This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

Week 4 Reflection — A building inspection for families

What are you building — and is it built on the right foundation, for the right Master, with the right community, and in the right direction?

That is what Week 4 of “30 Nights with the Quran” was about. And this recap is for the parent who wants to understand what their teenager received — and what it means for how you build alongside them.

The Single Argument Week 4 was Making

Each night of Week 4 addressed a different dimension of the same fundamental question. Understanding how the six nights fit together helps parents see what their teenager has been receiving — not as a series of disconnected topics, but as a single, coherent argument about how to build a life of purpose and for Allah.

Night 22 on purpose, established the direction: you are a khalifah, placed here deliberately, building toward something larger than accumulation or recognition.

Night 23 on ummah, established the community, the jama’ah: you are not building alone, you are building as part of a single body brought forth for all of humanity.

Night 24 on ikhlas, established the motivation: the building is for Allah alone, and the health of the intention is what determines whether it will stand.

Night 25 on legacy, established the time horizon: you are planting trees whose shade you will not sit in, and the planting begins now regardless of how early it feels.

Night 26 on taqwa, established the foundation: without the active, deliberate protection of your book of deeds underneath everything else, the building will eventually collapse from within.

Night 27 on becoming, established the process: the building is not supposed to be finished in this life, and the trembling is not the end of the story.

Six nights. One building. Your teenager has been receiving the blueprints.

What the Building Inspection Reveals for Families

The email tonight invites subscribers to do a building inspection — five honest questions corresponding to the five building blocks of Week 4. For parents, a version of that inspection applies directly:

Foundation — Is taqwa operating in your home? Not as a word that gets used in Islamic contexts. As a daily practice. Is the protection of your book of deeds — and your children’s books of deeds — an operating principle in how your family makes decisions?

When no one is watching, when the servant is not visibly present, when the bowl is in your hands in the ordinary moments of daily life — what does taqwa look like in your household?

Direction — What is your family building toward? The culture offers a very compelling answer: accumulation. Academic achievement, financial security, social standing, worldly success. These are not inherently wrong. But they are insufficient as the primary direction of a family’s building. What is the khalifah metric in your home? What does success look like when the only audience that matters is Allah?

Community — Is your family genuinely embedded in a jama’ah? Not attending a masjid occasionally. Genuinely present in a Muslim community — known, accountable, invested in the wellbeing of the people around you and available to them in return. Your teenager is watching how seriously you take the ummah. And the body they see you belonging to is the body they will either join or distance themselves from.

Intention — What does your family’s ikhlas look like? Are your children watching you do good things privately, without documentation or announcement? Are they absorbing a model of virtue that doesn’t require an audience — or are they learning that the deed undocumented is the deed that didn’t quite happen? The ikhlas you model in front of them is the ikhlas they will carry into their own lives.

Time horizon — What is your family planting? Not in general terms — specifically. What is the tree your family is growing together that someone after you will sit under? The investment in Islamic education, the community institution being built, the character being formed in your children — these are trees. Are you tending them with the awareness that their shade is already needed?

The becoming framework — for parents of teenagers in transition

Night 27’s content on the Prophet ﷺ — the shivering man in the cloak who was told arise before he felt ready — has specific and important implications for parents of teenagers who are visibly in the middle of their becoming.

The developmental reality of the teenage years is that almost no teenager can see the shape of what they are becoming from the inside. The confusion, the not-yet, the gap between who they are and who they sense they are supposed to be — these are not signs of failure. They are the interior experience of a becoming that is already in progress.

What Week 4 Asked of Muslim Parents

Each night of Week 4 contained an implicit challenge to parents alongside the explicit content for teenagers. Taken together, those challenges form a clear picture of what Week 4 is asking of you.

Night 22 asked: do you know what your teenager thinks they are here for? Have you ever asked them directly — and if so, have you listened to the answer?

Night 23 asked: is your teenager embedded in a real Muslim community — not as a concept, but as a lived experience? Have they felt the body respond to them?

Night 24 asked: are you modeling ikhlas — the private deed, the secret sadaqah, the worship that no one knows about — in front of your children? Or are they absorbing a model of virtue that requires an audience?

Night 25 asked: have you told your teenager what you are building that will outlast you? Do they know what sadaqah jariyah looks like in your family’s actual life?

Night 26 asked: are you giving your teenager both wings — fear and hope — or have you sanitized fear out of their relationship with Allah in an attempt to make the deen more appealing?

Night 27 asked: are you being a Khadijah for your teenager — holding first, then naming who they already are — or are you asking them to perform a composure and certainty they don’t yet have?

These are not comfortable questions. They are the right ones.

Discussion questions for families — Week 4 reflection

For teens:

1. Which night of Week 4 landed hardest — and what did it reveal about what you are building?
2. If you could name one specific thing you are planting right now whose shade someone else will sit in — what would it be?
3. What is the thing you are supposed to be doing that you have been running from? What would it take to stop running?

For parents:

1. Which of the five building inspection questions reveals the most vulnerability in your family’s building? What is the most honest answer to that question?
2. Have you named, specifically and recently, what you see in your teenager’s character — who they already are, not who you hope they will become?
3. What are you planting together as a family that will outlast you? Can your teenager name it?

For discussion together:

1. Read Surat al-Hashr 59:18 together: “Let every soul look to what it has sent forth for tomorrow.” What has our family sent forth? What do we want to send forth in the two nights that remain?
2. What is the one thing each of us is carrying forward from Week 4 — not our favorite lesson, but the one thing we are going to actually do differently?
3. Make du’a together tonight — specifically, for the building. For the foundation. For the direction. For the Master it is for. Ask Allah to accept it.

The Bottom Line

Week 4 built something in your teenager. Six nights of honest engagement with questions about purpose, community, intention, legacy, foundation, and becoming — in the spiritual intensity of Ramadan — do not leave a person unchanged.

Your job as a parent is to tend what was planted. To ask the questions that keep the building inspection honest. To be present for the becoming that is happening right now, in this season, whether or not you can see its shape yet.

Two nights remain. The series is almost complete, alhamdulillah.

But the building — insha Allah — is just getting started.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 28 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 29 — The Prophet Who Ran: Returning to Purpose After Running From It

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

The Muslim You Are Becoming | Night 27 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post Building From the Ground Up: Week 4 Recap | Night 28 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Like many women in their early forties, I’m experiencing some perimenopausal symptoms. The most obvious change in my menstrual cycle has been a clockwork return of my menses after fifteen days of purity. This is my first Ramadan where I’ve had my period at the start and at the end of Ramadan. A younger version of me would have been extremely annoyed with this turn of events. The current version of me is practising surrender. On a practical level, this means that I am spending less time in prayer, fasting, reading Qur’an and going to the masjid, and more time resting, making dua, listening to Qur’an, and helping my children with their acts of worship.

Last Ten Nights

What helps is remembering that Allah is All-Knowing and All-Merciful, and He has willed for me to be in a state of menstruation at the beginning and end of Ramadan. One of my teachers said that this Divinely-ordained pause from prayer and fasting gives women like me the opportunity to long for these acts of worship, and increases our gratitude when we return to them. Even though it isn’t easy for me to pay back my fasts outside of Ramadan, I can trust in Allah rewarding me for doing so. Orienting everything back to Allah , instead of my own self, has been very helpful.

Different Acts of Worship

I may not be able to pray, fast, or perform i’tikaf in the masjid during these last few nights of Ramadan, but there is still so much I can do. I can still make heartfelt du’a, give in charity, feed fasting people, listen to Qur’an, teach my children the value of patience, and so on. I can remind myself too that the mercy of Allah is vast, and He is the one who can accept our acts of worship and multiply the reward, no matter how much we fall short. Shifting my mindset into one of abundance, instead of scarcity, has made all the difference. InshaAllah, even menstruating women can catch the blessings of Laylatul Qadr.

Teaching Moment

My children were shocked to hear that just as they will be rewarded for fasting, I am also rewarded for refraining from fasting during menstruation. It was a struggle for me to keep a straight face when my tween daughter exclaimed, “What? You get rewarded for doing nothing?”

I explained that Allah is Most Generous, and He rewards us all for performing our obligations – which, in the state of menstruation, means refraining from prayer and fasting. This is not including all the countless other acts of service, words of affirmation, comforting back rubs that mothers do every day, let alone putting restless children and babies back to sleep at night. None of this is lost on Allah , even if our children might not be immediately cognizant of what we sacrifice. 

Abu Yahya Suhaib bin Sinan (May Allah be pleased with him) reported that:

The Messenger of Allah (ﷺ) said, “How wonderful is the case of a believer; there is good for him in everything and this applies only to a believer. If prosperity attends him, he expresses gratitude to Allah and that is good for him; and if adversity befalls him, he endures it patiently, and that is better for him”. [Sahih Muslim]

Seasons of Life

What helps is surrendering to the qadr of Allah in this new season of my life. Resisting the reality of my more frequent menstruation will only add to my unhappiness and discomfort. I can reframe this as part of Allah’s Plan for me to slow me down and prioritise my self-care after the last intense decade of raising three small children close in age. Menstruation is something that women go through for almost four decades of our lives – at least half of our time on this dunya! – and it helps to accept the ups and downs of each stage.

Health Awareness

As part of our Ramadan practice, perimenopausal women can schedule a check-up with our gynaecologists to check the level of our hormones. We can continue lifting heavy weights so we can build our strength in midlife and beyond. We can prioritize going on walks regularly to keep our bodies limber and strong to help us age well.

My husband and I make du’a that we can continue to prostrate to Allah till the end of our lives, and investing in our physical health is part of that.

Menopause

When I speak to my mother or older friends who have gone through menopause, they offer a valuable perspective. Their advice is to be patient with the stage I am in, because the season of menopause brings its own challenges. With their decrease in estrogen, they also struggle with menopausal symptoms such as hot flashes, vaginal dryness, and a higher risk of cardiovascular issues and bone breakage.

These are serious matters which, for now at least, I don’t have to worry about. Because they no longer menstruate, they are able to fast and pray every day – which can feel tiring after four decades of being able to take breaks. Uninterrupted prayer and fasts are something I long for when I’m in the thick of paying back my fasts, yet again. 

Conclusion

Perimenopause is a season of life that can bring about more frequent menstruation in Ramadan. It helps to remember that even in a state of menstruation, women can catch the blessings of Laylatul Qadr. Even if our acts of worship differ during menstruation, the One we worship remains constant. Modelling this acceptance will inshaAllah help our daughters when it’s their turn, especially when we look after ourselves and honour the season of menstruation we are in. What gives me lasting comfort is always turning back to Allah and focusing on what pleases Him, instead of fighting the reality of the season I’m in.

Related:

– The Menstruating Woman’s Guide To The Last 10 Nights Of Ramadan

– A Woman’s Guide to Spirituality in Ramadan during Menstruation and Postnatal Bleeding

 

The post I Got My Menses Twice This Ramadan: Practicing Surrender And Maintaining Constant Worship appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Roqayah Chamseddine on Hizballah’s resistance. Jon Elmer on Iranian attacks on US bases. Ali Abunimah on the US failing to defend Arab allies.

