Introduction

Black Muslims in the United States are often referred to as “indigenous Muslims” (Love, 2017) who embody unique intersections of racial, religious, and national identities (Ahmed & Muhammad, 2019). This term highlights a long-standing and often overlooked presence of Black Muslims in the U.S., whose roots in American Islam predate many immigrant Muslim communities. Black Muslims have consistently shaped the religious, cultural, and political landscape of American Islam. Despite this historical significance, Black Muslims remain vastly underrepresented in educational research, particularly in higher education literature, where their student experiences are rarely examined. 

Although Black Muslims represent one of the largest racial groups practicing Islam in the U.S. (Schmidt, 2004), little is known about their educational realities, challenges, and resistance. Much of the existing research on Muslim students tends to focus on South Asian and Arab populations, often failing to account for how anti-Blackness operates alongside Islamophobia to shape educational experiences in distinct and compounding ways. As a result, the needs, identities, and insights of Black Muslim students are frequently overlooked in institutional responses to inclusion.

This article draws on existing literature to explore how systemic anti-Blackness and Islamophobia shape the lives of Black Muslim students, while simultaneously highlighting how they resist these forces through religious identity, cultural affirmation, and educational aspiration. In doing so, this work aims to challenge the erasure of Black Muslim voices in academic research and to contribute to a broader understanding of how race and religion intersect within the educational experiences of minoritized students. Centering Black Muslim students is not only necessary to address an ongoing gap in the literature, but also critical for building more just and inclusive educational environments where their histories and identities are affirmed.

Historical and Sociopolitical Context

To understand the present-day experiences of Black Muslim students, it is essential to first consider the historical and sociopolitical foundations of their identities. The positioning of Black Muslims in the United States must be understood through the legacy of white supremacy and racial exclusion. Auston (2017) argues that the practice of Islam in the United States has long been shaped by racial hierarchies rooted in anti-Black racism. For Black American Muslims, Islam has historically served as a vehicle for resisting structural violence, segregation, and racial inequality. 

The emergence of the Nation of Islam (NOI) during the Jim Crow era is a prime example. As Akom (2003) details, the NOI developed in response to racist policies and environments that excluded Black communities. Within such contexts, Islam became both a spiritual and sociopolitical force shaped by resistance. In an ethnographic study with high school students affiliated with the NOI, Akom (2003) found that these students developed a “Black achievement ideology,” allowing them to excel academically while resisting school norms that clashed with their religious and racial values. Their resistance manifested through peer support, cultural pride, and redefining success on their own terms. Although the NOI’s theological framework differs from Sunni or Shi’a traditions, its significance lies in how it historically enabled Black students to maintain their identities within oppressive educational systems.

“Black Muslim students navigate educational spaces that are often hostile to both their racial and religious identities.” [PC: Wadi Lissa (unsplash)]

Despite the richness of Black Muslim contributions to American Islam and social justice movements, their experiences within education remain largely overlooked. Ahmed and Muhammad (2019) and Rahman (2021) both note that very few studies have focused on Black Muslim students, particularly at the collegiate level. This underrepresentation stems from an anti-Black perspective that fails to take seriously the contributions and experiences of Black Muslims (Rahman, 2021). 

Cole et al. (2020) emphasize the importance of understanding students’ multiple identities, especially those shaped by intersecting systems of race and religion. As such, analyzing Black Muslim student experiences requires an intersectional approach that can capture the compounding effects of multiple forms of oppression. For Black Muslim students, their marginalization is compounded by an entanglement of anti-Blackness and Islamophobia that demands an intersectional lens. Their marginalization is not only compounded by racism and Islamophobia, but also by the lack of recognition and support for their unique religious practices and cultural expressions within academic spaces (Auston, 2017).

Intersectionality and Compounding Marginalization

This intersectional framework helps us better understand how Black Muslim students navigate educational institutions that are often ill-equipped to support either aspect of their identity. Black Muslim students navigate educational spaces that are often hostile to both their racial and religious identities. Auston (2017) underscores how the dual stigma of being Black and non-Christian in a predominantly white, Christian-majority society places Black Muslims at a unique disadvantage. She mentions how “current manifestations of Black Muslim engagement with the unique intersectional impacts of marginalization arising out of the combination of being Black and non-Christian…is cumulative. To a large extent, Black American Islam has always been about the struggle for racial equality and religious freedom, shaped by the intersectional concerns necessitated by the fight on multiple fronts against state power, anti-Blackness, and entrenched White supremacy” (p. 20). Unlike their South Asian or Arab counterparts, whose experiences with Islamophobia may be racialized differently, Black Muslims face a historically entrenched anti-Black racism that predates and shapes their religious marginalization.

Ahmed and Muhammad (2019) further demonstrate how Black Muslim youth actively challenge these overlapping oppressions through spiritual grounding, community involvement, and cultural affirmation. These youth are not passive recipients of discrimination, but rather active agents who resist and reframe their realities.

Resistance and Black Muslim Brilliance

This active resistance forms the basis of what Rahman (2021) terms “Black Muslim brilliance,” a framework that reframes student agency and excellence through cultural and religious affirmation. A central theme across the limited but growing scholarship on Black Muslim youth is their strategic resistance to systemic marginalization. Rahman (2021) explores how Black Muslim students often opt out of U.S. educational systems entirely in favor of international or faith-based educational spaces. Drawing from an ethnographic study across Senegal and several U.S. cities, Rahman (2021) found that youth sought environments where Islamophobia and anti-Blackness were less pervasive. These spaces allowed students to nurture their spiritual and intellectual growth in affirming ways.

Rahman (2021) articulates the concept of “Black Muslim brilliance,” describing how these youth harness education as a tool for both personal empowerment and community uplift. She mentions how educational opportunities provided in faith-based settings often instill within students a commitment to addressing the social issues that impact Black communities. This brilliance is not defined solely by academics, but by a comprehensive growth grounded in justice, communal responsibility, and a strong sense of identity.

Similarly, Akom’s (2003) study of NOI students shows how alternative frameworks of success rooted in Black pride, religious commitment, and cultural resistance can produce academically successful students who do not conform to dominant educational norms. These examples suggest that Black Muslim youth are not struggling due to a lack of ability or aspiration, but rather due to structural barriers that deny the legitimacy of their identities.

To fully grasp the complexity of Black Muslim student experiences, it is important to distinguish them from those of other Muslim groups in the U.S. While Islamophobia impacts all visibly Muslim groups in the U.S., the experiences of Black Muslims are distinct due to the historic and ongoing realities of anti-Blackness. Auston (2017) argues that Black Muslim identities are forged in struggle, whether that is against slavery, segregation, mass incarceration, or religious exclusion. The convergence of racialized Islamophobia with entrenched anti-Black racism renders their experiences different from those of other Muslim groups. Recognizing this distinction is crucial in creating institutional responses that address the specific needs of Black Muslim students.

Conclusion

Black Muslim students occupy a liminal space at the intersection of race and religion, where both anti-Blackness and Islamophobia shape their educational experiences. They navigate an educational landscape that often fails to recognize and validate their intersecting identities. The historical and sociopolitical context of anti-Blackness and Islamophobia is crucial in understanding how Black Muslim students experience marginalization, but it is equally important to highlight their transformative responses to these challenges. 

