, beef, green beans, sesame buns, bean cake, broccoli, and egg noodles. I had never even tasted some of these things.

When we could eat no more, my stomach felt like it would burst. I felt sleepy and content for the first time in many years. “So,” I thought. “This is what it’s like to be full.” I felt something I could not identify, which I later came to understand was contentment, and it frightened me because I knew it could not and would not last.

Infestation and Enlistment

My fear was premonitory. An infestation of rats destroyed our crop, and we were left destitute. My father stomped through the field, hacking at the rats with a plow and screaming foul words. He seemed not angry but despairing, and this shocked me, as I had never imagined my father this way.

The next day, he went into town by himself. I was afraid he had gone to drink and would return to beat me as in the past, but no. When he returned, he wore a scabbard hanging from his hip. He sat me down and handed me a small purse. I looked inside and saw five gold pieces, shining like the sunrise. “I have enlisted to fight the invaders,” he told me. “With this money you can buy traps and poison to kill the rats, then plant a new crop. You know how to raise the crop, how to harvest, and where to sell it. You will be fine. I will send my salary home to you.”

Then he removed the scabbard from his hip and drew a shining steel dao with a razor-sharp edge and a pommel wrapped in green cord. He re-sheathed it and handed it to me with both hands. “I bought this for you,” he said. “Never let anyone take what is yours.”

I begged my father not to go. I debased myself, throwing myself on the ground, crying and clutching his legs. But he left.

Robbers

I killed the rats and planted the crop. I lived simply, never wanting to let anyone know of the gold I had. The dao remained with me at all times, on my back when I worked in the fields, and by my side as I slept. At times, I took it out and practiced. It was lighter than the wooden version I had trained with, and was very sharp. Once, I cut my own thigh by accident. The cut became infected, and I passed two days in a fever, thrashing on the little straw-stuffed mattress, until I got up and dragged myself to the medicine man in the village. He cleaned my wound and slathered it with something sweet-smelling, and I paid in gold, receiving some silver and copper coins in return.

That night, two men broke into my house seeking the gold. They were young, rough-looking men who wore no masks, and were armed only with knives. I was still unsteady on my feet. Nevertheless, I drew my dao. The men laughed. “A boy with a shiny toy,” one said. “That will soon be mine.” He lunged at me with a knife. I parried it easily with the dao, and in a single smooth motion, thrust the sword into his throat. The other, shocked, took a step back. When I went after him, he threw the knife at me. I dodged it, then leaped forward and slashed him across the belly. Clutching his hands to his belly, he turned and stumbled away, and I let him go.

Evil Banners

The floor of the house was no more than baked earth, and was now stained heavily with blood. I went out to fetch a bucket of water from our small well, to clean the floor, and saw a blood trail from the second man leading into the peanut field. I found his dead body in the field, his hands still clutching his belly as his entrails hung out like evil banners, and a portent of bad things to come.

Leaving the man in the field for the moment, I scrubbed the floors inside. Seeing in my mind the point of the sword entering the man’s throat, remembering the slight resistance as it penetrated, I vomited, then cleaned that up as well.

Then I dug a deep hole in the field and buried both men. This took two days of labor, as I had to use a pickaxe to get through a layer of limestone and shale. When it was done, I collapsed into bed and slept for three days and nights, waking only to drink water. When I recovered, my leg wound had healed. No one ever came to ask about the dead robbers.

New Songs

I continued to practice with the dao. I cycled through all the moves my father had taught me, then improvised. If movement were a song, then I broke the words apart and put them back together in random ways, creating new songs that sometimes made no sense, and other times struck my own soul like gongs, leaving it shivering. I cut myself a few more times, but not seriously, until there came a point where that was no longer a concern. The dao was part of me. I would no more cut myself with it than I would poke myself in the eye, or punch myself in the stomach.

My father had taught me to count the days from planting, and harvest the peanuts at 130 days. The crop came in full and heavy, and I sold it for a good price. While I was in town, I went to see the Mayor. My father had said he would send my salary, but it had not arrived.

* * *

 

Come back next week for Part 2 – Alone

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:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

No, My Son | A Short Story

 

The post Far Away [Part 1] – Five Animals appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

How Ahmed al-Ahmed’s selfless intervention at Bondi Beach exposed the lie of stereotypes and showed the highest expression of Islamic faith in action.

Going Out For Coffee

On the evening of Sunday, December 14, Bondi Beach was crowded in the way only a summer Sunday allows. Thousands of people filled the promenade and shoreline, lingering at the end of the weekend. Among them were hundreds gathered for Chanukah by the Sea, a public celebration marking the beginning of the eight-day Hanukkah festival, held in a small park just off the beachfront.

Ahmed al-Ahmed was there for a far more ordinary reason. He had gone to Bondi with a friend for coffee. A simple plan. An unremarkable outing. Ahmed was not attending the celebration, not looking for spectacle, and certainly not expecting violence.

Ahmed is 43 years old, a Syrian immigrant from the town of Idlib, who arrived in Australia in 2006. Over nearly two decades, he built a life through patience and work. He became an Australian citizen, opened and ran a small convenience and tobacco store, married, and became the father of two young daughters, aged three and six. His parents, long separated from him by war and displacement, had only recently been able to reunite with him in Sydney.

Shots Across The Sand

Shortly after 6:45 pm, the ordinary rhythm of Bondi Beach shattered.

Witnesses reported that two gunmen opened fire from an elevated footbridge leading toward the beach. Shots echoed across the sand. Video footage later showed people in swimwear sprinting for cover, scattering across open ground with nowhere to hide. Panic spread instantly. Parents grabbed children. Strangers dropped flat. The attack continued for several minutes before police were able to intervene.

Ahmed and his friend arrived to scenes of chaos.

Speaking to Australia’s ABC, Ahmed’s father, Mohamed Fateh al-Ahmed, said his son was shocked by what he saw when they reached the area. Armed men firing into crowds. People lying on the ground. Blood visible on the pavement.

“Their lives were in danger,” his father said. “He noticed one of the armed men at a distance.”

According to the family, Ahmed saw people lying wounded on the ground, some bleeding heavily. At that point, calculation gave way to instinct, and perhaps to training as well, as reports say that Ahmed had been a policeman in his native Syria.

“When he saw people laying on the ground and the blood everywhere,” his father said, “immediately his conscience and his soul compelled him to pounce on one of the terrorists and rid him of his weapon.”

Making A Move

A screenshot shows Ahmed Al-Ahmed wrestling with one of the shooters.

At some point during the attack, Ahmed began sneaking up on one of the gunmen. Reports say that the attacker had momentarily exhausted his ammunition, but I have watched the video several times and there was no indication of that. Rather, it appears that Ahmed crept up between two parked cars, and – as the shooter was still actively firing – charged him from the side.

He charged the attacker unarmed, and wrestled with him for control of the rifle. The shooter fell to the ground, leaving Ahmed in control of the weapon. Again, reports say that during the struggle, Ahmed was shot several times in the shoulder, but I do not see that in the video. Rather, it appears that he was unharmed during the struggle, which leads me to believe that he was then shot by the other attacker, who was still firing from atop a bridge nearby. But this is speculation.

In any case he was shot in the hand and four to five times in the shoulder, with some of the bullets still lodged inside his body, according to his parents. He was rushed to hospital and underwent emergency surgery.

In the hours that followed, family members described the toll the injuries had taken. Jozay, a cousin of Ahmed, said that he was recovering from his first surgery and had two more operations still to come. “He took a lot of medication, he can’t speak well,” Jozay said after leaving the hospital on Monday evening.

Couldn’t Bear To See People Dying

Another cousin, Mustafa al-Asaad, told the Al Araby television network that Ahmed’s intervention was not driven by anger or impulse, but by something deeper.

“When he saw people dying and their families being shot, he couldn’t bear to see people dying,” Mustafa said.

“It was a humanitarian act, more than anything else. It was a matter of conscience. He’s very proud that he saved even one life.”

Mustafa recalled Ahmed explaining the moment in simple terms.

“When he saw this scene, people dying of gunfire, he told me, ‘I couldn’t bear this. God gave me strength. I believe I’m going to stop this person killing people.’”

The attack ended. Many lives were lost, but – without a doubt – many lives were also saved by Ahmed’s heroic actions.

What Would You Do?

It’s easy to call someone a hero after the fact. It is much harder to grasp what such a moment actually demands. Which raises a question that should unsettle us.

What would you do in that situation? What would I do?

I am a trained martial artist. I have spent years in classes gaming out scenarios exactly like this. How to tackle an active shooter, how to control the weapon, how to disable the shooter and create distance. But class training is one thing. Seeing it happen in real life, with the noise of the shots, the screams, the chaos, is something else altogether. I like to believe I would act courageously. I like to believe training and moral conviction would carry me forward. But only Allah knows.

