Steffen Seibert shared fake letter purporting to be from an Israeli suicide victim traumatized by what he witnessed.

Palestinians in Gaza forced into increasingly narrow area as first case of polio detected.

Resistance set for long war of attrition as Israeli general warns country faces collapse.

ZAKA applauds this week’s attack on West Bank.

Israeli attack on two schools claims 17 lives, including boy at tailor next door.

Every line I write and every day that I pursue my own education is a defiant stand against the destruction that encircles me.

A brother’s fight for survival after he ignored an Israeli evacuation order.

Every Israeli attempt at silencing Palestinians will only give rise to more voices.

The library I inherited from my father and spent a lifetime building was destroyed by Israel.

Father mourns the loss of his purebred horse with whom he would chase away the stress on Gaza’s beaches.

As someone whose ancestral home is Malaysia, I have had the blessing of living here for a decade. There’s something very special and healing about returning here because I felt very fragmented and disconnected from my cultural and spiritual heritage after living in the West for most of my life. I was born and raised in two secular cities (Singapore and Sydney) and am so grateful to be living in Malaysia; a thriving Muslim-majority country. 

I’m sharing my experiences as a doorway for others who are curious about the benefits of moving to a Muslim country. After decades of living under siege in the West,  and in the shadow of Islamophobia, it is such a relief to live safely in an unapologetically Muslim country.

Life In Sydney

I was born in Singapore, then moved to Sydney, Australia with my family when I was twelve years old. By the time I was in my late twenties, it was very much my home – despite all the stress that came with growing up as a visibly Muslim Malay woman. I experienced an entire range of Islamophobia and anti-Asian sentiment: from microaggressions at university like being told that I speak such good English, to getting yelled at at Central Station for wearing my hijab. I lived in fear of the next terrorist attack and prayed it wouldn’t be perpetrated by a Muslim, because of the inevitable fallout on hijabis like me, my mother, and other women like us. 

Living under siege felt like my normal mode of existence. Reading about the genocide of Muslims in different parts of the world was also my norm. Despite living in the West, Muslims like me were still murdered by white supremacists; e.g. the Christchurch mosque massacre in New Zealand or hatred-fuelled murders in Toronto. I coped by putting my trust in Allah , and reminding myself that even if the unthinkable were to happen, then my loved ones and I had the chance to meet Allah as martyrs. 

I was still afraid, from time to time, but alhamdulilah, I remained committed to my hijab despite my fluctuating anxiety. I knew that even if I removed it out of fear of being attacked, I would never pass as white, and I would always be Asian. I refused to be frightened to the point of erasing my Muslim identity. Since childhood, I had a temper I was learning to control, so I channeled it into choosing to be proudly hijabi in a secular society that looked down on Muslims. At the same time, I could understand why Muslim women in the West wanted to be anonymous and did not shame or blame any Muslim woman for choosing that path instead, particularly when their mental health was at stake. 

Moving To Malaysia

I first moved to Malaysia with my husband in late 2013/early 2014. We left our newlywed bubble so that we could keep my aging and widowed mother-in-law company. At first, I really missed the familiarity of my Sydney home and the proximity of my close family and friends. 

The tropical heat felt unbearably hot and sticky. Even the mosquitos seemed to enjoy feasting on me as if they knew there was something unmistakably foreign in my blood. I felt self-conscious when I spoke in Malay and felt much more comfortable speaking in my heavily Australian-accented English. The end result was not great – some people thought I was putting on airs, while others just couldn’t understand what I was saying!

Over time though, I leaned in.  I felt safe enough to take up space here.  I became more confident and relaxed when I spoke Malay. I realized that for all my years in Sydney, I was living in a very exhausting, defensive mode of existence. It took time for me to unlearn those fears, and to realize what it is like to not live under a sense of existential threat.

Easy To Be Muslim

In Malaysia, I no longer have to fight to be Muslim. I can just be. Here, I can relax and focus on giving myself, my husband, and my children a strong spiritual grounding. I love how utterly normal being a professional working woman in hijab or even in niqab.  I will never tire of hearing the adhan. I am so grateful for the easy access to delicious, affordable and halal food of every possible variety! 

Family life [Patrick Boucher (unsplash)]

Just witnessing fellow brown men, women, and children, many in hijab and modest clothing, warms my heart. I no longer stand out for being brown and Muslim. Here, I can finally blend in, with my entire being. Here, I have no difficulty sourcing ethical Muslimah clothes and comfortable cotton hijabs to cope with the heat. I cherish the emphasis on family values here, even amongst non-Muslims. My mother-in-law, husband, children, and I enjoy regular Malaysian resort getaways, and I love how the qiblah direction is so clearly indicated on the ceiling of our beautiful hotel rooms. The norm here is for modest swimwear, which is a relief when my children are splashing away in the hotel pools and water parks.
Alhamdulilah, in Malaysia, I can rest in the security that my husband, children and I are safe to be visibly Muslim, and we can enjoy the many perks of living in a society designed with us in mind.

Ramadan Training From Young

I am so happy that for my school-aged children, the norm is for Muslim children at school to start fasting from Year Two, even if it’s for just half the day. My daughter is in Year Three, and her friends and she bravely tried to fast for the entire day, mashaAllah.  This is utterly unthinkable in Sydney, where even in Muslim schools, it’s far more common for children to be much older before attempting half-day fasts, let alone full-day fasts. My daughter and her friends are gaining such a solid, confident grasp of their Muslim identity. My daughter’s non-Muslim friends pack halal food so they can share each other’s food during recess. It’s so incredibly beautiful to see this societal cohesion and celebration of being Muslim.
Ramadan is such an exciting time here. In addition, Ramadan bazaars are filled with all manner of delicious foods, and even non-Muslims queue up. Even Muslims who might not be as devout are rejuvenated by the arrival of Ramadan, and make the extra effort to participate to attend prayers at the masjid for tarawih, and so on.

The biggest difference I can explain, in a nutshell, is how Islam is designed into the daily fabric of Malaysian life. Here, it is not only normal to be Muslim, it is beneficial.

Understanding Non-Muslims

Even amongst non-Muslim friends and neighbors, there is an understanding and awareness of Islam. “Selamat Hari Raya!” and “Selamat Hari Raya Haji!” are common greetings during Eid from Muslims and non-Muslims alike. We get public holidays for Eid too, which is absolutely wonderful.

