Divorced women in Gaza must wade through a destroyed judicial system to obtain their rights.

Trapped in a deadly mountain pass, the caravan fights for survival as Darius faces his greatest test yet.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16  | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21

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Empty Eyes

The pass had narrowed until our caravan stretched into a long column that wound like a great river snake along the curving mountain road. The air was thin and bitingly cold. Longwei, Meilin and I were stationed near the rear of the caravan, beside wagon forty out of fifty. Longwei rode ahead of me, his weathered face grim beneath his fur cap. Meilin was behind, one hand resting near the hilt of her dao, her eyes roaming constantly over the cliffs above.

The front of the caravan was completely out of sight, far ahead and around a bend. Jagged cliffs hemmed us in on both sides, their gray faces pocked with caves and dark fissures that seemed to watch us like empty eyes. We carried our own scents with us: mule sweat, leather, and horse dung.

There was no calling of crows or hawks, no bleating of mountain goats, no adhaan or cooking smoke echoing up the mountainside from a distant village. The world was silent but for the hoofbeats and creaking wagon wheels of our caravan.

It wasn’t only me who was unsettled. Conversations had lapsed. No laughter sounded. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the caves, as if hordes of demons might pour forth at any moment. Riding easily on Belly’s back – he and I were like one creature at this point, we knew each other so well – I rubbed my hands together vigorously to warm them.

To break the tension, I quietly recited my favorite of Memdooh’s stanzas:

I ride from a northern land
curved sword in my hand.
I’m young but I’m hard
for I’m a caravan guard!

Belly flicked his ears, appreciating the enthusiasm in my voice. Heck, he probably knew the stanza himself by now.

“Boy,” Meilin hissed, “if you recite that poem one more time, you and I will duel again. And I won’t go easy this time.”

I chuckled at this. She’d dislocated my finger and bruised me from head to toe last time, and that was going easy?

Sergeant Karim came toward us, riding slowly along the length of the caravan, studying the heights instead of the road ahead. A brass signal horn hung around his neck, and his face was grim. Every so often he would point with two fingers.

“You. Tighten your helmet.”

“You, fasten that chin strap.”

“Shield on your arm, not your saddle.”

The guards obeyed without question. Men checked sword belts, adjusted bowstrings and settled helmets more firmly upon their heads. One teamster began humming nervously to himself until Karim silenced him with a glance.

“Keep your eyes open,” Karim called. “No one wanders. Stay with your wagons. If the horn sounds, you know your positions.” He continued toward the rear of the caravan.

The merchants instinctively drew closer to their teams. Guards loosened swords in their scabbards and rested their hands upon bow grips. Even the horses seemed to sense the tension. Ears flicked back and forth, nostrils flared, and more than one animal tossed its head uneasily.

Belly gave a low nicker. I reached forward and rubbed his neck. “I know, buddy. We’ll keep each other safe, like we always do.”

“Belly talking to you again?” Meilin asked. “Maybe you can get a bird to scout for us, like Prophet Sulaiman.”

A little later Karim returned from the rear.

The Tea House

“Care for a cup of tea, Sarge?” Meilin joked. This was a reference to the wagon we were guarding, which we colloquially called the Tea House, because it carried a small quantity of jade, several chests of silk and paper, and a great many crates of tea. Riding alongside, the scent of the tea drifted toward me, sweet and pleasant, strangely comforting amid so much unease.

He grinned, knowing that Meilin’s joke did not take away from her attention to her duty. “I’m holding out for Persian chai,” he replied softly. “They make it with saffron, rose and cardamom. No more talking. Listen for my horn.” A moment later, he was gone, moving forward.

The Tea House was pulled by four mules in tandem, two lead mules and two wheel mules nearest the wagon. The wheel pair supplied most of the braking and steering, while the lead pair provided the extra pulling power needed on steep grades. I had learned all of this on the journey, mostly from Longwei, who seemed to know something about almost everything.

I rode up beside the driver’s bench.

“Cover yourselves with the heavy blankets,” I told the driver and his young apprentice. “And keep a firm hold on the reins. Something’s coming.” I couldn’t have said how I knew this, but I was sure of it. I was discovering that I had good instincts for this kind of thing. My father’s training, perhaps.

The drivers glanced uneasily at the cliffs, then reached beneath the bench and spread thick wool blankets across their shoulders.

As for the two merchants responsible for the Tea House goods, they sometimes rode on horseback alongside their wagon, but today they had chosen to remain inside. Hearing my warning, they hurriedly pulled heavy quilts over themselves and crouched low among the cargo.

I fell back into position. I pushed my helmet more firmly onto my head, tightened the chin strap, and rested one hand on the hilt of my dao. My eyes searched the caves above while my other hand absently rubbed Belly’s neck.

“Steady, boy,” I murmured, and he flicked an ear in acknowledgment.

Cattle Horn

From somewhere far forward and above us came a high-pitched trumpeting sound. It was definitely not Sergeant Karim’s brass horn.

“What is that?” I called out to Longwei.

He glanced back at me. “Cattle horn. Not ours. Something’s happening.”

From the front of the caravan, a horse screamed. The sound was faint but unmistakable.

Now Karim’s horn did sound. One long blast, and one short. The signal for “attack at the front of the caravan.” From behind and around me, guards spurred their horses into a gallop, surging forward. I gave Belly a little kick with my heels as well, but instead of quickening the pace, he stopped dead.

I groaned. “Not now, Belly, please.”

“Darius,” Meilin snapped. “What are you doing? Let’s go.”

I knew that kicking Belly harder would not produce results. Instead I leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Then I froze and cocked my head.

“Wait!” I called out to Longwei and Meilin. Memdooh was riding past, and he paused as well. They circled back to me. Meilin’s face was flushed with excitement, Memdooh’s with what was likely fear, and Longwei looked entirely unfazed.

“What is it?” Longwei demanded. “You heard the signal. Get your damn horse to move.”

“It’s not that. I heard something from the rear. I think they might hit us there.”

Longwei glanced to the rear. There were no guards remaining back there except the six who formed a permanent rear guard, headed by Corporal Jian.

“I see nothing,” he said, but his tone held a note of doubt. “Jian carries a horn as well, he can signal if anything happens.”

I looked up sharply toward the caves at the rear of the caravan. “There it is again.” A cold knot formed in my stomach.

“What?”

“A rock falling.”

Longwei glanced irritably at the cliffs. “We’re in a mountain pass, Darius. Rocks fall. And I didn’t hear anything.”

“Neither did I,” Meilin admitted.

“My hearing is better than yours,” I said quietly.

The sound of fierce fighting drifted to us from the front of the caravan.

“It sounds bad up there!” Memdooh exclaimed. His voice held a note of panic. “We have to get up there or we’ll be whipped for dereliction.”

“I’m telling you,” I said, “an attack is coming at the rear. Those six men will be overrun. And what about the Happy Wagon? Gulnur is alone and defenseless.”

The third wagon from the rear was Kuangren and Gulnur’s matrimonial wagon. Some of the guards had painted flowers on it, and we had come to call it the Happy Wagon. Gulnur had fallen ill to some kind of flu, and was asleep back there. I knew these things because it was my job to know. All of us knew the status and contents of every wagon in our sector.

“How can you know that?” Longwei’s tone was irritated and angry.

“My gut.”

Meilin studied the cliffs above the rear of the caravan. The wind tugged at her hair. Somewhere up front, another scream echoed off the mountains. Finally, she nodded. “I trust the kid. Besides, there are plenty of guards up front. What if something does kick off back here?”

Longwei stared at her for a moment, then muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Wonderful,” he said. “We’ll all be whipped together.”

Rear Attack

Without another word, the four of us turned our horses and started toward the rear. We had not gone fifty paces when another cow horn bellowed from behind the caravan, loud and terrible, echoing through the pass.

Longwei stopped so abruptly that his horse reared. “Damn,” he growled. “The kid was right.”

“Heaven preserve us,” Meilin whispered.

The attack came all at once. Volleys of arrows poured forth from the small caves in the cliff. Corporal Jian toppled from his saddle without a sound. A mule shrieked and collapsed in the road, shafts protruding from its neck.

“Darius,” Longwei said softly, “remind me never to doubt your ears again.”

Men boiled out of the caves like soldier ants. They came on foot with wild cries, bounding like goats down the steep slope, wielding either short lances, or short, curved swords that looked much like my dao.

The four of us charged into the storm.

Three of the rear guards were down now. One of the surviving guards was struggling to free his leg from beneath his fallen mount while the other two fought desperately beside the last wagons.

The attackers numbered at least fifty. They scrambled down the slope in loose groups, shouting in a language I did not understand. Even in the midst of battle, I found myself struck by their appearance. The Afghan men were handsome – tall and lean, with high cheekbones and fierce eyes of blue, green, and amber. Their clothes were patched and faded, their boots worn nearly through. There was something hard and weathered about them, as if the mountains themselves had carved them into what they were.

At the rear of the attackers stood a middle-aged man with streaks of gray in his beard, shouting orders and pointing with his sword. Beside him loomed two enormous bodyguards carrying axes.

As we passed the Happy Wagon, Kuangren and Gulnur both stepped out. I’d thought Kuangren was on duty, but he must have been looking after his wife. He looked ridiculous in a nightshirt with no trousers and leather slippers, yet carried his bow and a fat quiver of arrows. His wife wore a long robe, and despite her pale, sweaty face, she too carried her bow.

From somewhere, Shah appeared. He was a big guard, tall and powerful, with bulging, muscular arms that threatened to tear his sleeves open. He carried a giant broadsword and could bash a man’s skull in even with the flat of the blade. I was happy to see him.

Orders

Longwei took one look at the battlefield. “Wedge formation!” he roared. “Straight through the center! Break them apart!”

My eyes roamed quickly over the battlefield, and I shouted, “No!”

Longwei wheeled toward me, astonished.

“What?”

