What if certain famous moments from the seerah have been misunderstood? A closer reading reveals a Prophet ﷺ of greater dignity and compassion than we sometimes give him credit for.

When Popular Retellings Go Wrong

Many Muslims first encounter the Seerah (the biography of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ) through khutbahs, lectures, short reminders, and simplified retellings. These stories are often told with sincere intentions. Speakers want to make the Seerah vivid, emotional, and memorable. Over time, however, subtle embellishments can accumulate. Tone gets added where the narrations themselves are silent, and sometimes it’s the wrong tone. Motivations are assumed where they don’t exist in the text. Personalities become exaggerated and flattened at the same time. The Prophet ﷺ and his Companions slowly begin to resemble sermon archetypes rather than real human beings.

But Prophets are people too, and so were the Sahabah, and their actions were often more nuanced, compassionate, and reasoned than we give them credit for.

This is most certainly not to accuse scholars or speakers of dishonesty. Most are simply retelling the stories as they themselves inherited them. One popular lecture might say that the Prophet ﷺ was angry at a particular moment, and that gets repeated until it becomes an assumed part of the story. Yet when we return carefully to the original narrations, we often discover something richer, subtler, and more profoundly human than the popular retelling.

The real Seerah does not become less beautiful when stripped of exaggeration. It becomes more believable. More textured. More emotionally intelligent. The Prophet ﷺ does not need theatrical embellishment to inspire awe.

Let’s look at four case studies from the Seerah that illustrate how misinterpretation of emotion or motivations risks flattening the character of the Prophet ﷺand those around him:

1. Khabbab ibn al-Aratt and the “Angry Rebuke.”

Khabbab ibn al-Aratt was among the early Muslims who were tortured in Makkah. He was a slave, employed as a swordsmith. His “owners” pressed red-hot steel bars to his back until his flesh melted and ran. Later, hot iron was applied to his head. His screams could be heard throughout the neighborhood.

He was a teenager. Some say 16 or so, alone with no family.

Yet even with that, he found time to learn and teach the Quran, as evidenced by the famous story in which Umar ibn Al-Khattab was on his way to kill the Prophet ﷺ, and was informed that his own sister was Muslim. He stormed to her house, and learned that indeed she was Muslim – and, after quieting down and opening his mind, met the young man who had been teaching the Quran to his sister and her husband. This was none other than Khabbab. SubhanAllah! This young man had the courage and heart of a thousand men.

Yet the torture began to get to him, until he and others of the Sahabah came to the Prophet ﷺ to beg for relief.

In an authentic narration recorded in Sahih al-Bukhari, Khabbab himself relates:

We complained to the Messenger of Allah ﷺ while he was reclining in the shade of the Ka’bah, resting on a cloak of his. We said, “Will you not seek help for us? Will you not supplicate to Allah for us?”

He said:

“Among those who came before you, a man would be seized, and a pit dug for him in the ground. He would be placed in it, then a saw would be brought and placed upon his head, and he would be cut into two pieces, yet that would not turn him away from his religion. Iron combs would rake through his flesh and bones, yet that would not turn him away from his religion.

By Allah, Allah will complete this matter until a rider travels from Sana’a to Hadramawt, fearing none but Allah and the wolf for his sheep. But you are being hasty.”

Today, this incident is often retold as though the Prophet ﷺ became angry with Khabbab. I have heard this many times: “The Prophet became angry and stood.” Or, “The Prophet became angry and raised his voice.” One frequently hears dramatic descriptions of him sitting upright in irritation, sharply rebuking the Companions for their impatience, or sternly scolding Khabbab despite his suffering.

Astaghfirullah. La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah. Consider the character of the Messenger of Allah ﷺ. He was a deeply compassionate man – a mercy to the worlds. He was moved and touched by the plight of his Companions and used to make dua for them. Does it seem believable that he would become angry with a young, powerless man, a boy, who is being tortured in a way that would break 99.99% of human beings?

Step Back and Read More Carefully

Go back to the narration. It does not state that the Prophet ﷺ became angry. Nor does it say that his face changed color. It does not describe a harsh tone, nor any severe rebuke. Those details are supplied later by storytellers and speakers, perhaps unintentionally, in order to heighten the emotional intensity of the moment.

When we step back and read the narration carefully, another interpretation emerges, one more consistent with the Prophet’s known character: he was comforting and strengthening his followers.

If you think of it in these terms, it falls into place. Imagine, perhaps, the Prophet ﷺ taking Khabbab’s hand gently, and saying, essentially:

I get it. You are suffering badly. Take comfort in the fact that you are not the first. Worse was done to those before you, and they remained steadfast. But don’t worry, I assure you that Islam will prevail. There will come a time when we control all of this peninsula, and safety will reign. You will not have to endure this forever.

And when he said, “You are being hasty,” this is a gentle correction born from compassion and perspective. There is a difference between correcting someone and becoming angry.

I’m not saying it happened exactly that way. Rather, I’m offering a more plausible way to interpret the mood of the moment.

Read the narration again now. The emotional movement points toward reassurance rather than rebuke. The Prophet ﷺ does not belittle Khabbab’s pain. He does not tell him to stop complaining. He does not accuse him of weak faith. Instead, he gives him historical perspective, spiritual meaning, and hope.

Sometimes, without realizing it, speakers import harshness into the Seerah where the texts themselves are measured and dignified. The Prophet was a compassionate man who loved his followers. Let’s keep that in mind in our readings.

2. The Dumping of Refuse on the Prophet’s Back

Among the most painful incidents of the Makkan period is the famous narration in which the Prophet ﷺ was praying near the Ka’bah when some of the Quraysh decided to humiliate him publicly.

In the authentic narration recorded in Sahih al-Bukhari, Abdullah ibn Mas’ud relates that while the Prophet ﷺ was in prostration in front of the Ka’bah, Uqbah ibn Abi Mu’ayt – responding to a challenge by Abu Jahl – brought the entrails and filth of a slaughtered camel and dumped it on the Prophet’s back and shoulders while the Quraysh laughed among themselves.

Ibn Mas’ud watched the scene unfold, but he – as a person of low social status, without any tribal support in Makkah – was powerless to intervene. Someone went to fetch the Prophet’s daughter Fatimah , who was roughly ten years old at the time. She came rushing to remove the filth from her father.

At that point, the Prophet ﷺ stood and supplicated against seven of the leading men of Quraysh who had participated in the abuse, naming them one by one, which instilled great fear in them. (Ibn Mas’ud comments that he later witnessed every one of those men killed at the battle of Badr).

This incident is often retold today with additional dramatic details. One frequently hears that the refuse was so heavy that the Prophet ﷺ was physically unable to rise from prostration, trapped helplessly beneath the weight until Fatimah arrived to rescue him.

Yes? Have you heard this? “The refuse was so heavy that he could not stand up.”

What? Says who? The narration itself does not say this. It says only that the Prophet ﷺ remained in prostration until Fatimah came and removed the filth.

The Prophet ﷺ was not physically frail. The Seerah repeatedly describes his strength, endurance, and resilience. He wrestled the famous strongman Rukanah and defeated him. During the digging of the trench at Khandaq, he worked alongside the companions with his own hands under brutal conditions of hunger and exhaustion. When Salman al-Farisi sought to purchase his freedom, the Prophet ﷺ personally participated in planting the palm trees required for his emancipation. This was not a man unaccustomed to physical hardship or exertion.

Are these speakers saying that Uqbah was strong enough to carry the entrails, and ten-year-old Fatimah was strong enough to remove it, but the Prophet ﷺ was not strong enough to shrug it off if he wished?

Then why didn’t he do so?

What Actually Makes Sense

A more natural explanation emerges directly from the character of the Prophet ﷺ: he chose to remain calmly in prayer despite the abuse, rather than abruptly reacting to the humiliation his enemies intended to provoke. He was a dignified man, not shaken by insult or mockery. In prayer, his connection with Allah was absolute. Do you really think he would have broken his prayer and jumped up, outraged?

When we understand that he chose to remain in prayer, the moment takes on a completely different emotional tone. Instead of a scene of helpless panic, it becomes a scene of extraordinary composure. The Quraysh attempt to degrade him publicly, yet he remains focused upon his worship until the prayer is complete, or until his young daughter arrives, pushing her way through the onlookers, upset but undaunted; at which point he stands to show her the proper way to respond to such insults: by invoking Allah . He thereby complements her strength with his own, as is fitting, considering that Aishah bint Abi Bakr later said:

“I have not seen anyone more closely resemble the disposition, mannerism, and characteristics of the Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, than his daughter Fatimah, may Allah honor her countenance. If she entered his home, the Prophet would stand for her, take her by the hand, kiss her, and seat her in his place. If the Prophet entered her home, she would stand for him, take him by the hand, kiss him, and seat him in her place.” – Sunan Abī Dāwūd 5217, Sahih by Al-Albani

I did not witness these events any more than the modern speakers I have criticized. My interpretation is just that: another interpretation. Yet it is one that – I would argue – is more consistent with the character and dignity of the Prophet ﷺ. If we understand him as having chosen to remain in prayer, the suffering he experienced is still real. The humiliation is real. But the Prophet ﷺ does not appear as humiliated by the cruelty of Quraysh. Even in moments of public abuse, he is a man of immense self-control and inner strength, as befitting the final Prophet and Messenger ﷺ to humanity.

