Palestinian child died of kidney failure waiting for medical evacuation.

Long-term trust depends on demonstrating that state power can be corrected as well as asserted

On Monday, footage from Sydney’s CBD showed a group of men being dragged and shoved by police while praying. However, the men did not react with rage but with discipline. They continued their prayers even as officers approached. There were no fists raised, no retaliation, and no chaos; instead, there was the quiet continuity of a ritual that once begun could not be abandoned.

For observant Muslims, the moment of prostration – forehead to ground – is symbolically considered the closest proximity to God. It’s a posture of complete vulnerability with the body lowered, ego surrendered, and the world shut out. The ritual prayer is considered to be the foundation of Islam. This made the footage profoundly confronting for many Muslim Australians. Interrupting someone at their most defenceless position isn’t just moving a body; it’s intruding upon an intimate act of surrender.

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Founder hails “monumental victory,” while “terrorist” status remains in effect for now.

Preparing simple, repetitive meals is the key to 30 days of fasting

Ramadan arrives this year in February, in the heart of winter. Short days, cold evenings and the pressure of everyday work mean that preparation is no longer about producing abundance, but about reducing effort while maintaining care. For many households balancing jobs, children and long commutes, the question is not what to cook, but how to make the month manageable.

The most effective approach to Ramadan cooking is not variety but repetition. A small set of meals that are easy to digest, quick to prepare and gentle on the body can carry a household through 30 days of fasting with far less stress than daily reinvention. The aim is to do the thinking once, not every day.

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Born during the genocide, writer’s daughter lost her sight and ability to move in an Israeli bombing.

A film in Jeddah stirs a bitter flashback for the author, leaving him sobbing quietly in the cinema.

Email shows CEO proposed “lighter lift” statement in place of annual ranking, after surge in Palestinian journalist killings.

On a quiet school morning, a mother stands frozen at her front window, watching the street. Her child’s backpack rests by the door. The bus is coming. But so is fear.

Across the country, Black, Brown, Indigenous, immigrant, and Muslim parents are waking up each day with the same question: Is it safe to send my child outside today?

Immigration raids, masked enforcement officers, public arrests, and aggressive policing have turned ordinary routines like school drop-offs, grocery trips, and morning commutes into moments of terror. Parenting in this climate is no longer just about guidance and discipline. It is about survival, protection, and moral courage.

For Muslims and families of color, this moment is not new. It is history repeating itself, and our nervous systems know it.

When History Enters the Living Room: What Families Are Feeling

For Black and Brown communities, regardless of faith, today’s fear is deeply familiar. Masked raids, public arrests, and militarized enforcement mirror older systems of racial terror, slave patrols, the KKK, lynchings, and state-sanctioned violence. The uniforms have changed. The trauma has not.

One father described the moment his child whispered, “Are they going to take you too?” Another parent shared that her elementary-aged daughter began packing her favorite toy in her backpack just in case she never made it home.

Our nervous systems respond before our minds can catch up. Hearts race. Muscles tense. Breathing becomes shallow. This is trauma physiology, the body recognizing danger long before logic arrives.

Children should be in school learning, not hiding in fear from masked men who resemble symbols of racial terror. Yet families are afraid to leave their homes, to go grocery shopping, or to send their children to the bus stop. That constant fear reshapes daily life, fractures trust, destabilizes families, and erodes dignity.

Even if policies change tomorrow, the psychological imprint remains.

When children witness this, their sense of safety, justice, and belonging is fundamentally shaken.

Collective Trauma and the Cost of Dehumanization

“Children should be in school learning, not hiding in fear from masked men who resemble symbols of racial terror.” [PC: Tamirlan Maratov (unsplash)]

These policies expose how systems rooted in colonialism, racism, and surveillance continue to operate by othering and dehumanizing entire communities.

For generations, violence has been normalized towards Muslim and non-Muslim Black and Brown bodies. It has been expected, dismissed, and minimized. But when fear enters white communities, something shifts. Suddenly, the threat becomes real, urgent, and visible.

One parent said, “For the first time, my white neighbors looked afraid, and I realized they were just beginning to feel what we have carried for centuries.”

Healing requires reckoning with how violence is stored in our bodies, normalized in our culture, and selectively grieved.

The Qur’an reminds us that division weakens and unity protects:

“And hold firmly to the rope of Allah all together and do not become divided.” [Surah ‘Ali-Imran: 3;103]

When communities fracture, they become easier to control. Collective care and collective strategy are how we survive agendas rooted in dehumanization.

Grief, Fear, and Finding God in the Middle of the Storm

What families are experiencing is collective grief layered with shock, numbness, anger, helplessness, and profound loss of safety.