Black Muslim students’ educational journeys are deeply shaped by their struggles against both racism and religious exclusion. However, their agency offers us crucial insights into how education can and should be transformed to truly affirm the identities and aspirations of all students. From resistance strategies in school to international educational pursuits, Black Muslims continually seek and create spaces that affirm their identities and values. To address the systemic inequities they face, both educational institutions and scholars must recognize their unique experiences and challenges and take meaningful action to create an inclusive, supportive, and just educational landscape. Educational institutions and scholars must begin to take seriously the voices and needs of Black Muslim students as central figures in the ongoing struggle for equity, belonging, and justice in education.

***

References

Ahmed, S. & Muhammad, H. (2019). Black American Muslim youth: Navigating environments, engaging new pathways. In Political Muslims: Understanding Resistance in a Global Context, 23-51.

Akom, A. A. (2003). Reexamining resistance as oppositional behavior: the Nation of Islam and the creation of a black achievement ideology. Sociology of Education, 76, 305-325.

Auston, D. (2017). Prayer, protest, and police brutality: Black Muslim spiritual resistance in the Ferguson era. Transforming Anthropology, 25(1), 11-22.

Cole, D., Hypolite, L., & Atashi, A. (2020). Black Muslims. In Islamophobia in Higher Education: Combating Discrimination and Creating Understanding. Sterling, VA: Stylus Publishing.

Love, E. (2017). Islamophobia and Racism in America. NYU Press.

Rahman, S. (2021). Black Muslim brilliance: Confronting antiblackness and Islamophobia through transnational educational migration. Curriculum Inquiry, 51(1), 57-74.

Schmidt, G. (2004). Islam in Urban America: Sunni Muslims in Chicago. Temple University Press.

 

Related:

– The Black Muslim Experience In K-12 Education

– Top 10 Books On Black Muslim History

 

The post Faith, Identity, And Resistance Among Black Muslim Students appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11

“This world is a prison for the believer and a paradise for the unbeliever.” — Prophet Muḥammad ﷺ (Ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī)

Li Huangfeng

Deek made calls to various crypto asset management firms in Los Angeles and San Francisco. One, “Blockchain Asset Management!” in San Francisco – BAM! for short – showed immediate interest and enthusiasm, connecting Deek to a manager named Li Huangfeng, who asked for screenshots of Deek’s wallets, showing his balances.

Hearing the Chinese name, Deek smiled and let his shoulders relax. The Chinese were giant players in the crypto world. Deek knew it was silly to stereotype that way, yet he felt irrationally safe in Huangfeng’s hands.

Also, he liked Huangfeng’s direct approach. He sent screenshots showing a crypto portfolio worth $50 million, and told Huangfeng that there was more in other wallets. Without hesitation, Huangfeng booked Deek a first class plane ticket to San Francisco, and promised to have a driver waiting to pick him up. Deek loved the respect and pampering that Huangfeng was giving him.

Parallel Worlds

On the third day since checking into the hotel, he went to the airport wearing one of his new tailored suits. It was dark gray, made of a microfiber that was durable yet as soft as silk. With it, he wore red leather shoes and a crimson red dress shirt open at the neck, with no tie, and with a three day growth of rough beard, all because what the hell, he could wear whatever he wanted and look how he wanted. He was the man here, he was the star of the moment.

With him he had a leather satchel he’d purchased at the hotel shop, a handful of Marco Polo envelopes, a notepad and pen, and a sandwich from the hotel kitchen, to eat on the plane.

The sandwich turned out to be unnecessary. He’d never flown first class before, and it was a trip. The seat was wide and comfortable. As soon as he sat, the attendant brought him a glass of apple nectar. In the air, he was given a hot towel to clean his hands, and then a hearty lunch consisting of an albacore tuna sandwich with cream cheese and sprouts.

Instead of making him happy, however, the experience left him feeling sad. Only a few rows behind him, people were making do with peanuts and diet Pepsi. It was as if there were two parallel worlds. In one, people with money were treated with kindness and respect, without regard to their character. In the other, people who were just as worthy, and maybe more so, were given scraps.

Pre-Apocalyptic Scene

The driver who picked him up at the San Francisco airport introduced herself as November. She was a small, lean African-American woman with long braided hair and a hard-edged face. Her voice was clipped and professional. In spite of her small stature, she carried an air of extreme competence. Deek knew he would be safe with her, and that she was not someone he should mess with.

He hadn’t been to downtown San Francisco for a few years, and it seemed worse for wear. There were more homeless people, panhandlers and shuttered storefronts. Tourists wandered through this pre-apocalyptic scene looking confused, as if they had signed up for a grand cruise and found themselves on a rusting fishing boat.

Sitting in the large, climate-controlled towncar, peering through tinted windows at the passing streets, Deek saw a thin young woman with two children – one of them a baby – and a dog, sitting on the filthy sidewalk. All looked ragged and hungry, and as beaten down as sheets of tin. On a piece of cardboard, the woman had scrawled, “Tried everything.”

The message touched Deek. He knew exactly the feeling. He’d been there, hopeless and out of ideas. If not for Rania supporting him, he might have been in the same position as this woman.

“Stop the car, please,” he said.

“Affirmative, copy that.” Without hesitation, November stopped the car, even as traffic began honking and backing up behind them.

“Give me a minute.” Deek exited the car and approached the woman. In spite of it being a summer day, the street was shaded by the tall buildings on either side, and a cold wind whipped down the steel and glass gully. The sidewalk smelled of urine. He stood looking at the woman for a moment. Her clothing and person, and those of the children, were clean. But they were all fencepost-thin, and the woman’s eyes looked as tired as if she’d been rowing against the current on the Mississippi River for a hundred years, seeing grand yachts churn past, none of them caring to throw her a line.

Fifty story skyscrapers, corporations worth billions, and families living on the street. So much for the greatest nation on earth. Thinking this, Deek realized that he was criticizing himself in a way. He was rich now. For him to make money, someone else had lost it. He was the one percent. He was part of the leech class.

“Take a picture,” the woman said bitterly. “It’ll last longer.”

The Idea of a Feeling

Deek took out his wallet and removed all the cash he had left from the $5,000 he’d transferred to his bank account. It was about $2,200. He gave the entire sum to the homeless woman. She gasped, her mouth wide but eyes narrowed in suspicion, and said, “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Take it.” When she made no move to take the money, Deek took a blue handkerchief from his pocket. It was superfine cotton, made in Germany. He wrapped the money in it, then set it on the sidewalk before her.

He hustled back to the car. As they pulled away, he saw that the woman had taken the money and was getting up with her kids, off to buy food perhaps.

“Most of my protectees don’t do things like that,” November said, and her voice was softer than it had been previously.

Deek made no reply. It felt good, giving away that money, but again, the emotion was dulled, like the idea of a feeling rather than the real thing. Now he found himself remembering what Zaid had said about donating money to help the people of Gaza. He also thought about his friend Marco, living in a broken down SRO, and his sister and her family, who always struggled financially. He took out his phone and began to tap out a message to Marco, then paused. He took a deep breath, and deleted the text. All in due time.

