This spring, Turkiye’s AK government, led by Tayyip Erdogan, secured what promises to be a momentous agreement with the longstanding Kurdish insurgent group, the Parti Karkeran Kurdistan (Kurdistan Workers’ Party) led by Abdullah Ocalan, which has waged an insurgency against the Turkish state for the better part of four decades. This comes a hundred years since the first Kurdish revolt against the Turkish Republic, the 1925 revolt led by the Naqshbandi sheikh Mehmed Said against the republic’s founder, Kemal Atatürk. This first of two articles on the Kurds in Turkiye will examine the background of Kurdish activism during the final years of the Ottoman sultanate.

Background

As a multiethnic Islamic sultanate, Ottoman rule from Istanbul was systematically undermined by the nineteenth-century emergence of nationalism, which both undercut Islamic universalism and provoked unrest among the sultanate’s Christian minorities, often with support from rival European powers such as Britain and Russia. As a European import, nationalism had a limited appeal until Istanbul’s own attempts at centralizing administrative reforms, which often met a sharp backlash outside the corridors of power. As fellow Muslims who had enjoyed a considerable degree of autonomy under traditional leaders such as chieftains and preachers, few Kurds welcomed Ottoman centralism and a number of major families, notably the Bedirkhans (Badr Khans) of Bohtan, resisted these measures, as well as sociopolitical upheaval caused in the borderlands with Russia and Qajar-ruled Persia. In 1880-81, the Nehri Naqshbandi preacher Ubaidullah Khalidi b. Taha led a major attack on Iran, and only relented under the pressure of Ottoman sultan Abdulhamid II before briefly challenging the Ottomans in turn.

Ubaidullah’s dissatisfaction with Ottoman and Qajar rule, as well as his insistence on an autonomous if not independent Kurdish frontier, has made him renowned as a proto-nationalist. He adopted a stance that would be echoed in many future Kurdish leaders, including his son Seyid Abdulkadir: official loyalty to the government, but parallel negotiations with foreign powers with a view to securing autonomy from centralism. In fact, the vast majority of Ottoman Kurds remained loyal to the government, and Abdulhamid increasingly armed them under the command of Millan chieftain Ibrahim Milli to fight Armenian nationalists backed by Russia during a bloody, undeclared war at the turn of the century. Stressing his title as caliph, Abdulhamid was nonetheless widely resented by a wide number of people, particularly the intelligentsia, by this point: his secretive, wary rule during a period of decline was increasingly resented and when he was ousted in the so-called Young Turk coup of 1908, traditional Kurdish leaders were among the few who rallied to his cause. Millan chieftain Ibrahim in Syria and the Barzinjis Saeed and his son Mahmoud in Iraq launched brief and unsuccessful revolts against the new regime.

Homogenization

The Young Turk coup, which brought together a mishmash of ideological and political trends united only by their desire for change, promised a more representative government, but in fact, proved far more repressive than its predecessors. Though a number of the Young Turks were Kurds, and though such Kurdish notables as Seyid Abdulkadir were given senior positions, in fact power soon came to rest with a militaristic clique that, in the “civilized” fashion of the day, viewed Ottoman heterogeneity as a potential weakness and increasingly sought not only centralizing but also culturally homogenizing practices, with the particular promotion of Turkish identity often at the expense of other identities.

Notable Kurdish families and leaders, including the Bedirkhans, Babans, and the Cemilpasazades (Jamil Pashazadas), were forced to operate underground. Others, such as the Barzanis, who had a record of rather heterodox religious activity but enjoyed a widespread following in what is now northern Iraq, briefly rebelled. Several Kurdish clans broke off their relations with the Ottomans; when, during the Balkan War of 1912-13, Istanbul came under threat, one chieftain, Abdulkadir Dirai of the Karakecili, expected that the Ottomans would fall and rebelled, only to be imprisoned once they survived. Other Kurdish clans remained loyal to the sultanate and were often employed against their local rivals.

Ibrahim Milli [PC: haberercis.com.tr]

Often, government responses were coloured by the assessment of individual officials who were not themselves necessarily Turks: for instance, Mehmed Fazil (Muhammad Fadil) and Suleiman Nazif, two of the firmest opponents of the Kurdish rebels in Iraq, were respectively Caucasian and Kurdish. For their part, some of the Kurdish intermediate class -which had historically been autonomous links between their communities and the Ottoman sultanate- were increasingly equivocal, doubting the feasibility of the Ottoman state and prepared to break away should it fall to foreign intervention. It was in this context that an explicitly nationalist idea of Kurdishness came about.

Throughout the devastating First World War that followed, Kurds fought in huge numbers for the Ottoman state: as many as three hundred thousand Kurds lost their lives in the Ottoman cause, and major units in the eastern frontline against Russia were largely Kurdish. The war saw communal displacement and upheaval on an unprecedented level, and not simply by the Ottomans’ enemies: though Russian-backed Armenian nationalists had been extremely brutal against Muslim civilians, the Ottoman state responded with a wholesale assault on the Armenian populace at large, which was massacred and systematically displaced. This was to date the worst assault of any Muslim government against a dhimmi minority; it was also a precursor to ideas of homogenization that would emerge after the war.

During the war, a handful of Kurdish notables, including Abdulkadir’s nephew Seyid Taha of Nehri and some of the Bedirkhans, openly colluded with Russia as it briefly captured the borderland. This availed them little as Russia soon collapsed, but was less momentous than the role of Arab counterparts -again, against the vast majority of loyalist Arabs- who helped Britain advance in Arabia and the Levant. Eventually, the Ottomans were forced to sue for peace in the autumn of 1918, whereupon their remaining opponents -France, Britain, and Greece, with a smattering of Italian and Armenian nationalist forces- occupied Istanbul and the surrounding countryside. The recently installed Ottoman sultan, Vahdettin Mehmed VI, sought to cut his losses, purge the Young Turks, and enter a disadvantageous peace with the victors: he hoped that a shared dislike of the Young Turks, who had brought the sultanate to ruin, would enable the European victors to view him with sympathy, but they instead aimed to split the Ottoman heartland between them. In this context, Kurdish nationalists, led by an Ottoman Kurdish general called Mehmed Serif (Muhammad Sharif), also sought the establishment of an independent Kurdistan.

Resistance and Collaboration

By contrast, other Kurds, as well as Turks and Arabs, fought this occupation of Muslim territory. In  Anatolia’s heartland, they were led by a number of renegade Ottoman generals: Kemal Atatürk, Kazim Karabekir, Ibrahim Refet (Bele), Fuat Cebesoy, and Vahdettin’s former negotiator, Huseyin Rauf (Orbay). Although the palace treated them as rebels, they insisted that they were liberating the sultan from foreign subjugation, and their argument was given strength by the European powers’ uncompromising stance toward Istanbul. They employed Islamic arguments of jihad that intermixed with already existing resistance elsewhere, both in Anatolia as well as Iraq and Syria, and these at least originally united many Kurds with Arabs and Turks.

Though the sultan and Atatürk reached an uneasy agreement by the end of 1919, in spring 1920 Britain sabotaged this with a full-scale crackdown in Istanbul. This forced the remaining parliament to flee to Ankara, where Atatürk set up a “shadow government”. The last humiliation for the sultanate came in the Sèvres Accord: though Vahdettin had hoped that he could salvage a good deal through cooperation with the occupation, in fact, the European powers decided to split up his lands and thus lent credence to the Ankara-based parliament’s call for a jihad. Although the Accord rewarded Mehmed Serif’s lobbying with a vague reference to Kurdistan, in actual fact this came after a year of fierce fighting between Britain and large parts of the Ottoman Kurdish population.

Kurdish participants in resistance included several Kurdish chieftains: Ali Bati of the Haverkan clan, Abdurrahman Aga of the Shernakhlis, and Ramadan Aga of the Salahan. Similarly, Karakecili chieftain Abdulkadir Dirai and Millan chieftain Ibrahim’s son Mahmud were released from prison to lead Kurdish forces. But the political uncertainty and ambiguous jurisdiction of the period, and suspicion and rivalries among the participants often clouded events. For instance, when Bati captured Nusaibin in May 1919, the army led by Kenan Dalbasar wrongly suspected him of French-backed subversion and drove him out, where he was killed. Similarly, when Istanbul sent a governor, Ali Galip, to arrest Atatürk that autumn, he was accused of being in league with French-backed Kurdish secessionists, causing the palace huge embarrassment. Finally, in early 1921, a particularly ruthless Turkish general, Nurettin Konyar, uprooted a largely Alevi Kurdish revolt by the Kocgiri clan in eastern Anatolia, with a ferocity that alarmed even his colleagues in the resistance. This revolt had demonstrable links to the British occupation and to Serif’s secessionists, thus cementing a suspicion of Kurdish agitation that was to resurface again.

In fact, Kurdish collaboration with Britain was the exception to the rule. Resistance was especially fierce in British-occupied Iraq, in whose north Ottoman veterans such as the Young Turks’ former defence minister Ismail Enver encouraged Kurdish revolt among historically rivalled clans such as the Zebaris, the Barzanis, and the Surchis. Participants included Mala Mustafa of Barzan, Karim Fattah of Hamawand, Faris Agha of Zebar, Mahmoud Dizli of Hawraman, Nuri Bawil of the Surchis, Abbas Mahmoud of Pizhdar, and Mahmoud Barzinji. Their local rivals backed Britain, along with opportunists such as Seyid Taha as well as chieftain Ismail Simko of the Shikak clan, a marauding freebooter on the Turco-Persian borderland who had once fought for the Ottomans but often changed sides.

Sheikh Mahmud Barzanji (Kurdish: Mahmud Barzinji (1878 – October 9, 1956) was the leader of a series of Kurdish uprisings against the British Mandate of Iraq. He was sheikh of a Qadiriyah Sufi family of the Barzanji clan from the city of Sulaymaniyah, which is now in Iraqi Kurdistan. He was styled King of Kurdistan during several of these uprisings. [PC: Alamy Stock Photo]

In summer 1921 Britain, at their wits’ end and by now reconciled to the inevitability of a Turkish victory in Anatolia, decided to cut their losses and set up a nominally independent Iraqi state under Faisal I bin Husain, who had supported them against the Ottomans in Arabia but been deprived of a kingdom when France had conquered Syria from him in 1920. The new state would be largely comprised of Faisal’s followers as well as parts of the largely Arab Iraqi intelligentsia from Ottoman rule: though Ataturk was not averse to letting go of Baghdad, the Turks and British both laid claim to Mosul, which was believed to contain vast deposits of oil.

In summer 1922, Ankara dispatched Sefik Ozdemir (Shafiq Ozdamir), the descendant of a notable Mamluk family who had most recently fought France and, during the World War, encouraged a shared Muslim opposition to the European foe. Far more than other Turkish officers, Sefik won the trust of Kurdish clansmen, supporting Karim and Abbas in battle against the British occupation. Unable to trust the weak Taha or the adventuresome Simko, Britain turned instead to Mahmoud Barzinji, who promised to repel the resistance if they let him rule Sulaimania. Once installed there, however, he made contact with Sefik and joined the revolt to announce himself shah of Kurdistan.

It was not until 1923 that this joint Turkish-Kurdish resistance was defeated. Though Mahmoud Barzinji was expelled from Sulaimania, British rule in the Kurdish region was extremely tenuous, and he was able to return repeatedly over the next few years. In order to beat him and other Iraqi opponents, Britain relied on massive aerial bombardment, a novel technology a the time that wrought havoc on the Kurdish countryside in a process that would be repeated by one government or another against Kurdish rebels over the next century.

[…to be contd.]

 

Related:

– The Role Of Kurds In The Dissemination Of Islamic Knowledge In The Malay Archipelago

– Calamity In Kashgar [Part I]: The 1931-34 Muslim Revolt And The Fall Of East Turkistan

The post Nationalism And Its Kurdish Discontents [Part I of II]: Kurds In An Ottoman Dusk appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

“Those with gold in their pockets gather, but in the hush of their greed they learn that voices of love grow faint. So they end up dining alone—no one dares place real trust upon them.”

— Chinua Achebe, A Man of the People

Travelize

When Zaid ended his salat and stood, Deek repeated, “I don’t know what to do next. I’m not ready to go back to Rania. She needs to show me something. I need a sign from her.”

“Why don’t you show her something? What signs have you given her?”

These interrogatives threatened Deek’s mind with turmoil. Instinctively he resisted, pushing the questions away.

When he did not answer, Zaid said, “Why don’t you check into a hotel for a few days?”

“I’m not liquid yet. There’s cash coming, but at the moment I’m down to a hundred and fifty bucks.”

“Didn’t you just offer me a million dollars?”

“Yeah but in crypto. It’s in a crypto wallet. Not cash.”

“Aren’t there any hotels that accept crypto?”

Deek stared at the lean, scarred detective for a moment, then slapped his own forehead. “Of course! Travelize! It’s a crypto company that lets you book hotels or flights with crypto. Man, I actually own Travelize tokens. What a dummy I am.”

His phone charge was down to 10%, but he did a quick search. There were several hotels in Fresno that worked with Travelize, mostly Motel Sixes, Hampton Inns and Comfort Inns, but there was also the Ramada, a Marriott, and – boom! – the Marco Polo, a high-end boutique hotel that had just opened in north Fresno two years ago. In dollars the Venetian Suite was $1,550 a night, but Travelize accepted a wide range of cryptos. Deek booked a room for a week. With the wealth he now possessed, fifteen hundred dollars a night was nothing.

Allah, Deen, Family

Zaid told him that the Namer had said he could keep the flannel pajamas. Somehow this made Deek happy. This place was special. He was only sorry he hadn’t met the old woman. Or at least he assumed she was old, though now that he thought about it he had no idea.

As the two of them extinguished the candles and exited the house together, Deek paused. “I can’t believe we’re leaving it unlocked. It’s nuts.”

Zaid said nothing, but looked troubled.

“You’re going to tell me again,” Deek said, “that I should go back to my family.”

Zaid waved this off. “It’s up to you. But really, what else is there? Allah, deen, family, doing work you love, and doing good in the world. And by the way, if you really want to give away a million dollars, give it to some of the charities operating in Gaza. The situation there is beyond dire. It’s unspeakable. And you purify your wealth in the process.”

Deek grunted. That was a good idea.

“I was thinking,” Deek said, “of changing my name to Asad.”

Zaid raised his eyebrows. “Changing your name is a big thing.”

“Not my family name. Just my first name. And not even legally, just in daily use.”

“So you want me to start calling you Asad?”

“No… I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”

They parted ways with a handshake.

The Marco Polo

The Marco Polo Hotel was stunning. The four-story hotel had only 20 spacious suites – five per floor – with each modeled on a theme based on Marco Polo’s travels. The lobby was furnished with elegant velvet-upholstered armchairs, featuring carved wooden frames and cushions in shades of aquamarine or deep wine-red. Live olive trees in planters, stretching up toward the high ceiling, while Murano glass sculptures of seabirds caught the sunlight streaming in through the windows and refracted it in every direction.

On one side of the lobby, a full sized vintage gondola had been installed as a reading nook, with velvet upholstery inside. A young woman in a flowing yellow dress sat inside it, looking at her phone, while a tall, bald man in a suit – presumably her father – sat nearby, reading the Los Angeles Times.

Deek checked into the Venetian Suite, on the fourth floor. For a moment he simply stood in the doorway, the keycard warm in his hand, as his eyes swept across the room. Everything glowed in sun-washed gold—cream-colored drapes drawn open to tall windows, a vaulted ceiling painted with soft clouds, and polished marble floor that caught the light like water. The silence was broken only by the delicate sound of trickling water.

In the center of the room, rising from a round base of veined Carrara marble, stood a fountain. White and flawless, carved with meticulous detail. Three lion heads—fierce, proud, unmistakably Venetian—spouted arcing streams of water into a shallow basin. It was beautiful. And utterly absurd.

He walked a slow circle around it, unable to stop himself from staring. The lions’ eyes were narrowed in eternal judgment. He felt like they were staring at him.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress barely shifted beneath his weight, and the silken sheets were so smooth they felt unreal beneath his fingers.

Dislocation

He knew it wasn’t rational. He’d paid in full. The suite was his for the week. But payment wasn’t the same as permission.

He looked around again—at the fountain, the chandelier that sparkled like crystal rain, the velvet chairs, and the desk that looked like it had been stolen from a Renaissance library—and the ache returned. A soft, hollow pang in his chest. Not quite grief. Not quite fear. Just… dislocation.

He remembered the couch he’d grown up with—brown corduroy, cracked at the seams, with stuffing poking out the arm. It smelled like frying onions, baby powder, and dust. The floor in that apartment had creaked. The heater had hissed. The entire family had shared one bathroom, and he and Lubna had shared a bedroom, sleeping in a bunk bed. Deek on the bottom, Lubna on top. But it had been home.

He stood again and wandered to the writing desk. It was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the drawers lined in blue velvet. Inside one drawer, he found thick, cream-colored paper and a pen that looked like a relic from some old Venetian council chamber. He didn’t know what to write. He didn’t even know how to sit in a chair like that.

The minibar was stocked with bottles he couldn’t pronounce. The music panel on the wall offered a playlist labeled Venezia Notte. He didn’t touch it.

The First to Pray

His father often used to tell him that any part of the earth on which a man prayed would speak for him on Yawm Al-Qiyamah. Deek wondered if anyone had ever prayed in this room. If not, he could be the first.

He wandered into the bathroom, which looked like a room in a palace, with a cream-colored marble floor polished to a mirror shine, a massive arched mirror, a freestanding octagonal bathtub set into a niche decorated with Venetian mosaic tilework, and cabinets that appeared to be cherry wood or walnut. Plush white slippers and a thick white robe rested on a wooden bench near the tub. Deek picked up the robe, and his eyes widened. It was monogrammed DS – his own initials!

It was too much. It was not the luxury that overwhelmed him, but the strangeness of it. With shaking hands he performed wudu’, then used a towel as a musalla, praying ‘Ishaa in the sitting room. It calmed him, and reminded him that some things did not change. Allah was still Allah, and always would be. He, Deek, was a servant of Allah, and – by the grace and will of Allah – always would be.

A Long Way From the Moon Walk

He turned off the lights, one by one, but couldn’t figure out the chandelier. There was no visible switch. So he changed into the bathrobe and lay down on the bed in the illuminated room, the soft gurgling of the lion fountain filling the silence.

He thought about Rania, and wondered what she was doing at that moment. Probably quilting. Sewing quilts was her favorite hobby. Every friend she’d ever had probably owned at least one or two, given as gifts on birthdays, anniversaries and baby showers. She said that the hour she spent quilting before bedtime relaxed her and helped her sleep.

This was a long way from the Moon Walk Motel and its sagging mattress. Somehow he’d been more comfortable at the Moon Walk. Until he was kidnapped, anyway. He hadn’t thought much about the kidnapping. The killing of those men was like a movie scene in his mind. Grand and cinematic – cue the music. He felt no guilt or remorse. Those thugs had gotten what they deserved. He certainly remembered the pain of the beating the men had given him, and the terror he’d felt, yet it was remote now.

He had money now. Enough to stay here, to buy security and silence, along with cool air, bottled water and simulated serenity. But no one had told him what to do once he got here.

Fair Weather Friends

The next morning, the suite smelled like sunlight and saffron. Deek sat on the edge of the silk-draped bed in a plush monogrammed robe, a room service tray spread out across the coffee table beside him. His fingers, still stiff with sleep, tore a buttery croissant in half. The flake-crackle of crust and the warm scent of honeyed pastry filled the air. He dipped it into a demitasse of strong espresso, the bitter steam rising to his face, then chewed slowly, listening to the low sound of the marble fountain gurgling like a small spring.

The suite was silent, padded in velvet and marble, but Deek’s mind was restless. He’d slept too well, too deep—waking with a vague disorientation, as if he’d surfaced from under warm water only to realize he didn’t know the shore.

He unlocked his phone, almost absently, and saw the red dot: 9 new voicemails. He frowned. There had been only three yesterday. And he didn’t recognize any of the numbers except that of Faraz, the bright, enthusiastic facilities manager at Masjid Madinah. Faraz, a 35-ish Bangladeshi American who treated the English language like a rapper’s hummed tune, was into crypto too. The two of them had bounced ideas and strategies off each other for years. Many times Faraz had invited him back to the masjid kitchen and brewed some coffee for the two of them as they talked about cryptocurrency developments.

He listened to Faraz’s message first, whose voice was bright and animated:

“Yo, Deek! Brooo! SubhanAllah man, I seen it! Don’t even try to act low-key, I been tracking you on Pump—your wallet straight up exploded. You always had the eye, wallahi. You flipped that New York Killa like a champ, bro, three hundred to four milli? I told my cousin, I said, ‘This guy? He’s him. He’s him.’ Look, we gotta catch up, man. I’m talkin’ coffee, donuts and graphs. Lotta brothers tryna connect with you now—real talk. You the main event. Hit me back.”

Deek blinked, mid-sip. The espresso turned to charcoal in his mouth.

How the hell does he know?

Then he remembered. Pump fun usernames were tied to wallets. And Faraz traded too—they’d swapped strategies back in the day, even co-invested in a few doomed meme coins. If Faraz had his wallet address, he could’ve been watching the whole time.

Everything on-chain is visible. That’s the point. No one knows your identity, but they can see exactly what’s in your wallet. And if they know your wallet address, they know what you’re holding.

He put down the tiny cup and leaned back, thumb hovering over the next voicemail.

A young voice. Pakistani accent.

“Assalaamu alaykum, brother Deek. This is Anas—I work for Sierra Engineering? We met at Jummah once. Anyway, I’d love to grab coffee if you’re free.”

Delete.

Next. A slow, oiled voice. Palestinian maybe.

“Brother Deek! This is Nabeel. You remember my dealership—Royal Auto, right off Shaw? Come by anytime, let’s break bread. I’ll even give you a deal on an S-Class.”

Delete.

Six more. All variations on the theme: Salaam, coffee, lunch, maybe dinner. Some tried to play it casual. Others sounded like they were calling a long-lost cousin. One even said, “We should hang out again,” though Deek couldn’t remember ever hanging out with the guy in the first place.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

They wouldn’t have said two words to me a month ago. Now I’m a millionaire on-chain, and suddenly I’m a long-lost brother.

A curl of bitterness tightened behind his ribs. He was sitting in a palace, his breakfast likely costing more than his old car payment, and yet it all felt… exposed. He hadn’t asked for attention. He’d bought New York Killa on a gut feeling and sheer desperation. He didn’t want to be anyone’s poster boy or networking opportunity.

He deleted the remaining messages, one by one. The tap-tap-tap of his thumb sounded final, almost satisfying.

Then he opened a message to Faraz:

Appreciate the congratulations. But I didn’t want people knowing. Disappointed you shared that without asking. Would’ve expected better from you.”

He stared at it for a moment, then hit send.

The phone felt heavier in his hand. He set it down beside the untouched slice of melon and leaned back, listening to the lazy fountain and the faint creak of sunlight through the heavy drapes.

All this marble. All this gold. And still, the old feeling settled back into his chest like it never left. He was alone. Still stuck in the closet, choking on his own sweat and isolation. Only the view was better.

Charts on Cracked Screens

A text reply came from Faraz:

Astagfirullah, wallahi I’m sorry bro. I didn’t mean to put you on blast. I just got hyped. You know me, I get loud when I’m proud. You been grindin’ since forever. I won’t say a word to nobody else. Just happy for you, akhi.