Duit Raya [Nahrizul Kadri (unsplash)]

 I vividly recall being invited to my daughter’s friend’s home for Raya open house. When I arrived, I saw not just Muslim families, but also non-Muslim families there too. We all enjoyed the tasty food and each other’s company. At the end of the gathering, all the children gave salaams to the adults and received a packet of money in return for their good manners – including non-Muslim Chinese and Indian children. I had never seen this before, and I loved Malaysia even more, for associating such happiness on Eid with both Muslim and non-Muslim children. I hope and pray that these seeds of friendship will flower into adult decisions to embrace Islam one day because there is already a baseline of understanding and a societal advantage to being Muslim here. There are clear signs for non-halal restaurants and non-halal sections in supermarkets, which I appreciate!  

I still recall life in the West, where nothing would stop for Eid and life went on as usual. We had to carve out Eid for ourselves unless it fell on a weekend. There is no shortage of places to pray here as well as wudu facilities, which is a contrast to what I experienced growing up in Sydney. The more effort there is though to establish prayer in a country that doesn’t design for it, then the more reward, inshaAllah. My favorite prayer places were in the changing rooms in shopping malls in Sydney. In contrast, I am so grateful for the designated prayer rooms in malls in Malaysia and even at petrol stations.

Malaysia is also proudly pro-Palestine through every level of society, from the humble GrabFood driver who displays the Palestinian flag on his motorbike, to the celebrities and VIPs who post about Palestine on their Instagram accounts. Alhamdulilah, no employee is at risk of losing their job here for wanting the genocide in Palestine to stop. 

Imperfection

Does it mean that it’s perfect here? No, of course not. This is the dunya, after all, and everlasting happiness awaits us only in Jannah. Despite the deep love for Palestinians shared by Malaysians, the sad reality is that Palestinian refugees – and other refugees from different parts of the world – struggle to live in Malaysia. As described in this article, “Malaysia has not ratified the Refugee Convention and lacks any legal framework or procedure for determining refugee status and providing recognition and protection to asylum seekers.” 

On a personal note, I’ve had a steep learning curve to squash my very Western and entitled nafs! I’m learning, firsthand, the benefit of growing up with extended family, in a communal family home. It’s just much harder to adjust to this, as a grown woman in my thirties and forties, compared to my children, who grow up with this as their norm. Western individualism definitely rubbed off on me, and I’m still actively unlearning that and leaning more into Prophetic care and concern, reflected in Malaysian collectivism.

At the same time, I’ve realized it’s so important to still hold onto healthy boundaries. Not every aunty asking about my personal life has my best interests at heart, for example. Balance, as always, is key. For someone like me who is naturally introverted and values privacy, guests turning up unannounced at my extended family home used to stress me out, but now I’ve learned to welcome the barakah of visitors.

On a policy level, Malaysia struggles with issues of systemic racism against non-Malays, especially among impoverished communities that work on palm oil plantations. This can be a barrier to da’wah, especially when inexperienced da’wah workers end up belittling the faith of non-Muslims, which is not at all the Prophetic way of bringing others to Islam. There is so much work to be done for da’wah in Malaysia, and so much potential for conversion when done with compassion and adab.

The way Islam is formally taught can often be harsh,  which often drives Muslim youth away from the deen. Islam is often more a cultural preference than an evidence-based belief, which can lead to complacency in this Muslim-majority country. This means that when Muslim Malaysian youth travel abroad and are culturally Muslim, they are at risk of being vulnerable to atheist arguments, unless their deen is fully grounded.

This is why I am so passionate about teaching youth (especially my own children)  the evidence for the existence of God and the truth of Prophethood so that they can come to their own conclusions about the truth of Islam. Alhamdulilah, there are many other families like mine who are committed to learning the deen and teaching our children. 

On a minor note, every now and then, we get water and electricity cuts. I used to be so stressed out when that happened but alhamdulilah, I’m used to them now – and so much more grateful for flowing water and uninterrupted electricity!

Missing Family Abroad

Despite my comfort in my ancestral home, I miss my loved ones in Australia. When I do visit, it is both familiar and uncomfortable. There are no in-built bidets in the public bathrooms, for example, so it’s back to using small and discreet toilet bottles. It’s back to getting stared at because I’m both Malay and in hijab. I go back to being extra watchful of my children because they are brown and Muslim – unless we’re in a suburb filled with other brown Muslim children. 

It is also such a relief to be back in cool weather so I can enjoy going on long bush walks with my loved ones. My children absolutely adore the well-maintained and enormous playgrounds in Sydney. I love meeting up with my family again, and my old friends from my high school and university days. Best of all, I am always so, so happy to be back in my mother’s home, and enjoying her delicious homemade food.

But by the end of our Sydney whirlwind visit, I always end up missing the adhan and the comfort of living in a Muslim-majority country. It’s a relief to come home to Malaysia, despite leaving my loved ones in Sydney. It’s always so tough saying goodbye so that fuels my du’a for all of us to be reunited in Jannah for eternity, inshaAllah.

Returning To Sydney

In this current season of my life of birthing and raising my three small children, I am so grateful to be in Malaysia. My mother flew down in my last trimester to help me in my postpartum recovery for each of my three children. My mother-in-law, especially when she was younger and stronger, helped to look after my children so I could return to my part-time work and studies. We always had part-time helpers to take care of most of our household chores. I look back with so much gratitude at how much help Allah blessed me with. As hard as those early years of mothering were for me, it would have been so much harder in isolation. The Western concept of a mother, father, and child silo is utterly foreign here, where families come together to support and spend time with each other, and the elderly are cherished members of a household. Supporting my husband in caring for his mother has taught me a lot about having patience, understanding, and adab with elders.

Taking care of elerly parents [PC: Joshua Hoehne (unsplash)]

Both my mother and mother-in-law are older now, and face different health struggles. It warms my heart to see how much happiness my children bring them in their old age. Now I can see my children looking after their grandmothers – when they’re in the mood, of course!

While my children and I are thriving in Malaysia, we miss my mother, who still lives in Sydney. I hope to be able to be there for her when she gets older too, even if that means moving back to Sydney in the distant future. Just as I moved to Sydney when I was twelve, if Allah wills, my children may be in high school or thereabouts when we return to Sydney to be there for my mother.

The difference is that I know, firsthand, the struggles of migrating to the West, and I hope and pray that my husband will be able to support our children. I don’t know what the future holds, and I must admit, I do feel nervous about moving back to the West after enjoying all the perks of being in Malaysia. Allah is the Best of Planners, and I trust in His Design for my life, with all of the ups and downs.