I Could Just Wait

At Market and Seventh, a man ran into traffic. He wore ragged jeans, with no shoes or shirt, and a canvas bag on a strap around one shoulder. His red hair was long and partially matted. November hit the brakes, but was unable to prevent giving the man a gentle tap with the front bumper. Enraged, the man screamed, drew a bicycle u-lock from his bag, and smashed it into the towncar’s front hood, denting it.

“Ya Allah!” Deek exclaimed. He gripped the seat, wondering what he should do, if anything. Yet November sat calmly, not even honking the horn. Once again, the man yelled something unintelligible and struck the car.

“You’re not going to do anything?” Deek demanded, wondering if this was a cowardly question. After all, he was twice the driver’s size.

“Negative. I mean, I could,” November admitted. “He’s probably homeless and mentally ill. But yes, I could neutralize him in two seconds and hold him for law enforcement. If they incarcerate him, which is not certain, he’ll likely be beaten by other inmates, and by the time he gets out, he’ll have lost his meager stash of possessions, wherever they are. Meanwhile, you’ll be late for your meeting. Or I could wait for him to get distracted by the next thing and wander off.”

“Oh. Okay.” Deek relaxed, and within a few seconds, as November predicted, the homeless man continued on his way, as did November and Deek.

“You’re a good person,” Deek commented.

“I’m following your example, brother.”

This made Deek smile. “Do you talk to all your clients this way?”

“Negative. Most of my protectees are rich, calloused VIPs with zero empathy. I hear their conversations. They don’t even know that the poor exist, and if they do, they blame them for their own plight. You’re different. I mean, you must be rich too, or you wouldn’t be meeting with my boss, but you have a soft heart, and I mean that as a compliment. Don’t lose that quality.”

This touched Deek, yet made him feel sad at the same time for reasons he could not articulate. “Thank you,” he said.

Chinese Food

Fifteen minutes later, he found himself sitting at a huge marble table in a conference room on the fortieth floor of a San Francisco skyscraper, with stunning views of the undulating urban hills of San Francisco. He could see the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, and the steel blue Pacific stretching away like a promise and a warning of things to come. The room was chilly, with a faint scent of lime cleaner.

Across from him sat Li Huangfeng, who was younger than Deek expected, along with a broad-shouldered, 60ish African-American man in a cream seersucker suit. The man looked as smooth and hard as black marble. He introduced himself as Henry Turner, founder and CEO of BAM!.

“I wanted to reassure you,” Turner said, “that Li is one of my best and brightest. You are in good hands with him. Whatever you need, give the word and BAM! We’ll make it happen. If you need cash in exchange for crypto, we can supply as much as a million dollars right now, for a fee of two percent.”

Turner went on to explain all the services his company offered, and ended with. When he concluded, he shook Deek’s hand with an iron grip and departed.

“Alright!” Li said cheerfully. “You hungry? How about if we order Chinese food and get to work? I know absolutely the best Chinese restaurant in town.”

Deek massaged his hand. Turner had practically crushed it. “Sure,” he muttered. “Chinese sounds great.”

They got to work. The food – sautéed garlic green beans, crispy tofu, lemon pepper fish, and bean dumplings – was indeed delicious.

Milestone Investments

Li Huangfeng did several things for Deek, and probably earned himself a small fortune in commissions in the process.

First, he offered Deek any one of a variety of “seasoned” offshore corporations based in the Turks and the Caicos, a Caribbean island that Deek had not heard of but apparently was a popular offshore banking haven. Some of these corporations already owned considerable assets. Deek chose a corporation called Milestone Investments that owned fifteen Victorian-style homes in San Francisco, some of which contained multiple apartments, and which collectively earned $170,000 per month in rent.

For this, Deek paid twenty-two million dollars, which was a massive investment and a fifth of his net worth, but it guaranteed that no matter what might happen with the cryptocurrency market, he would own real-world, income-earning assets, inshaAllah. The houses were handled by a real estate management firm. Deek didn’t have to do anything at all.

After this deal was made, Deek wandered to the window. He could see water in three directions, and the paved arteries of this great city, rising and falling with the terrain. From here, one could gain no glimpse of the misery on the street. He remembered November saying that most of the executives she drove didn’t know the poor existed.

Was that what it meant to be rich? To reside within an illusion, thinking it was real? To surround yourself with luxury, believing yourself a resident of Paradise, when in fact you were destined for Hell? To imagine you would live forever, while slowly dying inside and out?

Deek had just spent twenty-two million dollars as if he were buying a couple of movie tickets. How many lives could he save with that much money? He shook his head, not knowing the answers to these questions, and returned to the table to get back to work.

He was given a credit card and debit card, both in the name of Milestone Investments, as well as online access to the corporate account. Beyond the $22 million purchase price, he deposited another $10 million worth of crypto into the account, then swapped the crypto for Euros.

Next, Li helped him set up a trust fund that would automatically send $30,000 per month to Rania’s bank account, $7,000 per month to Sanaya’s account, and $3K to Amira’s account, which would increase to $7K once she turned 18. He could have sent the girls much more, of course, but he didn’t believe they were mentally and emotionally prepared for great wealth.

Halliburton Zero

He smiled, imagining the girls’ reactions. At the same time, he felt his soul quiver with doubt. What if the girls got carried away? What if they used the money to party or spend recklessly? He swallowed hard, then brought his attention back to Li.

Next, not wanting to wait until the first of next month, he logged into his new offshore account and initiated an immediate transfer of $100,000 to Rania’s bank account.

Lastly, he accepted BAM!’s offer to convert $1 million worth of crypto into cash on the spot, and actually convinced Turner to increase it to $1.5 million.

Four hours after they had begun, they were finished. On impulse, Deek hugged Huangfeng, who exclaimed, “Oh – okay!” Turner came in and extended his hand for a shake, but Deek – fearing the man might actually break his bones this time – said, “BAM!” and gave Turner a fistbump.

When he walked out, he carried a Halliburton Zero briefcase with a million and a half dollars in fifty and hundred-dollar bills. It was heavy in his hand, and he felt like everyone he passed in the hallways and the elevator was looking at him.

He had a long day ahead of him. By the time the day was done, he intended to give away the entire million and a half.

Deek wasn’t about to fly back to Fresno carrying a million and a half dollars in a briefcase. He considered renting a car, but November insisted that she was at his exclusive disposal and would drive him all the way back to Fresno.

Monroe “November” Evans

Traffic was heavy on the 580 out of the Bay Area, but once they hit the long, empty stretch of Interstate 5, November said, “I could play music or an audiobook, or we could converse.”

“Tell me then,” Deek replied. “Is November your real name?”

“Real name’s Monroe Evans.”

She glanced at him in the rearview mirror, and their eyes met. He noticed for the first time that her eyes were not black, but a lovely golden brown, like morning sun shining on a redwood tree. On top of that, she was fit, beautiful, and smart. A man could fall for a woman like that. But, Deek reminded himself, he already had a wife that he loved. He averted his gaze and watched the orange groves slipping by outside the window.