Deek sighed. He knew Faraz meant well. That brother had been riding shotgun in the struggle—back when they were both scraping coins together, watching charts on cracked screens, chasing the same wild trades and sharing bad coffee in the masjid kitchen.

He remembered Faraz’s smile as he poured Turkish brew from a dented kettle, steam rising, the aroma cutting through the masjid’s dusty storage smell. The way his eyes lit up when he said, “If you ever catch a true moonshot, bro? You better remember who made your coffee when no one else believed in you.”

Deek smiled in spite of himself.

He typed, slowly:

It’s alright. Just lay low with it, yeah? And we’ll link up soon, inshaAllah.

Steak and Italian Shoes

He went out that day and bought two flat screen computer monitors with the $5k he’d transferred to his bank account. He ate at the hotel restaurant, which served high-end American food like Angus steak, wild-caught salmon and gourmet burgers. Deek still had no desire for junk food of any kind, and found himself eating healthy, balanced meals. He sat in a corner of the restaurant, eating alone, reading crypto news on his phone. More voicemails came in. He deleted them all without listening.

The hotel had its own clothing store, providing tailored suits and Italian shoes. Deek bought three outfits. All of this was billed to his room and paid for with crypto.

He set up his workplace and resumed trading. The Namer’s potion continued to do its magic. His body had nearly completely healed from its injuries, and he felt energetic and strong. His mind was sharp and clear as well, while his emotions were curiously dulled. He found himself making the best crypto trading decisions of his life.

A few of the speculative AI tokens he’d bought recently had crashed to almost zero, but two were up considerably, and one of them had done a x30, netting him more than ten million dollars. He sold 90% of it and parked half the money in USDC stablecoins for now. It was always good to have a stablecoin war chest in case of mid-cycle corrections. The other half he dropped into some very low cap – less than $500K – AI related tokens, as well as a meme coin and a new NFT trading site. By the end of the day, he was up another ten million, bringing his net worth to over one hundred million dollars.

The Namer’s Potion

The spacious, air conditioned hotel office was a far cry from the cramped and stifling closet he’d worked in for five years, and he found himself resenting Rania for putting him through that, for hiding him away like some deformed and crazy uncle.

The Namer’s potion was still working inside him, though. While in the past this resentment might have simmered in his gut, growing worse with each day, now he found himself able to dismiss it. He reminded himself that she’d worked and supported the entire family for five solid years while he lost money, throwing it down the drain of one bad investment after another.

Several times that day, Rania sent texts saying, “Why don’t you respond to my messages?” Deek replied, “Busy at the moment. We will talk soon.”

He missed Rania and loved her. They’d been through so much together. He remembered when they had first married, when they lived in that cramped little apartment on Millbrook Avenue, with the threadbare carpet, and the air conditioner that kept breaking down in the middle of summer, leaving them sweating like horses, cranky, and exhausted. Whenever the heat became unbearable they walked hand in hand to Einstein Park on Dakota, where they ate lunch outdoors in the shade of an elm tree. They fought, but they loved each other, and forgave everything.

But she’d said he was an anchor around her neck. The words haunted him. Every time he thought about going back to her the words rang in his head. Anchor around my neck. That wasn’t how you spoke about someone you loved.

Sitting there in that palatial suite, as comfortable and cool as a head of broccoli, Deek hated himself and his own clenched, self-centered, unforgiving heart. The feeling was so strong that it broke through the Namer’s potion, making him wince and rub his face in shame. Why was he like this? Why did he hold onto grudges like a man in quicksand holding onto a rope, when in reality the rope was on fire? Why was he so unbearably proud? Why couldn’t he be the bigger person, the better person? Why was he now richer than he ever dreamed, yet all alone?

That night, Deek woke up at two in the morning and ordered a mac n’ cheese from room service, because he could – the kitchen was open 24 hours – and because Latifah. If she could do it, so could he. They brought it to him in a metal goblet, as if he were an earl or a duke, but he wasn’t, he was  a count – the Count of Crypto, counting his crypto. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, half asleep, eating the creamy, tangy concoction with a long metal spoon. His legs were crossed and his chin lowered in the posture of a mendicant, assuming a position of humility before the passing crowds, begging for whatever filthy coins they might drop into his goblet.

Where was everyone? Where was Rania, Sanaya, Amira, Lubna, Zaid, Marco, Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah, and Queen Latifah? All the people who loved him, and he loved them?

He never finished the mac n’ cheese. His chin dropped to his chest, his eyes closed, and the spoon slipped from his hand, clattering onto the marble floor. If a crow had peered through the window, it might have thought he was dead, or awaiting death’s arrival. It might have called out to him. Or it might have simply watched and waited.

***

[Part 11 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

No, My Son | A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 10] – The Marco Polo appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

“Be bold, be brave enough to be your true self.” – Queen Latifah

A Foolish Indulgence

Bandar dropped the bucket of popcorn. The greasy kernels spilled all over his lap and onto the floor. He cursed and tried to rise, dumping the liquorice onto the floor as well, but the armed man seized his shoulder and pulled him back down. He shot a glance over his shoulder to his bodyguard, who began to stand, until the scarred man flicked open a knife and put the point to Bandar’s throat.

“Tell him to sit and relax,” the man whispered. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

Bandar waved to the bodyguard to sit, and the hulk did so reluctantly.

“I asked if you know who I am.”

Sweat broke out on Bandar’s forehead. He closed his eyes. “You are the Palestinian detective. I don’t remember your name.”

“Zaid Karim. Why did you send men to kidnap Deek Saghir?”

“I don’t know what you are talking a-”

Zaid jammed the gun harder into Bandar’s ribs, making him grunt in pain, and snarled, “Listen, dope king -”

Bandar was outraged enough to momentarily forget his fear. “I don’t sell dope! Who told you that? Liquor and smokes, that’s my game.” In fact the Sinaloa cartel had tried to pressure him to use his network of shops as fronts for dope peddling, but he had refused, even when they threatened his life. So how dare this upstart accuse him of being a drug dealer?

“Whatever. I’m not in the mood for games. Answer my question.”

“He stole a car from my son.”

“That’s crap. I know Deek Saghir, he’s not a thief.”

“So my son is a liar?”

“You tell me. Is your son trustworthy?”

Bandar looked around. A few people were looking their way, annoyed that they were talking in the theater. But it was still just the previews, and in the darkness no one could see what was happening. Bandar was acutely aware of the gun against his ribs and the knife at his throat. He’d never felt so vulnerable in his life. He saw now that these Saturday movie nights were a foolish indulgence. Pain surged in his stomach, and he pressed a hand to it. Yet in the midst of it all, he sighed, for he had to admit that his son Shujaa was not trustworthy at all, and had most likely lied to him. And because of that, three of his men were dead, most likely killed by the maniac beside him.

A Name Spoken In Whispers

In spite of his fear, and his realization that Shujaa had played him, he put on a show of bravado and said, “I have more men where those came from.”

“And I have a lifelong friend who would do anything for me.”

“What friend?”

“Badger.”

Bandar’s blood went as cold as ice. This was a name he’d heard spoken in whispers, the way one spoke the name of a demon. Badger was an independent killer who robbed and murdered drug dealers. It was said he had wiped out entire gangs, and was utterly remorseless. The number of men he’d killed could not be counted.

“That’s right,” Zaid said, reading Bandar’s reaction. “I’ll pit my Badger against your thugs any day. And if it comes to that, we won’t stop with your men. We’ll put you down too.”

“What is it you want, Zaid?” Bandar said finally.

“Don’t come near Deek Saghir again. I swear to you, if you harm him again or even look in his direction, I will return, and it won’t be to talk, and you won’t see me coming.”

“Done.”

Zaid jammed the gun harder into Bandar’s ribs. “And return the car. Leave it in the parking lot at Masjid Madinah, with the keys in it. Within one hour.”

Grimacing in pain, Bandar nodded. Shujaa would catch fire for this. It was back to Yemen for the little punk.

A theater employee approached, wearing black pants and a red vest, and shining a dim flashlight their way. “Hey. What’s going on here?”

Zaid Karim stood and walked out, leaving Bandar with popcorn in his lap and a sheen of sweat covering his entire body.

Queen Latifah

Once again, Deek dreamed that he was in the desert of southern Iraq, seeking the elusive cache of silver from the kingdom of Ur. He expected to encounter Shaykha Rabiah again, and a part of him dreaded her rapier-like judgment – but no -this time it was Queen Latifah, the famous actress and rapper, sitting casually in the shade of the ruined wall of an ancient caravanserai. She wore a flowing green robe and a green scarf that draped her head and chest, and was eating mac n’ cheese from a small pot. Deek could smell the cheddar tang, and it made his mouth water.

“What’s up, Deek?” Latifah said.

“Isn’t it a bit hot for mac n’ cheese?”

“Not for me. This is Vermont white cheddar, baby. I would kill for this. Check this out. If you tell me a secret, I’ll tell you one.”

There was something wholesome and real about Latifah that made you trust her. A trickle of sweat ran down Deek’s face, and he wiped it with a dusty sleeve.

“I’m looking for a hidden treasure,” he said. “It’s somewhere near here. It’s priceless.”

Latifah laughed. “If it’s priceless, how would you spend it?”

Deek frowned. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it? Well, I promised you a secret too. Here it is: I’ll never say no to mac n’ cheese, even at two in the morning.”

Deek scoffed. “I already knew that. I’ve known you since we were kids, remember?”

Latifah looked astonished. “I remember that now!” The wind kicked up a swirl of ochre dust, and Latifah covered the pot with her scarf. “My old friend Deek. Let me give you some advice. Be bold, be brave enough to be your true self.”

“This is my true self. I am determined to be rich. It’s my destiny.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, you might be rich, who can say? But I think your true self is the man who loves his wife, and thinks she’s an angel, and loves his daughters, and wants to make them happy. I should know. We’ve known each other since we were kids, remember?”

“I was thinking of changing my first name to Asad.”

“Lion! It suits you. There’s power inside you, dormant. If you unleash it you could change the world.”

“You speak Arabic?”

“I do here.”

It’s Over

Deek awoke to the smell of candle smoke and the sound of cats meowing at the back door. The sky through the window was black, but the room was lit by five votive candles on the floor. From the kitchen came the soft murmur of the Quran being recited. He climbed out of bed, picked up a candle, and found Zaid Karim in the kitchen, seated at the candle-lit table, listening to the Quran on his phone and eating a sandwich that -judging from the powerful fishy smell- contained sardines.

“No wonder the cats are meowing, with that stench. Have you fed them?”

Zaid laughed. “You settled right in, it seems.”

“What is this place?”

“I told you in the note.”

“The Namer’s house.”

“Yes. She’s a Miwok medicine woman. Her real name is too difficult for most people to pronounce. She means everything to the people around here.”

“She’s a miracle worker. Look at me.” Deek held his arms out wide. “They beat me half to death, and I feel almost recovered. And I’m thinking more clearly. She could market this potion and get rich.”

“She’s happy with who she is.”

Deek shrugged. He felt like he was back in one of his recent dreams, with Shaykhah Rabiah asking him, Who are you? Or Queen Latifah telling him to be his true self.

“I don’t even know where we are, man,” Deek commented. “This doesn’t look like Fresno.”

“It’s definitely Fresno. East Belmont.”

Deek raised his eyebrows. East Belmont was the worst part of Fresno. No sane person went there, especially at night.

“I thought East Belmont was a no-man’s-land.”

“Hey, watch it. My office is in East Belmont, not four blocks from here. It’s a poor neighborhood with working-class people, that’s all.”

“So what’s next? How long do I have to stay here?”

“You don’t. It’s over. You won’t be bothered again. And I got your car back, it’s parked out front.” He reached into a pocket, then held up the keys and jiggled them.

“Really?” Deek snatched the keys and went outside to his car. There it was in the narrow driveway, as beautiful as ever. A minute later, he came back in and held something up triumphantly. “Bag of wavy chips, right under the seat where I left it!”

Zaid rolled his eyes. “I’m so glad I rescued you and recovered your car, so you could have your potato chips.”

Deek snagged a few chips and popped them into his mouth, then grimaced. The chips tasted overly salty, greasy, and disgusting. He dropped the bag on the table.

“They don’t even taste good,” he complained. “What did this Namer woman do to me?” On impulse, he took a tomato out of the basket and took a bite. The tangy, acidic flavor flooded his mouth. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life. He groaned out loud. “This is incredible!”

Zaid nodded. “Her medicines are tailored to the person. Whatever she gave you is exactly what you need at the moment.”

Brutal and Hard

Deek’s face grew serious. “You have no idea how grateful I am. You truly saved my life. When you leaped into the van wearing your hat, I knew I was safe.” For a moment, he choked up and could not continue. He rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat. “Do you want a million dollars? Download a crypto wallet, and I will send you a million dollars in crypto right now.”

Zaid held up a palm. “I did this as a family favor, not for money. But if you’re determined to pay me, my rate is seven hundred dollars a day plus expenses. I’ve put in two days on this, so with expenses, call it fifteen hundred.”

Deek stared. The man was saying no to a million dollars? A bitter thought came to him, though the bitterness was distant somehow, not acidic and fiery as it would normally be for him.

“You don’t believe,” Deek said, “that I really have that much money, do you?”

“Oh, I believe it. I always believed in you, remember?”

Deek nodded, letting the shadow of bitterness go. “Yes, I remember. You told me to go the distance.”

“Did I?”

“You said, ‘Life is waves, peaks, and troughs. Prove you can persist, show that you can go the distance, and you will succeed, inshaAllah.’”

Zaid smiled. “MashaAllah. Yes, you’re a highly intelligent and determined man. I believe you one hundred percent. It’s just that…” The detective rubbed his face with one hand. “What I did was brutal and hard. It was necessary, but such things are not easy on the heart, Deek. If I were to take so much money for it, I would feel dirty.”

Deek didn’t know how to feel about that. It almost seemed like Zaid was saying that his money was dirty. That wounded his pride, and in any other circumstance might have angered him to a degree that he would have held a grudge. But considering what Zaid had done for him, he decided to let it go.

The New Generation

“What do I do now?”

Zaid shrugged. “Whatever you want. If you’re asking me, I say go back to your family.”

“You sound like Queen Latifah.”

Zaid frowned. “Is she that elderly sister at Masjid Madinah?”

“No, Queen Latifah the rapper. She told me to be bold and brave enough to be my true self, and she says my true self is a man who loves his family.”

“You know Queen Latifah the rapper?”

“Sort of.” He snapped his fingers. He had forgotten about the messages from his family. “Feed the cats for me, will you? I have to do something.”

Zaid laughed again, but picked up the bag of cat food and a candle and headed out back. Deek retrieved his phone and settled into a chair.

He read the messages from his daughters first. They always texted. Youth of their generation considered voice calls and even voicemails old-fashioned, rude, and even aggressive.

It seemed to Deek that a lot of the new generation’s ideas came down to the avoidance of reality. The reality of the professional workplace, which required people to show up on time, dress appropriately, and write in complete sentences with proper grammar. The reality of honest communication, which must be face-to-face, not TikTok and YouTube-based. Even the reality of the male and female gender, which was what it was, not what people imagined it to be.

This was something that Deek liked about Islam, though he was by no means a good example of a Muslim. Islam was a religion created by Allah for human beings as they truly were, in all their glory, brilliance, love, misery, and self-degradation. Everything from the prohibitions of intoxicants and gambling -two of the most socially destructive sins ever invented- to the worship practices of salat, Hajj, and fasting in Ramadan, which were all powerful communal spiritual experiences, not to mention physically transformative.

Even Islamic economics: zakat -which was a tax on long-term capital holdings rather than income-, and the prohibition of charging interest. Taken together, these were brilliant strategies to prevent the exploitation of the poor and stop the accumulation of vast wealth in the hands of a few people, while maintaining the free market. It was amazing stuff, providing real solutions for real people.

Still A Team

There were two texts from Sanya, his elder daughter. “What’s up, Dad? Hearing strange things from Mom. Everything alright? Let me know.” And, “Just checking in.”

That was typical Sanaya. She found emotional expression embarrassing. It was always straight to business with her. She used brevity like a shield against the world.

He replied: “All is well. Mom and I are just having a fight like we do. Not a big deal.”

Amira’s messages were more anxious and poignant:

“Baba, I don’t know what’s going on, but come home and work it out. We’re a family. I walk in your shoes and you walk in mine.”

This made Deek sad, or at least he thought it did, for the sadness was distant, not painful. Amira’s words came from an old blues song, “Walk a Mile in My Shoes,” and was something he always used to say to the girls when they were young. “Nobody knows what it’s like to walk in your shoes except your own family. I walk in yours every day, and you walk in mine.”

Amira’s next message read, “This is a mid-life crisis, isn’t it? Mama says you apparently made a lot of money, that’s a barakah, right? The new car is fly. But Mama is upset, and I don’t like that. You better get back to me today or I will hunt you down.”

That made Deek laugh. There were a few more messages like that. But the last message cut through the strange anti-emotional armor that surrounded him and pierced his heart: “Don’t leave me, Baba. We’re supposed to be a team!”

He stood and took a deep breath. He’d always imagined that if he hit it big in crypto, all their lives would change. And he still believed that. But he’d thought it would happen for all of them together. Things had spun out of control very quickly, and he found himself in a place he didn’t recognize, literally, in a life he could not have predicted.

He wrote to Amira and explained about the crypto windfall and how it would better all their lives, inshaAllah. He ended with, “We’ll never stop walking in each other’s shoes, I promise. We’re still a team. I love you.”

Mixed Message

He sat and braced himself. Time for Rania’s voicemail:

“As-salamu alaykum habibi. First, I want you to know that I have requested a transfer to a different department at the hospital, so I won’t be working with Dr. Townsend anymore, and I’m not having lunch with him anymore either.”

Deek supposed that was good news, and it was a significant gesture on her part, as he knew she loved the intensive care department. But hearing her talk about her “work husband” again – even if she hadn’t used that phrase – set Deek on edge. A thought occurred to him. He’d vowed to drug the man who was flirting with Rania, and drown him in the river. It was a matter of honor. The man was trying to seduce a married woman – a married Muslim, Arab woman. Deek was going to seriously consider the viability of killing the man. But later, not right now. He didn’t feel the requisite rage at the moment.

“Come home,” Rania continued, “and let’s talk things out. I don’t even know where you are. You can’t just disappear. Zaid told me that you’re okay, but that’s all. I don’t know what to believe about this crypto stuff. If you really made so much money that’s amazing mashaAllah, but you’ve been at it a long time, and suddenly you have a new car and there’s $100K in our account. It seems weird.”

Deek stopped the message. There was more, but the fact that she still didn’t believe him made his nostrils flare. She was the one who had been deceiving him, not the other way around. He had never lied to her about anything in their lives, except for little things like how many sodas he’d drunk that day or how many cookies he’d eaten, or if the pimple on her chin was noticeable. He didn’t need this hassle.

He went looking for Zaid, and found the man on the back patio, praying as the cats lounged about him.

Deek winced from the guilt that surged in his chest. He himself had not prayed a single salat since Jumu’ah. What kind of Muslim was he? Allah had blessed him with all this wealth, the culmination of years of hard work, and he had not put his head to the ground to show his gratitude.

***

[Part 10 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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.

 

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The post Moonshot [Part 9] – A Religion For Real Life appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Even as it tightens its gruelling genocide of Palestine, Israel seized the opportunity to launch a long-awaited assault on Iran that began a shooting war between the two regional powers at the start of summer.

The attack, for which Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu-Mileikowsky and much of the Israeli establishment has lobbied for a quarter-century, interrupted stalled negotiations over the country’s nuclear programme, wiping out much of Iran’s military command before Tehran rallied with its own missile attacks on Israel. In the process, a West that has scarcely bothered to conceal its partiality for Tel Aviv has scrambled to cover for Israel’s escalation, giving Netanyahu-Mileikowsky a welcome respite from international attention over the Israeli-enforced starvation of Gaza.

Background

It is almost ten years to the month since the 2015 Geneva Accord between the United States and Iran, meant to limit and negotiate the terms of Iran’s usage of nuclear energy. Although Ali Khamenei’s regime has long officially disavowed nuclear armament, Israel and its cacophony of -largely but not exclusively neoconservative- cheerleaders in the United States have long insisted that Iran is on the threshold of nuclear armament and called for an invasion of Iran. This was one of the motivations behind the generation-long war on terror, one where Iran ironically helped the United States overthrow their mutual enemy, the Baath regime in Iraq, before fighting over the spoils in that unfortunate country.

Neoconservatives in the West, and countless Israeli politicians, including Netanyahu-Mileikowsky himself, have made no secret of their ambition to oust Khamenei’s “Islamic revolutionary” regime, and searched for one pretext after another to affect this. The fact that the United States shared several mutual enemies with Iran in the region -largely among Sunni Arab groups independent of the monarchies that Washington prefers as its vassals- helped delay the push, as did the heavy cost of the war on terror in terms of American wealth, life, and prestige.

Having unilaterally scrapped the 2015 Geneva Accord with Iran in his first term, Donald Trump promised to make another one of his much-vaunted deals as he entered his second term. While his sincerity in the course might be questioned, even the formality of talks was too much for an Israel then knee-deep in genocide, and at last starting to attract some criticism, however muted and meek, over its genocide of Palestine. Israel has repeatedly insisted, without even the pretence of a regard for factuality, that Iran was remote-controlling its various Palestinian opponents, and Netanyahu-Mileikowsky resorted to his decades-long argument that Tehran was days away from nuclear armament.

On a personal level, Netanyahu-Mileikowsky is ensnared in corruption allegations: this means that his next stop after dethronement might well be a prison, and gives him every incentive to continue a war that retains widespread support in an Israeli society shorn of any consequences of war. On a systemic level, as Israeli sentiment shows, lashing out at one neighbour or another is always welcome in Tel Aviv, especially given the embarrassment caused by crackdowns against activists who tried to draw attention to the Israeli starvation of Gaza. Given that Israel enjoys an essential carte blanche from Washington in the region, there was little to stop Netanyahu-Mileikowsky, perched at a comfortably safe distance in Greece, from escalating into a war against Iran before any deal could be made.

Wipeout

Thus, Israel launched a series of airstrikes on Iran that quickly wiped out the Iranian military and praetorian command. These included lead negotiator and former defence minister, Ali Shamkhani; army commander Hossein Bagheri; praetorian military commander Hossein Salami; praetorian air force commander Amir Hajizadeh; and military commander Gholam-Ali Rashid. Also reported killed was Esmail Ghani, who leads the praetorians’ external operations, though his death remains unclear; subsequently, additional leading commanders Mehdi Rabbani and Gholam-Reza Mehrabi were also reported killed. It was a stunning blow to Iran’s military leadership; these were not simply generals but battle-hardened officers who had cut their teeth in the 1980s Gulf war with Iraq and subsequently dominated Iranian military adventurism in the region from Pakistan to Yemen.

