One Nation leader uses the platform to rail against multiculturalism, the climate change “hoax” and the media

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A nationally televised address to the National Press Club was perhaps the clearest proof yet of Pauline Hanson’s arrival in the mainstream of Australian politics.

The One Nation leader used the platform to rail against multiculturalism, the climate change “hoax” and the media in a speech that was interrupted by a protest highlighting her opposition to wage rises for the lowest-paid workers.

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One Nation leader denounces high immigration levels, Islam, transgender rights, the ABC and the Guardian in inflammatory address

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Pauline Hanson has declared Australia cannot be multicultural and must exist as a “monocultural society”, warning high migration had caused the country to lose its identity and national values.

In an inflammatory address to the National Press Club in Canberra, the One Nation leader pledged to axe SBS and overhaul the ABC if she wins the next federal election, including imposing a licence fee for metropolitan households to watch the public broadcaster. Regional services would be protected.

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Darius is sent on a journey that shows him sights he never would have imagined, as well as feelings he did not expect.

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

* * *

Back Into the Fold

The next few months passed without serious incident. Our caravans were attacked a few times, but the attacks were clumsy and undermanned. I knocked a man out, broke another’s leg, and slashed another’s hamstring, hobbling him, but I did not kill anyone. This was deliberate on my part. After what had happened last time, I wanted no more blood on my hands, no murdered souls haunting my nightmares.

I began praying again. Ahmed welcomed me back into the fold without comment. By then I had earned a reputation within Five Stars Trading Company as disciplined, reliable and unusually calm under pressure. I arrived to work early, maintained my equipment carefully, avoided gambling houses and never drank. I also fought well enough that older guards stopped treating me as a curiosity.

Back in Deep Harbor, I was summoned unexpectedly to the company offices overlooking the western canal.

Shah Suliman stood waiting beside a large map covered in ink markings and trade routes.

“You read maps?” he asked abruptly.

“Not really, but I learn quickly.”

“But you are literate?”

“Yes, of course.”

One eyebrow lifted slightly. “Interesting. Come, let me show you.”

Using a slender stick, he pointed out to me the features of the map: mountains, rivers, provincial and national boundaries. He showed me the scale that indicated the relationship to actual distances, and the green lines that represented standard Five Star routes.

Then he pointed toward a route stretching westward farther than any I had traveled before.

“Have you heard of Persia?”

I twisted my mouth to the side and thought. “Far away land. A Muslim land. Where the flying carpets come from. And pistachios.”

Suliman laughed loudly at that. “Carpets indeed. Not flying, but yes, the Persians make intricate, durable and iconic carpets. Pistachios, as you say, and other nuts as well, along with dates and dried apricots, and a variety of spices. And horses! You have never seen horses like these, Darius. The Emperor’s horse is one we brought from Persia.”

“It sounds amazing. Have you actually been there?”

“Yes. And you are going in six days. There will be sixty wagons. The route is dangerous, and the potential for profit immense. We are sending Sergeant Karim with you.”

For a moment I thought I had misheard him. Then a smile crept over my face.

“You are sending me to Persia?”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “Prepare well. The war has cut into our profits. We are hurting more than anyone knows. This expedition must not fail.”

I felt honored that Suliman had confided in me, and vowed that, for my part, I would not fail him.

Sixty Wagons

The caravan that departed Deep Harbor was unlike anything I had ever seen. Sixty wagons stretched along the road like a moving village. There were merchants, translators, scribes, cooks, teamsters, laborers and guards, along with more than three hundred horses and pack animals. Every wagon carried cargo worth a small fortune. All the recruits I had trained with were together on this voyage.

As we rolled out through the city gates, I looked back only once. Deep Harbor’s walls receded behind us, then vanished into the morning haze.

At first the journey felt much like any other route. We crossed familiar provinces, camped beside familiar roads, and listened to the same complaints from merchants who thought the world existed solely to inconvenience them. They complained that the horses smelled, the road was too rough, and that we took too many breaks or not enough.

A common complaint was that the guards were not subservient enough. They wanted us to bring them food or drink, wash their clothing and polish their boots. We were not there for that. Our job was to be vigilant.

I had a small dual-language copy of the Quran with me. In the evenings, when I was off shift, I sometimes spent time reading it, working my way through the Arabic letters as Zihan Ma had taught me, learning the shorter surahs in Arabic, and memorizing the meanings in my language.

I sometimes noticed Weili watching me as I did so. Oh, she pretended she was brushing her horse or mending a tear in her tunic, but every now and then she’d glance my way. This made me smile. Weili was a beautiful young woman. There were a lot of men in the caravan who wanted her company, both merchants and guards. All were older than me, and some had money. The fact that she chose to spend her time spying on me as I read the Quran filled me with a warmth I did not care to examine.

When I had memorized a surah, I would sit with Ahmed, and he would check and correct my pronunciation, and tell me something about the tafsir or asbab an-nuzul.

Thin Air

The landscape began to change.

Mountains rose higher than I had ever seen or imagined. We crossed over a high altitude pass where, bundled like sheep, we shook with cold and gasped in the thin air. Several horses died of pneumonia and were slaughtered for food, though the Muslims among us did not eat of that.

Longwei, the poet of our group, composed a short poem:

Six horses drink from a mountain stream.
Two are soon to die.
A dragonfly buzzes from wagon to wagon.
The mountains watch us pass
without a whisper or a nod.

Meilin groaned. “If this journey does not kill me, old man, your poetry will.”

As for me, I found Longwei interesting. In the evenings when the caravan camped for the night, the guards took shifts keeping watch and guarding the perimeter. When Weili and I were not on shift, we often joined Longwei around his campfire. He was the eldest of us by far – perhaps sixty years old – and, by his account, as well travelled as anyone in the world. He claimed to have studied horsemanship in Mongolia, kung fu at the Shaolin temple, philosophy at a great university of the west, and poetry with a disciple of the tradition of Su Dongpo.

I could not guess at the truth of all that, except for the martial arts. I had noticed that Longwei always woke with a groan, clutching his back and rubbing his knees. Once he warmed up, however, he went through a series of morning exercises that looked much like my own Five Animals warmup. In combat, he was not acrobatic or flashy, but rather highly efficient in his movements. That kind of efficiency only came from training. His movements were in fact reminiscent of snake style, and reminded me of how my father used to move.

Often Meilin joined us around the fire, though I could not imagine why, since all she did was poke fun at Longwei.

A Drinker and Gambler

As we moved on, I saw rivers wider than any in my homeland, and valleys so fertile it seemed that they could feed the world. We passed through cities whose names I could not pronounce and whose markets sold foods that were gloriously spicy and strange. One town was famous for melons so large that a small child could sit inside one. Another sold sweet cakes flavored with rose petals.

Longwei composed:

A river as blue as a lung full of air.
Rose petal cakes.
A moment in time
fading to the sound
of the wagon wheels.

I liked it. It made me feel wistful and slightly sad. Yet Meilin cackled and said, “Those cakes went to your head, old man. Who do you think you are, Li Bai, the Poet Immortal? As for me, I welcome the sound of the wagon wheels, for with every moment it takes us closer to our destination.”