“So? Where did November come from? You don’t seem particularly cold-hearted.”

The driver laughed. “You’d be surprised. It was a bone-cold November in Japan six years ago. Gets so cold you wonder if your blood is flowing; shivering in your bunk with all your clothes on, fantasizing about Hawaii. I was a Marine Corps executive protection specialist. Not an obvious choice for someone of my stature, but I was a Division One championship wrestler and Jiu-Jitsu black belt, as well as an excellent marksman. We protected generals, politicians, and even Japanese VIPs.”

Even as the woman spoke, Deek noticed her eyes never stopped moving. Rearview mirror, side mirrors, back to the road. Check the time. A glance at Deek.

“One day,” November went on, “we’re guarding a high-level summit. The summit comes under attack by a dozen North Korean agents. Let me tell you, those North Koreans are death cultists. Long story short, I ran out of ammo, dropped into hand-to-hand, broke one attacker’s neck, and when the other stabbed me, I took the knife out and cut his throat. Later, one of my mates said, ‘I don’t know what’s scarier, November in Japan, or you.’ Guys started calling me November, and it stuck.”

Honor is Huge

Deek grunted. “You remind me of someone.”

“Someone bad, I suppose.”

“On the contrary. The best man I know. A hero.” He wanted to add, He saved my life last week, but Zaid had told him not to talk about what happened, and he knew that was wise.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Affirmative.” Deek caught Evans’ gaze in the rear-view mirror and grinned.

“What about you?” Monroe “November” Evans asked. What’s your story?”

Deek told her his whole story, then added, “That hero I told you about? He thinks I should return to my family.”

“I get it,” November said. “It’s not easy. She betrayed you in spirit, if not deed. And she demeaned you. You’re an Arab. Honor is huge in your culture. Such things are not easily forgiven.”

“Yes! Thank you.” How strange that this African-American soldier understood him better than anyone else.

Forgive and Be Forgiven

“But I’ve also read a bit about your religion. I’m interested in world religions – after all I’ve seen, I feel like there has to be something greater than the muck and barbarity of this world – so correct me if I’m wrong, but Islam emphasizes forgiveness, does it not? Forgive others and be forgiven by God. That kind of thing.”

Deek nodded but only said, “Yeah. You’re right.”

“I’ll tell you something else. I’m from South Carolina. My grandmother was active in the women’s rights movement back when a thing like that could get a Southern black woman killed. She used to say, ‘Lift as you climb.’”

Deek glanced at November’s profile in the mirror. “What does that mean?”

“It means that as you progress in life, as you climb the ladder, you bring your people with you. You don’t leave them behind. You lift them up along with you.”

Deek grunted. “I was always going to do that.” He fell silent, and November let him be. She connected her phone to the car’s speakers, and the car filled with the sound of Bob Marley crooning, “Could you be loved…”

To Deek’s right, a shallow mountain range separated the Central Valley from the coast. To his left, vast orange groves carpeted the low hills. Beyond them, the land fell into the fertility of the valley. The orange farms went on for mile after mile, representing tremendous wealth, but wealth of a different kind – the kind that proceeded directly from Allah.

As soon as this thought formulated in Deek’s brain, he realized it was silly, for all treasure was a trust and a test from Allah, whether an orange, a crypto token that existed only as the figment of a computer’s binary imagination, or a child who never stopped loving you.

He let his mind drift, thinking about the ways he could have been a better brother to Lubna, a better friend to Marco, and a better husband and father. His eyelids grew heavy, and soon he found himself in a land where time, distance, and the limitations of human perception had no meaning.

***

 

[Part 13 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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

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

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

 

Related:

Uber Tales: A Driver’s Journal

All That is In The Heavens [Part I]: Outnumbered, But Not Outgunned

The post Moonshot [Part 12] – November Evans appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Muharram: A Time of Reflection and Reaffirmation

The month of Muharram is the first month of the Islamic calendar, it is one of the four sacred months mentioned in the Qur’an [Surah At-Tawbah, 9:36]. This month holds deep historical and spiritual significance for Muslims. It is a time when warfare is prohibited; a time of reflection, and a time of reaffirmation of some of the core Islamic values and principles that Islam has been founded upon, such as faith, perseverance, sacrifice, and moral courage.

The 10th of Muharram, known as ‘Ashura or Yawm ‘Ashura, holds deep spiritual and historical significance for Muslims today. Among the many events associated with this day, two stand out as monumental signs of Allah’s Mercy and Power: the deliverance of Prophet Musa and his followers from Pharaoh, and the safe landing of Prophet Nuh’s Ark on Mount Judi.

Another deeply saddening event that occurred on ‘Ashura was indeed the horrendous massacre of Hussein, the beloved grandson of the Prophet Muhammad , who was martyred in Karbala while standing for justice and truth. These narratives are not mere historical occurrences, but are intricately woven with profound lessons that resonate with Muslims today.

Let’s look at four of the most important lessons of ‘Ashura:

1. Trust in Allah

Trust in Allah during times of trials and tribulations is demonstrated when, on the day of ‘Ashura Allah saved Prophet Musa and his followers from the oppression and tyranny of Pharaoh. It was an extremely daunting moment for the followers of Prophet Musa , as they stood at the Red Sea, with the menacing army of Pharaoh relentless in pursuing them. However, Prophet Musa had his complete and unwavering trust in his Lord. He affirmed:

“Indeed, with me is my Lord; He will guide me.” [Surah Ash-Shu’ara; 26:62]

 

At that moment, a miraculous event unfolded as the sea was divided, allowing Prophet Musa and his followers to cross over, while Pharaoh and his army were drowned in the depths of the waters. Muslims today face many forms of oppression—be it political, social, or personal. The story of Prophet Musa teaches us that even in the darkest moments, faith and patience can lead to relief and victory.

When injustice seems insurmountable, as Muslims, we are reminded that Allah is in control, and He comes to the aid of those who place their trust in Him alone.

2. Perseverance in the Face of Rejection

Persevering in the face of rejection is the key lesson derived from the life of Prophet Nuh . On the same blessed day of ‘Ashura, it is believed that Prophet Nuh’s Ark came to rest upon Mount Judi, marking the conclusion of the Great Flood. After enduring centuries of ardent preaching and relentless rejection from his people, Prophet Nuh was commanded by His Lord to construct an Ark; which would be a sanctuary for the righteous. As he embarked on the monumental task of building this vessel in the heart of the desert, his people mocked him; however, he remained resolute and firm.

The Qur’an describes the event as follows:

“And it was said, ‘O earth! Swallow up your water. And O sky! Withhold [your rain].’ The floodwater receded and the decree was carried out. The Ark rested on Mount Judi, and it was said, ‘Away with the wrongdoing people!’” [Surah Hud; 11:44]

Prophet Nuh’s story is a testament to steadfastness and endurance. In a world increasingly moving away from moral and spiritual values, Muslims are reminded to remain committed to truth and righteousness, even when they feel isolated or mocked. Like Prophet Nuh , it is important to always conduct oneself with integrity and uphold ethical principles, even when such actions may conflict with the prevailing societal norms.