A man walks past a billboard displaying images of top Iranian commanders and scientists killed in Israeli strikes early Friday, in Tehran, Iran, Friday, June 13, 2025. (AP Photo/Vahid Salemi)

That was, however, not the end of the Israeli aggression: aiming to oust Ali Khamenei and Massoud Pezeshkian’s government entirely, Israel continued to hammer away at Tehran with indiscriminate airstrikes, which have killed many Iranian civilians. The attack bore similarities to the 2003 American invasion of Iraq -another misadventure encouraged by Israel in general and Netanyahu-Mileikowsky in person- where the attackers mercilessly bombarded the same people they claimed to liberate. The Iranian equivalent of Ahmad Chalabi -the Americans’ would-be vassal in Iraq right until it was discovered that he was cozy not only with Israel, but also with Iran, and thus discarded- is the exiled claimant of the hated Pahlavi dynasty, Reza Pahlavi, whose father was ousted in the 1979 Iranian revolution when he was just a teenager. Reza has since lived a comfortable exile abroad, reportedly having never worked a day in his life, but the echo chamber of Iranian monarchists, who yearn for the return of one of the Middle East’s most brutal, elitist, and tyrannical monarchies, gives Israel a handy client on which to lean.

A “Splendid Little War”? Unlikely

Unlike previous Israeli provocations -as in spring 2024– Iran was not slow or cautious in responding; though its air-defence has been exposed as alarmingly inadequate, it does possess a considerable missile arsenal, which has in turn been launched at Tel Aviv and sent the cossetted denizens of Israel’s capital scuttling to underground bomb shelters. Despite the clear aggression of the Israeli assault, which drew widespread condemnation even from regional states otherwise wary of Tehran, however, the calculus of pro-Israeli Western elites, whereby an Israeli inconvenience is more noteworthy than the deaths of thousands of Muslims, means that European leaders such as Keir Starmer and Emmanuel Macron have interrupted their hesitant criticisms of the Israeli genocide to issue full-throated solidarity with Israel. Tel Aviv also attacked Yemen, claiming to have killed Houthi military commander Muhammad Amri.

Though the Israeli military cannot function without American protection and support, Tel Aviv is clearly angling for a full-blown American involvement in the campaign. Given that a considerable proportion of Trump’s more isolationist followers balk at foreign adventurism, but that a considerable proportion also share the American elite’s unfettered enthusiasm for Israel, this puts the United States in an interesting position. There are already reports of American warships heading in the direction of Iran, though whether they will actively partake in the Israeli assault or simply guard their own key sites is unclear. As yet, Iran has not resorted to closing the important straits in the Persian Gulf, perhaps fearing that this would give the United States a pretext to attack. On the other hand, the presence of thousands of Americans in Israel also means that Iran will have to tread with care to avoid an American assault.

If Trump’s past actions -in Afghanistan (2017), Syria (2025), and Yemen (2025) among others- are any indication, it is likely that he will give Israel a window of unchecked leeway but, if Iran rides out the storm, instead decide that it is no longer worth his while and return to talks. What is certain is that despite Trump’s words, the so-called “war on terror”-a pretext for attacking Muslim countries throughout the region, invariably with Israeli incitement- is still alive and kicking. If Gaza marks the most genocidal phase, Iran might mark a turning point.

-by Ibrahim Moiz for MuslimMatters

 

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The post Genocidal Israel Escalates With Assault On Iran appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

 

Student loans, often accruing crippling amounts of interest, are often taken as a given for Muslims in the West seeking higher education – but it doesn’t need to be that way! A Continuous Charity, a USA-based charity, is here to provide the option of a riba-free future for young Muslims pursuing post-secondary education.

In this episode, Faizan Syed, the co-founder of A Continuous Charity, speaks to Zainab about what ACC can do for Muslims seeking riba-free higher education in the West, and what that means for our communities at large. If you’re a university student, parent of a university student, or just want to help your community, this episode is for you!

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The post [Podcast] A Riba-Free Future with A Continuous Charity | Faizan Syed appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

“For so many Indians, the events at Pahalgam is when history begins. Never mind 500,000 troops occupying Kashmiris. Never mind mass graves, enforced disappearances, torture camps & extrajudicial killings. Tourists expect to be safe where residents don’t have any human rights.” -Azad Essa

 

At the time I wrote this article (May 14, 2025), the news coming out of India, Pakistan, and Kashmir continues to churn rapidly. On April 22, an attack in Pahalgam, Indian-administered Kashmir, killed 28 civilians, mostly Hindu tourists and one Muslim tourist. India blamed The Resistance Front, linked to Pakistan-based Lashkar-e-Taiba, though the group later denied involvement. In retaliation, India launched Operation Sindoor (precision missile and drone strikes across Pakistan-administered Kashmir and Punjab), claiming to target militant camps. Pakistan accused India of hitting civilian areas, including mosques, and responded with its own strikes on Indian military sites under Operation Bunyan-un-Marsous. What followed was the first large-scale drone war between the two nuclear states, claiming dozens of civilian lives. 

Though full-scale war was avoided and a tentative U.S.-brokered ceasefire was reached on May 10, it exposed India’s increasing reliance on the “Israeli model”: striking alleged “terrorist infrastructure” with broad impunity, even at the cost of civilian lives, bolstered by a slick propaganda machine that cast the strikes as surgical, moral, and necessary.

Many, from across the subcontinent to the Middle East to mosque pulpits in America, have used the language associated with analysing Zionism to make sense of the violence. This parallel is not incidental. As journalist and Al-Jazeera columnist Azad Essa argues in his book Hostile Homelands: The New Alliance Between India and Israel, the ideological and tactical convergence between Zionism and Hindutva has created a shared architecture of war crimes with impunity. Essa, a South African journalist of Indian descent, provides readers with an incisive recounting of history; how India has increasingly mirrored Israel, not just in military strategy, but in its ethno-nationalist project, legal repression, and media manipulation.

A Survey of Zionism and Hindutva Parallels

The book opens by laying out the ideological foundations of Zionism and Hindutva. Both movements emerged with the goal of defining their respective homelands – Israel and India – as ethno-religious states. Israel’s apartheid regime in Palestine functions not only through military occupation but via a matrix of laws, bureaucracies, and land policies designed to erase Palestinian identity.

India, however, originally refused to recognize Israel at the United Nations in 1948 and voted against its admission. This was part of India’s anti-colonial foreign policy, which viewed Zionism as a settler-colonial movement akin to European imperialism. But public sympathy for the Palestinian plight began to erode in the 1990s, particularly after the 1991 Gulf War and India’s economic liberalization, where the formal establishment of full diplomatic ties with Israel in 1992 marked a sharp turning point. Even as India began purchasing Israeli weapons (which Essa details extensively), it continued symbolic support for Palestine at the UN; a dual stance that persisted until the Modi era, where open admiration for Israel and right-wing Zionism replaced older rhetoric entirely.

Yet, even during India’s officially pro-Palestine decades, the ideological roots of Hindutva grew. The RSS and Hindutva movement have long envisioned a Hindu Rashtra – a nation purified of what they consider “foreign” elements. For example, Essa quotes M.S. Golwalkar, who in 1939 insisted that “foreign races” in Hindustan “must entertain no idea but those of the glorification of the Hindu race and culture . . . or may stay in the country, wholly subordinated to the Hindu Nation, claiming nothing, deserving no privileges, far less any preferential treatment—not even citizen’s rights.”1 Likewise, in Israel, views like that of Ze’ev Jabotinsky (founder of the expansionist Revisionist Zionism) paved the way for an ethno-state (“Zionist colonization must either stop, or else proceed regardless of the native population. Which means that it can proceed and develop only under the protection of a power that is independent of the native population—behind an iron wall, which the native population cannot breach.”). Essa traces these ideological convergences, noting how India’s BJP and Israel’s Likud are not aberrations but extensions of their founding logics, both seeking demographic engineering.

Palestine, Kashmir, and Dissent

Essa draws a direct line to India’s own efforts in Kashmir: the revocation of Article 370, the introduction of new domicile laws, demographic engineering, and the repression of dissent, all under a framework that mirrors Israeli mechanisms of control. In both cases, civilians are cast as potential terrorists, and state violence is sanitized through the language of security and sovereignty. He draws a direct comparison to the Nakba and its subsequent erasure of Palestinian villages, noting that India has similarly renamed Kashmiri landmarks, flooded the region with military personnel, and introduced new “domicile” laws to enable non-Kashmiris, mostly Hindus, to settle, mirroring Israeli settlement strategies in the West Bank. 

Perhaps most jarring alongside Israel’s blatant disregard for international law is India’s similar manipulation of legal frameworks to criminalize dissent. Laws like the UAPA (Unlawful Activities Prevention Act) have been used to jail activists, journalists, and students without trial: Catholic Priest Stan Swamy, student activists Umar Khalid and Sharjeel Imam among them. In March, the UAPA was invoked to silence protests in solidarity with Palestine. Indian police often demolish homes in Muslim neighborhoods under the pretext of punishing rioters, an echo of Israel’s punitive house demolitions. In both cases, the goal is to break the will of the population and warn others against defiance.

Ultimately, Essa argues that the alliance is not merely about ideology or weapon sales -though those are significant, evidenced by India’s extensive use of Israeli drones in the current conflict- but about exporting a model of control. He warns that the Israel-India partnership is a test case for a new form of authoritarianism masked by democratic veneers. India has learned to deploy soft power -tech, Bollywood, yoga- to mask its fascist tilt. During Operation Sindoor, Indian media seamlessly echoed government lines, with a female Muslim officer paraded in press conferences to deflect accusations of bigotry. Within this framework, the deaths of 28 tourists in Pahalgam become pretexts for escalating a settler-colonial logic already decades in motion – one now increasingly backed by Gulf capital and Western complicity.

The Precarity of Indian Muslim Identity

One of the strengths of Essa’s work lies in its critique of the political dynamics within India. The acknowledgment that it was not under the BJP but the Congress government of Rajiv Gandhi that certain pivotal actions occurred, such as the reopening of the Babri mosque for Hindu worshippers, and the normalization of ties with Israel, underscores the non-partisan nature of anti-Muslim hatred: “Whereas the political and social foundation of Hindutva had been laid by Hindu nationalists, it was the Congress party who had helped normalize the ideology. It follows, naturally, then, that when Rajiv Gandhi took over in 1984, the idea of normalizing ties with Israel had become tangled with the very demand of progress, liberalism, and technological advancement of India.”2 It dispels the notion that these issues are confined to a particular political party, instead, far more entrenched in the evolution of the country itself.

Given the above, the comparison between India and Israel, Kashmir and Palestine, makes the current moment a particularly volatile one for using this framework of analysis for Hindutva and Zionism. As an Indian-American Muslim, I do wonder if these parallels do not implicitly make those unfamiliar with the history put Indian Muslims at a crossroads. In other words, some analyses view Indian Muslims as analogous to collaborators, sell-outs of the Ummah. This misreading flattens history and regional contexts, and overlooks India and Pakistan as state-on-state warfare, wherein Pakistan is a nuclear-armed state with its own record of military coups, political repression, and U.S.-aligned operations. Imran Khan continues to languish in inhumane jail conditions.

Additionally, for all their similarities, there do exist distinctions between Zionism and Hindutva. Their origins, logics, and conceptions of indigeneity can differ in critical ways. Zionism emerged as a nationalist movement to establish a homeland for Jews, a diasporic people historically persecuted across Europe. Zionism is centered on a restorative settler-colonial logic, where Jews, regardless of origin, are defined as indigenous to the land of Israel. Hindutva, by contrast, does not imagine an exiled people returning but rather an indigenous majority reclaiming dominion over a homeland allegedly corrupted. As Essa outlines, Hindutva treats native Muslims and Christians not as external enemies but as internal contaminants, descendants of conquerors or converts who have betrayed the authentic civilizational essence of India. Hindutva does not seek partition but purification. In other words, Zionism and Hindutva converge in form but differ in origin.

Indian Muslims, far from being state proxies, are themselves targets of a majoritarian ethno-nationalist project. Of course, it is a moral imperative that those who can afford to voice opposition do so, or at the very least avoid echoing Hindutva jingoisms or cheering state violence, especially when it targets civilians, no matter what side of the border. But we must also acknowledge the structural precarity Indian Muslims live under, many of whom have sacrificed livelihoods, safety, and even their lives in pursuit of justice.

Conclusion

The dust has yet to settle after the ceasefire; the region remains taut. The violence of the past weeks are not anomalies, but manifestations of an ideology that rewards majoritarian cruelty and reframes it as righteous duty. These geopolitical conflicts are not insular. What followed after the Pahalgam attack is not a break from history but proof that the convergence Essa traces has never been theoretical.

May God preserve all innocent life, grant justice to the oppressed, and may we resist, always, the temptation to cheer power over principle.

 

Related:

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

– Perpetual Outsiders: Accounts Of The History Of Islam In The Indian Subcontinent

1    pg.44, Hostile Homelands2    pg. 24, Hostile Homelands

The post [Book Review] Hostile Homelands: Drawing Parallels Between Hindutva And Zionism In Historical and Present Day Context appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

“Were the world the possession of a single man, it would not make him rich … because it is passing away.”
– Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah

Who Are You?

Deek dreamed that he was walking through the Al-Hajarah desert of his native Iraq. It was a forbidding land, with a mosaic of stony plains, wadis, ridges, and gullies. He’d heard a rumor that the the Half-Buried Ziggurat of Šar-Ḫadīdu, part of the ancient kingdom of Ur, held a huge hidden cache of silver drachmas. He wanted that money, and would stop at nothing to get it.

He had drunk the last of his water and his throat was parched, but he must have that treasure.

As he trudged through the sweltering landscape, he passed a knot of Bādū shepherds, tending their sheep in the arid washlands. They called to him, offering to share water and flatbread with a weary traveler, but Deek did not trust them. What if they only wanted the secret of the treasure? Licking his cracked lips, he walked on.

He dropped behind a stone to hide from a group of shadowy men driving battered 4×4s and carrying rifles.

He encountered a woman praying on a rug in the shadow of a crumbling watchtower. Her abaya was drawn across her face, but she seemed young. He was about to pass her by when she ended the prayer and spoke his name.

“Deek Saghir, son of my sons.”

Deek cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“I am Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah.”

Deek knew her. She was an Iraqi poet and ascetic who had lived in the 8th century. She was famous for her deep piety. Deek cast his gaze at the ground so as not to offend the holy woman’s modesty.

“My father,” he said, “often told me that you were our ancestor. But our village shaykh said that he was wrong, that you never married, and spent your life in worship.”

“Child Deek,” she replied. “Who are you?”

Deek was confused. If she knew his name, why was she asking?

“I’m looking for a hidden treasure of silver,” he explained. “It’s near here.”

“I did not ask what you are doing. I asked, ‘who are you?’”

Deek’s eyebrows knitted together. “This is me. I am determined to be rich. It’s my destiny.”

“If that is all you are, then you are nothing.” Rabiah turned away and began to recite the Quran, her soft voice carrying clearly across the desert sand.

Deek walked on. The sun was high in the sky and beginning to burn. His waterskin was bone-dry, and each breath tasted like dust. He wasn’t going to make it. It had been folly to come out here. He was wounded by Shaykha Rabiah’s words. What did she mean that he was nothing? He had struggled mightily to find this treasure, and was still struggling. He was determined and focused. That was more than 99% of people could say.

His legs gave out. With the words, “Who are you?” echoing in his mind, he fell on the hot sand and lay prostrate.

Clear Mind

Deek’s face was hot. He waved a hand beside his cheek, mumbling, “I’m me, that’s all. I’m just me. That’s something, not nothing.” He opened his eyes to find himself in a small bed that just barely fit him, covered with a geometric-patterned quilt. The sun beamed through the window, shining on his face.

He didn’t like the way Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah had turned away from him at the end. Was she disappointed in him? She was a saint, and he was an ordinary man. What did she want from him?

Wait… that wasn’t real. That was a dream. He blinked several times, trying to understand where he was. Sitting up, he felt a twinge of pain in his ribs. He was dressed in blue flannel pajamas that he did not recognize. Lifting the shirt, he saw that his entire torso was bandaged.

He remembered. The kidnapping, the terrible beating they’d given him, and Zaid Karim blazing in like the angel of death, killing the kidnappers and saving him. The pain in his ribs was not nearly as bad as it had been last night. He opened and closed his mouth. His jaw was sore, but worked just fine. He touched his nose and found it also bandaged.

He was not worried. In fact, now that the morning brain fog had cleared, his mind was sharp and clear. He didn’t feel much of anything, emotionally. Instead, he was like a machine that had been designed to observe, calculate, and strategize. He still remembered Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah’s probing questions and comments. He understood that she expected more from him spiritually. But at the moment, this did not disturb him.

The room in which he sat was made of white painted brick. On the walls were shelves that held colorful woven baskets, a stone axe and obsidian knife, and other objects that might have been tools or weapons; as well as abalone shells, something that looked like a rattle, and a feathered headdress mounted on the wall. It was as if he was in a Native American museum.

His two suitcases stood in one corner. Zaid must have gone back to the Moon Walk motel to retrieve them.

He was desperately thirsty. Rising slowly, he put on a pair of slippers he found beside the bed, went through a door and found himself in the bathroom. The mirror above the sink showed a face that did not look as bad as he expected. His eyes were slightly bruised and swollen, and his nose was bandaged, but on the whole he felt much better than he should, based on his memory of what the thugs had done to him.

The Namer’s House

The small sink operated with a foot pedal, of all things. Pumping the pedal, Deek drank greedily and washed up, then went to find someone to talk to.

He discovered that he was alone in the small house. There was another bedroom, decorated similarly to his own. The modest living room, sparsely furnished with a sofa, table, and chairs all hewn from natural oak, also had shelves on the walls, but these held glass jars and bottles that were filled with herbs, spices, and colored liquids. There was no television, phone, or any electronics that Deek could see. Not even a refrigerator in the little kitchen, though there was an ancient-looking oven and stove. There were unlit candles everywhere, most of them in votive glasses.

His phone sat on a little table in the kitchen, beside a candle, a box of matches, and an ashtray. In addition,n there was an assortment of foodstuffs, including a loaf of bread, a few tins of sardines, a small block of cheese wrapped in cloth, jars of peanut butter and jelly, a basket of tomatoes, a bowl of oranges, and a bag of dry cat food.

Beneath the phone was a note:

“Akhi Deek: You are in the Namer’s house. It’s a safe place where you can recuperate. She treated your wounds and gave you healing medicine, so you should feel better. She’s gone to the coast for a day, but help yourself to the food. You can use your phone, but don’t make any calls for now, and remember there’s no electricity. Do NOT talk about last night’s events to anyone! I need to get to the bottom of what happened. I’ll see you later tonight, inshaAllah. Burn this note. – Zaid.”

Wealth for Wealth’s Sake

Deek read the note over again, then crumpled it, lit it on fire with a match, and set it in the ashtray to burn. No electricity? Sinks with foot pumps? Shelves with axes and potions? He couldn’t tell if he was in a Western movie, a Grimm’s fairy tale, or a spy thriller. In any case, he was alive, so alhamdulillah for that.

Compulsively, he turned on the phone. There were text messages and missed calls from his wife and both of his daughters, and voicemails from numbers he did not recognize. He would read and listen to them later.

He checked his crypto balance. The altcoin rally he’d been waiting for the last two years was in full swing. His portfolio was up to 90 million.

This was what Rania, Lubna, and others had not understood about crypto. It was extraordinarily volatile, but it was cyclical, and it was a waiting game. You had to have the knowledge to know what to buy, but after that, it was all about being patient and waiting for the next parabolic bull rally. Crypto bull cycles could be insanely profitable, to a degree unimaginable in any other asset class.

Deek had been through one such euphoric rally before – that was when he’d made the $200K – but he’d held the tokens too long and lost it all in the inevitable bear market collapse. After that, he’d waited three years for the next bull cycle, and it was finally here. His knowledge and patience had paid off. All he had to do was recognize when this monster run was peaking, and get out in time.

If he played his cards right, he could hit a net worth of half a billion dollars before this bull cycle ended. The thought was mind-boggling. He had no idea what he would do with the wealth he already possessed, let alone half a billion dollars. But it wasn’t about that anymore.

His friend Marco had multiple college degrees. He’d once told Deek that receiving the first diploma had been a thrill – as it was for everyone- but that after that, each successive degree meant less. For Marco, studying wasn’t about the degrees anymore, but the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. It had occurred to Deek more than once that Marco, who was not Muslim, was following with great dedication Allah’s command to “Read!” – But was missing the second part: “In the Name of your Lord Who Created…”

The point was that Deek felt the same way about growing his cryptocurrency hoard. Now that he was at almost a hundred million, it was no longer about securing a better future for himself and his family, but about perfecting the investment process itself. Making the right choices, timing the market, seeing the numbers grow. Excellence and wealth for the sake of excellence and wealth.

As he thought this, he heard a distant echo of Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah’s voice saying, “If that is all you are, then you are nothing.” But he pushed it aside.

Urban Wasteland Oasis

There was no lock on the front door. How was he supposed to be safe in a house with an unlocked door? He opened it and stepped outside to find himself looking at a garden in the middle of a wasteland. The house’s small front yard was gorgeous, filled with flowers and herbs. Bees buzzed resourcefully, and butterflies flitted from rose to bird of paradise to carnation. There was a narrow driveway, but no garage.

Beyond this house, however, the neighborhood consisted of crumbling homes with bare earth yards, junked cars, empty lots strewn with trash, a house that had burned to the ground, and an abandoned house that was boosted up on pillars of bricks for some reason.

What city was this? Was this even Fresno? He’d never seen anything like this in Fresno.

He went inside and explored further. There was a back door that exited off the kitchen.

Stepping out, he found himself in an earthly imitation of Paradise. The backyard was huge, many times larger than the house, and enclosed by a wooden fence. The entire space was filled with fruit trees and herbs, rows of vegetables, and bird feeders. Everywhere he looked, he saw birds hopping, darting, and feeding, including hummingbirds. There was a covered patio with chairs and a glass table, and several empty food bowls. As Deek stood there, four cats of various colors trotted up to him, meowing and rubbing against his legs. He retrieved the bag of cat food and filled their bowls, and watched them munch happily.

The Namer’s backyard

He considered. Based on the poverty-stricken neighborhood, the lack of a lock on the front door, and the herbs and potions in the house, he concluded that the Namer must be some sort of neighborhood medicine woman. She treated the people here, and they respected and protected her. Or perhaps they feared her. Or both.

Also, based on his own physical condition, which was better than he had any right to expect, and on his strangely clear state of mind, he deduced that the Namer had given him some sort of healing potion. The woman was clearly a genius. She could market these potions and make a fortune.

Money Management

Speaking of fortunes, it was time to manage his assets. He must not fail to make the most of this opportunity. First, he changed the settings on his Coinbase account, linking it to his own personal account instead of the joint account. Then he sold $5K worth of Solana and sent it to his bank account.

Using Phantom, Solflare, Trust Wallet, and Coinbase wallet, he created multiple sub-wallets and began to distribute the assets. For each wallet he created, he wrote the secret phrase – a list of 12 or 24 random words – on an encrypted text file on his phone. Later, he would save the phrases on an encrypted thumb drive and store it in a safe deposit box.

He sold the five dozen or so nearly valueless meme coins that he still held, and began to invest in blue chip cryptos like Bitcoin, Ethereum, Solana, Avalanche, Cardano, and Chainlink. He also bought a number of large-cap utilities on the Solana chain, including DEXes (decentralized exchanges) like Orca and Raydium, a launchpad, a streaming audio service, and a few popular games. Lastly, he put about $10 million in more experimental tokens, not tiny microcaps this time, but mid-cap AI tokens similar to the Alpha101 that had made him a fortune.

