It was once the darling slogan of liberal Muslims in the West, their talisman against suspicion, their get-out-of-Guantánamo-free card. In the shadow of 9/11, when Muslims were being strip-searched at airports, interrogated at borders, and rounded up in their neighborhoods, Western Muslim leaders found themselves endlessly parroting this question. It was their shield, their mantra, their desperate attempt to prove to the “civilized” world that they were not, in fact, bloodthirsty savages. The Prophet Muhammad , they said, was compassionate, tolerant, patient, merciful, endlessly forgiving—more yoga instructor than warrior, more monk than statesman. And so, every Friday sermon, interfaith dinner, and panel discussion circled back to the same soothing line: “What would Muhammad do?”

But how curious the silence today. Gaza burns, Palestinians are starved and slaughtered in numbers that recall the darkest chapters of the twentieth century, and the “good” Muslims—the liberal Muslims, the moderates, the tireless ambassadors of interfaith kumbaya—suddenly forget their favorite question. Nobody wants to ask what Muhammad would do in the face of genocide. Why not? Because the answer is too obvious, and too uncomfortable.

The Post-9/11 Muhammad: A Pacifist Mascot

Let us recall the context. After 9/11, Muslim leaders in the West scrambled to perform what might be called the ‘Great Pacification of the Prophet.’ No longer the man who organized armies, brokered treaties, defended his community, and met aggression with force—Muhammad was rebranded as a pacifist saint. His patience in the face of insults was exalted. His forgiveness of enemies was endlessly quoted. His emphasis on inner struggle (jihad al-nafs) was turned into the *only* jihad worth mentioning.

The goal was transparent: to convince a deeply suspicious Western public that Muslims were not ticking time bombs. “See?” these Muslims pleaded. “Our Prophet is just like your Jesus—peaceful, forgiving, nonviolent.” The “What would Muhammad do?” question became their version of “What would Jesus do?”—a saccharine slogan perfectly fitted for bumper stickers and youth group T-shirts.

It was not entirely disingenuous. The Prophet Muhammad did indeed show patience, did indeed forgive, did indeed emphasize inner reform. But the narrative was highly selective. It was also deeply political. In the ‘War on Terror’ climate, Muslims were under enormous pressure to prove their loyalty, to sanitize their religion, and to present Islam as a benign spiritual hobby rather than a political force.

The Vanishing Question

Fast forward two decades. The bombs fall on Gaza. Hospitals, schools, and refugee camps are obliterated. A population penned in like cattle is starved, denied water, denied medicine. The word “genocide” is whispered at first, then shouted openly. Muslims across the world watch in horror, rage, and despair.

And yet, those same liberal Muslims who once found their tongues so nimble with the phrase “What would Muhammad do?” now fall mute. Where are the interfaith panels, the carefully rehearsed sermons, the op-eds in The Guardian? Where are the hashtags and the bumper stickers?

The silence is not accidental. The silence is strategic. Because everyone knows what Muhammad would do in the face of genocide. And it does not fit the pacifist rebranding.

The Uncomfortable Answer

The Prophet Muhammad , faced with the annihilation of his people, did not advise patience and Twitter activism. He did not retreat to his prayer mat and wait for celestial justice. He organized. He defended. He made it an obligation for his followers to resist. The Qur’an itself makes the duty explicit: “What is the matter with you that you do not fight in the cause of God and for those oppressed men, women, and children who cry out, ‘Lord, rescue us from this town of oppressors!’” [Surah An-Nisa; 4:75]

This is not an obscure or fringe interpretation. It is the mainstream of Islamic tradition: defensive jihad is mandatory when a community faces extermination. For Muhammad , the defense of the vulnerable was not optional, not metaphorical, and certainly not reducible to therapy-speak about “resisting your lower self.” It was concrete. It was armed. It was non-negotiable.

So if one were to ask, honestly, “What would Muhammad do?” in the face of Gaza, the answer would be devastatingly clear: he would organize a protection force, and he would make defense a duty. He would not wring his hands about “messaging” or fret about what white liberals might think. He would not outsource morality to the State Department. He would stand between the slaughterer and the slaughtered.

And that is precisely why the question is not being asked.

The Liberal Muslim Dilemma

Here lies the dilemma of the “good” Muslim in the West. For two decades, they have invested heavily in the pacifist-Muhammad narrative. They have reassured their governments, their colleagues, and their neighbors that Islam is peace, that jihad is just a personal detox retreat, and that the Prophet was basically a life coach with a beard.

To now say, “Actually, Muhammad would call for armed defense of Palestinians” is to risk unraveling two decades of carefully curated branding. It risks losing the approval of the very Western societies they have bent over backwards to placate. It risks being lumped in with the “bad” Muslims—the militants, the radicals, the ones forever marked as barbarians.

And so, better to stay silent. Better to issue vague platitudes about peace, condemn “violence on both sides,” and retreat into the comfort of interfaith dinners. Better to mock or sideline those “useful idiot” imams who dare to speak the uncomfortable truth. Better to remain respectable, even as Gaza burns.

The Politics of Selective Piety

The irony, of course, is glaring. When cartoons of the Prophet appeared in Denmark or France, the “good” Muslims were quick to remind us: Muhammad ignored insults. He forgave his enemies. He never condoned mob violence. And they were right.

The true taboo question then is not “What would Muhammad do?” but “Why are liberal Muslims afraid to ask it?” [PC: Aliaksei Lepik (unsplash)]

But when it comes to genocide? When children are pulled from the rubble, when families are obliterated in their homes, when a besieged people cry out for help—suddenly, the Prophet is nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the selective piety that once filled conferences and press releases evaporates. The Prophet, once paraded as a mascot of moderation, is now locked in the attic, too embarrassing to bring out.

This is not simply cowardice. It is complicity. It is the internalization of Western hegemony so deep that one’s own religious tradition must be amputated to fit the demands of respectability. It is to reduce Muhammad to a caricature—first as a saintly pacifist, now as a silence-inducing taboo—rather than grapple with the full complexity of his legacy.