3. The Martyrdom of Hussein

The city of Kufa, Iraq, today.

Hasan and Hussein were the grandsons of Prophet Muhammad . He loved them immensely. Ibn ‘Umar said: ‘I heard the Prophet say, ‘They are my two sweet-basils in the world.’” [Sahih Bukhari].

‘Ashura is also the day when the poignant martyrdom of Hussein took place, a day characterised by profound brutality. During the reign of Yazid, the son of Mu’awiya, the Muslim community was deeply fragmented, and the people of Kufa wanted Hussein to be their leader. They inundated him with letters while he was in Makkah, pledging their unwavering allegiance should he accept to be their leader. Hussein decided to accept the pleas of the people of Kufa and embarked upon his journey towards the city.

Sadly, by the time he reached Kufa, the people had betrayed him. A myriad of circumstances culminated in a harrowing and unjust battle, in which the martyrdom of Hussein , the beloved grandson of Prophet Muhammad , took place.

To make matters worse, he was beheaded and his head was desecrated with a stick in a vile and mocking manner by Ubayd Allah ibn Ziyad, a general and governor of the Umayyad Caliphate, who was also the mastermind of the wicked campaign of Karbala. This was a barbaric and heart-rending act of profound disrespect towards Hussein , who hailed from the noble lineage of the Prophet and who was deeply cherished by him and whom he affectionately referred to as one of his “two sweet basils in the world.”

Defiance of Tyranny

The triumph of Hussein in this instance was not a worldly victory, but rather a resounding affirmation in the Hereafter. His success is manifested in the form of martyrdom, serving as a testament to the invincible, steadfast faith amidst the onslaught of tyranny. It illustrates the exquisite beauty of perceiving life as a dual existence – impermanent material world and the eternal world of Paradise. This is elucidated in the Qur’an:

“Never say that those martyred in the cause of Allah are dead—in fact, they are alive! But you do not perceive it.” [Surah Al-Baqarah; 2:154]

As well as in the Prophetic hadith:

“Verily, the souls of martyrs are in green birds, hanging from the fruits of Paradise, or the trees of Paradise.” [al-Tirmidhi]

Hussein is respected as one of the most esteemed members of the Prophet’s lineage. His unshakeable patience and steadfastness in the face of oppression serve as exemplary models for all Muslims. The tragedy of Karbala is deeply rooted in moral and spiritual significance, teaching Muslims the paramount importance of upholding justice in all circumstances.

Today, truthfulness is frequently sacrificed for the sake of power or fear; however, the lessons derived from Karbala serve as a reminder that faith devoid of action and principles devoid of sacrifice, are meaningless. Above all, principles and integrity will always champion righteousness over power.

4. Commemorate ‘Ashura by Fasting

The best way to commemorate ‘Ashura is by following the example of the Prophet , and this is through fasting on the 10th of Muharram. The Prophet urged us to fast on this day to commemorate and celebrate the victory of Prophet Musa over Pharaoh. To differ from earlier practices, we may observe a fast either on the day preceding or following ‘Ashura.

Fasting on ‘Ashura is a means of expiation of the sins of the previous year. Prophet Muhammad said:

“Fasting on the day of Ashura, I hope, will expiate for the sins of the previous year.” [Muslim]

Faith and Patience

In conclusion, ‘Ashura is not just about reminiscing or mourning the past events – it is about embracing and living by the key moral principles extrapolated from these events. Whether reflecting on the salvation of Prophet Nuh , the victory of Prophet Musa , or the sacrifice of Imam Hussein , Muharram unites Muslims around a common theme: faith and patience in times of adversity.

“O you who have believed, seek help through patience and prayer. Indeed, Allah is with those who are patient.” [Surah Al-Baqarah; 2:153]

The Muslim Ummah today is plagued by disunity and a lack of leadership rooted in values. ‘Ashura serves as a powerful reminder for every Muslim to reaffirm our dedication to the tenets of truth, justice, patience, and gratitude. From Prophet Musa , we learn about the importance of placing our trust in Allah during adversity. Prophet Nuh’s life teaches us the virtue of perseverance in the face of challenges. From Hussein , we are inspired to embody resilience, uphold the truth, and make sacrifices in the pursuit of justice.

 

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The post From The Prophets To Karbala: The Timeless Lessons Of Ashura For Muslims Today appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

“Sometimes I think I can see right through myself. I see what I’ve become. And I don’t like it.”

— Walter Mosley, Devil in a Blue Dress

What Happened?

Zaid Karim sat with his feet on his desk, and a handful of magnetic darts in his lap. He pitched one, too hard. It hit the round metal dartboard and bounced off. He flung another, and it stuck right in the center.

“Yes! Right in your eye.”

He threw another.

“Boss!” Jalal, Zaid’s assistant and trainee P.I. threw his hands up. He was an athletic, broad-shouldered young man with green eyes and crewcut blond hair. One of those Palestinians who looks more European than Arab. He’d just gotten married, and sometimes Zaid caught him staring at a framed photo of his wife instead of working. But in general he was an excellent assistant, who took the ethics of the job seriously. More seriously than Zaid himself, at times.

“I can’t work like this,” Jalal complained. “Do you want me to find this girl or not? You’re the one who taught me that the first 24 hours are critical.”

“Did they pay us?” They’d been hired to find a nineteen year old Bangladeshi Muslim girl who had gone “missing.” Zaid wasn’t worried. He’d worked three similar cases in the past, with teenage Muslim girls who went “missing.” Once with Lonnie, and twice on his own. Every time the family put out a flyer implying the girl had been kidnapped, starting a panic in the community. And every time it turned out the girl had run away from home. Too much school-related pressure from the parents, or culture clash between immigrant parents and their USA-born daughters. In one case the girl was pregnant, and had just completed an abortion when Zaid found her. He brought her home, but never told the parents about the pregnancy.

“They paid a thousand up front and a thousand more when we find her.”

“Cheapskates. We’ll never see that second grand.”

“Boss.” Jalal sat back from the computer and raised his hands in supplication. “What happened to you? Where’s the man who put his life on the line to find a missing child?”

Zaid glared at his assistant. “This is not that.” Though perhaps it was, who knew?

“We’ll find her. Look at her Instagram, then follow the trail. Relatives, friends, or boyfriend.”

Bite Something

He threw another dart. It hit the exact center of the board and stuck, displacing the previous one. He felt a vicious sense of satisfaction. If he couldn’t do anything else right in life, he could stick these stupid darts to the bullseye.

He knew he was being a jerk, and furthermore a bad detective. But he was in a foul mood, and couldn’t bring himself to care, any more than a snake in its desert hole cared about political, social or spiritual revolution and reformation. All the snake wanted was to hide and sleep, and every now and then bite something.

Jalal made an exasperated noise, but before he could complain further, Zaid said, “Fine! I have things to do anyway. Call me when you have a line on the girl. Don’t go looking for her in person! Just find a digital trail. We need to make sure we’re the ones who physically bring her home, or they’ll claim she showed up on her own, and they won’t pay us the second half.”