When this was done, he did a search for asset management firms that specialized in crypto. There were many in the USA, including in San Francisco, and others in London, Switzerland, and Germany. Several in Singapore and Hong Kong, and three in the Caymans. He called all three of the Caymans firms and got voicemail each time. Apparently they didn’t work on Saturdays down there. Too busy relaxing at the beach. He left messages explaining that he had earned a lot of money in crypto and needed guidance.

For a long time, he lost himself in these tasks, as he always did with crypto. Cryptocurrency fascinated him, and he never grew bored of it. The cats lounged at his feet, and occasionally he reached out to pet one. At some point, he realized he was hungry. He went inside and made a sandwich of sardines and tomatoes of all things – not something he would normally choose. He had no craving for chips or sweets. What had the Namer done to him? She could seriously be rich if she wanted.

His body needed more rest, so he returned to bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

Shake the Earth

Zaid needed to confront Bandar Tzan’ani, but he wasn’t interested in assaulting the man’s fortified compound in south Fresno. Killing those three men yesterday had shaken him and left his soul as turbulent as a thunderstorm. He’d gone home, parked the car, and wept. They had not been the first men he’d killed, nor even the last since Panama. But taking a human life was an enormity that should quake the earth itself and make the heavens weep. It was not to be done and forgotten.

To make matters worse, he’d made no attempt to negotiate and delivered no warning. He’d cut the men down in cold blood. Tactically, it had been the sound choice. There really had been no other option, and one could say the men deserved it. Without a doubt, this had not been their first crime. Zaid wouldn’t be surprised if collectively, those three men had a river of blood on their hands.

But it didn’t matter. Who was he to say who deserved what? The experience left him feeling like an assassin.

Nevertheless, he had a job to do. He’d made some calls, and learned that Bandar had a certain ritual that he repeated every Saturday night. That was perfect, as it would allow Zaid to confront the man in a public setting, which would force them both to behave. Hopefully.

Zaid had two goals: one, he had to make it clear to Tzan’ani that Deek Saghir was off limits. Two, to take responsibility for the killing of Tzan’ani’s men. If the Yemeni king of liquor and dope was determined to pursue this conflict, then Zaid wanted to make himself the target of the man’s wrath, rather than Deek.

Saturday Night at the Movies

It was Saturday night, and Bandar Tzan’ani settled into a middle seat at the River Park Regal cinema. He always reserved his seat in advance, and he always reserved the seats on either side and directly in front, to make sure that he had plenty of private space and an unobstructed view. His hulking bodyguard was seated in the row behind him and a few seats over. Bandar had a large bucket of popcorn, a soda, and a box of red liquorice. His wife would not let him eat such things, but in this theater he was king.

The previews had just begun, and he was already smiling. He cherished these weekly movie excursions. In fact, he lived for them.

About a year ago, he’d begun experiencing pains in his abdomen. He had not gone to the doctor, as he was afraid of what they might say. He told himself it was stress. The only pleasure he had anymore was his Saturday night movie outing. He changed up the cinema regularly for security purposes, but he had to admit that the River Park Regency, with its huge screens and surrounding restaurants in the mall, got more attention than all the others.

Here at the movie house, he could forget the world for a solid three hours. And if it was an action movie or a western, so much the better.

Hollywood hardly ever made westerns anymore. Why was that? Bandar absolutely adored movies like Open Range, True Grit, Red Hill (though it was modern and Australian), Django Unchained (though not a true western), and above all, 3:10 To Yuma. Though, as for The Revenant, the director should be thrown off a high cliff for making that depressing abomination.

He’d thought about building a private cinema in his compound, but it wouldn’t be the same. He liked the excitement of seeing new releases, hearing people laugh or cheer, and the feeling of losing himself in the crowd.

So it was a bit of a downer, to say the least, when the movie had begun and the lights dimmed, and a lean young man with a scarred face and wearing a brimmed hat sat in the seat next to Bandar and casually planted the barrel of a gun in his side.

“How’s tricks, Bandar?” the man said. “Do you know who I am?”

***

[Part 9 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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:

Kill the Courier |Part 1 – Hiding in Plain Sight

The Albatross and the Quran: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 8] – The Namer’s House appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

“He who sows winds, reaps storms.” – Spanish proverb

“If you stare into an abyss long enough, the abyss stares back at you.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

On Alert

Zaid Karim pulled into the motel parking lot and parked in a dark corner. Rania had said that Deek bought a black Porsche, and there it was, parked in front of room 9, looking like a black diamond in a hayfield among the twenty or so dented sedans, aging Japanese cars, and dirty trucks in this lot. The lights in room 9 were still on, but the curtains were firmly closed. A white van with tinted windows idled in the center of the lot, dirty exhaust pouring from its tailpipe into the chill night air. That was suspicious, and it put his senses on alert. He decided to remain in place and monitor the van before making any move.

Kidnap

Manuel “Manny” Cesar wasn’t sure whether he believed in God or fate, but both were great when they put food on your plate. As it turned out, there was no need to lure the target, a man named Deek, out of the room, as the car thief exited room number 9 entirely on his own. Shujaa had given a description of the guy, and it matched exactly. He was built like Oscar, tall and overweight, but with a mass of curly hair and a short beard. He carried the car keys in one hand.

Manny gunned the van and pulled up next to the Porsche. Oscar leaped out and shot Deek with a high-voltage, military-grade taser. The big man crashed to the ground like a tree, and Manny and his vatos were on him like killer bees, dragging him by the knees, no time for wait or please. They hauled him into the van. The kid snatched the car keys, jumped in the Porsche, and peeled out. Manny was only a few seconds behind. The whole thing went down smoother than mantequilla on a hot tortilla.

They’d already laid out a tarp on the floor of the van to prevent bloodstains. As Manny drove, Oscar and Poison taped Deek’s hands, feet, and mouth, then proceeded to beat and kick him as they cursed, calling him a filthy Arab and a fat slob. The thief screamed in pain and terror, but the tape muffled his cries.

Pursuit

Zaid had hardly shut the engine off and settled back in the seat to study the scene, when the door to room 9 opened, and Deek walked out. Zaid opened his car door to get out, but immediately the white van sped forward, men poured out and tased Deek, then threw him into the van, which sped away. Zaid leaped out of the car with his gun drawn, but the whole thing happened so fast. He didn’t think the kidnappers had even seen him. He jumped back into the car and started in pursuit.

The van drove southeast, skirting the edge of the warehouse district. Zaid followed from a distance, not wanting to be spotted. At night, this area was all shuttered warehouses, dark train yards, and empty streets. He was afraid they might take Deek into one of the warehouses. Depending on the level of security, it could make it hard to help him. A moving target was always easier.

When the van turned west on Altura Street, Zaid saw his chance. Altura was a rutted road with a railroad crossing that had a steep incline. You couldn’t speed down this road, it was impossible. There was nothing around but a railroad yard on the left, and a milk factory on the right. A half mile down, Altura exited onto Amsterdam Street, an extremely dark street that ran under the freeway. There was nothing at all on that stretch of Amsterdam, just empty lots filled with illegally dumped trash.

There was a shortcut to get around Altura, which Zaid only knew about because he’d taken a case involving the abandoned milk factory that rose now on the right. Someone had been sabotaging the factory, shutting down production two or three times a week. The lady who owned it hired Zaid to find out who was responsible. It turned out to be the owner’s husband, who was VP of production. He was having an affair with his secretary, and wanted to drive his wife to despair so she would sell the factory. He would then divorce her, take half the money in the settlement, and move to Brazil with the secretary. All very cliched, and perhaps obvious to an outsider, but the wife hadn’t seen it coming.

The husband went to prison, and the wife did indeed sell the factory, but so far, the new owners had done nothing with it. It had been sitting idle for a year.

The factory was gated, but the security road that encircled it was not. On the other side of the factory, there was a short, unpaved road that led to Amsterdam Street. It was a longer route than Altura, but the security road was well paved. He could circle around and enter Altura from the other side, cutting the van off.

Zaid turned onto the security road and hit the accelerator. The tires squealed as he took the curve like a stock car racer. He circled the factory in record time, shot down the dirt road, and bumped out onto Amsterdam, which was deserted. He sped on the wrong side of Amsterdam for a hundred meters, then turned onto Altura.

Sure enough, here came the van, still working its way slowly around the potholes, heading right toward him. Zaid parked his car behind a telephone pole, stepped out onto the road, and drew his gun.

Fourth Degree

Manny cursed. It had been a stupid idea to turn onto Altura. He’d forgotten that it was under construction. He was just trying to get to that deserted stretch of Amsterdam, where they could dump this fat car thief amid the piles of old mattresses, broken washing machines, and rotting garbage.

They’d beaten the man badly. He lay on the tarpaulin, moaning, covered in blood. Served him right. Poison wanted to kill Deek, but Poison wanted to kill everyone. They hadn’t been hired to kill him. Just to send the message that if you messed with Mr. Z you got the fourth degree, and it wouldn’t be fun, son.

Manny was watching the road carefully, trying to steer around the potholes, and glanced up to see a man standing not twenty feet in front of the van, pointing a gun directly at him. The man was lean and muscular-looking, with black hair to his shoulders and a nasty scar on the upper part of his face. He wore jeans, black boots, a red and blue windbreaker, and a fedora, of all things.

“What the -”

Targets In the Dark

Zaid opened his eyes wide and narrowed his focus. The front seat of the van held a driver and a passenger. Behind them, there appeared to be a partition. Zaid sighted, and shot the driver through the windshield, then shot him again. The van careened off the road, narrowly missing him. As it passed, he fired quickly, barely aiming, not expecting to hit his target. Yet he did. He saw the passenger’s head jerk violently to the side as a bullet smashed through his skull. The van crashed into the security fence around the milk factory, then stalled, coming to a stop. Zaid dashed toward it.

Who Would Have Guessed?

Manny heard a flat, sharp sound. A small, neat hole appeared in the windshield, surrounded by emanating cracks. He felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He looked down and saw blood seeping through his shirt. The man had shot him in the chest, who would have guessed?

His first thought was that he’d known this would happen one day. He’d hurt a lot of people in his lifetime. His grandmother, Abuela Anita, used to say, “Quien siembra vientos, recoge tempestades.” He who sows winds, reaps storms. The evil you put into the world always came back to you. He’d convinced himself that he wasn’t an evil man, but his heart knew better. If only he’d listened to it.

This reminded him of Sunday mornings at Abuela’s table, when she made chilaquiles, tamales, huevos rancheros, atole, pan dulce, and coffee. All his surviving family – those who weren’t in prison or the grave – would gather around to feast, talk and laugh. He hadn’t been to Sunday breakfast lately, why was that? He’d been slippin’ and trippin’, and now he was done.

The next bullet entered his chest from the side, clipping the edge of the left atrium of the heart that Manny had refused to listen to. He had a sudden vision of his Tio Ramirez, who’d spent half a lifetime incarcerated at San Quentin before committing suicide. Manny had visited Ramirez a few months before he killed himself. Ramirez’s eyes were hollow and tired that day, full of pain and regret. Speaking on a phone from the other side of a glass partition, Ramirez quoted some philosopher named Nietsche: “If you stare into an abyss long enough, the abyss stares back at you.”

As he died, Manny stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back with wet black eyes that neither rhymed nor reasoned, but bored remorselessly into his soul.

A Universe of Pain

Deek drifted in a universe made entirely of pain. He didn’t know who these men were, but the two tattooed Mexicans who were with him in the rear of the van had been insulting and cursing him as they beat him, calling him car thief and other things. “Never mess with Mr. Z,” one of them said. Deek had no idea who that was. He would have told them that he was no car thief, that he paid for the car fair and square, but his mouth was taped shut.

His nose and mouth were full of blood, and he swallowed a mouthful of it so he wouldn’t choke. His jaw felt crooked, and the sides of his torso felt liquid and broken. Blood ran into one eye, stinging and blinding him, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear it.

Patience is at the first blow, Imam Saleh had said. This thought ran through Deek’s head like a mantra as he mumbled, “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’oon,” again and again.

The two men had quit beating him at least, and now sat on the side seat against the wall of the van.

He heard a sharp sound like a firecracker, then another, and he was thrown against the partition that separated the front seats from the rear cargo area. The two kidnappers were thrown to the floor as well, one of them landing atop Deek. The man they called Poison rose with a curse, drew a large handgun from his waistband and opened the rear door of the van. An instant later a gunshot rang out and Poison tumbled back into the van with a bullet hole in his forehead.

The man who’d been thrown atop Deek – Oscar – shouted, “Chingada!” and scrambled to his feet. Yanking Deek to a sitting position, Oscar kneeled behind him and put a knife to his throat.

Showdown

A moment later a man wearing a brown fedora stepped into the van, gun in hand. Even with all his pain, Deek grinned, making the tape pull against the corners of his mouth. Tears sprung to his eyes as he wept with relief. It was Zaid Karim Al-Husayni. The man, the hero, the legend.

Because of his indirect familial relationship to the Palestinian-American private investigator, Deek knew more than most people about the dangers Zaid had faced and overcome. The man was a juggernaut, a one-man avalanche. As a youth he’d robbed banks all up and down California, spent six years in a maximum security federal penitentiary, been pardoned by the president of the USA after he saved a woman’s life in a prison riot, had survived innumerable assaults in the course of his job, and had killed a Panamanian drug kingpin in hand-to-hand combat. All that and more.

Deek didn’t know how Zaid had known of his predicament, or how he’d found him, but thank God. Alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah. Patience was at the first blow! If you showed sabr, Allah would make a way.

Death was written in Zaid’s eyes as plain as a newspaper headline, and Oscar must have seen it, because panic infused the kidnapper’s voice as he shouted, “Stop! Drop your gun or I’ll cut this pendejo’s throat!”

Far from dropping the gun, Zaid raised it and sighted on the kidnapper’s head. “You kill him,” he said grimly, “and it will be the last thing you ever do in this world.”

“We work for Bandar Tzan’ani! You can’t mess with him.”

Deek saw the flash of recognition in Zaid’s eyes. But the legendary P.I. was as focused as a laser beam. He breathed slowly and deeply. His knees were slightly bent, his shoulders relaxed. He looked like a lion about to pounce.

“We can make a deal!” Oscar shouted as he kneeled behind Deek, hiding his face behind Deek’s head. “I let him go, you let me go.”

“I’ll make a different deal,” Zaid replied calmly. “What do you say, Deek?” He winked at Deek, and Deek thought he understood.

Deek winked back. An instant later he flung his head backward, smashing the back of his skull into the kidnapper’s nose. Oscar dropped the knife as his hands flew out in shock. Deek pitched himself sideways. Two shots rang out as Zaid put one bullet in Oscar’s face, and another in his chest.

“I shoot you and you die,” Zaid said, holstering his gun. “That’s the deal.”

Death Is Good Enough

Zaid cut Deek’s bonds and removed the tape from his mouth.

“The man of the hour!” Deek shouted, or tried to. The pain in his jaw was terrible, and he winced as he gripped it.

“Are there any more of them?” Zaid asked seriously. “Another car?”

Deek climbed slowly to his feet. Even with all his injuries, and with the coppery taste of blood still coating his mouth, he felt exhilarated. He and Zaid had shown these guys what was what! What a rush! “No,” he mumbled, for his jaw would not work properly. “Just this piece of garbage.” He punctuated the last word with a kick to the dead kidnapper’s face, but the movement caused a massive wave of pain in his side, and he groaned.

“Come on,” Zaid said, taking him by the arm. “Death is good enough. They are facing worse trials now than what we can give them.”

Oscar had confiscated Deek’s phone when they kidnapped him. He needed that back, as it held his crypto wallets and the protected file with the secret keys. He shook off Zaid’s arm, went through the dead man’s pockets and found the phone.

The Namer

Deek didn’t realize that Oscar had cut him until Zaid pressed a cloth against the side of his neck and said, “Keep pressure on this.” The hard-bitten detective put an arm around Deek and helped him to Zaid’s car. The pain of Deek’s wounds, especially his jaw and hand, filled his eyes with tears, and he watched blearily as Zaid shut the van’s doors, opened the gas cap, stuffed a rag into the fuel neck, and lit it. Zaid then hurried to the car, and they took off.

In the movies people always set something to blow then depart coolly, not looking back. But Deek was not that cool. He turned his head just in time to see the van jump into the air as it exploded in a fireball.

“I need to go to the hospital,” he tried to say, but the words sounded more like a moan than anything intelligible. The wave of energy he’d felt when Zaid had freed him was receding, leaving behind a glittering shoreline of pain.

“Don’t try to talk. I think your jaw is dislocated. I could try to reset it but I’m not experienced at that, so I’ll leave it to the Namer. Your nose is definitely broken as well.”

“Hospital,” Deek moaned.

“Can’t take you to the hospital. I just killed three men. In defense of my life and yours, but you never know how the cops will see it. Trust me, the Namer will take good care of you.”

Deek didn’t understand what Zaid was saying. The what? The Namer? He sat back in the seat, still pressing the cloth to his neck, and closed his eyes. Rain was falling again, and the rhythmic snick-snick of the wipers snagged at Deek’s mind and eased him into another state of consciousness. The pain of his wounds blissfully receded.

Human After All

He found himself remembering a night from when he was twelve years old. He was in the car with his parents and Lubna, returning from eating at the Old Spaghetti Factory. It was raining, and the wipers were on, and Baba began to sing a traditional Iraqi song called Hayatna, matching it to the rhythm of the wipers.

Mama joined in, and Lubna as well, but Deek refused to sing. He was too cool for that, and he cared more about American rock music than old Iraqi ballads. He mocked Lubna, telling her she sang like a crow.

Why had he been such a horrible punk? No wonder she hated him. He’d been nothing but a bully to her growing up.

What if he bled to death right here in this car seat? He would never get a chance to tell Lubna how sorry he was, and that she was actually a great singer, and that he had only been jealous at how much closer to their parents she was back then.

He snapped out of the reverie. The full intensity of his wounds hit him like another booted kick. He felt in his pockets for his phone, and took it out. The screen was cracked, but alhamdulillah it still worked.

He called Lubna. As it began to ring, Zaid snatched the phone away.

“I told you not to talk. Calling your family right now is not a good idea. You’ll scare them. You’re not dying. The cut on your neck is superficial. If it had been a little deeper you’d be dead now, but you were fortunate, alhamdulillah. We’ll get you patched up, I promise.”

Deek nodded and sank into the seat. Glancing at Zaid, he noticed that the detective’s arms were trembling on the steering wheel, and the man’s face was as pale as a high moon. What was wrong with him? As his mind slipped into darkness, it dawned on Deek that maybe the rescue had not been as easy for Zaid as it had seemed. Maybe he’d been frightened, or maybe the act of killing had shaken him up. Maybe Zaid, in spite of all the legends and stories about him, was human after all.

***

[Part 8 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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:

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

As Light As Birdsong: A Ramadan Story

The post Moonshot [Part 7] – The Abyss Stares Back appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

[Part 1] [Part 2]

The ten best days of the year are upon us! Just as we prepare du’a lists in Ramadan, so too are these blessed days the perfect opportunity to pour our hearts out to our creator. This Dhul Hijjah, Shaykh Yahya Ibrahim provides guidance on how to perfect the art of du’a so that we may turn to Allah in the best way.

In the third episode, Shaykh Yahya shares different strategies and the etiquette of making du’a in the best way, right in time for the Day of ‘Arafah.

 

Related:

[Dhul Hijjah Series] Calling Upon the Divine: The Art of Du’a (Part 1)

Embracing the Sacred: A Heartfelt Journey Through the First 10 Days of Dhul-Hijjah

The post [Dhul Hijjah Series] Calling Upon the Divine: The Art of Du’a (Part 3) appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The ten best days of the year are upon us! Just as we prepare du’a lists in Ramadan, so too are these blessed days the perfect opportunity to pour our hearts out to our creator. This Dhul Hijjah, Shaykh Yahya Ibrahim provides guidance on how to perfect the art of du’a so that we may turn to Allah in the best way.

In the second episode, Shaykh Yahya teaches us about the different types of du’a and how they contribute to the spiritual purity of our worship, as well as the “psychology of du’a.”

The post [Dhul Hijjah Series] Calling Upon the Divine: The Art of Du’a (Part 2) appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

My Wake-Up Call

I remember sitting in my nonprofit’s office in 2020, staring at a donor’s request: “Can you accept stock donations?” I had no idea how to answer. Despite running a successful organization, there was so much about finance I still didn’t understand. That question became my wake-up call.

While others were perfecting their sourdough starters during the pandemic, I found myself reading books about personal finance and money management. I searched everywhere for resources that approached financial literacy from an Islamic perspective, but came up empty-handed. So I started with what was available – books like “The Latte Factor” by David Bach and John David Mann – and began the work of filtering these mainstream financial concepts through an Islamic lens. This journey would ultimately transform how I thought about money, wealth, and giving as a Muslim woman.

From Checkbook Charity to Strategic Impact

I remember the first time I learned about Donor-Advised Funds (DAFs—charitable giving accounts that let you contribute assets and recommend grants to charities while receiving an immediate tax deduction). DAFs truly transformed how I distributed my zakat. I realized I could give significantly more than previous years – not because I earned more, but because I finally understood how to give smarter. Instead of just writing checks, I learned to donate appreciated stock, reducing my tax burden while increasing my charitable impact.

This financial knowledge wasn’t just about personal gain—it revealed a critical connection between money management and serving others. Had I understood this earlier, it would have transformed my early career decisions. For instance, when I first started in the nonprofit sector, I worked for two years without taking a salary because I mistakenly believed that being paid would somehow diminish the spiritual rewards of my work. I now realize this mindset was counterproductive. By undervaluing my own financial well-being, I was actually limiting my long-term capacity to give and serve. Financial literacy taught me that being compensated fairly and managing money wisely actually amplifies our ability to help others sustainably.

Allah tells us in the Quran:

“Those who spend their wealth in the cause of Allah and do not follow their charity with reminders of their generosity or hurtful words—they will get their reward from their Lord, and there will be no fear for them, nor will they grieve.” [Surah Al-Baqarah: 2;262]

The Ripple Effect of Strategic Giving

Let me share a recent example that demonstrates the power of intentional financial planning. Last year, an organization that supports Deaf and Deaf+ Muslims in our community was raising funds for critically needed programs. Their initiative focused on expanding American Sign Language resources and developing Culturally & Linguistically Appropriate Services tailored to our diverse Muslim community. The organization had identified significant gaps in accessibility that many community members faced when participating in religious gatherings, educational workshops, and social events.

“Those who spend their wealth in the cause of Allah and do not follow their charity with reminders of their generosity or hurtful words—they will get their reward from their Lord, and there will be no fear for them, nor will they grieve.” [PC: Christian Dubovan (unsplash)]

Because I had learned to manage my finances strategically over the previous two years—setting aside specific amounts for charity, tracking my giving goals, and researching impact opportunities—I was able to contribute meaningfully to this initiative without compromising my other financial responsibilities. I made a substantial donation that aligned with my values of inclusion and community support, while encouraging others to participate at whatever level felt right for them.

The impact multiplied beautifully beyond my initial contribution. Today, the organization offers weekly ASL classes, has hired Deaf instructors, and has developed specialized resources that serve many families who previously felt disconnected from community activities.

This experience reinforced my belief that financial empowerment isn’t just about personal security—it’s about expanding our capacity to support initiatives that align with our deepest values and strengthen our community bonds.