Because this is the reality: if the shooter had spotted Ahmed’s approach – if he’d caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye – and turned – Ahmed would be dead. He’d be shot dead in the parking lot, leaving his two young daughters without a father. And he undoubtedly knew that. Think about that.

None of us truly knows what choice we will make until we are confronted, face to face, with that level of evil. Training, faith and strength of character all help. But certainty only arrives when fear, instinct, and conscience collide in real time.

Ahmed al-Ahmed does not have to imagine.

When asked about his actions, he expressed no regret. He did not speak of bravery or heroism. I cannot speak to his specific religious convictions, as the reports do not mention this. He might be a Sunni, Shiah or Alawi. He might be practicing or not. But he bears the name of our beloved Prophet (s), and he gave the credit for his actions – as any believer would – to Allah, saying that God granted him courage.

Ahmed’s father emphasized that his son’s decision was not shaped by identity or affiliation.

“When he did what he did, he wasn’t thinking about the background of the people he’s saving, the people dying in the street,” Mohamed Fateh al-Ahmed said. “He doesn’t discriminate between one nationality and another. Especially here in Australia, there’s no difference between one citizen and another.”

A Grim Irony

There is, however, a grim irony that cannot be ignored.

Authorities later confirmed that the attackers were also Muslim immigrants. This fact, widely reported, inevitably stirred anxiety within Muslim communities already accustomed to collective suspicion.

The man that Ahmed wrested with and disarmed was named Sajid Akram. He was 50 years old, originally from Pakistan.

Here, on the same beach, in the same violent moment, stood two radically different representations of what it means to invoke Islam.

On one side, a profound betrayal of faith. A reduction of religion to grievance, rage, and indiscriminate murder. On the other, the apex of faithful action, a man who ran toward gunfire to protect strangers, including members of another religious community, without hesitation and without calculation.

Have we, in recent memory, seen a clearer reminder that no group is monolithic? That no religion, race, or nation can be reduced to its worst representatives? That Islam can be invoked as a pretext for horror, or lived as a shield for others?

Whoever Saves One Life

Chris Mims, New South Wales premier, visits with Ahmed Al-Ahmed.

In the days that followed, public gratitude poured in. Political leaders visited Ahmed in hospital. Fundraisers raised extraordinary sums (over a million dollars, it is said) to support his recovery and his family. Officials credited his intervention with saving lives.

For Muslims, the value of a life saved is not dependent on that person’s faith, character, nationality or identity, for Allah tells us in the Quran:

“Whoever saves one life, it is as if he has saved the lives of all humankind.” (Quran 5:32)

This is especially true when you save a stranger. By saving the life of someone you don’t know, you have symbolically saved the life of anyone and everyone. Ahmed Al-Ahmed, therefore, saved my life and yours, as well as that of everyone else in the world.

Let’s Choose Our Own Heroes

This is an age when Western entertainment culture is relentless in shaping our imagination of heroism, trying to force its own imprint onto our brains. The hero is a mythical Norse god wielding lightning, a billionaire playboy in an iron suit, a Superman wrapped in red, white, and blue. These figures are entertaining, but they are not moral templates.

We already have heroes.

At the dawn of Islam, we have the sahabah. Hamzah ibn AbdulMuttalib at Badr. Nusaibah bint Kaab, Musab bin Umair and Talhah bin Ubaidullah at Uhud. Salman al-Farisi, Ali ibn Abi Talib, and Hudhaifah ibn al-Yaman at Khandaq. And any others. Men and women whose courage was inseparable from humility, restraint, and devotion to Allah and His Messenger.

In the modern age, we must choose our heroes as well. Not from movie screens or marketing campaigns, but from real human beings who act rightly when it costs them dearly.

Ahmed al-Ahmed is one such hero. No, I’m not comparing him to the sahabah. But we do not live in the time of the sahabah. We live in an age of runaway technology, overhwelming mass media, and widespread oppression and corruption. We must laud our heroes when they appear.

Ahmed is not a hero because he is flawless. Again, I know little about his personal relgious convictions. He is a hero because, in one decisive moment, he chose other poeople’s lives over his own safety, conscience over calculation, and mercy over self-preservation.

Sources

• • ABC News (Australia)
    Interviews with Ahmed al-Ahmed’s father Mohamed Fateh al-Ahmed regarding the events at Bondi Beach, Ahmed’s injuries, and his motivations.

  • News.com.au
    Reporting on Ahmed al-Ahmed’s background, injuries, surgeries, and public response following the Bondi Beach attack.

  • NSW Police Force Media Releases
    Official statements on the Bondi Beach public place shooting, timeline of events, and police intervention.

  • The Guardian (Australia)
    Coverage of the Bondi Beach attack, investigation details, and confirmation of the attackers’ identities.

  • SBS News (Australia)
    Reporting on Ahmed al-Ahmed’s medical condition, recovery, and statements attributed to family members.

  • Al Araby Television Network
    Interview with Ahmed’s cousin Mustafa al-Asaad describing Ahmed’s actions as a humanitarian act and a matter of conscience.

Related:

A War Hero Comes For Taraweeh – The Remarkable Story Of Hajjah Hasna al-Hariri

Do You Know These Heroes of Eid?

The post Ahmed al-Ahmed and the Meaning of Courage appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Laziness and lack of passion, combined with the rise of artificial intelligence (AI), will be the bane of our Ummah’s existence. Short-form media that constantly fires our synapses for that feel-good chemical, catering to limited attention spans, has taken over our lives. This has narrowed our chances of passing the ultimate test of the dunya.

In Islamic tradition, the Dajjal is described not only as a figure of physical trial, but as a master of deception, illusion, and confusion, someone who blurs the line between truth and falsehood until people no longer know what to trust. Whistleblowers are dismissed as conspiracy theorists, seemingly Islamic videos microdose incorrect information to slowly make people question their faith, and scholars are categorized as extremists. The Dajjal will not be as apparent as many of us are falsely led to think. With the onslaught of microtrends, mainstream fashion, popularized language, and made-up ideologies, deception is already infiltrating our minds, not through force, but through familiarity, convenience, and constant exposure.

How Deep Has This Deception Sunk In? 

It has become increasingly difficult to hold onto our faith in this day and age, as foretold to be a sign of the end of time. As narrated by Anas ibn Malik , the Prophet said:

“A time of patience will come to people in which adhering to one’s religion is like grasping a hot coal.” [Sunan al-Tirmidhī 2260, Sahih (authentic) according to Al-Albani]

With the world changing so rapidly, Islam can sometimes feel centuries behind in its practices. Determining what is halal and haram, and what is permissible in interactions, dealings, and research, can make Islam seem more rigid than it truly is. While endless information is available with a few clicks, the more advanced technology becomes, the less informed people seem to be. 

AI Videos and the Threat of Misinformation 

AI has been in development long before its public release. Now, with common citizens having access to powerful technologies, it is increasingly difficult to discern what is real. Globally, this poses threats to security, sincerity, and solidarity. Fake pictures and videos can deceive the untrained eye and spread misinformation rapidly. Recently, videos of sheikhs, muftis, and scholars have been scrutinized for questionable statements. Short clips of muftis giving fatwas without proper evidence have become popular among those who lack deep knowledge of Islamic Fiqh. Comments often show confusion and doubt, highlighting the need for proper understanding.

“Relying solely on what we see, instead of belief grounded in authentic teachings, contradicts Islamic principles.” [PC: Aerps.com (unsplash)]

 As AI improves, individuals are creating videos of prominent leaders and spreading them as if the scholars themselves produced them. Earlier this year, an AI-altered clip of Sheikh Dr Abdur Rahman Al-Sudais circulated widely, spreading biased misinformation. Even after being debunked, the confusion persisted, demonstrating how easily trust can be eroded. The General Presidency for Religious Affairs at the Two Holy Mosques released a statement confirming the clip was false, underscoring the scale of the problem. 

This illustrates a severe unity and media literacy problem within the Ummah. Many Muslims turn against one another online, often prioritizing personal validation over seeking truth. Relying solely on what we see, instead of belief grounded in authentic teachings, contradicts Islamic principles. Being knowledgeable in deen should not negate being competent in understanding the world around us. Proper understanding of religion requires awareness of modern technologies and media, as well as the tools to critically assess information. 

The Rise of “Sheikh GPT” and AI Misguidance 

AI is increasingly being used as a resource for Islamic guidance. Columbia Journalism reported that AI models provided incorrect answers to more than 60 per cent of queries (Columbia Journalism, 2025). These systems can offer biased, speculative, or incorrect responses. Many people unfamiliar with scholars turn to conversational AI for religious advice, believing they are receiving reliable guidance. 