Moving To Malaysia

If you’re living in the West and thinking of moving to Malaysia, I hope and pray that Allah facilitates this for you – if it is khayr for you in this life and the next. If you are facing troubles with your children and your marriage, migrating to a different country, even a Muslim-majority one like Malaysia, is not a magical cure. Please build that safety net of love and connection in your family home first, before embarking on something as huge as moving countries. There is a lot of stress involved in migration, so remember to pray istikhara and proceed accordingly.

My advice is to do a lot of research and only move here when you have a solid job offer in hand, especially if you come here with your spouse and children. A tourist visa lasts for only three months, and it’s stressful to relocate everyone, and there’s no guarantee you will get a visa extension right away.

Investing in Malaysia as Your Second Home is another option.

When you migrate here, I recommend connecting with other expatriates to learn how to successfully navigate the culture shock – and the heat and humidity! Despite the many perks of living in Malaysia, it is not perfect here. There are cultural practices and norms that could stress you out, especially when it comes to bureaucracy. My policy is to practice gratitude, acceptance, and go with the flow.  

Please note that my experiences are unique to myself and my lived experience, and this differs from person to person. We live in complex times and due to nation-state and citizenship issues, it’s not easy to migrate to a Muslim-majority country. If Allah wills it for you and your family, then alhamdulilah. I pray that Allah makes it easy for all of you.

That being said, sometimes, even after a successful migration to Malaysia, circumstances can change. Aging parents back in the West can call you back, and fulfilling that personal obligation of caring for elderly parents is so important. Allah places us exactly where we need to be. Migrating back to the West to care for one’s parents is a praiseworthy and noble thing. Migrating back if things don’t work out in Malaysia is also nothing to be ashamed of. This dunya is temporary, and our most reliable attachments are to Allah and His Prophet .

 

Related:

– [Podcast] From The Maldives To Malaysia: A Shaykha’s Story | Shaykha Aisha Hussain Rasheed

– Quran Culture in Malaysia: Connecting Little Hearts To Islam

 

The post Coming Home To Malaysia: Reflections And Advice On Moving To A Muslim-Majority Country appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Kamala Harris fully committed to arming Israel while it perpetrates genocide.

Thugs attack a car in Hull during the riots, 3rd August

Last week I was listening to Eddie Nestor’s show on BBC London on my way back from a delivery run out to south Essex, and I heard him tell us he was going to be discussing the sociological explanations for “the protests” or some such thing. I was planning to write the show an email, but he didn’t get to that segment of the show before I arrived back at base and then I had other things to do. But I have to say something. It’s to be expected that racist agitators and propagandists will call the riots earlier this month protests, but a BBC presenter should be calling them what they were: riots.

Although there were a few peaceful demonstrations, the incidents in which mobs attempted to storm mosques, or set fire to hotels with people in them, or attacked police or counter-demonstrators, or destroyed shops, were not peaceful protests that got out of hand. Eyewitnesses reported that they attacked people as soon as they arrived, both police and anti-fascist counter-demonstrators. Others reported that the rioters disappeared when it was time to catch the last trains out. Protests are typically aimed at the government, either here or in another country; these were largely aimed at ordinary people who were in some incidents caught on film, dragged out of their cars or stopped as they drove and asked their race. Protests do not involve this sort of behaviour. This is simply lawless thuggery.

I’ve been on a few protests over the years: anti-cuts, anti-Brexit and most recently against the Gaza genocide. We marched and we chanted slogans and then we listened to some speeches and cheered along. There have been some arrests at the Palestine protests, usually not for violence but for speech offences such as posters deemed racist or celebratory of terrorism. Was anyone stopped in their car by a gang of men and asked if they were Jewish? Not once (we would know about it if anyone had been). During my childhood when the Poll Tax was introduced, there were riots, but this was because an unjust tax forced people to choose between impoverishment and losing the right to vote. These were not race riots which targeted ordinary people who were unarmed and going about their business.

Clearly there are agendas behind this use of ‘protest’ to refer to the organised racist violence: some, who share the bigotries of the attackers are playing down the violence while emphasising  the “public anger” behind it, while others intend to tar actual peaceful demonstrators with the same brush because they cause minor irritation or are opposed to their politics (hence the insistence of some people on calling them “pro-Hamas demonstrations”, an obvious coded demand for them to be banned). So, by calling orgies of violence ‘protests’, we lump both into the same category. But it also smacks of fear and cowardice when BBC radio presenters use this dishonest euphemism: it sounds as if the management are clearly scared of offending someone powerful by using harsh language, when words like ‘riot’ and ‘violence’ describes those incidents perfectly, and ‘protest’ does not even come close.

Possibly Related Posts:

• Don’t mention the genocide
• Seething with anger
• “Never such depravity”
• Genocide shouldn’t be divisive
• Ask a loaded question …

Struggle to find food, shelter follows enormous loss.

By Ibrahim Moiz for Muslim Matters

Previous Parts: Part 1 | Part 2

After the tumultuous 2023-24 school year, where American students protesting against the Israeli genocide at Gaza were vilified and repressed across the country, MuslimMatters interviewed chaplains Omer Bajwa of Yale University and Abdul-Muhaymin Priester of Grinnell College for their thoughts on these momentous events. In this third part of a five-part interview, the imams discuss the relationship of these events on interfaith relations, the impact that an institutionally approved genocide has left on non-Muslim communities, and the apocalyptic motivations behind much American support for Israel.

Ibrahim Moiz: I think, politically but also societally or socially, the United States, probably at least [since] the 1990s, treats Palestine and Israel as maybe a communal issue where they’re not surprised if Arabs and Muslims speak in favour of Palestine…but it doesn’t stop them from generally favoring Israel and also saying that Jews care about Israel – it’s sort of a pseudo-balance of these two communities, even though in actual fact they’re favouring Israel.

I think even with the Palestinian Authority it’s a paper tiger, something to keep Arabs and Muslims quiet.

But what I’m getting at is, this time around, maybe because of social media, is that there are a lot of leftist groups or even Jewish groups and Christian groups that have been supporting Palestine. My impression is some of them are not anti-Israel per se but they oppose abuses, and some of them are [by contrast] questioning Israel’s overall foundation. So my question is, does the fact that you have so much more non-Muslim support coming, especially at major universities, does this sort of translate into any sort of cooperation between leaders, imams and rabbis or imams and priests?