 

[Come back next week for Part 2 – The Old Woman Who Could Not Enter Jannah]

* * *

 

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:

Reconstructing Our Understanding of the Sīrah

Rethinking How We Teach The Topic Of Sīrah In K-12 Settings

 

The post Prophets Are People: Rethinking Misinterpreted Events From The Seerah [Part 1 of 2] appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Mouin Rabbani on Israel’s collapsing public image, Also Hizballah’s FPV drone videos and Israel’s Eid massacres in Gaza.

Tackling financial instruments which aid a genocide.

Israel kills hundreds but envoy blames Hamas for negotiations impasse.

As Darius embraces the dangerous freedom of caravan life, success and adventure cannot erase the ache of the home and family he left behind.

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

* * *

Training to Exhaustion

I arrived before dawn at the Five Stars western compound, expecting a few drills and lectures before being handed a uniform and sent onto the roads. After all, I’d already won a fighting tournament, right?

First we were all de-loused, then given physicals. Upon learning of my cracked tooth, the screener gave me a note and sent me to a dentist two streets over, who applied a resin to seal my tooth. Then I returned to training.

It did not consist of easy drills and lectures. Instead, Sergeant Karim nearly killed us.

There were twenty-three candidates on the first day. To my surprise, five of these were women, including Deng Weili, the young woman who’d won the archery competition. Five Star apparently cared far more about ability than background..

“I don’t care if you squat to pee or not,” Sergeant Karim declared on the first day. “I don’t give a crap if you come from merchant or warrior families, or if you crawled out from under a rock. I don’t care if you are Muslim, Buddhist, Confucianist or if you pray to your own left foot. I don’t even care if you are a Korean lunatic, Tibetan navel-gazer or Uighur yak driver. All I care about is whether you can perform. The second I see weakness in you, the instant you say, ‘I cannot do it,’ you’re gone.”

Sifu Lu was not among the trainees. He apparently fought in the tournament only for status; he had a thriving school and I supposed he did not need the caravan guard job.

By the end of the second week, only eleven remained, myself and Deng Weili included. Sergeant Karim believed in exhausting men and women until their true character emerged.

“If you cannot function while tired,” he barked repeatedly, “then you cannot function at all.”

Weili made me nervous. She was nineteen years old, with intelligent dark eyes and an expression that often suggested she was privately amused by everyone around her. She wore her hair tied neatly braided and moved with quiet confidence whether holding a bow, climbing a wagon or cleaning horse tack. When she was around, I felt like I could not put my feet right.

There was another woman survivor as well. Her name was Meilin, which meant beautiful and delicate, which was funny because she was in her thirties, ruddy faced and a bit chubby, yet as muscular as an ox. I didn’t know if she grew up in a wushu school or what, but she could do cartwheels and flips, and could wield a variety of weapons with skill, including the three-sectioned staff and the broadsword. Yet she looked like a farm woman. Watching her was like encountering a young piglet, thinking how cute it was, and seeing it transform into a tiger before your eyes.

Fortunately, there was little time for male-female interactions, or any socialization at all. We recruits rose before dawn each morning. Out of the eleven, seven were Muslim, and were given the opportunity to pray Fajr. Then we ran the warehouse perimeter carrying sandbags on our shoulders. After prayer came conditioning drills: climbing ropes, hauling crates, lifting wagon wheels, carrying injured men on stretchers and pushing overloaded carts through mud pits behind the stables.

The Real Instruction

After breakfast the real instruction began.

Environmental awareness was Karim’s obsession.

“A caravan guard who notices danger after the attack begins is already dead.”

So he trained us to observe constantly:

• disturbed mud beside roads
• unnatural silence in forests
• travelers who avoided eye contact
• broken branches
• missing birdsong
• fresh horse dung
• suspicious movement on ridgelines
• hidden weapons beneath cloaks

Several times daily he deliberately tested us. One moment we might be marching normally; the next he would suddenly bark:

“How many blue doors did we pass?”

“Which horse is limping?”

“What was the innkeeper’s daughter carrying?”

“Who was watching us from the alley?”

Or we’d be marching through the forest, and a volley of dull arrows would come flying from an unseen location – once from archers perched high in the surrounding trees. These arrows could still bruise and cut, and in once case broke a man’s arm. He was not eliminated from the program, but was put on leave, and would have to repeat the training from the beginning when he recovered. So we were down to ten.

Wrong answers to questions earned punishment – usually running. There was always more running.

We learned hand signals for silence, danger, retreat, ambush and changing formation. Karim expected us to communicate almost wordlessly while moving.

“The roads are noisy,” he said. “People panic. Horses scream. Rain falls. Learn to use your eyes and hands.”

Group combat proved even harder. Individually many of the trainees were competent fighters. Together we were a disaster. Men collided with one another, blocked each other’s strikes or line of sight, broke formation and forgot their assignments entirely.

Karim beat us across the shoulders with a bamboo rod whenever we drifted out of position.

“You are guards,” he roared. “Not opera performers!”

The exception was a man in his thirties named Ahmed. He was slight of build, but with muscles as hard as stones sliding beneath his skin. He was a rare veteran of the war against the invaders, highly experienced in all battlefield tactics and maneuvers. Very little in the training program was new to him, and I was surprised they even put him through it. He was also a faithful Muslim, and would rally the rest of us to pray together every day. I made it a point to stay near him in training, watch him and learn from him.

Another vital lesson was that the merchants and cargo always came first. This was the prime responsibility of a Five Stars guard.

“If a guard dies protecting the wagons, that is acceptable,” Karim shouted. “If the wagons burn because a guard chased glory, he has failed.”

We practiced defensive wagon circles, escort formations and retreat drills. We learned how to shield the caravan merchants during attacks and how to prioritize wounded horses versus damaged cargo.

Horse Care and a Bad Companion

Horse care itself consumed astonishing amounts of time.

I had cared for and occasionally ridden the donkeys on the farm, but had never ridden a horse in my life. Suddenly I had to learn horse feeding schedules, hoof cleaning, recognizing sickness, repairing tack, calming frightened animals, and spotting exhaustion before collapse.

“An abused horse remembers,” Karim warned us. “And a dead horse can delay the entire caravan.”

I learned why Ahmed, our unofficial Imam, had been forced to go through this program: he had no experience with horses. He’d been an infantry soldier, and never even brushed or shoed a horse. It was odd to see this battle-hardened veteran shying away from a rearing horse. I showed him how to approach an animal gently, and speak to it softly to win its trust.

These concepts did not sit well with one of the recruits, a sallow-faced, mean young man named Kuangren, whose name meant madman. I supposed that was a street nickname that he was proud of. He was the son of a noble, skinny and bad tempered, and he always whipped the horses too hard.

“They’re stupid beasts,” he would complain. “You have to show them who’s boss.”

In spite of Sergeant Karim‘s earlier lecture about absolute egalitarianism, Kuangren often seemed to get a pass. Sure, the Sarge often shouted at him, but he never put his hands on the sullen young man. It was said that Kuangren had been excommunicated from his rich family for excessive drinking, gambling and consorting with prostitutes. He was arrogant and did not work well with others. I had to admit that he was good with a bow and a sword. Still, I found it baffling that he hadn’t been cut.

Afternoons were devoted to languages, customs and etiquette. That surprised me, as I had expected lessons in fighting, not lectures on understanding cultures. But Karim insisted: “A stupid guard starts wars. A smart one smooths over conflict.”

We learned basic greetings from neighboring regions, local taboos, negotiation etiquette and religious customs.

“In some places,” Karim explained, “showing the sole of your foot is an insult. Elsewhere refusing tea is offensive. Somewhere else touching a man’s wife, even bumping into her by accident in the marketplace, might get your throat cut. Learn the difference.”

One trainee laughed during the lecture.

Karim expelled him from the program. “Go live ignorant,” he said.

Nine of us were left. Then a boy, the youngest of us at only 14, loosed an arrow by mistake and shot another recruit in the leg. The boy was fired, and the other one was given leave.

Yet another young man became violently ill after eating or drinking something bad. He continued to waste away until he was sent to a Five Star medical clinic.

Good At Everything

Deng Weili, the archer girl, was somehow even more intimidating up close than she had been on the tournament field. She was good at everything, and Karim clearly respected her, which meant the rest of us suffered for it.