The Prophetic Model of Financial Management

Abu Hurairah narrated that the Prophet ﷺ said: “While a man was in a barren tract of land, he heard a voice in a cloud saying: ‘Irrigate the garden of so-and-so.’ The cloud moved and poured its water over a rocky area. The water collected in a channel, so the man followed it and found a person standing in his garden, directing the water with his shovel. He asked him: ‘O servant of Allah, what is your name?’ He said the name that was heard from the cloud. He then asked: ‘Why do you ask about my name?’ He replied: ‘I heard a voice in the cloud which poured this water, saying: “Irrigate the garden of so-and-so,” mentioning your name. What do you do with it?’ He said: ‘Now that you have asked, I look at what it produces and give one-third in charity, my family and I eat one-third, and I reinvest one-third back into the garden.'” [Sahih Muslim]

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ showed us that smart financial management enables greater giving. The gardener’s secret in the above hadith wasn’t just in giving – it was in his systematic approach. He divided his harvest into thirds: charity, family needs, and reinvestment. 

I’ve adopted this principle in my own life, creating specific budgets for sadaqah while ensuring I’m also building long-term financial stability.

Practical Steps to Get Started

For young Muslims just starting their financial journey: You don’t have to wait until you’re “wealthy” to make a difference. Start with these practical steps:

1. Set up automatic transfers for charity (even if it’s just $5/month). Use platforms like A Continuous Charity or LaunchGood’s monthly giving program to automate your sadaqah.

2. Learn one new financial concept each month. Resources I recommend:

• Sign up for Fatimah Jangana’s Finance Girlie’s newsletter Financial Literacy for Muslim Women
• “Smart Women Finish Rich” by David Bach
• The “Islamic Finance Guru” podcast with hosts Mohsin Patel & Ibrahim Khan
• Follow @ZoyaFinance and @itsmalakkudaimi on social media for regular Islamic finance tips
• Join Sheikh Joe Bradford’s community to understand your Islamic education and financial journey

3. Join or create a giving circle. A giving circle is a form of collective philanthropy where a group of individuals pool their money, time, and knowledge to support causes they care about, amplifying their impact through shared decision-making and community-based giving. Organizations like the American Muslim Community Foundation (AMCF) can help you start a giving circle with friends or family. My friends and I started with just $100 each per year, and our collective impact was far greater than what we could do individually. 

4. Track your giving and watch how it grows with your financial knowledge. Use apps like Mint or YNAB to track both your spending and your giving. I use a simple Google Sheet that I review annually. And, yes, I have seen my giving grow year after year. 

5. Study the prophetic examples of combining commerce with generosity. Read about Khadijah (RA) and how she used her business acumen to support the early Muslim community. Read about other Muslim women who gave generously. Re-read the Seerah with this lens. Books I have enjoyed: 

• Khadija Bint Khuwaylid (The Age of Bliss) by Mehmet Buyuksahin
• Women Around the Prophet by Muhammad “Ali Quib
• Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources by Martin Lings

The Divine Connection Between Wealth and Impact

Remember the cloud that was commanded to rain on the gardener’s land? That wasn’t just a story about blessings – it was a lesson about the divine connection between smart money management and impactful giving.

It’s 2025, and I’m still learning. But I know this: understanding money isn’t just about materialism – it’s about maximizing your ability to help others. Whether it’s supporting Palestine relief efforts, contributing to a sister’s medical fund, or helping establish a new masjid – your financial literacy is a tool for change.

Your Next Steps

Want to dive deeper? Here are some immediate actions you can take:

1. Calculate your actual zakat properly – Islamic Relief and Zakat Foundation offer free zakat calculators online
2. Open a no-fee investment account – Look into halal options at Sharia Portfolio or Azzad Asset Management
3. Join an online Islamic finance community – Muslim Women and Finance on Facebook has members sharing tips
4. Schedule a financial “date” with yourself monthly – Set aside just 30 minutes to review your finances and giving goals
5. Attend a workshop – Organizations like Sharia Portfolio and AMCF offer regular webinars. Sign up! 

The world needs more Muslims who understand both wealth creation and generous giving. Start now, start small, but start with intention. When you combine financial knowledge with the desire to serve, you unlock a powerful form of ibadah that can transform not just your life, but your entire community.

The best investment? It’s investing in your ability to help others.

 

Related:

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

– 3 Urgent Financial Questions to Ask A Potential Spouse

 

The post Meaningful Money: How Financial Literacy Amplifies Your Giving appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

 

“To say goodbye is to die a little.”
― Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

“Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it.”
― Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of Murder

A Happy Life

Zaid Karim Al-Husayni sat on the sofa with his wife Safaa, talking quietly. It was a little after sunset, and it was raining hard. He held his wife close, his arm around her shoulders. She was warm, and her hair smelled of lavender drifting on the breeze across the rooftops of Baghdad as Arabic music played in the distance and the adhan sounded from a thousand masjids.

Or at least that was how Zaid imagined it. Here in Fresno, California, all he heard was two cats fighting outside and a motorcycle accelerating in the distance. But these sounds were far away. Inside the apartment, all was hushed. It was a place of security and love – something he desperately needed after a rough day pursuing his chosen career as a private investigator.

Safaa’s phone, sitting on the kitchen table, rang quietly.

“Do you want to answer that?” Zaid asked.

“No.” She snuggled up against him, putting her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to move from this spot.”

From the bedroom came the sound of Hajar and Anna playing and laughing. It made Zaid smile. How wonderful that Hajar had an unexpected sister, and that Anna had found a happy life finally. Two years ago she had lost her father, been sold into slavery in Panama by her mother, and only through the most extreme effort and personal sacrifice had Zaid managed to rescue her. Now she was a member of the family.

What a blessing, what a barakah. SubhanAllah, alhamdulillah. He’d made good money on that Panama job, and had leveraged it to expand his P.I. business and buy two more mobile homes, but that paled next to the great blessing of having his family back together.

Safaa’s phone rang again. Zaid gave her a look that said maybe she should answer, but she shook her head stubbornly and let it go to voicemail.

Scars

Zaid and Safaa spoke of their love for each other, the mistakes they’d made in the past, and their plans for the future. Safaa reached up to his face and fingered the scar that ran from his hairline, across his right eyebrow to the bridge of his nose – a legacy from the torture he’d experienced in Panama.

“We could see a plastic surgeon about this,” she said, not for the first time. “There will always be a scar, but a good doctor could make it almost invisible.”

“Is it ugly?” Zaid knew the answer. He looked like a Bond villain or a prison escapee. When he met people their eyes shot to the scar, and he saw the signs of fear in their gazes.

“Ya Zaid Karim, ya habibi, nothing about you could ever be ugly. You’re as beautiful as Mars in the evening sky. You, to me, are the whisper of the wind, saying there is goodness and love in the world. But I know you’re self-conscious about it.”

Zaid smiled. “There you go with the poetry again. You’re stealing my thing. I’m supposed to be the lyricist.” Ever since he and Safaa had been reunited, she’d been so tender with him, so sweet. Even more than when they’d been newlyweds. It still amazed him that this was real, he wasn’t dreaming. This was the new Safaa, this was his life. SubhanAllah. Allah worked in mysterious ways, but when you trusted Him with your whole self, holding nothing back, incredible things happened.

“What about your scar, what do you want to do?” Zaid said, mostly just to tease her.

“What scar?”

He reached out and fingered the small, star-shaped scar on her forehead, just below the hairline. It was pale against her dark skin, though in reality you could barely see it unless you knew where to look. He knew she’d gotten it as a child, from scratching a particularly bad mosquito bite.

“Oh, you!” She smacked his arm.

Cousin Rania

Safaa’s phone rang a third time, and this time she let out an annoyed huff, strode to the kitchen and snatched the phone up, answering with, “Yes?”

Her face went from annoyance to concern. “Oh,” she said. “Oh my gosh. Yes, he’s right here.” She covered the phone’s speaker with her hand and mouthed, “It’s my cousin Rania. Deek has gone missing.”

Zaid took the phone. Rania sounded as if she’d been crying. Zaid listened with growing incredulity as Rania explained that Deek had supposedly made millions of dollars in cryptocurrency, bought a sports car on the spot, then packed his bags and vanished. He wasn’t answering his phone, and she was frightened and worried.

“I don’t care about the money,” Rania said. “I told him that I wanted the house and half the money, but I was just mad. I want him back. And if he won’t come back, I want to know that he’s safe. I’ll pay you.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re family. Anyway, from what I recall, Deek loses his temper but gets over it quickly. He’ll probably be back before you know it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I’m going to look for him. I need to know where he might go.”

“I don’t know!”

Safaa heard Rania’s raised voice coming through the phone and gestured to say, what’s going on? Zaid waved his hand to say, it’s fine.

“Take a deep breath,” Zaid said in a soothing tone, “then say la ilaha il-Allah.”

Rania did so, and Zaid had her do it twice more.

“I want you to think,” Zaid said. “You know him. Where would he go?”

“Right. Sorry. Maybe his sister’s house, but Lubna has a crowded home and little patience. And she doesn’t like Deek. Never has. Maybe his friend Marco, but they haven’t spoken lately.”

Zaid took both numbers, and called them. The sister had not heard from Deek, but the call to Marco hit paydirt. Deek was at the Moon Walk Motel.

Gun and Knife

Five minutes later, wearing the battered brown fedora that had been a gift to him from his late mentor, Langston “Lonnie” Brown, Zaid opened the door to this car. The olive green 1969 Dodge Dart GTS was a performance-oriented, two-door hardtop sedan, with a V8 engine that could generate 330 horsepower. It was a true muscle car, and was Zaid’s most prized possession, after the fedora.

The car contained a hidden compartment known as a trap, built into the space where the CD player would normally go. To activate it, you had to close all the doors, be seated in the driver’s seat, start the car, activate the rear defroster, then swipe a credit-card sized magnet across the top of the dashboard. Zaid did all this, and the trap popped open. Inside it was a thousand dollars in cash, and his gun, a Glock 49.

He didn’t always carry the gun on his person, but years of P.I. work had given him an instinct for when the path ahead was dipping into danger. Or maybe it was just his PTSD at work. In any case, he removed the firearm from the trap, and holstered it. At only 7.3 inches in length, the Glock 49 was one of the most compact 9 millimeter pistols one could buy, yet reliable and a good shooter. Zaid found it unobtrusive and easy to carry.

He headed west. Aside from the gun, he had a pair of four inch Cold Steel folding knives clipped to his front pockets. They were assisted openers, meaning they would spring open with just a touch of pressure from his thumb. He never went anywhere without at least one knife – a habit that had saved his life more than once.

A Step Back

He was aware that he was not the same man he’d been before Panama. His body had healed and become stronger than ever, but his heart was still brittle and sore. This soreness manifested itself not as an inclination to break, but as a quickness to violence in marginal situations. Where in the past he might have been willing to walk away or negotiate, now he had little tolerance for evil, and worried less about consequences.

This was not only the result of the trauma he’d experienced in Panama. Two years ago his Uncle Haidar’s apartment building in northern Gaza had been bombed without warning by the Israelis. Haider was Zaid’s father’s younger brother, the youngest sibling. He and his wife and four children had lived in Gaza City. The youngest child at the time was a baby named Munir, only a month old.

The apartment building was shattered. Over thirty people were killed. Uncle Haidar was killed, along with three of the four children. Haidar’s wife Faiza survived. The baby, Munir, was hit by a shell fragment while Faiza was nursing him. It entered the top of his head and went out the other side.

Now, two years later, Aunt Faiza and Munir were in Jordan. Munir could not speak or walk. Periodically he lapsed into seizures. Zaid had seen this with his own eyes, while talking to Aunt Faiza on Skype. Whenever it happened Zaid managed to hold himself together just long enough to get through the call, after which he would hold his face in his hands and weep as Safaa held and comforted him.

These events – the torture in Panama, and the murder and maiming of his relatives – had affected him on a deep level. There was a hardness in him now. An unwillingness to bend or compromise. He felt like he’d taken a big step back.

He knew this was not good. Before Panama he’d been working on his internal state, trying to achieve a more peaceful way of being, and to eliminate the thought patterns he’d acquired during his six years in prison. But it was difficult to reconcile a desire for a peaceful existence with what he’d experienced in Panama, and with what had happened to his Palestinian people – and was still happening. How did one commemorate, mourn or even deal with a Nakba that never ended?

A Simple Job

The rain had abated but the streets were wet, shiny and nearly deserted. As Zaid drove, his eyes moved constantly from the road ahead, to the rear view mirror, to the side mirrors. Even when he didn’t do it consciously, part of his mind recorded every car that passed or followed him, just as his mentor Lonnie Brown had taught him. Was anyone surveilling or following him? Did anyone display undue interest? Was anyone driving erratically or behaving suspiciously?

Zaid wasn’t surprised to hear that Deek had made a fortune in crypto. The man had always been intelligent and determined. Zaid only hoped that Deek had not gotten himself into trouble. Money could do strange things to a person. This seemed like a simple job – find Deek and bring him home – but the streets of Fresno were never to be underestimated, and Zaid knew from experience that what he imagined might happen and what actually would happen were sometimes very different things.

All Zaid knew for sure is that success in any venture could not be had without guidance from Al-Hadi, the One Who Guides. You could scour this world down to its bones, but sometimes the answers were simply not there. Illumination came from on high, and was given to all – the sun shines for all, as his Panamanian friend Niko used to say – but not everyone opened their eyes to it. The other thing Zaid knew was that if you followed the guidance that came from Allah – not only the literal guidance of the Quran, but the secret guidance imprinted on your own heart – then you were already a success, no matter what might manifest on this earthly realm.

This was something he’d tried to tell Deek a few years ago, when the big man had been at a low point in his cryptocurrency odyssey and had spoken to Zaid confidentially about suicidal thoughts he was experiencing. But Deek was an “I” kind of guy. I can do it, I cannot do it, I failed, I succeeded. I, I, I.

Zaid’s advice about submitting the “I” to the “He” – the personal to the Eternal – had fallen flat. Ever since that conversation he’d worried about Deek. Now that the man had apparently succeeded with the cryptos, Zaid found that his worry had not diminished.

Room 9

Still lying on his back in the concave, drooping bed, Deek gazed at the ceiling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alone. He’d been separated from his family before, but this time felt more decisive, as if the bridge had been blown up behind him. Nor was he Tariq bin Ziyad, burning the ships behind him so that his army would have no choice but to conquer Spain. No, it was more like he was an allied spy in Nazi territory, and had dynamited the bridge that would enable him to escape back to his own people.

As always when he and Rania fought, it was hard to tell who was at fault. But he thought that this time it was more her than him. It used to be that he pushed her buttons and she got mad, then he became hurt and angry in turn. But lately it seemed that Deek himself was one big button. Everything about him bothered her.

If he’d failed with the cryptos that would have been one thing. She could have said that the last five years were a waste, that Deek was a failure and she was tired of carrying him. He wouldn’t have liked it, but he wouldn’t have been able to respond beyond continued pleas for her to hang in there a little longer.

But he hadn’t failed, he had succeeded! He’d done it! He’d pulled off the reversal of a lifetime. Yet here he still was, alone. He thought about this “work husband” of Rania’s. If he knew the man’s identity he would drug him, kidnap him, and dump his body in the San Joaquin River. Maybe he could hire Zaid Karim to find out the man’s identity. But no, Zaid would not take such a job. He was yet another man of principle and integrity. Deek snorted at this thought. Having principles just meant you were afraid to do the things that truly needed to be done.

As he often did when he was bored, he decided he was hungry. There had to be a 7-11 nearby. He’d make a food run and grab a pre-made tuna sandwich, a bag of chips and a soda.

The Man With The Plan

Manuel “Manny” Cesar, accompanied by three vatos whose loyalty and viciousness he trusted, eased the van into the parking lot of the Moon Walk, and looked around.

“Ojo, there’s the Porsche 911, pretty as a gun, son. Time to have fun.”

Oscar, a tall man with a gently rounded belly, slicked back hair and puppy dog eyes, laughed. “There he goes, rhyming again. Get your mind on the job, esse.”

Manny turned to glare at the big man. “You got a doubt I can knock it out?” The glare was for form’s sake. He knew Oscar could fight like a rhinoceros when needed.

Oscar waved his hands in surrender. “No, jefe. I was kidding. I know you’re the man with the plan. ‘Cept you brought us to the wrong place, fool. This is the Moon hotel, not the Moon Walk.”

“Don’t be stupid, esse,” Manny said with irritation. “The sign is burned out, that’s all. There’s the pendejo’s Porsche, right there. You think anybody else gonna park that bombshell at this mo-tel? You got the brains of a sperm cell.”

Oscar didn’t like that and sat back sullen-faced. He shoulder bumped the man next to him, a hard-as-cement, heavily tattooed killer named Poison. “Watchu say?” Oscar demanded. “We at the Moon hotel or the Moon Walk?”

Poison said nothing. He rarely spoke, a fact that Manny appreciated.

The last of their group was the kid, a teenager with good hands and fast reflexes, whose only job was to drive the Porsche back to Mr. Z.

The Porsche was parked in front of room number nine, that was fine. He would need to find out for sure what room the car thief was in, and even then he wasn’t crazy about the idea of breaking down a motel door. The FPD, or more likely the county sheriffs, would be here in ten minutes. Didn’t need cops barging in like triceratops.

Better to lure this Deek hombre out of the room somehow, snatch him up and take him to a private location where he could be beaten into the ground, nobody around to hear the sound. Meanwhile one of his men could take the car back to Mr. Tzan’ani, or Mr Z as his employees called him.

When Mr. Z sent Manny out for side work, it was usually just burning down rival shops, pressuring liquor distributors for a better price, or intimidating non-Yemeni shop owners into selling. The price of doing business, no room for forgiveness. Mr. Z was Father Christmas, making money with a quickness.

Now and then it was something personal. Beat up an American boy trying to date one of the Yemeni girls. Escort one of Mr. Z’s cousins or nephews to rehab and made sure he stayed.

It was fascinating how much like Mexicans these Yemenis were. They even carried the same prayer beads. Like Mexicans from the other side, same faces, same pride. Manny was comfortable working for them. And Mr. Z paid well – that was the key. That sweet cha-ching. A pile of dinero to make him a pharaoh, a rich vaquero, putting himself primero. For that, there was nothing that Manny would not do, up to and including cold-blooded murder.

***

[Part 7 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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:

Hot Air: An Eid Story [Part 1]

A Ramadan Quran Journal: A MuslimMatters Series – [Juz 10] The Covenant

The post Moonshot [Part 6] – Down These Mean Streets appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

There’s just no stopping time from passing us by. We wake up, look at our phones, start answering emails or doing chores or having conversations, and at the end of the day, have no idea where the time has gone. In this ferocious tempo, it is easy to overlook the quiet moments that matter most. But then Allah , in His infinite Mercy, provides us with sacred windows. Moments to pause, to breathe, to realign. The first ten days of Dhul-Hijjah are an example of this divine opening; an opportunity to not simply reset our calendars but also to recalibrate our hearts.

Rediscovering the Power of These 10 Days

“By the dawn.”

“And by the ten nights.” [Surah Al-Fajr: 89:1–2]

When Allah swears by something, we lean in. These ten days are unparalleled—even greater than the final nights of Ramadan. The Prophet Muhammad said, “There are no days on which righteous deeds are more beloved to Allah than these ten days.” [Bukhari]

A dear friend once asked me, “If these days are so incredible, why do they pass without leaving a trace on us?” That question stayed with me. Because honestly? We let them pass. We get distracted. We think we’ll try harder next year.

But what if there is no next year?

What if these are our last ten?

Would we scroll aimlessly then? Or would we raise our hands more? Bow our heads longer? Whisper du’a with more desperation?

The Day of Arafah: A Day Unlike Any Other

The ninth day of Dhul-Hijjah—the Day of Arafah—is a spiritual summit. It was the day Islam was completed. It is a day when fasting erases the sins of the past and future year. It is the day when du’a is heard more intimately.

“The best supplication is that of the Day of Arafah.” [Tirmidhi]

Last year, as Maghrib approached, I was sitting on the carpet with my children, all of us quiet after a long fast. I asked each of them what they wanted from Allah. My five-year-old said softly, “I want Jannah… and a puppy.” We chuckled, but my heart swelled with emotion. Because on Arafah, even such innocent wishes feel as if they might flutter straight to the heavens.

This year, I explained to my older kids what made Arafah special. We read the ayah: “This day I have perfected for you your religion and completed My favor upon you and have approved for you Islam as your religion.” [Surah Al-Ma’idah; 5:3]. My son looked up and said, “So it’s like… Islam’s graduation day?” And in a way, yes—it’s the culmination of divine guidance.

We made du’a lists together. We reflected on our mistakes. And as the sun began to set, they asked if they could repeat their du’as, just to be sure Allah hears them. That level of trust—it’s what we all seek.

As a mother, watching their small faces light up with hope as they made heartfelt requests reminded me how pure du’a can be when it’s untarnished by doubt or hesitation. It reminded me to return to that kind of sincerity myself.

Inspired by the Past

“The first ten days of Dhul-Hijjah are an example of this divine opening; an opportunity to not simply reset our calendars but also to recalibrate our hearts.” [PC: Ed US (unsplash)]

The early generations didn’t treat these days lightly.

Saeed ibn Jubayr, a student of Ibn Abbas, would keep his lamps burning through the night—not to stay awake for the sake of it, but to fill those hours with prayer. Imam al-Shafi’i’s generosity increased so much during these days that people assumed he had come into wealth. Hasan al-Basri fasted daily during Dhul-Hijjah, simply because he understood how precious every moment was.

I once read that Umar ibn Abdul Aziz would cry during these days—not out of fear alone, but out of overwhelming hope. He knew that these moments carried a closeness with Allah unmatched by any other time.

Their actions weren’t rituals. They were love letters to Allah .

What You Can Do—Right Where You Are

You don’t need to be on the plains of Arafah to experience their mercy. You just need presence.

Fasting: Even a few days, especially Arafah, brings immense reward.

Dhikr: Make your mornings echo with takbeer, tahlil, tahmid, and tasbih.

Charity: A small act done quietly may weigh heavily in the scales.

Qur’an: Ten minutes a day can reopen a conversation with your Creator.

Du’a: Pour your heart out. Write your wishes. Whisper them with faith.

Repentance: These are the days to come home to Allah , to unburden your soul.

My children took turns announcing the takbeer in the house: “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, La ilaha illa Allah…” Their voices bounced off the walls with joy. Even my youngest learned to say “Alhamdulillah” after finishing their iftar juice, understanding that gratitude isn’t just an action—it’s a lifestyle, especially during these days.

One day, my middle child came to me and said, “Mama, when I fast on Arafah, does it really erase all my bad stuff?” I said, “Yes, by Allah’s Mercy.” He paused and said, “Then I want to make this my best day ever.” It humbled me. Because sometimes, they understand what we adults forget: that Allah’s Forgiveness is near—closer than we think.

Udhiyah: A Legacy of Love and Trust

The act of sacrifice—Udhiyah—is not about meat or mere ritual. It’s about surrender. It’s about recalling Prophet Ibrahim’s unwavering obedience, and Ismail’s calm trust in Allah .

“Their meat will not reach Allah, nor will their blood, but what reaches Him is piety from you.” [Surah Al-Hajj; 22:37]

In our home, we try to make it a family tradition. My kids help decorate the boxes of meat. We speak about what sacrifice really means. I once asked them, “What would you give up if Allah asked you to?” One of them said, “My tablet, but not my cat.” It was honest. And that honesty is where growth begins.