One mother shared, “Every siren feels personal. Every knock at the door makes my chest tighten.

In Islam, spiritual grounding is not passive. It is psychologically protective and proactive.

When human power becomes abusive and unpredictable, reconnecting to Allah restores emotional stability, dignity, and hope.

We begin by anchoring our families in Allah’s Names that heal fear and rage:

• Al-‘Adl (The Utterly Just): So injustice never feels permanent.

• Al-Ḥakam (The Ultimate Judge): When courts and systems fail.

• Al-Mu’min (The Giver of Safety): When the world feels dangerous.

• Al-Jabbār (The Restorer of the Broken): When hearts are shattered.

• Al-Qahhār (The Overpowering): When oppression feels unstoppable.

• Ar-Raḥmān & Ar-Raḥīm (The Most Merciful): When grief overwhelms.

While we have so many emotions and feelings about what we are witnessing and feeling, the Prophet reminded us of the power these emotions have:

“Beware the supplication of the oppressed, for it is answered.” [Bukhari]

The Qur’an also helps us give meaning to our challenges that we are witnessing by reminding us:

“Do people think once they say, ‘We believe,’ that they will be left without being tested?” [Surah Al”Ankabut: 29;2]

This spiritual grounding transforms fear and despair into moral courage and purpose.

Parenting in Crisis: How Do We Talk to Our Children?

Children are absorbing everything: conversations, headlines, social media clips, whispered worries. Silence does not protect them. Connection does.

One father described sitting on his son’s bed, trying to explain why people were being taken away. His son listened quietly, then asked, “But Allah sees, right?”

That question holds everything.

Trauma-informed parenting means:

• Starting with emotional connection

• Asking what children already know

• Gently correcting misinformation

• Letting children ask their hardest questions

• Naming emotions: fear, anger, sadness, confusion

• Teaching body awareness: “Where do you feel that fear?”

• Practicing grounding through dua, prayer, breathing, movement, and routine

• Offering constant reassurance of love and presence

Emotionally safe children are not shielded from reality. They are anchored in relationship, faith, and belonging.

Community as Medicine: Why Healing Must Be Collective

The Prophet warned:

“Stick to the community, for the wolf eats only the stray sheep.” [Tirmidhi]

In moments of fear, community becomes medicine. In mosques, community centers, and living rooms, families are gathering, sharing food, childcare, prayers, legal resources, and emotional support. Children play while parents exchange updates. Elders remind everyone: We have survived worse.

Community regulates nervous systems, restores dignity, and prevents despair.

The Prophet taught us:

“Whoever among you sees injustice, let them change it with their hand, their voice, or at the very least, their heart.” [Muslim]

Collective action — mutual aid, coalition-building, advocacy, and peaceful organizing — transforms fear into resistance.

From Fear to Moral Courage: A Call to Parents

This moment calls parents to raise children not only in safety but in dignity, justice, and courage.

Standing against injustice becomes an act of worship. Advocacy becomes healing. Solidarity becomes faith in action.

Silence is not neutrality. Silence allows harm to grow.

Our children are watching. They are learning how to respond when the world becomes unjust.

Trauma-informed, spiritually grounded parenting offers children more than survival. It offers purpose. It teaches them that they belong, that they matter, and that they are never alone.

Through faith, community, and courageous action, families of color do more than endure. They resist, heal, and rise.

May they learn that fear can become courage. That grief can become service. And that faith can become resistance.

 

Related:

– [Podcast] Parenting with Purpose | Eman Ahmed

– Audio Article: Raising Resilient Muslim Kids

The post Parenting Through Times Of Fear, Injustice, And Resistance: A Trauma-Informed, Faith-Centered Guide appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Shaista Gohir says every group has right to be protected after critics warn proposed definition risks breaking law

Failing to adopt a definition of anti-Muslim hostility would signal to British Muslims that their safety does not matter, a charity’s head has warned, as critics argue that adopting a definition risks breaking the law.

Shaista Gohir, a cross-bench peer and head of the Muslim Women’s Network, was part of a working group on anti-Muslim hatred and Islamophobia launched by the government in 2025 to define what would constitute unacceptable treatment, prejudice and discrimination against Muslims.

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You open your eyes and reach for your phone before your feet touch the floor. The screen illuminates: notifications, emails, messages, scrolling through Instagram, Twitter, TikTok. You watch without choosing to watch. Thirty minutes dissolve before you register time passing.

You pray Fajr in a rush, if you pray at all, because work awaits. The commute is podcasts at double speed. Work is browser tabs breeding across screens. Evening is Netflix, Instagram, YouTube, and so on. You fall asleep to the glow, wake to the buzz, and somewhere in between wonder: Why do I feel so disconnected?