“Kuangren! Gulnur!” I pointed at the gray-haired elder at the back. “Target the leader! Longwei, Meilin, flank them! Longwei, go right, Meilin, left. Kill the bodyguards, then attack from the rear. Memdooh, find high ground and empty your quiver. Check your lines of sight, don’t hit our men. Shah, you’re with me. We’re going up the middle. I need to get to Jian’s horn.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Longwei stared as if I had lost my mind. “Boy, know your place,” he growled.

Meilin looked from me to the Afghan commander and then back again. “Do as Darius commands!” she shouted. “You have your orders!”

Longwei looked like he’d been stabbed in the back. His eyes darted from Meilin to me, and I saw rage there. But he did not argue. He and Meilin rode in opposite directions, evading the oncoming force, and moving fast.

Trusting the men to do as I’d ordered, I plunged into the battle with Shah at my side. We had a huge advantage because we were mounted and the Afghans were not. Belly was steadfast, obeying the slightest pressure from my knees, and sometimes moving exactly where he needed to without prompting. We were surrounded by the deafening tumult of battle, but for all Belly cared, the noise might as well have been the sighing of the wind through a stand of eucalyptus trees.

Beside me, Shah cut men down as easily as a gardener might prune a thorny tree. He wasn’t even breathing hard, and I heard him chanting, “SubhanAllah wa bihamdihi, SubhanAllah wa bihamdihi, SubhanAllah wa bihamdihi.”

Two Shorts and One Long

A burly, middle-aged Afghan with a tangled beard like a juniper bush swung an axe at my midsection. Axes were much harder to block or parry than swords, and I didn’t try. I pulled Belly back just enough to let the axe swing by, missing me by the width of a pinky finger, then leaned forward and put my dao into his throat. I kicked him off the weapon, slipped an upward jab by a gangly youth of twenty or so, and lopped off his arm.

Corporal Jian lay before me. An arrow had pierced his chest. His black eyes stared blankly upward. He’d dropped the brass horn, and his outflung hand stretched toward it, as if he had been about to blow it when he fell, and had been reaching for it until the moment of his death.

I dismounted and closed Jian’s eyes.  Then I lifted the horn, raised it to my lips and blew two short blasts and one long. The signal for “attack at the rear of the caravan.”

For just an instant, the fighting seemed to pause all around me, like a dragon taking in a deep breath before blowing fire. Some of the Afghans uttered what could only have been curses. Then the dragon blew, and the fighting resumed.

Unfortunately I’d drawn attention to myself. A half dozen arrows winged my way. I dropped to the ground, snatched up a fallen shield and covered my head and neck. Most of the arrows missed. One bounced off the shield. But one pierced my left calf. I cried out in pain but there was no time to worry about it. A shadow loomed behind me and I turned a split second too late as a big Afghan came charging at me with a lance in one hand and a sword in the other. An instant before he reached me, an arrow entered his neck, and he crashed to the ground beside me. I looked around and saw Memdooh, standing atop a boulder, another arrow already nocked into his bow. He was pale and clearly terrified, but he grinned at me, and I grinned back. He’d saved my life.

Again, just to be sure, I raised the horn. This time I took a deep breath and blew as hard as I could. Two short, one long. Then I hung the horn around my neck, leaped back onto Belly’s back, lifted my dao and plunged into the fight.

A Belly Bite

A hand seized my boot and yanked.

I pitched sideways in the saddle, suddenly looking down into the furious face of a blue-eyed Afghan who was trying to drag me to the ground. I twisted, bringing my dao around, but before I could strike, Belly wheeled sharply and sank his teeth into the man’s shoulder.

The Afghan screamed. Belly shook him once, violently, like a dog worrying a rat, then flung him backward.

“Good boy!” I shouted. “You gave him a Belly bite!”

Belly pinned his ears and surged forward, apparently outraged that anyone had tried to steal his rider.

Men came at me from every direction. I did not kill everyone I faced. A man thrust a lance at me, and I parried the lance and slid my dao up the shaft to his hand, slicing his hand neatly in two. He screamed and dropped the lance as blood fountained from the hand. But he would live. I parried a sword stroke, slashed the attacker across the chest, then ducked as a lance passed over my head. An arrow whispered past my face, and I felt a hot sting along my cheek, followed by sudden wetness. When I touched my face, my fingers came away bloody. The arrow had only grazed me. But there was no time to be relieved.

My Muslim Brother

A young Afghan came through the press directly toward me. He was perhaps twenty years old, tall and lean, with fierce hazel eyes beneath a dark turban. His cheeks were sharp, his beard only beginning to fill in. He raised his curved sword to strike and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

Simultaneously, I lifted my dao to block and cried the same words: “Allahu Akbar!”

I froze.

Of course I knew the Afghans were Muslims. I had heard the adhaan in their villages. I had prayed beside them, eaten their bread and listened to their imams recite Quran. Yet until that moment, the men attacking us had existed in my mind only as raiders.

This man is my brother, I thought. My Muslim brother. The thought hit me like a stone from a catapult. He was a young man who performed his salat just as I did. Who bowed toward the same qiblah. Who perhaps had a mother waiting for him in one of these mountain villages, or a wife who had packed food into his satchel before he left.

Panic rose in my throat like bile. How could I kill him? A hadith of the Prophet, one I had learned from Ahmed, rang in my mind: “Insulting a Muslim is wickedness, and fighting him is kufr.”

Kufr! I could not fight this man. I could not kill these people. The young man lunged at my midsection. I barely twisted aside in time. His blade passed so close that it scraped the leather of my belt.

“Wait!” I shouted, but he paid no attention. “As-salamu alaykum!” I tried. Yet the man brought his sword down toward my head. I raised my dao into an umbrella block. Steel crashed against steel above my head, the impact jolting through my shoulders.

I did not counter. I could not bring myself to. My eyes darted from side to side, searching for some route of escape. Men fought all around us. Horses screamed. Dust filled the air. There was nowhere to go.

Was there a chance the man spoke Uzbek? “Aka!” I cried. The Uzbek word for brother. Yet the Afghan attacked again, anger and confusion in his hazel eyes. Perhaps he could not understand why I refused to strike. His sword swept toward my ribs.

I leaned away and parried late. The edge sliced through my coat without touching flesh.

He recovered instantly and raised the weapon for another blow.

I had no choice. Sooner or later one of his blows would get through. I feinted toward his head. When he lifted his sword to meet the false attack, I changed direction and drove the point of my dao into his chest.

His eyes widened.

For one terrible moment we stared at each other. The man’s mouth opened, but only a wet breath escaped. Then his sword fell from his hand, and he collapsed beneath Belly’s hooves.

Tears spilled from my eyes. If the man did indeed have a wife waiting for him back home, she would find only bitterness returning. Why had he made me do that? I wanted to climb down, kneel beside him and somehow undo what I had done. But even at my young age I knew that death is the one thing that cannot be undone. You can apologize to a man for insulting him. You can make restitution for hurting him. But death is a road that enters a dark cave and disappears from view. When you kill a man, you take away everything he will ever have.

The Retreat

Life, on the other hand, is a sea that at times lifts you up, and at other times crashes down upon you, and you either swim or drown. Another Afghan rushed me, and I cut his belly open. He might survive with help. A second came from my left, and I struck him across the temple with the guard of my dao, knocking him out. A third threw his axe at me, and I ducked it. It was as if half of the attacking force had suddenly decided that I was the main obstacle between them and success. Another man swung a sword at my leg. I blocked it and sliced upward. He leaned back but the tip of my sword caught his chin, cleaving it in two.

As quickly as the wave slammed into me, it receded. The fighting had become scattered. The Afghans were no longer advancing. A few continued to press, while others glanced behind them or began backing toward the caves.

“The commander is dead!” Longwei shouted. “Their commander is dead!”

I looked toward the rear of their force. Longwei and Meilin stood near the gray-bearded leader’s body. One of the hulking guards lay facedown nearby, an axe still gripped in one hand. The other was sprawled on his back with Meilin’s dao buried in his chest. As I watched, she put a foot on his chest and pulled it out.

A shudder seemed to pass through the attackers. Then they broke and ran.

Some fled up the slope toward the caves. Others ran down the road or leaped among the boulders, abandoning weapons and wounded comrades. The surviving guards cried out in triumph and started after them.

A Wagon

“They have a wagon!” someone shouted.

I turned.

A narrow trail branched from the main road behind the last wagon, descending steeply between two walls of stone. I had not noticed it before. Four horses were pulling one of our covered wagons down the trail at a reckless pace, the wheels bucking and bouncing over the uneven ground. Afghan men ran beside it, perhaps twenty of them, pushing at the rear and clinging to its sides.

The trail led directly toward the mouth of a great cave.

For a heartbeat I could only stare.

Then I looked around me, trying to understand what remained of the battle.

Perhaps thirty Afghans lay dead or wounded along the road and among the rocks. I was personally responsible for maybe ten of them. Several of our own guards were down as well. Longwei and Meilin – both breathing heavily, their clothing streaked with blood – stood over the bodies of the commander and his bodyguards. One side of Longwei’s face was purple with bruises. Meilin’s hair had come loose, one sleeve had been torn away, and one arm hung uselessly at her side, probably broken.

Memdooh lay curled beside the boulder from which he had been shooting. He clutched one leg while moaning through gritted teeth. A short sword lay near his hand, its blade red. He had fought even after he ran out of arrows. He had held his ground.

Gulnur lay on the ground beside the Happy Wagon.

Kuangren knelt over his wife in his nightshirt and slippers, his bow forgotten in the dust. He had gathered her into his arms and was rocking her, pressing his face against her hair. I could not tell whether she was conscious. Her robe was stained with blood.

Shah alone appeared untouched. The giant stood amid the bodies with his enormous sword resting against one shoulder, breathing as calmly as if he had merely finished chopping wood.

What to Do?

Men were looking at me. I still wore Corporal Jian’s horn around my neck. I had given the orders. Now the rear guards, the merchants, even some of the teamsters watched me, waiting to be told what to do next.

I had no idea.

Should we pursue the wagon? Tend the wounded? Secure the remaining wagons? Send men into the caves? The enemy was fleeing, but they might be drawing us into another ambush. Memdooh needed help. Gulnur might be dying. The surviving Afghans could regroup at any moment.