The pilgrim offers Zahra four simple words that unravel a secret she has carried for years.

Previous Chapters: Part 1  | Part 2

* *  *

A Spark

Ismail reached his hand across the table. Momy looked at it for a moment, then extended his own. They clasped hands.

As I watched, Momy – a perpetual slouch – sat up straight. His eyes widened, as if he had just awakened from this banal existence into a world that spread out before him like an endless meadow, more beautiful than anything he had imagined. He looked younger and older all at once.

His mother reached toward him, but I calmed her with a gesture. “It’s just a handshake.”

Ismail released Momy’s hand. Zahra went to her son and touched his shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

Momy shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Can I have another piece of cake?”

“But what was the gift?” She looked at Ismail. “What was that?”

“A spark,” Ismail replied.

Zahra looked at me. I knew something significant had transpired, but I also knew that – just like my own experience – it was personal, and should not be questioned. Imitating my nephew, I shrugged as well. “I want more cake too.”

Zahra snorted, then served the cake and refilled our tea cups.

Ismail added a spoonful of sugar. Stirring the sugar, he looked sideways at Zahra. “Do you want your gift?”

She stiffened. “I’m not going to shake your hand.”

Ismail nodded. “Of course.”

“Alright.” Her lips were tight. “Get it over with.”

Ismail rose. “Let’s sit on the sofa.”

Four Words

Hesitantly, Zahra led the way to the living room. They sat on opposite ends of the sofa, not quite facing each other. Ismail’s back was straight, his expression serious.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

Zahra blinked rapidly. “What? What did you say?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’d better watch yourself.” Her eyes were fixed on the Persian rug. “In fact, you should get your things and leave.”

“Once,” Ismail said, “in the county jail in Little Rock, I was attacked while I was in salat. No warning. They knocked me down, kicked me and stomped on my neck. My arm was broken, I lost two teeth, and I was paralyzed from the neck down. The doctors at the state hospital told me I might not walk again. I entrusted my future to Allah. I prayed with my mouth only. A month after the attack, I moved a finger. A month after that, I walked out of that place. An experience like that is dehumanizing. You wonder if you could have done something to prevent it. You feel rage at the perpetrators.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said softly, but Ismail did not look at me. His gaze remained on the floor somewhere between himself and Zahra.

“We are all wounded in this life,” Ismail went on. “Our Prophet, sal-Allahu alayhi wa-sallam, was in sajdah in front of the Ka’bah when one of the Quraysh dumped the waste and entrails of a camel on his back. Yet the Prophet did not raise his head until his young daughter Fatimah came and cleaned the filth from his back. Was he diminished by that? Never. He was the most elevated man to ever live. He was the Beloved of Allah.”

Zahra stood. “I have no idea what you’re prattling on about,” She looked ready to run.

I did not understand what was happening. It seemed that Ismail was talking about something other than what his words described. Something that only he and Zahra understood.

Sincere and Pure

“As fresh as the first winter snowfall.”

“You,” Ismail said to Zahra, “hold no blame. You are as fresh as the first winter snowfall, clean and crisp on the fields. You are all that is sweet, sincere, and pure. Everything that was once possible for you is possible still, by the will of Allah.”

Zahra had covered her face with her hands, and stood very still.

“I will leave you now,” Ismail said, and stood.

I went to my sister and touched her shoulder. “Zahra?”

She turned to me and threw her arms around me, hid her face in my chest, and began to sob. “He hurt me,” she wailed. “He had no right.”

“Who?” I said gently. “Ismail? Or… Waleed? Your husband?”

She shook her head and wailed, “No!” For a long time she said nothing more. She sobbed until my shirt was wet with her tears and mucus. Finally, her sobs slowed. “It was Dr. Zakarian,” she said, barely audibly.

I frowned. “Who’s that?”

“One of the doctors,” she whispered, “at the hospital where I used to work.”

“What did he do?”

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.

She went on as if I had not spoken. “I was working nights. It was late. Almost nobody on the floor. I was in the supply room getting IV kits, or syringes, I don’t remember. He came in behind me.”

She swallowed, then looked away. “He shut the door and locked it.”

My breath caught in my chest.

“I told him to stop fooling around. I thought he was joking.”

Zahra broke away from my embrace, went to the sofa, and sat with her arms around her knees. For just a second, I wondered where Ismail had gone – maybe to the bathroom? – but my attention was focused on my sister.

“I said no,” Zahra continued, staring at the floor. “I told him no. I tried to fight. He…” She bent forward, hugging herself. “He was too strong.”

Momy made a small sound, like he had been punched in the stomach.

“Afterward, I had to finish the shift,” she whispered. “Do you understand? I had to wash my face and go back out there and act normal. And then I had to keep seeing him. Every day.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She glared at me. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes puffy. “I was ashamed,” she said. “I never reported it. I worked closely with Dr. Zakarian. I thought, maybe I led him on without meaning to. Maybe if I wore hijab it wouldn’t have happened.”

I swallowed hard. “It wasn’t your fault. Just like Ismail said.”

Only then did I notice that Ismail’s pack and boots were gone. I recalled his last words: “I will leave you now.” I hadn’t been paying attention.

Something to Take

I turned to Momy. “Sit with your mom.” Without hesitation, Momy went to his mother and put an arm around her shoulders. I hurried to the front door, yanked it open, and dashed out, not even bothering to put on my shoes.

It was drizzling outside. The wind reached through my clothing with icy fingers and raised goosebumps on my arms. I ran to the sidewalk, looked one way, then the other – and there was Ismail, kefiyyeh wrapped tightly around his neck, pack on his back, already a block away. I called out and ran to catch up, my bare feet slapping the sidewalk and splashing in puddles.

He turned to face me. His lean face was beaded with rain.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

He took my cheeks in his hands and kissed me on the forehead, then pulled back. “I thank you,” he said. “Allah reward you for the food and company. It was an honor to meet you.”

I raised my hands questioningly. “Where will you go? You’re not even wearing a coat.”

“Many places. But eventually to my homeland of Al-Quds, then to Makkah, then to the masjid of our Beloved Prophet, sal-Allahu alayhi wa salam, to bring him greetings from a distant people and a broken land.”

I studied his oddly light-colored eyes. His rangy body and easy strength were youthful, but his eyes were ageless.

“You said you would take something.”

He smiled. “I already have.” He held out his hand. I shook it, then the man called Ismail turned and walked away.

A Bushel of Lemons

The faint sounds of talking and laughter woke me up. It was late morning, and the pale sun eased in through the living room window onto the sofa where I slept. I threw off the heavy blanket and sat up. I was thinking about my idea for the Malcolm X youth conference. After breakfast, I would write an email to a few colleagues.

“That’s enough!” It was Zahra’s voice, outside. “Come down now before you fall and break your neck.”

La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah. She wasn’t fighting with the neighbors again, was she? Dressed in red flannel pajamas, I hurried to the door, slipping my feet into a pair of Arabic sandals.

Outside, I was amazed to find Momy on a tall ladder, picking the lemons from the tree. He wore a heavy jacket and gardening gloves to protect himself from the thorns. Zahra stood at the bottom of the ladder, surrounded by bags full of lemons. I walked over to her.

“Look at this!” she said, grinning. She pointed to the bags. “We have half a bushel already.”

The sight of Zahra grinning left me speechless. Finally, I said, “Isn’t a bushel two thousand pounds?”

She shook her head. “You’d better stick to teaching history.”

I gestured to Momy. “I’ve never seen him do actual work before.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Momy called down.

“Yeah, be quiet Amir,” Zahra said. “Don’t jinx it.”

Egyptian Lemonade

“Zahra.” I tugged at her sleeve. “I was thinking about something.”

“Me too,” she said. “But you go first.”

“The thing is, I knew all the kids at the masjid back then, when we were young. And I don’t remember anyone named Ismail.”

Zahra put a hand on my shoulder – an odd gesture from her – and regarded me solemnly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But don’t you want to know -”

“No,” she interrupted. “I don’t.”

I took a breath, let it out. “Okay. What were you going to say?”

“You have money saved, right?”

“Yeah, some.”

“I want you to extend the house.”

Egyptian lemonade

I frowned. “What for?”

“For you. I don’t want you to have to sleep on the sofa anymore. I want you to build a master bedroom and bathroom for yourself, and for… whoever. For the future.”

“I’m not taking Samina back.”

Zahra smiled. “There are other women in the world.”

“I need another bag!” Momy called.

I reached up and took the full bag he had collected – it bulged with fat, glistening lemons – then handed him one of the empty bags on the ground.

Momy resumed plucking lemons. The citrus scent was sweet and tantalizing in my nose. My father had planted this tree, and it was taller than the house. The lemons shone in the morning sun, each one a miracle and a gift. I would make lemonade for tonight’s iftar, I decided. Egyptian-style lemonade with sugar, mint, and milk. Zahra and Momy would love it.

THE END

 

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

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

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

 

Related:

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

The post The Pilgrim [Part 3]: Not Your Fault – A Ramadan Story appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Innocent people are being frozen out of basic banking services – and it all traces back to reforms rushed through after 9/11

By Oliver Bullough. Read by Elis James

Continue reading...

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

There is a parenting instinct that is almost universal — and almost always counterproductive.

When our teenagers are in the middle of something difficult — uncertain, confused, trembling in the way that adolescence produces — we want to tell them what they will become. We want to offer them the vision. We want to say: you are going to be great, you are going to figure this out, you are going to arrive somewhere good.

Khadijah did not do that.

Tonight’s episode tells the story of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ in the night of the first revelation — trembling, running down the mountain, saying “I fear for myself” — and what the people around him did in response. This guide is for the Muslim parent who wants to understand what their teenager received tonight and how to be a Khadijah rather than an anxious commentator on their teenager’s becoming.

The “nobody” framing — why it matters for your teenager

The episode opens with a deliberate reframe: the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ was, by any worldly measure, a nobody before the revelation. Orphan. Shepherd. Employee. Known for his honesty, but not his power. Not at the table where Quraysh made decisions.

That framing is not meant to be disrespectful in the least — it is the most important thing a Muslim teenager in the West can hear about the Prophet ﷺ. Because most Muslim teenagers feel, at some level, like a nobody. Not at the table. Not among the elite. Belonging fully to no single world. Known perhaps for their character — their honesty, their reliability — but not for their significance.

The Prophet ﷺ was that person. And what he became from that starting point is the most dramatic becoming in human history.

Your teenager needs to know that the nobody is exactly who Allah tends to choose. Not because being a nobody is required — but because the becoming Allah orchestrates does not depend on where you started. It depends on what you do with qum.

The Jibril interpretation — a gift for parents

One of the most significant moments in tonight’s video is an interpretation of the first revelation that most Islamic education never addresses: why did Jibril squeeze the Prophet ﷺ?