It was a warm day, and the car was a baked potato on a sheet pan. He started the engine and ran the AC. He had barely slept last night. He’d dreamed of one of the men he’d killed, the driver. They’d been sitting in a Yemeni coffee shop, having a conversation as blood welled from the man’s chest. The man complained that the coffee had no taste, and Zaid pointed out that he was dead. The man looked shocked, then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed into a pile of ash and bones.

A few years ago the city had planted palm trees along this previously barren stretch of East Belmont. They stretched toward the sky, tall and proud, uncompromising. Muslims one and all, standing in ranks like the believers at Badr. Zaid himself was a gnarled oak, twisted, nearly unkillable, and harboring life in his way, but plain and fruitless.

Agent of Destruction

He couldn’t kill one more human being. He couldn’t continue to live like this, functioning as an agent of destruction in this already mad world. He was at the end of his rope with this private detective gig. But what else could he do? He had no other training, no other skills.

He began to drive. He needed to talk to someone, but who? His friends could literally be counted on the fingers of one hand. Tarek Anwar was dead. Zaid had found his body two years ago, half in and half out of an abandoned refrigerator, the heroin needle still sticking out of his arm like a parasite that had died with its host.

His best friend, Saleem Haleem, who worked as a project manager at a homeless shelter, was at ‘Umrah. Yahya, the Kenyan sufi who lived like an ascetic and saw auras, was speaking at the ICNA conference in Baltimore. Titus Palumbo was a police detective, and Zaid felt it was best to stay away from him for now. As for Imam Saleh, he would not understand. He was a man of faith, a decent and peaceful man. Zaid’s lifestyle was beyond his ken.

As his mind worked he had been driving, and he looked up to see that his subconscious had already made the decision for him. He had come to a stop in front of the Bookazon bookstore, one of many money laundering fronts owned by his childhood friend Amiri Sulawesi, known by everyone else in the world as Badger. Zaid happened to know that Badger dropped by here often.

Coming here made sense, in a twisted way. Zaid needed advice on how to escape violence. And what greater expert was there on the subject of violence than Badger?

A Bad Day

The bookstore was small and overfull, with books cramming the shelves and stacked on the floor. A handful of youths – probably students at City College down the road – browsed, or sat in armchairs, reading. The clerk at the counter – a paper-white, thin young man with a ponytail, whose name Zaid had forgotten – Jimmy, Jerry? – claimed he didn’t know anyone named Badger.

“I’m quite sure no one with a name like that would be associated with our store,” Jimmy sniffed.

Zaid wasn’t in the mood. He had a clear memory of this pale, skinny fool addressing Badger as, “Mister Badger Sir,” like he was a character from a children’s story. He circled around to the back of the counter and seized the young man by the throat with one hand, the other hand going to the knife clipped to his pocket.

“Listen, Jimmy, you might not remember me but I remember you, and I know very well that you know Badger, so get him on the phone and tell him that Zaid Karim wants to see him, before I lose my patience and use you to test the edge of my knife. Do you understand? Nod to tell me you understand.”

The clerk’s face flushed as red as a beet, and his entire body went stiff. With eyes averted, he made helpless pawing motions in the air.

Zaid realized that the man was terrified into paralysis. This happened sometimes with chokes. People fell into profound fear states that shut down the higher mind entirely. Shocked at his own violence, he released the young man and stepped back.

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy. I apologize. I’m having a bad day. Do me a favor and make the call, alright?”

The clerk coughed and cleared his throat, holding out a hand as if to ward Zaid away. To his credit, he said, “Screw you, creep. And my name is Jerry.”

Zaid nodded, smiling. “Of course. Jerry. My apologies. I really do need you to make that call, though.”

Still red-faced, and not taking his eyes off Zaid, Jerry got on the phone, spoke for less than ten seconds, then hung up and spat two words at Zaid: “Fig factory.”

No Witnesses

That was all Zaid needed to hear. Two years ago he’d gone to Badger to request a favor. The price had been to act as lookout on one of Badger’s raids. Zaid had reluctantly agreed, only to find himself sucked into a massive gunbattle between Badger’s crew and a Samoan gang. He’d saved Badger’s life, and had watched helplessly as Badger’s henchwoman Pinky shot a naked lady in a shower. When it was all over, they had retreated to an abandoned Arkadian Foods fig processing plant in the countryside to patch up their injuries. Zaid had been emotionally devastated, until he learned that the naked lady had survived.

He was surprised that the gangster-killer was still using the same hideout.

The old fig factory, out in the countryside southwest of Fresno, was unguarded. A long gravel road led to a high fence and a rusted iron gate secured with a huge padlock. Miles of empty fields stretched out around him—no houses, no witnesses, just silence. There was a new signpost, with a triangular red and yellow sign declaring, “Hazardous Waste Site.”

If something were to happen to him here, his body would never be found, he was sure of that. Sure, Badger was a friend, but he was also a killer with a heart as cold as stainless steel in the Arctic.

Fig Factory

The padlock was not locked. Zaid opened the gate and drove up to the factory’s loading dock. For some reason a number of stray cats stood about the property, as if waiting for something to happen.

The rollup door was open, and he drove right into the factory, parking beside a nondescript gray Corolla. Badger was as rich as a Saudi prince, but his cars were always plain.

The factory interior smelled of rust and old syrup. The combination was sickly sweet, and made Zaid’s stomach rumble in discomfort. An immense complex of pipes and vats occupied the north side. The scattered furniture was aged, though the makeshift first aid clinic in one corner was better equipped than in the past. A heavy-duty first aid kit was laid open on a folding table, its contents sorted with clinical precision—bandages, syringes, surgical scissors, and a bottle of iodine.

A large wooden table held a scattering of weaponry, including shotguns, rifles, handguns and bullet proof vests.

Where there had been mattresses on the floor in the past, there were now three pairs of bunk beds. A portable battery pack hummed faintly, feeding power to a hot plate, a dented oscillating fan, a phone charger, and a tiny mini-fridge, all wedged together beside a stack of ammo boxes and what looked like a Quran with no cover. That last item surprised Zaid, but gave him some hope that Badger still retained a shred of faith.

The voluptuous Hispanic woman named Jelly sat cross-legged on one of the cots, sharpening a folding knife against a ceramic plate. Pinky, her petite lesbian lover, lounged nearby with a massive pearl-handled revolver in her lap and a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. A young man Zaid did not know sat on the floor in the shadows, black hair to his shoulders, eyes dark and unreadable, watching Zaid with a look that might have been curiosity or disdain.

In the middle of it all was Badger. Short and wiry, seated on an upturned bucket like a child’s throne. A ray of sun painted a yellow stripe across his hard brown face. His expression was not welcoming, and Zaid knew right away that he’d made a mistake in coming here.

Eight Years Ago

Eight years ago, Zaid had been part of a robbery along with Badger’s father, Malik Sulawesi. Malik had been shot protecting Zaid, and had bled to death in Zaid’s lap, in the back seat of a car, on the way to the hospital. The crew had dumped Malik’s body in the driveway of the hospital, abandoning him to his corporeal fate.