“Observe Deng!” he barked repeatedly. “She notices things before you idiots step in them!”

The other trainees grumbled openly about this. Not me though, I admired the girl.

Unfortunately, whenever Weili spoke directly to me, my brain stopped functioning. Once she asked me to hand her a water bucket and I nearly dropped it onto my own foot. Another time she caught me staring at her archery practice and raised one eyebrow.

“You trying to put the evil eye on me?”

“I was only observing your form,” I replied.

“And what conclusions did you reach?”

“That you rarely miss.”

She smirked slightly. “You are more right than you know, Bridge Boy.”

I had no idea how to answer that, beyond to say, “Don’t call me Bridge Boy.”

She walked away shaking her head while several trainees laughed openly at me.

At night we slept in long warehouse barracks smelling of sweat, leather and horse blankets. Men snored and shouted in their sleep. Bruises covered my body constantly. My hands blistered. Twice I considered quitting, but each time I remembered sleeping beneath the bridge. Besides, if the women could make it, so could I.

Occasionally Shah Suliman visited the compound to confer privately with Karim. The two would stand overlooking the training yard discussing routes, supply reports and candidates while Karim gestured toward us with visible irritation. Suliman never approached me directly, but more than once I noticed him watching me thoughtfully while I trained.

Six of us graduated: myself, Ahmed, Meilin the chubby farm fighter, the nasty youth Kuangren, Deng Weili, and a tall, muscular man named Longwei, who was thought stupid because he spoke slowly, but who – if you took the time to converse with him – was well travelled and thoughtful.

Caravan Work

Within a month the six of us were traveling with caravans as armed guards. At first we were assigned only to local routes between Deep Harbor and the surrounding provinces, where the roads were dangerous but still reasonably well patrolled.

Sergeant Karim rarely traveled with us himself, but his presence lingered constantly in our minds. Any time someone failed to notice a suspicious rider, a wobbly axle, or a poorly secured crate, one of the others would mutter in Karim’s growling voice, “Use your eyes, idiot,” and everyone would laugh nervously.

Our group settled into familiar roles surprisingly quickly.

Ahmed naturally became the steady center of us all. When arguments broke out over routes or guard rotations, he calmed them. As it happened, all of us new guards were Muslims except for Kuangren and Meilin. There was a scattering of Muslims among the veteran guards as well. When prayer time came, Ahmed called us together for salat quietly no matter how exhausted we were. Longwei called the adhaan in his slow, steady style, and we each put down a blanket, no matter where we were.

Ahmed had seen enough real warfare that ordinary danger did not excite him much. Once, after we fought off robbers along a forest road, I found him sitting calmly beside a wagon afterward, patiently sewing a tear in his sleeve while everyone else still argued excitedly about the fight.

Meilin was perhaps the strangest among us. Around campfires she complained constantly about sore feet, bad food and cold weather, sounding every bit the weary farmwife she resembled. Then robbers would appear and suddenly she became terrifying. More than once I saw bandits recoil in genuine alarm after she shattered a spear shaft with her three-sectioned staff while charging straight into them screaming curses.

Longwei spoke so slowly that strangers often assumed him dim-witted. In truth he had a strong mind. He could identify accents from distant provinces, predict weather changes and accurately estimate the value of cargo. During long rides he told fascinating stories about foreign ports and mountain kingdoms he had visited in his youth.

Kuangren remained unpleasant. He drank too much whenever we entered towns, gambled recklessly and treated locals badly. Yet he fought with real courage when attacks came. I could not deny that. During one ambush he took an arrow through the shoulder and still managed to shoot his attacker from horseback before collapsing. Afterwards, while Ahmed stitched the wound, Kuangren cursed continuously and accused us all of incompetence.

Deng Weili, meanwhile, continued making my life difficult merely by existing.

She rode with impossible confidence and could loose arrows accurately even from horseback at full gallop. Merchants adored her because she was polite and intelligent. The rest of us respected her because she never panicked under pressure. During one tense crossing through flooded roads, she spotted hidden movement in the reeds nearly a full minute before anyone else, giving us enough warning to prepare for the attempted ambush.

“You see?” she told me afterward while checking her bowstring. “That’s why Karim likes me more than you.”

“I think he just likes the turn of your ankles.” This was a cruel thing to say, and completely untrue, but it popped out of my mouth unbidden.

Weili glared at me for a moment, opened her mouth as if to berate me, then her face softened into a sly smile. “Oh, does he? That’s what he likes?” She walked away, leaving me standing red-faced.

Caravan work might seem glamorous to some, but it was hard work. Harder than working the docks, even. We escorted merchants, medicines, textiles and food shipments through increasingly dangerous roads. Refugees, deserters and starving men prowled the countryside. Rarely, robbers attacked openly. Other times they followed us for days waiting for weakness.

Riding a wagon for hours left me feeling like my bones were dice being rattled in a cup. There were times, passing through dangerous areas, when the caravan stopped neither for sleep nor meals, and we prayed and ate on the move. The constant need for vigilance wore on a man’s mind. I noticed Kuangren, for example, becoming increasingly irritable and paranoid. Once he shouted, “Ambush!” and let loose several quick arrows, only to find that he had killed a squirrel. Everyone laughed uproariously, and he sulked for days afterward.

An Unexpected Visit

Every time a caravan returned to Deep Harbor, we were given several days off. With the money I was now making, I rented a permanent room above a noodle shop near the western canal district. It was a tiny room with a narrow bed, cracked wash basin and boarded up window that rattled in the wind. The chatter from the noodle shop came through the walls, vendors shouted in the street outside, and roaches scurried across the floor.

It was my home. I accepted this fact. I missed my past, I missed Haaris and Far Away, but this was my life now. New adventures opened before me. Still, there was a part of me that didn’t know what I was doing anymore, or why. I was lonely. I wrote this feeling off as fear of something new, and ignored it.

I bought sturdy boots. Better clothing. A winter cloak lined with wool. I repaired and sharpened my dao regularly, oiling the blade with almost religious care. Every now and then I returned to the bridge with donations of food and warm clothing. There, with my old riverside companions, I felt comfortable and whole, for a while.

Sometimes, when we were given leave, I followed my colleagues to see what their lives were like. One by one, I learned their secrets: Kuangren immediately vanished into gambling houses and brothels. Longwei visited teahouses and storytellers, and fought in amateur wrestling competitions for money. Meilin always ate enormous meals at restaurants, then went to stay with a woman who looked like her sister. Ahmed spent much of his free time at the masjid. As for Weili, she went to an archery range where she practiced shooting for hours, then to a little rooming house on the other side of town from my own. I wondered, did she not have a family? Was she an orphan too?

Having learned these things, I realized that the knowledge meant nothing and did not ease my loneliness. I stopped following them.

I was in my little room, eating noodles purchased from the shop downstairs, when a firm knock sounded at the door.

I felt a rush of excitement. Who could it be? Maybe one of my work mates had come to visit?

I opened the door and found Zihan Ma standing before me. He looked different. There was gray in his hair that had not been there before, and new lines creased his forehead. Either I had grown or he had shrunk, for I stood the same height as him now. He wore walking boots and a medical bag slung over one shoulder.

What I noticed most, however, was that his eyes were tired.

A Grievous Error

“Uncle!” I blurted out. “How did you find me?”

He took a slow, deep breath. “I have been looking for you, Darius. For many months I have looked.”

“You have?” I remembered, some months ago, seeing him standing in front of the masjid, watching the faces of the men as they entered. “But why?”

His eyes met mine. “I judged you wrongly. I committed a grievous error. I ask Allah’s forgiveness and yours. We miss you. We want you to come home.”

This speech, short as it was, carried such weight that I took a step backward, then another, until I found myself sitting in the only chair in the room, beside a small table.

“May I enter?” Zihan Ma asked.

I waved to him to enter.

“May I sit on the bed?”

I nodded dumbly.

“What…” I paused to gather my thoughts. “So you now do not believe that I stole the bracelets and the gifts?”

“I know you did not.”

“How do you know?”

He swallowed. “Your Nai Nai sent a letter by courier, only a week after you met her that day. Those bracelets had been locked in a secure chest. She confronted her husband, and he admitted that he ordered the servant to plant them in your pack. His justification was that you were a bad seed, and it would be better for the family to get rid of you.”

I tilted my head back and looked at the wooden ceiling rafters. “So now you know I’m not a bad seed, is that it?”

“I never thought that.”

“What if… What if Nai Nai had not written that letter?”

Zihan Ma sighed. “I made a mistake, Darius. Have you never made a mistake that you regret deeply, and that you are ashamed of?”

I gave him a blank look. “Not really.”

He winced at that. “Haaris misses you. You’re his brother. And he has to do all the farm work by himself again. It’s hard for him.”