The answer offered tonight — that Jibril already knew Muhammad ﷺ, already loved him, and the squeeze was an embrace of reassurance from someone who could see what was coming to someone who couldn’t — is not just theologically resonant. It is practically useful for parents.

Because you are, in a very real sense, in Jibril’s position relative to your teenager.

You can see things about your teenager’s becoming that they cannot yet see. You have watched them for years. You have observed their gifts, their character, their resilience, their capacity. You have a longer view than they do — and from that longer view, you can often see the shape of what they are becoming before they can.

The question is what you do with that knowledge.

Jibril squeezed him. He didn’t explain. He didn’t give a lecture on what was coming. He held him. And then he delivered what needed to be delivered — the words of revelation, the commission, the qum — and trusted the becoming to unfold.

Your teenager doesn’t need you to explain their becoming to them. They need you to hold them while they tremble. And then trust the process — and Allah — to unfold what comes next.

The Khadijah model — the most important parenting framework in the episode

Khadijah’s response to the trembling Prophet ﷺ is the most practically useful thing in tonight’s episode for Muslim parents — and it deserves careful attention.

She did two things.

First, she held him. Physically, practically, without immediately trying to fix or explain or offer perspective. She wrapped him in a cloak and let him tremble until he could speak.

Second, when he spoke and told her what had happened — she told him who he already was. Not what he would become. Who he already was: the one who maintains ties of kinship, speaks truthfully, helps the poor, serves guests, assists those in calamity.

She looked at the trembling man and declared – a person with your character will not be abandoned.

That is the Khadijah model for parenting a teenager in the middle of their becoming: Hold first. Don’t rush to fix, explain, or offer vision. Just be present while the trembling happens.

Then name what you see. Not the future — the present. Not what they will become — who they already are. The character that is already there. The gifts that are already visible. The qualities that will carry them through what is coming, even though neither of you can fully see what that is yet.

That combination — physical presence and accurate naming of existing character — is what steadied the greatest human being who ever lived at his most vulnerable moment. It will steady your teenager too.

The fatra and what it teaches parents about their teenager’s silent seasons

Tonight’s email goes deeper on the fatra — the pause in revelation after the initial experience — and its implications for the becoming framework. For parents, the fatra has a specific application worth naming.

Your teenager will have fatra seasons. Periods where the clarity they seemed to have disappears. Where the enthusiasm for their deen that was present last Ramadan is gone. Where they go quiet, withdraw, seem to be waiting for something they can’t name.

The parental instinct in those seasons is to intervene — to diagnose, to fix, to fill the silence with questions and advice and encouragement.

The fatra suggests a different response: trust the silence. Not passively — remain present, remain available, remain the person they can come to when they are ready to speak. But don’t mistake the silence for abandonment or failure. The fatra was the space in which the Prophet ﷺ was being prepared for what the mission would require.

Your teenager’s silent seasons may be doing the same work. The qum comes after the fatra. And it comes in Allah’s timing, not yours.

Sheikh Jafar Idris and the chain your family is part of

Tonight’s video tells the story of Sheikh Jafar Idris — a Sudanese student whose gifts were recognized by Sheikh bin Baz, who sent him to America, where he influenced a generation of du’aat including Muhammad al-Shareef, whose story we told in Night 25.

For Muslim parents, the chain illustration has a direct application: your family is somewhere in a chain right now. You received something — faith, knowledge, character, a way of raising children — from someone who received it from someone else. And you are passing something on to your teenager, whether you are intentional about it or not.

The question worth asking explicitly in your home: what are we passing on? What is the link in the chain that runs through our family? What will our children carry forward into their own families and communities?

That question — asked seriously and discussed honestly — is itself an act of becoming. The family that knows what it is passing on, passes it on more deliberately. The family that has never asked the question passes on whatever happened to be present, intentionally or not.

Ask the question. Name what you want the chain to carry. And then live it visibly enough that your teenager can see it and receive it.

Warning signs that the becoming has stalled

Normal adolescent uncertainty — confusion, not-yet, feeling behind — is part of the becoming and not cause for alarm. The following indicate something more serious:

Complete withdrawal from Islamic practice combined with withdrawal from family relationships — the teenager who is not just in a fatra, but has actively turned away from both their deen and their primary relationships simultaneously.

Becoming without direction — restless energy and constant change without any underlying orientation toward Allah or genuine values. This is not becoming — it is drift. The difference is that becoming, however uncertain it feels, has a compass. Drift has no compass at all.

Paralysis mistaken for waiting — the teenager who has been “waiting to feel ready” for so long that the waiting has become permanent. This requires gentle confrontation: the qum is not conditional on feeling ready. The command came to a trembling, uncertain man.

Isolation during trembling — the teenager who is in a difficult season and has no Khadijah, no one to wrap them in a cloak and name who they already are. If your teenager is trembling alone, that is the most urgent thing to address — not the trembling itself, but the aloneness.

Discussion questions for families

For teens:

1. Did tonight change how you see the Prophet ﷺ at the moment of the first revelation? What surprised you most about his response?
2. Who has been a Jibril in your life — someone who showed up at a moment of trembling and held you? Who has been a Khadijah — someone who named who you already are?
3. Is there a fatra in your life right now — a period of silence or waiting where the clarity you thought you had seems to have withdrawn? What would it mean to trust that the qum is coming?

For parents:

1. Are you more often a Khadijah — naming who your teenager already is — or more often offering visions of what they will become? Which does your teenager need more right now?
2. What is the link in the chain that runs through your family? What are you passing on — and is it what you intend to pass on?
3. Is your teenager currently trembling alone — or do they have people around them who will wrap them in a cloak and sit with them until they can speak?

For discussion together:

1. Read al-Muddaththir 74:1-7 together. What does qum fa-andhir — arise and warn — mean for your family right now? What is your family’s version of that command?
2. Who in your family’s history was a Sheikh Jafar Idris — someone whose becoming shaped your family’s chain? Name them. Make du’a for them.
3. What is one thing your family can do together this week that is an act of arising — a qum in some area where you have been waiting?

The bottom line

Your teenager is in the middle of their becoming right now. The trembling is real. The uncertainty is real. The feeling of not-yet is real.

None of it is the end of the story.

Be their Khadijah. Hold them. Name who they already are. Trust the fatra. And remember not to wait before you arise – qum — because we will never feel ready, and we will always be developing.

The trembling is not the end of the story. For the Prophet ﷺ, it was the beginning.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 27 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 28 — Week 4 Recap

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

Taqwa: The Foundation | Night 26 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post The Muslim You Are Becoming | Night 27 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Today, as the world observes the final days of the holy month of Ramadan, the skies over parts of the Middle East are filled not with the calm of night prayers, but with the sound of drones and fighter aircraft.

Missiles streak across the darkness while families below search for safety. For millions of civilians -from Gaza to Lebanon to Iran- war is no longer distant news. It is the terrifying reality of daily life. War does not only destroy cities, but long before buildings collapse, the human mind begins to fracture under the constant weight of fear, uncertainty, and grief. Across several Muslim lands today, ordinary people wake each morning under the shadow of conflict, unsure whether the next hour will bring safety or devastation.

For civilians, war is not an event. It becomes a condition of life.

Physical and Psychological Suffering

In Gaza, families have endured years of bombardment and siege. Entire neighborhoods have been reduced to rubble, hospitals overwhelmed, and children buried beneath the debris of homes that once sheltered them. To say that Gaza has faced continuous devastation for years is not an exaggeration—it is the painful reality of a population that has lived under repeated waves of destruction. Now the violence has expanded beyond Gaza. Iran, too, has faced intense military attacks by the joint operation of Israel and America, with airstrikes reported to have killed large numbers of civilians, including children. Such developments have further deepened the atmosphere of fear across the region. When powerful military forces engage in conflict with devastating weapons, it is often ordinary people who suffer the heaviest consequences. Yet, behind the geopolitical narratives lies a deeper story: the psychological suffering of the people.

Palestinians gather for iftar, the fast-breaking meal during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, in the rubble of destroyed buildings in Gaza City on February 22, 2026 .Jehad Alshrafi/AP Photo.

When bombs fall repeatedly, fear becomes normalized. Children learn to distinguish the sound of drones before they recognize the sound of birds. Mothers sleep lightly, listening for explosions instead of lullabies. Fathers carry the silent anxiety of protecting their families in circumstances beyond their control. Now imagine enduring this during Ramadan; the month meant for mercy, reflection, and spiritual peace. Even in war-torn homes and refugee camps, people still fast. They gather what little food they have for iftar. They raise their hands in prayer under skies filled with the sound of warplanes. In such moments, faith becomes more than ritual. It becomes psychological survival.

The Qur’an acknowledges that believers will face trials:

“And We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give good tidings to the patient.” [Surah Al-Baqarah 2:155]

For people living in war zones, these words are not theoretical—they are a lived reality.

Wanted: Guardians of the Ummah

Another reality that weighs heavily on the minds of many Muslims today is the question of leadership. Deep within the hearts of every  Muslim today burns a quiet but powerful longing: the wish to witness leadership that reflects the courage, justice, and moral accountability once embodied by figures like Umar ibn al-Khattab . Islamic history remembers leaders like him not merely as rulers but as guardians of justice and protectors of the vulnerable. He was known for his deep sense of accountability, famously fearing that he would be questioned before Allah even if a mule stumbled on a neglected road under his rule.

As ordinary people watch the suffering of fellow Muslims across the world, they often feel a fire of frustration and grief, wondering what it would mean to have leaders who place the dignity, protection, and unity of the Ummah above political interests and personal gain. It is this longing for principled leadership that continues to echo in the minds of muslims, reminding them that true leadership in Islam was never merely about power—it was about responsibility before Allah and service to humanity.

As conflict spreads across the Middle East, this painful thought continues to surface in conversations across the Muslim world. One striking reality during these crises has been the unity among ordinary Muslims. Sunni and Shia communities alike mourn the victims, pray for the oppressed, and express solidarity with those suffering. In moments of tragedy, the pain of the Ummah transcends sectarian boundaries.

Faith: Outliving Wars

But despite the bombs, despite the fear, and despite the uncertainty, the people continue to endure. They fast even when food is scarce. They pray even when mosques are damaged.

They hold onto faith even when surrounded by ruins. The Qur’an reminds believers:

“Do not think that Allah is unaware of what the oppressors do. He only delays them until a Day when eyes will stare in horror.” [Surah Ibrahim 14:42]

In the end, the story of war is often written in numbers—casualties, airstrikes, and destroyed buildings. But the true story lies in the unseen battles within human hearts. It is the mother who calms her frightened child while explosions echo outside. It is the father who stands in prayer despite the uncertainty of tomorrow. It is the believer who continues to fast in Ramadan even when surrounded by rubble. These quiet acts of faith reveal a truth that no bomb can erase: power may dominate the skies, but faith continues to live in the hearts of the oppressed. And as history has shown time and again, it is often this faith—patient, resilient, and unbroken—that ultimately outlives the wars themselves.