Religious questions, especially nuanced ones, require consultation with scholars, muftis, or sheikhs. Classical knowledge involves research, evidence, and context, often unavailable online. The preservation of Islamic knowledge was never casual or convenient. Scholars of hadith would travel for months, sometimes years, to verify a single narration, carefully examining chains of transmission, the character of narrators, and the consistency of reports. Imam al-Bukhari is reported to have memorized hundreds of thousands of narrations, accepting only a fraction after rigorous scrutiny, prayer, and verification. Knowledge was earned through discipline, sacrifice, and accountability, not instant answers or surface-level familiarity.

AI cannot replace the depth of human scholarship or the oral traditions through which Islam has historically been transmitted. Old manuscripts, parchments, and other sources of wisdom are not accessible to AI, which only draws from online content. While AI may provide answers to simple questions, it encourages habits of shallow engagement, diminishing the practice of active research and reflection. 

Digital Manipulation and Contextual Misuse 

Creators who are not knowledgeable about Islam often take ayahs, hadith, and practices out of context to produce viral content. These clips spread quickly, often with inflammatory captions, provoking outrage rather than informed discussion. A 2025 UNESCO report described AI-generated content as creating a “crisis of knowing,” making it difficult for users to distinguish authentic from fabricated material (UNESCO, 2025). 

This is particularly dangerous for religious content. AI-manipulated videos of respected scholars, like the case of Sheikh Dr Al-Sudais, demonstrate how quickly misinformation can erode trust. AI models are often seen as convenient conversationalists, but they lack accountability, depth, and the ability to interpret religious context, nuance, and jurisprudential principles. Overreliance on these tools fosters a “copy-paste” mentality and encourages superficial engagement with Islam. 

The Role of AI in Surveillance and Control 

The concept of AI itself is not inherently bad. AI has many legitimate applications in research, organization, and efficiency. However, with it increasingly used directly against Muslims, including in surveillance, data tracking, and social monitoring, we must approach it with caution. Reliance on AI can subtly condition compliance and make us more receptive to the tricks of the Dajjal. It is no longer merely a tool for convenience; it has become an instrument of influence and control that can weaken spiritual and communal resilience. 

Returning to Authentic Learning of Islam

“Deep engagement with the deen is essential to develop discernment, patience, and spiritual strength.” [PC: Ishan-Seefromthesky (unsplash)]

The solution begins with dedicating time to formal Islamic education or, at the very least, setting aside daily periods to study directly from scholars, classical books, and verified sources. Learning Islam cannot be outsourced to algorithms or unverified online creators. Deep engagement with the deen is essential to develop discernment, patience, and spiritual strength. This knowledge must be complemented by digital literacy so that we can critically assess the content we encounter online. 

Patience and discernment are essential. The Prophet ﷺ warned that a time would come when holding firmly to one’s religion would be like grasping a burning coal, a trial that demands endurance, clarity, and restraint (Jamiʿ al-Tirmidhi, no. 2260). Critical thinking, verification, and measured responses are necessary to avoid deception. Knowledge of both deen and dunya is crucial. Understanding Islamic teachings while being aware of modern communication methods, digital influence, and misinformation allows the Ummah to protect its faith and its community.

AI is not inherently evil, but when misused, it becomes a tool of confusion, division, and doubt. The responsibility falls on each of us to seek knowledge actively, question critically, and prioritize authenticity over convenience. The Dajjal may not appear in the form we expect. His influence may already be present, infiltrating minds subtly.

Yet the remedy remains steadfast: patience, authentic knowledge, and unwavering commitment to Islam. 

 

Related:

– The Promise of SAIF: Towards a Radical Islamic Futurism

– [Podcast] Man 2 Man: How Social Media Is Killing Your Imaan

The post AI And The Dajjal: Why We Need To Value Authentic Islamic Knowledge In An Age Of Convincing Deception appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Deek shows his family the Saghir Building, reveals a great surprise for Faraz, and confronts his own mission during a heartfelt picnic.

Previous Chapters: 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 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28| Part 29 | Part 30  | Part 31

* * *

“Every being on earth is bound to perish. Only your Lord Himself, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain.”
– Surat Ar-Rahman, 26-27

A New World

The next morning Deek woke up newly born, as if he’d fallen through the black depths of the river, passed through an underground tunnel, and risen into a new world where the sun shone, he was loved, and miracles happened every day.

Of course, he realized, that was how the world had always been. He simply hadn’t appreciated it as he did now.

He was still weak from his near-death experience, and at moments felt like his legs might not hold him up. But he was back with his family. Sunlight the color of egg yolks streamed in through the windows, bathing his skin and warming him, as if to remind him that there was more than one kind of natural flow, and that life went on. Looking out of the window, he saw Marco’s incredible sculpture hovering in the front yard like a sign of unimaginable things to come.

Bagila bil-Dihin

Rania and the girls were still asleep. Deek padded into the kitchen in his pajamas and slippers, and started pulling ingredients out of the pantry and fridge. A half hour later he’d prepared bagila bil-dihin, a slightly heavy Iraqi breakfast dish consisting of fried eggs over broad beans and soaked pita bread, topped with hot oil. Alongside it, he prepared thin-sliced Hollandaise cheese, black olives, a few sweet pastries he’d found in the fridge and warmed up, and fresh dates.

The girls trickled out, awakened by the smell of the food, and helped him set the table, and Rania came out last, rubbing her eyes.

“MashaAllah ya Deek,” Rania said. “You made breakfast for a queen.”

“And you are that queen?”

“Obviously.”

“How do you know it was me?” Deek said. “It might have been the girls.”

“Sanaya would have made a vegetarian omelette, and Amira would have heated up a frozen bean burrito.”

“Whatever Mom,” Amira objected. “It’s not my fault nobody taught me to cook.”

“I could never tear you away from the video games long enough to learn.”

Ah yes, Deek thought. I’m definitely home again.

As they ate, Rania kept reaching out to caress Deek’s shoulder, or rub his back. It was odd but sweet.

After breakfast he said, “I need help. I’m not feeling all the way back to normal strength, but I need to check out of the hotel and bring my stuff home.”

“Good idea,” Sanaya said. “It’s about time you checked out of that palatial dreamland.”

“Is it a palatial dreamland?” Rania asked. “I’ve never seen it.”

Wacky Symbolism

“I have another favor to ask,” Deek said. “I want to invite our friends and family to a picnic at Lost Lake Park. And my office staff too. It will be catered, but I want to ask them to bring potluck dishes as well.”

“What office staff?” Rania asked, and Deek saw that sharpness again, that sense of being excluded.

“You’ll see. I’ll take you there.”

“At Lost Lake?” Sanaya said incredulously.

Amira smiled. “That’s a bad-ass power move. A picnic on the spot where you died.”

“He didn’t die,” Rania said firmly. “And don’t say ass.”

Amira giggled at this. “You just said it, Mom.”

“Sanaya,” Deek said. “Could you organize it with one of those online event organizers? And mail invitation cards too?”

“You should ask Amira. She’s the event organization whiz. All our friends ask her to organize their birthday parties.”

“I had no idea.”

An Uninvited Guest

The doorbell rang, interrupting Deek’s last few bites. He found a 20ish Arab-looking brother standing there, holding a plastic portfolio case. He was the color of cafe au lait, with curly black hair and an off-the-rack suit.

“As-salamu alaykum akhi,” the man began, and continued in Arabic, asking Deek if he was Mr. Saghir, the wealthy investor.

Deek held up a hand and spoke in English. “I don’t know you, and I didn’t invite you here. If you have a proposal, contact my finance manager, Zakariyya Abdul Ghani. Don’t come here again.” He shut the door, even as the guy was trying to speak.

He was barely at the table when the doorbell rang again. Anger rose inside him like a volcano as he strode to the door. “Habibi,” Rania called in alarm. “Take it easy.”

Flinging the door open, Deek seized the man’s shirt in two hands and took a step forward, causing the man to stumble and pinwheel his arms. “Get away from my door,” Deek hissed, “before I call the police.” He shoved, and the man fell to the ground, just missing Marco’s sculpture. The portfolio opened, and papers scattered across the lawn. Deek felt guilty, but held his ground, even as the man rose, collected his papers and began to curse him, telling him he was not a real Muslim, and that Allah would make him suffer.

When he was back at the table, his face as dark as a thundercloud, Rania said, “That happens sometimes. I usually just keep the door locked.”

“We can’t live like that. Contact your contractor, and tell them to build a wall around the house, with a secure gate. Tell him it’s a top priority.”

Rania nodded. “I’ll do it today. We can’t have you tussling with strangers on the doorstep.” Deek shot her a sharp glance, thinking she was rebuking him, but her gentle smile said otherwise.

The Venetian Suite

Before they left the house, Deek pulled Rania aside. “Honey, are you sure you don’t want to stay home and rest? The girls told me how much your back has been hurting.”

She patted his chest. “It’s the weirdest thing. Since I dove into the river and saved your life, I haven’t had the slightest twinge of pain.”