The Real Taboo

Here, then, is the true taboo question: not “What would Muhammad do?” but “Why are liberal Muslims afraid to ask it?”

The answer is not flattering. They are afraid because they know the truth: Muhammad would not sit idly by in the face of genocide. He would act. He would fight. He would obligate his followers to defend the oppressed.

And that answer does not play well at interfaith luncheons. It does not reassure security agencies. It does not flatter the liberal order. So the question is buried. The Prophet, once deployed as a prop for Western acceptance, is now silenced by those same Muslims who once could not stop invoking him.

Conclusion: The Prophet They Dare Not Name

“What would Muhammad do?” was never really about Muhammad . It was about politics. After 9/11, it was about survival: Muslims needed to prove they were safe, and so they fashioned a Prophet who was permanently nonviolent. Today, in Gaza, the same question would expose a truth too dangerous for “good” Muslims to utter: that their Prophet was not only merciful but militant when justice demanded it.

And so the silence speaks volumes. The “good” Muslims have trapped themselves in their own narrative. They are so invested in the pacifist Prophet that they cannot now call upon the real one. They have chosen approval over integrity, respectability over responsibility.

But history is merciless. When future generations ask, “What did you do during the genocide in Gaza?” the “good” Muslims will not be able to say, “We asked what Muhammad would do.” They did not dare. And perhaps that silence will be remembered as their loudest answer.

 

Related:

– Beyond Badr: Transforming Muslim Political Vision

– The Terminal Hypocrisy Of A Crumbling West And The Dawning Of A New Age for Muslims

The post What Would Muhammad Do? – Silencing The Prophet: Liberal Islam’s Cowardice In Gaza appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Sara Sharif

Today an independent review into the murder of an eight-year-old girl of mixed Pakistani and Polish parentage, Sara Sharif, was published. The review (PDF) by the Surrey Safeguarding Children Partnership (SCP), identified five particular failings, mostly by the court system, but also mistakes on the part of the local council which contributed to the failure to prevent the murder. These include the courts giving undue weight to the opinions of court-appointed guardians rather than social workers, a report compiled by an inexperienced social worker which meant a judge subsequently had insufficient information, a rushed response to a report of a bruise on Sara’s cheek which led to no action being taken, and failure to update records such as the Sharifs’ address. However, one section of it mentions that neighbours reported being “afraid of being called racist” and that visiting social workers did not ask why Sara was wearing hijab at home at age 8 when no older females were doing so, when the hijab was being worn to hide bruises and injuries to her head. These last points are, predictably, what racists have seized on.

To clarify, in Islam, hijab becomes compulsory for a girl at puberty. Some women don’t wear it, though, and you are more likely to find a girl wearing it before that time if her mother, aunts or other older female relatives wear it (and not in the family home in the presence of a female visitor, like the occupational therapist mentioned below). In the case of Sara Sharif’s family, they did not, and the type of hijab Sara was shown wearing in a police handout is one you would see on a girl from a more religious family whose relatives wore hijab. Social workers are familiar with make-up, face paints or food being used to cover bruises or injuries, but hijab is probably less common (and all the more so in a small Muslim community in an outer-suburban town like Woking). The visitor, as the report notes on page 20, was a newly-qualified occupational therapist, not a social worker at all. A social work department from an inner London borough or other district with a substantial Asian and/or Muslim population might have had a social worker from that background they could have sent on the visit, but the visit was not about Sara Sharif at all; rather, it was to support her father and stepmother in caring for their other children. It was noted that the OT “has reflected that she may have been reticent to talk about it for fear of causing offence”, but she was inexperienced, unaware that there was any history of Children’s Services involvement with the family and was visiting for reasons unconnected to Sara.

However, the Times’ headline writer puts it all down to the race aspect: “chances to prevent murder ‘lost to racial sensitivities’”, it proclaims, glossing over the fact that the report identifies failings that were nothing to do with “racial sensitivities” but consist of failure to share or act on information. Reform agitator Matt Goodwin goes even further in a Twitter post linking to the Times’ report:

Sara Sharif was murdered after officials failed to ask why she was wearing a hijab because “they didn’t want to offend”.

Exactly what happened with the rape gangs. Our culture is more interested in protecting minorities from “harm” than saving lives 

Again, she was an occupational therapist there to help the family, not an ‘official’, was inexperienced and not there to check on Sara. But more to the point, social workers and other staff not knowing enough about Asian or Muslim culture contributed more to this tragedy than any ‘sensitivity’: they did not realise that her wearing it in these particular circumstances was abnormal, and in some cases did not know about her family’s past, so did not know why it was not just abnormal but suspicious and that the “innocent explanation”, that she had been on a trip to Pakistan and was wearing it out of ‘pride’ in her culture and food, was likely to be spurious. 

The report also mentions that the family’s neighbours were interviewed; they said they had heard worrying things from within the family home but were reticent to share these with the authorities because they “feared being branded as being racist, especially on social media”. In the same paragraph on page 41, it quotes a work by the American academic Robin DiAngelo titled White Fragility, as if this was the reason the neighbours failed to report what they were hearing:

The Child Safeguarding Practice review panel report notes that ‘DiAngelo (2018) suggests that it is ‘white fragility’ – or a defensiveness – that is triggered when white individuals, even those who consider themselves to be progressive, encounter racial stress. This can result in individuals turning away from honest dialogue about racism, focusing instead on their own feelings of victimisation rather than on the person or people of colour who have been interpersonally and/or systemically harmed.’

Is that relevant here? The neighbours might have been looking for an explanation for why they failed to act. They are not held to professional standards; all they had to do was pick up the phone and let the police do the rest. White fragility is more relevant when a white person is accused of racism, or is told that an attitude they express is racist, or hears negative things said about their nation’s past and takes it personally.