As for Kuangren, the little punk was missing in action half the time. He might be the son of a noble, trained in riding, etiquette, and archery, but he was a degenerate drinker and gambler. He owed money to a score of merchants and guards, and carried a flask from which he drank like a pelican, even when on duty. Our caravan did not pass through cities – we skirted them – but whenever we were within a few hours riding of one, Kuangren inevitably disappeared. Sometimes he returned looking spooked, as if someone were chasing him.

Other times he came back whistling, often with a trinket he hadn’t possessed before. He might return with a silver ring, silk gloves, a carved pipe or a jade figurine. When questioned, he refused to say how he’d come upon them. We guessed that he was either a thief, or – judging by the smell of perfume that sometimes clung to him – a seducer of wealthy women.

“Do you not care,” I asked Sergeant Karim once, “that Kuangren might be a thief?”

“I despise thievery,” he replied, “but first, I cannot prove anything, and second, what I care about is this caravan. If he steals from someone on the caravan, or if his thievery imperils us, I’ll deal with it. Otherwise, it’s not actionable.”

I did not know how Karim would “deal with it,” but I was sure it wouldn’t be anything pleasant.

Alhamdulillah

One night as I sat with the Quran, Weili approached me openly.

“Would you teach me?”

“Sit,” I told her, and without further discussion I began to teach her Surat Al-Fatihah.

“Zihan Ma taught me,” I told her, “that we begin every day with Bismillah, and lie down to sleep with Alhamdulillah. When Adam’s soul was breathed into his body, he sat up and sneezed, and said, ‘Alhamdulillah.’ This was the first word spoken by a human being, because it expresses the fundamental relationship between humankind and the Creator. We praise Him, and we are grateful to Him. Both of these attitudes are included in the word hamd.”

Weili smiled at me, and it was as if the sun had risen in the middle of the night.

“Darius, you’re very smart,” she said.

I blushed, and was grateful for the cover of night. “Not especially. I was fortunate to have a teacher.”

“My father taught me some things when I was small,” she said. “But I don’t remember. He was Muslim, but my mother was not. My family were farmers from the south. The invaders attacked our town. My father was killed, and my mother was taken captive. All my close relatives were slaughtered. I hid in a water urn and survived. I was sent to live with my aunt’s cousin in Deep Harbor. Her husband is an archery instructor. But he’s not Muslim.”

She said all this in an apologetic tone, and I felt deeply sad for her. I had often felt sorry for myself, but her story was far more tragic than mine. Yet she never complained. She rode tall in the saddle, practiced her archery, fought well when necessary, and cared for herself without asking for help from anyone.

That was the moment I began to fall in love with her.

The Birth

One evening the caravan stopped beside a stream. While we were making camp, I heard someone – a portly merchant with long, braided hair – say that one of the mares was acting strangely. I and a few other guards went to look. The other horses were feeding, but this mare was pacing, then lying down, then standing back up again. Her coat was slick with sweat.

“She’s in labor,” Weili said.

“Why would someone bring a pregnant horse on a caravan?” I asked.

She shot me a look. “It’s not always obvious. Don’t ask dumb questions.”

“Don’t we need boiled water, clean towels and I don’t know what else?”

“No,” Sergeant Karim said, arriving on scene. “Just back up and let the mare do her job.”

At that, a few dozen people stood at a respectful distance and watched as the mare gave birth, then licked the foal to clean away the birth fluids, and nudged the foal to breathe. Within an hour the foal was standing on wobbly legs. It was astounding, and all I could say was subhanAllah.

The next day Longwei recited a poem:

A mare knows how to clean the afterbirth.
A swallow builds a perfect nest.
Even turtles know where to bury their eggs.

Yet we humans walk where there is no path,
and often fail to earn our daily bread.
We kill from desperation,
and walk in darkness
in the midday sun.

Meilin groaned. “Just kill me now, please. Darius, do one of your insane moves and cut me in half with your sword.”

Coming out of the mountains, our caravan went south. We moved slowly as always, and the mare who had given birth – freed from the duty of carrying a rider or pulling a wagon, trotted alongside, as did the foal. The foal was brown with a white chest and white feet, and Weili named him White Chest, which I thought was a silly name, though I kept my opinion to myself. When White Chest became tired, he was ushered up a ramp onto a wagon, where he slept as the caravan rolled on.

A Barren Land

I kept thinking of Longwei’s poem. I had found the foal’s birth to be a beautiful and miraculous event, yet the same event had pushed Longwei’s mind to thoughts of loss and death. What had he been through to see the world that way? And what did he mean that we kill from desperation? I killed as a last resort, to protect the property of my employers. It was not an act of recklessness or despair.

We stopped at a river, and Sergeant Karim commanded us to fill every container we had with water. Continuing on, we passed through sparsely wooded foothills, then into a land of flat red earth that baked beneath the sun. When Sergeant Karim saw a man using the water generously to perform wudu, he punched him hard enough in the chest to knock the wind out of him. As the man lay gasping, Karim shouted, “A trickle only! Enough to wet your skin for wudu, no more! Any man who wastes water will be put on horseshit duty and cut to half rations.”

Trees in this land were scarce, and were twisted and stunted. In the villages we passed, everyone was barefoot. The men bore spears and hard stares, the women looked disconsolate and overworked, and the children had bloated bellies.

As we rode, Longwei recited another poem he’d composed:

A dry forest and a roasted plain.
A raven pecks at a monkey’s corpse.
I suddenly feel that I am dreaming
of my own future.

At this, Meilin laughed uproariously.

Kuangren gave a disgusted cluck of his tongue. “Why are you laughing? It’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Meilin grinned. “That’s what’s funny. The poet opens his mouth, and just when you think he might offer a wing of hope or a glimpse of heaven, he slaps you with a handful of baked earth.”

Weili, riding past, sitting upright and alert in the saddle, smiled. “That was well put. You are a poet too, Meilin.”

“Heaven forbid,” Meilin muttered.

The One I Missed

The foal, White Chest, grew quickly, and often ran madly up and down beside the caravan, making everyone laugh. At some point I realized that I was no longer lonely. I rarely thought of my parents, or of my aunt, Zihan Ma and Haaris. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about them. I loved them. But I was young, and every day was an adventure. There was always something new to see. And the job was demanding. I didn’t often have the luxury of daydreaming. By the time my head hit the pillow at night, my body was a wrung dishrag. I always fell asleep almost immediately.

The only one I truly missed was Far Away, which was strange. Why should I miss one mangy old cat more than the people who had taken me in and cared for me? Yet I did. I made dua for him after every salat: “Ya Allah, protect Far Away and care for him. Don’t let him run off or come looking for me. And let me see him again one day.”

One evening, after Karim caught two guards neglecting their horses, he marched the entire company into the camp enclosure and delivered one of his lectures.

“If your horse goes lame,” he growled, pacing before us, “the caravan slows down. If the caravan slows down, merchants lose money. If merchants lose money, Five Stars loses money. If Five Stars loses money, Shah Suliman becomes unhappy. And if Shah Suliman becomes unhappy, Karim becomes unhappy.”

He pointed at the guilty guards.