That hurt me. “That’s not fair.”

“Your Lee Ayi talks about you every day.”

I stood suddenly. “I have a new life now. I have to go forward, not backward.”

Zihan Ma stood as well, pushing on his knees with his palms. “Our home is your home,” he said. “You can return anytime, to live or to visit. You don’t even have to knock. We love you. I… Well, I love you.”

This nearly made me break into tears but I held myself rigid. Zihan Ma turned to leave.

“Uncle. How is Far Away?”

He smiled. “He runs, climbs walls, suns himself atop the house. Bao Bao can’t keep up. He even jumps onto the donkey’s back sometimes. Alhamdulillah for all His mercies upon us. The world is built upon rahmah, Darius. Mercy. Nothing else. I forgot that for one moment. I am sorry.”

When he left, and the door was firmly closed, I fell onto my bed and wept.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 16 – Five Star Trading Company

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

 

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

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

Related:

Kill the Courier |Part 1 – Hiding in Plain Sight

Moonshot: A Novel of Marriage, Love and Cryptocurrency

The post Far Away [Part 15] – Caravan Guard appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The other day I heard the former British prime minister Tony Blair being interviewed on Radio 4, twenty minutes after the more recent former PM Rishi Sunak being interviewed on the same channel. Blair was promoting a long essay he had written about what he sees as the directionless state of the Labour government and the essay and interview has been described as a repudiation of everything he stood for when he was PM. Both, however, eagerly promoted something they called the “AI revolution”, and when the interviewer put it to Blair that he was advancing the interests of the tech giants that fund his think-tanks and his pal Larry Ellison (of Oracle), he said that he promoted it because it was great technology. I remarked on my socials after hearing it that Blair had not learned from the principal mistake of his time in office, of putting the needs of business over everything else including the needs of ordinary people (a major example being opening the doors in 2004 to east European workers, an action not taken by the rest of the EU as had been the case previously when countries with weaker economies joined, a disastrous mistake which ultimately cost us our EU membership), which goes some way to explaining why Boris Johnson could get away with saying “f*** business”, a remark which would have sunk any mainstream politician under previous Tory governments. 

In his essay, he posits that “the technology revolution led by developments in artificial intelligence … will change everything”, that “governing in the age of AI will be the principal challenge”:

There is no point in debating whether this technological revolution is a good or bad thing. Just know it is a ‘thing’. In fact, it is ‘the thing’. It will displace jobs, though creating new ones, but no one yet knows the full consequence. Companies and countries will rise or fall on the back of it. It will revolutionise the private sector and should in time revolutionise public services and government. Yet people in most countries, including Britain, have no idea what is about to hit them.

What is a revolution? Usually the term means an upheaval that leads to major, and at least partly positive, social and political change. In practice, ‘revolutions’ are often the result of military coups, palace coups or civil wars and sometimes bring about regimes as tyrannical as those they replaced (e.g. Russia). The recent rise of a particular type of AI may seem revolutionary to those able to generate content easily that previously would have taken imagination and skill, but to many of us it feels more like a reactionary coup in the public space and takes power out of the hands of ordinary people and puts it in the hands of tech giants. Its ability to impersonate a human being, on the face of it more convincingly than anything previously available, is a gift to fraudsters and other species of criminals and scoundrels; it frees companies and other large bodies, including government departments and local councils, from having to engage with their clients on a human-to-human level. To give an example, when trying to complain about the poor signal on my mobile phone in my local town centre, I first took to Twitter, on which there was previously an account run by actual people; now the responses are by a chatbot, which told me to call 150, the network’s customer service number. That offered me no way of talking to a human being about the problem, only a computerised menu, which ultimately told me to use the provider’s mobile app, which told me there was no problem with the signal at my home address, which is true. That was not my complaint; my complaint was about the centre of the nearest town, which has had poor signal for years.

AI has been described by Cory Doctorow (of Enshittification fame) as “the asbestos in the walls of our technological society, stuffed there with wild abandon by a finance sector and tech monopolists run amok”, something that will in the future be ripped out of systems as the mineral was from buildings. The social sphere, both the platforms that have corralled social interaction online and the video sharing spaces, have been filled with junk text that is full of inaccuracy, junk videos and poorly-enhanced pictures, often portraying a post that was never real. Schools and colleges fight to make sure nobody gets qualifications on the basis of auto-generated and plagiarised essays while students find that they are penalised because their work is misidentified as AI because of some stylistic detail such as the “em-dash” (rather than the obvious inaccuracies that are normally the red flag for AI-generated text; people assume that computers do not make mistakes, the same assumption — baked into law — that led to the Post Office accounting scandal). Job applicants are now being screened by AI before a human being even reads their application, often complaining of getting no response at all. AI requires large data centres, which require water for cooling, which comes out of the public water supply, often at the expense of locals’ domestic water. It has disrupted the chip industry, resulting in one major supplier of consumer memory withdrawing from that market as it is more profitable to supply the AI industry.

Some will say that the poor output of AI in 2026 is because it is new, and that refinements will result in better output in the future. A mineral does not change — asbestos is still asbestos — but technology does. Maybe this will mean better customer service, but maybe it will also mean fakes so convincing that we cannot trust a picture or video anymore, if we can even now. But to bring it back to Tony Blair, it is noticeable that his essay makes no reference to regulating the use of AI such that it does not become a blight on the public sphere, online or off, or an obstacle to or substitute for public or customer service; rather, he talks of “governing in the age of AI” as if the changes wrought by it were inevitable, demanding that the planning system be sacrificed to it and North Sea oil and gas resources be thrown at it. We must make it compulsory for large companies to employ customer service staff who live here and can communicate with British customers fluently, and the same goes for central and local government bodies, and not allow companies to sack people en masse in favour of letting AI do their job cheaply, but invariably worse and less satisfyingly and more frustratingly for the customer or the citizen. We must not cave into demands for data centres which will put a drain on public resources, especially the water supply. In a democracy, AI must remain “on tap, not on top” (if tolerated at all) and its demands never allowed to trump people’s needs. British politicians have a poor record of striking such balances; they now have the challenge of finding ways to employ AI in ways that are beneficial to society rather than to those who merely seek power or profit and care nothing about its environmental dangers, resource hunger or the technology’s own enormous potential for harm.

The two hatreds have rarely been seen as related dangers. But they overlap even as Muslim and Jewish communities are pitted against each other

The shooting at a mosque and school in San Diego has forced Muslim Americans to ask themselves painful questions. After the killing of three people in an armed attack last week, they now wonder if other places of worship will be targeted next, whether they can still send children to school and trust that they will return home unharmed, and whether they can still safely walk the streets as people identifiable by their faith.

These are also questions that Jewish communities are reckoning with, most recently after the stabbings in London’s Golders Green neighborhood. Over the past three years, against the backdrop of wars in the Middle East, antisemitism and anti-Muslim hate have flared across the west, with each rising to record levels. But these two hatreds have rarely been seen as related dangers, let alone confronted as a common threat to societies.

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Israel building earthen barriers, military bases inside Gaza during so-called “ceasefire.”

The New York mayor scored a range of responses attending Eid prayers in an outfit combining football and faith

Since Arsenal won the Premier League for the first time in 22 years this month, the visibility of the club’s shirts has soared, with celebrities including Romeo Beckham and the singer Mahalia wearing them.

One particularly notable fan moment occurred when Zohran Mamdani, the mayor of New York, wore a kurta made out of the team’s 2025-26 away kit to attend Eid al-Adha prayers in the Bronx.

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Rising heat in Saudi Arabia threatens millions of Muslim pilgrims – but cutting fossil fuels would keep it safer

Global heating has “fundamentally altered” the climate of Mecca and is exposing millions of hajj pilgrims to extreme and dangerous heat even in months outside summer, new analysis has found.

Carbon dioxide emissions from fossil fuels means scorching temperatures of 40C (104F) are now regularly experienced in May, the study showed. In past decades, such peaks would only have occurred in summer. The researchers said that hajj, the annual Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca, would take place amid dangerous heat almost all year round by the end of the century without a rapid transition away from fossil fuels.

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People around the world gathered to celebrate Eid al-Adha, or the Festival of Sacrifice, from Mecca in Saudi Arabia to India-controlled Kashmir.

This is the second major holiday in Islam, and approximately 2 billion Muslims worldwide offered prayers as a sign of devotion, adherence and unity.

In Gaza, people gathered for prayer despite the vast majority of residents still being displaced and living in tents, with some struggling to find joy in the occasion

• Muslims gather for Eid al-Adha in Indonesia, the Philippines and Malaysia – in pictures

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Roqayah Chamseddine reports from Lebanon. Jon Elmer analyzes Hizballah’s drones. Ali Abunimah debunks a new report claiming mass rapes.