One aspect of this report recalls the case of Ellie Butler, who was murdered by her father who had fought the local social services to get her and another child back, having been earlier accused of inflicting a shaking injury; the family courts sidelined the social workers who had tried to protect her, appointing a ‘consultancy’ to carry out any social work activity that involved the family, and sweeping away all the objections to returning a little girl to a plainly unstable and violent household. All the parties involved in that case were white. Much of the rest of this case consists of the usual problems of different official bodies, health, education, social work and courts, failing to share vital information. But the racists’ conclusion, that a girl died because “officials were too busy minding what they say about Muslims”, turns reality on its head: ignorance about Sara’s and her family’s religion and culture is what shielded them from any concerns about why Sara Sharif had started wearing the hijab at an age and in situations where Muslim girls do not. If they are given too much credence, the next tragedy could be because social workers were unwilling to be the ones learning about the cultures of the families and children they help, unwilling to be the goody-goody or even a traitor by defending an unpopular minority.

Israel continues to block medical supplies.

Muhammad and Amal tell their story.

Katharina von Schnurbein is being shielded from scrutiny.

Testimonies reflect systematic policy, rather than isolated incidents, says human rights groups.

Swept into darkness, Deek fights to survive while his family—and their love—reach for him from both sides of the unseen.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28

* * *

“Through love the bitter becomes sweet,
through love the copper turns to gold.”
— Rumi, tr. Nicholson

Grave Marker

Sanaya pelted downhill, her shoes slipping on loose gravel and damp tufts of grass. The cold night air burned in her lungs, and the smell of wet earth rose around her. Every few steps she threw out her arms for balance, her breath ragged in her ears, her heart pounding hard enough to drown out everything but the whisper of wind in the trees. She tried all at once to see her footing in the dark, not lose her balance on the steep slope, and decide who—if anyone—she should call.

Though she felt the urgency of the situation, she was not panicked, perhaps because she was not convinced that her father was, in fact, in the river. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Amira’s vision. It was just that Amira had never had a vision before. All of Sanaya’s life, she’d known that Mom had a second sense, but it wasn’t any great, world-changing talent. Mom knew when the phone was about to ring, and when she and Baba were apart she would get a feeling when he was unwell. Mom didn’t consider it anything special, and referred to it modestly as female intuition.

Amira’s “feelings” were stronger. Not only did she know when the phone was about to ring, but who was calling as well. One time they’d been in the car, stopped at a red light—Mom driving, Sanaya and Amira in back. When the light turned green Amira leaned forward, seized Mom’s arm and said, “Don’t go yet.” A second later a drunk driver ran the red and t-boned the car in front of them.

So yes, her sister had a talent. But to be able to say that Baba was in the river… That was a step beyond what Sanaya’s rational mind could accept.

Amira ran ahead of her, galloping down the hill like a gazelle, her dark hair flying behind her. Sanaya couldn’t fathom how the girl could move so fast without tumbling head over heels. The slope funneled them toward the sound of rushing water—low, steady, and menacing, like a growl in the dark.

She reached the bank and slid down a muddy trail, her hands sinking into cold muck as she steadied herself. The river smell hit her—damp reeds, algae, something metallic and raw. At the bottom, Amira stood on a narrow sandy beach, breath misting in the moonlight, yanking off her shoes and jacket with trembling hands.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to look for Baba!” Amira’s face was pale, her eyes wide. She took a step toward the river.

Sanaya seized her sister’s arm. “No! No way. Look at it!” She jabbed a finger at the broad, ink-black expanse of water. The current moved fast, eddies flashing dull silver under the moon. It hissed against the bank and tugged at stray branches floating past, as deadly and sinuous as a giant boa constrictor.

“That water is freezing! If you go in there you’ll drown.”

“We have to do something!” Amira screamed, her voice breaking. “He’s drowning.”

“We don’t know that! He might still be up by the house, maybe he went for a—”

Her words died as she saw a large rock at the top of the beach. Baba’s wallet and keys sat atop it, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Amira was right. Her father was in the river.

“We’ll call 911,” she declared, even as a wave of hopelessness washed over her. And we’ll search along the shore. But we’re not going in the water.”

Sanaya couldn’t pull her eyes from the stone with the wallet and keys. It felt like she was looking at a grave marker. The night seemed to press in tighter, the roar of the river swelling until it filled her chest.

“Fine. Come on then!” Amira turned and began working her way along the bank, her small flashlight beam jittering wildly as she called out into the dark, “Baba! Baba!” The river swallowed her voice and carried it away downstream.

Get Up to Get Down

Deek burst to the surface choking, the river black and endless around him. The cold cut through his clothes like a thousand knives. He kicked weakly, lungs burning, every breath tasting of mud and iron. The current dragged him, tumbling him sideways, then downward again. He fought his way up, gasping for air. The roar of the river filled his head — not just sound but pressure, a living force pulling him into its depths.

Something struck his hip — a jagged rock hidden beneath the surface — and the pain flared white-hot, blotting out everything. He cried out, but the sound was swallowed by water. Still, the pain anchored him, reminded him he was alive. Kicking with what strength remained, he spotted a dark shape hanging over the river. It was a low-hanging tree branch! He lunged toward it. His muscles screamed, his breath came in ragged bursts, and his hands felt like stone. Somehow, impossibly, he reached it and thrust his hands upward, grasping. They closed around the rough branch and he clung there, the water still up to his neck, and his feet not touching the bottom.

Above him, the clouds broke. The stars spilled across the sky, sharp and clear, as bright as neon. He blinked the water from his eyes and found himself staring at a constellation he hadn’t thought about in years — the one his father had pointed out when he was a boy. That’s yours, his father had said. The lion watching over the travelers.

His grip faltered. His hands came apart, sliding off the coarse branch as if it had turned to glass. The current seized him again, dragging him backward, spinning him into the dark. He went under.

The world dissolved.

In his mind, he was standing on the planet Rust.

The sky was copper-red. The wind carried the dry scent of old metal. All around him, the cities of the giants lay in ruin — broken towers and rusting bridges stretching into emptiness. No movement. Only silence.

He thought he was alone. Then he saw the fire.