My thoughts collided uselessly in my head.

Then hoofbeats thundered up the pass. Sergeant Karim came charging around the bend at the head of a mass of mounted guards. Among them was Weili, her bow at the ready. Dust rolled behind them like smoke. Karim’s sword was red with blood, his armor dented, and the brass horn bounced against his chest as he rode.

Relief flooded through me so strongly that my knees nearly gave way.

River Flow

The sergeant reined in so hard that his horse skidded sideways in the dust. He took in the scene in a single sweep: the dead Afghans scattered across the road, Longwei and Meilin standing over the bodies of the commander and his guards, the wagon careening toward the cave, the horn hanging from my neck, and the men looking to me for orders.

His gaze settled on me.

“Recommendation?”

For a moment, I simply stared at him. My left calf felt as though someone had thrust a hot poker into it and left it there. Blood soaked my boot. My cheek burned where the arrow had grazed me. The world tilted strangely, and I swayed in the saddle.

Recommendation? Was he insane? I was sixteen years old. Half the men around us had gray in their beards. Sergeant Karim himself had fought in a dozen battles before I’d ever picked up a sword. Why was he asking me?

Then something happened inside me. The panic and pain vanished, and everything slowed. The screams, the dust, the clashing steel, the cries of the wounded – all of it receded into the distance. My mind became perfectly still, as clear as a summer sky. For the first time that day, I fell into River Flow.

From my perch atop Belly’s back, I pointed with my dao.

“Archers! Target the men running beside the wagon, not the horses! Weili, take the driver! Someone find Arslan! Get him here now!” Yes, I knew Arslan was a man with a problem. And he’d seduced Weili away from me. But he was the only man capable of bringing the wagon driver down at long range, and that was all that mattered.

“Shah and I will pursue the wagon,” Longwei called.

I turned to Karim. “I don’t know if you want that.”

“Do you want that?”

Entrusting me with such decisions was ridiculous, but – still in River Flow – I went with it.

“No pursuit!” I shouted. “Archers only. No one leaves the road.”

Karim nodded once, as if everything I had said were entirely reasonable. “Move!” he roared.

The surviving archers hurried into position. Memdooh, still lying beside the boulder, struggled upright and reached for his bow with trembling hands. I grinned fiercely at that. Courage was not a battle-hardened warrior who killed without emotion. Courage was this wounded young man, climbing to his feet to carry out his commander’s wishes. He might not be much of a poet, but he had the heart of a lion. Allah protect and preserve him.

Weili vaulted onto a rock overlooking the trail and drew an arrow from her quiver.

The wagon was perhaps two hundred paces from the cave.

Their Dirty Secret

“Loose!” Karim shouted.

Arrows hissed through the air. One of the Afghans running beside the wagon spun and collapsed. Another pitched forward beneath the wheels. A third cried out and clutched his thigh. But the others kept running, pushing at the wagon and shouting to one another. Weili, tasked with shooting the driver, missed, her shot going wide. It should have been an easy shot. I’d seen her shoot better on her worst day.

“Again!” I shouted. “Fire at will!”

A second volley flew, and a third. Another three men fell. The driver still sat hunched on the bench, lashing the horses onward.

Weili drew, exhaled, and released. Her arrow sailed wide, striking the rocks behind the wagon. She nocked another arrow, drew farther this time, and released. Again she missed. The wagon pulled farther away every second. It would soon be out of range.

“Where is Arslan?” Karim bellowed.

“I’m here!” Arslan arrived disheveled and panting, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked as if he had run half the length of the caravan. He carried his massive bow in one hand.

Karim pointed furiously at the fleeing wagon. “The driver! Bring him down!”

Arslan lifted his huge bow and pulled, but I saw that his arm trembled, and he was not able to draw the arrow all the way back to his cheek. He loosed, and the arrow fell short. He cursed, grabbed another arrow and shot again. This one fell short as well.

The wagon was almost at the cave now.

Longwei spurred his horse forward. “Sarge, let me pursue. We can still catch them!”

“No!” Karim roared.

Longwei wheeled back in disbelief. “Why?”

Karim pointed toward the yawning cave. “There could be a hundred men in there. We will not risk any more guards for one wagon. Darius already gave a command on this.”

“Darius,” Longwei muttered, and spit. No one else argued, and we watched helplessly as the last of the Afghans disappeared into the darkness. The wagon vanished after them, swallowed whole by the mountain.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Karim’s eyes moved from Weili to Arslan, then to me.

I knew why they had failed. I knew their dirty secret. But I said nothing about that. Instead I said, “If anyone is to be whipped for disobeying orders it should be me. It was my call to move to the rear.”

This Is War

“We’ll talk about that later,” Karim said. “What’s next?”

I swallowed, then called out. “Medics! See to the wounded. Our wounded first, then the Afghans.”

“Almost right,” Karim said. He called the chief medic over. “Our wounded only. Do not touch the Afghans.”

“But they’re Muslims,” I said.

He studied me. There was a newfound respect in his gaze. He didn’t seem angry about the loss of the wagon. Some part of me realized that none of this was new to him. He’d done all this many times.

“I’m no religious expert,” Karim said, “but being Muslim doesn’t mean we sacrifice our lives to their greed. We have limited medical supplies, and a caravan to protect. We will be on the move very soon. The Afghans can return for their own dead and wounded. This is war.”

He began to give orders to load our dead onto the wagons. I realized that by “very soon” he meant right now. He meant to get the caravan moving again immediately.

It was becoming harder to think. The crystal clarity of River Flow faded, and the pain rushed back into my body. My calf felt as though it were on fire, and my cheek too felt hot, as if I’d been slapped very hard.

Someone was saying my name. I looked down. At some point the shaft of the arrow had broken off – I hadn’t even noticed – but the arrowhead was still in my leg. Blood streamed from the wound and ran down Belly’s side. The mountains spun around me, and I swayed in the saddle. The dao slipped from my fingers, and I felt myself falling.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 23 – Delirium

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:

Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: The Cabbie and the Muslim Woman

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 22] – The Raid appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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An old west African practice of sending children away to study is being used as a cover for trafficking, say human rights groups

In a bare, gloomy room on the beachfront at Saint-Louis, in the north-west of Senegal, dozens of young boys sit on a concrete floor chanting verses from the Qur’an, surrounded by fishing boats and piles of rubbish. It is early in the morning but the children have already been up for hours, not to study but to walk the streets begging for food and money.

Every day, these talibés, or students of the Qur’an, join thousands of other boys, some as young as five, on the streets of the city in search of a piece of baguette, a handful of rice or a few coins. They beg not just to fill their own stomachs but also the pockets of their Qur’anic teachers, or marabouts.

Talibés prepare to study the Qur’an under a marabout, or religious teacher, at a daara, or Qur’anic school, in Saint-Louis

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A wildfire at Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh

Here in Europe we’re in the middle of a disastrous hot summer. In the UK it has not been as severe as in France, where temperatures around 45ºC have been recorded and there are large wildfires blazing, as there are in Spain also. We have not seen the record temperatures we saw a few years ago — mid-30’s rather than reaching 40º. But we have seen four heatwaves since May where temperatures were in the mid-30s and more worryingly no rain to speak of since the second heatwave in June, and wildfires burning in the Cairngorms, a national park in Scotland, and in a heathland nature reserve in Suffolk. Typically in the UK, a summer heatwave meant a few warm days followed by a thunderstorm and torrential rain; these often occurred around the time of the Wimbledon tennis championships, and matches having to be delayed or suspended because of rain was a common occurrence (on one well-known occasion, Cliff Richard gave an impromptu solo performance when play stopped). What’s more aggravating about this summer’s weather is the poor quality of weather forecasts, particularly from the BBC, and in particular, forecasts of days of rain that simply never comes.

Last week, the BBC’s weather app was forecasting several days of rain for next week, starting from 4th of August. I took screenshots of it at work, near Hounslow (I live in New Malden, a few miles to the south-east of there). On the 27th (Monday), the forecast was of six solid days of rain starting from the 4th (Tuesday).

48 hours later, the drizzly Tuesday and wet Wednesday remained, but after that it would be dry until Sunday.

As of this morning, all six days are forecast to be dry.

The detailed forecasts show between 10 and 30% of rain on Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday but this could mean the odd shower here and there or indeed nothing. This has happened three or four times this summer: forecasts of several days of rain for a week or so in advance that evaporates in the days leading up to the days in question; sometimes there is a brief shower here and there but more often it just means a cloudy or slightly cooler day. (Earlier this week, we had some dramatic clouds and a few places got rain on days that were forecast to be dry.) I have noticed it here and there the past few years, but it’s most noticeable during a long dry summer and it also happened several times during the 2018 dry spell. My suspicion is that weather forecasts are based on outdated models that rely on data from the climate of the past. As anyone can see, the climate of 2026 is not that of 2016, let alone the decade or century before. It’s a different beast entirely.

Between 2018 and 2025, the BBC relied on a Dutch private forecast agency, MeteoGroup, for its forecast data; last July they announced that they were reviving their partnership with the Met Office, which they had been using before 2018, though their website still gives MeteoGroup and not the Met Office as a source. The Met (meteorological) Office has a weather forecast page of its own (MeteoGroup, now owned by the US company DTN, does not), and I looked at their forecast for the same days. They only have a detailed seven-day forecast; forecasts for further ahead than that are in a drop-down box and are in much more general terms about the whole of the UK, not a specific area. Their forecast for the ten days beginning 5th August reads:

A generally rather changeable period looks likely, with many places likely to see some much needed rain or showers at times but also some more sunshine. Initially, some rain or showers will affect many parts, this heavy and possibly thundery in places. After a drier, brighter few days, further changeable or unsettled conditions may develop as we head towards mid-August. This may be due to frontal systems moving in from the Atlantic or thundery plumes moving north from the continent or a combination of both. Temperatures will likely be a little above average overall, and there is the potential for some very warm or hot and humid spells, especially in the south, although perhaps not the heat we have seen in recent weeks.