For Evangelicals, a Precursor to the Rapture

Abdul-Muhaymin Priester: I’m not sure if it has facilitated any type of cooperation. One thing I think a lot of people have not really taken into strong understanding and consideration about is the whole situation of Zionists and support that they get from people within American society primarily, is that most people in this country are evangelical Christians, who are in support of Zionists, who have this Christian background. For them, this is a step, this is a precursor for them witnessing the Rapture. For them, this is like a biblical prophecy being played out, and they’re doing everything they can to facilitate [matters] coming to a head.

A lot of people don’t really appreciate just how much the Rapture plays into evangelical Christian theology, it’s a very important keystone of their theology. Their entire life is delivered for the Rapture, which means the point in time when Christ is supposed to come back, alaihil-salatu wal-salam, and they’re supposed to have their own version of the Armageddon scenario that they are anxiously pushing to bring about. Which was one of the reasons why Zionists were given the land of Filastin (by the Christians) in the first place, that [it] would facilitate the Rapture.

So that being said, I do not expect and have not expected, and I’m not sure if there is, I have not seen any evidence, seen anything that gives me any reasonable expectation to believe that Christians in a large number would do such a thing. Now a lot of the young people that you see that are engaging in these protests on these campuses, most of them don’t have religion, they don’t follow a faith tradition. So they’re not tied into any type of theological involvement that’s going to make them do this in that type of light. Even the Christians saying they stand with the Jews, it goes right back to the Rapture.

The Sense Is, “Interfaith Is Dead”

Omer Bajwa: Just on that note, Sidi [Abdul-Muhaymin], Biden is a very self-declared, practicing Catholic, but on this he’s also a self-described Zionist – he’s literally said that publicly – and so you know where his sympathies lie. And the evangelicals are, like you said, one hundred percent, they’re by and large, all the data shows that every evangelical preacher across the country in the last seven months has been like, “We stand with Israel.” That’s to be expected.

Two quick thoughts, if I may: what I found is that a lot of people have said, and in fact I even kind of felt it early on – interfaith is a huge part of my job, I’ve done it for decades now, right, interfaith engagement, multifaith engagement, etcetera, however you want to define it, and you know, there’s high times and low times – but right now the sense was, after this, the sentiment was “Interfaith is dead”. Like how do you go back to a gathering with a Protestant, a Catholic, a Jewish rabbi, and a Muslim, and have an interfaith conversation – about what? What, we have a genocide taking place in front of our eyes…

Morally Defining Moment for Gen Z

(Omer Bajwa continues): The data shows that more and more young people, Gen Z, and then presumably Gen Alpha, which is next, are identifying with no religious community – they’re called the Nones…And we’re seeing this in front of our eyes on college campuses. But having said that, for this generation right now, a part of this generation, this issue has become the morally defining moment of their time. They’re twenty years old. Nothing in their twenty years up to this point, arguably, has been – BLM [Black Lives Matter] was huge, but now this almost eclipses BLM, because Zionism is then white supremacy at a national, nation-state, colonial state, settler colony, apartheid level. You’re seeing all the hypocrisy of the West, you’re seeing all the hypocrisy of the modern neoliberal order.

So for them, whether or not they have a religious or spiritual orientation, morally speaking or ethically speaking, they are like, “This is all on the line. Are you pro-genocide or anti-genocide?” That’s the framing of it.

And so, what I was going to say was people have said, “Oh, interfaith is dead.” You know, I even spoke at a rally about this and I said, “The pivot is not that interfaith is dead or not” – in fact when I look around the audience at so many of these encampments and protesters and rallies and marches is: there’s Jews for Ceasefire, right, there’s JVP – Jewish Voices for Peace – there are many, many Christians that are coming to these, progressive Christians and I think other types of Christians that are coming. They’re like, “We’re showing up, right? We’re here putting our body on the line, quite literally and figuratively, to stand in solidarity.” And that is interesting, that there is this movement or this solidarity alliance or allyship of different religious communities that have showed up.

You’re Here, But What Are You Saying From The Pulpit?

(Omer Bajwa continues): What I think is interesting though…I think that anecdotally I’ve seen a lot of people I know that are Christian clergy that have been showing up, they identify as Christian and are clergy members that show up. I haven’t had deep enough conversations to push them gently, being like, “You’re here and that is incredible, but what are you saying from the pulpit?” Right? And maybe that’s a thornier conversation, maybe their own congregational parish politics are such that they’re like, “Well, I can’t preach openly about this.”

But you know, they say people vote with their feet, right – these people show up, but maybe on the pulpit on Sunday, they can’t be like this – I mean, I think there’s a nuance that we have to acknowledge. And I do know, even my own Christian colleagues here that I work with in my community there, have preached about the last seven months and the moral-ethical crises and questions that are brought up, etcetera.

A Fracture Within the Jewish Community

(Omer Bajwa continues): Last thing I’ll say then is, clearly [the] Jewish community, from what I have been privy to and heard and seen, is that there’s (a) deep Jewish fracture on this. Hillels are notorious for being pro-Zionist, they send trips to Israel – and Hillels are the umbrella student Jewish life organizations on campuses. And there’s vociferous debate taking place. Because you have people that – if the argument is Hillels are for all Jews, secular atheist Jews, and ultra-Orthodox Jews, and even the Jewish-identifying, “Come to Hillel, we’ll create a Jewish space for you” – that’s the theory, right? Well, they’re having super-intense dinner, family type conversations, arguments, debates, right – on being like, “How can you believe and follow this religion and say that your theological moral compass is allowing you to be pro-genocide?”

And so internally there, it’s fascinating, it’s just incredibly intense. So many people are now just abandoning the Jewish life community or Hillels – particularly Jews for Ceasefire, JVP, progressive Jews – is that there’s a lot of pain there, right?

You know, you’ve seen the beautiful posters, “I’m here because of my Jewish identity, on the frontlines, protesting against that [genocide]”. So that’s really remarkable, we’re seeing that now. I want to give those kinds of layers to the interfaith conversation on campus.

[Next in Part IV: More Insidious]

Related:

Activism for Palestine in the West: Understanding the Agreement of Joe Biden and Jordan Peterson on Israel

Centering The Children Of The Ummah – Artist Petrit Halilaj’s Work On Kosovo Resonates In The Moment Of Palestine

The post University Chaplains’ Perspective On Campus Protests [Part III] – Why Zionists Were Given The Land Of Palestine appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

“Have taqwa (fear) of Allah wherever you may be, and follow up a bad deed with a good deed which will wipe it out, and behave well towards the people.”