It flickered beneath a vast tree. Three figures sat cross-legged around it, a small pot bubbling over the flames. The smell — something savory and sweet — reached him.

Rabiah al-Adawiyyah looked up first. Her eyes shone like polished amber. “Assalamu alaykum, Asad,” she said softly. “The Lion of Islam. The Lion of Love.” She turned back to the pot and dipped a wooden spoon, tasting the broth as if his arrival had been expected.

Across from her sat Queen Latifah, wrapped in a cloak the color of deep plum. “I’m just here for the food, brother,” she said. “But I’ll say this — you got to get up to get down.”

Deek blinked, trying to make sense of it all. “What—where—”

Before he could finish, a third figure rose to her feet. Rania. Her hair was loose, drifting like ink in the red wind. She crossed the small space between them and took him in her arms. He felt her warmth, the familiar scent of her skin, and for the first time since the river, he wasn’t cold.

She drew back, cupped his face in her hands. Her palms were warm, strong. She said nothing. Her eyes were wide and dark, but within them he saw the stars — and there, shining in their depths, the same constellation. The lion watching over the travelers.

The pressure of her hands grew. Not painful, but insistent, as if she were trying to hold him in place. He tried to speak, to ask what she meant, but his mouth wouldn’t move. The warmth became heat. Her grip tightened until it was unbearable, light pouring from her fingers—

—and he was falling again, the river claiming him.

Making Calls

Sanaya scrambled through brambly bushes that clawed at her legs, scratched her hands until they bled, and tried to snatch her hijab from her head. Thank goodness for Baba’s leather jacket at least. She called 911 on the run, panting, and gave them a breathless description of her location. They said they would send a rescue team, but it would take a half hour. How useless.

Amira was up ahead, moving faster, shouting for Baba at the top of her lungs.

The mud sucked at Sanaya’s shoes, while rocks moved beneath her feet, threatening to turn her ankles. She debated with herself whether to call Mom. Her mother had been depressed and in pain, and Sanaya didn’t see the sense in adding to her problems until they knew for sure what had happened. The question resolved itself when the phone rang in her hand. It was Mom, of course.

Working to keep her voice calm and make it sound like everything was under control, Sanaya explained what had happened. At Mom’s insistence, she gave her the house address and the directions down to the beach.

The Sound of Palestine

Zaid Karim sat cross-legged on the thin carpet of the Atlanta airport chapel, having just finished praying Ishaa. The faint scent of disinfectant hung in the air. Beyond the door came the muffled hum of the terminal, but here it was still.

He was on his way home from Jordan. He’d gone to help his aunt bury her baby son, and had made a side trip to the Gaza Camp to deliver a large cash donation to the UNRWA representative.

The qanun

At the camp’s food distribution center, he had found a family of musicians performing for the refugees. The father sat on an overturned crate, plucking an oud, while his teenage daughter played the qanun and sang, her voice a small flame in the cold air. Two boys clapped rhythmically beneath her melody, laughing when they missed a beat.

The man’s wife and two other children, Zaid learned, had been killed in an Israeli airstrike months before. Yet there was no lament in the music. The song was about the orange harvest — how the whole village once turned out to gather the fruit, singing and calling to each other through the groves, their baskets heavy with organic gold.

The sound of the qanun in particular was the sound of Palestine itself – joyful, defiant, delicate but alive. It made Zaid’s heart soar. He stood among the refugees, humbled by their strength. This, he thought, was sabr.

His phone vibrated beside him, interrupting the memory. Rania. There was a sign on the wall that said no cell phone usage in the chapel, but there was no one else here at the moment, so Zaid answered the call.

“Assalamu alaykum Rania, what’s up?”

“Zaid,” she said. Her voice was tight. “I need your help. Deek is lost.”

“Lost? What do you mean—”

“At the San Joaquin. The river.” Her voice caught. “He’s gone. Meet me there, as fast as you can. I will text you the -”

“Rania, listen. I’m in Atlanta, I just—”

The line went dead.

Zaid lowered the phone, his pulse hammering. Then he raised his hands.

“O Allah, You are the Giver of life and the Rescuer of the lost. Grant Deek strength to hold fast, light to guide him, and mercy to carry him to safety. You know what we do not know. Protect him, Ya Rahman. Bring him back.”

He remained that way, palms open, as the sound of a departing plane rumbled through the floor beneath him.

Holding On

The vision of his wife, and the heat of her palms against his face, gave Deek an iron resolve he did not know he possessed. He felt utterly drained, yet he found the strength to keep his face above the swirling, racing water, even as it carried him along at a mad pace.

Again, a dark shape loomed ahead, not above the river this time but within it. It was a rock jutting from the current like the fin of some sleeping beast. With all the strength he had left, he swam toward it, not so much stroking with his arms as flailing them at the water. Yet he reached it. His chest slammed into the cold granite, arms wrapping around it. He clung there, trembling, his cheek pressed to the slick surface. His whole body shook with cold. He had lost feeling in his legs. His fingers would not close.

He clung there, not knowing why he bothered to continue trying. No one was coming for him, and he could not reach the shore on his own. He was going to die here. If that happened, he would take comfort in the fact that he’d raised two smart, strong daughters. And he’d done some good, hadn’t he? He’d donated large sums of money to important causes, and had saved Dr. Rana’s daughter, by the will of Allah. He’d started the process of establishing an Islamic school, and had secured his family’s financial future. All of that would continue. The trusts he’d set up would continue to pay his family, and the family office that the Indian kid was building – what was his name? Deek couldn’t think, couldn’t remember anything. The Indian kid, the family office, would do something…

But his wife. Rania didn’t care about the money, she was pure-hearted. She was better than he deserved. His dear wife was the saint of the family; she was the sun shining its warmth, and he was an anchor around her neck. Or maybe the anchor was around his neck, and it was this river pulling him down. All he knew was that Rania needed him. So he held on. Without hope, without warmth, without feeling in his hands, he held on.