“You do not want Karim unhappy.”

“No, Sergeant,” everyone answered.

Karim was not satisfied. He paced up and down. “You all have grown lax,” he said at last. “We have not had a serious attack in some time. You have grown complacent. Men swapping shifts without permission, not oiling and sharpening their weapons, neglecting their horses, gambling.” He smiled at us, but it was like a tiger’s smile before it rips your throat open.

“It’s my fault,” he went on. “I’ve been too easy on you.” He pointed, and moved his finger along the line of men. “Not anymore. The next guard I catch neglecting any aspect of their duties, there will be consequences.”

I soon found out what those consequences were. I had often been astounded that Kuangren got away with half of what he did. One night, apparently, it was too much for Sergeant Karim. What happened next shocked me.

* * *

As-salamu alaykum dear readers. Just a quick note to assure you that Darius’s story is taking him far from where he began, but the road has not forgotten its destination. Stick with me, and inshaAllah we’ll get there together.

Come back next week for Part 18 – The Glory of Persia

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

 

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

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

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The post Far Away [Part 17] – The Caravan appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This Qurayshi woman remains anonymous, but her story features most prominently in the Qur’anic exegetical literature in connection with the well-known 20th ayah from Surah An-Nisa1. Her claim to fame was an incident in which she confronted ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb (d. 23 AH/644 CE) for a policy he enacted while caliph that limited the amount of mahr (marital gift) a woman could request upon marriage. While the general contours of her story are well known, what is missing is a closer analysis of the transmitted historical narrations about this incident and the remarkable details they reveal about the changed cultural ethos of seventh-century Arabia regarding women. More significantly, when we use this incident as a benchmark to measure women’s access, visibility, and advocacy in North American mosques, it reveals critical gaps that need to be addressed within our Muslim communities.  

Pre-modern and modern exegetical heavyweights alike often affirmingly cite this anonymous woman’s advocacy in connection to the meaning of the verse:

“If you desire to replace a wife with another and you have given the former a heap of gold (as a dowry), do not take any of it back. Would you take it unjustly and very sinfully?” [Surah An-Nisa, 4:20].

Most narrations focus on her success in convincing ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb to rescind his policy to institute a cap on the mahr based on the merit of her argument. According to one narration, ʿUmar instituted a policy that put a 400-dirham limit upon the marital gifts given to women upon marriage.2 The Qurayshī woman argues that a correct understanding of Q. 4:20 demonstrates the permissibility of  women requesting a high marital dower (even heaps of gold), if they so wish. 

It is interesting to note that not a single exegete (mufassir) cites this story with any sense of rebuke, chastisement, or dissent to this woman’s advocacy. From Ibn Atiyya (d. 541/1147), Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1209), and Muḥammad ibn Aḥmad al-Anṣārī al-Qurṭubī (d. 671/1273) to Ismāʿīl ibn ʿUmar Ibn Kathīr (d. 773/1371) and Muḥammad al-Ṭāhir ibn ʿĀshūr (d. 1973), among many others, exegetical heavyweights cite this incident affirmingly. The woman’s success in advocating her case and ʿUmar’s subsequent repeal of his policy becomes further evidence for classical exegetes that it is permissible for women to request a high or excessive marital gift. The primary piece of evidence they reference is the verse itself, since God does not use anything that violates divine law as an example.3 Accordingly, the verse’s example of a man giving his bride a qinṭār (a large amount of wealth) for her marital gift means it is valid to do so.  

Yet what is more important than the validity of women’s right to request as high a mahr as they choose, are the critical lessons offered by this historical incident on the ethics of dissent, a community’s inclusivity of individuals impacted by policies, women’s advocacy, and cultivating an egalitarian cultural ethos. There are many relevant lessons to glean from the historical encounter between this anonymous Qurayshī Arab woman and ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb (God be pleased with them) during his reign as caliph of the Muslim empire between 634 to 644 CE. The woman’s ability to offer a dissenting opinion to his policy reflected a new cultural ethos that valued women’s perspectives, intelligence, knowledge, and contributions. I will provide a brief analysis of the historical narrations (riwāyāt) that have been transmitted about this woman’s advocacy and ʿUmar’s response, God be pleased with them. 

In the twentieth-century commentary of Muḥammad al-Ṭāhir ibn ʿĀshūr (1879–1973), Al-Taḥrīr wa’l-Tanwīr, he narrates the following version of this historical incident: 

For this reason, when ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb delivered a sermon in which he forbade excessive dowries, after he descended [from the minbar], a woman from Quraysh said to him, “O Commander of the Faithful, is God’s Book or your statement more worthy of being followed?” He replied, “Indeed, the Book of God. Why is that?” She replied, “You have just forbidden people from charging a high amount [al-mughālāt] in women’s dowries, although God states in His Book: even if you have given her a great amount of gold, do not take any of it back” (Qur’an 4:20).

ʿUmar responded, “Everyone has a greater understanding [afqahu] than ʿUmar.” In another narration, he said, “A woman is correct and a leader is mistaken—and God’s help alone is sought [wa-llāhu al-mustʿān].” Then he returned to the pulpit and said, “I had previously restricted you from being excessive in the dowries of women; however, let every man do with his wealth as he wishes.”4

The first lesson to be gleaned from this riwāya (narration) is the nascent Muslim community’s inclusivity of women in this space where ʿUmar declared this new policy. All the historical narrations about this incident demonstrate that this woman was in the vicinity to hear ʿUmar’s ruling and publicly challenge this policy. Furthermore, the historical records underscore the woman’s accessibility to ʿUmar (God be pleased with them) such that she could respond to him when he declared this new ruling. She did not struggle to hear his policy from a remote room with a dysfunctional sound system. She did not have to walk around a building to find the men’s section. She did not have to walk down a second-floor balcony reserved for women or seek permission to speak to ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb . She did not have to write a letter to his secretary to request a meeting with him. In only one of the exegetical reports I have come across, that of  Ibn ʿAṭiyya in his commentary, al-Muḥarrar al-Wajīz fī Tafsīr al-Kītāb al-ʿAzīz, he writes that the woman approached ʿUmar from “behind the people” (min warāʾ al-nās)5. One of the narrations in Ibn Kathīr’s commentary notes that she was standing in the rows of women, which nonetheless indicates she was close enough to be heard (فقالت امرأة من صفة النساء)6.

Whether the woman approached him from behind the men or not, the transmitted reports unquestionably affirm the woman’s ease of access to ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb . This accessibility is even more remarkable when we consider that ʿUmar (God be pleased with him) was not only functioning in his capacity as an imam, but as head of state, the caliph of the Muslim empire. The anonymous woman’s ability to offer a dissent to his policy reflected an egalitarian cultural ethos that valued women’s voice and perspective. 

These observations give rise to the following questions: How many Muslim women today would have access to a religious leader if she disagreed with a statement or policy he issued? Could this exact scenario be replicated in our own mosques today in North America? How many women would be rebuked, shunned or herded away if they wanted to be publicly heard in a mosque? Furthermore, do the structures and designs of our mosques today facilitate women’s access to the space where policies are being enacted? Or rather, do our mosques exclude women from spaces where policies are being enacted, even when those policies impact them directly? 