This is the rhythm of modern life, not chosen, but submitted to. We have become spectators of our own days, passive consumers of time itself. Allah warns us against this state:

“And remember your Lord within yourself in humility and fear, without being loud in speech – in the mornings and the evenings. And do not be among the heedless” [Surah Al’A’raf; 7:205]

We move through life unaware, distracted, passive.

But once a year, something interrupts.

The Spectacle and the Loss of Agency

Guy Debord foresaw this in his concept of “The Spectacle.” Simply put, the spectacle he refers to, is when capitalism invades every aspect of our lives to the point we are spectators in our own lives. This extends beyond the typical capital rift of organisations selling us products, and looks at how the infrastructure for modernity has turned life itself into something to watch, to document, to consume. It occupies our time, our thought process, so that we become bystanders just watching, not living. Life becomes images to consume rather than experiences to live. We don’t choose what we focus on anymore. Our attention has been colonized.

As a Muslim, I think about this constantly, because Islam demands presence and consciousness in every single action. To be honest, I find myself guilty of this often. I catch myself praying while my mind is completely elsewhere. Du’as are rushed so I can get back to the work task at hand. On a bigger scale, this affects our ummah because when our awareness is compromised, we become victims to the spectacle.

So, whenever Ramadan is around the corner, there are usually two forces colliding. There’s the part that embraces the beauty of this month, everything slows down, and we become more conscious. Then there’s a part of us that worries about how this will disrupt our workflow, our routine, our eating habits, the habits we’ve built to stay plugged into the spectacle.

Ramadan: An Intentional Disruption

Ramadan forces us onto a different clock entirely. Not the manufactured time of productivity and lunch breaks, but natural, lunar time. The rhythms of day and night dictate when you eat, not corporate schedules or convenience. You break your fast at Maghrib because the sun has set, not because it’s 6 pm on someone’s invented grid. This is time as Allah intended it, not time as capitalism requires it.

One of the most common responses Muslims give when asked (by non-Muslims) what fasting is about is that it’s “to feel what poor people feel”. But that is stripping it down to a simplistic sentiment. Ramadan is a conscious, deliberate effort to abstain from food, yes, but also from the constant consumption that defines modern life. You are awake to what you’re doing. Every moment you feel hunger, you’re reminded: I am choosing this. I am present in this choice. The discomfort is not there to make you “feel what poor people feel,” that tired cliché that misses the point entirely. The Qur’an states the purpose plainly:

“O you who believe, fasting is prescribed for you as it was prescribed for those before you, that you may attain taqwa.” [Surah Al-Baqarah; 2:183]

Taqwa – consciousness of Allah ; mindful awareness in every action. The discomfort wakes you up. It pulls you from autopilot and reminds you that you have a body, not just a screen-lit face

The nights become different. Taraweeh stretches long after Isha, demanding stamina and focus when Netflix would be easier. Qiyam al-layl pulls you from sleep in the quiet hours. The Qur’an, often rushed through or skipped entirely in other months, becomes a daily companion. These are additions, intensifications, deliberate choices to do more when everything in modern life tells you to do less, to optimize, to streamline.

You become a physical embodiment of presence. Walking to the mosque, standing in prayer for hours, breaking fast with community, and reading Qur’an with intention. You respond to your body’s needs and the natural world’s rhythms. This is what it means to live consciously, to reclaim agency from the system that wants you passive, distracted, and compliant.

Ramadan doesn’t ask politely if it can interrupt your routine. It demands interruption and, in that demand, lies Allah’s Mercy.

The Mercy of Structure

“Ramadan is already built, functioning to perfection. We just need to show up and commit to it.” [PC: Shahed Mufleh (unsplash)]

One of the things that has always fascinated me about Ramadan is that even Muslims who are not the most devout usually show up. Some mock them as “Ramadan Muslims,” but I see beauty in this. Allah has given us training wheels, a concentrated month to practice, and everyone is entitled to it regardless of their past or how devoted they’ve been. It’s an access point for all, born from the mercy of Allah .

This is both discipline and gift. In secular frameworks, people have to organize social gatherings, plan acts of resistance, and build alternative communities from scratch. It’s exhausting work that often fizzles out. But Ramadan is already built, functioning to perfection. We don’t need to invent the cure to modern isolation and passivity. We just need to show up and commit to it. A month where everyone is connected in a conscious effort to reclaim closeness to Allah and to live actively, not passively.

It’s a cure to modern malaise.

From Passivity to Agency

So how can we make the most of this blessed month to move from passivity to agency? It’s a sequence where each act of reclaiming builds the capacity for the next.