This is a far cry from a purported detailed, localised forecast for a week or more in advance, which is what is on the BBC’s weather page and app with no indication that it’s an extrapolation from a very general Met Office forecast that is peppered with likelys and maybes. The BBC must stop doing this; not only does it give people false hope, it also makes it less likely that they will use water carefully as they believe the drought will be ending very soon. For a supposed public service broadcaster, this is the opposite of public service.

Image source: Pretzelles, via Wikimedia. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike (BY-SA) 4.0 licence.

Israeli soldiers prevent ambulance carrying pregnant woman in medical emergency from crossing West Bank checkpoint.

One Nation leader’s ‘how can you tell me there are good Muslims?’ remarks were the subject of complaints, but police say the matter has now been finalised

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The Australian federal police has determined One Nation leader Pauline Hanson’s comments about Muslim Australians “do not meet the threshold” of breaching hate laws.

The AFP said it received several complaints about Hanson’s remarks to Sky News on 16 February.

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Israel is advancing de facto annexation at an unprecedented pace.

In an age of affirmations and self-help mantras, Islam offers timeless du’as that cultivate happiness, contentment, and trust in Allah.

Happiness and the Source of Good

As public awareness of mental health issues increased in the 2000s, professionals and influencers have recommended affirmations or mantras to foster a sense of well-being. You wake up in the morning and repeat positive sentences. You ‘manifest’ the best things so you capture energy from the verbalizations.

However, Islam, fourteen hundred years ago, already gave us daily du’as: our morning and evening adhkar. Here are a few of these du’as, and how we can internalize them in our pursuit of happiness.

Happiness has to come from the source of all that is good: Allah. Happiness is also a subjective feeling, and psychologists have even commented on how humans can convince themselves of happiness through things like cognitive reframing. So the combination of these two: a desire to be happy, and seeking happiness from Allah, is built into these daily adkhar. It’s important to remember that the value of these phrases is not from the rote uttering, but from believing them wholeheartedly with every repetition.

Du’a No. 1: “I Am Pleased With My Lord”

Our ruh, our soul, was not created for this fleeting world; it was destined to reunite with Allah. In this temporal realm, there will always be a tinge of sorrow, a wave between moments of grief and joy. Because, eternal, pure, unadulterated happiness lies only in our meeting with our Maker.

It was narrated from Abu Salam, the servant of the Prophet ﷺ, that the Prophet ﷺ said:

“There is no Muslim who says, in the morning and evening: ‘Radaytu billahi Rabban wa bil-Islami dinan wa bi Muhammadin nabiyyan’ (I am pleased with Allah as my Lord, Islam as my religion and Muhammad as my Prophet), but that he will have a promise from Allah to make him pleased on the Day of Resurrection.” [Sunan Ibn Majah #3870]

An easy way to make this adkhar a habit is to connect it with a task: I’ll start saying it when I open the ground coffee, or as I make my bed. Repeating this du’a, as we prepare breakfast or commute to work, slowly transforms us. We begin to realize our contentment: we, whom Allah has guided, we, upon whom He has bestowed His mercy, are indeed content with Allah as our Lord, His Messenger as our Prophet, and this religion, in all its beauty and wisdom. We, who may not understand every commandment and every test, but still strive, are content with this world view and content with Allah.

Du’a No. 2: “Allah Is Sufficient”

The Prophet ﷺ advised us to seek solace by reciting: “Hasbunallah wa ni’mal-Wakil” (Allah is Sufficient for us, and He is the Best Disposer of affairs).” [Riyaadh as Saliheen 409]

Since the footage of Gaza flooded our phones, we’ve seen first hand how strong this phrase is. We’ve seen it said by the father holding his beheaded child, or the brother carrying his martyred brother, or the mother finding her child’s burnt flesh. We’ve heard it over and over from the strongest of our ummah. So shouldn’t we, with our ordinary daily struggles, say it even more?

When we relinquish the reins of our lives to Allah, acknowledging His supreme control, we experience an unimaginable freedom. We give every moment to Allah, trusting that He is the Best Disposer of our affairs, from the mundane to the monumental. “And Allah is the best of planners.” [Qur’an 8:30]

I used to be afraid of driving, but a Christian woman once told me: “Every time I get in the car, I ask Jesus to take control of the steering wheel, so while I’m driving I know he’s got me.” I never thought of my fear that way, so now I repeat this du’a and have full faith that Allah has it all under His control and I just have to have trust.

Because who can write your story better than Allah, the All-Knowing, the Most Gentle, the Mutakabbir and Al-Musawir? Your story, woven with both joy and sorrow, might at times feel like an arduous journey, marked by trial after trial. But it is not a tragedy, it is a happily ever after, because your story does not end in death. Your story ends in an eternal Paradise where endless conversations await with your Maker and those you cherish. In Jannah, the love of Allah surrounds you, “Indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him.” [Qur’an 3:159]

This trust in Allah’s perfect plan is a sweet surrender: He promised you Paradise, and you gave yourself to His plans.

Du’a No. 3: O Changer of Hearts

Anas narrated: “The Messenger of Allah ﷺ would often say: Ya Muqallibal-qulub, thabbit qalbi ‘ala dinik‘ (‘O Changer of the Hearts! Strengthen my heart upon Your Religion.)’ So I (Anas) said: ‘O Prophet of Allah! We believe in you and what you have come with, but do you fear for us?’ He said: ‘Yes. Indeed the hearts are between two fingers of Allah’s fingers, He changes them as He wills.'” [Jami` at-Tirmidhi #2140]

Allah is the maker, molder, and owner of our hearts. Often, sadness is a state we fall into, and we allow ourselves to remain there, sinking deeper until it seems impossible to climb out. We bury and wallow in our sadness. Our bodies then follow suit, lethargically, and getting out of the hole is much harder once we dig into it.

If we remain sure in our faith, the rocky moments in life won’t shake us. You won’t suddenly stop praying. You won’t stop reaching for your Qur’an. You’ll only keep going, keep asking, and keep hoping for an eternal akhira, over a life filled with issues. This happens with a strong heart, and a strong heart is a gift from Allah, if only you ask for it consistently.

So when the bad days happen, and when you can’t seem to get a break, and each test keeps coming: you just tell yourself, this is the life of this world; what would it be, if not filled with hardship? Jannah is coming ~ a better and everlasting life is coming.

Conclusion

Once we get into the habit of daily adkhar, it becomes so natural that even on rushed days, or relaxing days, we feel incomplete without them. We do not need the daily affirmations of the new wave of pseudo science. We already have these du’as in our sunnah, taught by the Messenger ﷺ, and directly given from Allah. Your Creator knows you best, and knows exactly what you need.

Related:

The Dua Of The Overwhelmed Believer

What Shaykh Muhammad Al Shareef Taught Us About Making Dua

 

The post Du’as for Happiness: Finding Joy Through Daily Adhkar appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Female scholarship is not a relic of the past, but a living tradition that continues to enrich, guide, and strengthen Muslim communities around the world.

Historical Fact

In the realm of Islamic scholarship, female scholarship is sometimes defined as Islamic teachings that are transmitted by a woman scholar or female student of knowledge with an unbroken chain stretching all the way back to the Prophet ﷺ. This has always been part of our Islamic heritage. The earliest and most famous female scholar is none other than our Lady Aisha bint Abu Bakr (RA), the youngest wife of the Prophet ﷺ. She narrated over two thousand hadiths over the vast spectrum of sacred law.

A Common Misconception

There is a troubling misconception in some circles that female scholarship is now a thing of the past, and no longer what it used to be. There is a claim that there are not many female memorizers of the Qur’an, fiqh teachers, experts on hadith, and so on. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Female scholars exist. Not only do they exist, they are busy teaching. Many female scholars are doing the incredible work of raising their own families throughout their seasons of life, and teaching and learning along the way with the support of their husbands and/or families.

There are also female scholars who are unmarried, divorced, widowed, or don’t have children – what connects all of them is a deep love for Allah, His Prophet ﷺ and a passion for teaching and upholding sacred law. In both the Muslim heartlands all over the world and diaspora Muslim communities in the West, you will find female scholars and their students.

Connecting Women with Scholarship Today

What may be harder in this age of so much fragmentation is connecting female students with female scholars in person. However, the beauty of the online world is how much we can access female scholarship online. Rabata has recently launched The Ribāṭ university for women. There are other women-only resources such as Gems of Light, Jannah Institute, Al-Huda Institute in North America. Daar Aisha College is another example of a women’s-only Islamic centre in Australia.

There are also many institutions in North America such as Tayseer Seminary and Qalam Institute which serve both male and female students, and have male and female teachers, as well as Isra Academy in Australia.

In Malaysia, where I am based, alhamdulilah, female scholarship is very much the norm. Masjids are designed for women in the most thoughtful of ways: there are separate rooms outside of the prayer areas that are available so menstruating women can still attend classes to teach and/or learn, babysitting services during Ramadan during tarawih so mothers can concentrate and beautiful, large masjids with entrances for both men and women, including elevators and ramps for the elderly.

This intentional accessibility for women across all ages is a very strong contributing factor to the following: women’s Islamic education, women’s strong relationship with the masjid as an institution, and a training ground for young children to be accustomed to women’s presence and activity within the masjid.

I have never, ever, been barred from entry in any masjid in Malaysia, alhamdulilah, and I’m so grateful I have never had to enter a creepy back entrance to enter the women’s prayer area.

There are many brilliant asatizah and shaykhaat teaching in Islamic universities, private institutions, and schools. My children attend a local Malaysian government school and amongst their favourite teachers are the kind ustadhs and ustadhas. However, it’s not perfect here either, and there is always room for improvement.

The Reality of Female Scholarship

Some male scholars being unaware of female scholarship does not negate its existence. Many Muslims – both men and women – aren’t aware of the historical and ongoing legacy of female scholarship. It simply isn’t considered a big enough priority. There isn’t enough uplifting of female scholarship in general.