– The Prophet Muhammad

[Hadith 18 of Al-Nawawi]

***

[This Islamic short story is an adaptation of “Hansel and Gretel” by the Brothers Grimm]

Halaa

My name is Halaa, and my brother, Gaafar, is an ahmaq. But sometimes—only sometimes—he can be very clever. Want to know how?

Well, you might have to wait a little. Just like our mother did on the day of our birth—but for only a minute. When I came out, she was so happy that she could give us the boy and girl names she picked out. Back when we were smaller than secrets, and she hadn’t she would be delivering two babies at once.

It was a good thing that she had us both, because she died shortly after we were born. The other bedouins living around us came up with more superstitions and rumors than we could count. Sometimes, they would make me cry from how mean their words could be. But Gaafar told me that when people have empty brains, they often have overflowing mouths too.

One day, he dared to tell them that if their gods really hated us, and they were oh-so-powerful and vengeful about getting rid of us, then they would’ve killed us as well as our mother. Who knew when the day would come for those gods to kill them too?

They left us alone after that.

Except for one of them, who caught Baba’s eye. He and Mama had been the only Muslims—it was easier to be in the desert with pagans than to be in cities with pagans—and soon enough, Baba wanted to marry. I admit, even Gaafar and I wanted a mother again.

Soon after their wedding, the two of us began to notice that she shared our cleverness. Not in a useful way, though. My brother and I were foragers. As Baba got older, he would send us with our falcon to find food, and he would remain behind to cook and preserve it. She eventually learned to do the same, and Father returned to the craft he’d picked up in Giza: fur trading.

Then the month of Safar came, and our reserves dried up.

So our stepmother suggested that we eat one of our camels next. I was so stunned and hurt that I began to cry. Gaafar saw me and approached her directly, saying, “If we do that, we might have our bellies full now, but they’ll be empty again later!”

But she had one thing that we didn’t: patience. Over and over again, she would bring up the topic to my father. He gave in, selling its fur for money, slaughtering it for meat, and milking it just one last time. 

It didn’t last the full month. The barakah was gone long before the camel’s remnants disappeared.

So we had to forage longer and longer. Gaafar would carry everything we found, and I would direct our falcon where to land.

“Why not develop their skills farther in the desert?” I heard her telling him. “Give them some rations, a few clothes, and the falcon. They’re wise children, and if you expect them to live here—you ought to make them spend more time foraging. I have faith in them.”

I would start to cry, and Gaafar would protest, eventually telling our stepmother that she was only a mother in name. That seemed to break Baba for good, and one morning, we all went riding in the Sahara. I’d heard her and Baba whispering furiously, and I knew what was coming.

But Gaafar told me that Allah wouldn’t leave us alone, even as we walked across the dunes. Our stepmother rode the camel, and I was in charge of looking around for anything our falcon might catch. Gaafar would turn and look back at our tent, over and over again, until she called him out for it.

“Gaafar, why do you keep looking back and pausing?! You’re delaying us!”

“Ya Ummi,” he replied sweetly, “I just wanted to say salaam to our camel.”

“Salaam can be said with our mouths, and not gestured with our entire bodies. Come along.”

So he obeyed. We set up a fire when the stars began to show up. I began to nod off, even though I didn’t want to. Gaafar let me put my head in his lap, and he put his own on the ground. I think he was trying too hard to be a man.

Baba and our stepmother were gone by the time dawn broke. And I broke, too.

 —

Gaafar, meanwhile, was laughing at me! “What did I just tell you? Did your tears clog up your ears?”

“You didn’t just tell me. You told me hours ago.”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, let’s go.”

“What do you mean, go? Straight into a lion’s mouth? Into our graves?”

“No, you big crybaby…to follow the trail I laid out!”

A trail of stones to follow [PC: John Doyle (unsplash)

I was shocked. Every step of the way, my hot-tempered brother had dropped a rock that he got from foraging. The path wasn’t difficult to follow, and the winds hadn’t been strong enough to topple them over, either! 

And as we walked, our falcon found so many animals for us to carry with us. Four houbry, which was the best—Baba wouldn’t waste any time at all with their feathers.

It being a desert, it wasn’t hard to see when we were close to our tent again. So we couldn’t really surprise our father, as we stuck out like the pyramids across the landscape.

Our stepmother was surprised, though. I could tell by the way her smile was so forced, like everything else about her. She made a meal for us with rice and olive oil, but she didn’t seem to enjoy it.

Our stepmother noticed however that I had gotten better at falconry. I caught hares, which our father made pelts and rugs out of. The other bedouins couldn’t get enough of them. Winter was coming, and they were trying to keep themselves warm. For a while, my stepmother was silent and our bellies were full.

A week passed, and even those staples became spare. Instead of meat and eggs, we ate beans, and even then, they were seasoned only with water and salt. More and more animals would be going into hibernation. My father even talked of going back into the city, at least temporarily.

Our tent was humble. Towards the front of the tent was our dining “room,” with a few cushions and other cooking needs. In the back, Baba had divided two rooms with an extra sheet. Gaafar and I slept on one side, and he and our stepmother on the other.

“How about one last hunt for the twins?” our stepmother asked Baba one night, thinking us asleep. “You saw how capable they are. Then we’ll go to the city to live.”

“No,” our father said. “Their Islam will be stronger here.”

“Their Islam will be stronger wherever they are alive,” she countered. “Putting them so far away again, so close to death, will allow them to put faith in Allah and find His Provisions.”

I had to muffle my sobs into my pillow. How could she use such backward logic on my poor father? And how could he believe it?

Gaafar was immune to her magic. I could already see him rising, but our stepmother saw his shadow by the candlelight on their side. She shushed our protesting father and came to our side.

“Hungry?” she asked innocently. Gaafar froze. I didn’t move, pretending to be asleep. I heard some rustling, and when I opened my eyes, I smelled some stale pita in his hands.

“No rocks, this time,” he whispered to me.

—

Morning came, and I said nothing. I knew what he was doing. And our stepmother did, too. Desperately, he began sprinkling the pieces of bread across the desert. I’d turn back and look at them, praying that they stay safely untouched by the birds and the wind.

“Allah will not leave us alone,” I told him.

I heard him smiling, despite the dark. “So you do listen.”