No one alive knew this. It was a secret that Zaid had buried deep in his own mind, on a level that even he did not visit.

After Malik’s death, Badger had gone on a campaign of vengeance against the gangsters he believed responsible, killing more people with his guns than a carpet-bombing run would have done. While all the while the man responsible was his own best friend.

The last time Zaid had visited Chausiku Sulawesi – Badger’s mother – the woman had implied that she knew Zaid’s secret, and had threatened to tell Badger if Zaid ever bothered her again. Ever since then, the possibility of such a revelation had been nagging at Zaid’s heart like a dog worrying a bone.

Badger glanced sidelong at Zaid, lips twisting into a cold smile. “Didn’t think I’d see you again, Stick. Funny, right? Life got this way of makin’ the past come back around. Like the cosmic powers-that-be wanna force you to examine all your dark, dirty secrets. You ever notice that?”

Zaid tensed. What was Badger implying? He studied his murderous friend. Badger was slender to the point of being delicate, and those who did not know him sometimes fatally underestimated him. Zaid never made that mistake.

Avoiding the connotations of Badger’s comments, and ignoring Badger’s unwelcome use of his old nickname, Zaid said, “What’s with the cats?”

Badger shrugged. “Jelly started feedin’ ’em, and they kept comin’.”

Scars

“Look at you,” Badger went on. “What happened to your face, homie? You look like you went ten rounds with a cotton harvester.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Oh yeah? Show me.”

Zaid had not come here to entertain others with his scars, but what the hell. Badger’s mind was like a supercomputer, and computers functioned on data. The more information you fed them, the more useful the answer.

Matter of factly, without embarrassment or hesitation, he pulled his t-shirt off and let Badger study the mass of twisted skin that covered his left shoulder; the long, fiery scar that ran up his left arm; and the pockmarked bullet scar on his right shoulder.

“Now for the featured attraction.” He put his t-shirt back on, and pulled his pants down to his knees. The skin on the front and inside of his thighs was a frightening, chaotic mess of scars atop scars. They were not neat lines as one might get from a knife wound, but scores of misshapen, twisted rents and tears of all shapes.

Badger whistled, long and low. “You was tortured.”

“Ay Dios,” Jelly whispered.

Zaid pulled his pants back up.

“Who did that to you, Stick?” Badger demanded. “Gimme their names and I’ll exterminate ‘em all.”

Zaid regarded his old friend solemnly. “I already did that.”

Badger did not ask for names or details. He merely grunted and said, “Good man.”

No Future

“Fool prolly makin’ it all up,” the young man offered from the shadowy corner where he crouched. “Prolly had a car accident.”

Zaid looked at the youth. His soulful eyes were deep and haunted beneath a mop of curly dark hair. He was not more than nineteen, yet radiated anger and sorrow, as if already resigned to a bleak ending that hadn’t yet come. The sad part was that, working for Badger, the young man had no future. He’d already thrown his life away, and didn’t know it yet.

“Shut up, Ofelio,” Jelly said lazily. She was lying back now on the cot, her long black hair fanning out on the small pillow. The tight jeans and t-shirt she wore barely contained her figure. Zaid remembered the time they’d nearly killed each other, when she’d pressed a gun to his forehead as he had put a knife to her femoral artery. Her breath had been spicy, and her eyes as deep as the Mariana Trench. She was watching him closely now, fascination in her gaze as she twirled a knife between long, manicured fingers.

Zaid’s eyes flicked to Pinky, the diminutive and insanely jealous Asian killer. Her eyes darted rapidly between Jelly and Zaid, her slender fingers nervously twitching at the handle of a pistol she never hesitated to use.

“So,” Badger went on as if the young man had not spoken. “Watchu doin’ here, Stick? Must be pretty bad if you come to see me.”

“I came to talk to you,” Zaid said at last. “Not your whole crew.”

Badger’s lips twitched into a half-smile, the slightest nod acknowledging old bonds. “Just protocol, Stick. You know how Jelly and Pinky get when they miss the action.”

“What about the big mouthed kid? Who’s he?”

“I’ll show you who’s a kid,” the young man snarled, standing and drawing a long dagger.

“You better sit down, Ofelio,” Badger remarked, “if you know what’s good for you.”

Ofelio took a step toward Zaid. “Naw boss, I’ma show you that this guy is all talk.”

Zaid wondered what was going on with the kid. Was he jealous of Zaid’s friendship with Badger? Was he new to the crew, and feeling a need to prove his chops? Or was he just crazy? Nevertheless, a threat was a threat.

“Act like you have an ounce of brains,” Zaid said, “and sit down.”

Later, he wondered why he had said this. Was it a half-hearted attempt at deescalation? Or was he actually trying, on some poorly illuminated subconscious level, to provoke the young man?

Regardless, Ofelio took another step forward and raised his long dagger.

Suddenly, fluidly, Zaid drew the large folding knife from his right-side front pocket, snapped it open and flung it hard and fast. The blade and handle were black, and in the gloom of the factory the weapon was little more than a shadow flicking through the air. The blade embedded itself deep in Ofelio’s thigh. The young man screamed and fell to the ground, clutching at his leg. “He stabbed me! The fool stabbed me!”

Badger threw back his head and roared with laughter. He laughed so hard he fell off the bucket. Rolling on the floor, he clutched his stomach and guffawed as the young man moaned in pain.

Seeing this, Zaid could not stop the corners of his mouth from quirking upward into a smile, though he hated himself for it.

“You never even warned me!” Ofelio shouted.

“Why would I warn you? This is real life, not a kung fu movie.”

“Pinky,” Badger commanded when he’d recovered himself. “Patch the kid up. Jelly, make us some tea. You know the kind I like.”

A Taste for Murder

Badger sat back down on the bucket. “Never mind the kid. Just say what you wanna say, Stick.”

“I killed three men the other day.”

“Oh yeah?” A genuine smile touched Badger’s lips. It occurred to Zaid that although Badger’s mission had started out as one of revenge, somewhere along the way he’d developed a taste for murder. The very mention of it pleased him, like an addict talking about his drug of choice.

“And it wasn’t even for me. I was helping out a brother in trouble.”

“That’s the only way you would kill, Stick. For someone else. I’m the opposite, I only kill for myself. That’s why you’re the hero of this story, and I’m the villain.”

“What story?”

“Life.”

“The thing is,” Zaid said, “I did it easily. I didn’t even consider alternatives. I cut those men down like the grim reaper. This isn’t who I am. It’s not who I want to be. I need a way out of this life and away from violence. So I thought, who understands violence better than Badger? Understanding a thing means you know both sides of it.”

Badger nodded slowly. “You need to achieve escape velocity, huh? But you know better than anyone—ain’t no easy roads out here. Just circles.”

Zaid met Badger’s gaze, resolute. “Then help me break the circle.”

Badger watched Zaid carefully. “You think,” Badger finally began, voice calm and measured, “you can just step away from violence, like it’s a barrio you grew out of. Made some money, wanna move to a gated community. But violence isn’t geography, Stick. It’s gravity. It pulls you, holds and don’t let go.”