Second, and quite significantly, the reports cited in the exegetical literature affirm that the woman’s understanding of this ayah was correct. Although we don’t know her name, we know that her skilled legal reasoning changed a policy that may have impacted women for centuries thereafter. If God states in His Holy Book that upon divorce, men cannot take back a penny of what they’ve gifted their wives in the form of mahr, even if it was a heap of gold, this indicates that women could ask for heaps of gold, which would be deemed excessive in that historical context. In al-Qurṭubī’s commentary on this verse, he notes that scholars have agreed that there is no limit to the amount a man could gift his wife as a marital gift (mahr), but they disagree on the minimum amount7. Therefore, this woman’s advocacy and ʿUmar’s subsequent repeal of his policy have shaped legal scholars’ understanding of this issue for centuries thereafter.  

Third, ʿUmar’s response to this woman offers many lessons in effective leadership. First, he took the time to listen to her. Although he was a busy man and of great status, he didn’t see it “beneath him” to hear out this woman’s argument. Second, he displayed great intellectual humility by submitting that she was correct and that he made a mistake. Third, he immediately corrected his mistake, validating her judgment to subsequent scholars who analyzed this incident. He didn’t make excuses about how it would make him look or claim “it’s too late now.” He simply walked back up the minbar and rescinded his policy. According to a narration in Ibn Kathīr’s commentary on Q. 4:20, ʿUmar states, “I had forbidden you from increasing women’s marital dowers beyond 400 dirhams. However, whoever desires, let him give from his wealth whatever he likes.8” The narrations underscore ʿUmar’s remarkable intellectual humility, as he allegedly states, “God forgive me; everyone is of greater understanding [afqahu] than ʿUmar.” In another narration, he states, “A woman was correct, and ʿUmar was mistaken.9”

Fourth, the different transmitted narrations about this historic incident reveal the female companions’ deep level of trust in divine justice and their direct spiritual connection to God. Like the female companion whose advocacy forms the backdrop of Sūrat al-Mujādila (Khawla bint Thaʿlaba ), this female companion demonstrates a deep spiritual connection to God and her faith in divine justice. In one of the narrations in Ibn Kathīr’s tafsīr, after ʿUmar declares, “Do not increase the dowries of women, even if she is the daughter of a nobleman,” the tall Qurayshī woman says to ʿUmar , “That is not for you [to limit] (mā dhāka laka).10” 

Her statement, “that is not for you [to limit],” reflects more than meets the eye. Like other female companions during the prophetic period, this seventh-century Qurayshī woman felt a deep, personal connection to God and recognized Muslim women’s rights as divinely ordained. She and other female companions, based on other historical reports, did not view the male companions as the arbiters of their faith or deliverer of their rights. They understood that their rights came directly from God. 

The woman’s statement, “That is not for you [to limit]” reflects a recognition that the marital dower (ṣadāq) is ultimately a legal right that God Himself bestows upon women. The bride has full autonomy to determine what her ṣadāq should be, and the woman is the sole recipient of this gift. This anonymous Qurayshī woman’s ability to recognize God as the ultimate arbiter of women’s rights reflects her deep intellectual insight. Centuries later, legal-minded scholars arrived at a similar conclusion. For example, in his commentary on Q. 4:4, al-Qurṭubī notes writes, “Al-Ṣadāq [marital gift] is a gift from God to women.11” Similarly, the thirteenth-century exegete al-Rāzī, a logician and philosopher known for his philological tafsīr, deduces a similar understanding as the Qurayshī woman – that God is the one who has gifted women the ṣadāq. In his commentary on Q. 4:4, al-Rāzī asks, “From whom is the mahr a gift [ʿaṭiya]?” He notes that there are two possibilities. It is either a gift from the husband or a gift from God. In support of the second possibility, he writes, “Others have stated that God gave both men and women the shared benefits of marriage, such as sexual enjoyment and procreation, yet God ordained this gift from the husband to the wife, so it is a gift from God [to women] from the outset.12” 

This seventh-century Muslim woman’s response to ʿUmar , “that is not for you [to limit],” would come across to many Muslims today as offensive or insulting. Can we imagine, for a moment, a woman telling a religious leader in our Muslim community today that a specific matter was beyond his authority to determine? Instead of viewing this statement as insulting or offensive, we should view it as an affirmation of this woman’s tawḥīd, her belief in one God with whom there are no other sovereigns. This is perhaps the most important quality that we need to revive in our own communities today. The recognition that our loyalty belongs to God first and foremost, and that human beings can never stand as intermediaries in our relationship with God. Accordingly, when humans fail to deliver justice, whether they are religious leaders or not, this should not shake our faith but invigorate our search and advocacy for divine justice.  

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[Podcast] Guardians of the Tradition: Muslim Women & Islamic Education | Anse Tamara Gray

The Light of Female Islamic Scholarship: Da’wah, Difficulty, And Determination

1    https://legacy.quran.com/4/202     Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr al-Qurʾan al-ʿAẓīm, 1:580.3     Ibn ʿAṭiyya, al-Muḥarrar al-Wajīz fī Tafsīr al-Kītāb al-ʿAzīz, 2:29, aal- Qurṭubī, al-Jāmiʿ li-Aḥkām al-Qurʾan, 6:163; Ibn ʿĀshūr, al-Taḥrīr wa’l-Tanwīr, 2:288. Ibn ʿĀshūr states, “This exaggerative term indicates that giving a large amount (qinṭār) is legally permissible (mubāḥ sharʿan) because God does not give as an example something that the Sharīʿa condemns, such as the forbidden” (2:288). 4    Ibn ʿĀshūr, al-Taḥrīr wa’l-Tanwīr, 2:288-9.5    Ibn ʿAṭiyya, al-Muḥarrar al-Wajīz fī Tafsīr al-Kītāb al-ʿAzīz, 2:29.6    Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr al-Qurʾan al-ʿAẓīm, 1:580.7    al-Qurṭubī, al-Jāmiʿ li-Aḥkām al-Qurʾan, 6:166-7. 8    Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr al-Qurʾan al-ʿAẓīm, 1:580. He states, “إني كنت نهيتكم أن تزيدوا النساء في صداقهن على أربعمائة درهم، فمن شاء أن يعطي من ماله ما أحب.”9    Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr al-Qurʾan al-ʿAẓīm, 1:580.10    Ibid.11    Al-Qurṭubī, Al-Jāmiʿ, 6:44.12    Al-Rāzī, Mafātīḥ al-Ghayb, 5:148.

The post The Woman Who Corrected Umar: Mahr, Tafseer, and Advocacy appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

South African jazz pianist, composer and improviser who cast a spell on audiences all over the world

The pianist Abdullah Ibrahim, who has died aged 91, was among the first musicians from South Africa to achieve and sustain a major reputation with the international jazz audience. Listeners around the world, at first in small clubs and later in the grandest concert halls, fell under the spell of his compositions and improvisations, which took a sophisticated idiom originally created by the descendants of enslaved Africans and reinfused it with a primal warmth.

He was still known as Dollar Brand, a combination of his nickname and his family surname, when he and his wife-to-be, the singer Bea Benjamin, arrived in Europe in 1962 as refugees from the apartheid state.