1. Reclaiming Time

It starts with prayer as the structure that organizes everything else. This means praying consciously, not performatively, for at least five minutes before returning to work. Prayer builds rhythm, and it resists the tyranny of notifications and the manufactured urgency of productivity culture. But this only works if you bring full presence to it. Without agency, prayer becomes a hollow ritual.

2. Reclaiming Consumption

Fasting teaches us about desire and control, but not in the way most people think. Abstinence for a set period is only the beginning. Far more valuable is understanding why we abstain and what consumption does to us. The goal extends beyond prohibiting yourself from eating, but rather to reach a point where you don’t even want to consume mindlessly because you see how it cuts you off from yourself.

This is the space Ramadan creates. In that space, the dopamine cycle breaks. You start to notice how much of your day was spent chasing the next hit of stimulation, scrolling, snacking, streaming, anything to avoid stillness. The physical fast only works if it’s paired with a fast from distraction.

When consumption no longer controls you, attention becomes possible.

3. Reclaiming Attention

Treating the Qur’an as deep reading in an age of skimming. I’m less concerned with how many times you complete the Qur’an than with whether you’re actually reading, pondering, going deep. Allah asks us: “Do they not reflect upon the Qur’an?” [Surah An-Nisa; 4:82]. Reflection requires time, attention, presence – everything the spectacle denies us. The same applies to taraweeh. Twenty rak’ahs done on autopilot mean less than four done with deep, sustained focus. The discipline of being fully there for one thing, not half-there for many things.

This kind of attention is impossible when you’re still plugged into the spectacle. But when you’ve reclaimed your time and broken the consumption cycle, attention stops being a struggle. 

4. Reclaiming Community

When Ramadan becomes a social media show; elaborate spreads photographed and posted before anyone eats, or funny reels about relatable Ramadan behavior, we’ve turned the sacred into content. There’s a difference between communal practice and social media solidarity. One builds real relationships while the other maintains audiences.

This Ramadan, I’m using the month to reconnect with people I’ve been too distracted to talk to. Not through a story or a post, but through an actual message, better yet, a call. “Ramadan Mubarak. How are you planning to use this month? What are your resolutions?”

We’re all so connected through our devices. There’s no excuse not to connect as human beings.

Beyond Ramadan: The Training Ground

Ramadan is practice for the other eleven months. That’s the point many of us miss. We treat it as a month of peak devotion, then the gloves come off, and it’s back to business as usual. But the month was never meant to stand alone. It’s a training ground for a life lived consciously.

Small acts of agency compound. You don’t transform your entire life in thirty days. You build capacity, practice choosing, and strengthen the muscle of presence. The habits you build within Ramadan’s structure can sustain you through the chaos waiting outside it.

The test is whether these practices outlive the month. Can you pray Fajr when Ramadan ends? Can you resist the scroll when fasting is no longer required? Can you maintain real community when the ummah disperses back into routine?

Consciousness is a continuous effort, not a one-time Ramadan achievement. This is where many of us fall short, myself included. We mistake intensity for transformation. We think because we felt close to Allah in Ramadan, we’ve arrived. But closeness requires maintenance, and agency requires practice.

Ramadan gives you the tools. What you do with them in Shawwal, in Rajab, in the dead of winter when motivation is gone, that’s where the real work begins.

The Sacred as Resistance

One month later.

You open your eyes. The phone is still on the nightstand, but you don’t reach for it. Not yet. First, Fajr followed by du’a. A moment of stillness before the world makes its demands.

You still have work, and browser tabs still multiply. The dunya hasn’t become simple, but it no longer controls you the way it did. You move through it differently now. Prayer structures your day. You eat consciously, not compulsively. The Qur’an sits open more often than closed. When evening comes, Netflix is a choice, not a reflex. Instagram is something you check, not something you sink into.

You fall asleep without the glow. You wake without reaching for the buzz.

Some days you slip, and some days the spectacle wins. But the capacity is there now. You know what it feels like to live consciously because you practiced it for thirty days. You know what it feels like to have agency because Ramadan gives you the structure to remember.

The rhythm of modern life can be broken. You are no longer just a spectator. You are a participant, deliberate and awake.

That is the gift of Ramadan. Not that it saves you once, but that it shows you how to save yourself, again and again, month after month, for as long as you live.

Allah gives us the tools. The question is whether we’ll keep using them.

 

Related:

– [Podcast] Dropping the Spiritual Baggage: Overcoming Malice Before Ramadan | Ustadh Justin Parrott

– How to Make this Ramadan Epic | Shaykh Muhammad Alshareef

The post Recognizing Allah’s Mercy For What It Is: Reclaiming Agency Through Ramadan appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Boys and girls are arrested to strike the future before the present.