Zaid tilted his head, listening, but silent.

“It’s basic physics. Every action,” Badger said, tapping his chest, “ripples outward endlessly. All the killing you’ve done has changed you. It’s inevitable.”

“I know,” Zaid murmured. “But that’s the problem. It was too easy. Killing them shouldn’t have felt so—”

“Natural?” Badger interjected softly. He leaned back, the bucket creaking quietly. “Marx spoke about alienation. Workers lose themselves when their actions become commodities. The same happens with violence. When you detach the act from the self—when killing becomes automatic, instinctive—you’ve become alienated from your humanity. The self is lost in the process.”

“Then how do I get it back?” Zaid asked, barely audible.

Jelly came with a small folding table and a tray and silently poured three cups of tea, handing one to Zaid. The silver cup was small and ornate. Zaid sipped it, reveling in the rich flavor of chocolate and peppermint that flooded his mouth. It was delicious.

On the other side of the warehouse, Ofelio was moaning nonstop as Pinky tourniqueted his leg, cleaned the wound and began to stitch it up. Zaid felt no remorse for what he’d done, and that was the problem.

An Anchor

Badger’s eyes hardened. “You want to reclaim humanity, you must reclaim agency. Choose consciously. If violence must occur, it can’t be reflexive. Anarchists understood this. Any genuine action must originate from deliberate choice, not necessity or impulse.”

Jelly had pulled up a chair and sat sipping her own tea and listening to the conversation. The pressure of her eyes upon him was like the constant emanation of a space heater.

Zaid frowned. “You’re not exactly a pacifist yourself.”

“No,” Badger admitted, sipping his tea. “But I never lie to myself about why I do what I do. The moment violence becomes easy, you become a slave to its gravity. Breaking orbit means making different choices—deliberate choices that reflect your values, not your reflexes. You need an anchor.”

“An anchor,” Zaid echoed softly.

“Exactly.” Badger stared directly into Zaid’s eyes. “Find an anchor outside violence, something strong enough to pull you free from its orbit. Art. Community. Philosophy. Pick a different center of gravity. Otherwise, you remain trapped in violence’s perpetual cycle.” Badger leaned forward, voice lower. “You’re troubled not because of the act, but because you’ve glimpsed clearly what you’re capable of. So decide who you gon’ be, Stick, and mean it. Otherwise, these streets gon’ keep decidin’ for you.”

Zaid finished his tea and stood. Badger was making sense. Except for one thing.

What About Allah?

“What about Allah?” Zaid challenged. “The person who remembers Allah and the one who does not are like the living and the dead. If I have learned anything in life, it’s that everything begins and ends with Allah. I know this better than I know my own name. So how can you, or me, or anyone, make a true change without the light and guidance of Allah?”

Badger shrugged. “You’re the Muslim, you figure it out.”

“You don’t consider yourself Muslim anymore?”

“Come on, homie. After all I’ve done? I’m a monster, I know it. Could be I’m a sociopath. I display all the markers.” He made quotation signs with his fingers and recited: “Pervasive pattern of disregard for the rights of others. Failure to adhere to social norms. Lack of remorse. Don’t matter what I consider myself, ain’t no God about to forgive me.”

“You’re cherry-picking. I took an abnormal psychology class in the pen. Sociopathy also includes impulsiveness, irritability and an inability to form meaningful relationships. None of which I see in you. Anyway, Allah forgives, brother. Don’t you know that? If you come with an ocean of sins and make tawbah, Allah will come with forgiveness greater than that.”

“Could I be forgiven?” Jelly asked.

“Of course. You feed cats. There’s mercy in you, which means you are open to receiving mercy as well.”

Badger laughed. “You better get goin’, Stick, before you convert my crew and steal ‘em away.”

“You have a copy of the Quran,” Zaid persisted.

“Do I?” Badger’s surprise was genuine.

Zaid gestured. “Right there on top of your ammo boxes.”

“Actually,” Jelly said with uncharacteristic shyness, “that’s mine.”

Zaid studied the beautiful young woman for a moment, then, on impulse, and knowing it was probably a bad idea, took out his wallet and handed her one of his cards. “Text me and I’ll give you my wife’s number. You can talk to her about God, the Quran, faith, or whatever you like.”

Badger stood. “You’re crossing a line here, homie.” His voice was low and dangerous.

Zaid met his old friend’s eyes. “I don’t think I am.” He waved his arm to encompass the dilapidated factory. “I want more than this for you, Badge. You’re capable of so much more. I care about you.”

“See that!” Badger gestured to his compatriots. “That’s sincerity. That’s why I never murdered this dude, and never will.”

“How heartwarming.”

In the first aid clinic, Ofelio had been treated and sedated, and was asleep. Pinky walked over to join the group, carrying Zaid’s knife. Zaid tensed. Pinky had never liked him. But the petite Asian killer tossed the knife gently, and Zaid snatched it out of the air. It had been cleaned and disinfected.

“Thanks,” he said.

The fig factory suddenly felt not just like a hideout, but a tomb. Badger was a dead pharaoh, already wrapped and mummified, while the crew members were his acolytes, worshiping him even beyond death. There was no life here, no truth, no answers. Badger could perhaps point the way toward something true – that Zaid was a human being with free will, and the capacity to make different choices – but Badger himself was stuck in his own nightmare, and was so used to it that it seemed like home.

Zaid walked to his car, backed out of the factory and drove away, thinking of Badger’s final comment – that he’d never murdered Zaid, and never would – and what it might imply.

***

[Part 12 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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

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

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

 

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Gravedigger: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 11] – The Fig Factory appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

We speak with Helena Cobban about fallout from Israel’s attack on Iran. Israel suffered its highest casualties in Gaza in a year, even as it massacres civilians. UK ban on Palestine Action, and more.

Exclusive: Former Met officer Neil Basu says there is link between UK foreign policy and radicalisation, and atrocity did lasting damage to race relations

Foreign policy was a driver behind the 7 July 2005 attacks on London , with the atrocity leaving a “soul-destroying” legacy of a rise in hate, a former head of counter-terrorism has said.

Neil Basu said governments needed to accept that foreign policy, such as Britain’s stance on the Israel-Gaza war, could have a direct effect on domestic security.

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Many feel counter-terrorism policies and brazen Islamophobia have increased hostility and isolation experience by community

For many in the British Muslim community, the tragedy of 7 July 2005 lives long in the memory. The bombings sent shockwaves through the nation but also marked a turning point that left many grappling with grief, fear and a new scrutiny of their identity.

Twenty years on, feelings of suspicion, isolation and hostility experienced in the aftermath of the attacks have, for some, only worsened after decades of UK counter-terrorism policies, and a political landscape they say has allowed Islamophobia to flourish.

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

Yousef Raed is back in Jabaliya with his small family, but still suffers the scars of 20 months of terror and torture.

Israel kills leading doctor, one of only two remaining cardiologists in northern Gaza.

Israeli attacks killed over 60 people in Gaza City and the north on 30 June.

“Recalling” Israel’s crimes is an empty gesture.