Eid Mubarak and Hajj Mabroor to all our readers and your families, from the MuslimMatters team!

May Allah accept our worship, our sacrifices, and increase us in remembrance of Him in these days.

Related:

The Best Actions for Eid al-Adh’ha [Imam Dawud Walid]

‘Eid Al-Adha: Important Reminders

The post Eid al-Adh’ha 1447 AH appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

New book details how “anti-Semitism” was weaponized against Jeremy Corbyn.

Runoff between John Cornyn and Ken Paxton features ads and legal disputes targeting Texas Muslims

In the bitter and expensive US Senate runoff between John Cornyn, the incumbent, and Ken Paxton, the Texas attorney general, the state’s Muslim community has been a frequent target for campaign ads and legal challenges.

Both candidates have tried to portray the other as either too soft on the supposed threat of Islam or insufficiently aggressive toward Muslim institutions.

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Allah will look at His creation and boast of them to the angels. He will ask: What do these servants of mine want? And then, before they finish asking, He will answer their dua. This happens on the day of Arafah, and you can be among those He is talking about. If the first days slipped by unnoticed and for many of us they did, Arafah is Allah’s final and greatest offer of this season. Do not miss it.

When Allah swears an oath in His Book, it signals immense significance. In Surah al-Fajr, Allah swears by the dawn and by the ten nights. The majority of the mufassireen including Ibn Abbas, Ibn Kathir, and Ibn Taymiyyah identified these ten nights specifically as the first ten days of Dhul Hijjah, not the last ten nights of Ramadan. Ibn Hajar al-‘Asqalani in Fath al-Bari (the commentary on Sahih al-Bukhari) noted that what makes these days uniquely precious is that no other time of year brings together all the great acts of worship simultaneously: prayer, fasting, charity and Hajj converge in these ten days alone, and that convergence is what elevates them above everything else, including Ramadan.

Reflect on the Past Year

There is something else about these days that we rarely pause to acknowledge. Dhul Hijjah is the final month of the Islamic calendar. The year is closing. Before the rush of these blessed days pulls you forward, let them also turn you inward, toward an honest account of how the year was spent, which sins have accumulated, which obligations were neglected, which relationships were damaged. The best deeds in the best days of the year deserve to be paired with a sincere intention to enter the next year differently.

Many Muslims become busy with celebrations, gatherings, and preparing the feast for Eid, but the righteous predecessors viewed the end of the year very differently. They saw it as the closing of a personal record, a chapter of deeds that would never return until the Day of Judgment. Our most powerful reflection should be: Who have I become this year? Not what was earned, posted, achieved, or purchased, but what changed within the soul. Did the prayers become stronger or weaker? Did the Qur’an become more beloved or more neglected to us? Did sins quietly become habits? The scholars often said that one of the clearest signs of Allah wanting good for a person is steady growth in obedience and a heart that begins to feel uneasy with sin. Ibn al-Qayyim wrote extensively in Al-Jawab al-Kafi that sins darken the heart slowly until a person no longer feels their weight. The end of the Islamic year is therefore a crucial time to sit alone and honestly audit the state of one’s heart before Allah.

And alongside repentance, bring gratitude. How many unseen disasters did Allah shield you from this year? How many duas were quietly answered? How many times did He conceal your faults while still holding the door open? Ibn Rajab in Lataif al-Ma’arif warned that the greatest loss is reaching a sacred season without internal transformation. Gratitude softens what guilt alone cannot. Enter Arafah with both the humility of someone who knows what they’ve done, and the hope of someone who knows Who they’re standing before.

Gear up for the best day of your life

The Prophet ﷺ testified that these are the best days of this world. Ibn Abbas narrated: ‘There are no days in which righteous deeds are more beloved to Allah than these ten days’. The companions asked, ‘Not even jihad, ya Rasulullah?’ He ﷺ replied: ‘Not even jihad, except for a man who goes out risking his life and wealth and returns with nothing.'” (Bukhari)

‘Whoever cannot perform Hajj should magnify these ten days and fill them with good deeds at home, for they are more beloved to Allah than even the days of Ramadan.’ (Ibn Rajab)

Among the deeds we should prioritise are:

1. Fasting: It is Sunnah to fast the ninth day of Dhul Hijjah. Fasting is one of the best of deeds, and these are the best of days.
2. Raise your voice with dhikr: The Prophet ﷺ said: ‘There are no days greater in the sight of Allah than these ten days, so increase in them the Tahleel, the Takbeer, and the Tahmeed.” (Ahmad)

   Ibn ‘Umar and Abu Hurayrah would go out to the marketplace during these ten days reciting Takbir aloud, and the people would follow their practice.

3. Give Sadaqah: The Prophet ﷺ said: ‘Charity extinguishes sinful deeds just as water extinguishes fire.’ (Ibn Majah) And if charity extinguishes sins, then these are the days to pour the most water because sins in sacred seasons carry heavier weight, and they deprive the heart of the very forgiveness it came here to receive.

The Day of Arafah

The day the entire season builds toward is the Day of Arafah. It was the day Allah bestowed upon this Ummah its greatest gift: He perfected the religion of Islam and completed His favour upon us.

When the verse ‘This day I have perfected your religion for you” (Surah Ma’idah, verse 3) was revealed, a Jewish man said to Umar ibn al-Khattab: ‘If this verse had been revealed to us, we would have taken that day as a festival.’ Umar responded, ‘We know exactly which day it was revealed, and we honour it every year. It was Arafah and for those standing before Allah on that plain, it already carries the joy of Eid.’

The Prophet ﷺ said: There is no day in which Allah sets free more slaves from the Hellfire than the Day of Arafah (Muslim). The Prophet ﷺ told us the best supplication is the supplication of Arafah. And the best thing ever said on that day by him ﷺ and all the Prophets before him (Tirmidhi):

ا إِلَهَ إِلَّا اللهُ ، وَحْدَهُ لَا شَرِيكَ لَهُ ، لَهُ الْمُلْكُ وَلَهُ الْحَمْدُ ، وهُوَ عَلَى كُلِّ شَيْءٍ قَدِيرٌ

Abdullah ibn al-Mubarak came to Sufyan al-Thawri on the eve of Arafah and found him weeping on his knees. He asked: ‘Who is in the worst condition among this gathering?’ Sufyan replied ‘The one who thinks Allah will not forgive him’. That is the only barrier. Allah already knows your sins. He already promised forgiveness. ‘O My servants who have transgressed against their own souls, do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins. Truly, He is the All-Forgiving, the Most Merciful.’

The Day That Makes the Year

The year is almost over. The days you were given, the ones spent well and the ones that slipped through your fingers and the ones you would rather forget are drawing close. And in His mercy, Allah did not end your year in silence. He ended it with Arafah. With a day on which He draws near, boasts of His servants to the angels, and forgives before they finish asking. You may have entered this year with intentions that never became actions, with sins that became habits, with a heart that drifted further than you meant it to. Bring all of it to this day. The repentance, the gratitude, the grief over what was lost, and the hope of what can still be written. Arafah is not a reward for those who had a good year rather It is a mercy for everyone. Do not let it pass while you are distracted. Stand before Allah wherever you are, with your hands raised and your heart honest. He is already listening. He was always listening. And today, of all the days of the year, He is closest.

Related:

Hajj Reflections: In Arafah with Allah

Yaser Birjas | The Days of Hajj Series | The 9th of Dhul Hijjah

The post Arafah: The Door That Opens Once a Year appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Remembering a Muslim American soldier who fought Nazi Germany in World War II and never came home.

An “M” for Muslim

At most army induction stations during World War II, soldiers could choose one of three religious identifications for their dog tags: Catholic, Protestant, or Jew. For Muslims entering military service, there was often no place for their faith at all.

One member of the small Muslim community in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Hassein Sheronick, reportedly spent half a day persuading army officials to stamp a single letter on his identification tag: “M” for Muslim. Another veteran from the same congregation, Abdullah Igram, never succeeded. Years later, the *Des Moines Register* quoted him recalling what he told an officer who denied the request that: “in fighting for democracy it would seem a soldier should have the right to die identified with his own faith.”

The men making those arguments were part of a small but well-established Muslim community in Cedar Rapids whose members often operated neighborhood grocery stores across the city. In 1950, the *Des Moines Register* described how the community gathered every Friday for prayer in what it called a “small building.” The mosque, founded by immigrants and their families, still stands today.

Mother Mosque of America, in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The first purpose-built masjid in America.

Among those worshippers was Sgt. Edward Sheronick.

Edward Sheronick’s father, Sam Sheronick, immigrated from Joub Jannine, Lebanon, and came to the United States in 1907. While it is not known exactly when he moved to Cedar Rapids, the family is remembered as among the first Muslim families to live in the city, and they were certainly established by 1930. Sam and his wife Sada Sheronick lived at 325 E Avenue NW.