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

Ramadan’s just around the corner, and we all want to spiritually prepare for it – but where do we even start? Ustadh Justin Parrott gets us started by identifying the rarely-discussed spiritual disease of malice, and shares tips and tricks on letting go of the emotional and spiritual baggage of malice before Ramadan begins.

Ustadh Justin Parrott holds BAs in Physics and English from Otterbein University, an MLIS from Kent State University, and an MRes in Islamic Studies from the University of Wales. Under the mentorship of Shaykh Dr. Huocaine Chouat, he served as a volunteer imam with the Islamic Society of Greater Columbus until 2013.

He is currently an Associate Academic Librarian at NYU Abu Dhabi and Webmaster for the Middle East Librarians Association (MELA). He previously served as a Senior Research Fellow at Yaqeen Institute and as an Instructor of Islamic Creed at Mishkah University.

Related:

Starting Shaban, Train Yourself To Head Into Ramadan Without Malice

[Podcast] Reorienting for Ramadan | Ustadh Abu Amina (Justin Parrott)

The post [Podcast] Dropping the Spiritual Baggage: Overcoming Malice Before Ramadan | Ustadh Justin Parrott appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Darius continues his training with Lee Ayi, and the first refugees appear at the gate.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

* * *

A Fast Learner

I had never in my life been a student of anything except the fighting arts, but now I studied medicine, math, writing, and deen all at once. I proved to be a fast learner. At times I felt as if there were a thousand different thoughts in my head, chasing each other in a mad game of tag. The only thing that gave me some trouble was the Arabic pronunciation of the words in the salat and the Quran. Haaris corrected me patiently, repeating the words until my tongue began to obey.

At night I slept without my dao, as I had promised myself I would.

On Fridays, Ma Shushu continued to leave me behind. One week he said my shoulder was not ready. Another week the road was too rough. Another time he went alone, saying the market would be crowded. The excuses grew thinner, but I did not press. For me to accuse him of lying would be impossible. I would never be able to get the words out of my mouth.

On those Fridays, after the house emptied, Lee Ayi brought out the wooden dao.

At first she asked me only to watch. Then to correct her stance. Then her footwork. Slowly, carefully, I taught her what I could. How to root her weight. How not to rush the transitions between movements. How to insert rapid, subtle strikes between the bigger movements, so that no motion was wasted.

Then we would put down the dao and spar empty-handed. My father used to go nearly full force in such sparring sessions, leaving me with black eyes, bruised ribs, and on one occasion a fractured hand. But between me and Lee Ayi the goal was to lightly kick or slap the opponent. Obviously I went easy on her, but not too easy. When she left an opening I would slap her shoulder, kick her leg, or kick her lightly in the belly. She never complained. In fact, she learned eagerly, with a seriousness that surprised me.

As we practiced, the old cat, Bao, sat on the roof of the house, sunning herself and watching us. Bao and I had come to a place of mutual respect. She was a fantastic ratter and would deposit her fat kills at the doorstep daily. She was not my friend, however, nor were any of the other animals. In fact, I had no true friends. I cared very much for Jade, Ma, and Haaris, and I was fond of the animals. But the deepest part of my heart was sealed against genuine friendship and love. I did not know why. Maybe I was in mourning.

The only moments in which I felt my heart crack open to admit sunshine and air, came during salat. In Allah, I found a friend who would not abandon me, betray me or die. He saw all that I had hidden. There was no pretense with Allah. No hypocrisy. How could there be? With Allah I could be me, and as long as I kept my faith and committed no evil, I was accepted and respected. Perhaps my understanding was flawed. Perhaps my idea of Allah was still immature. In any case, the salat brought me comfort and reassurance.

This weekly training was my secret with Lee Ayi. I enjoyed it, but I dreaded the day Ma Shushu would discover it.

After training we would sit on the edge of the wall, wash ourselves from the basin, and talk.

Thirty Three Generations

The Friday after her revelation about Jun De, I asked her about it.

“You mentioned that he drowned,” I said, “It sounded like there was foul play involved.”

She looked up sharply, startled. “What? No, nothing like that. La ilaha il-Allah. Only that Jun De’s passing leads to another subject.”

I waited, taking another scoop of cool water in my hand and splashing it on my face. I tasted my own sweat as it washed across my lips.

“Five Animals has been in the Lee family for thirty-three generations, according to my father. Maybe more. For boys, it was required. For girls, optional.”

You learned it.”

She grimaced. “Not very well, as you know. And just for fun. It fascinated me. But you see, the eldest son has always been expected to inherit Five Animals, master it and pass it on. When Jun De passed away, Allah have mercy on him, that obThe Friday after her revelation about Jun De, I asked her about it.

“You mentioned that he drowned,” I said. “It sounded like there was foul play involved.”