***

Come back next week for Part 30 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

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

The post Moonshot [Part 29] – Holding On appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Peter Oborne discusses new book on how Britain aided and abetted Israel’s genocide. Editors discuss Zohran Mamdani’s mayoral victory in New York, as well as why the US still can’t find a way around undefeated Hamas in Gaza. Jon Elmer examines Gaza resistance salutations of Yemeni support operations, and more.

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

Israel deports foreign activists participating in West Bank olive harvest.

I remembered why I hate watching the news and why I am so uncomfortable when my daughter is near me when I watch it. She was sitting at the dining room table, deep in thought about how she could break up the number ten in three different ways. I was washing dishes with the news playing softly on my phone. College campuses filled the frame — students chanting across green lawns hemmed in by police in riot gear. It felt surreal, as if I were watching a war zone unfold on an Ivy League campus.

My daughter hears the shouting: “Free, free Palestine!” I try to mute the video, but it’s too late. Since our trip to Palestine last year, she has developed a kind of radar — anytime the word Palestine is mentioned within earshot, she rushes over to see what it’s about. She is drawn to her roots, pulled by something deep and familiar. She comes running to me, eyes wide with recognition and hope.

“Mama,” she says, “I want to go.”

In our home, justice isn’t something we just talk about — it is something we practice. We’ve discussed boycotts, what it means to use your voice with purpose, and how standing up to oppression is an act of faith. With all the protests these past months, she has joined them more than once, her small hands keeping rhythm with the drums as voices around her rose in unison.

But before she can finish her sentence, footage flashes across the screen of students being thrown to the ground and arrested. Confusion crosses her face. Her eyes search mine for an explanation. I froze. I realized in that moment something irreversible was happening — something I had hoped wouldn’t happen for a very long time.

My daughter was growing up in front of my eyes. These few seconds would shape her being faster than years of childhood ever could. For the first time, she was seeing just how unfair and unjust the world she lives in can be.

I tried to explain that some people don’t want others talking about the genocide happening in Gaza. Her brows furrowed. “But Mama, people are dying,” she said softly. “That’s never okay.”

That moment will stay with me forever: the first time my daughter experienced moral dissonance. It was a concept I had read about so many times, but I never felt the full weight of it until now. That painful awareness in her eyes that the values she has been taught to hold sacred do not always govern the world around her. For children, moments like this aren’t abstract. They aren’t “complicated.” They are simple and formative. They build the architecture of their belief systems.

Developmental psychologists like Lawrence Kohlberg tell us that as children grow, they move from obedience to conscience. They grow from doing what is expected to understanding why something is right or wrong. When that understanding collides with the punishments or silences of the adult world, they enter a moral freefall. Their conscience and consequence no longer align.

“Children are not born with distrust. They are taught it. They learn it by omission, by silence, by the lessons we are too afraid to name.” [PC: Melbin Jacob (unsplash]

For Muslim children today, this freefall feels endless, but still, they continue to fight the tide pushing them down. They scrape with all their might to hold on to any moral grounding that might stop their fall. 

What pushed them into this freefall? Realizing that their world punishes empathy toward Palestinians because it challenges the narratives of power. They realize that mourning the murdered is seen as defiance because the world refuses to acknowledge the oppressed.

Muslim children are taught that courage means standing for justice, but then they watch college students handcuffed for doing exactly that. They are told that honesty matters, but they see adults stay silent to keep their jobs. They see compassion rewarded only when it is convenient, and condemned when it challenges power.

This isn’t confusion. It’s something far deeper — it’s a spiritual and moral collapse. A wound that forms when their moral world shatters. Those in power have betrayed the very values they claim to uphold, and it has fractured our children’s moral foundation. In schools, we call it cognitive dissonance. In childhood, it simply feels like heartbreak.

Then we turn around and pretend to preach Social/Emotional Learning (SEL). We tell them to practice empathy. We tell them they must be self-aware. We teach them to make responsible decisions rooted in ethics. Yet the world they live in violates every one of these principles in plain sight. “Responsible decision-making” in our world has little to do with ethics. It’s about bottom lines, hidden agendas, and five-year plans that ignore human impact unless it aligns with profit or power.

How are we supposed to teach empathy when compassion for certain lives is punished? How can we model social awareness when silence is praised as professionalism? How can we ask for “responsible decision-making” when we, the adults, excuse violence because it’s “complicated,” —  which really means I don’t want to look closely enough to see the human cost?

For Muslim youth watching Gaza unfold, these lessons ring hollow. They are being asked to regulate emotions that adults are too afraid to name. They are being asked to build relationships in a world that others their faith. They are being asked to make “ethical choices” in a moral landscape that keeps shifting beneath their feet.

No wonder our kids are exhausted, anxious, and depressed. They live in a world that preaches empathy but rewards apathy. They live in a world that teaches inclusion but normalizes exclusion. The world keeps telling them, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Then we wonder why they don’t trust the systems that are meant to guide them. We wonder why they question everything. We don’t have a generation of children who “just listen” anymore because the world no longer makes sense.

The faith we once placed in authority no longer exists. We grew up believing the adults around us wanted to keep us safe. Our children are watching those same adults look away as their tax dollars kill tens of thousands of people who look and speak just like them. They are witnessing a moral dissonance so loud it drowns out every promise we make to them. Somewhere deep inside, their instincts whisper: trust no one.

Children are not born with distrust. They are taught it. They learn it by omission, by silence, by the lessons we are too afraid to name. When young people repeatedly witness injustice without repair, they internalize one of two messages: either morality is performative or they must carry the moral weight that adults have dropped.

And so they do.

They carry it.

They carry it in their sleeplessness and in their anger. They carry it in their posts, their protests, and their art. They begin to see everything as a cause because the world has shown them that indifference kills. Their restlessness is not rebellion…it is grief with nowhere to go.

Erik Erikson reminds us that adolescence is the stage of identity — of testing who they are against what the world says they should be. Albert Bandura’s social learning theory reminds us that children model what they see. So what happens when they are testing their limits in a world that models hypocrisy? When every adult in the room looks away instead of calling it out?