It was the last thing I remembered before fajr crept upon us. I was glad that my brother was the one leading us in salah, because I was crying too much to do it for myself. I couldn’t hear him after we finished, but I knew he was asking for the same thing I was praying for: a miracle.

We folded our mats and wandered around our camp. We spent hours and hours looking for a single crumb, but nothing could be found. Desperate, I even pleaded with our falcon to give us a bird’s-eye view of where we could go.

When our falcon returned, he was screeching and flapping his wings. At this point, even Gaafar was frantic.

“What’s he saying, Halaa?!”

“I don’t know! Does it look like I speak falcon?!”

“That’s kind of your job, isn’t it?!”

Our falcon raised his wings and begged us to follow. We looked at each other and said alhamdulillah—maybe he’d found our tent after all.

What we found was so much better. Right in front of our eyes was an oasis. There was a pond, and ancient ruins. But these ruins were breathtaking—they were made of food! There were small dunes of rice, littered with nuts and topped with pieces of meat. Chickens, hares, sheep, and goats were grazing all around the oasis, but the best part was the ruins themselves. They were blocks of basbousa, stacked coconut cakes on top of each other, and syrup was running down each step.

When we approached it, eyes wide, I thought… Maybe my brother isn’t so bad.

And he wasn’t. 

It was the witch who was.

Gaafar 

My name is Gaafar, and my sister, Halaa, is a crybaby. But sometimes—only sometimes—she can be brave, too. Let me tell you how.

Baba told us that when we were born, Halaa took her time coming out. It was almost like she was shy or afraid. She grew up like that too; so careful and cautious. Ya Lahwi. Shouldn’t life be lived?

Even if we weren’t boy and girl, you could tell us apart as we got older. She didn’t like attention. She’d get the falcon to do the work for her, but then give me the dead animal to carry. She’d be too upset otherwise. Good thing we were bedouins and tried not to eat a lot of meat anyway!

But she got good at it, masha’Allah. So good that I didn’t mind carrying all the animals for her. She was feeding me, and taking care of our whole family—including that woman we called “stepmother.” (Although I’d call her something else if it were up to me).

Anyway, a lot of other things happened until one of the most amazing events of our lives. Our “stepmother” convinced our father to drop us off in the desert, and when we tried to find our way back, we ended up finding a palace of basbousa. So really, who was losing?

Food and sweets aplenty![PC: Encal Media (unsplash)]

Not me, or so I thought. While Halaa went to inspect the piles of pilaf, I went straight for dessert. We’d earned it for lasting that long without getting eaten. Or so I thought.

Next thing you know, a woman came out of the palace (of course someone had to live there, I mean, who wouldn’t?!) and invited us to come inside. Being the older brother, I quickly said yes. I was looking out after my younger sister—and myself, too!

“Use your brains, ahmaq, not your belly!” Halaa hissed. I told her I was thinking with my brains… and maybe just a little bit with my belly. Then her belly started talking! When we entered the basbousa palace, we found plates of steaming ful mudames, koshari with more ingredients than I could count, and best of all: Umm Ali, right at the center. I wished I could’ve replaced my current “ummi” with that instead. It was a lot sweeter than she’d ever been to us.

I can’t remember when we last had so heavy a meal, and Eid had been only a few months ago. Halaa and I had to take a qaylulah right away. If I had to guess, she was dreaming of the same thing I was: What were we going to have for lunch, if breakfast had been this good?

Turns out, the woman was thinking the same thing. Only, for her, the answer was… me!

—

The witch woke me up and tossed me in a cell deep within the ruins. I was her prisoner now, not her guest. This time, I was the crybaby, asking for her to have mercy on me and my sister. The woman just laughed at me. I could finally tell, now, that she was actually a ghoul.

The monster got Halaa, and told her to make me more food. I could hear more of the conversation—something about fattening me up, and then eating me, and that Halaa would be next. Halaa cried, but this time, I understood how she felt.

Halaa brought me whatever she was able to make, and I had to stuff myself as the woman waited for me to gain weight. She was blind, the way she bossed Halaa around for every little thing. And she’d double-check whatever Halaa said. If my sister said she added salt, the woman would taste-test it. And when it came to seeing how fat I’d gotten, she’d tell me to stick out my finger for her to measure.

On a whim, I handed her a bone from the maqluba, and that only made her angrier. Though I was putting on the pounds, she couldn’t tell.

A week passed, and my clothes hardly fit anymore. The monstrous ghoul decided that she’d eat me no matter what, and told Halaa to heat up the oven in preparation. So Halaa obeyed, much to my surprise, instead of begging for my -or her- life.

I heard her begging, instead, from Allah . “Please do not leave us, Ya Allah!” Over and over again, she repeated her du’a, and the wicked woman mocked her. I remembered how I’d speak to my “stepmother” at home, and I wondered if the two could potentially be one and the same person. 

It’s funny (and by that I mean, not funny at all) what you think about when you’re going to be eaten.

Halaa went to work, turning me into a meal. She took out the biggest pot I’ve ever seen in my life, filled it with water, and prepared firewood to get the water boiling. I gulped. I always imagined having a more heroic death than bamia did, but what could I do?

Watch. And hear Halaa crying. 

“I-I’m ready,” she sobbed.

“You may be, but he’s not!” the ghoul called. “The boy’s meaty now. We need something like bread to soak up all the juice once he’s cooked.”

“But I h-haven’t b-baked br-br-bread before.”

“It’s your lucky day, girl. I already have.” The ghoul cackled. “Oven’s ready. Come on, now, just shove it in!

She already had the oven ready; she just needed Halaa to set the dough on the slab and push it inside so that the flames wouldn’t devour it before she could.

“B-But I’ve n-never wor-wor-worked with an o-o-ven!” Halaa sobbed. “We always bought the bread instead! I don’t even know if it’s hot enough!”

“Foolish girl!” the ghoul snapped. “All you have to do is this—”

The ghoul approached the open oven and knelt forward. Quick as a flash, Halaa inhaled deeply with a whoosh of air, recited the istiadha, and shoved the ghoul inside with all the strength she had. The keys to the cell clattered to the ground and Halaa grabbed them as fast as she could.

“You did it!” I beamed, hugging her as soon as she’d freed me.

“Yeah, thanks for nothing,” she teased. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Me too. I can’t wait to tell Baba all about how brave you were.”

“Both of us,” she said. “What you did with the chicken bone was clever!”

“Let’s see if I can be clever in other ways too. I’ve still got to get us home somehow.”