She looked up sharply, startled. “What? No, nothing like that. La ilaha il-Allah. Only that Jun De’s passing leads to another subject.”

I waited, taking another scoop of cool water in my hand and splashing it on my face. I tasted my own sweat as it washed across my lips.

“Five Animals has been in the Lee family for thirty-three generations, according to my father. Maybe more. For boys, it was required. For girls, optional.”

“You learned it.”

She grimaced. “Not very well, as you know. And just for fun. It fascinated me. But you see, the eldest son has always been expected to inherit Five Animals, master it, and pass it on. When Jun De passed away, Allah have mercy on him, that obligation fell to Yong. My father trained him hard, and he believed Yong was one of the best in many generations. Precise, flowing, yet brutal when it mattered. My father used to say that Yong would become one of the top martial arts masters in our province, maybe the empire.”

She put her hands on her knees and sighed.

“Sending Yong away broke my father’s heart. But he could not tolerate disrespect. Not in the house, nor in the art. There is no one else now.” She studied a line of ants dragging a dead beetle across the ground. “I am not a master, and I cannot teach Haaris anyway because Husband does not approve.”

She glanced at me briefly, then away.

“The line ends with you.”

I felt the words settle like a heavy pack loaded onto my shoulders, but before I could speak she added calmly, “I just thought you should know.”

“But I cannot train openly. You just said that Ma Shushu does not approve.”

“Yes, and I love him. He is a great man, and I would never undermine him.” Looking around, no doubt realizing the falseness of her words when we had just finished a training session, she threw up her arms. “I don’t know.” And she walked away.

What Still Exists

The next Friday we had finished our training session and were again drawing water from the well, but with the pail this time, hauling it inside to use for washing floors and hands, and for cooking. I hauled and she poured.

“Your grandmother is still alive,” Lee Ayi said.

I nearly spilled the water. “What? You said she died.”

“No, I never said that. But you’re right, your maternal grandmother is dead. Your mother’s side of the family all have poor longevity, for some reason. But I’m talking about your paternal grandmother. My mother. After my father died, she remarried. Another Hui man. A good one, or so it seems from the outside. I visit her every year at Eid ul-Adha. It’s hard to get away from the farm.”

“Where is she?”

“In a city to the north, called Deep Harbor. A half-day’s journey on horseback.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Her husband is wealthy. She lives well and occupies herself with buying art and sponsoring artists. It’s a different kind of life.”

I swallowed. “Does she know about me?”

Lee Ayi considered this. “She knows Yong had a son. She does not know where you are.”

She carried the bucket inside and returned with it empty.

“I am not telling you this to confuse you or tear you in different directions. I am only telling you what still exists.”

Hoop and Stick

One workday afternoon, when Haaris and I had finished our work early as usual and Ma Shushu had no patients, I sat on the wall beside the front gate, watching Haaris play stick and hoop. He had a wooden hoop he had made by curving a slender bamboo shoot and binding the ends together. He would roll it along, using the stick to keep it moving.

There were many other games he liked, including games played with cards, goat’s bones, and on a wooden board with round stones. His knowledge of games seemed almost as extensive as my knowledge of martial arts. More than anything else I had experienced, learning these games made me realize how abnormal my childhood had been, for Haaris seemed to think that every child must know these games, while I knew none of them.

Well, almost none. Sometimes, when the day’s work had been heavy and he was tired, Haaris liked to set the wooden milk pail on top of a stack of firewood. Then we would sit some distance away and take turns throwing pebbles at it, trying to hit it. This was actually something I had done before to pass the time when I was bored, but I had not realized it was a game.

Anyway, that day Haaris was doing very well with the hoop, running at full speed just to keep up with it, and I was watching with a smile, when movement from the road caught my eye. I turned my head and saw a woman with a small boy. They were walking up the road, hand in hand, barefoot. Their clothing was caked with dust, and the child looked painfully thin. The woman’s head hung down. She and the boy walked right past me.

People certainly traveled this road at times. The farm laborers came on foot, and the landowners traveled on horseback or mule back. There were also sometimes tinkers, merchants and even once a small caravan, on their way to Deep Harbor, the city in the north where my paternal grandmother supposedly lived.

These two, however, looked as if they didn’t know where they were going, or why, or what they would do when they got there. They looked hungry, exhausted and on their final steps.

I called out, “Auntie, where are you going?”

The woman did not stop, but the child turned. I waved to him. He tugged on his mother’s hand but she kept walking and nearly pulled the boy off his feet.

Refugees

I leaped from the wall down onto the road and ran after them, dust rising from my shoes in little clouds. Catching up quickly, I stopped before the woman. Bowing slightly, I said, “Auntie, can you wait a moment?”

