A wounded figure appears in the darkness, and Darius is given a choice between two life paths.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

* * *

A Figure in the Moonlight

The small figure walked unsteadily up the center of the path, not sticking to the shadows, but walking openly in the moonlight. It was a cat, there was no doubt of that. It was large for a cat, with a long frame, but very thin. It walked with a limp, and looked like it might collapse at any moment. There was something about its gait and the way it moved its head, seeking something – I did not know what – that made my breath come ragged and thin. My mouth compressed into a line and my chest began to quiver.

Water spilled down my cheeks. Tears, turned nearly into ice by the late autumn wind. I was crying without knowing why. What was wrong with me?

I took a few steps toward the cat and it froze. I took a few more steps, and the cat let out a plaintive, beseeching meow.

I fell to my hands and knees. I tried to speak but my mouth turned down and a sob escaped. I gathered my breath and whispered, “Far Away?”

The cat came to me as quickly as it could, limping. When it reached me it collapsed in front of me. I reached out a tentative hand. It could not be Far Away. He had run into the forest far from here, and disappeared. That had been over a year ago. It could not be him.

Far Away had been a striped orange tabby. This cat had stripes as well, but in the moonlight everything was black and white. I felt the cat’s chest. Its fur was cold and rough, but it was breathing. Far Away had carried a long scar on the side of his neck, from some battle that occurred before he came to me. I slipped my fingers into this cat’s fur, feeling for the scar, and found it.

I slid one hand down the cat’s thin body. I could feel its ribs, and other scars that were unfamiliar to me. This made me doubt once again. I felt warm wetness on my hand. I brought my hand to my nose and sniffed. It was blood. This cat had an open wound somewhere. I reached out and touched the cat’s tail. Far Away had a kink in the middle of his tail, as if it had been broken and healed badly. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. I moved my hand slowly down this cat’s tail, squeezing slightly. Halfway down, I encountered the kink.

It’s My Cat

Something broke inside me, as if my skeleton had been made of thin sticks held together with resin, and the whole flimsy structure had just fallen apart. I began to cry. I scooped the cat into my arms – he was so light – and clutched him to my chest. He was so cold that it seeped into me even through my tunic. My forehead lay in the dirt of the path.

I sobbed as I never had before. It was a wordless wail, sounds breaking out of me like water from a river that had overrun its banks. Incredibly, I could feel Far Away purring against my chest. His claws dug into me rhythmically as he kneaded his paws. Tears poured from me like hot rain. My mouth pressed into the road, my shoulders shook, and I tasted dirt.

I heard the door of the house bang open. Footsteps ran to me.

“Darius?” Lee Ayi’s voice was panicked. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

I lifted my face to her, my expression twisted into a rictus, my cheeks frigid with tears. “It’s my caaaaaaaaaat,” I wailed. “It’s my cat! It’s Far Awaaaaaay.” I dropped my head back into the dirt and sobbed.

Far Away had followed me. He had tracked me somehow. I had left him behind in a strange place, without protection, friendship or food. I had abandoned my only friend. Yet he’d followed me across hundreds of leagues, fighting and starving, suffering who knew what injuries and pain, to find me. No one had ever done that for me. No one had ever cared that much, not even my father.

Where was my father? Why couldn’t he love me enough to stay alive?

I felt hands on me, checking me for wounds perhaps. People were speaking to me.

In that moment, kneeling there, it was not memories of my father that came to me, or even of Far Away, but of my mother. I remembered every sweet song she had sung to me – if not the words, then the feeling of warm, protective love. The way I danced on the dirt floor when she played the flute. The way she fell silent when Father came home, afraid of his drunken temper. I used to run outside and hide in the broken down barn.

I remembered my mother praying. I had completely forgotten that. It was something she did quietly and privately, and only when Father was asleep or away. She stood in the corner, whispering, bowing and prostrating. It was salat, I knew now. She had been a faithful Muslim.

I remembered my mother struggling to breathe before she died, her chest rising and falling like a torn bellows, a sound like a kitten’s soft meow coming from her lungs. I laid my head on her chest, clutching her waist as if she were my lifeline in a stormy sea. Her last words returned to me: “I will always love you, I will always be proud of you, even when you one day forget my face, even when the blows of life strike you down. I will love you from wherever I am. That’s why you will always get back up.”

I had forgotten those words until right now.

Treatment

I felt Zihan Ma’s strong hands trying to pull me up by my arms. At the same time a pair of small arms encircled my back, and I heard Haaris crying. He didn’t even know what was happening. He was crying for me.

Zihan Ma heaved and pulled me up to a standing position. I turned away from him, clutching Far Away tighter against my chest.

“Let me see him,” Zihan Ma said.

“No!” I jerked back, twisting away. “You can’t take him away!”

My voice broke on the last word. I staggered a step, nearly losing my footing, then righted myself, holding the cat as if someone might tear him from me.

Lee Ayi came to me at once. She did not reach for the cat. Instead she placed her hand gently against my cheek, her thumb brushing away the wetness there.

“Darius,” she said softly. “No one is taking him. Zihan Ma only wants to help.”

I looked from her to my uncle. He stood still, watching me. His eyes were sleepy and his hair rumpled, but his expression was steady and patient. The panic drained out of me all at once, leaving me hollow and ashamed. I swallowed hard, drew in a shaky breath, and straightened.