 

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The post The Weight Of Fear And The Will To Survive: Fasting In Times Of War appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

From quiet household preparations to the crowded lanes of Old Delhi, Ramadan unfolds through prayer, commerce, community, and resilience amid a climate of communal polarisation.

Photo essay by Omama A. Talha and Fatima Zohra.

Home to 11% of the world’s Muslim population, India marked the beginning of Ramadan on Thursday, the 19th of February. Long before the crescent moon is sighted, Ramadan announces itself quietly. Around the 15th Sha’bān, a conspicuous shift takes place within the household and, in parallel, within the self. The house enters a state of preparation: cupboards are rearranged, forgotten corners, behind doors, beneath shelves, under beds are revisited. What appears to be a domestic routine reveals itself as an external rehearsal for an inward purification.

Within Islamic theology, purification precedes devotion, and intention precedes action. As space is cleared, the self is invited to account for its own accumulations. In this act of wiping and cleaning lies the practice of tazkiyah: the cleansing of what has gone clouded through neglect, distractions left unattended, and habits carried without reflection. Before the body is asked to endure hunger, the heart is summoned to loosen its attachments. Here, devotion does not commence beneath the mosque’s dome, but within the most ordinary spaces of life. The home becomes the first site of preparation. The aroma of the spices being roasted in the kitchen permeates the domestic interior. These olfactory traces function as mnemonic cues, evoking recollections of earlier Ramadans and communal iftars.

By afternoon, this inward preparation begins to spill outward.

Men selling fried items like samosa, jalebi, and pakora for iftar at Bazar Matia Mahal outside Jama Masjid in Old Delhi.

 

People buying dates, bread, and other food items at Batla House market, New Delhi.

What takes shape within the household soon finds its echo in the street. The walled city of Delhi, founded as Shahjahanabad and known today as Old Delhi, comes alive at night during Ramadan. Long a busy commercial centre since the Mughal period, its kuchas and katras gradually stir as the day recedes towards iftar time. Congested lanes fill with passing crowds, moving slowly through narrow passageways, while the scent of freshly cooked dishes drifts from small street-side shops, saturating the air and drawing people forward.

Men in uniform patrol as Muslims gather at night in the Ramadan bazaar.

In recent years, however, Ramadan in Delhi has undergone a noticeable transformation. What was once largely a Muslim communal observance has increasingly become a shared urban spectacle, attracting crowds of diverse religions and ethnicities eager to participate. This shift stands in marked contrast to the intensification of communal polarisation and hostility directed toward the Muslim community under the current political climate.

Markets and streets lit up with Ramadan lights in the Muslim areas of Delhi.

The Ramadan bazaar is popular with visitors of all types.

Among the emerging trends is the rise of all-night food walks during Ramadan, curated by culinary experts and social media influencers and attended by visitors eager to engage with the city’s cultural life. The Ramadan bazaar, in this context, may be read as a ritualised urban public space in which religious devotion intersects with commerce, leisure, and sociality. Drawing on Henri Lefebvre’s notion of the production of space, the bazaar becomes a site where space is neither purely sacred nor purely secular, but relational, shaped by fasting schedules, prayer times, economic exchange, and embodied discipline.

A man sitting in seclusion, reading the Quran in Moti Masjid, Connaught Place, New Delhi.

 

A woman sitting in the lane of Nizamuddin, reading the Quran.

Among the most enduring traditions of Ramadan, traced to the practices of the Prophetic era, is the khatm of the Qur’an: its completion once, twice, or manifold times within the sacred month. The Quran becomes the companion of believers worldwide, who endeavour to complete at least one full recitation by the month’s end. With the Mushaf close at hand, they weave its blessings into the fabric of their hours- engaging in regular reading, recitation, and memorisation, by day amid worldly occupations and by night when silence descends, and the world lies still. Irrespective of distinctions of class, caste, or occupational status, men assemble in masajid, momentarily suspending the pursuits of worldly labour to devote themselves to Allah’s kalaam, dhikr, and sujood, while women, in turn, observe their prayers mostly within the domestic sphere.

Students offering Dhuhr prayer in congregation at the campus lawn of the central university, Jamia Millia Islamia.

 

Men offering sunnah prayer before Dhuhr at Hussain Bakhsh Madrasa, Old Delhi.

In the midst of intensifying surveillance of Muslims in India and the increasing regulation of congregational worship, the simple act of standing shoulder to shoulder in submission to God becomes a revolutionary act. Across the country, despite persistent scrutiny and administrative oversight, Muslims continue to observe Ramadan and fulfil its obligations, reaffirming the aqeedah through shared devotion. The normalisation of mob vigilantism has substantially constrained the possibility of performing prayers in public spaces. Yet within certain Muslim minority institutions, students persist in quietly defying unlawful prohibitions, carving out moments for congregational worship amid the demands of rigorous academic life.

Free Iftar meal being laid out for the public at the shrine of Nizamuddin, Delhi.

 

Free Iftar meal being laid out for the public at the shrine of Nizamuddin, Delhi.

Across the subcontinent, numerous shrines and mosques, both prominent and lesser known, open their doors during Ramadan to travellers, underprivileged, tourists, and local residents alike for the communal iftar meal. Among the most notable is the shrine of the celebrated Sufi saint Nizamuddin Auliya, situated in the heart of Delhi. Renowned for its historical and spiritual significance, the shrine exemplifies a longstanding tradition of inclusive hospitality throughout the holy month.

Men and women reciting the Quran and doing dhikr in the veranda of Nizamuddin Mosque.

A man making Rooh Afza Sharbat, a sweet, refreshing drink, which makes it to the iftar table of the Muslims in the Subcontinent.

In the hours following the ʿAṣr prayer, the atmosphere within such sanctuaries becomes charged with devotional anticipation. Men and women gather in the courtyards, arranging dates and water, laying out cloths for the iftar, reciting verses from the Qur’an, and listening to Sufi kalām that resonates through the air.

Young boys enrolled in Madrasa, washing utensils for iftar at Green Park Masjid, Delhi.

Students of Madrasa at Defence Colony.

This tradition of preparing and offering ifṭār, however, is not confined to prominent shrines and mosques; it extends equally to madrasas- institutions dedicated to Islamic learning. In many parts of India, these seminaries continue to rely predominantly upon public charity, much of which is gathered through the humble, door-to-door efforts of their staff during this blessed month. Receiving and hosting such representatives, whether in mosques, madrasas, or private settings, is widely regarded as an honour among Indian Muslims.

A man selling the famous ‘Sharbat-e-Mohabbat’(Drink of Love) in Old Delhi.

Nafeesa Begum selling plastic tablecloths outside the Jama Masjid.

Pheni/Sewayi, a traditional Indian sweet dish being sold in markets.

Ramadan also emerges as a vital source of livelihood for many. Markets thrum with energy, fruit vendors witness a surge in demand, and food shop owners experience some of their busiest evenings of the year. For individuals like Nafeesa Begum, a widow who sustains herself by selling plastic dastarkhwans (tablecloths) outside Jama Masjid, Ramadan also becomes a season of survival. Each evening, as thousands gather in the mosque’s courtyard to break their fasts, she lays out her wares, hoping the generosity of the month will bring enough income to carry her forward. Seasonal delicacies such as Pheni, a pre-fried vermicelli made with flour, semolina, and ghee, return to the markets during Ramadan, cherished at sehri and offered to guests on Eid.

Women offering Taraweeh in congregation at Ishat e Islam mosque, centre of Jamat Islami Hind.

Women offering nafl prayers at Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in Delhi.

For generations, Muslim women were largely confined to the domestic sphere, where acts of ibadah were often performed along with the demands of household responsibilities, thereby distancing them from the communal and spiritual dimensions of Ramadan. In recent years, however, there has been a significant shift. In India, particularly in urban cities such as Delhi, Muslim women have begun to reassert their presence within religious institutions and masajid, seeking not merely access but meaningful inclusion. Although equitable access to such spaces remains an aspiration for many, it is now more common to observe Muslim women participating in Salat al-Jumu‘ah and Taraweeh prayers during Ramadan, fostering bonds of sisterhood grounded in shared love for the deen of Allah subhana wata’ala.

Ramadan in Delhi today exists in a striking tension between visibility and vulnerability. The month now treated as an aestheticised spectacle was historically anchored in inward discipline and deep-rooted Muslim traditions. It has now been incorporated into broader economies of tourism, media and urban branding. Yet this visibility coexists with growing insecurity. In a political climate marked by surveillance, administrative regulation of congregational worship, and the normalisation of anti-Muslim hostility, gathering for prayer, organising public iftars, or occupying mosque courtyards after dark becomes a quiet refusal to disappear. We ought not forget that at its theological core, Ramadan resists material excess. The practice of tazkiyah calls for refinement of the self rather than amplification of display. In this sense, the growing materialisation and aestheticisation of Ramadan across the subcontinent stands in productive tension with the month’s spiritual purpose.

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The post Ramadan In India’s Capital: A Photo Essay appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

At iftar time, a mysterious traveler enters a troubled family’s home and calmly claims he has come to give something and take something.

This is a three-part story. The three parts will be published three nights in a row, inshaAllah.

Part 1

* * *

Call Me Ismail

I got up to answer the door. Zahra was suspicious of strangers, and as for Momy he had that odd fear of human interaction that was common among kids who’d grown up in the Covid era. It made me sad sometimes.

The stranger stood there, a smile on his face. He was a bit taller than me, and though his long hair was black, his eyes were a very light brown, almost hazel. He had a short beard, and the few fine lines around his eyes told me he was older than I’d first thought. About thirty, maybe. My age. His face was gaunt, and his clothes were clean but worn. He carried a faint, pleasant scent. Some kind of cologne or incense. There was something familiar about it.

“As-salamu alaykum,” he said. His voice was kind, almost soft.

“Wa alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah.”

The man held out the cloth sack. “I collected some of your lemons for you. Shame to let them go to waste.”

I took the bag, smiling quizzically. “Do I know you, brother?”

“Hard to say. People call me Ismail. I have some things to give you, and some to take.”

It was not an answer, I knew, that would go over well with Zahra. Sure enough, she appeared beside me, arms crossed, lips tight. “We could call the cops on you for trespassing. And we don’t want whatever you’re selling.”

The stranger did not defend himself. He simply regarded her with a kind of deep respect, as if her anger deserved dignity.

“I do not want money,” he said. “If I am not welcome, I will leave. I have far to travel yet.”

“We are done here,” Zahra snapped.

I did not close the door.

“Are you fasting?” I asked.

Zahra’s head whipped toward me. “Amir.”

“Have you been fasting? Do you have food?” I repeated, looking at him.

There was the faintest pause before he nodded.

“I am fasting,” he admitted, with a humility that was almost disarming. “I could take a few of your lemons for my iftar, if you don’t mind. And I’ll be on my way.”