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Support for Israel is collapsing around the globe as its army removes heavy machinery from Lebanon to escape Hizballah drones.

Majority say Muslims are as British as white non-Muslims, but hostile attitudes at risk of being normalised, says thinktank

One in six Britons believe the growth of the Muslim population “poses a foundational threat to UK culture”, with hostile attitudes towards Muslims at risk of being normalised, a study has found.

The study by the social integration thinktank British Future and the British Muslim Trust – the government’s official partner in monitoring Islamophobia – found that most Muslims (73%) think the UK is a good place to be Muslim, and that a majority of Britons (52%) believe Muslims are as British as white non-Muslims.

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Before the war, students learned English for varied reasons; now, English is seen as their only way out of Gaza.

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

The gunman’s ‘militancy and excitement’ increased as Australian far-right groups grew bolder, a new book suggests

Terrified children hid in the corners of their classrooms at the Islamic Center of San Diego, as they had been trained to do, after the shooting began.

The center’s longtime security guard, Amin Abdullah, prevented two teenage gunmen from entering the building and reaching the school inside but he was shot and killed. The pair killed two others: another staff member and a man whose wife worked in the kindergarten.

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Detained doctor Hussam Abu Safiya, director of Kamal Adwan Hospital, was transferred to solitary confinement in Israeli prison.

The Israeli “yellow line” has subsumed my neighborhood in eastern Khan Younis.

Both Andy Burnham and Wes Streeting have close ties to Britain’s pro-Israel establishment.

Pro-Israel groups treat opposition to Zionism as a hate crime.

Ahmed Al-Najjar reports from Gaza. Also, Hizballah uses night-vision equipped drones to strike Israelis at night and the UN confirms rapes of Palestinians by Israelis.

No matter the object, Israel’s military occupation permeates every aspect of life in the West Bank.

For three years running, Israel has prevented Muslims in Gaza from traveling to Mecca for the annual pilgrimage.

As global opinion turns sharply against Tel Aviv, its lobby and government are pouring record sums into propaganda. But will it work?

From the moment that the first ayah of the Qur’an was revealed – “Iqra!” – reading has been a foundational part of the Islamic tradition. The Qur’an was the first book established by the Muslim community, heralding the beginning of a long, rich literary tradition. The early Abbasid era marked a true love affair between Muslims and books, which in turn led to the establishment of public and private libraries across the Muslim world (pg 8-9, on the love of books in the Islamic tradition). The Great Library of Baghdad, housed in Bayt al-Hikmah, was one of the world’s largest public libraries and its destruction by the Mongols remains the source of much grief. That was then – but what about now?

Libraries continue to play a deeply important role in society. Reading remains a signifier of emotional intelligence as well as intellectual knowledge. Unfortunately, we find that many Muslims discount the value of reading, especially fiction, without understanding that even fiction exists in our historic tradition. Not all fiction is “haram”! At the same time, Muslim parents, especially in the West, often bemoan that their children are always on screens, or consuming unIslamic content. Admittedly, the cost of books has gone up (along with groceries, gas, and everything else!)… So where are we supposed to get halal Muslim books from without bankrupting ourselves? 

Cue the concept of a local Muslim library. Imagine a resource where books by Muslims, for Muslims, can be found in one place, free of cost for patrons! While this sounds amazing, someone has to actually put one together. AlHamdulillah, more and more Muslim communities are taking on the responsibility of establishing libraries in our communal spaces. As one of those who took on this project in my own community, I’ll be sharing an outline of what you need to know before you go about creating a Muslim library of your very own.

Intention/ Purpose

What kind of library do you want to establish? This might sound like a silly question, but the truth is that there’s a world of difference between an Islamic library and what I call a “Muslamic” library. Islamic libraries are focused on Islamic content; that is, Islamic knowledge across various genres, maintaining a strict adherence to solely what is Islamically correct. This has incredible value of its own, and is a fantastic resource for parents wanting to share knowledge with their children, with laypeople seeking to increase their own knowledge of Islam, and for students of knowledge or scholars who need access to Islamic texts that may be difficult or unaffordable to purchase on their own.

A “Muslamic” library, on the other hand, will contain fiction, including novels that involve Muslim characters, but – as fiction often does – include stories, events, and characters which reference or engage in things that aren’t strictly “halal.” That doesn’t mean those novels are encouraging haram things, but that they present actions or situations in the context of a character’s development, or simply referencing things that do happen in real life. This can also include genres such as fantasy, which aren’t teaching about Islamic beliefs around the ghayb, but are flights of imagination and whimsy. And yes, we’ve already talked about whether Harry Potter is haram! Muslamic libraries have the benefit of presenting diverse characters and situations that readers can experience through storytelling, providing emotional depth and insight. As for determining what’s “halal enough” to include in a Muslamic library, this will be covered in the section on how to select books for your library.

As you consider what kind of library you want to build, think about who your target audience is. Is it children or adults? Students at a serious madrasah, or just kids who yearn for stories where they can see themselves reflected? Parents who need stories to tell their kids at bedtime, or Muslim homeschoolers and educators? Students of knowledge and scholars, or the average Muslim? The answers to these questions will help you refine the process of building your library and determine what your priorities should be in terms of choosing the right kinds of books to include. 

Location and Pitching the Project

Do you have a location for your library? Where will you start this project? Will it be a religious space, like a masjid or Islamic center, or be part of a Muslim school, or will it exist in an entirely separate third space? Do you have authority within the space, or do you need to seek the approval of a masjid/ organization board? Who has final say over the books chosen?

All of these factors will impact how your library is set up, and the extent of flexibility you will have in curating the library, as well as accessibility to the library itself. Often, you will have to pitch the idea of the library to multiple organizations/ masaajid, as not everyone is interested in the idea of a public library (or the potential liabilities involved). Ensure that you have a thoughtful, detailed pitch to present! Demonstrate that you’ve thought this through, have done your research, and have an action plan for implementation and maintenance. 

Selecting Books

Great, you have a place to set up shop! Now, how are you going to choose the books to include in your library? The first point to remember is who your target audience is – that will immediately narrow down the types of books that you’ll be acquiring to start the library. For an Islamic library, are you a subject matter expert? If not, ensure that you have at least one or two people who are, as this will require filtering out work that is passed off as “Islamic” but may in fact be deeply problematic. Along these lines, what are the affiliations of the location your library will be located in? If it’s a masjid, do they have strict rules around the types of content that they will host? For example, if it’s a Salafi masjid, will they allow works by non-Salafi scholars? Books on tasawwuf? Books on fiqh based on specific madhaahib? On the flip side, is it a masjid that is completely anti-Salafi, or stringently adhering to one madh’hab? Your book selection will be thus constrained by the organization that you’re dependent on for location.

If you’ve got more flexibility around choosing books, especially if you’re able to have a “Muslamic” library instead, you still need to think about how you’ll be selecting books and determining what’s acceptable and what’s not. Not every book written by someone with a “Muslim” name is okay! There are many books (including kids’ books!) out there that explicitly promote haram relationships, belittle the Shari’ah, have internalized Islamophobia, or other problematic elements. On the other hand, there are many books that will mention these things without promoting them, but as part of the context/ setting/ plot/ character development, with characters who will then change for the better. There are also books which may not exactly promote the haraam, but simply incorporate them as part of the story without passing a value judgement on them.