That’s because you traded the pain, Deek thought, for the right to remind me for the rest of our lives that you saved my life. But he didn’t say this out loud, for she truly had saved his life, and had earned the right to say so.

* * *

As Deek drove, Rania continued reaching out and touching his shoulder. Finally he glanced at her and raised his eyebrows.

Rania blushed. “You’re so handsome now. I think you’re in better shape than when we met.”

What he saw in her gaze made Deek blush as well, and he returned his eyes to the road.

A half hour later the family stood in the living room of Deek’s suite at the Marco Polo hotel. Rania walked slowly around the suite, marveling at the size, the designer furniture and the Venetian decor.

“No wonder you didn’t want to come home,” she said. She walked to the bed, shed her shoes and climbed in. “I could get used to this. When is it paid until?”

Deek followed her and sat on the edge of the bed. “I did so want to come home,” he insisted. “Anyway, it’s paid for another three days.”

“Does it come with free breakfast?”

“Yes. I usually ate in the room. Sometimes they’d set it up on the balcony for me.”

“Really? What would they bring you?”

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Deek answered. “Whatever I wanted. Omelets, smoked salmon, avocado, cheese, espresso, fruit. Once they got to know my tastes they started bringing me shakshuka, fresh mango, berries, Turkish coffee.”

Rania sat up in the bed. “No donuts?”

Deek winced, understanding the barb: you enjoyed all this, while I was at home alone and in pain. He shifted nervously. “I don’t eat that stuff anymore. I’ve changed a lot of things.” Forgive me, he meant to say, but let it lie.

“How about if we stay here a few days?”

“But honey,” Deek pleaded. “I’m tired of this place. Lately it feels like a prison. I want to go home.”

Sanaya had already begun packing Deek’s clothing into the two large suitcases they’d brought with them, while Amira sat on the edge of the fountain, letting the water splash off her hand.

“Mom,” Sanaya said, “Why don’t you go soak in the jacuzzi for a while? There are robes in the bathroom. Amira and I will pack, and when we’re done we’ll order room service for lunch.”

“There’s a jacuzzi?” Rania brightened at that and slipped off into the bathroom. Sanaya gave Deek a wink. “Mom deserves a little pampering,” she said. “You don’t have to give her the moon and the stars. Just a little luxury for a day.”

Deek chuckled. When had his daughter become so wise?

The Saghir Building

Just north of a small shopping center near the river, Deek pulled into a parking lot and parked in front of a six story white office building with mirrored windows.

“Where are we?” Rania asked.

The Saghir Building

Deek only smiled. “Come.” Exiting the car, they walked forward into a wide open-air plaza, a welcoming forecourt paved in pale stone and framed by neat rows of olive trees and tall ornamental grasses. A low burbling fountain provided a soft, rhythmic backdrop. The air smelled faintly of rosemary, as someone had planted herbs along the walkway.

Off to one side stood a metal bench, and beside it a large bronze sculpture of several children clustered around an open book, their faces intent, their postures relaxed and natural. The details were exquisite—the folds of clothing, the smooth curve of a child’s cheek, the sense of motion captured in stillness.

Rania pointed at the sculpture. “That’s a Clement Renzi! He was a Fresno sculptor. I’ve seen a few of his pieces at Fresno State and in the Tower District.” She walked her fingers lightly along the edge of a bronze sleeve. “This is a nice space. Whoever owns this building has good taste.”

Sanaya spun in a slow circle, taking it all in.

Amira hopped up onto the low fountain wall and stuck her hand in the water. “Why are we here, Baba? Are we meeting someone?”

Rania turned back toward Deek, smiling but puzzled. “Yes. What is this?”

Deek pointed behind her.

Mounted on a column of black marble, just a few steps from where she stood, was a brushed-steel plaque.

Rania read it aloud:

THE SAGHIR BUILDING
Offices & Executive Suites

She blinked. Then frowned at the plaque. Then at Deek.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why is our name on here?”

Sanaya’s mouth fell open. “No, Baba, really?”

“Really what?” Rania demanded.

“This is legit, Baba,” Amira said.

Rania looked back at Deek. “Did someone dedicate it? Is this a coincidence?”

Deek shook his head softly. “No, honey. We own it.”

Rania’s mouth opened slightly. “We what?”

A Different Reality

“I bought it,” Deek said gently. “Well, technically the family office did. One floor is ours. The other floors are leased to tenants.”

Rania stared at him as if the words were rearranging themselves in the air and refusing to land.

“You bought… a building.” Her voice was faint. “A six-story building.”

“Uh-huh.”

Color drained from her face, not in fear, but in overwhelmed disbelief.

She sank onto the bench, one hand pressed lightly to her cheek. “La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah… I need a moment.”

The girls exchanged a look – half amused, half concerned – and flanked her on the bench.

Rania let out a long breath. “Habibi… I thought you meant an office. A suite. Maybe some desks. She gestured helplessly at the smooth white facade, the mirrored windows, the plaza blooming around them. “Not this.”

Deek sat beside her. “I should have told you earlier. I know that. But I didn’t want to tell you while we were fighting. And then… everything happened at the river.”

Rania covered his hand with both of hers. “Deek… this is enormous.”

Deek made a half apologetic face. “Not really. Commercial real estate is in a slump right now. I got it for only three million. That’s a drop in the bucket.”

“Three million dollars is a drop in the bucket?”

“I get that you’re having trouble adjusting. But I need you to try. Our reality is very different now. This is part of what we need to talk about. There are decisions that need to be made. Anyway, let’s go upstairs.”

She studied his face for a long moment—and finally nodded. “Okay. I’m ready. Show me.”

The girls stood, grinning, and the four of them stepped inside. The lobby smelled faintly of eucalyptus and fresh paint, and the noonday sun sliced in through the wide front windows, reflecting off cream-colored marble tiles. A small waterfall bubbled along one wall, and a receptionist sat behind a sleek walnut desk.

She stood as they approached. “Good morning, Mr. Saghir.” She offered a radiant, professional smile. “Welcome back.”

Rania blinked. “She knows you?”

“We met recently,” the receptionist explained.

“What button do we press?” Amira asked in the elevator.

“Four,” Deek said.

Sanaya frowned. “You’re the owner, you don’t get the top floor?”

“This building had existing renters. Architecture firm on one, medical billing on two, call center on three, law offices on five and six. Four was available so that’s what I took.”

“Wow.” Amira pressed the glowing four with ceremonial reverence. “Baba, you’re like—an actual big shot.”

Deek laughed, embarrassed. “I only have what Allah gave me. It doesn’t make me a big shot. It’s an obligation. It’s important that we understand that.”

Family Office

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened onto a hallway lined with framed black-and-white cityscape photographs. A frosted glass door stood ahead, the lettering elegant and understated:

Saghir Family Office
Private Investments & Philanthropy

Rania put a hand on her hip. “You started a family office without telling your family?”

Deek grimaced, embarrassed. “It evolved very quickly. Even I have only been here twice.”

Inside, the reception area was bright, modern, every design choice intentional. A long teal sofa hugged one wall, beneath a painting of the San Joaquin River at sunset. A coffee table held a bowl of fruit and a wrapped tray with a selection of baklawa.

A mid-twenties African-American woman in a beige hijab stood from her workstation. “Alhamdulillah, you’re well, Mr. Saghir!” Her smile was genuine and warm. “We’ve all been making dua for you. Hi Sanaya, Amira.”

“Naeema?” Sanaya laughed. “You work for my dad now?”

“She’s our administrative coordinator,” Deek said. “She keeps the office from collapsing into chaos, or so I’m told.”

Naeema beamed.

“This is my wife, Rania,” Deek said.

Naeema shook hands graciously. “We’ve met, I don’t know if you remember.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you have time, try the cafeteria downstairs. Your husband switched the menu over to halal Mediterranean food. Everyone loves it, even the other tenants.”

Rania raised an eyebrow at Deek. “Mm-hmm. That’s nice.”

From another office, a young man stepped out—tall, with wire-rim glasses and a short beard. Crisp blue shirt, sleeves rolled up.

“This is Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani,” Deek said. “Our CFO.”

“And admirer of your husband’s ability to perform ten impossible tasks at once,” Zakariyya said with a polite nod. “Sister Rania, it’s wonderful to meet you. The girls too. Deek, we have a few additions to the staff. Do you want to meet them?”

“Not right now. Where’s Marcela?”

“Out scouting. Plus, city inspection on the church property. She said she’ll text with updates.”

Deek nodded, then turned to the family. “Marcela is the real estate director. She wants to buy a lot more commercial property, while prices are low. Anyway, come, I want to show you something.”

Those Whose Hearts Tremble

He led them down a short hallway to another door with frosted glass. The sign read:

Executive Suite — Private

He opened it.