“SubhanAllah.” I shook my head. “Don’t talk crazy. Come inside. Eat with us.”

“Amir, no,” Zahra hissed. “People do not do this. We don’t know this guy. He could be a maniac.”

“He seems decent to me,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “And he’s our Muslim brother. Feeding a fasting person in Ramadan is one of the highest forms of ibadah, you know that.”

“He just said he’s going to take something.”

“If he steals the silverware we will survive.”

Secret Ingredient

Ismail stepped inside, then knelt, unlaced his battered brown boots and placed them neatly by the door. We led him to the table. It was past time for iftar, and each of us wasted no time in saying a quick private dua, and then starting on the dates.

“Who are you?” Zahra demanded. “Where are you from?”

The stranger smiled widely, as if Zahra had just paid him a compliment. “I am a pilgrim. My name is Ismail. I’m Palestinian.”

“A pilgrim?” Zahra said. “You’re going to Hajj? And what, you’re asking for donations, right?”

“Let’s pray Maghreb,” I said, “before it gets too late.”

I asked Ismail to lead the salat. I don’t know why, except that his aura was spiritual and solemn, and I had the idea that he might even be a hafidh. But he refused, saying, “A man is the imam in his own home.”

After salat we sat to eat. Momy was quiet and passive, and Zahra was still angry, so I served the food. Even though she’d been fasting all day long, Zahra only picked at her food, while Momy ate hungrily. He was only sixteen yet already six feet tall. But he needed to fill out. I asked him how school was going.

“I got As in my mid-terms. Someone’s been spray painting swastikas on the walls at school. The administration says they’re investigating.”

“Oh! MashaAllah for the good grades. You always do well, I know. That’s crazy about the racist stuff.”

He shrugged. “It’s everywhere. Nobody cares.”

“Never mind that,” Zahra said. She pointed her fork at Ismail. “I want to know why you’re here.”

Egyptian Molokhiyyah soup

“Not for money,” Ismail replied. He used a wedge of Arabic bread to scoop some molokhiyyah, then popped it into his mouth. “MashaAllah, so good,” he said. “Who made this?”

I pointed to my sister.

“It’s amazing,” the traveler said. “I can taste the lemon, garlic and coriander, but there’s something else. Something bright yet slightly earthy.”

Zahra lifted her chin proudly. “Sumac. Americans aren’t familiar with it, but it elevates savory dishes.”

I knew this, but I was surprised to hear Zahra say it. She usually kept her recipe secrets to herself.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Zahra said, but her tone had softened. “Why are you here?”

“I have things to give, and things to take.”

A Great Man

“What does that even mean?” Zahra snapped, annoyed again. “And why our house? Out of all the Muslims in Fresno, what brought you to our door?”

“Your father was a great man.”

I’d been about to take a bite out of a chicken leg, but I looked up sharply at the mention of my father. “You knew our father? He died twenty years ago. You would have been a kid.”

“He gave the most amazing khutbahs,” Ismail said. “It wasn’t just Islamic instruction. He made you feel like anything was possible, subhanAllah. Like you could do anything, you could change the world. And when he recited the Quran, his voice would pass right through your chest into your heart, and echo for hours afterward.”

My mouth hung open. That was exactly what my father was like. He’d passed away when I was ten, and there wasn’t a day since then that I didn’t miss him. With a few words, Ismail had brought him back to life again.

Zahra set her fork down and sat back in her chair. “Someone could have told you that,” she protested, but her tone carried no conviction. “What masjid was it?”

“Masjid Al-Madinah of course. But the old masjid, when it was a rented storefront across from City College. They had a ping pong table and an air hockey table in the backyard. Your dad would play air hockey against the kids, and he always lost. Everyone knew he was losing on purpose, but no one cared. And he always had butterscotch candies in his jacket pocket for the kids. Allah have mercy on him. He was a man you don’t forget.”

“I’d forgotten about those candies,” I said, and rubbed my face to forestall tears that threatened to spill.

“So give us what you have to give,” Zahra said.

“Do you mind if I eat first?” Ismail pleaded. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

“I’m not satisfied that -”

“Let the brother eat,” I said firmly. When I used that tone, Zahra knew I was serious. “Anyway,” I went on, “I have something to tell you.”

Zahra glared at me, lips pursed. “What?”

“I’ve made a decision. I’m going to buy a scooter. For myself. I’ll leave the car to you from now on.”

She sat back and put her hands on her thighs. “Okayyy…” she said slowly. “That, umm…” She shrugged. “That would be fine.”

I almost laughed at her inability to say thank you. But laughing at her would have ruined everything. Instead I merely nodded. “Alright then,” I said.

“Alright then,” she echoed.

Worse Places

When we were done eating, Zahra brought out the remainder of a lemon cake she’d baked yesterday, and a pot of tea for everyone.

“This house,” Ismail said between bites, “has a kind soul. It feels like a lot of good memories have been made here.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Zahra muttered. “Another way is to say it’s a prison for people who have nowhere else to go.”

He looked at her, and there was no pity in his gaze, only understanding.

“I have been in worse places,” he said simply.

She narrowed her eyes. “Like what?”

“Oh, I’ve slept in homeless shelters, alleys, and parks. The parks are actually nice, I like being out under the stars. But the jails.” He shuddered. “Jails down south are especially no fun.”

I saw Zahra stand halfway up, as if she would run away. “What do you mean, jail? What were you in jail for?”

Ismail shrugged. “Vagrancy, mostly. Some towns don’t appreciate a stranger pitching a tent in the local park. Disturbing the peace, a few times.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I stood on a fruit crate and preached Islam. I don’t do that everywhere. But some places have a hopeless feeling, like everyone has given up, and shaytan has come to fill the void. I couldn’t leave a place like that without speaking a word of truth.”

Zahra was back in her chair, but I could tell from the tension around her eyes that she was far from relaxed. “So you’re a crazy person, is that it?” she said.

The traveler laughed. “Maybe so.”

I was thinking that if this man was crazy for doing that, then all the Prophets were crazy, for had they done any differently? We American Muslims were so modern, so removed from the reality of our own history, but in the end, didn’t every Muslim owe their faith to a man standing in the middle of a hostile crowd, speaking the truth?

The Giving

“Well,” Ismail said. “May Allah reward you for this amazing meal, and bless this home, and bless your hands, sister Zahra.” He lifted his pack from the floor. “It’s time for the gifts.”

The traveler reached into his pack and withdrew a small object wrapped in a square of cloth. He set it gently on the table between us and unfolded the cloth. It was an incense burner. “This is for you, Amir,” he said.

I stared at it, my hand frozen halfway to his glass.

The burner consisted of a bowl small enough to sit in the palm of a hand, fashioned from polished brass that caught the dim kitchen light and reflected it warmly. Its outer surface was covered with delicate patterns of curling Quranic calligraphy etched into a reddish enamel. The bowl rested on a curved brass base shaped like two slender branches.

“There’s something familiar about that,” Zahra said.

No kidding. It was identical to the kind my father had owned, and had kept in his study. The kind I had seen nearly every day of my childhood.

Ismail opened a cloth pouch and placed a stone of frankincense on the burner, then struck a match. The flame touched resin. Smoke breathed upward in a thin, graceful ribbon.

The scent arrived like my father’s hand touching the back of my neck. It was warm, soft and deep, and was like coming home.

The Burning Stars

My breath stopped halfway in my chest. I was not in the dining room anymore. I was not a thirty year old junior professor with stifled dreams, pining for a lost love. Instead I was nine years old, lying on my stomach on the rug in my father’s study, doing my homework as he sat in a stuffed chair, reading a book. A brass incense burner sat on his desk, and the woody, spicy scent of frankincense filled the room.

“Amir,” my father said, and I looked up.

“Listen to this. Ali ibn Abi Talib, radi Allahu anhu, said, ‘You think you are a small entity, but within you is enfolded the entire universe.’ What do you think that means?”

I sat up and made a clicking sound with my tongue as I thought. “That everyone is connected to everyone else?”

“Excellent guess. It has been interpreted in various ways. One is that a person might feel insignificant and powerless, yet within him lies the ability to change the course of history and lift others from oppression. A single person can do that. You can do that. The way you look at the world, the questions you ask. You’re a bright child and you care deeply. Never underestimate yourself. Within you is power greater than the burning stars and the spinning galaxies. That’s why Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala said, ‘And We have certainly honored the children of Adam, and carried them on land and sea, and provided for them of the good things, and preferred them above many of those whom We created.’ Do you understand?”

In my mind I saw the galaxies turning, and the stars blazing blue and red. “Like Ali himself,” I said. “When he was a kid, and the Prophet called his relatives and said, who will be my supporter and success.. success -”

My father moved forward to the edge of his seat. “Successor.”

“Yeah. When he said, Who will be my supporter and successor, and Ali said I will, and the relatives laughed because Ali was a skinny little kid, but the Prophet lifted Ali’s hand and said, This is my supporter and successor.”

“Yes!” My father left his chair, came down to the floor, and embraced me. “What one man has done, you can do, Ya Amir. And if no one has yet done it, you can be the first.”

“Amir!” Zahra said loudly.

I looked up and twenty years had passed, and here I sat at this table, complaining about being stuck in life, when I had all the tools I needed at my disposal. I felt dazed. I looked around and saw everyone’s eyes on me: Momy watched me curiously, Zahra with concern, and the stranger seriously, as if he knew that something important had just transpired.

I looked at the stranger – at Ismail – with a terrible, almost fearful respect. “I don’t know who you are. But thank you.”

“I don’t understand,” Zahra complained. “What just happened?”

Ismail turned his attention to Momy, who sat watching these proceedings with wide, attentive eyes. “Muhammad,” Ismail said, using Momy’s proper name. “Do you wish to receive your gift?”

* * *

Come back TOMORROW for Part 3.

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 Deal : Part #1 The Run

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

The post The Pilgrim [Part 2] – Things To Give appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

What Taqwa Actually Means — And Why the Mistranslation Is Costing Our Teenagers

There is a word at the center of Islamic practice that most Muslim parents use constantly — and that most Muslim teenagers cannot define.

The word is taqwa.

Ask your teenager tonight what taqwa means. If they say “God-consciousness” or “fear of Allah” and stop there — tonight’s episode can give them something more precise, more practical, and more actionable. This guide is for the parent who wants to understand what their teenager received — and how to reinforce it at home.

The mistranslation and its consequences

“God-consciousness” is not wrong as a partial description of taqwa. But it is incomplete in a way that has practical consequences — because consciousness sounds like a feeling, and feelings come and go. You cannot build a life on a feeling. You cannot make a decision in a moment of temptation by reaching for a feeling that may or may not be present.

The classical definition — from the early Muslims, from Abu Hurayrah and other Companions — is structural rather than emotional. Taqwa is the active protection of yourself from what would harm your relationship with Allah and your standing in the akhirah. It is the gathered garment. The careful step through thorns. The bowl of milk carried through a crowded city without spilling a drop.