“Gaafar! Didn’t you see—”

“Uh, no, I’ve been in a prison—” 

“There’s jewels everywhere! This ghoul must have imprisoned bandits and other bedouins before, and took all their riches before she ate them.”

“Well, at least she has good taste. Jewels would bust your teeth.”

Halaa wasn’t joking—there was enough to keep us fed for months. We loaded our bags with as much as we could carry, and we looked all around for other things we could take. There was dried fruit, jerky, jugs of oil, sacks of rice, and other edible items we didn’t even know the names of. Best of all were the camels roaming throughout the oasis. They seemed just as happy as we were to finally be free. The chickens, hares, sheep, and goats followed us too.

Our falcon was overjoyed, too. As soon as I’d been captured, Halaa told him to find a route home and to return as soon as he could. Getting Baba to come wouldn’t have helped, she explained, although I wouldn’t have minded that our “stepmother” took my place in the prison cell.

By the time we made it home, I couldn’t even apologize for my thoughts. Baba took us in two weak arms, weeping, saying that she had died from starvation after we were gone. I felt nothing but pity. She made her entire life about survival. In doing so, she had been the one who didn’t survive.

We nursed Baba back to health—Halaa, thankfully, had become an amazing cook as well as a falconer—and I tended to our new animal friends. I didn’t mind. It was a lot of carrying—jugs of milk, cartons of eggs, and when I had to, their limbs for Halaa to cook.

It was a hard life, out in the desert—but we lived happily ever after. (Or so I’d like to think. It’s hard to write that so definitively while we’re still living. But I have to end this story somehow! Alhamdulillah, it ends with the words of a story—and not a recipe).

 

Related:

– The Little Muslimah – A Short Story – MuslimMatters.org

– Bismillah, The Beast [Part I] – A Short Story – MuslimMatters.org

The post Halaa And Gaafar [Hansel And Gretel] – A Short Story appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Seal of the Faculty of Advocates, the Scottish lawyers’ body

Any time the matter of sex involving teenagers is adiscussed on social media, there is someone who insists that the act must be rape because someone younger than the age of consent cannot consent. Terms like “statutory rape”, not actually a thing in British law, get thrown around a lot; people presume that the actual law is a mixture of old English law, bits of American law, cherry-picked bits of current English law, and whatever they think the law should be. The law on this was reformed in the first term of the Blair government and the result was the 2003 Sexual Offences Act (the law passed in 2003 rather than 2001, as originally intended, as the House of Lords rejected it, so it was delayed for two years under the Parliament Act). That law classed having sex with anyone under the age of 13 as rape, but not those between 13 and 16; this is a separate (and lesser) offence. The law was reformed in Scotland by its parliament in 2009, and it classified the two offences as “rape of a young child” and “having intercourse with an older child” respectively. I mention Scotland here because I came across a Twitter conversation involving a Scottish senior lawyer (called to the Bar in 1998) which made the same schoolboy error.

In this case the controversy was a Daily Mail article about a man convicted in 2022 in Newport, south Wales, in his 30s of raping a “girl under 14” when he was 14 himself, in 2005; the case arose because the man broke the terms of his suspended sentence by going abroad on holiday without notifying the authorities, and was not imprisoned because of the ongoing overcrowding crisis made worse by the aftermath of the recent riots. I could not find any press reports about the original conviction and the actual age of the girl is not specified; if she was 12, the offence was rape because of her age and if she was 13, it was only rape if it was rape (that is, achieved by force, coercion or deception), and it is unlikely that a man would be charged with rape on a legal technicality for having sex with a willing partner a year and a half younger than him nearly 20 years after the event, so we can presume that force or at least coercion was involved. When someone replied asking whether the offence was merely sex or rape, the lawyer responded “the one is automatically the other, in law, as a 14yo girl cannot consent”, which is plainly wrong, as both the English and Scottish Sexual Offences Acts make clear.

As someone who is old enough to remember the debates that led up to it, it was never intended for teenagers to be charged with any criminal offence at all for having consensual sex with other teenagers; while calls for reducing the age of consent to below 16 (14, say) were rejected, politicians assured us that such situations would not lead to prosecutions unless there was evidence of exploitation or coercion. The previous law dated from the 19th century and the age of consent applied to girls only; it was presumed unthinkable in Victorian times that a boy under that age would be of sexual interest to any girl or woman, and the age of puberty was higher then because of a colder climate (tail end of the Little Ice Age and very much pre global warming) and poorer diet. The upshot was that, by the 1990s, a boy could be charged with an offence for having sex with an older girl who was still under 16, but the girl had committed no crime; the law as it stands now makes it an offence for both, though in the absence of coercion, the guidance is that neither will be charged. (This arrangement has its dangers; it still opens up the possibility for charges to be laid because the girl’s parents are powerful enough or because of prejudice against the boy and/or his family, for example.) Were this offence to be classified as rape, it would present the absurd proposition of two people simultaneously raping each other.

We now, however, have people screaming rape on social media any time they hear of two teenagers having sex, even when both are under 16, in apparent total ignorance of both the letter and spirit of current sexual offence legislation. Some of this stems from activist culture, which holds that boys are automatically more culpable than girls because they are bigger, and because as males they enjoy power that females do not (a ridiculous assumption to make of teenagers, where the boy may be poor, come from an abusive home, be in care, or be at the bottom of the pile at school). They will respond “so what?” when you mention that the boy in whatever case is being discussed was himself underage; plainly, the intention is to drag us back to the pre-2003 era when the boy was always culpable. To them, boys are males while girls are children; boys are predators right from puberty while girls are perennial victims. However, this is the second time I’ve had to correct an actual lawyer on a fairly recent, well-known piece of legislation that saw vigorous public debate at the time. An expert can be wrong, however forthright he is in stating his erroneous views.

And let’s be clear: teenagers are judged to have capacity in certain areas. The age of criminal responsibility is 10, and the doctrine of Gillick Competency means that their views are taken into account when making decisions about medical treatment. This notion that sex involving two teenagers cannot possibly be consensual and must necessarily be predatory on the boy’s part is not logical. As someone who lived through the time when it came to be understood that teenagers had rights, and that their opinions on their own lives were worth listening to, it is upsetting to see members of the generations that were the first beneficiaries of this twenty years ago — my generation, people in their forties and fifties now — demanding that today’s teenagers have fewer rights and should be treated as children other than when there is something to blame them for.