The room was larger than their living room at home, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the slow bend of the San Joaquin River. Sunlight danced across the water and flashed across the polished hardwood floors.

A massive U-shaped desk dominated the center. A second seating area with a plush sofa and armchairs occupied one corner. Bookshelves lined a wall, still mostly empty except for a Qur’an on a stand, a model of a dhow ship, a sculpture of a lion mid-stride, and one of Sanaya’s kindergarten paintings, framed and labeled “Baba #1.”

Rania covered her mouth with her hand.

Amira ran straight to the window. “Baba! You can see the river. Like, the exact part where-” She stopped herself, glancing back at him.

“It’s okay,” Deek said gently. “It’s good to see it from a different angle.”

Rania walked a slow, reverent circle around the office.

“It’s not finished,” Deek said quickly. “Some art still needs hanging. And I want something representing Iraq, and -”

Rania cut him off with a sharp wave. “It’s astonishing.” Yet when she looked at him, her face registered something other than pleasure. “Makes the home office I’m building for you look quaint.”

Deek went to her, took her hand. “No, honey, you’re wrong. The home office is a thousand times more precious to me than all of this. I’ll drop by this office frequently, but I’ll work from the home office.”

“You don’t have to do that, Deek. This is obviously where you belong.”

Deek sighed. “Let’s go to the conference room.”

The conference room was glass-walled and sunlit, with a long walnut table, eight modern chairs, and a Quranic selection – ayahs 2 and 3 of Surat Al-Anfal – framed on the far wall:

“The believers are only those whose hearts tremble at the remembrance of Allah, whose faith increases when His revelations are recited to them, and who put their trust in their Lord. Those who establish prayer and donate from what We have provided for them.”

Quiet Apprehension

They took their seats, the four of them clustered near one end of the long table. Deek pressed a small console button.

A soft chime sounded. “Yes, Mr. Saghir?” Naeema’s voice came through a ceiling speaker.

“Naeema, could we have coffee, water, and a plate of muffins? Whatever’s fresh.”

“Of course. Be there in two minutes.”

Amira slouched comfortably in the chair. “Wow. You can just… call people and ask for muffins.”

Rania gave her a pointed look. “Your father has always been able to ask for muffins. He just never did.”

Deek didn’t even know what that meant, but he let it pass. He looked around at his family. Their faces – all three – showed a quiet apprehension. They felt the seriousness of the moment.

Deek folded his hands on the table. “I don’t think you all grasp how much money we really have. And yes it’s we, not me. Whatever Allah has blessed me with belongs to this family, and to your future children, girls, and their children after them.”

“Okay…” Sanaya tapped on the table with a fingernail. “How much do we have? Millions, right?”

Deek chuckled nervously. “Some of the investments I made just recently have done well. Our net worth now stands at about six hundred million dollars.”

Rania simply sat, wide-eyed. Sanaya whistled. Amira put her hands together, threw them out suddenly and made the sound of an explosion. “Sound – of – mind – blowing,” she said.

Sanaya nodded slowly. “It’s pretty wild.”

“Say alhamdulillah,” Deek reminded them.

“Alhamdulillahi rabbil aalameen,” Rania whispered.

“I wanted to bring you here,” Deek said, “because our lives are changing. And before they change any further, I want us to decide together what that future looks like.”

The girls exchanged a quick look. Rania stared at him steadily.

“Baba,” Sanaya said carefully, “what does that mean?”

Deek gave her a warm, reassuring smile. “It means that everything you’ve worked for still matters. Nothing you’ve done is wasted. Sanaya, you’ve studied hard in pharmacy. You are brilliant. And if you truly want to continue and become a pharmacist, I will support you fully.”

She nodded, though uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

“But,” Deek continued gently, “I want you to know that our reality is different now. You don’t have to work in a pharmacy for the rest of your life. You could own a chain of them. You could build something far bigger than what pharmacy school prepares you for.”

Sanaya looked stunned – not flattered, not dismissive – just stunned.

Amira frowned thoughtfully. “Does that mean… I shouldn’t go into event organizing anymore?”

“No,” Deek said, turning to her. “It means you don’t have to settle for being someone people hire to run their parties. You could own an entire venue. A banquet hall, a wedding garden, a conference center – whatever you dream.”

Amira’s eyes widened. “Own a venue?” She sat straighter. “Actually… that sounds kind of amazing.”

Rania touched Amira’s hand, smiling. “We’ll help you think it through.”

Deek took a breath. “And your mother… I know she’s taken leave from the hospital. And I know she’s exhausted.”

Rania’s eyes softened, but she said nothing.

“I thought,” Deek continued, “she might want to take on something meaningful, something that uses her compassion, her insight, her organizational strength. The family office needs a philanthropic director. Someone to oversee our charitable work, guide big decisions, partner with masajid and relief groups… someone with a heart like hers.”

Rania stared at him for a moment, then looked down, overwhelmed.

“And Sanaya,” Deek added, “you could intern under her. Learn the ropes. Run projects. Continue school if you want, or explore other paths. You’re at the right age to shape something new. I’m not telling you what to do. These are options.”

Sanaya swallowed hard. “This is… a lot.”

“It is,” Deek agreed. “But that’s why I wanted us here. I don’t want what happens next to feel like something happening to you. I want it to be something we build together.”

The New House

“Last thing,” Deek said. We need to talk about the new house.”

“I haven’t even seen it,” Rania stated flatly. “As usual.”

“It’s unfinished. But it’s 50 acres of prime land, with a view of the river. I paid a good chunk of money for it. But I don’t want to move there. The girls say it’s spooky and too far away, and I’m happy in our current house.”

“Fifty acres,” Rania mused, elbows on the table. “I’ve been enjoying the process of building the home office. Learning about the codes, dealing with the architect, all of that. What if I were to finish that house, then we sell it? Could you finance that?”

“Would you really want to take that on?”

“I think it would be fun.”

“Then knock yourself out. Build a mansion, pool, jacuzzi, tennis court, horse stables… Whatever you can dream of. But consult with Marcela, she’ll tell you what features are popular with buyers.”

Rania sat back, smiling.

Stay Grounded

Muffin and latte art

A soft knock came, and Naeema entered with a tray—coffee, tea, water, and a basket of warm muffins. She set them down, smiled, and slipped out. Rania snatched up a muffin and bit into it without hesitation, and the girls followed suit. Still munching, Rania poured coffee for the four of them, her hands steadier now.

“Yummy and hot,” Amira commented.

“And there’s one more thing,” Deek said. “We have properties in San Francisco that need oversight. Someone has to visit occasionally. Check the books, monitor development. Whoever does that will have a driver – I have someone in mind, an amazing driver and bodyguard. I’m just mentioning this because Sanaya, I know you don’t like to drive on the highway, and Amira you don’t have a license yet. To cut to the chase… Long-term, one of you will be running the family business. I’m not choosing who. I want you to grow into it at your own pace.”

The girls looked at each other again—this time not with confusion, but dawning awareness.

“However,” Deek added firmly, “none of this means becoming one of those spoiled rich families who winter in the Caribbean and summer in Europe, and whose hardest decision is which designer outfit to wear.”

Rania raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “Yes. Wouldn’t that be terrible.”

The girls laughed.

Deek squeezed her hand under the table. “I’m serious. We live normally. We stay grounded. We serve Allah. We help people. We stay humble. I’m telling you. My stay at the Venetian didn’t make me happier. I’ve seen what the other side is like – rich and lonely. It’s not pretty.”

Rania leaned back in her chair, her expression softening into something proud and resolute.

Amira reached for another muffin. “So, Baba… what you’re saying is…”

“Yes?”

“We’re leveling up. Like in a video game.”

Deek laughed. “Yes, habibti. But we’ll do it one step at a time. You know what happens when you level up?”

“It gets harder,” Amira said solemnly.

“Right. And stop eating muffins, already.”

Sanaya reached across the table and put a hand on his. Rania laid hers atop Sanaya’s, and Amira slapped hers on top, making her mother grimace.

For the first time since the river, Deek felt wholly, completely steady. The future was no longer something to fear. It was something they would walk into together.

Bengal Beanz

That evening, Deek texted Faraz.

Can you meet for coffee? I’ll pick you up.

Faraz replied immediately: Of course, akhi. I am ready.

When Deek pulled up, Faraz climbed into the passenger seat, brushing bits of rice off his shirt and adjusting his crown-style kufi.

“Where we going?” he asked.

“You’ll see.”

When they pulled into the parking lot of a newly renovated café called Bengal Beanz, Faraz leaned forward, studying the freshly painted sign depicting a Bengali tiger wearing round spectacles, reading a book while sipping a steaming mug of coffee.

Faraz grinned. “Ahh, Bengali pride! This used to be Fresno Roast, akhi. I guess they go out of business. But look! Bengali tiger and book. Now this is respectable coffee shop.” He chuckled, pleased.