This is directly connected, in my opinion, to the fall of the caliphate and post-colonial brainwashing. Both of these disasters continue to have a direct impact on every single part of the Islamic reality, including awareness of and access to female scholarship. Shaykh Muhammad Akram Nadwi and his groundbreaking book “Al-Muhaddithat” is a must-read for everyone for highlighting the rich history of female Islamic scholarship.

Alhamdulilah, Islamic scholarship that we see today is directly connected to the contributions of past female scholars such as Aisha (may Allah be pleased with her) as well as present day female scholars and students of knowledge. Our deen is a dynamic one which responds to present-day realities e.g. the epidemic of secret second marriages, zakat scandals etc.

Dr. Mariam Sheibani

Female scholars have answers and invaluable contributions to these deeply problematic issues. Dr Mariam Sheibani has a brilliant research paper on secret second marriages Deceptive Debauchery: Secret Marriage and the Challenge of Legalism in Muslim-Minority Communities and many other brilliant publications.

Dr Deina Abdelkader, Dr Zainab Alwani and Dr Tamara Gray were amongst the female scholars who wrote the extremely important Dissenting Opinion to the Council’s Position on Zakāh.

Many, many female scholars and students of knowledge all around the world signed off on the Statement Against Abuse: The Female Scholars Network. We exist. We are here, and inshaAllah, we are not going away.

The Importance of Lived Experience

Female scholars offer something male scholars simply do not: the lived experience of embodying the deen, throughout all our different seasons of life. Female scholars offer girls and women of all ages the gift of understanding the correct application of sacred law in our daily lives. We also model study and career possibilities for our daughters, and normalise the pursuit of Islamic knowledge for our sons.

From the arrival of our menses in our teens, to the fiqh questions that come up when we are newly married or pregnant, to the grief that comes with pregnancy loss – these seasons of life can only be deeply understood by a female scholar who has experienced the same. These are all powerful opportunities to turn to Allah, and what better way than through the guidance of a female scholar who has walked that same path?

Safety and Accountability

Not only do female scholars add to the rich tapestry of what Islam has to offer, but it is often a much safer option for children and women to study with them. We can no longer ignore the tragic realities of so many sexual scandals with male scholars. Only Prophets are protected from sin. The unquestioned power and authority given to male scholars in positions of religious leadership create environments ripe for abuse. Mohammad Saleem’s abuse of children is a horrific example. More recently, an imam in New York was arrested for molesting two young girls on the masjid property.

This is not to say that all male scholars should be treated with suspicion, but it’s important to be aware that abuse exists in our communities too and to put measures in place to prevent this from happening. Shaykh Danish Qasim and Danya Shakfeh, Esq. from In Shaykh’s Clothing have developed a Code of Conduct for Islamic Organisations and a contract to help safeguard Muslim communities from abuse. The use of contract law can hold abusers accountable, and dissuade potential abusers from thinking they can get away with it. These systems can be put in place well ahead of time e.g. doing background checks on every single potential teacher long before any children are harmed.

Although there are a minority of Muslim women who also abuse other women and children and enable male abusers, we have seen far too many reported incidents of male teachers who have grossly abused their power. The reality is that most abuse is not reported, so what we see in the news is actually the tip of the iceberg. Muslim communities worldwide need to continue having discussions and building awareness about abuse so we can protect our most vulnerable.

The Hurma Project is also an incredible resource, driven by God-centered academic research by Dr Ingrid Mattison and Dr Rania Awaad. Maristan also offers resources for mental health care for Muslims affected by abuse.

Real-World Impact

Female scholars offer compassionate solutions for real-world difficulties that women face – challenging in-laws, inheritance squabbles, infertility struggles and bereavement, to name a few. When handled poorly by well-meaning but clumsy male scholars, so many of these issues can end up driving Muslim women far away from Islam.

This fatwa on whether or not a woman can work, at first glance, looks harmless. But how common is it in the West, especially, to find a women-only work space? What if she does not have male mahrams she can count on to look out for her? Limiting her access to work will not help her. Over, and over again, incorrect interpretations of Islam have led to devastating cruelty to women and children in the name of God.

This is why we need thoughtful scholarship that considers women’s realities on the ground within the Shari’ah to help establish a Prophetic society. The Ma’ruf Commons, led by Dr Mariam Sheibani, is a “research and education organization that develops programs and resources for Muslim communities to advance intentional learning, spiritual formation, and ethical practice, integrating religious values into both public and private life.” (Quote from website)

It is a brilliant example of traditional Islamic scholarship meeting contemporary challenges through the lens of deep Prophetic compassion and wisdom. Among the many resources Dr Mariam Sheibani shares include a brilliant paper by PhD candidate Samah Marei titled What Happened to Islamic Family Law in the Modern Era? There is so much nuance when it comes to applying Islamic law in the modern era, especially when Muslim minorities answer to Western secular legal system, or when problematic cultural norms conflict with Islamic law in Muslim-majority contexts.

A Still Valuable Perspective

However, women scholars aren’t infallible and are also impacted by biases, including problematic cultural beliefs about women that have no basis in the Shari’ah. There are unfortunately some who also issue problematic fatwa. Despite this, it’s important to remember that female scholarship offers an alternative perspective that is still valuable and protective, inshaAllah.

Related:

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

The Woman Who Corrected Umar: Mahr, Tafseer, and Advocacy

The post Female Scholarship In Islam: A Living Legacy [Part 1] appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The queer community has lost resources and protection due to decisions made by the people now mouthing solidarity in public

It feels like a well-rehearsed script. First come the flowers, then the pious statements. One after another, mainstream German politicians have lined up to claim that the attack on Berlin Pride last weekend was an attack on “all of us”, “our values” and “our society”.

Except it was not. This atrocity in which a van was rammed into the crowd was, first and foremost, an attack on queer people. A vulnerable community that has been fighting for its rights for many decades; that, in recent years and all over the world, has increasingly been targeted by conservative forces.

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Dorotea Gucciardo of GLIA talks about creativity and resilience in Gaza. Ali Abunimah on Zohran Mamdani’s statement about Netanyahu. The war on Iran and more.

The caravan is plagued by thievery, and Darius discovers Arslan’s dark secret.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16  | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20

* * *

A Hard Land

Not every Afghani village welcomed strangers so openly. Some watched from behind shuttered windows. Others gathered silently upon distant ridges, leaning upon spears and old hunting bows. They neither threatened nor greeted us. They simply watched until we disappeared into the next valley.

“The kindest village may hide a thief,” Sergeant Karim reminded us one morning as we resumed our march. “The coldest village may be perfectly honest. Judge no one too quickly.”

I’d imagined our journey from here would be a gradual descent into a Persia that was hot and flat, where masjids towered to the clouds, and where the streets were paved with alabaster and pearls. Well, maybe not exactly, but something like that. Instead we began to climb. As we did, the land grew harder, and the people too.

The fertile valleys of Central Asia gave way to mountains that seemed designed to keep men apart. Villages clung to rocky hillsides like weeds. Fortified towers overlooked narrow passes, and nearly every settlement appeared prepared for war. The roads wound through barren valleys strewn with boulders, while jagged peaks watched from every direction. In some places the mountains rose so high that sunlight reached the valley floor only briefly each day.

The men here wore loose trousers beneath long tunics, with woolen cloaks draped across their shoulders against the cold mountain air. Turbans and pakol-style caps were common. Most of the men carried weapons openly. Even boys scarcely older than Haaris often wore knives at their belts.

Many villages were closed and fortified, with guarded walls. When it was possible, we traded with the locals. We ate flatbreads baked in clay ovens, roasted lamb seasoned with unfamiliar spices, rice studded with raisins and carrots, and thick yogurt. More than once I found myself wishing Lee Ayi could taste some of it. She would have loved to learn the recipes.

The caravan grew tense as we crossed those lands. Extra guards rode the perimeter. Watches were doubled. The merchants spoke in quieter voices. Even the horses seemed nervous. Karim spent much of his time studying maps and questioning locals about conditions ahead.

What Happened to Us?

Meanwhile, Weili continued drifting farther away from me.

At first I told myself I was imagining it. Then I told myself it did not matter. Eventually I found myself searching for her without meaning to. I invariably found her beside Arslan. They rode together, practiced together, shared meals, and spent hours struggling through one another’s languages. The more comfortable they became together, the less interested she seemed in having even the shortest conversation with me.

One evening, after watching them laugh together beside a campfire while Arslan mangled Chinese pronunciation for her amusement, I finally reached the end of my patience.

I found her later near the horse lines, checking a bowstring by lantern light. For several moments I simply stood there watching her work. I had rehearsed the conversation in my head dozens of times. Now that the moment had arrived, I had no idea how to begin.

“What happened to us?” I finally asked.

She glanced up, surprised. “Us?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” she said. “I really don’t.”

The answer irritated me immediately. Why couldn’t she just be honest? “We used to spend time together.”

“We still do.”

“Maybe you greet me in passing and ask how I’ve been. That’s it.”

She lowered the bow.

“Darius…”

“You spend all your time with him now.”

Understanding flickered across her face. “Oh.”

Something about that response made my temper flare. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What exactly do you want me to say?”

I folded my arms. “We spent months together. We studied together. We talked every day. We shared things about our lives. We meant something to each other. Then this man appears and suddenly I’m invisible. We don’t ride together, you don’t come to study the Quran with me, you don’t ask about me. We’ve barely spoken since I told you about my birthday.”

I wanted to say, I miss you, you hurt me, you abandoned me. But I could not bring myself to say such words aloud.

Her expression shifted from confusion to disbelief. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“You can’t?”

“No. It’s outrageous.”

The anger I had been carrying for weeks finally boiled over. “What do you mean, outrageous? You’re the outrageous one. You were supposed to be with me. You were my girl.”

The words escaped before I could stop them. The instant they left my mouth, I knew how they sounded.

Weili’s face hardened. “Darius, I never promised you anything. Absolutely nothing.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” She spat the question like a rock she’d found in her food.

“Yes, but I thought -”

“You thought wrong. I was your friend. That’s all. We traveled together. We studied together. We became friends.”

“Then why did you stop being my friend?”