They learn that silence is safer than truth.
They learn that empathy must be rationed.
They learn that belonging requires erasure.

If we, as educators, want to heal this fracture, we have to start by being honest about it. We cannot ask students to “self-regulate” emotions we refuse to validate. We cannot praise “perspective-taking” while silencing their own perspectives with “It’s too complicated.” We cannot teach courage as a virtue while punishing its expression.

SEL without moral clarity becomes compliance training.
Character education without justice becomes performance.

When I think back to that night with my daughter, I realize she wasn’t just asking about Gaza. She was asking about justice itself — whether the world still has a conscience. I don’t want her heart to harden before it fully blooms. I want her to keep believing that justice, humanity, and truth still matter. I want her to keep believing that speaking for the oppressed is not a crime but a command.

As the chant for “cease-fire” echoes across the world today, people begin to find slivers of hope, but then the news breaks again: more assassinations, more bombings, more death. In that moment, I can’t help but wonder how deep this wound will go for our children.

They are living in a constant state of contradiction — hearing one thing on mainstream news while knowing, in their bones, another truth entirely. It’s a unique kind of dissonance. It is the dissonance that comes from watching the attempt to erase an entire society in real time: thousands killed, thousands more entombed beneath rubble, hundreds still breathing through dust and despair.

Yet, our children are still hearing people call this genocide “complicated.”

This is the work before us as educators and as parents: to rebuild moral trust. We need to show our children that the values we recite are not decorative words but living principles. We need to prove to them, through our actions, that integrity still exists somewhere between silence and survival.

We may not be able to undo the harm they have witnessed, but we can choose not to deepen it.
We can teach with moral courage.
We can speak with gentleness and understanding.
We can model what it means to be human in a world that keeps forgetting — because our children are watching, and one day, they will rise to rebuild what our silence allowed to crumble.

 

Related:

– Real Time Scholasticide: The War On Education In Gaza

– Ice Cream: A Poem On The Loss Of Childhood In Gaza

The post The Pedagogy Of Silence: What Muslim Children Are Learning About Truth appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Sean Middlebrough says he and fellow Palestine Action activists were “kidnapped” by British counter-terrorism police at the point of a gun.

Worshippers prepare to start using first completed building and hope to host formal opening in early 2026

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On a bush block on the industrial outskirts of Bendigo, a minaret rises from the facade of a mosque. There are no fences, making the site of the central Victorian city’s first mosque visible from adjacent roads.

This is no accident. Sameer Syed, who has been involved in the Bendigo Islamic Community Centre’s inception from its start, says the vision was an “open mosque”.

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New York City mayor-elect refused to ‘be in the shadows’ in the face of Islamophobic attacks during his campaign

Across the country, Donald Trump’s crackdown on immigrants has shaken neighbourhoods, torn apart families and engendered a sense of panic among communities. But in New York, on Tuesday night, Zohran Mamdani, the first Muslim mayor of New York, and an immigrant from Uganda, chose to underline his identity. “New York will remain a city of immigrants: a city built by immigrants, powered by immigrants and, as of tonight, led by an immigrant,” he told an ecstatic crowd at Paramount theater in Brooklyn.

The son of a Muslim father and a Hindu mother, he was born in Kampala, raised in New York, and identifies as a democratic socialist. Almost every aspect of Mamdani’s identity had been an issue of contention during the election. Earlier this week, the Center for Study of Organized Hate published a report highlighting the surge in Islamophobic comments online between July and October, most of which labelled Mamdani as an extremist or terrorist.

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My daughters are obsessed (my son is unimpressed).

 If you are a parent of elementary school girls, you have most likely witnessed the social contagion that is K-Pop Demon Hunters. And while the name of the movie alone earned an automatic “no” the first few times my daughters begged me to let them watch it, I finally gave in. But, I made sure to sit and watch it with them—ready to pull the plug the second anything age-inappropriate popped up.

Yet, to my surprise, not only was I quickly pulled into the story but, by the end of it, I was an enthusiastic advocate of the movie. What excited me the most was that I realized the movie was full of themes that could easily be related to elements of the Islamic spiritual path, and that, in fact, I could use the film to teach my daughters about the greater jihad—the battle against one’s own self. So, here I will elaborate on some of the spiritual themes of K-pop Demon Hunters that you can bring up with your kids as they sing and play the songs on repeat.

First, a few important disclaimers:

One, this article contains a lot of spoilers. So don’t read it if you haven’t seen it–unless of course, you don’t mind.

Two, while the movie contains some Islamic themes, there are a few elements that some Muslim parents might find objectionable. One, of course, is that the movie revolves around pop-singers—so there is a lot of music throughout. Additionally, the characters at times wear clothing that would be considered immodest by Islamic standards. And there are a few parts where the characters develop crushes and romantic feelings toward other characters. If these are deal breakers, I would say just don’t watch the movie. Or at the very least, watch the movie ahead of time, make note of where those parts occur, and skip over them as needed.

However, if you are willing to overlook these elements, there are some great connections to make to the Muslim path.

Of Shayateen and Nafs al Ammara

First, let’s frame the basic story. In the world of the film, demons have always haunted the world, stealing souls and channeling them back to their king, Gwi-Ma. The trio that is Huntrix belongs to an ancient lineage of demon hunters who, along with being warriors, use songs of hope and courage that ignite their people’s souls,  bring them together, and create a shield that protects the world from darkness, the Honmoon.

Obviously, the idea of a demonic realm is easy enough to connect with the Islamic worldview. The world is full of shayateen who lay in wait, using every opportunity available to lead us astray from Allah’s path. Gwi-Ma represents Iblis, while his demon army symbolizes the many human and jinn shayateen who work to lead us astray. It is tradition that protects us from this. Our tradition also strives to preserve lineage–the various Islamic sciences and the various Sufi Tariqas that are protected by chains of transmission that lead all the way back to the Prophet Muhammad . We also use sacred sound to sanctify the world around us. Whether through recitation of the Quran or through dhikr, we employ our vocal chords to bring noor into the world. The angels hear our adhkar and fill the ether around us and expel the satanic forces of Iblis’s army.