She stopped and lifted her face to mine. Her eyes were sunken. If they had been fireplaces, I would have said the fire was down to a single spark.

“We have not bothered you,” she said pleadingly. “And we are not thieves. Let us pass.”

I made a gesture with my palms for her to be calm. “I live on the farm you just passed. Why don’t you walk back to the gate and I’ll bring you water and food?”

She gazed into my eyes for a long moment, then said, “Thank you, kind sir.”

This almost made me smile, her calling me sir. Me, an uncouth, good-for-nothing kid with little schooling and no greater talent than hurting people.

Walking back to the gate I asked where she was going.

“North, that is all. We were driven from our home in the south by the invaders. We have been walking a long time.”

When we reached the gate I said, “Wait here. Do not leave.”

I ran back to the house with Haaris at my heels. “What happened?” he asked. “Where did you go?”

I found my uncle treating an elderly man with a wound on the side of his head. “Ma Shushu,” I said quietly. “Sorry to bother you. There is a woman and child at the gate. They are refugees, in bad condition. I offered food and water.”

He glanced at me, distracted. “Yes, fine. Tell your aunt to care for them.”

Provisions and News

I found Lee Ayi cutting vegetables. She set aside her work and walked quickly to the gate, with Haaris and I hustling along beside her. Taking the woman’s hand, she led the refugees to the well, where she sat them down on the edge. Under my aunt’s direction, I used a washcloth to wash the boy’s face, hands and feet, while she did the same for the mother. Haaris found an extra pair of Lee Ayi’s shoes for the woman, and an old pair of his own shoes for the boy.

By the time Asr arrived, the woman and child had eaten their fill of curried rice with eggs, shallots and garlic, and filled their water gourds. Haaris even gave the boy an old shuttlecock he’d made out of tree resin and twine. The woman and child rose to leave.

“No,” Lee Ayi said. “It will be dark in a few hours. You will sleep in the barn tonight, eat breakfast in the morning, and we will give you provisions for the road.”

The woman looked doubtful. “You… you will not lock us in?”

Lee Ayi frowned. “Of course not.” She lifted her hands helplessly. “We offer you assistance, that is all. You are free to leave if you prefer.”

The woman broke down. She fell to the ground and prostrated to Lee Ayi, weeping. The boy hugged her, confused.

“Astaghfirullah.” Lee Ayi picked the woman up and helped her stand. “Never prostrate to another human being. Only to Allah Almighty.”

“You -” The woman’s breath caught as she tried to stifle her sobs. “You are Hui?”

“Yes. We are Muslim.”

“Then we too wish to be Muslim.”

That evening the refugees ate dinner in the house with us, though the woman was clearly uncomfortable, and kept apologizing for her tattered and stained clothing. Ma Shushu led her through the shahadah, then gave her the name of the Imam in Deep Harbor.

“I must tell you something,” the woman said. Her tone until now had been grateful and timid. But now she sat up assertively. “More are coming behind me. The war is coming near. Everything south of Three Gorges is lost to the invaders. You must build your wall higher, and make your gate secure. Not all refugees are honest, and there are highwaymen on the road. People are being captured and enslaved, or simply robbed and killed. You are good people. Prepare yourselves, for trouble is at the gate.”

In the morning Lee Ayi gave them generous provisions and extra suits of clothing and they left.

Haaris and I worked mostly in silence that day. My hands twitched every now and then, seeking the comfort of the dao. I felt jumpy, and caught myself grinding my teeth.

Later I asked Lee Ayi why she had been so generous with the woman and child. “I can understand giving a stranger a bite of food  to eat,” I said. “Others have done the same with me. But you gave her so much. You don’t even know her.”

“She is my sister,” Lee Ayi said simply.

I froze. “What do you mean? I didn’t know you had a sister.” I was thinking that if that woman was truly my aunt, how could we let her go out on the road like that?

Lee Ayi smiled. “All Muslims are brothers and sisters. We are one body, one Ummah. If one of us is in pain, we are all in pain.”

This was a very strange concept to me. Revolutionary, even. I would have to think about it. I merely nodded and went on my way.

Lantern Light and Music

The Lee family surprised me that evening with something new. That evening, after the gates were secured and the animals settled, we all sat together on the floor of the main room.

The lamps were lit early. Outside, the air had grown cool, and the safflower fields were dark, the bees long gone. Inside, the lantern light softened the walls and made the low ceiling seem closer, as if the house were leaning in.

Lee Ayi brought out an instrument I had not seen before. Its body was long and narrow, the wood polished smooth by long handling. She sat cross-legged and adjusted the strings with quick, practiced turns, plucking each one and listening carefully. The sounds were low at first, almost tentative, then steadier, fuller, as if the instrument were waking.