“Only a child would ask that question.”

That was the moment when I knew there was nothing more to say. On some level I knew that her resorting to diminishing me in that way meant that she had no genuine answer to my question. And anything I said would be devalued as a childish complaint. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from saying softly, “I’m sad. I feel alone.”

I knew these words did in fact sound childish. I didn’t say it to garner sympathy. I said it because it was a deep truth, and I was in pain.

Her face hardened. “I’m sorry. But that’s not my fault. I’m not your wife or your fiance. So don’t try to manipulate me or blackmail me emotionally.”

For several moments neither of us spoke. Then she picked up her bow. “If you misunderstood our friendship, I’m sorry. Truly. But that isn’t my fault. It’s best if we don’t talk anymore.”

With that, she walked away.

A Major Sin

The next several days were a bad time for me. Up until that moment, I’d still had hope that Weili would come back to me. I loved her. I had imagined a future with her as my wife. She’d dote on me like Gulnur did on Kuangren. She’d give me many children like Ahmed’s wife had done. We’d have our own home, and Far Away would live with us.

Now that was all shattered.

There were moments, as we rode along narrow trails beside steep cliffs, when I thought about throwing myself over the side. Even with all the hardship I had been through, I had never experienced such thoughts before.

Once I nearly did it. I let myself fall back to the rear of the caravan. When the caravan turned a corner around a mountain ridge, I held back. The path was narrow, with a sheer mountain face on one side, and a vast drop on the other. I dismounted from Belly, and removed his tackle – his saddle, bridle and cinch – so that he would be free to go on his own. Then I stepped to the edge of the cliff. My toes projected over the edge. Far, far below, a raging river was a tiny silver ribbon.

I knew this was a major sin. Suicide was haram in Islam, as it was a rejection of Allah’s plan. I breathed the frigid air, and when I let it out my breath billowed visibly out over the precipice. Perhaps Allah would understand my pain and be merciful with me.

“Belly will miss you,” said a voice from my heart.

“Belly will be fine,” replied my logical mind.

“What about Far Away?” my heart voice said. “No one loves you like he does. He nearly died following you. He’s still waiting for you to come home. If you could soar through the sky back to the farm, you would find him right now, perched on the wall beside the road, watching for you to return.”

My logical mind had no reply to this, and I burst into tears. I could not do this. It wasn’t that I feared death. If it were nothing but an empty void, I would welcome it. But in my heart I trusted Allah. He would make a way forward for me, a way out of my pain. He would bring me back to those who truly loved me, and who I loved.

I was about to step away from the edge when my boot skidded on loose shale. Pebbles rattled away into the abyss. My arms flew out instinctively as I struggled to regain my balance. I teetered over the edge. Vertigo made my head spin. No! I didn’t want to die!

Before I could fall, Belly lunged forward and seized the back of my tunic in his teeth. The sudden jerk pulled me off my feet in the opposite direction. I landed hard on my back in the middle of the road, staring up at the cold blue sky.

For several heartbeats I could only breathe.

Belly stood over me, licking my face until I reached up and laid a trembling hand against his neck.

“Alright,” I whispered. “I’m alright.”

Always Dangerous

Belly had saved my life, and I’d learned a powerful lesson in that moment. I wanted life, not death. That was unquestionable. Weili had broken my heart, yet she had not broken me as a human being.

Yet the sadness persisted. I distracted myself from thoughts of Weili by reviewing Five Animals forms as I rode, and by reciting Quranic surahs. At night, I practiced my fighting techniques. More than that, I threw myself into training with a kind of desperation.

Whenever the caravan halted for the evening and my duties were complete, I would take up my dao and walk beyond the last wagons where there was room to move. I began with the fundamentals of my family art: tiger, crane, leopard, snake, dragon.

I repeated the forms until my clothes clung with sweat despite the mountain air. When one form ended, another began. I imagined opponents rushing me from every direction. I cut, spun, ducked beneath invisible blades, sprang over imaginary obstacles, and rolled across the rocky ground before coming up with my sword already moving.

Where the forms ended, my imagination began. My movements were acrobatic, perhaps unrealistic, and always dangerous. With a blade as sharp as mine, a wrong move could sever one of my own limbs.

The younger guards began gathering to watch.

“You’re trying to kill yourself,” Brother Ahmed observed one evening.

“It wouldn’t matter,” and I meant it. Suicide was one thing – I’d established that I would not do that – but death in an accident or in battle wouldn’t be my fault.

He looked at me for a moment, then nodded sadly.

A Smart Horse

I often talked to Belly as I rode. “I should have kept my mouth shut,” I told him one afternoon.

He flicked an ear.

“I know. You’re right.”

Another flick.

“You always take everyone else’s side.”

One of the merchants riding behind us laughed. “Who are you talking to, Darius?”

“My horse.”

“The horse talks back?”

“Sure, why not?”

“What does he say?”

“That I’m an idiot.” That brought laughter from several riders nearby.

Before long it became a running joke. “If anyone has questions,” Meilin called out one afternoon, “ask Belly. He has all the answers.”

“He talks about you too,” I told her.

“What does he say?”

“That you’re a great fighter but meaner than a bear.”

She snorted. “He’s smart.”

I never told them that Belly had saved my life. Then they’d really think I was cuckoo.

A New Rogue?

Kaungren had by now recovered from his lashing. He walked upright again, and resumed his duties, though he and his wife were still granted the luxury of a private wagon. He no longer sneaked into passing towns and returned with locals hot on his heels.

Instead, Arslan seemed to have taken his place as the disobedient rogue. Three times, as we passed villages, I saw the young archer split from the caravan and ride into town on his own. He always made sure to do so when Karim wasn’t watching. Initially I thought nothing of it. I knew he spoke Persian, as did these locals. I thought maybe he was going into town to trade, or buy personal supplies. But I also worried that he might be pulling a Kuangren – going into town to drink, gamble, or steal. This worried and angered me, because he might bring disaster upon us.

Or so I told myself.

I confronted him after one of these unsanctioned side trips. The caravan had stopped to feed and water the horses. These mountains were strange, for the air was cold, and the wind cut through the passes like Karim’s bullwhip, scouring one’s skin; yet the sun had an oddly piercing glare that made you want to seek shelter. But there was work to do, and the best you could do was drape a cloth over your head and stay busy. It was a hard land, and I found myself thinking that I would never want to fight people who had grown up in this land.

I found Arslan sitting in the shade of a wagon, rather than tending to his horse. He claimed he’d gone into town to buy a few arrowheads. His eyes were vacant and his speech slow, and there was a strange scent about him that was familiar, but that I could not identify. Yet he was not drunk, for I knew the signs all too well from my father’s alcoholic binges, and I did not see those signs on Arslan.

I dismounted Belly and stood before him.

“What are you into?” I demanded. “What’s your story?”

“I’m to good thing,” he replied in my language, and his speech was slow and dreamy. Not slurred like when a man was drunk. More like he was sleepwalking.

“Leave Weili alone,” I told him flatly. I had no right to say this, but I said it anyway.

“You think she girl for you?” He smiled faintly, and continued in his own language, saying something that sounded to me like “If she was your girl, she would be your girl.”

I studied him. He was a tall and broad-shouldered young man with a wide face. Muscular and prematurely bald. Handsome. There was something almost beatific about his face, as if he were in perpetual prayer. And he was the best archer I’d ever seen. He could shoot me down from five hundred paces, but in any type of hand to hand combat I would demolish him. Then we’d see who was a child, and who was a man. I wanted to kick him and say, “Get up and fight.” I almost did.

But what was the point? He was right. If Weili loved me, she would be with me. I shook my head and rode away.

I briefly considered telling Karim about Arslan’s unauthorized disappearances. But that wasn’t my way. I wasn’t a tattletale. Such a tactic would for sure not bring Weili back to me. And I still didn’t actually know what Arslan was up to.

Enemy of the State

That night, the skinny kid with the scraggly beard – Memdooh – was reciting poetry again. I saw a number of faces I recognized around the fire, including Weili’s. Arslan was nowhere to be seen. This cheered me, and I went and sat cross legged next to Weili. She turned and saw me, and to my surprise she gave a rueful smile. “I was too harsh in what I said,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I felt warmth rush through me like a great draught of steaming hot tea. “Forget about it,” I whispered back. We fell silent in order to listen to Memdooh. He swayed back and forth and gesticulated with his arms as he chanted:

My horse is a Mongolian.
He’s small, I can’t control him.
His temper is hot
but he never stops.

I’m no Mongolian,
but I’m red hot.
My arm is lightning,
my sword is faster than thought.

I rolled my eyes at this. Memdooh was a decent fighter, but if his arm was lightning, my farts were thunder.

The proclamation is made
the hour is late
They classify me
with the enemies of the state.

There was some muttering at this. Criticism of the emperor was not permitted in our land.

Demons pour forth
from a crack in the land
None of them guess
what I have in my hand.

I draw my sword
and empty my head
They can’t kill me
if I’m already dead.

This was intriguing. He was talking about River Flow. Yet Memdooh did not fight in River Flow. In battle he shouted in anger, bellowed in triumph and occasionally screamed in fear. Not that there was anything wrong with fear.

We’re far from home –
strange cities and bazaars –
Yet we’re never alone
For we are Five Stars.

Memdooh waved his arm in a flourish and we knew he was done. The audience applauded and broke up. Weili approached the young poet, and I accompanied her.

“That was amazing,” Weili gushed. “So good, so much fun. How did you learn to do that?”

“My grandfather was a poet,” Memdooh boasted. “He studied with the great Wu Weiye.”

“That last stanza was spot on,” I said. “But what was that about being an enemy of the state?”

He looked me up and down. “I am not a rich, comfortable Hui like you, brother Darius. My people are White Mountain Turki Muslims from Altishahr.”

I stared at him blankly.

He sighed. “What the Chinese called Xinjiang. In the far northwest.”

“Oh.” I nodded.

“The Chinese invaded us. So yes, I am an enemy of the state.”

“Yet you work for Five Stars, a company that serves the emperor.”