Then there’s Rumi (whose Korean name means “sparkling beauty,” but is conveniently a homonym of the most famous Sufi poet in the world). As the Honmoon seems close to being sealed up for good, Rumi rushes to release Huntrix’s greatest single, “Golden.” The song is a celebration of arriving at self-realization with the refrain, “I’m done hiding. Now I’m shining like I’m born to be.” And yet it is on this line that Rumi’s voice strains. You see, Rumi has a secret: she is half-demon. She struggles to hide her demon patterns. Hoping that she can conceal them just long enough to seal the Honmoon for good, which will then rid her of the patterns.

We see a parallel to this in the Islamic concept of the Nafs al Ammara, the darkest—and most illusory—aspects of ourselves. This, our appetitive soul, manifests as patterns of behavior in our day-to-day—tendencies toward selfishness, arrogance, and avarice.

Self-Appraisal and the Case Against Extremism

Then enter the Saja Boys–a group of demons disguised as a boy band that threatens to steal Huntrix’s fans so that their souls can be given to Gwi-Ma. In other words, the lesser jihad against the legions of shayateen wages on in the world around us. It is an “externalization of the destitution of the inner state of the soul of that of humanity,”1, which manifests in the global atrocities and ecological crises we witness daily. Even as we face our own internal issues.

In fact, this even gives rise to new issues as the girls become infatuated with them—each lusting after a boy that meets their particular taste—and they lash out with their own form of religious extremism. The “Take Down” track they compose as a response is a representation of religious fanaticism—denouncing the demons, vowing to kill them all off, claiming there is no potential salvation for any of them. It is a counter-example to the Prophet Muhammad’s warning, “Beware of extremism in religion. Those who came before you were ruined by extremism in religion.”

In secret, Rumi is meeting with Jinu, the head Saja Boy, developing some empathy for the demon, and seeing herself in his story. She begins to see that underneath, he is not as bad as the mistakes he has made.  In this, Rumi is starting to come to terms with her own demonic aspects. She can empathize with Jinu. In this way, he becomes a sort of mirror for her ( an analogy often applied for companions on the spiritual path—that we help each other to our own faults). Then, at her bottom, after Jinu double-crosses her and exposes her to her bandmates, Rumi decides that if she is going to save the world, it has to begin with recognizing her demonic patterns, not hiding them and pretending they don’t exist, and harmonizing these two aspects of herself. This could be likened to the nafs al-lawwama—self-accusing soul, with its characteristics of disapproval, reflection, contraction, and self-appraisal. It denotes the active conscience stricken by guilt and self-reproach whenever God’s commands are violated and the lower self wins a skirmish with the rational mind.

Idol Worship and Spiritual Warfare

Rumi’s spiritual journey culminates at the Saja Boys’ final concert. They open their set with the song, “I’ll be your idol,” a song that, with lyrics like, “keeping you obsessed…I can be your sanctuary” and “I can be the star you rely on…Your obsession feeds our connection…give me all of your attention,” could not be a better fit with Islamic admonitions of idol worship—both external idols and the inner idols of our own desires, and the ways obsession with pop culture can take the place of an idol in our lives.

When Rumi arrives to sing her final song, she is only able to sing a song strong enough to defeat the dark forces of the world when she acknowledges her own demonic patterns, her nafs ammara, and harmonizes them with the higher aspects of herself—the purity of her fitra. And yet, in acknowledging them, she is able to keep them from taking her over. In this, she has achieved the nafs al mutma’ina, the satisfied soul.

In the Islamic tradition, spiritual mastery is not achieved by eliminating the nafs al ammara, but rather by surrendering it to the higher self. In other words, the nafs al mutama’ina is one that can direct its nafs ammara towards actions that serve it in the spiritual warfare against the demonic aspects of the dunya—our worldly life. For one whose soul is at peace, the lower aspects are still there but are in perfect balance.

Rumi uses her balanced soul to break the demons’ hold on their fans and to defeat Gwi-Ma’s army for good.

Navigating Pop Culture Through An Islamic Lens

In the end, this is just a movie. It is for entertainment and, of course, is no substitute for the formal study of the deen. At the same time, as Muslim parents, we are constantly trying to help our children navigate their relationship with pop culture. Our kids are constantly being introduced to new creative media through their friends (yes, even in Islamic schools), through billboards, commercials, and elsewhere. And while we often respond by trying to control what they come in contact with, it often feels like a lost cause–things just slip through. This doesn’t mean we have to adopt an “anything goes” approach, but perhaps we can also find opportunities to connect the morals and lessons conveyed through the entertainment we consume to our own Islamic values. In doing so, we can model for our kids how to consume entertainment while maintaining taqwa.

For example, with K-Pop Demon Hunters, when we sit down and watch it with them, we can vocalize the elements that are at odds with our value system (for example commenting, “I wish this character was wearing more modest clothing,” or, “Uh oh, I don’t think it’s appropriate for her to go and meet a boy on her own.”) However, we can also tap into their enthusiasm and make connections to our religious values (for example, “Wow, that really teaches us that idols aren’t always just statues, but can be anything we devote all our attention to and rely on.”) 

In this way, we can teach our kids how to engage with entertainment with the tools to discern which messages resonate with Islamic values and which ones don’t, whether or not we are there to shield them from it. 

 In a world flooded with sound and spectacle, that kind of vision is the real superpower. 

 

Related:

– Don’t Look Up – A Faith-Centred Parable Of Our Times

– Muslim Kids Reading Fantasy Novels – Yea Or Nay?

1    Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Man and Nature: the Spiritual Crisis of Modern Man (Boston: Unwin Paperbacks, 1990), 3.