Possibly Related Posts:

• What part of ’32 weeks’ don’t people understand?
• Not just a child
• The danger of a return to the death penalty
• Inquest travesty
• Justice matters, and it costs

No Tech for Apartheid shows labor organizing can be effective in anti-colonial struggle.

Just last month, Muslims entered their new Islamic year of 1446. Day one of the Islamic lunar calendar is based on a momentous event – the hijra or migration from Mecca to Medina in 622 CE. The early Muslim community who faced persecution, starvation, and harassment by their own people had no choice but to flee their homeland. Those muhajirun (emigrants) were welcomed generously by the ansar (helpers) – the new Muslims of Medina.

These helpers had very limited resources to offer and share. Yet, despite living with simple means in the harsh desert environment, they were willing to embrace the newcomers with an attitude of compassion and utmost generosity. The emigrants as well understood that they were in no position to take this for granted. In a similar posture of selflessness, they contributed their best in advancing their new community. Conflict and concord were a reality of human relationships then as they are now. They muddled through the messiness of being in a community and ultimately made it work. The difficulties of creating a new sustainable social entity are acknowledged by the Qur’an itself,

“In His mercy God has turned to the Prophet, and the emigrants and helpers who followed him in the hour of adversity when some hearts almost wavered: He has turned to them; He is most kind and merciful to them.” [Surah At-Tawbah: 9;117]

However nostalgic this might sound, their mutual love, embrace, constant sacrifice, and tireless communal work were the seeds that launched the new expansion of the Islamic empire.  

Challenging the Dehumanizing Public Discourse on Immigration

I am an immigrant myself. Today, as I look back to this profound event that shaped the global Muslim community in profound ways, I am reminded that it takes both sides – immigrant and receiving communities – for societies to flourish. The climate crisis, global wars, and worldwide poverty force us to rethink our understanding of what it means to truly belong: Are national, territorial constructs, borders, and slim passports sufficient to capture the emergence of hybrid, fluid, and transnational identities? In the face of mass displacement, forced immigration, and the global refugee crisis, could we transcend seeing a human being from a simply utilitarian perspective? Are immigrants and refugees either a burden or a benefit  – socially, economically, and politically? Could we refrain from the dehumanizing, degrading, and otherizing public discourse and arrive at one simple fact: the immigrant and refugee is a stark and embodied reminder that life is fragile, stability and certainty are illusions, and that each of us can lose their livelihood and home within a moment.

Those of us who claim adherence to the Abrahamic religions, very well know that we were at the margins of society and that our very origin stories are rooted in the painful experiences of exile, refuge, and immigration. This is all the more reason that religious communities need to wake up from this historical amnesia and claim their responsibility in taking care of the newcomer and welcoming the stranger. It pains me that the fundamental dignity and worth of human life get lost in the dehumanizing public discourse on immigration.         

Towards a Holistic Approach – Sacred Responsibilities of both Migrant and Host

As an immigrant child myself, I have witnessed that these communities are the most loving, hardworking, resilient, and selfless people who deeply care. True, some too can fall into romanticizing their countries of origin while cultivating nostalgia for the past and embracing a so-called paradigm of rejection. Such an attitude does not allow for a view that their new place has to offer something valuable. Everything and everyone was always better “back home.” I know very well that such sentiments can be common and understandable in the early years of an especially forceful and involuntary immigration experience. They need to be acknowledged and worked through. Trauma, pain, sadness, and grief over so many loved ones, losses, and memories left behind are a reality. 

The hijra tells the story that in loss there can also be gain; that hardships can be blessings in disguise; and that in absence, abundance can be found. Both – receiving and immigrant communities – must display an openness to new possibilities. Acting in mutuality, solidarity, and unity can indeed be a reality when done holistically in calling all parties to their sacred responsibilities toward one another. In the words of Muslim theologian Bediüzzaman Said Nursi we must strive to emulate the cosmic brotherhood and sisterhood displayed throughout the creation. We can and must embrace one another (teanuk), support one another (tesanüd), respond to each other’s needs (tecavüb), and help one another (teavün). At our core, we are social beings intricately connected and interwoven. What affects one will affect everyone.

Anti-Immigrant Riots: A Contrast To The Teachings Of The Hijra

The recent anti-immigrant riots in the UK offer a stark and troubling contrast to the principles of mutual support and solidarity illustrated by the hijra and the teachings from the Qur’an and Islamic tradition. These riots, marked by violence and xenophobic rhetoric, reveal a disturbing trend of fear and hostility towards immigrants and refugees, highlighting the urgent need for a more compassionate and inclusive approach to these issues.

In the context of the hijra, the early Muslim community’s experience underscores the possibility of flourishing through mutual support despite adversity. The Ansar’s welcoming attitude towards the Muhajirun exemplifies how communities can overcome difficulties through empathy and cooperation. In contrast, the recent riots demonstrate a failure to uphold these values, with many immigrants facing hostility and dehumanization rather than the support and solidarity they need.

The events in the UK reflect broader challenges in addressing immigration, often fueled by economic anxiety, political rhetoric, and misinformation. These riots reveal how fear and prejudice can overshadow the principles of mutual aid and understanding.

Addressing the root causes of such hostility requires a commitment to fostering understanding and empathy, rather than succumbing to fear and division. The hijra’s lessons teach us that with openness, cooperation, and compassion, communities can transform challenges into opportunities for growth and solidarity. It is through embracing these principles and actively working to bridge divides that we can begin to counteract the negative trends seen in recent events and build a more inclusive and supportive society for all.

The first Muslim migration was an early success story showing that the human family must act with the full consciousness and deep understanding that we are part of an interdependent whole and that each of us is an important unique piece in the sacred fabric of life. Each of us is called to do our part in making community work through sharing our God-given selves and skills, our divinely entrusted wealth, the God-given land and resources as echoed in the Qur’an, 

 

“Those who believed and emigrated and struggled for God’s cause with their possessions and persons, and those who gave refuge and help, are all allies of one another […] But if they seek help from you against persecution, it is your duty to assist them, except against people with whom you have a treaty: God sees all that you do.” [Surah Al-Anfal: 8;72]

 

Related:

– Traditional Islam, Ideology, Immigrant Muslims, and Grievance Culture: A Review of Travelling Home: Essays on Islam in Europe by Abdal Hakim Murad

 

The post The Hijra : Lessons From The First Muslim Migration For Today appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

How Israel's wars define life for Palestinians in Gaza.