You will need to consider different genres, age groups (e.g. toddler books, picture books, early reader, middle grade, young adult etc.), your own community’s culture and approach to literature, and what to do if a library patron complains! However, you don’t need to start from scratch – one very valuable resource to turn to are Muslim book reviewers, who do the hard work of going through lots of different books and sharing their reviews of craft and halal-ness. Specific accounts (and websites) that are dedicated to this purpose include The Islamic School Librarian, MuslimKidsBookNook, and my own book reviewing account, as well as Goodreads.com, where you can see reviews from readers around the world. There are also many others involved in the “Muslim bookstagram” space online, so it’s worth doing your research to ensure that you’re getting a full picture of each book selected. And yes… you will need a lot of time for this part!

Funding/ Getting books

You’ve gotten approval, you’ve even decided your criteria for selecting books… Now how are you going to actually get the books you want? Most libraries have a combination of streams: donations (in the form of people donating books – which you’ll need to check for appropriateness and physical state – or money given specifically for the library); an allowance provided by the masjid/ Islamic organization to purchase books and other associated library expenses (bookshelves, software etc.); paying out of pocket by yourself (this gets VERY expensive, very fast!); and the final option – applying for grants! Depending on the country/ city/ locale you live in, there may be government or non-profit grants offered towards “arts and culture” programming. It’s absolutely worth applying for these! AlHamdulillah, my own Islamic center’s library received a local arts and culture grant that paid for our library software as well as a fair bit set aside for books. Regular funding is extremely important in order to continue buying new books, as well as replacing lost or damaged books (which happens a lot). 

As you think about how you’ll pay for books, you’ll also need to create a budget based on the funding that you have available. How many books do you want to start with in order to launch the library? Do you have a monthly allowance that you can use to purchase a certain number of books each month? Or can you splurge and buy a hundred books right off the bat? A budget will be important in order to keep track of ongoing expenses as well, and being able to determine how much you’ll need on a monthly or annual basis to maintain the library.

When purchasing books, be creative and look for various options. You don’t have to buy everything new, or from Amazon! Websites such as BookOutlet, BookDepot, ThriftBooks, and AbeBooks are all valuable resources for purchasing heavily discounted books. Don’t disregard your local thrift store, library sales, or used bookstores either – you’ll be surprised at what kinds of Muslamic books you can find there. You may also find it valuable to create a relationship with a local Muslim bookstore and get discounts. 

Systems and Maintenance

You’re almost there! What else do you need to know for setting up your local Muslim library? This is where things get boring but important: the nitty gritty details. How is your library going to operate? When will the library be accessible to the public? What days/ times will the library be open? Who is going to physically be present to oversee the library’s operations? How will you keep track of the books? There’s a lot of questions, and only you will be able to answer most of them.

One of the most commonly asked questions that I can help answer is about library systems. You will need a way of keeping track of the books, and the most efficient way to do that is through a library software of some type. 

The Handy Library app is suitable for personal libraries or fairly small ones, and allows you to scan the barcodes on physical books to add them to your account’s database. For a one-time fee, you can add an unlimited number of books to your account, and keep track of people borrowing the book (which is information that you’ll have to input yourself). 

ResourceMate is a more expensive, but much more expansive library software program that connects to multiple other library databases around the world. You also have the option of purchasing custom barcodes and library cards for your library, which means that you can then operate like any other public library! There are many other options that you can research online as well and determine which is most suitable for your particular library, budget, and other constraints. 

Whatever software or system you choose, however, somebody will need to be responsible for maintaining the library itself. This means that there will need to be at least one designated person willing to show up in person, input each book into inventory, ensure that patrons are registered, keep track of books being borrowed, follow up on late returns (and contend with damaged and lost books!), and of course… dealing with library patron complaints (which are inevitable). 

All of this means that you’ll need to develop a library policy as well. What information is required for someone to register as a patron of the library? How will you be able to communicate with them for book returns? How will you hold them accountable for late fees or replacing lost and damaged items? Do parents need to sign an agreement that they, and only they, are responsible for the types of books their kids borrow? 

Building Upwards

Libraries aren’t just physical locations filled with books… they’re also a place of community and growth. Libraries often serve multiple purposes, especially in terms of providing community programming around literacy, life skills, and more. Don’t let your library remain stagnant – once you’re able to establish the library itself, consider how else you can utilize this space and community to benefit your community. Host Muslim authors for meet-and-greets, set up a book fair, organize monthly storytimes, and encourage kids to write their very own stories and share them with the community in the form of spoken word or open mic events. The potential is endless! And if you still have questions, consider booking a library consult with the MBR team!

A Final Word

The one piece of advice I want to leave you with is the importance of sincerity and of commitment. Always ensure that your intention is truly for the Sake of Allah, no matter what drama you have to deal with or challenges come your way. Don’t let people sour you off from work done for Allah’s Sake! Commitment goes hand-in-hand with sincerity. Don’t start a project just to lose interest and walk away from it; this creates a lack of trust in the community around being able to have long-lasting, meaningful projects. Of course, if life circumstances are such that you have no choice but to abandon the library, then so be it – but make sure you take the necessary steps to find a replacement who will take this project very seriously. Great projects don’t last without effort and commitment, and a library should ideally play a very special role in every Muslim community.

And… that’s it! 

Congratulations, you’ve done it! You’ve established a Muslim library of your very own! May Allah grant you barakah and tawfeeq in your efforts, and count it as a sadaqah jaariyah for all involved.

What questions do you still have about setting up a community library? What did I miss? What experiences do you have to share about your own library? What success stories can we learn from?

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The post How to Build a (Muslamic) Library appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A promising new life with Five Star brings friendship and the beginnings of prosperity, but the job exacts a bloody price.

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

* * *

Books and Lessons

Seeing Zihan Ma shook me and almost made me question the path I was now on – but not quite. Still, it reminded me of all he had taught me: medicine, calligraphy, and deen. I knew in my heart that these things were treasures I should not lose. So I bought an old acupuncture text. The diagrams fascinated me. Sometimes I copied the meridian charts repeatedly onto scrap paper while trying to remember Zihan Ma’s lessons.

Other nights I practiced calligraphy by lantern light. My handwriting remained clumsy, but slowly improved.

In a secondhand Islamic bookstore near the grand masjid, run by an ancient scholar with a bent back and a beard that hung to his waist, I spent a considerable amount of money to buy two books I had seen on Zihan Ma’s bookshelf: the Forty Hadith by Imam Nawawi, and Tianfang Dianli (Laws and Rituals of Islam) by Liu Zhi. Some nights I would sit in the masjid from Maghreb to Ishaa, reading one of these books.

Three days after Zihan Ma visited me, a courier arrived at my room shortly before noon.

He wore the dark blue sash of Five Stars and carried himself with the stiff posture of a minor functionary who enjoyed the importance of his duties a bit too much.