We told the story of Ibrahim and Ismail in bedtime story form. I could see my daughter’s eyes widen as she realized what trust really looked like. She asked, “Would I do that if Allah asked me?” It opened up a beautiful discussion on faith, trust, and obedience. These are the seeds we hope will bloom in their hearts long after Eid is over.

We also created a “giving wall”—a place to pin up names of people we wanted to help that Eid. Neighbors, refugees, people we only knew from afar. It became more than just a ritual; it became a family mission.

Share the Blessing

Let these days ripple beyond your own ibaadah:

Share a daily du’a with your family or friends.

Bake with your children and gift treats to your neighbors.

Reconnect with someone you’ve drifted from.

Sponsor an Udhiyah anonymously.

Smile with the intention of sunnah—yes, it still counts.

You can even invite your non-Muslim friends to share a meal. Sometimes a conversation over tea does more dawah than a thousand words.

Our Family’s Dhul-Hijjah

Our home isn’t always serene. There are messes, tantrums, and skipped routines. But we try. We hang paper stars on the wall to count the days. We play the takbeer loudly every morning. We break our fasts together. And sometimes, we just sit quietly and let the barakah fill the room.

Involve even young children in the first 10 days of dhul-hijjah [PC: Ramin Labisheh (unsplash)]

We’ve started journaling these days—each of us writes down one thing we’re grateful for. One day, my daughter wrote, “I’m thankful for the smell of Baba’s coffee during fajr.” Another wrote, “I’m thankful for the feeling I get when I make du’a after crying.”

These are not just reflections. They are gentle awakenings.

One evening, I asked my daughter, “What do you love most about Dhul-Hijjah?” She paused and said, “It feels like Allah is listening more.”

That moment stayed with me. It reminded me that these days aren’t just about big gestures—but about nurturing a quiet awareness of Allah, even in the smallest voices.

A Gentle Sample Day

You don’t need perfection. Just intention.

Before Fajr: Wake gently. Let the quiet of dawn carry your du’a.

After Fajr: Read a few verses. Let takbeer fill the air.

Mid-morning: Give. Even a dollar. Even a smile.

Afternoon: Reflect. Share a prophetic story with your family.

Maghrib: Make du’a as the sky softens. Include your children.

Evening: Repent. And write one blessing you noticed today.

These aren’t just sacred days on a calendar. They are handwritten invitations from your Lord.

Let’s answer.

With full hearts.

With quiet awe.

With trembling hands raised to the sky.

May Allah let us witness these days with sincerity, and may we exit them lighter, closer, forgiven.

 

Related:

– [Dhul Hijjah Series] Calling Upon the Divine: The Art of Du’a

– Dhul Hijjah With Kids In The Home And Palestine On Our Minds

 

The post Embracing the Sacred: A Heartfelt Journey Through the First 10 Days of Dhul-Hijjah appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

[Full Khutbah by Mazin Khalil built upon the khutbah delivered by Sheikh Yassir Siddig of Texas, may Allah honour and elevate him]

 

Alhamdulilah, Alhamdulilah

We Praise Allah by His Essence, the greatness of His Attributes, the height of His Status, the vastness of His Glory, the grandeur of His Majesty, the exaltedness of His Mention, the execution of His Command, the clarity of His Proof, the nobility of His Name, the abundance of His Knowledge, the continuity of His Patience, the abundance of His Forgiveness, the beauty of His Praise, the vastness of His Gifts, the answering of His Supplications, the generality of His Benevolence, the swiftness of His Reckoning, the severity of His Punishment, the knowledge of His Torment, and the might of His Authority.

عَنْ عُبَيْدِ اللَّهِ بْنِ مِحْصَنٍ الْخَطْمِيِّ قَالَ قَالَ رَسُولُ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ مَنْ أَصْبَحَ مِنْكُمْ آمِنًا فِي سِرْبِهِ مُعَافًى فِي جَسَدِهِ عِنْدَهُ قُوتُ يَوْمِهِ فَكَأَنَّمَا حِيزَتْ لَهُ الدُّنْيَا

 “Whoever wakes up safe in his home, healthy in his body, and has food for the day, it is as if he has the entire world.” [Ibn Majah]

 In December of 2024, we heard the news that Khaled Nabhan, may Allah have mercy upon him, was killed a year after he lost his entire family, consisting of his grandchildren, his son, his daughter-in-law, and several other members of his family. People who spoke with Khaled noted his beautiful character, smile, and graciousness, all of which underlined something important. Khaled mentioned that there was not a single night in which he and other people in Gaza slept, that they would think they would see the morning because of bombs being dropped on them and the atrocities that they had to live through.

This idea is something that is extremely foreign to you and me. There is not a single day that I have gone to sleep that I thought a bomb would be dropped on me. There have been instances in which I have walked outside of my home, hopped in my car, or gone around and have been afraid to be stopped by the police because that is the reality of being a black man in America, but never have I had to think the way Khaled has. It’s heartbreaking to say, but in a few weeks, his (Khaled Nabhan’s) death most likely won’t continue to trend worldwide, and it’s hard to admit. Still, if we’re being honest with ourselves, we’ve become almost numb to the killing of our Muslim brothers and sisters.

An Invisible Genocide

Today’s Khutbah is about another genocide that is made invisible, and how we should strive to do our best so we are never genuinely desensitized to the killing of any of our Muslim brothers and sisters. It is about another genocide going on that is made invisible. This genocide is happening to Muslims, being enacted by people who claim Islam, enforced by countries who wear the thobe and have Islamic slogans. This genocide is in Sudan, my home nation. And it is one that we have been quiet about. Whether intentionally or not.

Before we get to that, let’s dissect the hadith I mentioned earlier. Abdullah ibn Muhsin states that the Messenger of Allah stated that whoever awakens secure in his property, with a healthy body, and has food for the day, then it is as if he has owned the world.

A “Rich” Country

Sudan is a country that literally, when translated, means “land of the black”; it comes from the Arabic word “Aswad” or “sawdan”. This is the name that the Arabs gave to the land when they entered it and found that the people there were extremely dark-skinned. Historically, Sudan has had the oldest civilization in the world, the Nubian kingdom: a civilization that is alluded to throughout Islamic history. Scholars often argue that Hajir, the wife of Ibrahim , was Nubian, and that the story of Musa , happened in Sudan because of the description of the River Nile as it makes an S shape past the delta in the tafsir of the story of Musa’s mother as she sent him down the river. Or that even the event of Musa against the sorcerers was in a place in the Northern state of Sudan in what is present-day Dongola.

Historically, the kiswa for the Kaba’a used to be shipped from Sudan to Saudi Arabia. Sudan has 12 rivers that run through it, with the most famous being the Nile, a river that is called one of the Rivers of Jannah alongside the Euphrates and Tigris in Iraq. Sudan exports 3.2 billion dollars worth of gold yearly, 662 million dollars worth of petroleum, 654 million dollars worth of oily seeds, 425 million dollars worth of ground nuts, and 379 million dollars worth of raw cotton. Most of these exports are to the UAE, Egypt, Italy, China, and Turkey. In 2022, Sudan was the world’s largest exporter of oily seeds (654 million), insect resin (194 million), and groundnut meal (75.6 million). Sudan has 4-6 cows per human head, which means if we decided to take over the world with just our cattle, we would be unstoppable. It is about 728, 200 squared mile after it split, and prior, it was 1, 861, 484 square kilometers. The US is 3,809, 525 square miles for reference, so 1/3 of the US can fit in Sudan.

I could continue on with the statistics, but what these show is that by all metrics, Sudan is a rich country. A country that should be thriving, but in fact, we see the opposite. We see a military that has parasitically infected the country, metastazing to every corner, and a paramilitary force that has sucked the life blood of the country. One thing that is important to mention is that both of these forces, the Sudanese Armed Forces and the Rapid Support Forces, which are the former Janjaweed, have been propped up by various external entities in the past and during the current struggle. You have Egypt which is afraid of losing regional power due to the Sudanese revolution, the UAE stealing Sudanese gold and propping up the RSF by giving them supplies to continue their reign of terror, Russia and the USA, and even Israel as well.

Homeless, Hungry, and Persecuted

What does all of this have to do with the hadith that I mentioned earlier?

عَنْ عُبَيْدِ اللَّهِ بْنِ مِحْصَنٍ الْخَطْمِيِّ \قَالَ رَسُولُ اللَّهِ صَلَّى اللَّهُ عَلَيْهِ وَسَلَّمَ مَنْ أَصْبَحَ مِنْكُمْ آمِنًا فِي سِرْبِهِ مُعَافًى فِي جَسَدِهِ عِنْدَهُ قُوتُ يَوْمِهِ فَكَأَنَّمَا حِيزَتْ لَهُ الدُّنْيَا

 “Whoever wakes up safe in his home, healthy in his body, and has food for the day, it is as if he has the entire world.” 

In Sudan, people have been forced out of their homes, literally at gunpoint by the RSF, and all of their things looted, stolen, and their homes taken apart to the point that even their roofs are stolen. Families are tied up within their homes and women are raped in front of the men, and if the men try to defend them, they are shot and killed within their very homes. Imagine everything you have worked to earn, someone comes and just robs you of it, and this is happening on the scale of millions.

That is the property aspect of that hadith. What about the rest? The healthy body part.

Currently, every 3 hours, a Sudanese child dies of starvation. The country has a population of about 48 million people, of those 48 million, about 15 million are internally displaced, meaning being refugees in their own country, forced to flee from their homes because of the RSF and the SAF. Of the 48 million, about 26 million people, more than half of Sudan’s population, are projected to die of starvation by the end of this year. Women who have had to flee have had to resort to unthinkable things to feed their families, both from SAF and RSF soldiers and even aid workers in places like Chad. Those who study migration patterns have found that birds have altered their migratory patterns because they are flying over Sudan and feasting on the corpses of the dead that litter the streets. Imagine that. Birds have changed their migratory patterns because of this. There are widespread diseases now affecting people due to malnutrition. Or other horrific stories of RSF leadership stating that the goal is demographic change in Sudan, which means that rape is a tactic that is being used. Or the stories that we hear about families having their children tied up, gasoline poured on them, and then the children being lit on fire. Or of children being kidnapped and taken to other parts of Africa. Or mercenaries from Colombia being found in Sudan.

In terms of owning his sustenance for the day, there is absolutely no work in Sudan. There are no jobs currently, so the country is literally being moved by remittance, which is the diaspora working and sending money home. The price of everyday items has increased by 10-fold. People who were supporting their own families here, are now also supporting 7 or 8 other families, those who are their relatives and those who aren’t back home.

I recently saw a GoFundMe for a student. It was raising $3000 for her tuition to continue schooling because her schooling was stopped due to the war like millions of other students. Imagine, there are multiple cohorts out there in Sudan who have not graduated high school, middle school, college, medical school, engineering school, law school, because their education had to be put on pause due to something completely out of their country, not once, not twice, but multiple times over. And in this particular case, she had to relocate to Egypt, where her father suddenly died. And he was the breadwinner for the family, and her tuition was due, or else she’d be kicked out of school for not being able to pay. This particular fundraiser came to me a few days before its deadline. And I did my best to advocate for this, but slowly I watched the donations stop coming in, despite this being a goal I have raised past before several times including for Charityweek just as the MSA here has done, and so many other instances and then the deadline day came and I broke down in tears. This was something that was happening to millions of other students.

The One Body

The Prophet has stated in a hadith that you and I have heard multiple times: that the Ummah is like a body, and if one section of it aches, the rest can’t function properly. What happens if a portion of it aches and we ignore it? How can we continue to function?

We are the best of nations to gather on this planet despite being the last because we are the Ummah that enjoins the good, and forbids the evil, and rushes to do good deeds. And of those good deeds is helping others.

On Qiyama a man will be brought before Allah , and Allah will say to him, I was hungry and you did not feed me, and the man will ask, ya Allah, How is it that you were hungry? And Allah will reply that you saw a servant of mine who needed help and was hungry, and you did not feed him, or else you’d have found me there. [Muslim]

In another hadith, the Prophet mentions that whoever sees an evil, he should stop it with his hands, and if he can’t, he should stop it with his tongue, and if he can’t, he should hate it with his heart, and that is the weakest form of iman. How can we have the weakest form of iman if we don’t even know about what is happening?

And there is a reason for this. Sudanese people are not the perfect victims. We aren’t OVERTLY being occupied by another country. We aren’t light-skinned enough for the media. In our culture we try to carry ourselves in a dignified manner, so we just keep mum about what is happening to us, which is why it is so hard to find people to be interviewed, but if you want to see what is happening in Sudan, there are images and whatsapp groupchats that will tell about it and show you what is happening.

***

The Role of the International Community

While the international community has provided some assistance, it is far from sufficient. The scale of the crisis requires a coordinated and sustained effort from all nations. As Muslims, we have a duty to advocate for increased humanitarian aid and to support organizations that are working on the ground to alleviate the suffering of the Sudanese people.

The Silence of the Ummah

However, dear brothers and sisters, what is even more alarming is the silence of the Ummah in the face of this crisis. We, as Muslims, are bound by our faith to stand up for justice, to help the oppressed, and to support our brothers and sisters in times of need. Yet, our response to the situation in Sudan has been largely muted.

The Prophet Muhammad said,

“The example of the believers in their affection, mercy, and compassion for each other is that of a body. When any limb aches, the whole body reacts with sleeplessness and fever.” [Muslim]

Are we truly feeling the pain of our brothers and sisters in Sudan? Are we reacting with the urgency and compassion that our faith demands?

Our Responsibility as Muslims

The teachings of Islam place great emphasis on the concept of Ummah, the global community of Muslims bound together by faith. The Qur’an and Hadith are replete with references to the importance of brotherhood, solidarity, and mutual support. Allah says,

“The believers are but brothers, so make settlement between your brothers. And fear Allah that you may receive mercy.” [Surah Al-Hujurat; 49:10]

Our Prophet Muhammad also reminded us of our collective responsibility. He said, “None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself.” [Sahih Bukhari]. This Hadith underscores the importance of empathy and solidarity. We are reminded that our faith is incomplete if we are indifferent to the suffering of our fellow Muslims.

The Dangers of Apathy

Apathy and indifference are dangerous. They lead to a weakening of our collective strength and undermine the principles of justice and compassion that are central to our faith. When we turn a blind eye to the suffering of others, we risk becoming complicit in their oppression. Our silence can be interpreted as tacit approval of the injustices being perpetrated.

Allah warns us against neglecting our responsibilities in Surah Al-Ma’idah, verse 2:

وَتَعَاوَنُوا عَلَى الْبِرِّ وَالتَّقْوَىٰ وَلَا تَعَاوَنُوا عَلَى الْإِثْمِ وَالْعُدْوَانِ ۚ وَاتَّقُوا اللَّهَ ۖ إِنَّ اللَّهَ شَدِيدُ الْعِقَابِ

“And cooperate in righteousness and piety, but do not cooperate in sin and aggression. And fear Allah; indeed, Allah is severe in penalty.”

We must remember that our actions, or lack thereof, have consequences. The silence of the Ummah in the face of injustice not only fails those who are suffering but also tarnishes the image of Islam. We must strive to be true ambassadors of our faith, demonstrating through our actions the principles of justice, mercy, and compassion.

***

The Call for Unity

It is imperative that we awaken from this state of apathy and rise to the occasion. The Ummah must unite in its efforts to bring relief and support to those suffering in Sudan. We must remember the words of Allah in Surah Al-Imran, verse 103:

وَاعْتَصِمُوا بِحَبْلِ اللَّهِ جَمِيعًا وَلَا تَفَرَّقُوا

“And hold firmly to the rope of Allah all together and do not become divided.”

Unity in Action

Unity is not just a concept; it is an action. It means coming together, setting aside our differences, and working collectively for the greater good. It means raising our voices in solidarity, advocating for peace, and providing tangible support to those in need. It means holding our leaders accountable and urging them to take a stand against the injustices happening in Sudan.

One way to foster unity is through community initiatives. Mosques and Islamic centers can play a pivotal role in raising awareness about the situation in Sudan and organizing relief efforts. Educational programs, fundraisers, and advocacy campaigns can mobilize the community and create a collective impact.

The Power of Dua’

In addition to practical actions, we must also turn to Allah in prayer. Dua’ is a powerful tool that connects us with our Creator and brings His Mercy and Guidance into our lives. The Prophet Muhammad said, “Dua’ is the weapon of the believer.” (Hakim). We should make sincere dua’ for the people of Sudan, asking Allah to grant them relief, peace, and justice.

Allah reminds us in Surah Al-Baqarah, verse 186:

وَإِذَا سَأَلَكَ عِبَادِي عَنِّي فَإِنِّي قَرِيبٌ ۖ أُجِيبُ دَعْوَةَ الدَّاعِ إِذَا دَعَانِ ۖ فَلْيَسْتَجِيبُوا لِي وَلْيُؤْمِنُوا بِي لَعَلَّهُمْ يَرْشُدُونَ

“And when My servants ask you concerning Me, indeed I am near. I respond to the invocation of the supplicant when he calls upon Me. So let them respond to Me [by obedience] and believe in Me that they may be [rightly] guided.”

Let us make dua’ with sincerity and conviction, trusting in Allah’s Wisdom and Mercy.

اللَّهُمَّ اهْدِنا فِيمَنْ هَدَيْتَ وَعَافِنا فِيمَنْ عَافَيْتَ وَتَوَلَّنا فِيمَنْ تَوَلَّيْتَ وَبَارِكْ لنا فِيمَا أَعْطَيْتَ وَقِنا شَرَّ مَا قَضَيْتَ إِنَّكَ تَقْضِي وَلاَ يُقْضَى عَلَيْكَ وَإِنَّهُ لاَ يَذِلُّ مَنْ وَالَيْتَ تَبَارَكْتَ رَبَّنَا وَتَعَالَيْتَ

O Allah, guide us with those whom You have guided, grant us well-being among those You have granted well-being, be an ally to us along with those whom You are an ally to, and bless what You have bestowed upon us, and save us from the evil of what You have decreed.  For verily You decree and none can decree over You. He whom You support can never be humiliated. Glory is to You, our Lord, You are Blessed and Exalted.

عِبَادَ اللّهِ  إِنَّ اللَّهَ يَأْمُرُ بِالْعَدْلِ وَالْإِحْسَانِ وَإِيتَاءِ ذِي الْقُرْبَىٰ وَيَنْهَىٰ عَنِ الْفَحْشَاءِ وَالْمُنكَرِ وَالْبَغْيِ  يَعِظُكُمْ لَعَلَّكُمْ تَذَكَّرُونَ

Servants of Allah. Indeed, Allah orders justice and good conduct and giving to relatives and forbids immorality and bad conduct and oppression. He admonishes you that perhaps you will be reminded. 

اُذْكُرُوا اللَّهَ الْعَظِيمَ يَذْكُرْكُمْ واشْكُرُوهُ يَزِدْكُمْ واسْتَغْفِرُوهُ يَغْفِرْ لكُمْ واتّقُوهُ يَجْعَلْ لَكُمْ مِنْ أَمْرِكُمْ مَخْرَجًا   وَأَقِمِ الصّلَاة

Remember Allah , the Great – He will remember you. Thank Him for His favors – He will increase you therein.  And seek forgiveness from Him – He will forgive you. And be conscious of Him – He will provide you a way out of difficult matters. And, establish the prayer.  

 

Related:

– Prayers For The Persecuted: A Global Du’a

– 5 Steps To Grow From Passive To Active Bystanders During The Genocide Of Gaza

 

The post [Khutbah] Sudan: A Forgotten Crisis That Demands Our Attention appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Talha reports that Allah’s Messenger said,

“Apart from the day of the Battle of Badr there is no day on which the Shaytaan is seen to be more humiliated, more rejected, more depressed and more infuriated, than on the day of  Arafah.” [Mishkat]

All of this is only because of his beholding of the abundance of descending mercy (on that day) and Allah’s Forgiveness of the great sins of His servants.

Aisha , reported also that Allah’s Messenger  said,

“There is no day in which Allah sets free more  souls from the fire of hell than on the day of Arafah.” [Muslim]

Allah’s Messenger is also reported to have said,

“The best supplication is the one on the day of Arafah.”

 

Dear Hajji… if Allah offered you anything you wanted, and Allah PROMISED to respond, what would you ask for?

In Hajj, you will have so much time to make dua’, especially when at Mount Arafah. You will have so much time to ask for whatever you want. The gates will be wide open … so what do you want?

I’ve seen people prepare their clothes, their money, their passports…every material thing, but when they reach the holy sites, at the blessed times … they go to sleep! Unprepared, not knowing what to say or ask for.  I usually wake them up and whisper to them, “Please make dua’ for me.”

InshaAllah, this will not be your story and your example. Today, inshaAllah, you are going to prepare a HUGE list of things that you are going to make dua’ for.  I can’t tell you what a difference it will make when you come to Arafah KNOWING everything that you want to make dua’ for!

The best dua’ you can make in your life is the dua’ at Arafah! Now, let’s get ready for it!

USE A PEN & PAPER or TYPE IT OUT & PRINT (Mobiles have too many distractions and batteries run out. Keep this paper for the rest of your life and make it a memory to last a lifetime).

You are going to sit down and write and write and write what you want to ask Allah for!

Dua Categories to fill in:

– Regarding my EMAN, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my HEALTH and ENERGY, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my HEREAFTER, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my FAMILY, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my FINANCES, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my EMOTIONAL HEALTH, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my SPOUSE, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my CHILDREN and even those not yet born to me, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my CAREER OR BUSINESS, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my SOCIAL LIFE, what would I ask for?

– Regarding my EDUCATION (Islamic or secular), what would I ask for?

– Regarding my COMMUNITY and UMMAH, what would I ask for?

– Regarding the LEGACY that I’ll leave behind after I die, what would I ask for?

 

Step 1: Before you set off for Hajj (and especially before the day of Arafah arrives), with the above slices of life to get your creative juices flowing, write down on neat and beautiful paper everything that you want to make dua’ for! Make a draft and rewrite. Use English, Somali, Urdu, or even Martian if that is more meaningful to you!

Step 2: If you typed it out, print out this list on special paper and keep it handy.

Throughout the coming days leading to Hajj, if you remember anything else that you want to make dua’ for, include it on the list.  (Once you clear your mind, new ideas will take their place).

Step 3: Get familiar with the list you made, read it often, and take it with you for Hajj. When you are in Tawaf, or during Hajj, and especially on Arafah day, pull it out, raise your hands to Allah , and ask your Creator from the bottom of your sincere heart!

 

Here is an example of my dua’ for my children (you’re welcome to copy some of it, inshaAllah)

Dua’ for my Children

O Allah, I beg you with Your Blessed Names as the One and Only, the Most Relied upon. I call out to You by Your Greatest Name – the Eternally Living, the Sustainer of All, to bless my children with Taqwa and fear of You ya Allah.

Ya Allah, increase their life span and bless their health, strengthen them with obedience and worship of You.

Ya Allah, help me raise up the young, strengthen the weak, and cure the unwell.

Ya Allah, strengthen their bodies, tune their hearing, sharpen their sight, clear their confusion, mend their wounds, and make them whole.

Ya Allah, with Your Mercy protect them from illness, sin, mistakes, errors and misguidance.