He glared. “I have my reasons.”

Weili pulled me aside. “Can’t you just enjoy a thing without analyzing it?” she demanded. “You don’t always have to prove how smart you are.”

It felt like I’d been slapped. So much for leaving our fight behind and making up. Still, there was something on my mind and it couldn’t wait.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. “There’s something strange going on with Arslan. He sneaks into local villages sometimes. And there’s something about him, something weird. Like he’s not completely awake. He’s all dreamy and distant. I don’t know what it is. But you need to be careful. There’s something not right about him.”

Something that might have been guilt flickered across her face, but it was so quick I could have imagined it. It was replaced almost immediately by outrage.

“Are you spying on him?” she hissed. “What about me, are you spying on me? You nasty little creep, stay away from us!”

I took a physical step back, as if I’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. My mind went completely blank.

Weili turned and stalked away.

A Thief Among Us

Over the next several days, things began disappearing.

At first no one thought much of it. A pair of ivory chopsticks went missing. Then a whetstone. Someone spent an hour searching for his leather belt before finally borrowing another. Brother Ahmed misplaced his prayer beads, only to discover them hanging from his saddle where he himself had left them. A merchant complained that his ink brush had vanished, then sheepishly found it tucked inside a ledger. One of the cooks searched everywhere for a small pouch of cumin before deciding he must have left it behind at the previous campsite.

Longwei loudly declared that old age had finally caught up with the caravan.

“We’ve marched so far,” he announced, “that our memories have refused to come with us.”

That drew some laughs.

Then one of the merchants discovered that six silver coins had disappeared from his purse.

The following day another merchant reported that a small pouch of saffron, worth nearly its weight in silver, had vanished from his wagon. A teamster swore someone had taken his wife’s jade hairpin, which he carried wrapped in cloth as a gift for his return home. Before long, another merchant found that several tiny packets of cinnamon and cloves had disappeared from a locked chest.

No one laughed anymore.

Those were not the sort of things a man misplaced.

Each item was small enough to slip unnoticed into a pocket, valuable enough to exchange in almost any village, and nearly impossible to identify once sold.

From then on, every man counted his belongings before bedding down for the night. Purses were tied beneath tunics instead of left beside bedrolls. Merchants began sleeping with one hand resting on their strongboxes. Conversations grew quieter, and more than once I caught men studying one another with narrowed eyes.

One evening I overheard two merchants speaking in low tones.

“It’s Kuangren,” one said. “It has to be.”

“But,” the other objected, “I heard that his own wife’s ivory comb went missing.”

The first one chuckled. “It takes a cold-hearted man to steal from his own wife. That Kuangren is incorrigible.”

I shook my head. The old Kuangren had been a fool, a gambler, and a womanizer, but he had never stolen from the caravan. And the man who now prayed beside Brother Ahmed every evening scarcely resembled the one who’d been whipped in Kyrgyzstan. To steal from his own wife? Impossible. He doted on her. More than once I had seen him helping Gulnur carry water.

No, it wasn’t Kuangren.

Opium

A thought nagged at me, and eventually I sought out Hakim Yusuf.

I found him trimming dried herbs outside his wagon.

Without looking up he smiled. “Nothing is bent sideways today, I hope.”

“No.”

“Good. Have you come to assist me?”

I smiled ruefully. “Not yet, sorry. I need to ask you about something.” Without naming Arslan, I described the condition in which I had seen him beneath the wagon. His slow speech and distant expression. The strange sweetness in the air around him. The dreamy look in his eyes.

Hakim Yusuf stopped trimming the herbs. “Opium.”

The certainty in his voice startled me. “You know about it?”

He gave a little wave of his hand. “I don’t know who you’re referring to. I know the symptoms.”

“What is it?”

“We physicians use it as a medicine. It’s very useful to dull pain before a difficult procedure. If I have to operate or amputate, for example.”

I snapped my fingers as recognition struck. “That’s how I know the smell!”

Hakim nodded. “Many physicians use preparations derived from opium, but diluted, and only when necessary. No one would use it raw. It’s too powerful.”

“Why would someone take it if he’s not injured?”

Hakim shook his head sadly. “Why do we humans do anything? We are foolish creatures. Allah offered the burden to the heavens and the earth and they refused it, but we took it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It brings a feeling of peace… even bliss. Particularly the first time. It allows a man to forget his pains and regrets for a while. Don’t we all want that? But it extracts a heavy price.”

“You mean it’s expensive?”

“Yes, it is, but the price I refer to is addiction. A man discovers that yesterday’s dose no longer satisfies. He takes more, then more again. Before long the good feeling is gone, and he is only taking it to avoid the severe pangs of withdrawal. He stops caring about anything but the drug, and to get it he will lie and steal. Eventually it will kill him.”

That sounded like being trapped in a nightmare. For a moment I actually felt sympathy for Arslan. Who wouldn’t want to escape the pain of this life for a while? But…

As if hearing my thoughts, Hakim Yusuf  said, “Such a man would be a danger to the caravan.”

I chewed on my lip. “Where would this opium come from? How would a man get his hands on it out here in the middle of nothing?”

Hakim looked toward the dark mountains surrounding us. ““Much of the opium traded across these lands begins right here.”

I followed his gaze. “Afghanistan?”

He nodded. “One would only have to enter a local village to buy some. You know what, that’s a good idea. I’m a bit low, maybe I should stock up. I’ll talk to Karim…” He entered the wagon and started puttering about.

I called out my thanks and left. It all made sense. Arslan was the thief, selling the stolen items to fuel his addiction. But, I realized, there was nothing I could do. First, I had no proof. Second, even if I could prove it, Arslan would be whipped and exiled. I wouldn’t mind seeing that. But Weili – who, I suspected, already knew about Arslan’s problem – would hate me forever. She would never, ever forgive me.

A Flicker of Light

Three nights later we camped in a narrow valley where a small cave overlooked the caravan from a low ridge. The mountains pressed close around us, shutting out all but a ribbon of sky overhead. The air carried the bite of approaching winter, and after evening prayer everyone gathered close to the cook fires until the flames burned low. Gradually the laughter faded. One lantern after another winked out until only the sentries remained awake.

Weili had accused me of spying on Arslan. It hadn’t been true then, but it was now, in a way. I made a point out of checking his duty station during the day, and his bedroll at night. Walking  past his bedroll now, I found it empty.

It might mean nothing. Men often wandered away from camp for a few moments of privacy. But as I was settling my blanket beside Belly, I noticed a brief flicker of orange light among the rocks above us. It vanished almost immediately, as though someone had cupped a hand over a flame.

I should have called for another guard to accompany me, and maybe even alerted the Sarge. But I did not. Without waking anyone, I climbed the rocky slope. Loose stones shifted beneath my boots. The night was silent except for the whisper of the wind threading through the pass.

The smell reached me before the cave did. It was faint, sweet, and strangely familiar.

When I stepped into the cave, I froze in shock. The cave itself was shallow, scarcely more than a hollow in the mountainside. Its ceiling was blackened by years of smoke. A tiny oil lamp burned, throwing wavering shadows across the stone walls.

There, in the light of the lamp, with their backs against the rock, sat Arslan and Weili. He sat with one knee raised, head lolling to the side, seemingly asleep. As for Weili, a long pipe resting loosely in her fingers. Wisps of pale smoke drifted lazily upward before disappearing into the darkness. I could hear the tiny hiss of the lamp flame. The sweet smell of the smoke hung heavily in the still air, clinging to my clothes.

Weili smiled as though I were an old friend arriving for tea.

“Darius.” There was love in the way she spoke my name, and it nearly broke my heart.

“Come,” she said, and she lifted the pipe toward me with slow, dreamlike generosity. “You try.”

“Weili,” I said, and my voice broke.

“You are so good,” she said dreamily. “You always loved me. No one…” She inhaled from the pipe, then let the smoke rise slowly from her mouth. “Ever loved me before. I never… deserved you.”

My mouth fell open. What was she saying? Hope surged in me. I reached out a hand.

“Then come with me. Forget Arslan. He’s a thief, he’s rotten. You don’t need him, you don’t need  this drug. It’s poison. Hakim Yusuf told me so.”

Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “You told Hakim Yusuf about me? You rat!” She tried to stand, but her legs gave out and she slumped back to the ground. “Get out of here. I’m with Arslan now, get it through your brick head.” She picked up a loose stone from the cave floor and flung it at me. I ducked as it flew past.

Arslan roused from his stupor. “What…. going on?”

With her eyes on me, Weili threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Nothing, my love.” She passed him the pipe, and he inhaled.

I wanted to run away. Instead I said, “You’re better than this, Deng Weili.”

She released her hold on Arslan and slumped against the wall of the cave. “No,” she said sadly. “I am exactly this. You loved…” She twirled a finger in the air, trying to think of a word. “A mirage. Go away, Darius.”

I stumbled out of the cave. Tears made icy sideways tracks on my face as the wind hit.

There was nothing I could do. If I went to Sergeant Karim, I knew what would happen. Twenty lashes for Arslan for sure, for the thefts. As for Weili, I did not know. What if she had stolen as well?

An Eerie Pass

Personal items continued to go missing. Men cursed under their breath and searched one another’s faces with growing suspicion.

I said nothing.

Each complaint felt like another stone added to the burden I was carrying. And every day that I remained silent, I became a little more ashamed.

The mountains grew higher. The valleys narrowed until the road became little more than a ledge carved into the mountainside. Dark cave mouths peered down from impossible heights, some scarcely larger than doorways, others wide enough to swallow an entire wagon. I found myself studying them more often than the trail beneath Belly’s hooves.

I no longer monitored Arslan’s movements, or tried to talk to Weili. I divorced myself from the entire matter, and tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. But her words haunted me: You always loved me. No one ever loved me before. Those words went around and around in my head like a pair of squirrels chasing each other endlessly. Her little show of affection toward Arslan didn’t bother me at all, but her saying, “I never deserved you” – that was like an arrow in my gut.