Once, when I went looking for my father in town, I found him passed out on the floor of a saloon while a man played a crude song for coins, his voice loud and uneven, the notes slurred together with laughter and drink. I remembered the smell of alcohol, the shouting, the way the sound pressed in from all sides without shape or purpose. That was the extent of my experience with music.

This was different.

Lee Ayi touched the strings, and the sound rose cleanly from the wood, as if something living had been coaxed out of it. A piece of carved wood, a few taut strings, and her hands, and yet the room changed.

Haaris fetched a small drum and settled opposite her, tapping it once with his fingers, then again, testing the sound. He grinned at me and rolled his shoulders as if preparing for something important.

Ma Shushu cleared his throat and sat back against the wall, his legs stretched out, his hands resting loosely on his knees. When Lee Ayi began to play in earnest, he closed his eyes.

The melody was simple and familiar to them. It rose and fell without hurry. Haaris found the rhythm easily, his hands slapping the drumhead with uneven enthusiasm, sometimes early, sometimes late, but never losing the pulse entirely.

Then Ma Shushu began to sing.

The song was light, almost silly. It told the story of a man who wanted an easy way out of his troubles. Each time he thought he had found one, it led him into worse difficulty. He borrowed money and lost it. He sold his stubborn donkey and bought a horse that ran way. He found a purse in the street and was accused of theft. Each verse ended with the same amused refrain, and each time Haaris struck the drum a little louder, laughing before he could stop himself.

Lee Ayi smiled as she played, shaking her head once or twice at the foolishness of the man in the song. Ma Shushu sang without strain, his voice steady and unpretentious, more storyteller than singer.

I sat with my back against the wall, listening. The only things more lovely than this that I had heard in my life were the purring of Far Away when he slept beside me in bed, and Ma Shushu’s voice as he recited the Quran. The latter especially – Ma Shushu’s deep voice as he sang the melody of the Quran – was the single most beautiful and peaceful thing I had ever heard in my life. The music, while pleasant, was a distant second.

When the song ended, Haaris bowed dramatically, nearly tipping over.

“That is enough noise for one night,” he said. “Tomorrow comes early.”

A Trickle Becomes a Stream

As the days passed and the weather grew colder, more refugees began to appear. A trickle became a stream. Old men leaning on sticks. Women with infants bound to their chests, their faces gray with exhaustion. Families, and even small groups, all going north, fleeing the evil in the south. They moved quietly, conserving breath, as if speaking too much might cost them something they could not afford to lose.

Sometimes they called out from the gate.

“Water.”

“Food.”

“Medicine, if you have it.”

Ma Shushu never turned anyone away. He sent Haaris to fetch water, milk, cheese or bread;  or a blanket from the storage room. Once he treated a man’s infected foot at the gate, kneeling in the dust as calmly as if he were in the treatment room.

Lee Ayi, who had been so generous with that first refugee woman and child, began to express worry. The pantry was running low, and there were no more spare blankets or clothing to give away.

That evening I was returning a basket to the kitchen when I heard Lee Ayi and Ma Shushu arguing quietly. I paused without meaning to, standing just outside the doorway.

“We cannot go on like this,” Lee Ayi said. Her voice was low, controlled. “We have little left to give. Winter is coming.”

“They are desperate,” Ma Shushu replied. “They are an amanah from Allah.”

“But are they our amanah? We are not the nation, we are not the emperor or the governor or the  mayor. We are just a family with a farm and mouths to feed.”

I slipped away, troubled. The question of providing for the refugees was overshadowed the very next day, however, when a band of six rough and dangerous looking men entered the gate without permission and marched right up to the door.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 9 – Crane Dances In The River

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:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

Gravedigger: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 8] – Refugees At The Gate appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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Something quietly profound happened last Ramadan. In a year when the war on Gaza hardened public debate into camps, when half the UK was found to believe that Islam – and therefore Muslims – to be incompatible with British values, when the general volume of Islamophobia was ratcheted several notches higher by Reform UK’s rise in the polls, hundreds of Muslim Londoners gathered every night to build the kind of community and connection we were told had been decimated. Lost to whatever the flavour of blame is at the moment: doomscrolling, the telly streamers, individualism promoted by late-stage capitalism, a society fractured by the cost of living.

For a month, Muslims came together in the capital and put on iftars, the evening meal that breaks the day’s fast, that reflected the world we want to live in: inclusive, often female-led and queer-friendly, properly diverse, rooted in generosity. A community without judgment, formed outside mosques, free from the performative piety Olympics. Which all sounds deeply earnest, but believe me when I tell you that these were some of the most vibey events I went to last year.

Nosheen Iqbal is the host of the Guardian’s Today in Focus podcast

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