O Allah, cause them to obey and love me and their mother, without rebellion, sin, error, or disrespectfulness.

Ya Allah, help me raise them well with high akhlaq and firm ethics of righteousness that blesses them and me in this life and the next.

Ya Allah, I entrust to You my future progeny, for no trust is lost with You. I entrust You with clearing them of impediments, ailments, and immorality and allowing them to maintain Islam and Tawheed of You alone for generations to come after I am long departed.

Ya Allah, I trust in You to guard them from evil that spreads by night, or envious eyes sharpened by the light of day, and from the jealousy of hateful, untrue friends.

Ya Allah, protect my children from all sides, above and beneath, right and left, front and back.

Ya Allah, let my children be a reason for honour and a righteous source of my pride. Let them be loved by those who love You and turn their hearts to my children.

Ya Allah, bless my children with a good share in this Dunya, in Knowledge that leads to You, in Your obedience, in character and love.

My Allah elevate my children’s status amongst others and grant them successful positions that bring happiness, piety, and wealth.

Ya Allah, bless them with purity, charity, mercy, helpfulness, and knowledge of You that they share with others.

Ya Allah, protect my children from humiliation and dishonour. Bring them joy that will make me happy.

Ya Allah, bless them with a hard work ethic and academic excellence. Bless them with careers that will be of use to our ummah and their future families.

Ya Allah, bless their hearing, sight, and other blessings of health, intelligence, and character.

Ya Allah, let my children and those entrusted to me in responsibility be proof for me on the Day of Judgement, Ameen

I send the most complete prayers of peace and salutations upon my Prophet Muhammed , his family, and companions.

Ya Allah, we seek Your forgiveness as a family for all the times we spoke when we should have listened; became angry instead of patient, and acted when we should have waited.

Ya Allah, I seek Your Forgiveness for indifference when I should have encouraged, criticized when I should have educated, and reprimanded when I should have forgiven.

Ya Allah, forgive those who wrong us and let my prayer for them be light for me and protection from them.

I take refuge in the perfect words of Allah from His Anger and Punishment and from the evil of His Creation and the touch and appearance of devils.

Ya Allah, I call upon You and want none but You. I call upon You, with all Your Names, for all Your Kindness that removes harm and secures tranquility. I call to You with Your treasured Name that unties the binds, cures the ailments, and replenishes the weak. Ya arhama-raahimeen renew our faith & expel any doubt and provide us endless barakah!

 

May Allah accept all of our dua’s.

 

Related:

– Help! I Can’t Make Dua For More Than 30 Seconds On The Day Of ‘Arafah

– Beyond Longing – Dua: A Deliberate Act Of Divine Love

The post Constructing Your Personal Arafah Dua List I Sh. Muhammad Alshareef & Sh. Yahya Ibrahim appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Hajj season has rolled around, and it’s always a bit more of a challenge to get our kids excited for Hajj and Eid al-Adha the way we do for Ramadan and Eid… so what better way to get them started than with pulling out a collection of Hajj and Eid al-Adha related books?

Toddler

My First Book About Hajj by Sara Khan

This installment of the “My First…” board book series doesn’t disappoint! With colorful, gently washed illustrations and easy to understand language, this book will remain a staple as toddlers grow up and are able to understand more complex ideas. This is one of the best books to introduce what Hajj is, and all its associated steps, to tiny Muslims.

Excited for Eid by Marzieh Abbas

This gem from Marzieh Abbas and Anoosha Syed will be a favourite for little ones! This Eid book is all about the fun things that make Eid special. There was also a full spread about visiting the graveyard, which while a common practice in many parts of the Muslim world, isn’t an explicit Sunnah itself. This durable board book will be a repeat read every Eid!

 

Picture Books

“Eid” by Maria Migo 

Sweet and simple, this picture book shares the excitement of Eid! This book uses words sparingly but alongside the almost-watercolor illustrations, makes it an easy read for even very young children. The book can apply to either of the two Eids, as there is nothing to specify Eid al-Ad’ha or Eid al-Fitr; and there is a reference to how Eid can take place in any season. It’s especially handy for read alouds with little kids who have a short attention span!

A Cat Like Me! by Emma Halim

“A Cat Like Me!” is a cute visual, rhyming guide to Hajj – with the help of Bissa, the Clock Tower cat. For kids (and adults) who always get a little confused by the order of the rites of Hajj, this colourful picture book takes us along each stage of Hajj. The illustrations avoid full face imagery, while remaining vibrant (and cute!). I occasionally found the rhyme a little stretched, and sometimes the text was a bit much, but overall it’s a great addition to a Hajj book collection for kids!

I Went For Hajj by Na’ima Robert

A cute Hajj-themed homage to “Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?” The rhymes and illustrations in this book will capture young ones’ attention and familiarize them with the steps and stages of Hajj. The rhythms of the lyrics will delight both older and younger readers, and will definitely make for a beloved storytime every Hajj season.

Going to Mecca by Na’ima Robert

“Come with the pilgrims as they set out on a journey, a journey of patience to the city of Mecca.” We are led on the journey of a lifetime to the city of Mecca – the pilgrimage known to Muslims as the Hajj. Though their bodies are tired and aching, their spirits are uplifted, knowing that with thousands of others they have performed the sacred pilgrimage. This is a window on to a sacred journey for Muslims the world over – beautifully described and illustrated for younger children.

The Green Dinosaur Umbrella by Amina Banawan

In this beautifully illustrated, whimsical story, a green dinosaur umbrella travels to Makkah and exchanges hands, helping pilgrims along their journey of Hajj. Where will the green dinosaur umbrella end up next?

The Call to Hajj by Salwa Isaacs-Johaadien

“The Call to Hajj” is a rhyming picture book that transports young readers to the time of Prophet Ibrahim (alayhissalaam), and tracing all the ways that Muslims have traveled for Hajj over time. By foot and by horseback, by sea and by land… the illustrations on each page are incredibly rich and beautiful, and had me flipping the pages repeatedly to enjoy them over and over again.

Owl + Cat Go To Hajj by Emma Apple

This fun day-by-day guide gives little hajji’s, future pilgrims, and curious learners, a head start, answering all their questions by taking them step-by-step on this once in a lifetime journey to Mecca. More than just a picture book, this book also serves as a valuable educational tool for young Muslims who are just starting to learn more about the details of Hajj.

Yan’s Hajj: The Journey of a Lifetime by Fawzia Gilani

This book has become a classic! In a nod to the famous story of Abdullah ibn Mubarak and the cobbler of Damascus, this story follows the journey of Yan, a big-hearted young man determined to perform Hajj, the pilgrimage to Makkah. But first, he must work hard on his farm and fill up his money bag for the journey. Despite the trials he faces on each unsuccessful trip to the Kaaba, Yan’s helpful nature, compassion, and generosity enable him to succeed in the end.

Eid al-Adha Stories

The Gift of Eid by Shifa Saltagi Safadi

Good books require talent and craft, but also, perhaps most importantly, heart. This stunning book, “The Gift of Eid” is one of those books with all 3 ingredients. This retelling of the famous short story “The Gift of the Magi” is so much more than that: it is an authentically Syrian Muslim story of love, family, and Eid.

Yasmine and her mother just have each other, after her father passed away, and while it’s a struggle to remain afloat, nothing can take away the desire to give each other gifts for Eid. With gorgeous illustrations of the Grand Masjid of Damascus and Souq Al-Hamidiyeh, this story is a visual delight as well as an emotional one.

Sami’s Special Surprise by M. O. Yuksel

It’s Eid al-Adha, and Sami wants to celebrate. But this year is different after his grandfather’s passing. A touching picture book about kindness towards others. Sami worries that the Eid al-Adha carnival won’t be as fun without Dede (his grandfather), who died recently. Sami’s grandmother sends him one of Dede’s ties, and Sami vows to never take it off. After going to the mosque for Eid prayer, Sami’s family stop at the shelter where Baba and Anne volunteer. Can an unexpected encounter and a special gift help Sami change his mind about celebrating?

Ibrahim’s Perfect Eid by Farhana Islam

Ibraheem loves Eid because Eid means presents! What’s not to love? But when Eid arrives, and the day brings trips to the mosque, fantastic food, family, games and fun but NO PRESENTS Ibraheem begins to worry! Has something gone terribly wrong?

The Colours of My Eid by Suzanne Muir

The Colours of My Eid opens a window to the Muslim holiday of Eid al-Adha and the Hajj pilgrimage from a child’s perspective. Eid is a colourful holiday and every colour encountered evokes beautiful memories of the Hajj trip from the year before.

Ali and the Eid Goat by Farheen Khan [early chapter book]

Ali really, REALLY wants a pet. When his parents tell him they will be visiting their family in Pakistan AND he can pick out their Eid goat, Ali is over the moon. Join him as he falls in love with Pakistan, meets his cousins, and learns to speak Goat. How much trouble can a nine-year-old really get into in a whole other country?

The post From the MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Hajj and Eid Reads appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The ten best days of the year are upon us! Just as we prepare du’a lists in Ramadan, so too are these blessed days the perfect opportunity to pour our hearts out to our creator. This Dhul Hijjah, Shaykh Yahya Ibrahim provides guidance on how to perfect the art of du’a so that we may turn to Allah in the best way.

In the first episode, Shaykh Yahya reminds us why du’a is so important to Muslims, especially in the days of Hajj.

The post [Dhul Hijjah Series] Calling Upon the Divine: The Art of Du’a appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

 

Anas bin Malik reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “If the son of Adam had a valley full of gold, he would want to have two valleys. Nothing fills his mouth but the dust of the grave, yet Allah will relent to whoever repents to Him.”

– Sahih al-Bukhari 6439, Sahih Muslim 1048

Pride

“Are you okay?” Deek asked.

Rania, still sitting on the cement of the driveway with legs splayed, waved a weak hand. “It’s a shock.”

“Okay. Well.” Deek stood. “I’m going.”

“You’re leaving me?”

“I’m leaving. Not leaving you necessarily. It’s not the money. You shouted at me in front of your co-workers. And just now, you called me an anchor around your neck. In front of our daughter. I’m not here to be treated like that. You can think what you like, that I’m a deadbeat, ugly, or whatever, I don’t care, but I have my pride. Plus, now you’ve got this guy at work.” He held up a hand, forestalling her objections. “I believe that you’re not cheating with him. But you are giving him the attention and respect you used to give me. That’s just as bad.”

“I never said you were ugly. Never.”

Deek let out a bitter laugh. She’d let the “deadbeat” remark slide.

There was another reason he didn’t want to admit. He was so ashamed about making a mess on himself and in the car that he just wanted to get away and hide. Even though no one knew, he knew, and it was mortifying.

Rania looked away. The muscles in her neck tensed. “I want half the money.”

“You can have it.” Though in reality, he had no intention of telling her just how much he had made. “And I will pay the university fees for the girls, wherever they wish to attend. And all the bills.” He went around her and opened the driver’s door.

“Wait!” She stood and followed him and tried to take one of his hands, but he pulled away.

“I haven’t been nice,” she pleaded. “I admit it. But that’s a tiny window in a twenty-year marriage. We have passed through storms and thunder. Don’t throw that away. And I never thought that you were ugly. You have always been handsome to me.”

“You’re saying this because I made money.”

“No! I’m saying it because I love you.”

“You humiliated me.”

“Deek!” Rania raised her hands as if in dua’. “I’m sorry! I was frustrated and worried about our financial situation. This pride of yours is a shaytan inside you. Everything’s always about your honor. What about love?”

Drown Myself

Deek tried to open the car door to get in, but Rania was standing too close.

“At least tell me where you’ll be.”

“Maybe I’ll go drown myself in the river.” As soon as these words escaped his mouth, he regretted it. He’d said it only to hurt and scare her. It was a rotten thing to do.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “That was stupid, I didn’t mean it. I do love you and the girls.”

“No, you don’t, because love and forgiveness are a married couple, they walk hand in hand. True love cannot exist without forgiveness.”

There were tears on her cheeks. Deek was embarrassed. He had not seen Rania cry in a long time. It hurt him to see her in pain.

“I can’t trust this sudden remorse and talk about love. It’s just because I made money. You rolled up here a half hour ago, putting me down and talking to me like a rotten child. It’s not me you suddenly respect. It’s the money.” He spat this last word like a curse, then waved his hand in dismissal. “I need to think.”

Also, he wanted to get away before Rania smelled the car and deduced the truth. She knew him well, and knew that he sometimes had trouble with his bowels. He felt desperate to get away. Cutting off the conversation, he managed to squeeze into the car and close the door. He started the car and backed out. The last thing he saw before driving away was Rania standing in the driveway, hands at her sides, looking defeated.

Nowhere To Go

“Lubna had her husband, five kids, two cats, and a turtle.”

He was hardly two blocks down the street before he realized that he had nowhere to go. His only relative in this city was his younger sister, Lubna. She had her husband, five kids, two cats, and a turtle in a small house, and wouldn’t appreciate Deek sleeping on the sofa. Anyway, he and she had never gotten along, and it had only gotten worse since Deek started working on the cryptos. Lubna had spoken to him with contempt, saying that he was destroying his life and dragging his family to the poorhouse.

He had no cash for a hotel. He didn’t want to spend any of the money he’d deposited in the joint account. That was for Rania. He took out his phone and checked his own personal bank account. Two hundred and twelve dollars. He could sell some crypto and initiate a transfer, but the money wouldn’t show up in his account until late tomorrow or the morning after.

He considered calling Zaid Karim, but Zaid wasn’t exactly a friend. More like an indirect relative that Deek admired and respected. Besides, the man had a wife and two daughters. They wouldn’t appreciate having Deek camped out in their living room.

That left Marco, his only real friend. Deek had sometimes wondered if the only reason he and Marco were friends was because Marco was even more hapless than himself, which allowed Deek to feel like a Zen master dispensing wise but mystifying advice. Marco, remember: man who butters bread on both sides will always have slippery hands.

They’d seen each other a lot less in the last five years, as Deek had been immersed in the crypto world, barely paying attention to his own family, let alone his friends.

A Hollow Statue

He bought a spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner and wiped down the car seat. Then he threw the dirty t-shirt and towel in the trash. At a liquor store he picked up a bag of wavy chips and a large diet soda, then sat in the car with the windows down, snacking. Halfway through the bag of chips, he realized that he wasn’t enjoying them, and stuffed the bag under the seat.

He didn’t know where to go or what to do. He wondered if Rania had recovered from the shock. She would be picking up Amira from school about now. Amira had a deadpan sense of humor, and Deek liked to joke with her. She would often reply with nothing more than, “Uh-huh,” but sometimes Deek could see the trace of a smile on her face. It was strange to think that he probably would not see her for a while.

Clouds were sweeping in from the west, bringing with them the smell of ozone. A seagull landed atop a nearby car. It would rain tonight. Deek sat in his car in a mini-mall parking lot, feeling like a hollow ceramic garden statue, inanimate, without purpose or will. He would sit here, and night would come, and the car would be rained on. All around him, people would talk, laugh, eat together, and love each other, but Deek would sit in this beautiful car and do nothing. He might be the richest man in Fresno, yet his inner life was as chaotic as the coming storm, while his outer reality was an empty parking lot.

At some point he fell asleep, and awoke when fat drops of cold water began to fall on the windshield. He looked up to see that the sun had set. The rain thickened, then became an assault, beating on the windshield as if wanting to break in and drown Deek, to punish him for his temerity in thinking that he could be rich and happy at the same time.

At least he had the car. It was small but exquisitely crafted and powerful. It could go over two hundred miles per hour, the boy had said. If only Deek had somewhere to go.

Marco

His phone rang. It was Marco. Surprised and happy, Deek answered with, “As-salamu alaykum my man Marco! I was just thinking about you.”

“Because you need a place to crash?” Marco had a voice as soft and calm as duck feathers, and a watered-down New York accent. He’d actually grown up in California, but his parents had both been Puerto Ricans from New York, and somehow he’d inherited the lilt. He was in his 40s but looked twenty-five, with lustrous black hair and classically Spanish features.

Marco had been an on-again, off-again university science student for two decades. He was an expert in physics, chemistry, and biology, but had never finished a degree. He played a mean soccer game, blew the trumpet, and played chess like a Russian. Yet his life seemed to be a series of collapsing opportunities, like a downhill skier crashing into the slalom markers at every turn, with an avalanche close behind him.

“How did you know that?”

“Your wife called. Worried about you.”

“Oh.” It made him feel good to know that Rania was concerned, partly because it meant she cared about him, and partly because he wanted her to feel bad.

Marco raised his voice: “I can barely hear you.”

“I’m in my car, and it’s raining.”

“So you really are homeless. Listen bro, you’re welcome to my sofa. Might catch problems, but I’ll deal with it.”

“Problems, why?”

“I’m in an SRO paid by the city. No overnight visitors. If they find out, they could evict me. Who cares, you’re my best friend. Come over, I’ll make quesadillas on the iron.”

Marco was in a single room occupancy hotel? Those places were death traps. Most of them had no kitchens in the rooms, so residents used hot plates or propane stoves, or apparently in Marcos’s case, an iron, and sometimes burned the place down. They were flea-ridden, rat-infested, and crumbling. Or at least that was the word. Deek had never actually been inside one.

The Moon Walk

“What happened to your studio?” Deek asked.

“Lost my job. Had to give it up.”

“I didn’t know.” Not that he was surprised. Marco had worked a huge variety of menial jobs, including fry cook, fruit picker, gardener, salesman, the occasional retail job, a stint in an orange packing plant, and rideshare driver.

Deek felt guilty now for not reaching out to his friend over the last few years. He’d been so deeply into the cryptos, he’d forgotten everything else.

“Yeah,” Marco said. “I was clerking at a psychology office. I’d type the psychiatrist’s notes, so I knew everything about the patients. There was this young man with a porn addiction. I stopped him one day and told him to punch a wall instead. He followed my advice. Broke his hands, which limited his porn activities, if you get me. But my boss didn’t appreciate it.”

Deek laughed. “So what are you doing for money?”

“I won the California State chess championship.”

“Wow! How much does that pay?”

“Three thousand.”

“That’s a decent amount.”

“I guess. So you coming over?”

“No… I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. I’ll just… I don’t know.”

“Dude… Is it bad? You guys having a big fight?”

Deek shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Why don’t you go to that cheap motel you stayed at last time?”

“What cheap motel?”

“Dude. You remember the names of a hundred cryptos, but you’d forget your heart if it wasn’t installed in your chest. Five years back, you guys had a blowout. You found that little motel on 99 and Ashlan. Cheap but clean. The Moon something…”

“Oh, right!” Deek slapped the car’s dashboard. “The Moon Walk Motel. I forgot all about that. I remember I took it as a sign that I’d succeed with the cryptos.”

It was a good suggestion. The Moon Walk only charged $50 per night. He only needed to stay there until the money transfer cleared. He thanked Marco, ended the call, and started toward the Moon Walk.

Marco was a multi-talented man with a 24-karat heart of gold, living in a society that valued these qualities less than the ability to generate revenue by any means necessary. If he fell any further, he’d be homeless. Yet Deek knew that his rudderless friend would have taken him in, fed him, and never asked him to leave, even at risk to himself. Marco was a friend in fair weather and foul. Deek would not forget it.

The Moon Walk Motel

The sky was the color of charcoal when Deek eased his Porsche off Highway 99 north of Fresno, and into the Moon Walk Motel’s gravel lot. The low, single-story block building sat squat against a backdrop of parched farmland. The pale green haven was a relic of the 1970s. Its neon sign, once proud, flickered heartedly as the word “MOON” sputtered in dusty white, while “WALK” lay dark and inert.

Though the building was weathered, the office windows were spotless, and a pair of wicker chairs hinted at modest hospitality. Along the foundation, the owners had coaxed life from the scrubland: a tidy patch of lavender and rosemary, a hardy rose bush, even a small citrus tree that dangled half-ripe fruit like memories of golden times.

Of the 20 rooms, only four or five appeared occupied. Deek checked into room 9 and found it to be as he remembered: small but clean, smelling of laundered sheets, fresh towels, and soap. He set his suitcases beside the tiny closet and collapsed into the bed, which sagged and creaked beneath his weight.

Here, in this unremarkable hideout, he could relax, collect his thoughts, and plan next steps. No one would ever find him here.

Speak of the Afreet

Bandar Tzan’ani, the Yemeni liquor and smoke king of Fresno, sat brooding at the large antique demilune desk in his home office, located in a mansion within a large family compound in west Fresno. He filled his pipe and lit it, then drew the sweet smoke into his lungs and eased it out, closing his eyes in pleasure. His business operations were coming under heavy pressure from the city council. The network of stores that Tzan’ani and his sons and brothers operated were, according to the city, magnets for drug use and crime. To make matters worse, three of his shops – all run by his youngest son, Shujaa – were losing money, which didn’t make sense.

He wondered if coming to this country had been a mistake. In Yemen, people feared American, Saudi, and Israeli bombs, as well as famine. Here, people feared life itself. Any stranger was a potential predator, and the internet poisoned children’s minds. In Yemen, he had walked the streets freely. Here he lived in a gated compound behind a high wall, and did not feel safe. He’d traded a life of poverty, in which he was surrounded by family and friends and a culture he loved and understood, for great wealth and a life of stress and alienation.

At the sound of a knock on the door, Bandar called in Arabic, “Come.” Shujaa walked in. Speak of the afreet, and he appears. His son wore boots, stonewashed jeans, a black t-shirt that hugged his torso, and a knee-length denim trench coat. His hair was styled into a huge pile of curls atop his head, while shaved on the sides. The boy was either a homosexual, or imagined himself a celebrity. Hopefully the latter.

“Sit,” Bandar snapped.

Shujaa dropped sullenly into one of the chairs facing the desk.

“I noticed that your car is not in the compound.”

“Ah, hadhi,” the boy replied, speaking in Arabic like his father. He sunk a hand into his curls, scratching his head. “I loaned it to my friend Saleh to collect his mother from the airport.”

“No, you didn’t.” In fact, Bandar already knew what had happened, as one of his son’s friends had told him. He saw the boy’s eyes dart one way and another before a look of resignation came over him.

An Admission

“I sold it,” the boy admitted.

“For how much?”

“Two and a half Bitcoins.”

Bandar set his pipe down. He was so angry he could have choked the boy. “You sold your car for fake money?”

“It’s real money,” Shujaa said hurriedly. “Or as good as. But…” He snapped his fingers as if he’d just had a brilliant idea, then leaned forward and struck the desk with the side of a fist. “The man tricked me! He said he would give me another two and a half Bitcoins after I signed the pink slip. That would have been two hundred and fifty thousand. But he grabbed the keys and drove away.”

Bandar sucked in a lungful of smoke, held it then belched it out like a fire breathing dragon. A murderous rage was growing inside him. His son might not be telling him the whole truth, but Bandar did believe that someone had taken advantage of the idiot boy. No one stole from his family and got away with it.

“I will ask you once, and do not lie. What are you doing with your money?”

Shujaa’s mouth worked soundlessly. His hands sank into his curls as if he wanted to pull his own head apart. Then he slumped in the chair and said, “I gamble.”

“That is haram!”

The boy laughed bitterly. “Everything we do is haram. I never wanted to be in this business.”

The father closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “The fashion design thing again.”

“It’s what I love.”