That definition gives your teenager something to do, not just something to feel. And for a generation navigating more temptations, more distractions, and more complexity than any previous generation — something to do is exactly what is needed.

The practical consequence of the mistranslation: when taqwa is taught as a feeling, teenagers who don’t feel particularly God-conscious on a given day conclude that they don’t have taqwa — and stop trying. When taqwa is taught as a practice, the teenager who doesn’t feel particularly spiritually elevated can still choose to carry the bowl carefully. The practice doesn’t depend on the mood. The mood often follows the practice.

The fear conversation Muslim parents need to have

This is the section of tonight’s guide that I suspect will be most uncomfortable — and most necessary.

Many Muslim parents in the West have, consciously or unconsciously, sanitized fear out of their children’s relationship with Allah. For understandable reasons — we don’t want our children to experience religion as threatening, we want them to love Allah, we want their Islam to be a source of comfort rather than anxiety.

But the removal of fear has produced a generation of Muslim teenagers who have essentially no functional consequences for their religious choices. They love Allah in the abstract. They don’t fear His accounting in the concrete. And without that fear — the fear that the angel is recording, that the bowl is being watched, that every drop spilled will be accounted for — taqwa is impossible.

Ibn al-Qayyim’s analogy of the bird is the framework every Muslim parent needs: one wing is fear of Allah’s punishment, the other is hope for His mercy and reward, and the body of the bird — the core — is to worship Allah because He is deserving of it. All three are essential. Remove any one and the bird cannot fly.

The goal is not to terrorize your teenager. It is to raise a teenager who genuinely understands that their choices have weight — that the angel is real, the recording is real, and the accounting is real — alongside a genuine love for Allah and a genuine hope in His mercy. That combination produces a Muslim who can actually navigate temptation. The love alone, without the fear, produces a Muslim who loves Allah in theory and makes whatever choice is most convenient in practice.

Have the fear conversation with your teenager. Not as a threat — as a completion. You’ve given them the love wing. Give them the fear wing too. Let them fly straight and stable.

The bowl of milk story — what to discuss at home

Tonight’s video tells a wisdom story about a young man who came to a shaykh asking how to lower his gaze. The shaykh’s answer — carrying a bowl of milk through a crowded city under threat of public humiliation — is one of the most elegant pedagogical illustrations of taqwa available.

The story is worth retelling at home and discussing explicitly — because it connects several threads simultaneously that your teenager has been building across the series.

It connects to Night 2 — the imposter syndrome episode. The teen who felt disqualified by their weaknesses, their limitations, their particular struggles. Allah — al-Aleem, al-Khabeer — sees not just the outcome, but what had to be overcome to achieve it. He sees the hand that trembled trying not to spill. That is not a threat. It is the most profound comfort available.

It connects to Night 20 — the pornography and addiction episode. The young man in the story came asking for a technique to lower his gaze. The shaykh gave him a foundation instead. The practical strategies for resetting the brain matter — but without taqwa underneath them, strategies alone are furniture on a floor that doesn’t exist.

It connects to Nights 24 and 25 — ikhlas and legacy. The person carrying the bowl doesn’t need the audience’s reaction — they’re focused on not spilling. The person with taqwa plants trees even when no one is watching — because Allah is always watching, and that is enough.

Discuss the story together. Ask your teenager: what is the bowl you are carrying right now? What does carrying it carefully look like in your specific life this week?

Taqwa as the capstone of Week 4

Tonight is the theological capstone of Week 4 — and Muslim parents who have been following the series will recognize why it had to come here, at the end of the week, after purpose and ummah and ikhlas and legacy.

Every conversation in Week 4 has been building something. Purpose: what are you building and for whom? Ummah: who are you building with and for? Ikhlas: what keeps the building from being hollow? Legacy: what will the building outlast?

Taqwa is the foundation all of it rests on. The khalifah who has no taqwa loses their orientation and starts building for themselves. The ummah member who has no taqwa stops feeling the body’s pain when it’s inconvenient. The person seeking ikhlas who has no taqwa has nothing to anchor the intention to when the audience’s approval is available. The legacy builder who has no taqwa plants trees for recognition rather than for Allah.

Taqwa is not the fifth topic of Week 4. It is what Week 4 was always about — revealed at the end because the other four conversations were the context that makes it land.

Warning signs that taqwa is absent

Complete absence of religious consequence-awareness — the teenager who genuinely believes their choices have no weight, that Allah will forgive everything automatically, that the accounting described in the Quran is not personally relevant to them.

The inability to maintain Islamic practice in private — the teenager whose practice exists entirely for a social audience and disappears when no one is watching. This is the ikhlas conversation from Night 24 applied to taqwa: the bowl is only carried carefully when the servant is visibly present.

Functional antinomianism — the teenager who loves Allah in general terms, but consistently makes choices that contradict what Allah has commanded, without apparent internal conflict. The love without the fear produces exactly this: a pleasant relationship with a deity who makes no demands.

Scrupulosity without foundation — the opposite problem: anxious, rule-focused religiosity that is driven by fear alone without love or genuine orientation toward Allah. This produces exhaustion and eventual collapse rather than the steady, sustainable practice that taqwa is designed to support.

Discussion questions for families

For teens:

1. Before tonight, how would you have defined taqwa? How has the definition changed — and what does the new definition ask of you that the old one didn’t?
2. What is the bowl you are carrying right now? What does carrying it carefully look like in your specific life this week?
3. Which wing is stronger in you — fear or hope? What would it look like to strengthen the weaker one?

For parents:

1. Have you given your teenager both wings — fear and hope — or have you emphasized one at the expense of the other? What would a more balanced conversation look like?
2. How do you model taqwa in your own life in a way that your teenager can see? Not the performance of religiosity — the actual, private practice of carrying the bowl carefully?
3. Is there a specific area of your teenager’s life where you suspect the bowl is being spilled — where a taqwa conversation, rather than a rule conversation, might be more effective?

For discussion together:

1. Read Surah al-Talaq 65:2-3 together. Where in your family’s life right now do you need a makhraj — a way out you cannot currently see? Make du’a for it together.
2. Retell the bowl of milk story in your own words to each other. What details stand out to each person?
3. What is one specific practice your family can adopt this week that reflects the definition of taqwa — the active, deliberate carrying of the bowl?

The bottom line

Taqwa is the foundation. Not a feeling — a practice. Not a mood — a discipline. Not God-consciousness in the abstract — the active, vigilant protection of your book of deeds from everything that would harm it.

Your teenager has spent 26 nights building something. Help them understand what it all rests on.

The bowl is in their hands. Help them carry it carefully.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 26 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 27 — The Muslim You Are Becoming

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

What Will You Leave Behind? Legacy in Islam | Night 25 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post Taqwa: The Foundation | 30 Nights with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

O Allah, I beseech you with Your Blessed Names as the One & Only, the Relied upon. I call out to You by Your Greatest Name – the Eternally Living, the Sustaining of All, to bless my children with righteousness.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أني أدعوك بأسمك الواحد الأحد
الفرد الصمد وأدعوك بأسمك الأعظم الحي القيوم
أن تمنن علي بصلاح أحوال ذريتي

My Lord, increase their life span & bless their health, strengthen them with obedience & worship of You.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أمدد في أعمارهم مع الصحه
والعافية في طاعتك ورضاك ..

My Lord, help me raise up the young, strengthen the weak and cure the infirm.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
رب لي صغيرهم
وقوي لي ضعيفهم
وأشفي لي مريضهم ..

My Lord, strengthen their bodies, tune their hearing, sharpen their sight, clear their congestion, mend their wounds and make them whole.

My Lord, with Your Mercy protect them from Illness, sin, mistakes, errors & misguidance as consequence of their devotion to You.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
عافهم فِيُ
أبدانهم وأسماعهم وأبصارهم
وأنفسهم وجوارحهم وأجعلهم
من المعافين من البلاء برحمتك
المعصومين من الذنوب والزلل
والخطأ بتقواك الموفقين للخير
والرشد بطاعتك ..

O Allah, cause them to obey in love their parents, without rebellion, sin or error or disrespectfulness.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أجعلهم لي مطيعين غير
عاصين ولا عاقين ولا خاطئين ..

Ya Allah, help me raise them well with high morals & firm ethics of righteousness that blesses them & I.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أعني على تربيتهم وتأديبهم
وبرهم وأجعل ذلك خيرا لي ولهم ..

My Lord, I entrust You with my progeny, for no trust is lost with You. I entrust You with clearing them of impediments, ailments & immorality.

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

My Lord, protect my children from all sides, above & beneath, right & left, front & back.

Ya Allah, let my children be reason for honour and source of my pride.

Let them be loved by those who love You & turn their hearts to my children.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أني أستودعك ذريتي يامن
لا تضيع عنده الودائع من
كل آفه وعاهه و من سوء الأسقام
والأمراض ومن شر طوارق الليل
والنهار ومن شر عين كل حاسد،
وغل كل حاقد ومن أصدقاء السوء ، اللهم احفظهم من بين ايديهم ومن خلفهم وعن ايمانهم وعن شمائلهم ومن فوقهم..
اللهم اجعل ذريتي مصدراً لفخري واعتزازي
اللهم اجعل محبة ذريتي في قلوب عبادك وسخر لهم القلوب..

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

اللهم ارزق ذريتي حظاً في الدين.. وحظاً في العلم.. وحظاً في الخَلق.. وحظاً في الخُلق.. وحظاً في محبة الناس ,

My Allah, elevate my children’s status amongst others & grant them successful positions that bring happiness, piety & wealth. My Lord, bless them with purity, charity, mercy, helpfulness, knowledge of You that they share with others.

اللهم عظم مكانة ذريتي وارفع شأنهم بين عبادك,
اللهم اجعلهم من السعداء الأتقياء الأنقياء, الأغنياء, الأسخياء, الحلماء, الرحماء, العلماء, الأصحاء.

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

اللهم لاتجعل ذريتي من الأشقياء..
اللهم أعزهم ولاتذلهم , اللهم أسعدهم وأسعدنا بهم ومعهم, ولاتشقيهم وتشقينا بهم..

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

اللهم أنعم على ذريتي بنعمة السمع والبصر , وجميع النعم ولاتحرمهم خير ماعندك بسوء ماعندي.
اللهم ارزق ذريتي الصحة والعافية والذكاء والنباهة,
اللهم ارزقهم حسن الخلق ,

My Lord, let my children & those entrusted to me in responsibility be proof for me on the Day of Judgement.

اللهم اجعل ذريتي ومن أوليتني امرهم حجة لي لا علي.
اللهم آمين، و صل وسلم على سيدنا محمد وعلى آله وصحبه أجمعين .

Ameen, my Lord, Ameen.

I send the most complete prayers of peace & salutations upon my master Mohammed, his family and companions.