Inside, they found themselves at the tail end of a long line, but the assistant manager behind the counter – a short, thin blonde woman who looked like she ran marathons – spotted them and waved. “Evening, Mr. Saghir!”

Faraz raised his eyebrows. “The barista know you? You coming here a lot?” He looked around. The place was packed, nearly all the tables occupied, mostly with young hipsters and college students, some working busily on their laptops.

Studying the menu, Faraz winced. “Seven dollar for coffee? Astaghfirullah. How a college student pay that? When I am in college I live on rice and dried lentils that I pick up from the street.”

Deek gave his friend a skeptical look. He very much doubted that Faraz had collected lentils from the street. He seemed to remember that Faraz’s father was an official in the Bangladeshi foreign ministry.

“Don’t worry,” Deek said. “I invited you, remember? It’s my treat.”

“Even so… We could have free coffee in the masjid kitchen, like old days. You remember After Isha we sit and talk crypto for hours, and eat those French cookies you like.” Then, embarrassed, he cleared his throat. “I mean, I forget you are… you know.” He waved vaguely. “Rich now. But still. Wasting money is wasting money.”

Deek smiled. “You should be glad so many people are willing to pay seven dollars for a coffee.”

“Why you say that?”

“It’s money in your pocket.”

“What pocket we talking?”

Instead of answering, Deek pointed to an item on the menu. A stylized tiger paw print labeled a specialty blend:

Bandarban Arabica — Bright, Floral, Single-Origin

Faraz leaned in, incredulous. “Bandarban? Is a district in Bangladesh! How they get beans from my homeland all the way here?” He slapped the counter. “Okay, I take that one! With hazelnut syrup.”

Deek ordered a Turkish latte for himself.

They took their drinks to a small corner table. Steam curled upward; the shop hummed with quiet conversation and soft instrumental music.

Rough Time

“So,” Deek said, blowing over his cup, “how are you doing, akhi?”

Faraz sipped his coffee. “Unbelievable! Is real Bangladeshi coffee. Is like I am home again. Really blowing to my mind.”

“I asked how you are doing.”

Faraz waved a hand. “Fine, fine.”

“No.” Deek touched his friend’s arm. “I really want to know.”

Faraz hesitated, cleared his throat. “Rough time. I lose all my savings in crypto. Not only crypto but bank savings. We sell one of the cars. I have to convince my wife to move to one bedroom apartment. With three kids, imagine? But rent is killing us. Masjid Madinah don’t pay that much, you know. I been doing handyman jobs… whatever comes. Alhamdulillah for everything, but…” His voice cracked. “Is been hard.”

Deek frowned. “Have you actually moved yet?”

“No. Looking for cheap place.”

Deek nodded. “You should hold off on that.”

“Hold what?”

“I mean, don’t move.”

“Why? We can’t afford -”

“Come with me.”

They went through a door marked Employees Only as the barista gave Deek a knowing smile. Walking down a short corridor, they stepped into the small manager’s office.

Partners

Faraz stopped dead.

Two framed photographs hung on the wall, side by side. One showed Deek, smiling and holding a steaming mug beneath the Bengal Beanz sign. The other was a photo of Faraz, taken at a masjid barbeque, laughing with a half-burnt skewer in hand. Each photo had a plaque beneath it.

DEEK SAGHIR — Partner
FARAZ AHMED — Managing Partner

Faraz stared. His lips parted. His throat bobbed. “Akhi,” he whispered. “What… what is this?”

Deek placed a hand on his shoulder. “This shop is yours and mine. I invested, but you run the place and we split the profits. My people have looked over the books. This place is a money machine. You can pay yourself a salary of one hundred K per year to start. Honestly, when you’re ready we could open a second location and double your salary.”

Faraz only stared. “One hundred what? Dollars? Per day?”

“No, my friend,” Deek said gently. “One hundred thousand dollars per year. I’m trying to tell you, this place is yours. We’re co-owners. Both of our names are on the deed.”

Faraz covered his face with both hands as tears came. Soft at first, then shaking. Deek stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

“You deserve this, brother,” Deek said. “You dedicated your life to caring for the masjid and the people there. Now it’s your turn.”

When Faraz finally calmed, Deek guided him gently into the manager’s chair.

“Try it,” Deek said softly. “Get comfortable.”

Faraz obeyed hesitantly, like someone touching a dream that might evaporate. He sank into the chair, palms flat on the desk, staring around the small office.

“When you’re ready,” Deek told him, “the assistant manager will teach you everything—inventory, payroll, scheduling, espresso machines. You’ll pick it up fast.”

Faraz nodded, unable to speak. Deek let himself out quietly, closing the door behind him.

Lift As You Climb

Walking back through the plaza, Deek felt a lump grow in his own throat. It hit him suddenly, sharply, like a slap to the chest: If not for the insane, impossible moonshot of the New York Killa coin—if not for that miracle that set everything else in motion – he would have been where Faraz was now. Overworked, broke and ashamed. Still sitting in that stifling closet, the little fan trying to keep him cool, eating too much junk food and losing money. Fighting with Rania, losing the respect of his family.

Allah had saved him from all of that. SubhanAllah, alhamdulillah. He had no illusions about that. Of course he had worked very, very hard, but nothing happens without the help and will of Allah. He never could have imagined the life he had now.

Faraz had been his partner in a way. The two of them had hung out almost every night, sharing strategies and knowledge. So what kind of man would Deek be if he didn’t share his good fortune with his partner?

November Evans

What had the driver said? November Evans, the fierce little bodyguard who took down a whole squad of North Korean soldiers single-handed. “Lift as you climb. As you progress in life, as you climb the ladder, you bring your people with you. You don’t leave them behind. You lift them up along with you.”

This was why Allah had saved him, and he must never forget it. He whispered under his breath as he stepped into the cooling Fresno night. “Ya Allah, let me be worthy.”

Lost Lake

One week later, Lost Lake Park was alive with people and food and laughter. The air smelled of pine sap and grilling meat. Two halal food trucks and a dessert truck were parked side by side beneath the trees, their windows open, their griddles hissing. A sign on each read, “Free food while it lasts.”

In addition, nearly everyone had brought food, and a wide variety of Arab, American and Pakistani food was laid out on two picnic tables, along with a multitude of desserts.

A handmade banner strung between two trunks read:

WELCOME, FRIENDS & FAMILY
Potluck Picnic – Lost Lake

Amira had chosen the font and colors herself, and it showed; even the little doodled stars around the edges looked professional.

There were about forty people in all. When Deek and his family first arrived, he walked to the edge of the river and gazed out, spotting the overhanging tree branch he’d strapped himself to, until he slipped and fell beneath the water. And there, just downstream, where the river was as wide as an anaconda’s mouth, and as dark as a desperate man’s thoughts, was where Rania must have found him, drowning and essentially dead, not knowing who he was, or at which point in time he existed.

It was astounding that she’d found him underwater in a pitch-black river on a dark night. It was not coincidence or luck. Deek no longer believed in such things. It was Divine providence. It was Allah saying, “Go back to the living for now. I have things in mind for you.”

The ground still bore the tracks of emergency vehicles. He jerked in surprise as someone touched his shoulder, but it was Rania.

“That was a moment,” she said, “that has passed, and will not return. Everything that happens is a barakah if it teaches you something. Turn around.” She grasped his shoulders and turned him to face the lively picnic. “All these people are here because they care about you. They’re not here for the free food. They would have come without that. They’re here for you.”

Deek nodded, shaking off the ghosts of yesterday, and of the more distant past. He gave his wife a hug, then pulled back. “Your back still doesn’t hurt?”

Rania shook her head. “Not a twinge. I can’t explain it.”

“Alhamdulillah. Let’s not look a gift back in the spine.”

Rania laughed. “That doesn’t even make sense.” She took his hand. “Come on, let’s talk to your guests.”

They moved from group to group hugging people, trading jokes, accepting duas and well-wishes. Every plate of food, every smile, felt like a small, shining proof that he was still alive.

Walk With Me

Lubna and her husband sat on a blanket, hats pulled over their eyes, napping. Their kids were under a pop-up canopy with Zaid Karim, Safaa, Hajar and Anna, the gaggle of kids playing and occasionally running to the food trucks, while Zaid and Safaa talked quietly and stuffed themselves with heaping plates of food.

Marco held court at a picnic table with Naeema, Marcela, Zakariyya, and a few of the other family office staff, arguing cheerfully about how monetary policy would affect the price of gold, and whether BRICS would displace the dollar in international trade. Tariq and his wife were sitting with Imam Saleh, probably talking about the Seerah of the Prophet (s), or the lives of the Sahabah. A group of Rania’s nursing friends chatted in the shade, and Rania stayed to talk to them while Deek moved on.