GPS Tracker

Bandar sighed. “Listen to me carefully. Cut your hair and put on normal clothes. I have had enough. If you cannot behave, I will send you back to Yemen.” He waved a weary hand. “Get out.”

With the idiot gone, Bandar logged into the website of a subscription GPS tracking service called Safe Spot. He had installed an aftermarket GPS device in the Porsche, as he did with all his vehicles. A map came up showing the car’s exact location. Bandar typed the address into the browser. It was a motel called the Moon Walk.

He called Manny, his foreman at the warehouse. The man had been a violent criminal in the past, and Bandar occasionally relied on him for the rougher kinds of jobs. He gave Manny the address and told him to take a few guys with him. “The guy stole my son’s Porsche,” Bandar explained. “I want you to turn him into a bloody mess. And bring the car back.”

***

[Part 6 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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

What Is True, And What Matters: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 5] – The Moon Walk Motel appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

In one of the most touching and instructive moments from the life of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, we are reminded not only of the humanity of the Companions , but also of the vast mercy of Allah ﷻ and the redemptive power of good deeds—especially salah.

ʿAbdullāh ibn Masʿūd narrates: A man came to the Prophet ﷺ and said, “O Messenger of Allah, I engaged with a woman at the farthest end of Madinah, and I did with her everything short of intercourse. Here I am—judge me as you see fit.” ʿUmar said, “Allah concealed it for you; you should have concealed it yourself.” The Prophet ﷺ did not say anything to him. The man then got up and left. The Prophet ﷺ sent a man after him to call him back. When he returned, the Prophet ﷺ recited to him the verse: “Establish prayer at the two ends of the day and in some parts of the night. Indeed, good deeds erase bad deeds. That is a reminder for those who remember.” (Sūrah Hūd, 11:114) A man from the crowd asked, “O Prophet of Allah, is this specifically for him?” The Prophet ﷺ replied, “No, it is for all people generally.” [Muslim]

This beautiful narration is filled with powerful lessons: for the sinner, the seeker, the leader, and every believer striving to maintain their relationship with Allah ﷻ.

The Humanity of the Companions

The Prophet ﷺ described his generation as the best of all generations: “The best of generations is my generation, then the one that follows, then the one that follows…” [Bukhārī] This narration reminds us that even the best of people make mistakes. The Companions of the Prophet ﷺ, despite their elevated rank and status, were human beings just like us. They struggled with their desires, made poor choices, and sometimes fell into sin. What made them extraordinary wasn’t that they were sinless—it was that they were God-conscious and sincere. When they slipped, they didn’t justify or normalize the wrong. They felt the weight of it on their conscience, and they turned to Allah ﷻ with sincere remorse.

The man in this ḥadīth had come dangerously close to committing a major sin—one which Allah explicitly forbade:

“Do not even come near to zinā. It is truly a shameful deed and an evil way.” [Surah Al-‘Isra; 17:32]

And yet, in a moment of moral clarity, his heart overwhelmed by guilt, he came to the Prophet ﷺ, seeking accountability and redemption. “Here I am—judge me as you see fit,” he said. This was not arrogance or recklessness. It was humility and an intense desire to be cleansed.

The Wisdom of ʿUmar and the Mercy of the Prophet ﷺ

ʿUmar offered the man a valuable piece of advice: “Allah concealed it for you; you should have concealed it yourself.” In Islam, we are not encouraged to publicly expose our personal sins. When Allah ﷻ has veiled our mistakes, we honor that by turning to Him privately in repentance. Public confession is not a requirement of tawbah. The act of exposing oneself—unless harm to others is involved—can do more damage than good.

The Prophet ﷺ, in his characteristic gentleness and wisdom, didn’t rebuke the man or make an example out of him. He didn’t shame him in front of the community. In fact, he initially remained silent. His silence wasn’t rejection—it was reflection and wisdom. Perhaps he was waiting for divine instruction, or perhaps he was giving the man space to process his own remorse. But the Prophet ﷺ didn’t leave him in that silence. When the man left, the Prophet ﷺ sent someone to call him back, and then gave him hope in the most beautiful way: by reciting to him the verse from Sūrah Hūd:

“Establish prayer at the two ends of the day and in some parts of the night. Indeed, good deeds erase bad deeds. That is a reminder for those who remember.” [11:114]

Prayer: A Spiritual Cleanser

The verse reminds us of one of the most powerful and hopeful realities in Islam: our good deeds have the power to erase our sins—especially the five daily prayers. The Prophet ﷺ explained this beautifully in another ḥadīth:

“The five daily prayers, and from one Friday prayer to the next, and from one Ramadan to the next, are expiations for whatever occurs between them, so long as major sins are avoided.” [PC: Kheldoun Imad (unsplash)]

“The five daily prayers, and from one Friday prayer to the next, and from one Ramadan to the next, are expiations for whatever occurs between them, so long as major sins are avoided.” [Muslim]

He ﷺ once asked his Companions: “If there were a river at the door of one of you in which he bathed five times a day, would there remain any dirt on him?” They said, “There would not remain any dirt on him.” He replied, “That is the example of the five daily prayers. Through them, Allah wipes away sins.” [Bukhārī & Muslim]

Abū Dharr narrated that during the winter, the Prophet ﷺ held two branches of a tree, and the leaves began to fall. He said: “O Abū Dharr! When a Muslim performs ṣalāh sincerely seeking the Face of Allah, his sins fall from him just as these leaves fall from the tree.” [Ahmad]

Prayer is not just a ritual obligation—it is a form of divine purification. Every time we stand before our Lord in salah, we are offered a chance to start anew, to wipe the slate clean, and to return to Allah with a lighter soul and a purified heart.

A Universal Message of Hope

After the Prophet ﷺ recited the verse to the Companion, someone asked, “Is this (verse) specifically for him?” The Prophet ﷺ responded, “No, it is for all people generally.” That one line opens the doors of hope to every believer until the end of time. This message wasn’t just for the man who nearly fell into zinā—it is for anyone who has faltered, stumbled, or fallen into sin. It is for all of us.

We all carry moments we regret—words we shouldn’t have said, actions we shouldn’t have taken, desires we wish we had resisted. But through sincere repentance and consistent acts of worship—especially prayer—we can find our way back to Allah ﷻ.

Final Reflections

This story is more than just a lesson in tawbah. It’s a blueprint for how we should approach sin, how we should deal with others who err, and how we should see our daily prayers—not as a burden, but as a divine mercy. Let us strive to pray with khushūʿ (presence and humility), with meaning and understanding. Let us pray on time, with sincerity, and with hearts that long for Allah’s Pleasure. And let us never forget that in this world of flaws and failure, Allah’s Door remains wide open—so long as we’re willing to knock. “Indeed, good deeds erase bad deeds. That is a reminder for those who remember.” 

To the young hearts reading this—whether you’re in high school, navigating college life, or finding your way in the world as a young adult—this story is especially for you. The man who came to the Prophet ﷺ was overwhelmed by his mistake, but he didn’t let it paralyze him. He took ownership of his slip, felt regret, and turned toward the Prophet ﷺ seeking a way back to Allah ﷻ. And the Prophet ﷺ responded not with harshness, but with hope—with the Quran itself.

In today’s world, temptations are everywhere—online, on campus, in your pocket, and even in your private thoughts. It’s easy to feel ashamed or unworthy when you slip. But here’s what this ḥadīth teaches you:

1. Even the best of people, the Companions of the Prophet ﷺ, made mistakes. Don’t let Shayṭān convince you that one mistake means you’re a hypocrite or beyond hope.
2. A sin doesn’t define you, but your response to it does. Let every fall push you to rise higher. Don’t justify the wrong—repent and reorient your heart.
3. Don’t delay. Even if you’re struggling with guilt or shame, open the door to forgiveness right away. Make wudhu, pray two rakʿahs, and ask Allah ﷻ sincerely for forgiveness.
4. You may feel like, “I’m sinning, so what’s the point of praying?” But that is the trap. Ṣalāh is the very thing that will bring you back. Even if you feel broken or impure—pray. Even if you just sinned—pray. The Prophet ﷺ said, “Good deeds erase bad deeds.”
5. Keep your mistakes between you and Allah . Don’t “vent” online about your wrongdoings. Confession is not a virtue in Islam—repentance is.

 

Related:

– Standing At The Divine Window: A Glimpse Of Eternity In The Serenity Of Salah

– Podcast: Prayer is a Work in Progress | Shaykh Abdullah Ayaaz Mullanee

The post Salah – A Spiritual Cleanser appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Introduction: Historical Roots and Ideological Aspirations

I was raised by a revolution that broke through the routine of ordinary life – a movement whose passion served as a steady guide, giving me faith, purpose, and conviction. It defined who I would become, or at least who I would strive to become. Its lessons were etched into the very marrow of my being, leaving indelible footprints across the landscape of my soul.

Islamism emerged as a twentieth-century response to a series of crises: the colonisation of Muslim nations, the military and scientific advances of the West, and the fall of the Caliphate. Its proponents sought to reintegrate Islamic values into public life and state structures, positing Islam as a complete worldview, a framework for governance, economics, and society.

Rooted in the intellectual traditions of figures like Hasan al-Banna (Egypt) and Abul A‘la Maududi (India), Islamism rejected both imperial domination and authoritarianism, offering a moral and political project for the people to reclaim agency through Islam. Islamists envisioned a return to authentic Islamic governance as the path to justice and renewal.

This vision was animated by a desire to transcend imposed national boundaries and reconstitute a sense of collective Islamic belonging. Within this ideological architecture, Palestine assumed a central place as a moral and spiritual imperative. The sanctity of al-Aqsa Mosque made its defence a religious obligation. The occupation of Palestinian land and the establishment of Israel symbolised not just territorial loss, but the violation of an entrusted responsibility.

The occupation resonated across Muslim societies as a continuation of the colonial era. Muslim nations had been recently colonised, and the mechanisms of control in Palestine, military rule, displacement, and settler encroachment, all mirrored the structures of colonial subjugation they had endured. The Palestinian struggle thus became a crystallisation of shared historical trauma. For Islamist movements, it offered both a moral lens and a strategic focal point: a test of authenticity, resilience, and the viability of their political vision.

It is in this context and amid the current devastation in Gaza that the limitations of this narrative are being exposed. If Palestine once symbolised the grounds for Islamic revival, it now reveals the consequences of ideological disconnect, demanding urgent critical reflection.

This article examines the logic of Islamist narratives, their assumptions, political utility, and limitations. These narratives are recurring across the political spectrum, including by non-Islamist figures. 

1. Reliance on Prophetic Parallels 

Islamist rhetoric frequently invokes Prophetic stories as a political blueprint. Stories such as the Battle of Badr, where a small, outnumbered Muslim force triumphed against a vastly superior enemy, or the campaigns of Salah al-Din, are cited as proof that moral conviction and perseverance alone will secure victory. These references are powerful symbols of Divine justice and historical vindication, and they continue to shape public expectations across the Arab world and beyond.

Yet, when such narratives are elevated from spiritual inspiration to political strategy, they become deeply problematic. The Prophet’s life and early Muslim victories are often framed not as historically contingent episodes, but as timeless templates for action. This neglects the radically different conditions of our time: the presence of nation-states, the role of imperial powers, the complexity of multilateral diplomacy, and the decisive weight of military, economic, and institutional power. The issue is not the possibility of miracles, but the expectation of them as part of a political calculus. Strategy, by definition, must operate within the realm of human agency, negotiation, and material conditions. To rely on the occurrence of the extraordinary is to bypass the necessary work of institution-building and long-term planning.

The effect is twofold. First, it creates unrealistic expectations. By invoking Muslim victories in Badr or Khandaq as inevitable historical patterns, these commentators imply that perseverance alone, no matter the reality, will produce similar outcomes. Yet these battles are often referenced at a basic level, overlooking the sophisticated defensive measures, political calculations, and strategic foresight they entailed. Second, this framing romanticises struggle while sidelining the harder, slower work of statecraft, such as institution building, knowledge accumulation, political representation, and the management of investment and funds to create leverage. History becomes a sanctified script, and politics a stage for re-enactment, rather than a domain for negotiation, recalibration, and compromise.

This mythologisation also opens the door to manipulation. Lessons derived from the life of the Prophet , like all moral derivations from scripture, are subject to interpretation. Political analysts often treat their reading as authoritative, deploying it to justify political decisions. Nearly any political stance can be cloaked in religious legitimacy, so long as it is linked to a comparable event. 

The Muslim vote on the re-lection of Trump [PC: The Now Time (unsplash)]

For example, the most recent U.S. presidential election. Faced with the Democratic Party’s complicity in the genocide in Gaza, many Muslim commentators and public figures, drawing from an Islamist moral lexicon, framed voting against the Democrats as an ethical imperative. Casting a vote for a third party or even for Donald Trump was presented by some as a rejection of moral hypocrisy, a stand against genocide, or even an act of faith. The narrative was not framed in terms of political leverage, institutional risk, or strategic calculation, but as a question of virtue.

This framing ignored the known consequences of a Trump presidency, not just for Gaza, but for Palestine activism within the United States. His administration openly targeted civil society organisations, deported student activists, criminalised protest, and dismantled the very channels through which advocacy had previously operated. These intentions were stated publicly well before the election. The argument that punishing the Democrats would “teach a lesson” doesn’t withstand scrutiny: pro-Israel lobbying spans both parties, and the Republican Party is not less Zionist but more openly aggressive in its commitments.

None of this is to dismiss the legitimate anger many Muslims felt toward the Biden administration. Nor is it to suggest that all Muslim voters were driven by the same logic. But the dominant framing in this discourse relied on historical analogy rather than strategic appraisal. The decision itself may have been defensible, but the process by which it was reached was not: there was no serious planning for what would follow a Trump victory, no roadmap for navigating the intensified repression his presidency would likely bring. The result was a politics more invested in righteousness than results.

2. Conflation of Moral Victories with Political Success

Closely tied to the problem of analogy is a second pattern: the tendency to equate moral steadfastness with political achievement. This dynamic emerges most clearly in the aftermath of failure, whether in the face of electoral defeat, repression, or military loss, when Islamist actors reinterpret setbacks as demonstrations of moral legitimacy. The persistence of the movement, or the loyalty of its base, is offered as proof of success, regardless of tangible outcomes.

This orientation transforms virtue into a political currency. It displaces issues of political competence with assertions of sincerity and sacrifice. This can often function as a substitute for policy. Movements are not judged by what they deliver, but by what they endure.

The experience of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt exemplifies this. Despite widespread mobilisation and its brief ascension to power after the Arab Spring, the Brotherhood failed to consolidate power or articulate a coherent programme for inclusive governance. Its leadership struggled to navigate the post-revolutionary moment. Their removal from power in 2013 was interpreted by many supporters not as a political failure but as a moral vindication, a sacrifice that confirmed the treachery of deep-state forces and foreign powers. 

What followed was not introspection but reaffirmation. Rather than treat the loss of power as a moment for institutional reckoning or strategic recalibration, it was upheld as evidence of the righteousness of their cause. Internal critics such as Abdel Moneim Aboul Fotouh and members of the Wasat Party called for rethinking the Brotherhood’s majoritarianism and its overreliance on moral symbolism. However, they were marginalised, and the dominant current focused on reinforcing a self-image rooted in moral purity and persecution rather than political pragmatism. 

This retreat into a virtue-centric narrative foreclosed the possibility of learning from failure. A more productive response might have involved revaluating their majoritarian approach, forging coalitions across ideological lines, conceding on moral stances, and developing institutions capable of mediating power. Yet such paths required diluting ideological certainty and engaging in a politics of compromise. These were steps many in the leadership were unwilling to take. Consequently, the Brotherhood’s core assumptions, internal structures, and tactical approaches have remained largely unaltered. Despite exile, repression, and regional isolation, the movement has clung to its foundational principles, showing little inclination to interrogate the choices that led to its collapse.

3. Romanticised Rhetoric of the Ummah and the Politics of Disappointment

One of the most persistent features of modern Islamist discourse is the invocation of an idealised ummah, a unified global Muslim community bound by shared faith. Yet this imagined unity bears little resemblance to the historical experience of Muslims. The vision of a coherent ummah, as advanced by contemporary Islamists, is not only aspirational, it is also historically inaccurate.

While early Islamic empires such as the Umayyad (661–750) and Abbasid (750–1258) dynasties did foster a sense of shared religious civilisation, this unity was fragile and authority was constantly contested. It was fractured by dynastic rivalries, ethnic hierarchies, and regional interests. For instance, the Abbasid revolution itself was a response to perceived Arab dominance under the Umayyads and drew heavily on non-Arab Persian support. Under Abbasid rule, the Turkish military class eventually overshadowed both Arab aristocrats and Persian administrators, leading to recurring instability at the heart of the empire.

The empire’s fragmentation accelerated with the emergence of regional dynasties: the Fatimids established a rival caliphate in North Africa (909–1171). Similarly, the Umayyads of al-Andalus declared their own caliphate in Cordoba (929). Loyalties were shaped as much by lineage and geography as by doctrine. 

The Ottoman Empire, which governed much of the Arab world from the sixteenth century onward, further complicates the narrative. It was a Turkish-speaking, bureaucratic system based in Istanbul. While Islam provided a shared religious frame, Arabs were governed as provincial subjects. Arab society itself remained deeply localised, structured around tribal, sectarian, and regional affiliations. The Ottomans were also not the sole imperial authority. The Safavid Empire in Persia (1501–1736) and the Mughal Empire in India (1526–1857), which ruled over a vast and culturally diverse population, rivalled the Ottomans in scope and influence. These empires maintained distinct administrative systems, religious traditions, and geopolitical ambitions. The notion of a unified Islamic political identity did not guide governance. It has emerged more forcefully in retrospect, shaped by postcolonial frustration and the aspirations of modern ideological projects.

Despite this complex history, Islamist movements have continued to frame their cause as part of a universal moral and political struggle. This framing often draws on ideological currents well outside the Islamic tradition, namely Enlightenment humanism, with its emphasis on rights and moral universality, as well as from anti-imperialist Marxist traditions that envisioned global revolutionary unity. The integration of these frameworks into Islamist discourse has been rhetorically powerful but strategically unstable. The vision of a global ummah functions less as a policy direction and more as a symbolic register of grievance, solidarity, and aspiration.

This symbolic register often falters in practice. As Gaza faces extermination today, calls for ummah-wide mobilisation fail. In such moments, the ummah becomes a site of disappointment, its imagined unity serving only to magnify the disunity of reality.

Toward a Pragmatic Turn?

“A critical element of this reorientation involves narrative change.” [PC: Vladyslav Kuznietsov (unsplash)]

The language of prophetic analogy, glorification of moral victories, and invocations of a transnational Ummah, while popular, has insulated its Arab and Muslim audiences from the hard truths of power and the reality of political change. Nowhere is this more visible than in Gaza, where the cost of failing rhetoric is measured in lives lost. The way forward demands strategic reorientation. The metrics of success must shift from symbolic defiance to structural transformation.

The primary audience for these solutions are Muslim political actors. These include organised groups, individual religious and political leaders, intellectuals, activists, artists, and creatives both in the Muslim world and in Western diaspora. These actors are strategically positioned to drive cultural and political change.

Narrative Change 

A critical element of this reorientation involves narrative change. Islamic unity must be reframed, not as something to be abandoned, but as a concept reimagined beyond the outdated Marxist-influenced model advocating for a single unified state or struggle. Instead, Islamic unity should be grounded in shared religious beliefs, cultural identities, and most importantly, mutual geopolitical interests. Moreover, incorporating inclusive frameworks alongside Islamic principles can enrich political discourse and broaden its appeal. Clearly distinguishing moral imperatives from strategic and tactical decisions, without compromising ethical foundations, is vital for a coherent and impactful narrative.

Another crucial narrative shift involves diversifying political tactics by analysing and strategically targeting the structures underpinning state policies that undermine Muslim interests. Take the example of Gaza again: state policies in the neoliberal world order are heavily influenced by private corporate interests, notably arms manufacturers and defence companies, which significantly drive international support for Israel. Muslim political strategies should directly challenge these economic interests at multiple levels. Grassroots activism should target factories and disrupt supply chains through direct action. Simultaneously, robust lobbying efforts should be mobilised at the state level to counterbalance the political influence of arms manufacturers. Recognising and actively opposing these economic and corporate drivers of policy must become an essential narrative and strategic shift within Muslim political discourse.

Lastly, realism must anchor this evolving political narrative. Goals should be firmly grounded in the existing political realities and practical possibilities within current frameworks. Some objectives may appear less aspirational or morally satisfying, but political discourse must move beyond articulating what merely feels good or morally righteous. For instance, the liberation of Palestine as an overarching political objective, while morally compelling, is not realistically attainable in the short term. Many acknowledge that liberation is not within reach without a shift in the global balance of power. Therefore, the immediate stated goals must prioritise building robust political infrastructure and institutional capacities. Articulating such incremental objectives is often challenging because it lacks the emotional resonance and moral clarity of broader liberation rhetoric.

Capacity Building

The narrative shift will only matter if accompanied by successful capacity building. Tactics such as forming strategic voting blocs, expanding media influence, establishing policy-focused think tanks, and investing in academia and scholarship are important action points. Continuous skill and career development for emerging leaders will strengthen overall capabilities. Further, creating leverage within state systems should be cultivated by supporting political organisations capable of influencing policy decisions, particularly in geopolitically influential regions, such as the US and the UK. Concrete investments in political and civic infrastructure will translate grassroots activism and protests into tangible policy outcomes. For example, UKIP’s ability to influence UK foreign policy by targeting key voter concerns demonstrates the significant impact achievable through strategic political organisation and targeted electoral pressure. Lastly, sustained support for independent academic institutions and knowledge production initiatives will support the development of creative solutions.

The Muslim community is known for its generosity, but the direction of community investment needs review. While sending aid addresses immediate humanitarian needs, it does not create lasting political solutions. Moreover, these needs could be more effectively met by wealthy Muslim-majority states, such as the Gulf countries. Internally, community investments often focus on mosque building and development; although this is undoubtedly important, capacity building in political and civic infrastructure should be considered of equal if not higher importance to achieve long-term strategic goals.

Conclusion

Reflecting on the limitations and consequences of Islamist rhetoric, particularly amid the ongoing genocide and devastation in Gaza, it is clear that spiritual and religious discourse offers comfort and a sense of moral clarity to many. However, reliance on spiritual rhetoric as the sole or primary strategy for political engagement risks perpetuating illusions and unrealistic expectations. It inadvertently sidelines pragmatic considerations of institutional strength, strategic alliances, and material realities.

The critical challenge, therefore, is not in deepening religious conviction but rather in translating these beliefs into effective political strategies that build resilient institutions. The proposed solutions presented here are not exhaustive, definitive, or necessarily correct; they are simply suggestions intended to guide the conversation towards more realistic strategies. Islamist narratives often rely heavily on the comforts of idealised visions without providing sufficient practical guidance. The imperative is not to discard ethical commitments but to marry them with an astute understanding of political leverage, economic influences, and institutional capacities. The viability of any politically engaged Islamic discourse hinges on this transformation: from symbolic defiance to substantive, structural engagement. It is the myths that must be shed, not the ethics.

 

Related:

– Politics In Islam: On Muslims Partaking In Political Engagement In Non-Muslim Countries

– Rising To The Moment: What Muslim American Activists Of Today Can Learn From Successful Community Movements During The Bosnian Genocide

 

The post Beyond Badr: Transforming Muslim Political Vision appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.