“Darius Lee?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You are invited to lunch with Shah Suliman at the Golden Lotus Pavilion. Immediately.” He handed me a folded note bearing Suliman’s seal and departed without another word.

I stared at the note for some time after he left, wondering what Suliman might want with me. Had I done something wrong? Was I to be reprimanded? Was I in danger?

Respectable

The Golden Lotus Pavilion was one of the most expensive restaurants in Deep Harbor. I had never set foot inside it, though I had passed it many times, and seen the nobles and merchants entering and dining on the upper balcony, which overlooked the river.

I washed quickly, combed my hair and put on my best clothing, which consisted of dark trousers, a wool tunic, and my least worn cloak. I strapped my dao to my back – I never went anywhere without it. For footwear I had only the kung fu shoes and my regular traveling boots. Moving quickly, I cleaned the road dust from the boots with a damp cloth, rubbed a mixture of tallow and beeswax into the leather, then hurriedly buffed them with an old rag until they gleamed. I still looked like a caravan guard, but a respectable one.

Of course, “respectable” might mean something very different to the people who ate at the Golden Lotus. But my father had taught me never to think of myself as beneath anyone else. In their hearts and souls, not to mention when squatting on the chamber pot, the rich were no different than the poor, and were often worse in character.

Two men in embroidered jackets stepped forward the instant I reached the entrance stairs. One was as tall and wide as a door, while the other was fairly ordinary looking.

“This establishment is private,” the big one said.

“I’m meeting Shah Suliman.”

He looked me up and down openly. “And I’m having an affair with the Emperor’s daughter.”

“You’d better keep that to yourself.”

He clucked his tongue. “Get lost.”

“I’m serious,” I insisted. “Suliman sent for me.”

“Then he should have come to collect you personally. Enough.” He put a huge hand on my shoulder.

Anger rose inside me. I worked for Five Stars, I bled for them. Not to mention, I was a member of the Shah family, though no one but Suliman seemed to know that. For the first time I felt a sense of resentment that Suliman was honored, while I was treated like streetside trash because I wore travel boots and a worn cloak. Why should that be?

“Get your hand off of me,” I said flatly. “Unless you want to lose it. It won’t be the first arm I’ve taken.” I touched a hand to the hilt of my dao. “You might have heard of me. They call me Bridge Boy.”

Internally I cringed. I never thought I would use that stupid nickname to my advantage. But I could not leave Suliman thinking I had failed to show up for this meeting.

The big man flinched and yanked his hand back as if he’d touched fire. He reached for the baton he carried at his hip. But the other one stayed his hand. “I’ll go check it out,” he said.

Routine Questions

A few minutes later, during which time me and door-wide stared each other down, Suliman came down personally,

“I’m so sorry, Darius,” he said. “These men -” he snarled the world – “had instructions to let you through.”

“This kid is your lunch companion?” the big man said incredulously.

Suliman’s face went hard. “Know your place,” he said flatly. He turned to me. “Let’s go upstairs.”

My eyes moved from one person to the next. “I lost my appetite.”

Suliman nodded. “I understand. How about if we walk and talk?”

We walked back toward the canal district, and when Suliman gestured toward a cramped working-class noodle shop, I nodded. Inside, steam clouded the windows. Laborers crowded shoulder to shoulder at rough wooden tables while harried but nimble servers carried bowls back and forth with astonishing speed.

Suliman seemed comfortable. We ordered beef noodles, pickled vegetables and tea.

He asked me a series of fairly ordinary questions:

How were the routes?

Which guards worked well together?

Had Karim trained us well?

Did I prefer horseback escort or wagon duty?

I answered cautiously.

Finally he set down his chopsticks and said, “You’ve done well so far.”

“Thank you.”

“The reports on you are excellent.”

“You get reports on everyone?”

“Reports are written on everyone. I don’t read them all personally.”

“But you read mine.”

“We have investigated you thoroughly.”

Father’s Footsteps

I sat back, digesting this. “What do you mean?”

“My men followed your father’s footsteps. They went to the town where he raised you. They even saw your mother’s grave. We have confirmed that you are Shah Nur’s son.”

I crossed my arms and pursed my lips. “I don’t need anyone to confirm what I already know. And I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks.”

“Are you sure?”

I ignored that, as curiosity had overcome me. “Your men saw her grave? How does it look? And the farm? And Lady Two?”

“Your father’s farm has been incorporated into a larger company farm owned by a wealthy businessman. Your father’s house is gone, but the grave is well tended. I don’t know who Lady Two is.”

I wondered if the “wealthy businessman” was the Mayor. A strange hollow feeling opened inside my chest. I was happy that whoever had bought the farm had enough respect to maintain my mother’s grave. But I hadn’t thought of her much lately, and I felt my heart stutter with guilt. She was the only person in my life who had ever truly loved me, and I was forgetting her. I needed to go back there, to sit by her side and talk to her.

“I hear,” Suliman said, “that Zihan Ma came to see you. What did he want?”

I stiffened. “You know about that?”

“I know many things.”

I took a bite of food. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he wanted me to return to live with him.”

“Are you considering it?”

I frowned. “No. Not really.”

He stirred his tea slowly. “Perhaps you should.”

“Why?”

He met my eyes, and I sensed genuine unease beneath his calm demeanor.

“It may be better for you in the long run.”

“Why?”

“Well.” He stood, leaving a large sum of money on the table – a lot more than was needed in this establishment. “May Allah protect us all.”

“You’re leaving? What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Everything we just talked about. You’re doing well. Consider Zihan Ma’s request.”

With that, he left me sitting there with more questions than answers. I pocketed the wad of money and finished my food.

Scut Work

Five Star began sending me on longer routes, which paid better. Sometimes I was accompanied by one or two of the other rookies I’d trained with, and occasionally by all. Because we were rookies, we were given the scut work.

Veteran guards rode at the front and rear of the caravan where the danger was greatest and the prestige highest. We rookies spent our days doing everything else.

We tended the horses, cleaned tack, inspected hooves for stones and cracks, hauled water, unloaded wagons, set up camp, dug latrines, and stood the least desirable watches. If a merchant wanted help erecting a tent, we were summoned. If a wheel broke, we repaired it. If a horse threw a shoe, we chased it down and held it while the farrier worked.

Worst of all, whenever wealthy merchants needed to relieve themselves along the road, a guard was expected to accompany them into the bushes to ensure they were not attacked by bandits, wolves, or overly curious travelers.

I spent many hours standing awkwardly among trees while pretending not to notice what was happening a few paces away.

“It is an honorable profession,” Ahmed informed me solemnly one evening.

I threw a pebble at him.

Even so, I found myself enjoying caravan life.

The roads carried us through mountains, forests, villages, farms and bustling market towns. Every journey revealed something new. Sometimes Longwei pointed out distant kingdoms or trading routes. Sometimes Ahmed told stories from the war. Sometimes Meilin complained so loudly and continuously that everyone else rode faster simply to escape her.

Unexpectedly Cheerful

I found myself unexpectedly cheerful whenever Deng Weili was in my caravan. I told myself it was only because she was such a good shot, so having her around made us all safer.