Their son Edward Sheronick was born in Fayette, Iowa, on July 23, 1917, and grew up in Cedar Rapids as part of that Muslim community. Like many members of the congregation, the family was involved in the grocery business. Edward worked at Sheronick and Sons grocery on Ellis Boulevard, a neighborhood store that served local residents in the years before the Second World War.

The surviving newspaper records preserve only fragments of his life, but they offer glimpses of an ordinary young man building a future for himself in Iowa. In August 1938, local papers reported that Edward had received a Class C beer permit connected to the family grocery business. At some point he met a woman named Mary, and the two married. One imagines that, like countless young couples of the era, they expected a long life together: children, grandchildren, years spent in the same community where both families were already rooted.

History intervened.

Edward enlisted in Cedar Rapids in July 1941, months before the attack on Pearl Harbor brought the United States formally into the war. He trained at Fort Eustis, Virginia, where he rose through the ranks. In May 1942, the *Cedar Rapids Gazette* reported that he had been promoted from technical corporal to technical sergeant. The paper noted that word of the promotion had been received by his parents back home in Cedar Rapids.

In the summer of 1944, Edward was sent overseas to Europe.

The Telegram from Germany

A few months later, in December 1944, a telegram arrived at 803 Ellis Boulevard NW. Mary Sheronick was informed by the War Department that her husband, Technician Fourth Grade Edward Sheronick, had been reported missing in action in Germany since Nov. 16.

Across the United States, thousands of families received similar telegrams during the war years. Many names faded from public memory as decades passed. Edward Sheronick’s story survives today only in scattered newspaper reports, military notices, and the memories preserved by his community.

Eventually the truth became known. Edward Sheronick had been killed in Germany during the brutal fighting surrounding the Battle of the Bulge. He never returned home to Cedar Rapids.

Nearly five years later, in May 1949, his body was returned from Europe alongside the remains of 104 other Iowans killed during the war.

Funeral services for Technician Fourth Grade Edward Sheronick were held at the “Moslem temple” in Cedar Rapids. The service was conducted by Imam Hussein Karoub of Detroit, and burial followed at Cedar Memorial Cemetery.

His obituary listed the organizations to which he belonged: the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the Moslem temple, and the Rose of Fraternity lodge. It named the surviving members of his family. But like most wartime obituaries, it left many things unsaid. We do not know what Edward hoped to do after the war. We do not know what dreams he shared with Mary, or what his family endured during the years between the missing-in-action telegram and the return of his body.

Still, enough remains to remember him.

The surviving records show a Muslim family running a grocery store in Cedar Rapids before World War II. They show a local Muslim congregation sending 18 young men into military service during the war years. They show Muslim soldiers insisting that their faith be recognized even on their identification tags. And they show a funeral held in an Iowa mosque for a man killed fighting Nazi Germany.

On Memorial Day, we remember Edward Sheronick, a Muslim American from Cedar Rapids who prayed in Iowa, served overseas, fought Nazi Germany, and never came home. His story reminds us that Muslims have long been part of the American story, including its sacrifices in war.

Related:

When Azara Long Found Islam In A San Francisco Linen Shop : A Story From America’s Muslim History

The post The Muslim Soldier From Ellis Boulevard Who Never Came Home appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Imam Dawud provides a summary of the virtues of Dhul Hijjah, the importance of ‘Arafah, and the significance of the Udh’hiyah. This brief overview reminds us all of the necessity of observing these 10 Days of Dhul Hijjah with presence and intentionality. May Allah accept from us all!

Transcript:

I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan. In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.

All praise is due to Allah, Lord of the worlds. To Him we turn, and to Him we submit. We send peace and blessings upon our master, our Prophet, and our beloved, Muhammad al-Amin, the Trustworthy; and upon his pure family, his blessed companions, and all those who follow them with goodness until the Day of Judgment.

O Most Merciful of the Merciful, envelop us in Your mercy. Ya Arham ar-Rahimeen, Ya Arham ar-Rahimeen.

Beloved brothers and sisters in Islam, as we experience these blessed days of Dhul Hijjah—the twelfth month of the Islamic calendar and one of the four sacred months—we should reflect upon the virtues of the tenth of Dhul Hijjah, the Day of Eid al-Adha, also known as Yawm al-Nahr, the Day of Sacrifice.

Allah says in the Qur’an:

“Indeed, We have granted you abundance. So pray to your Lord and sacrifice. Surely, those who hate you will be cut off.”

Many scholars of tafsir explain that the command to “pray and sacrifice” refers to the Eid prayer and the sacrifice offered on the Day of Adha. The order is significant: first comes the prayer, then the sacrifice, which takes place after the prayer and khutbah.

For those of us who are not performing Hajj, it is highly recommended to offer a sacrifice during Eid al-Adha or during the Days of Tashriq that follow. Just as sacrifice is required of the pilgrims, it is a strongly encouraged sunnah for those not on Hajj to participate in this sacred act as well.

The symbolism of the sacrifice goes back to our father Ibrahim عليه السلام and his son Isma‘il عليه السلام. Allah tested Ibrahim with the command to sacrifice his son, and both father and son demonstrated complete submission—taslim—to the command of Allah سبحانه وتعالى. In the end, Allah replaced Isma‘il with a ram, affirming that Ibrahim had fulfilled the vision and proven his faith.

Allah also says in the Qur’an:

“Say: Indeed, my prayer, my sacrifice, my living, and my dying are all for Allah, Lord of the worlds.”

Mujahid ibn Jabr رحمه الله تعالى, one of the great students of Sayyidina Abdullah ibn Abbas رضي الله عنهما, explained that “my sacrifice” in this verse refers specifically to the sacrifice of Eid al-Adha.

So, my brothers and sisters, those who are able should try to perform the sacrifice themselves. If that is not possible, then one may appoint a charitable organization to perform it on their behalf and distribute the meat to those in need. However, it is beautiful to revive this sunnah personally whenever possible.

Traditionally, the meat is divided into thirds: one third for ourselves and our families, one third for relatives and friends, and one third for the poor. If desired, a larger portion may be given to those in need, but it is recommended that we keep some for ourselves—to cook, share, and enjoy while thanking Allah سبحانه وتعالى for His many blessings.

It is also mentioned that the night before Eid al-Adha is among the blessed nights. In *Kitab al-Umm*, Imam al-Shafi‘i رحمه الله تعالى mentions that there are certain nights during which du‘a is especially likely to be accepted. Among them are the night before Eid al-Fitr and the night before Eid al-Adha.

Likewise, Amir al-Mu’minin ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib رضي الله عنه was known to give life to the night of Eid al-Adha through prayer, dhikr, qiyam al-layl, and heartfelt du‘a.

We should take this opportunity to follow the practice of the righteous salaf by spending the night in worship—making du‘a for ourselves, our families, our teachers and mashayikh, our loved ones and friends, and for the entire Ummah and humanity at large to be guided.

May Allah سبحانه وتعالى bless us during these days of Dhul Hijjah and grant us all a joyous and blessed Eid al-Adha.

Wa sallallahu ‘ala nabiyyina Muhammad wa ‘ala alihi wa sallam. Walhamdulillahi rabbil ‘alamin.

Related:

The Inner Dimensions of the Udhiyah

From The MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Hajj And Eid Al-Adha Reads

The post The Best Actions for Eid al-Adh’ha [Imam Dawud Walid] appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The difference in framing around antisemitism and anti-Muslim hatred distorts public understanding, inflames tensions and makes both Jewish and Muslim communities less safe

The horrific terrorist attack on the Islamic Centre of San Diego in California has been reported by many news outlets over the past few days. Yet as the story travelled across screens and news feeds, something more subtle unfolded: the language of reporting. Some outlets spoke of “teen suspects” and “three deceased” rather than murdered worshippers or a terrorist attack on a mosque. Words matter. They shape sympathy, urgency, and influence how violence is understood. Too often, the vocabulary of terror and extremism appears unevenly distributed; sharpened for some perpetrators but softened for others.

There is a growing sense that the world is slipping backwards – not through dramatic rupture, but through the steady normalisation of hate, the coarsening of public discourse and politicians increasingly fuelling division and racism.

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At a brutal martial arts tournament, Darius struggles with the intoxicating glory and the dangerous darkness of violence.

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

* * *

Halfway Civilized

The morning of the tournament I woke before dawn in my corner beneath the bridge, my body wrapped in two wool blankets, my back pressed against the cold stones of the ancient bridge. As always, my hand went to my back, confirming that my dao was still there. As for my belongings, everything I owned was in my travel pack, which was under the blanket with me, tucked against my belly like a cat.