Related:

Speaking to Allah in the 10 Nights of Ramadan | Part 1

The post Speaking to Allah in the Last 10 Nights: Du’a for Our Children | Part 2 appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

I have always loved Ramadan. Every year I find myself waiting for it long before it begins. When the month finally arrives, it feels as though time slows down in a beautiful way. My heart feels lighter, my mind calmer, and everything around me seems to carry a different kind of peace.

But if I’m honest, the part of Ramadan that moves me the most is the last ten nights.

As the month comes closer to its end, something shifts. The nights feel quieter, more meaningful, almost as if they are inviting us to pause and reflect. There is a sense that these final days hold something special, and that every moment matters more.

For me, fasting has never been only about staying away from food and drink. It creates space in my life. Space away from the daily routine, the distractions, and the constant rush of responsibilities. During these final nights especially, that space becomes an opportunity to reconnect with Allah in a deeper way.

Ramadan reminds us that fasting is not just a physical act but a spiritual one. It teaches patience, discipline, and empathy for others. The Qur’an beautifully reminds us:

“O you who have believed, decreed upon you is fasting as it was decreed upon those before you that you may become righteous.” [Surah Al-Baqarah 2:183]

This verse has always resonated with me, especially when I reflect on my time in Gaza. Living through war and uncertainty changes the way you see the world. Food was not always guaranteed, and some nights we went to sleep hungry. Yet even in those difficult moments, faith remained strong.

Fasting in those circumstances was not simply an act of worship—it was a reminder that strength comes from Allah . Hardship did not weaken faith; in many ways, it strengthened it.

Ramadan in Gaza taught me gratitude in ways I had never experienced before. Every meal felt like a blessing. Every prayer felt more meaningful. Even the simplest moments carried a sense of appreciation that is easy to forget in more comfortable times.

As the last ten nights of Ramadan arrive, that sense of reflection becomes even stronger. These nights remind us that Ramadan is not just about completing the fast, but about seeking closeness to Allah and making the most of the time we have left in this blessed month.

And at the heart of these nights is Laylatul Qadr.

Allah tells us:

“The Night of Decree is better than a thousand months.” [Surah Al-Qadr 97:3]

This verse always fills me with hope. It reminds me that even small acts of sincere worship can carry immense value. A single night of prayer, reflection, and heartfelt du’a can hold rewards beyond what we can imagine.

Laylatul Qadr is a reminder that what truly matters is our relationship with Allah . Not the things we own or the achievements we chase, but the sincerity in our hearts when we turn to Him.

The last ten nights are also a beautiful time to guide the next generation. Teaching children about prayer, kindness, and charity during these nights helps nurture their faith and shape their character for years to come.

In the end, fasting is not just about hunger or thirst. It is a journey of the heart.

My experiences have taught me that even in the most difficult circumstances—when life feels uncertain and overwhelming—faith can still grow and flourish. Ramadan reminds us that true blessings are not always what we see or possess, but the connection we build with Allah .

May Allah allow us to witness Laylatul Qadr, accept our fasting and prayers, and help us carry the lessons of Ramadan with us long after the month has passed.

 

Related:

– The Last Nights Of Ramadan in Gaza: Starvation, Supplication, And Survival

– We Are Not Numbers x MuslimMatters – Ramadan In The Time Of Genocide

The post Entering The Last 10 Nights: What Ramadan In Gaza Taught Me About Gratitude appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Zionism wants “everything for itself,” scholar says.

On a rainy Ramadan afternoon, a mysterious traveler knocks on a troubled family’s door as they are about to eat iftar.

This is a three-part story. The three parts will be published three nights in a row, inshaAllah.

Part 1

* * *

Lemons on the Ground

It was a Friday afternoon in Ramadan, and it was winter. I’m a 30-year-old Egyptian-American history professor, and not much of a cook. But in Ramadan, I try to do my share, so my sister and I were in the kitchen, working to prepare iftar.

That was the moment when the pilgrim appeared. I call him the pilgrim, but he had a name, and even so, he could have been anyone or anything. I’ll never know.

The sky outside was the gray of a bedsheet forgotten on a clothesline. The yard was flooded, looking like a shallow green swimming pool. There were squirrels living out there, and I wondered how they stayed dry in weather like this. We had a big lemon tree in the front yard, but we had not picked the ripe fruits, and many lay on the ground rotting. I was busy with work these days, but I should have asked Momy, my sister’s teenage son, to collect the lemons. All he did, when he wasn’t in school, was play video games in his room.

My sister Zahra – at forty years old, ten years my elder – closed the oven.

“The mahshi looks good,” she commented. “I’m glad I went with zucchini, they’re super fresh right now.” Glancing at me, she saw where I was looking.

“Why didn’t you pick those damn lemons?” she snapped. “Do you know how wasteful that is? Those are organic lemons. Do you have any idea how much they cost in the store? No, because you don’t shop, Amir, you don’t do anything. You go to work, go to the gym, come home, and treat me like a servant. And when you’re at work, we’re stuck here like prisoners, because there’s only one car.”

I could have barked back. I could have pointed out that since her husband, Waleed, divorced her three years ago, she lost her nursing job two years ago, and then came to live with me, I had supported her and her son without complaint. My salary not only paid all the bills, including for the food we all ate, but also her phone and her son’s, their clothing and other personal needs, and I had even paid for the gaming console that Momy spent all his time on.

As for the car, I was only a junior college professor, having completed my PhD two years ago. My salary was decent but not lavish. I couldn’t afford two cars.

I was tired of fighting with Zahra. Okay, yes, her life had taken a bad turn, and I was the only one around for her to take it out on. Even her son avoided her. In the end, I merely said, “You’re right. I’ll collect them tomorrow inshaAllah.”

“You always say that. I can tell you this, Amir, if this were my house, things would be done differently.”

Recriminations

This was a frequent line of attack. The house was a Craftsman, built in the 1920s, and designed with many whimsical flourishes, like integrated bookcases in the living room and a built-in window seat beside the bay window. It was built with all-natural materials, including stone and brick, and a wide front porch.

We had grown up here, Zahra and I, and our brother Ali. When our parents passed away a decade ago, they left their considerable life savings to Zahra, as she was married with a young child, and they left the house to Ali and me. Zahra hadn’t complained at the time, as she’d gotten the better end of the deal. But now that her inheritance was gone – invested in her husband’s failed business- my ownership of this house seemed to rub salt in her eyes.

As for Ali, he’d gone to law school and become a successful litigator. He owned a Chicago penthouse and hardly cared about this old house. We rarely saw him.

“And trust me,” Zahra went on, “if I owned this house, you would pull your weight around here, or you’d be out on your ass.”

This was too much. I should have said, “I’m fasting.” After all, isn’t that what the Prophet ﷺ taught us? I had heard the hadith often enough that I could recite it in Arabic or English: “Fasting is a shield. So the person observing the fast should avoid sexual relations with his spouse and should not behave foolishly and impudently, and if someone fights with him or abuses him, he should say to him twice, ‘I am fasting.’”

But no one could rile me up like Zahra. It was like I was a broken piano and she knew just which keys to hit to make the worst off-note sounds. So I lashed out.

“And if it were up to me,” I snapped, “I’d be married, and Samina and I would live together in this house, and maybe we’d have a child by now. But we in this house are all just like those rotting lemons out there, aren’t we?”

Zahra’s face turned red. She had lifted the lid on the pot of molokhiyyah, but her hand shook so badly that the lid clattered to the floor.

“I’m sorry we ruined your life!” she screamed. “I’m sorry for being born!” She stormed out of the room.

I shook my head. This was no way to spend a Ramadan afternoon. I should not have said that. I mean, it was true, certainly. Two years ago, I’d been engaged to a lovely young Pakistani-American woman. She was tall, outgoing, and religious, and maybe too beautiful for me, but for some reason, she admired and respected me. I had planned to marry her and bring her here to live with me, in this hundred-year-old, two-bedroom house.

When Zahra came to stay with me, I put my marriage plans on hold, since Zahra had one bedroom, Momy had the other, and I slept on the sofa. I did it willingly, because I cared about my big sister, and because her life had gone from teetering on the edge of a cliff to plunging over the side.

I had imagined that my sister would stay with me for three or four months, until she found a new job and got back on her feet. But two years later, here she still was. She refused to apply for nursing jobs, saying that she was burnt out and needed more time.

My fiancée Samina, meanwhile, had broken off the engagement. I swallowed hard, remembering it. What was my future now? A life single and unloved, a barely relevant professor making no contribution to the world?

Keys in the Stream

I picked up the pot lid, wiped it clean, and covered the molokhiyyah. There was also a pan of slow-simmering chicken and peppers on the stove. Under normal circumstances, Zahra would never have left it to me. I spooned a bit of the sauce, blew on it, and tasted it. Then I added a generous squeeze of lemon and a dash of cayenne, along with a touch of oregano and a little more pepper. Zahra might complain, but I liked my food spicy. Served her right for leaving me to handle everything.

I didn’t know how much more I could take. Zahra and I had occasionally clashed in the past, but not like this. I remembered a time just before she’d gotten married when the three of us – Zahra, me, and our middle brother Ali – went on a hike in the Sierras, near Shaver Lake. Ali and I used a fallen log to cross over a stream, but Zahra was reluctant. Finally, she said to toss her the car keys, and she would go back and wait in the car. I was about to say no, we would find an easier trail, but Ali went ahead and chucked the keys, which fell short and landed in the stream.

There was an instant in which we saw the strong current carrying the keys away, dragging them over the river rocks – then Ali and I were in the stream, splashing and slipping, trying to catch the keys, as Zahra roared with laughter. We caught the keys, changed our clothes in the parking lot, and we all went to a diner in Shaver for hot food and coffee.

That had been one of the last truly fun moments we’d shared. After she got married, she gradually lost her sense of humor. And sometime around four years ago, it was like someone had flipped a switch to activate the anger center in her brain. Her tongue became sharper than a scimitar. Lately, I spent more and more time at my university office, or at the gym. I had muscles popping out everywhere. But all I really wanted was peace and quiet.

A Stranger

As I tended to the food, I considered my upcoming course on El-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz, known to most people as Malcolm X. My parents had been immigrants, but I was American, and my heroes were Americans: Sitting Bull, John Brown, Lucy Parsons, Cesar Chavez, Muhammad Ali, and more – but none more so than Malcolm.

I wanted to do more than just teach a course. I had the idea to establish an annual Malcolm X youth conference, where we would bring young thinkers, poets, and scholars from all over the world to celebrate Malcolm’s legacy. We would take Malcolm’s ideas out of the history books and into the lives of these youth.

But how could I do that? It was a huge undertaking, and I was just a nobody junior professor in a small Central California city.

My train of thought was interrupted when I glanced out of the kitchen window and saw a stranger standing in front of the house. It was the pilgrim, though I did not know that yet. He was tall and olive-skinned, wearing a brown pack that hung heavily from his shoulders. His wavy black hair fell to his shoulders. He was painfully thin and wore faded jeans, a long-sleeved green army shirt, a pair of battered brown boots, and a Palestinian kefiyyeh around his neck.