Once she found me studying the acupuncture text after we’d made camp for the night.

“You study medicine?” she asked skeptically.

“A little.”

“And hurt people professionally?”

“I don’t think of it that way.”

She shook her head slowly. “You are a strange person, Darius Lee.”

There came a time when I started wondering about her. Where was she from? Where were her parents? What else did she like besides archery? What did she think about during the long days on the road?

I didn’t know why I wanted to know these things.

Ambush

The longer routes brought greater danger.

One autumn afternoon we were escorting a shipment of medicines and dyed textiles through a wooded valley north of Deep Harbor. The road wound between steep hills thick with pine trees, and as we entered the narrow pass, a feeling of unease settled over me. The place felt wrong somehow. There were no farmers working nearby fields, no travelers moving in either direction, and not even the sound of birds. The only noises were the creaking of wagon wheels, the clatter of harnesses, and the occasional snort of a horse.

Ahmed seemed to sense it too. He guided his horse alongside mine and scanned the ridgelines.

“Too quiet,” he muttered.

I nodded. I was about to ride forward and speak with one of the veteran guards when the attack came.

Arrows burst from the trees without warning. One struck the side of a wagon with a heavy thump. Another buried itself in the neck of a horse, causing the animal to rear and scream. Merchants shouted in panic as guards scrambled into position. Before the echoes of the first volley had faded, armed men came rushing down the slopes carrying spears, axes and crude swords.

Training took over before conscious thought could catch up.

The veteran guards moved immediately, forming a defensive line around the merchants and wagons. Ahmed was already shouting orders. Kuangren had an arrow nocked and flying before I had even drawn my dao. Somewhere behind us, Meilin charged forward with a double-headed sword she sometimes carried, screaming insults so colorful that several merchants later adopted them into their foul-language repertoires.

I remember glimpses more than a coherent battle: Deng Weili standing atop a wagon, loosing arrows with terrifying speed and accuracy; Longwei dragging a wounded merchant to safety; frightened horses straining against their reins; the smell of dust, sweat and blood mixing in the autumn air.

Then one of the attackers came for me.

He was older than I expected, perhaps forty years old, with a graying beard and the gaunt appearance of a man who had not eaten properly in months. He carried a wood axe and wore patched clothing that hung loosely from his frame. For a brief instant he looked less like a bandit than a desperate farmer.

Then he jabbed at my chest with the axe. It was a halfhearted attack, as if he were testing the strength of a river’s current

Wielding my dao, I knocked the weapon aside and slapped him in the face with the flat of the blade. I don’t know why I did that. Five Star policy was to kill bandits. Yet in the moment I chose to simply stun him. He staggered backward, shaking his head, but instead of retreating he tightened his grip and attacked again.

This time I struck his weapon arm hard with the spine of the blade, and heard his arm break. Remarkably, he did not drop the weapon. He groaned in pain and transferred the axe to his other hand.

“What’s the matter with you?” I shouted. “Don’t make me kill you! Just run away.”

Fear flashed across his features, then shame, only to be replaced with grim desperation.

“No choice,” he said.

He took a step forward and I knew that either he would die or I would.

As he swung the axe at my neck with all his strength, I stepped inside the radius of the swing, seized his weapon arm with my left hand, and drove my dao all the way through his torso. His eyes widened in shock and bewilderment, and his face went white. He stumbled backward and fell, taking my dao with him, pulling it free from my hand. That had never happened to me. I leaped forward, put my foot on the man’s thin chest, and with two hands pulled the dao free from his dead body.

A Little Too Well

I stood there with my dao hanging at my side, dripping blood, as the battle raged around me. What was the matter with this stupid old father? Why was he even here? I bent over him and shouted, “Why did you do that?”

My shout attracted another of the bandits, who came at me.

I went a little crazy then. I fell into River Flow, and moved from one bandit to the next, cutting, slashing and thrusting. I felt no fear. It was an exercise, a training session beneath the stars. When there were no more opponents I moved in a circle, dao ready, my eyes sliding over everything like those of a man who sees either nothing or everything. Men stood in a wide circle around me, but they were Five Star guards.

“Darius!” one of them shouted. “Snap out of it!”

It was Ahmed. I let River Flow go and stood up straight. There was a trail of dead bodies behind me. I looked from one to the next. I had killed six men.

“Darius,” Ahmed said again. “Sheath your weapon.”

I gave the dao a flick to clear the blood, took a rag from my pocket and gave it a quick wipe, and sheathed it.

The circle around me dissolved. The surviving bandits had fled into the hills, leaving their dead and wounded behind. The merchants celebrated their survival. The guards congratulated one another. Someone clapped me on the shoulder and called me a hero.

I did not weep or vomit. I felt empty. I sat beside a wagon, and Ahmed handed me a waterskin. His expression was solemn, not celebratory.

“You did the job,” he said quietly. “Maybe a little too well, but it’s what they pay us for.”

That night, I tossed and turned, and shouted in my sleep.

Cat Toy

The next day the caravan passed through a market town, and we guards were allowed to go shopping in shifts. I went to the market with Weili. She bought bootlaces, a silken cord for her hair, a comb made from buffalo horn, and tea.

I bought warm gloves, a sesame sweet, and a small bag of spiced nuts. When we passed a vendor who sold cat combs and toys, I found it funny. Would people really spend money on such things? I picked up a toy that consisted of a thin stick with a string and a little toy bird on the end. The bird had real feathers, and I dangled it, making it dance. With a smile, I wondered what Far Away would think of it. Would he turn up his nose, or go crazy for it? And Haaris, he would probably laugh his head off.

Suddenly my hands began to shake. I put the toy down and turned away, and before I could take a step, I burst into tears. I walked to a corner where the marketplace wall met the wall of a vendor’s stall, and slid down with my back against the wall. I covered my face with my arms as I shook and moaned. An arm went around my shoulders and Weili said, “It’s okay. Tomorrow’s a new day. Take it one day at a time.”

“What do you know about it?” I finally managed to ask.

She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Too much.”

My life took a turn then. I found myself praying less. Ahmed would call us for salat and sometimes I’d join, but often I’d make an excuse. I tucked the Islamic books away under my bed back in Deep Harbor and stopped reading them.

I didn’t want to be this way. I looked back at the naive, eager young man who had spent his time reading Islamic books, and wanted to be that man again. Truly I did. But the blood that had flowed from the edge of my sword told the truth about me.

I was promoted from scut work to proper guard duty, up front with the veterans. I was the youngest one there. But no one questioned my age when robbers came screaming from the hills with blades in their hands, and I was in the front lines, fighting like a man who didn’t care if he lived or died. No one told me to choose between healing and violence when my sword saved those around me from murder.

The merchants respected me because I was useful. The guards respected me because I fought well and never boasted. Even Kuangren, who disliked nearly everyone, stopped mocking me after I pulled him off his horse during an ambush moments before a spear would have taken him through the chest.

At Ishaa time I listened to Ahmed reciting the Quran and he led the Muslims in salat. Tomorrow’s a new day, I would think to myself. I repeated the thought like a mantra as I fell into night after night of troubled sleep.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 17 – The Old Man

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

 

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

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

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