Faraz’s wife Saadiyah and their three kids sat at one of the picnic tables eating, but Faraz was not there. He was at Bengal Beanz, no doubt. He was taking the job very seriously, putting in a lot of work. Saadiyah had already come to Deek’s house once, bringing multiple platters of food, sobbing and thanking him. It had been extremely awkward. He waved, but gave them a wide berth and walked on.

A knot of teenage girls—Sanaya’s and Amira’s friends—hovered around the drinks cooler, laughing at something on a phone. Deek waved to them and walked on.

He spotted Zaid. He’d left his group and was wandering around, scanning the area, looking more like a security guard than a guest. Deek caught up with him.

“Come walk with me a bit,” Deek said quietly.

Lost Lake Park, Fresno

They strolled around the perimeter of the picnic. There was a Hispanic family sitting at a nearby picnic table: a young couple, an older white-haired woman with a cane, and three kids lying on a nearby blanket, looking bored. Deek noticed the envious glances they cast toward the larger group. He approached them.

“Hi guys, how’s it going?”

“Hey, good, wassup?” the father said. He was muscular, with thick black hair and a white brimmed hat, and dressed in what Deek sometimes thought of as a Chicano outfit – baggy shorts, white t-shirt under an oversized flannel shirt, white knee-high socks and white sneakers.

“My name’s Deek.” He gestured. “That’s my party.”

“Is it your birthday?” the young mother asked.

“I almost drowned in the river right there.” He pointed. “My wife saved me. I guess I’m celebrating being alive.”

The Hispanic family made surprised sounds. “Our lady of angels, Mary, mother of Jesus, saved you,” the grandma said.

Deek smiled, not wanting to debate the issue. “Anyway, the food trucks are free. No cost at all. Why don’t you go over and get something? If anyone asks, tell them Deek said it’s okay.”

“Dude, that’s what’s up,” the father said. “God bless you, man.” The kids dashed toward the food trucks while the mother helped the grandma onto her feet. Deek and Zaid walked on.

“Zaid,” Deek said. “I haven’t forgotten what you did. You risked your life for me. You’ve been there for me in a lot of ways, and you never asked for anything.”

“Actually,” Zaid said, grinning. “I asked for my daily fee plus expenses. You gave me a whole lot more.”

“I gave you nothing,” Deek said firmly. “Nothing like you deserved. If you ever need anything at all, you call me. I mean that.”

Zaid smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “It’s the other way around, big man. You’re carrying a boulder now. If you need anything, you call me. Day or night.” He tapped Deek’s chest. “That’s what family is for.”

Moved, Deek pulled his savior and friend into a hug.

Shoulder to Shoulder

From the middle of the meadow where the picnic was going on, a clear voice rose, calling the adhaan for Dhuhr, the sound threading through the trees. Conversations faded. Some of the teenagers fell quiet mid-laugh. Deek and Zaid hurried to join. Imam Saleh stepped forward to lead salat on a flat patch of grass the youth had cleared. Men and women lined up. Picnic blankets became ad-hoc prayer rugs.

Deek found himself shoulder to shoulder with Marco in the first row.

“Allahu akbar,” Imam Saleh called, and the jama’ah followed suit.

Deek raised his hands and felt the familiar settling that came with the opening takbir. Beside him, Marco did the same. When they bowed together in ruku, Deek’s eyes stung unexpectedly. How many times had he and Marco sat in dingy apartments or greasy spoons, arguing about God, meaning, randomness, the cruelty of the world? And now here they stood, shoulder to shoulder, foreheads touching the same patch of earth for the sake of the same Lord.

When Deek recited, “Alhamdulillahi rabbil-aalameen,” the words hit hard. There was so much to be grateful for.

After the salat, the lines dissolved. Kids sprinted away, and young men began organizing teams for a soccer game. Someone produced a ball, and someone else laid out makeshift goals using folding chairs.

Still Got It

“Deek!” Tariq called. “You’re on my team!”

Deek laughed and joined in. At first he jogged cautiously, worried that his lungs or legs might give out. But as the game went on, he found himself cutting, feinting, even managing a decent sprint as he drove the ball before him, finally passing it to Zakariyyah, who shot a clean goal.

The youth cheered as Deek and Zakariyya jogged away with arms raised, Deek nearly tripping over a tree root but staying upright.

“Still got it, Baba!” Sanaya called.

“Barely,” he panted, grinning.

After twenty minutes his chest burned pleasantly and sweat cooled on the back of his neck. He waved himself off the field, wandered to the edge of the clearing and sank down with his back against a broad oak. The bark pressed solidly between his shoulder blades. Above, leaves whispered in soft conversation. The scents of grilled meat and fried onions drifted over on the breeze. In the distance he saw Imam Saleh sitting with the Hispanic family, eating and chatting.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

Dream Visitors

He was still under the tree when he opened them again. The light had changed. The sky above was deeper, an almost-indigo blue, and the edges of the world felt too sharp, too crisp. The children’s shouts had faded to a distant hum.

Someone sat down on his right.

He turned and saw a small, thin woman in a plain wool garment, her face lined but luminous, eyes dark and unwavering. It was his ancestor and conscience, Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah, the great saint and ascetic. On his left, in a beach chair, Queen Latifah lounged in a sweatsuit and sneakers, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of cold apple juice in her hand.

Deek huffed a laugh. “Long time no see.”

Queen Latifah tilted her head. “You’ve been busy, baby.”

On his right, Rabiah watched him with a gaze that seemed to look straight through his skin and bones. She spoke softly, her voice carrying like the river. “Kullu man alayha fan, wa yabqa wajhu rabbika dhul -jalali wal-ikram.”

He knew these ayahs from Surat Ar-Rahman: “Every being on earth is bound to perish. Only your Lord, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain.”

Rabiah said nothing else. She didn’t need to. Her silence weighed more than any lecture. In her eyes he saw a white, six-story building crumbling, phones going dark, bank accounts erased like chalk in the rain. He saw graves closing over the richest and the poorest alike. He saw the river, black and cold, and the moment when nothing mattered except the state of a man’s heart with his Lord.

Queen Latifah gave a low chuckle. “Sister Rabiah be hittin’ you with the heavy truth,” she said. “But she’s right. All that paper?” She flicked her fingers, scattering imaginary bills. “What sticks is love and charity.”

She leaned back against the tree, took a slow sip of her juice, and added, “It don’t mean you can’t enjoy a little mac n’ cheese. We’ll always be here for you, dog.”

Deek blinked, and woke.

A thin line of drool dampened his cheek. The football game raged on in front of him, the shouts of youth rolling across the field. He pushed himself upright, stretching his back. After a moment, he rose and scanned the clearing.

He found Tariq seated beneath a cottonwood tree near the water, earbuds in, gently rocking as he listened to Qur’an recitation on his phone and repeated the ayaat under his breath.

“Hey,” Deek said, approaching.

Tariq pulled out one earbud. “As-salamu alaykum, brother.”

“Wa alaykum as-salam.” Deek paused. “Did you bring any of that mac n’ cheese?”

Tariq grinned proudly. “You’re a man on a mission, aren’t you?”

Deek chuckled. Then his expression softened, thoughtful, as if considering the words more deeply. “I suppose I am.”

THE END

***

Author’s Note: I broke into tears when I wrote the words, “The End.” It’s not that I was sad. Just that I’ve been writing this book since April. I pour my heart into my work, I lose sleep, I dream about it, I think about it all the time. So that moment of culmination, when the project is realized, is emotional.  I feel that Deek is on a good path from here. I don’t think he will be corrupted by his wealth, for he will always have his ancestor Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah in his dreams, reminding him of what matters. Even if he were to somehow lose all the money, I think he’d be okay. There won’t be a sequel to this book, but there will be more Zaid Karim novels inshaAllah, so we may well see how Deek’s life progresses through that lens. I hope you enjoyed this book. If anything in it benefited you, make dua’ for me and my family. I appreciate your loyalty as readers. You mean a lot to me. Jazakum Allah khayr.

 

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:

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

Breakfast With The Khans [Act One] – A Play

 

The post Moonshot [Part 32] – FINAL CHAPTER: A Man On A Mission appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Across the country, Muslim Student Associations (MSAs) are facing a coordinated wave of harassment.

Non-student provocateurs are showing up unannounced to campus events, filming students while they pray, mocking their faith, and disrupting peaceful gatherings. In some cases, these incidents have escalated into violence and desecration of a copy of the Qur’an.

CAIR has received reports of individuals deliberately tracking MSA events online and appearing in person to provoke fear.

This is not spontaneous; it’s organized. Their tactics – cameras, confrontation, heckling – are designed to pressure Muslim students into retreating from campus life.

These agitators’ goal is to provoke and intimidate young Muslims and make them feel vulnerable in their own academic spaces.

But here’s the reality: Muslim students are not helpless; they are not alone; and they will not be intimidated.