I had never seen the man before. It wasn’t like I owned the street. The sidewalk was public property. But he wasn’t walking by, or standing on the sidewalk. He was standing in our yard beneath the big lemon tree, his head tipped back, as if enjoying the pale sunlight on his face. I saw him lower his gaze as he studied the lemons on the ground. Then he drew a cloth sack from his brown pack, bent over, and began sorting through the lemons. Whenever he found a good one, he put it in the sack.

I smiled. At least someone would get use out of those lemons. Then the sun caught something reflective on the pilgrim’s pack and glinted in my eyes, making me blink and look away. When I looked again, the man was gone.

Seven Minutes Left

Cupping my mouth, I called out that it was almost time for iftar. I proceeded to set the table with plates and silverware, and a jug of guava juice. Then I warmed three loaves of Arabic bread in a fresh pan.

When no one came, I went upstairs. Momy was playing a video soccer game with his headphones on. I liked that he chose that instead of war games, though a book would be better. I pulled the headphones off and grinned. “Iftar.”

I knocked gently on Zahra’s door.

“I heard you!” she shouted. “I’m coming.”

Soon we were all downstairs. There were seven minutes remaining until the Maghreb adhaan. We set dates and grapes on the table and filled the water glasses.

“There was a guy outside collecting the lemons,” I commented.

“What?” Zahra’s eyes were wide. “Our lemons? Did you call the police?”

I gave her a quizzical look. “Of course not. He was taking the ones on the ground. And he had on a kefiyyeh.”

Zahra shook her head. “I don’t get you. You let a stranger come onto our property.”

“There’s three minutes left,” I said, changing the subject.

We sat, and I raised my hands and thanked Allah for the food and for making us Muslims. I asked Allah to have mercy on my parents and on our family. I asked Allah to liberate the Ummah from oppression, and to free my Egyptian homeland from tyranny.

Lastly, I asked Allah to bring me a good Muslim woman with whom I would live in happiness. I did not ask specifically for Samina, even though I knew she was still single. She had left me, and though I still loved her, I would trust Allah to bring me someone better.

Momy, watching his phone like the eagle of Salahuddin tracking a rabbit, let us know that it was time to eat.

That was when a knock sounded at the door.

* * *

Come back TOMORROW for Part 2.

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 The Pilgrim [Part 1] – A Ramadan Story appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

Raising Children Who Build for Eternity — Legacy, Sadaqah Jariyah, and the Long Game

There is a conversation most Muslim parents never have with their teenagers.

Not about career choices or university applications — those conversations happen constantly. Not about religious practice — that happens too, sometimes too much and too anxiously.

The conversation that almost never happens is this one: what are you building that will outlast you? What tree are you planting whose shade you may never sit in?

That conversation — about legacy, significance, and the long game — is what tonight’s episode is about. And this guide is for the parent who wants to bring it home.

Why legacy is a teenage conversation, not an adult one

Most parents think that the concept of legacy is something only for those who are older — when they have established themselves, figured out their direction, accomplished something worth building on.

That instinct is understandable and mistaken.

Legacy is not built later. It is built now — in the habits, the character, the knowledge, and the orientation toward Allah that your teenager is developing right now. The seed planted at seventeen has been growing for decades by the time a person reaches forty. The character built in adolescence is the foundation everything else will rest on.

Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef — the educator and founder of Al-Maghrib Institute whose story tonight’s video tells — dreamed of what he would build when he was less than 20. He founded Al-Maghrib in his latter twenties. He was forty-seven when he passed away. The trees he planted are still growing.

The legacy conversation is not premature for your teenager. It is overdue.

The Islamic framework for legacy — what Islam actually teaches

The Prophet ﷺ said: “When a person dies, his deeds come to an end except for three: sadaqah jariyah — ongoing charity, knowledge that is benefited from, and a righteous child who prays for him.” (Muslim)

This hadith is the most complete Islamic account of legacy available — and it deserves careful attention from parents who want to raise teenagers with a long-game orientation.

Sadaqah jariyah is broader than the classic examples of wells and masajid suggest. Any resource invested in something that continues to benefit people after you are gone qualifies. The institution built. The program started. The fund established. The project launched. The principle is: put something into the world that keeps giving.

For teenagers, this means that the projects they begin now — however small, however local — can be sadaqah jariyah. The health fair organized at the masjid that becomes an annual event. The tutoring program started for younger students. The school initiative that will one day become a k-12.  The community initiative launched and then handed off. Small beginnings with the right intention can become ongoing charity that outlasts the person who started it.

Knowledge that is benefited from is Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef’s primary legacy — and it is available to every Muslim regardless of whether they found an institution. Knowledge shared genuinely, carried by the person who received it into their own life and passed on to others, is sadaqah jariyah. Your teenager doesn’t need to be a scholar. They need to share what they know with sincerity and care.

Quick example: I remember a Muslim convert who visited Mexico with a dawah group. They knew so much more than him, but he just focused on teaching surat al-Fatihah to every person who accepted Islam. His intent was to benefit from each time they recited it. We all know surat al-Fatihah alhamdulillah, but did we every consider that possibility, and the potential for serious return in the hereafter?

A righteous child who prays for their parents is perhaps the most personally relevant form of legacy for Muslim parents reading this — because it is a description of what you are building right now. The du’a your teenager makes for you after you are gone is your sadaqah jariyah arriving. Which means that raising a child who prays for you is itself an act of planting a tree whose shade you will benefit from in the most literal possible sense.

The Sulayman ﷺ lesson for parents and teenagers

Prophet Sulayman’s ﷺ request — “grant me a kingdom such as will not belong to anyone after me” [38:35] — makes many Muslims uncomfortable. It sounds like the request of someone seeking glory for its own sake.

But Allah gave it to him. And praised him as an excellent servant in the same moment.

The lesson for your teenager — and for you — is that ambition rooted in the right intention is not un-Islamic. The desire to build something significant, to leave something that outlasts you, to ask Allah for the resources and the platform to do something meaningful — this is a legitimate and honored aspiration when it comes from a heart already turned toward Allah; the heart seeking the pleasure of Allah.

The conversation worth having with your teenager is not: be humble and don’t want too much. It is: want greatly, ask boldly, and make sure what you’re building is for Allah rather than for yourself.

Sulayman wanted an unprecedented kingdom. What does your teenager want to build? Have you asked them? Have you told them that asking Allah for it — specifically, boldly, repeatedly — is exactly what a prophet did?

That conversation could change everything.

The quiet majority — redefining success for your teenager

One of the most important things tonight’s video communicates — and one that parents need to reinforce explicitly — is the significance of the quiet majority.

Most of Al-Maghrib’s students did not become scholars or community leaders. They went on with their lives. But they were transformed. They approached their careers differently. They raised their children differently. They interacted with society differently — because of what they learned.

That quiet transformation — unglamorous, invisible to the world, measurable only in the changed texture of ordinary daily life — is, in aggregate, the most important part of Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef’s legacy.

Your teenager does not need to be famous to leave a significant legacy. They need to be genuinely transformed — and to live that transformation in the ordinary choices of an ordinary life. The doctor who treats every patient as khalifah. The teacher whose students remember one thing that changed how they saw the world. The parent whose children grow up with taqwa. The friend who showed up when it mattered.

The quiet legacy is the legacy that actually changes the world. Help your teenager aspire to it.

Practical guidance for parents

Have the legacy conversation explicitly. Ask your teenager: what do you want to build that will outlast you? Not as a pressure question — as a genuine invitation to think about the long game. If they don’t have an answer, that’s fine. The question itself plants a seed.

Name the gap together. Look at your community, your masjid, your neighborhood together. What needs doing that nobody is doing? Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef saw a gap and designed something to fill it. Help your teenager develop the habit of noticing gaps and asking: could I be the one to fill this?

Model sadaqah jariyah visibly. What are you building that will outlast you? Do your teenagers know? Do they see you investing in things that will benefit people after you are gone? Legacy is caught as much as taught.

Make du’a for legacy together. The Sulayman ﷺ du’a — asking Allah specifically and boldly for the resources to build something significant — is a du’a you can make as a family. Ask Allah together for what you want to build. Let your teenager see you making that du’a. Let them make their own version of it.

Honor the people whose shade you’re sitting in. Who planted the trees whose shade your family benefits from? Name them. Tell your teenager their stories. Make du’a for them together. That practice builds ummah consciousness, gratitude, and the understanding that they are part of a chain — and that their job is to extend it.

Warning signs that legacy orientation is absent or distorted

Complete short-term thinking — no capacity to defer gratification, no interest in building anything that takes longer than a few months. This is not a moral failing, but a developmental signal that the long-game orientation needs cultivation.

Legacy as performance — the desire to be famous, recognized, and celebrated rather than to genuinely contribute. This is the riya conversation from Night 24 applied to legacy specifically. The distinction between building for visibility and building for impact is worth making explicit.

Paralysis in the face of the question — “I’m too young,” “I’m too ordinary,” “I don’t know what I’m good at.” This is often fear masquerading as humility. The response is the examples: Dawud, al-Bukhari, Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef — all of whom began in obscurity, all of whom built something that outlasted them.

Discussion questions for families

For teens:

1. What gap do you see in your community, school, or masjid that nobody is filling? What would it take to begin addressing it?
2. If you could ask Allah for anything — specifically, boldly, the way Sulayman ﷺ asked — what would you ask for? What do you want to build?
3. Who is someone whose legacy shaped you — someone whose tree you’re sitting under right now? What did they plant in you?

For parents:

1. Have you told your teenager what you are building that will outlast you? Do they know what your sadaqah jariyah is or could be?
2. How do you talk about success in your home — in terms of achievement and recognition, or in terms of genuine contribution and transformation?
3. What tree are you planting together as a family right now?

For discussion together:

1. Read the sadaqah jariyah hadith together. Which of the three forms of ongoing legacy does your family feel most called to? What would it look like to begin building it?
2. What is the gap in your community that your family could be the ones to fill?
3. Who are the people whose du’a we should be making tonight — the ones whose legacy shaped ours?

The bottom line

Your teenager is standing at the beginning of the long game. The seeds they plant now will be growing for decades. The character they build now is the foundation everything else will rest on. The knowledge they pursue, the habits they form, the trees they plant — these are not preliminary to their legacy.

They are their legacy. Beginning now.

Help them plant something worth leaving. Help them ask Allah boldly for what they need to plant it. Help them understand that the shade they leave is already needed — by people they may never meet, in a future they may never see.

That is the long game. And it begins tonight.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 25 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 26 — Taqwa: The Foundation of Everything You Build

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

The Why Behind Our Actions | Night 24 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post What Will You Leave Behind? Legacy in Islam | Night 25 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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Tune into this episode for the answers to all this, and more!

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The post [Podcast] Is Your Sadaqah Paying an Influencer Instead of Going to Charity? | Mufti Abdullah Nana & Dr Shafi Lodhi appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.