Not ten paces away, a cargo ship slipped by in the darkness. Two silhouetted men stood silently in the pilot house, then were gone, passing out of my view. Lives that I would never know about. Only Allah knew them all, subhanahu. Waves lapped against the river’s stone embankment. A family of rats scurried past, seeking their morning meal, and a cat came out of the darkness as quietly as a fish, stalking the rodents. One of them would be his breakfast.

Today mattered. I did not fully understand why, only that it did.

Among the bridge dwellers was a young woman named Teardrop who watched people’s belongings for a small fee. I left my pack and blankets with her and went to Salat al-Fajr, and after that to a barber for the first time in my life. The old barber clucked disapprovingly at the state of my hair before taking shears to it. Long black strands fell around me in heaps while customers drank tea and argued about politics and grain prices. When he finished, my hair no longer hung down my back but rested near my ears, neat and light.

“You look halfway civilized,” the barber declared.

I walked to the tournament grounds. Along the way I stopped at a general store and bought a pair of black cloth shoes with padded soles that gripped the ground silently.

Archery and Comedy

The city square had been transformed overnight. Great red banners fluttered from poles surrounding a massive raised platform built of dark wood. Musicians played drums and flutes while vendors shouted over one another, selling roasted chestnuts, noodles, sweet buns and tea. Thousands of spectators crowded the square and surrounding rooftops, packed shoulder to shoulder beneath colorful awnings.

I had never seen so many people gathered in one place.

They began with the archery competition, which proved surprisingly entertaining. Targets were set at varying distances, some stationary and others swinging from ropes in the breeze. Most competitors were men, but women participated as well, drawing loud cheers whenever they struck the bullseye. One elderly archer split his own arrow cleanly in half, eliciting gasps from the audience. Another competitor attempted a flashy trick shot while spinning and accidentally loosed his arrow into a cabbage vendor’s stall, causing a riot of laughter and furious shouting.

The clear favorite, however, was a teenage girl named Deng Weili. Calm and expressionless, she struck the center of the target again and again with almost eerie precision, as though the arrows were simply returning home.

When it came to the open sparring event, there were many more competitors than I expected, most of them older than me. Many clearly belonged to established schools. Some wore matching uniforms with embroidered symbols on the chest. Others carried expensive training weapons polished to mirror brightness. Some eyed me curiously. Others ignored me entirely.

I knew I would not win. I was here for the experience, and perhaps to sharpen my skills for next time.

One man laughed openly when he saw my plain tunic and dockworker’s trousers. “Which school are you from?” he asked mockingly.

“The school of the docks,” I replied.

Shah Suliman was there as a judge, but the tournament manager was a thick-bodied, ruddy faced man they called Sergeant Karim, who looked like he could lift a young bull. I left my dao with him for safekeeping.

Bridge Boy!

The sparring contests were simple. Victory came by rendering the opponent unconscious or forcing him to submit, whether by strikes, throws or chokes. Strikes to the eyes, throat, groin and back of head were forbidden. One loss, and you were out. Because of the multitude of competitors, a participant would have to fight and win multiple rounds to win the competition. At least six, maybe more. Six fights in a single day. That was crazy.

When my turn came, I removed my boots and slipped on the cotton kung fu shoes. My first opponent was broad shouldered and aggressive. He rushed me recklessly the instant the signal drum sounded. He snarled as if he genuinely wanted to kill me, and indeed his first blow was a massive overhand punch thrown with everything he had. If it connected, it might kill me. This was street fighting, not martial arts. Luckily for me, I was skilled at both. I ducked under the punch, seized his sleeve and belt, and threw him cleanly off his feet. He struck the platform hard enough to shake the stage, and my own palm strike was an instant behind, driving into his chin and knocking him out cold. The match had lasted perhaps three heartbeats.

I stood back, thinking, “What was that about?” The man had seemed to genuinely hate me.

The crowd fell silent for a moment, then roared. I heard some chanting, “Bridge Boy!” I rolled my eyes. That was not really how I wanted to be known.

I dismounted the stage as others took their turns. This would take all day, but I didn’t mind. I watched the other matches with great interest. There were so many different styles of fighting. The one common factor was that they fought ferociously. No one ever submitted, even when being choked, or when a limb was about to break.

I turned to a man beside me, an elderly fellow munching a corn on the cob. “Why do they fight so hard?”

He eyed me incredulously. “Aren’t you a competitor? Silly boy, you don’t know what you got yourself into. Five Star guards are exempt from military service. They are fighting for their lives.”

Sifu Lu

One fighter impressed me deeply. He was older, perhaps in his thirties, with powerful shoulders and calm eyes. His braided queue hung nearly to his waist, and unlike the others he showed his opponent respect immediately, bowing deeply before the match began. When the fight began his hands and feet flashed. He had his opponent on the ground in almost no time. He was clearly a martial arts master. He cranked the opponent’s meaty arm behind his back, threatening to tear the shoulder. When the man did not submit, however, the master switched to an arm triangle choke, and rendered the man unconscious in seconds.

I understood. He hadn’t wanted to break the man’s arm, even though it would have won him the match; so he’d switched to a less damaging option. It was an expression of weakness, but at the same time a sign of great confidence and compassion. I was moved by that. But I could not force the thought to coalesce into anything more concrete.

People chanted the master’s name: “Sifu Lu! Sifu Lu!” I realized I had heard his name before, in the form of comments like, “Don’t mess with Sifu Lu’s students, they’ll wreck you.” And, “I wish I could afford to study with Sifu Lu.”

My second opponent threw a high kick to my head, slipped on a splash of blood left behind by previous fighters, and struck the back of his head on the stage, knocking himself out. The crowd laughed uproariously. After that, the tournament organizers sent cleaners up to mop the stage regularly.

My third and fourth opponents were inconsequential youths hardly older than me. They wore black sashes from a local school, indicating mastery, but I finished them quickly. One wept afterward, saying that he didn’t want to go to the army. I thought I should feel sympathy, but my heart plodded along undisturbed. No one wanted to go to the army, but my own father had volunteered and died. Such is life.

I didn’t feel good about these fights. These competitors were not at my level. The violence felt pointless.

Emotional Exhaustion

Chewing on my upper life, I watched the others. Sifu Lu defeated his opponents as quickly as I had mine, and with more finesse. With his physique, focus and powerful movement, he reminded me of a lion. Actually, he reminded me of my father. I stayed close to the stage, because people pressed forward, wanting to talk to me. Many women seemed to want simply to touch me. But the event had guards around the stage, and they held the crowd back.

The crowd chanted the names of the top fighters. Sifu Lu! Rhino! Thunderfoot! Bridge Boy!

Many fighters were carried out on stretchers. Even some winners were unable to continue to the next round. Occasionally I found myself diagnosing their injuries, and thinking of what balms I would use to treat them, and how I would splint their limbs. Whenever I caught myself doing that I clucked my tongue in annoyance.

My fifth opponent was Thunderfoot. He was in his mid twenties and flexible, and from the start he nailed me with a whiplike kick to my chest that lifted me off my feet. Rather than pouncing, he waited for me to stand. His feet darted and flew. I tried slipping into River Flow, but it eluded me. My mind was foggy, my emotions turbulent. Maybe I didn’t know for sure why I was doing this. Maybe, even with all these people cheering for me, I was lonely. A moment of emotional exhaustion hit, and I dropped my arms. I stood straight, with my hands at my sides. Thunderfoot thought I was taunting him. His eyes blazed, and he leaped into a flying kick. Idly, I caught the kicking leg under my arm and threw him down hard. He rolled to his knees and elbows, winded. I slipped an arm under his neck and lazily choked him out.

“Bridge Boy!” they chanted. I waved a hand for them to stop that nonsense, but they thought I was asking for more, and chanted louder. I shook my head and exited the stage.

 

I realized that I was desperately hungry. I had not eaten anything all day. I bought a steamed bun and a bag of popcorn, drank coconut water, and waited for my next match. The food revived me physically, but emotionally I still felt disconnected from all this.

Eight men remained. My sixth opponent was Rhino. He was short and bulging with muscle, with a neck like a chimney. He was apparently the Deep Harbor grappling champion. When he saw an opening he dove for my legs. I sidestepped, but he caught my ankle and took me down. He sat atop me and drove his shoulder into my jaw, pinning me. The pain was intense. Yet I just lay there. I did not struggle. He drove a punch into my spleen, then gave me a blow to the top of the skull that made my ears ring. Stars swam before my eyes.

“Fight, damn you!” Rhino snarled. “Useless bridge trash.”

Rage rose inside me. No one treated me this way! I had grappling skills but it was not my area of expertise. I could not play Rhino’s game. I struck both his temples simultaneously, then clapped his ears. When he reared up in shock I bridged my hips, threw him off me, and followed with a massive knee strike to his liver. He groaned and rolled into a ball. The match was over.