Resilience is in our DNA.

American Muslims have endured hostility before in the form of social and political pressure, discrimination, and exclusion. History shows a consistent trend that efforts to silence us only strengthen our resolve.

As Muslim students stand up for their safety and rights with the support of MSA National and national organizations, including CAIR, universities also have an important responsibility to protect them from harassment, safeguard religious freedom, and ensure that campuses remain spaces for learning, not intimidation.

This moment requires action. That’s why CAIR issued a letter recently to over 2,000 colleges and universities across America to take concrete steps to protect Muslim students.

In addition to action, Muslims rely on our faith in these times. It teaches patience under pressure, dignity in the face of mockery, and perseverance when others attempt to undermine our confidence.

Throughout Islamic history, many Muslim leaders and scholars have faced ridicule and harassment, yet remained steadfast and principled. No example is more evident of this than the example of our beloved Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.

The trials we face today cannot compare to the hardships he ﷺ endured. In the darkest moments, he ﷺ was strengthened through divine guidance and unwavering purpose.

And Palestinians have reminded the world during every day of Israel’s genocide, that this spirit of resilience lives on in today’s generation of Muslims.

The fact is that these coordinated disruptions aren’t targeting weakness – they’re targeting strength. Detractors fear a generation of American Muslims who are confident in their identity, visible in public spaces, and active in civic life.

Muslim candidates successfully sweeping races to serve in public office have predictably unleashed a new tide of Islamophobia, and the coordinated campaign of harassment on campuses is one symptom of this wave of hate bias.

To Muslim students, these agitators fear your conviction. Your power. Your unity. They fear the past that doesn’t define your ambitions, and the future leadership you promise.

That fear says more about them than it ever will about you.

Your choices are not theirs to make.

Your education is not theirs to exploit.

And your faith is not a liability for them to pry away from you.

You have every right to gather, organize, pray, and lead. Ignorance, hate, and bigotry will not win.

Your presence – both on campus, and here in America – is not an intrusion. It is a gift, a promise, and a contribution to a brighter future for our country.

Our hardships don’t define us; how we rise through them is what shapes the core of our identity.

Don’t cancel your activities. Take precautions, be vigilant, but stay active and keep organizing.

Support and uplift one another. Build and strengthen alliances with other student groups and interfaith organizations.

Document and report incidents, notify your campus administrators, and contact your local CAIR office.

CAIR will continue to hold institutions accountable to adopt clear anti-harassment policies that address religious intimidation, provide security, enforce consequences for disruptions, and publicly affirm your rights.

This is also a call to action for the broader Muslim community:

We cannot stay on the sidelines while students face these battles. Let’s attend and support MSA activities and programs. Let’s publicly condemn harassment and amplify student voices. Let’s invest in on-campus Muslim chaplaincy programs and student leadership initiatives to mentor, fund, and empower our future generations

Let these coordinated attacks have the opposite effect of what was intended. Let them ignite a movement of confident, connected, courageous young Muslims across our country.

Muslims know that, with Allah by our side, we never stand alone. Let’s assure students that their community stands with them too.

 

Related:

– [Podcast] How to Fight Islamophobia | Monia Mazigh

– Islamophobia In American Public Schools

The post Op-Ed – When Islamophobes Try To Intimidate Us, They Underestimate Our Resolve: A Call to Stand With America’s Muslim Students appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

There are occasions when state power reveals its insecurities with embarrassing transparency. The United States’ revocation of Dr. Naledi Pandor’s visa — executed without reason, without process, and without even the courtesy of bureaucratic finesse — is one such moment. It is not a matter of administrative procedure. It is a symptom. A tremor of anxiety running through a violent Zionist project confronted by a woman whose authority is rooted not in might but in moral clarity.

Pandor, a former Minister of International Relations, a distinguished academic, and one of the most respected voices in the global struggle for Palestinian liberation, is hardly the kind of figure whose movements need to be policed. She commands no militias, stirs no insurrections, and threatens no borders. Her influence derives from something far more subversive: coherence, principle, and the audacity to insist that international law should apply universally rather than selectively.

Her central “offense,” of course, was South Africa’s decision — under her stewardship — to bring a genocide case against Israel before the International Court of Justice. It was a move that shook the architecture of impunity, interrupting a decades-long assumption that Western-backed states remain immune to the world’s highest judicial mechanisms. The ICJ case galvanized the Global South and infuriated those invested in shielding Israel from accountability. Once South Africa shattered the taboo, global dialogue shifted, and Pandor became both symbol and strategist of this recalibration.

Against this background, the visa revocation appears not as an isolated gesture but as part of a broader retaliatory pattern. From Trump’s bizarre political fantasies of a “white genocide” in South Africa, to the discourteous treatment of South Africa’s president during an official visit, to the refusal to receive its ambassador — each episode signals a punitive attitude toward a country that dared to challenge Zionist prerogatives.

Hence, the targeting of Dr. Pandor is not merely administrative mischief. It is a deliberate effort to punish a Global South diplomat who refused to genuflect before power.

The Threat Dr. Pamdor Represents

What, then, makes Pandor such a threat to Zionist power and imperial elites?

It is not merely her criticism of Israel. That alone, while provocative to some, would not have triggered such a response. The deeper threat lies in her refusal to compartmentalize global injustices, and her ability to narrate oppression as a structural, interconnected phenomenon rather than a series of discrete events.

During her recent engagements in the US, in city after city, Pandor spoke with piercing clarity about how the logic of domination in Gaza mirrors forms of dominance elsewhere. Her critique was global, mapping relationships of power that stretch from the Middle East to Africa to South Asia. This is where imperial elites feel uneasy: when the oppressed begin to see their struggles as shared, and when voices like Dr. Pandor help articulate the architecture of empire.

Her comments on Pakistan — careful and measured — highlighted the country’s political pliancy to imperial and Zionist interests. Pakistani-American audiences understood these references immediately, given the widespread repression of dissent in their homeland.

Without naming individuals, she alluded to a political figure widely admired and widely punished, whose pursuit of justice has made him intolerable to Pakistan’s power elite. The audience required no elaboration. The injustice is too stark.

Her comments struck a deep chord because they reflected a broader truth: that oppression does not respect borders, and that regimes aligned with empire frequently adopt the methods of empire. Pandor’s critique was not aimed at personalities but at structures — at the machinery of domination that sacrifices justice to the appetites of global power.

Dr. Pandor’s American hosts — Muslim communities, activists, human rights organizations — deserve credit for extending her platforms across the country, often to overflowing crowds. Their instinct to invite her, to engage with her, and to honor her moral leadership reflects a recognition of her stature in the global struggle for justice. The fact that these communities saw in her a defender of humanity and a champion of Palestine speaks well of their political sensibilities.

Zionist Panic and the Visa That Exposed It

This is what Zionist and Western supremacists cannot tolerate: clarity of analysis, breadth of moral vision, and the ability to illuminate connections across continents. A figure like Pandor cannot be allowed to circulate too freely within the public square because her presence has catalytic potential. She reframes debates. She humanizes victims. She speaks in the language of law rather than the language of propaganda. And she exposes the hypocrisy of invoking human rights selectively while violating them systematically.

By revoking her visa, fanatical Zionists attempted to place a boundary around her influence. Yet the attempt has only drawn more attention to her work and to the anxieties that drove this petty act of reprisal.

The message is unmistakable: the world’s most powerful elites are afraid of a woman whose only weapons are truth and integrity.

And that fear, ironically, magnifies her authority.

The Moment and the Movement

Dr. Pandor does not require rescuing. Her legitimacy rests on foundations far sturdier than any visa stamp. Whether she sets foot in the United States again is immaterial to her global stature. Her influence is already transnational, already expansive, already woven into the moral fabric of contemporary struggles for liberation.

But her treatment by American rulers matters for a different reason: it reveals the boundaries that Zionism attempts to impose on dissent, and the lengths to which it will go to punish those who challenge its preferred narrative. In this sense, defending Pandor is not a personal obligation; it is a political one. It is a refusal to normalize retaliation disguised as procedure.

Let us therefore take three truths forward:

First, Dr. Naledi Pandor remains one of the clearest moral compasses in global politics.

Second, her analysis of oppression — whether in Gaza or the Congo – remains indispensable.

Third, her visa revocation is not a reflection of her weakness, but of Zionist fear and panic.

The real question now is not who fears Dr. Pandor.
We know that answer.

The real question — the one that determines the future of solidarity — is: Who among us is prepared to stop fearing the Zionists that fear her?

 

Related:

– Prominent Journalist And Analyst Sami Hamdi Abducted By American State

– The Witkoff Massacre: Slaughter Of Starving Palestinians Undercuts Trump Pretensions

 

The post Who’s Afraid Of Dr. Naledi Pandor? – Zionist Panic and a Visa Revoked appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.