The post Until The Dark Meets The Light: A Muslim Interpretation Of K-Pop Demon Hunters appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Unlike obligatory actions which must be carried out at specific times or particular situations — outward acts such as the five daily prayers in their allotted times and Ramadan fasts; or inward acts of the heart like patience amidst trials or ordeals or remorseful repentance after sinning — there is no one-hat-fits-all-sizes for optional acts.

There is no one optional act that is the best in all situations, or for all people. Rather, as Ibn Taymiyyah wrote: “As to what you asked about concerning the best of acts after the obligations, this varies in accordance with people’s differing abilities and what is suitable for their time. Therefore, it is not possible to furnish a comprehensive, detailed answer for each individual.”1

This implies that we must each gain the spiritual intelligence to appreciate what deeds are of most benefit for us to do, given our abilities or particular circumstances. In other words, after fulfilling the fara’id and shunning the haram, our suluk should be tailored to our own specific strengths and abilities in respect to the best way to draw close to Allah and grow beloved to Him.

The path, in this sense, is a vast landscape, accommodating our individual needs or nature. We can, of course, try to self-diagnose. Or we can be wise and be prudent, and seek counsel from spiritually-rooted shaykhs and shaykhas of suluk. It’s about travelling intelligently.

II.

When it comes to optional acts of worship, we should focus on the acts we have the capacity for, are likely to be regular at, can perform well, and will best sharpen our sense of God-consciousness. This is the way to deepen faith and divine love. As for other optional acts, we try to have some share of them too, but not at the expense of ones that Allah has gifted us clear openings for.

Ibn Mas‘ud replied, when he was asked why he did not fast optional fasts more frequently: ‘When I fast, it weakens my capacity to recite the Qur’an; for reciting the Qur’an is more beloved to me than fasting.’2

III.

Not to belabour the point of spiritual intelligence, Imam Ibn Taymiyyah was asked about how faith can be increased and perfected, and if one must take to asceticism (zuhd) or to knowledge to attain this? His reply is insightful; he said:

‘People differ in this aspect. From them are those who find knowledge easier than asceticism. For some, asceticism is easier. Yet for others, worship is easier than both. So what is legislated for each person is to do what they are capable of from the good; as Allah, exalted is He, says:

“So fear Allah as much as you are able and listen and obey and spend [in the way of Allah ]; it is better for yourselves. And whoever is protected from the stinginess of his soul – it is those who will be the successful.” [Surah At-Taghabun; 64:16]

…It may be that a person does a deed of lesser merit and acquires more from it than from doing a deed of superior merit. So what is better is that he seeks what will benefit him more. That, for him, is best. He must not seek to do that which is most meritorious in an absolute sense if he is incapable, or if he finds it hard. Just like someone who reads the Qur’an, meditates over it, and benefits from its recitation, yet finds [optional] prayer difficult and does not benefit from it. Or he benefits from making dhikr more than he benefits from reciting the Qur’an. So whatever action is more beneficial and more pleasing to Allah is the best for him, than an act he cannot do properly but only deficiently and so loses out on the benefit.’3

Of course, if we are not careful, all of this critical consideration can be hijacked by the ego, so that we are deluded into false judgments about what is spiritually best for us. The ego must be removed from the driver’s seat. So while past scholars are still indispensable for learning spiritual guidance, there’s nothing like living shaykhs who are able to impart actualised, qualified tazkiyah instruction to seekers in these delirious times.

[This article was first published here]

 

Related:

– IOK Ramadan 2025: Good Deeds Erase Bad Deeds | Shaykha Ayesha Hussain

–The Forgotten Sunnahs: Ihsan, Itqaan, And Self-Reliance

1    Majmu‘ al-Fatawa (Riyadh: Dar ‘Alam al-Kutub, 1991, 10:660.2    Al-Tabarani, al-Mu‘jam al-Kabir, no.8868; Ibn Abi Shaybah, al-Musannaf, no.8909.3    Majmu‘ al-Fatawa, 7:651-2

The post Fard, Check. What Next? : The Best Deed After the Obligations appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Israeli army, settlers carry out nearly 2,400 attacks in occupied West Bank in October.

Between July and October, 25 buildings were targeted in 27 attacks, according to British Muslim Trust

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Attacks on mosques in the UK have soared in recent months, the government’s Islamophobia monitoring partner has said, with more than 40% of incidents featuring British or English flags and Christian nationalist symbols or slogans.

In the past three months, a mosque was set alight in East Sussex; in Merseyside the windows of a mosque were shot with an air gun while children were inside; in Greater Manchester, a paving slab was thrown at a window; and in Glasgow, a window was smashed with a metal pole.

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The racist abuse that Zohran Mamdani is still facing proves how normalized bigotry is. We need to keep calling it out

Pack your bags and flee, infidels: New York City has fallen to a cabal of socialist jihadists. With Zohran Mamdani to become the city’s first Muslim mayor, many are celebrating the democratic socialist’s historic win. Billionaires, Islamophobes and Republicans, however, are in the throes of hysteria. But what’s new? The New York mayoral race has been marred by bigotry so unhinged it’s almost impossible to parody.

Far-right activist and unofficial Trump adviser Laura Loomer posted on X, for example, that “there will be another 9/11 in NYC” under Mamdani. New York City councilmember Vickie Paladino called the 34-year-old a “known jihadist terrorist”. Actor Debra Messing, meanwhile, has been having a Mamdani-induced meltdown on Instagram, posting story after story about how the puppy-eyed politician is a threat to civilization. She recently posted: “In Judaism and Christianity, we are commanded to speak the truth. In Islam, they are commanded to lie if it means spreading Islam … Now, take a look at Mamdani … He’s revealing their goal: mass conversion.”

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Total referrals reach record high, with 21% being due to ‘extreme rightwing concerns’ and 10% to Islamist ideology

More suspected far-right extremists were referred to the government’s anti-terrorism programme Prevent last year than those suspected of Islamist extremism, annual figures show.

In total, 8,778 referrals were made because of suspicions of extremist radicalisation in the year to March 2025, 27% more than the previous year and the highest number of referrals in a single year since records began 10 years ago.

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