We crossed a rocky pass with high mountains on either side. The mountains were riddled with caves. The entire place was blanketed in an eerie silence. Even the birds seemed reluctant to enter that pass.

The attack came without warning.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 22 – The Raid

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:

Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: The Cabbie and the Muslim Woman

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 21] – Opium appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Southern Lebanon has been devastated by the Israeli assault; ruins dot the county of Nabatieh.

A significant aspect in the ongoing war and negotiations between the United States and Iran has been the related Israeli attack on Lebanon, whose Shia community and in particular Hezbollah militia has close religious, historical, and political ties to Iran. As it has done for over fifty years, the Israeli military has intermittently attacked Lebanon since 2024, but this latest round that began in spring 2026 has received proportionately far less attention than earlier attacks despite enormous bloodshed and its direct relevance to both the war in the Persian Gulf and the genocide of Palestine. More than anything, the war and a blatantly lopsided ceasefire that went into effect last month has exposed the limitations and bluster of a Lebanese government that loudly asserts its privileges but chronically fails to meet its responsibility, especially security against a rabidly aggressive neighbor.

The area most obviously abandoned to repeated Israeli attack is the largely Shia south, which has suffered immense damage not simply during the mid-2020s but from Israeli incursions, on and off, for over half a century. The south is often pathologized, certainly by Israel but also by domestic Lebanese critics, as a reckless hotbed whose fealty to Hezbollah will only bring peril to Lebanon at large. Yet Hezbollah, for all its faults, has managed a security and level of services that the Lebanese government has never afforded the region.

Nor are the southern Shias alone as scapegoats for Lebanon’s plight. Historically, one group after another has been blamed whenever Lebanon’s integrity is violated: at the moment it is Hezbollah and Shias in the south; earlier it was Syrian refugees and their largely Sunni supporters in areas such as Arsal and Sidon; earlier it was alleged Sunni “jihadists” in cities such as Tripoli; and earlier, at the outset of the 1975-90 war, it was Palestinians and their Lebanese supporters across a number of the country’s demographic groups, largely Muslims or Druze.

Lebanon was originally set up in the 1920s by France as an enclave for the region’s Christians, especially Maronites who shared the Catholic faith of most Frenchmen. At the time, anti-Muslim sentiments ran deep within French colonial policy, which largely caricatured the Muslim majority of the region as naturally predisposed to violence against minorities. In addition they were inclined to side with Maronites in a long-running feud with Druze, another of Lebanon’s minorities. It was only belatedly and grudgingly that France resorted to a long-outdated formula of splitting power between the elites of various confessional groups. Yet the fact that even in a newly formed Lebanese state Muslims, Sunnis and Shias, soon outnumbered Maronites contributed to the system’s inherent tensions, which were already apparent in the 1950s and resurfaced with major violence in the 1970s.

During this period, conservative and rightwing Lebanese politicians, often but not always Maronites, were inclined to resort to an ossified form of nationalism that exceptionalized  Lebanon and pretended that it existed in a regional vacuum. Where links with France were seen as natural in preserving this Lebanese exceptionalism, links with outsiders – whether those of Sunnis with Palestinians or of Shias with Iran – were treated with suspicion. Today, after the 1980s Lebanese war’s resolution contributed to an officially more equitable adjustment in the confessional balance of power, this nationalism manifests itself chiefly in loudly decrying the “foreign links” of Hezbollah with Iran while ignoring those of every other Lebanese actor with other foreign powers.

The lopsided peace deal that Joseph Aoun and Nawaf Salam’s Lebanese government struck with Israel has virtually signed away practical Lebanese independence when it comes to the United States and its approved regional states, while loudly asserting Lebanese sovereignty when it comes to disarming Hezbollah. This rests on the pretence that Hezbollah does not have a major domestic constituency based off years of not only warfare but genuine sociopolitical services. It also rests on ignoring countless Israeli provocations and incursions throughout Lebanese history, since long before Hezbollah was founded.

The irony is that time and again Lebanese ultranationalists, who frequently scapegoat their compatriots for undermining the state, have time and again been the quickest to give way and even collaborate when the country is actually invaded: this was the case throughout Israel’s repeated invasions since the 1970s and largely through the thirty-year Syrian occupation of Lebanon. Both these invasions were directed, principally and initially, at the Palestinians in Lebanon. One reason that many other factions and most of the Lebanese government faded meekly away before these invasions, which came at the cost of not only Palestinians but Lebanese citizens as well, was because Palestinians had been scapegoated for Lebanon’s sociopolitical problems.

When the Syrian occupation of Lebanon ended in 2005, complaints about the occupation, its corruption and abuses, were commonplace among rightwing and conservative Lebanese nationalists: yet it had been the same current who had welcomed and benefited from the original 1976 invasion in order to crush their Palestinian opponents. Many rightwingers, particularly the populist far-right militias of the so-called Lebanese Front and the South Lebanon Army, supported the even more brutal 1982 Israeli invasion, which installed their leader Bashir Gemayel as a shortlived vassal before his assassination. The Palestinians’ removal as a significant factor from Lebanese politics only brought the turn of other Lebanese citizens, ranging from Sunni Islamists in the north and Shia Islamists in the south to Druze leftists in the east, to come under attack by either the Syrian or Israeli armies, or both.

The most significant of these have been the Hezbollah group, which is now some forty years of age. An unusual closeness to Iran, who sent a large number of military “advisors” to train and equip the group in the 1980s, was frequently noted, yet treated as an exception, by rival groups and factions themselves close to one foreign power or other. In its early years Hezbollah fought Israel and, alongside Palestinians and Sunni Lebanese, the Syrian occupation of Hafiz Assad. Eventually and controversially, Iranian brokerage prompted a Hezbollah rapprochement with Syria, to the extent of assisting Assad’s son Bashar during the 2010s war.

Collaboration with the Assads, in which Lebanese nationalists were themselves involved until it fell out of fashion, is not the main criticism of Hezbollah. Rather, like the Palestinians of the 1970s, Hezbollah is blamed for having provoked Israeli “reprisals” in the service of a foreign agenda, thereby weakening the Lebanese state. Yet the record is clear that Israel has repeatedly, deliberately, and systematically attacked Lebanon since long before Hezbollah existed. The Lebanese state itself has little record to which it can point, certainly not in the south, even during peacetime. And as for foreign agendas, the scapegoating of resistance in Lebanon – whether that resistance was by Palestinians in the 1970s or Hezbollah in the 2020s – has long been led by those actors who were most amenable to actual foreign invasions of Lebanon, whether by the Assads’ Syria or by Israel.

Under fire: Lebanese army commander Rodolf Haykal has come under sustained foreign criticism for his reluctance to attack Hezbollah on behalf of Israel.

The year 2026 brings several anniversaries of this record. In summer 1976, Assad dispatched a major invasion to support the Lebanese rightwing against a combination of leftist, Muslim Lebanese, and especially Palestinian opponents: this brought about three decades of occupation where the Assad family famously manipulated and shaped the Lebanese political process. Israel’s role was even worse: having already mounted an invasion all the way to Beirut as well as made repeated raids during the 1980s, in the spring of 1996 and the summer of 2006 Israel again made major, pointedly brutal incursions into southern Lebanon: it was here that the Israeli military gave a moniker to its longstanding tradition of deliberate viciousness, the “Dahiya Doctrine”, named for a town that was flattened over and over as a form of pressure. The Dahiya Doctrine has of course been on full view in other Israeli misadventures, notably Gaza. Yet as in Gaza, it had little demonstrable military effect: instead, particularly in summer 2006, Hezbollah shot to international fame for having outlasted and outfought a more powerful Israeli foe.

Despite the bruising blows that the group has suffered over the Israeli invasion of 2024-26, there is no indication that Hezbollah will fold on this occasion either: indeed, as Lebanese army commander Rodolf Haykal among others has recognized, the group’s prestige has only soared after fighting Israeli invasions. Once more, as in the summer of 2006, it is the Lebanese government that has looked impotent and inept, browbeaten by the United States into accepting a lopsided agreement. Wiser exceptions to this rule, such as Haykal, were subjected to diplomatic snubs and a smear campaign by neoconservatives in Washington, such as Lindsay Graham, and their confederates in Israel: he was accused of having “gone rogue” and defeatism against Hezbollah. Defeatism against Hezbollah, a Lebanese group operating in its homeland, was apparently a bigger crime than defeatism against a pointedly brutal Israeli invasion.

That the country invading Lebanon could accuse the Lebanese army commander of being a “defeatist” against his own compatriots is an indication of the ludicrous expectation that the Lebanese state is meant to act not as a government for its citizens but a check against those same citizens. That is, of course, how Israel and thus, unfortunately, much of Washington see the Muslim and Arab worlds at large: that is to be expected. What is particularly absurd is that Lebanese “nationalists” with a long and almost seamless record of collaborating with foreign invasions should then turn on their own compatriots in the name of strengthening the Lebanese state. Very often, as in the case of the rightwing, this is accompanied by anti-Muslim prejudices that in effect call into the question of Lebanese Muslims, whether it was the Sunnis of the 1970s or Shias since the 1990s.

No state is strengthened or its people served by a hostile foreign invasion. But the pretence that Iran is the only foreign actor involved in Lebanon serves as a method of justifying actual foreign invasions, with undisguised brutality and contempt for Lebanese life, by far worse actors. The Lebanese government and its supposedly nationalist supporters do their country a major disservice with this selective patriotism.

The post Selective Memory undermines Lebanese Patriotism and Populace appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Olympian and Labor Friends of Israel patron shared posts about Palestinians that were ‘dehumanising’, Muslim advocacy group alleges

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Former Labor senator Nova Peris has been accused of amplifying anti-Muslim and anti-Palestinian content by sharing posts that claim Gaza is full of “savages” and “fucking monsters”.

The Australian Muslim Advocacy Network (Aman) has identified dozens of what it describes as dehumanising posts seen on Peris’s verified X account between April 2024 and March 2026.

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Jalsa Salana in Hampshire has had enhanced support from police, emergency services and local authorities

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Historian of Iranian descent sues university over politically motivated "firing."