What Your Father Taught You

Descending from the stage, I marched to the judging table and confronted Sergeant Karim. “Give me back my dao,” I said. “I quit.”

He stood, his black eyes concerned. “Are you injured?”

I looked away. “It’s not that. I just feel that this is pointless.”

“The prize is three gold coins. People are chanting your name.”

“No, they’re chanting nonsense. My name is Darius Lee.”

“Let me talk to him,” Shah Suliman said. He took my elbow, and pulled me aside. “What’s wrong? Are you scared?”

I snorted. The only thing that had ever scared me was the prospect of losing my family, and that had come to pass. Physical violence was nothing.

He studied me. “Who taught you to fight?”

“I told you last time. My father.”

“Show us what your father taught you. Honor him. Don’t hold back.”

The words echoed in my chest like a distant drum. I nodded. “Okay.”

I mounted the stage. My seventh opponent was a lithe striker with enlarged knuckles. His punches whistled past my ears.

I fell into River Flow, and the world went silent. I was not on a stage, performing for thousands. I was back on the run-down farm, practicing in the dirt with my father. He expected my utmost effort at all times, and would punish me if I held back. He showed no mercy, and expected none.

I had wanted to follow Sifu Lu’ s example and defeat my opponents non-violently, but that seemed silly now. Street fighting techniques forgotten, I embraced my roots: Five Animals. My opponent’s punch was surely fast, but in my eyes he moved like a sloth. I ducked a wide hook, then leaped into a backward somersault, in the process kicking the man beneath the chin. He came off the ground and flew clear off the stage. People screamed. The medics carried him away.

The Final Match

I stayed close to the stage and watched Sifu Lu defeat a huge man that I recognized as a dock worker, and who apparently had a background either as a soldier or a criminal, because he threw every blow as if he wanted to murder someone. Sifu Lu took a few hits, but put the man down.

This was it then. Me versus Sifu Lu for the win.

We were given ten minutes to rest. The crowd had grown, packing more people into a space I thought was already full. The ground was slippery with fruit peels and spit. I saw money passing hands as bookies took bets. Fights broke out between those who supported me – mostly impoverished dock workers – and the uniformed, merchant-class martial artists who supported Lu.

We were called up. I was still in River Flow. In my mind, my father was gone and I was a boy alone on the farm, with Lady Two and Far Away as companions. I practiced in the dirt as Far Away watched, throwing myself into it, my movements acrobatic and operatic. My chest ached and my jaw was sore – I might have cracked a tooth – but all that was nothing.

Sifu Lu – his face bruised, and favoring one leg – must have seen something of my state of mind, because I saw him swallow hard. He bowed to me, and I bowed back. Again the roar of the crowd faded. The pain in my jaw, my aching knuckles – all that disappeared. Lu launched a blindingly fast attack. I parried, sidestepped, and ducked. He could not touch me. He paused and stood back, reassessing. I saw the fine worry lines around his eyes, and the way his tongue flicked out to taste the blood on his lip. His limbs were powerful, his chest wide.

Again I dropped my hands and stood watching, not out of apathy this time, but curiosity. It was as if I were outside myself, watching.

Sifu Lu set his jaw and surged forward aggressively, committing to a heavy strike. I slipped the blow and stepped past him. Before he could recover I seized his long braided ponytail with both hands and yanked backward and down sharply. He crashed onto his back, and I kicked him in the jaw, knocking him out.

For half a second there was stunned silence. Then the square exploded with cheers. A healer rushed onto the stage and revived Sifu Lu. The master stood slowly and glared at me. “Dirty tactic,” he said.

Instead of replying, I gave a deep bow. “Master Lu,” I said. “It was an honor. You are a great fighter and a great man.”

His anger faded. He grinned and shook his head. “Come to my school sometime.” He held up a hand to forestall my reply. “As a teacher, not a student.”

An Exception to the Rules

The competition moved on to the weapons demonstrations.

Competitors performed spear routines, staff forms, paired sword sequences and elaborate flourishes meant to impress the judges and crowd alike.

I picked up my dao from Sergeant Karim. When I unsheathed it, he frowned immediately.

“You may not use a sharpened weapon,” he declared. “Training blades only.”

He pointed toward a rack of dulled practice weapons beside the stage.

“No,” I said calmly. “I know my dao. I have trained with it for years.”

“That is irrelevant.”

Before the argument could continue, Shah Suliman said, “We will make an exception this once.”

Sergeant Karim hesitated, clearly annoyed, then stepped aside. “If he cuts himself,” he said, “he loses automatically.”

Suliman nodded.

I stepped alone onto the platform. The square quieted. I knew what many of them were thinking. “The kid can fight, but is he any good with a sword?”

River Flow had still not left me. I closed my eyes briefly and breathed once. If the live blade would be used against me, then let me show the audience the true nature of my skill. I took two steps, pivoted rapidly and struck one of the narrow wooden pillars that held the awning above the stage. With a ringing sound, the blade cut cleanly through the wood. The awning tipped to one side, threatening to fall. People cried out in surprise. I faced the audience, the sword hanging at my side. Now they knew exactly what I wielded.

With that, I began to move. The blade whistled through the air in flashing arcs so fast that the audience gasped repeatedly. I flowed from Five Animals footwork into battlefield cuts my father had taught me, into improvised combinations born from thousands of hours of solo practice on my father’s farm and on Zihan Ma’s, and finally from the handful of deadly conflicts I’d been in. The edge passed so close to my own body at times that several spectators cried out in alarm.

When I finished, the square erupted into thunderous applause unlike anything I had ever experienced. People were standing now, shouting and stamping their feet against the wooden benches.

I stood breathing hard, sweat running down my neck, staring out over the sea of faces. River Flow left me, and I felt suddenly exhausted. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Disqualified

The judges withdrew for deliberation. It took a long time.

Finally the head judge handed a scroll to Sergeant Karim and he mounted the stage.

“The results are as follows,” he announced stiffly. “In the archery competition, the winner is Deng Weili.”

I smiled, remembering her. She deserved it.

“As for the sparring competition,” Karim went on, “competitor Darius Lee violated tournament rules by pulling an opponent’s hair. Sifu Lu is the winner. In the weapons demonstration, Darius Lee broke the rules by damaging the pillar. He is disqualified from that as well. Yu Dongyue is the winner.”

For a moment the square went completely silent. Then the crowd erupted in furious boos. Someone hurled a steamed bun at the judges. Others followed with nutshells, fruit peels and cups of tea. The judges recoiled while guards hurried forward uncertainly.

“Cowards!” someone shouted.

“He beat them fair!”

“Shame!”

The judges hastily retreated into a huddle while the crowd continued jeering loudly. I stood motionless below the platform, stunned. I had been so apathetic during the competition, but suddenly I wanted this. I’d fought and bled for it. I might even lose a tooth. I wanted something more than life under a bridge. I wanted this! And they’d taken it from me.

After several tense minutes the judges emerged again, visibly rattled. Sergeant Karim conferred with them, and returned to the stage. He cleared his throat nervously.

“After further discussion,” he announced, “the disqualification applies only to the sparring competition. Darius Lee remains the winner of the weapons demonstration.”

The crowd grumbled angrily but settled. Some even applauded again.

Master Lu, Deng Weili and myself mounted the stage. Suliman Shah hung medals around our necks, and gave each of us three gold coins. Master Lu took my hand and Weili’s and raised them in the air. Turning to me, he gave me a wink. I could not help smiling in return.

Offers, Legal and Not

Afterward several men approached me. One represented a wushu school and wanted to hire me to teach. Another offered underground matches, fighting for money. A third man, heavyset and richly dressed, asked bluntly whether I was interested in “more profitable opportunities.”

I knew exactly what he meant. Crime.

“No,” I told him.

Finally Shah Suliman approached. “On behalf of Five Star Trading Company, I extend to you an offer to train as a caravan guard. If you are hired full time, a salary offer will be made.”

“Didn’t you vote to disqualify me?”

“Rules are rules. But your skill is undeniable. I would have extended the offer anyway.”

“Alright. I accept.”

He gave me a slip of paper with an address on it. “Report tomorrow morning.”

“How about a ride home? I’m beat.”

Suliman nodded. “I can arrange that.”

On the way home, I stopped the wagon driver long enough to buy an entire basket of steamed beef buns. Back under the bridge, I distributed these among the river dwellers. Many of them had attended the tournament, and we sat in a big circle around a fire as they regaled the others with tales of my prowess. Teardrop smiled at me shyly, and a big veteran who went by Dragontop kept clapping me on the shoulder.

Later, under the blankets, I nursed my cracked tooth with my tongue and thought about the new life I would begin tomorrow. I wondered what Zihan Ma, Lee Ayi, Haaris, Far Away and Bao Bao were doing at that moment. Then I wondered if I would ever stop wondering that.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 14 – Five Star Trading Company

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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