“No,” I said, more quietly. “I will do it.” I had been Zihan Ma’s apprentice for many months now. I knew what to do. I turned without waiting for an answer and walked into the house, cradling Far Away as carefully as I could. My hands trembled, but I forced them to be steady.

In the treatment room I put a towel down and laid him gently on the table, supporting his body so that the injured leg did not bear any weight. Zihan Ma entered behind me and lit the lantern, adjusting the wick until the light grew strong and clear. The familiar sweet smell of herbs and oil filled the room.

I moved automatically, as I had seen my uncle do so many times. Cloth, basin, water, needles, thread, poultices. My hands knew where everything was before I had fully thought of it. From a small jar I took a pinch of crushed herbs and mixed them with a little water, stirring it into a thin, bitter liquid. I drew it up into a narrow bamboo dropper and knelt beside the table. This was a sedative that would make Far Away drowsy, and numb his pain so I could work on him. I made sure to adjust the amounts downward, using far less than I would for a human.

“Easy,” I murmured, cradling Far Away’s head in my palm. I touched the dropper to the side of his mouth and let a few drops fall in. He resisted weakly at first, turning his head, but I held him gently, waiting for him to swallow before giving him more. I did not force it. A little, then a pause. Another drop. I stroked his throat with my thumb until he swallowed again.

“You will feel better soon,” I told him. “You found me, you big dummy. You’re home now, I will take care of you.” Saying these words almost made me start crying again, but I was in healing mode now, and I pushed those feelings away.

Zihan Ma instructed Lee Ayi to boil some water, then he began gathering ingredients. I knew he was making an herbal paste to apply to the wound, to reduce heat and eliminate toxins.

I dipped the cloth into the basin and wrung it out, then began to wash Far Away. I could not find the wound until I first took care of the dirt, dried blood and matted fur. I worked slowly, pausing whenever his body tensed, giving him a moment to settle before continuing. He flinched once, then stilled, his body weak beneath my hands.

“Do not rush,” Zihan Ma instructed. “Let him breathe.”

“Yes sir,” I muttered, and adjusted my pace.

Lee Ayi returned with a pot of boiled water. “What cat is it?” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s Far Away,” Haaris replied. “The cat that ran away on the journey here.” He knew my story better than anyone, from the countless hours we’d spent chatting as we worked and played.

“How is that possible? SubhanAllah.”

“Quiet,” Zihan Ma commanded. “Let him concentrate.”

I found the wound. It was not large, but it was deep enough, the edges ragged and inflamed. I felt my chest tighten, but I pushed it aside.

I poured a thin stream of the purified water over the wound, letting it run rather than pressing, watching the blood wash away in diluted streaks. Then I took a smaller cloth and cleaned it carefully. When Far Away tensed, I stopped, resting my hand lightly against him until he settled again.

“Good,” Zihan Ma said. “Now look closely. Is it clean?”

I leaned in, squinting in the lantern light.

“Yes.”

“Then close it.”

I hesitated only a moment before I took up the needle. I had watched this done many times. I had practiced on scraps of leather, on pieces of cloth. Never like this.

I set the first stitch. Too shallow.

“Deeper,” Zihan Ma said.

I nodded, adjusted, and placed the next one properly. Then another. And another. My breathing slowed as I fell into the work, the world narrowing to the needle, the thread, the edges of the wound drawing together.

A Life Saved

As I worked I was aware of Zihan Ma watching. He had seen the dao on my back. He had seen me outside, at that hour, with a blade.

He was an intelligent man. He would have drawn his own conclusions. I did not know what they were. Perhaps he thought I had been wandering. Or looking for trouble. Or worse. Whatever he believed, I knew this much: he would not approve. Yet he said nothing. He was a professional. This was a time for treatment.

I knew, though, that there would be a reckoning, and I feared what he might do.

When the stitching was done, Zihan Ma handed me a small pot of crushed herbs. I applied the medicine, pressing it carefully into the wound, then bound it with clean cloth.

I turned my attention to Far Away’s leg, examining it carefully, running my fingers along the bone. The cat twitched but did not cry out.

“Not broken cleanly,” Zihan Ma said. “A fracture. But it will not bear weight.”

I nodded and began to prepare the splint from two small lengths of wood, wrapped in cloth. I set them along the leg and bound them in place, firm but not tight. I checked it once, twice, adjusting until it sat correctly.

When I finished, I stood back.

For a moment I simply looked at Far Away. He looked smaller somehow, lying there on the table, wrapped and still, but breathing. He was alive. My cat was alive. In my mind, I echoed my aunt: “SubhanAllah. Alhamdulillah. Allahu Akbar. La ilaha il-Allah.”

I turned to Zihan Ma, waiting for the stern words I knew would come. The rebuke, the anger, and maybe even exile. My heart felt unmoored in my chest. Please, I thought. Please do not send me away. I cannot take that right now. What would I do with Far Away ?

I said nothing, but my gaze said it all.

My uncle studied the cat, then me. His gaze lingered for a moment, thoughtful, unreadable.

“Wrap him in a blanket,” he said at last. “And go to bed. Your cat needs to rest and heal.”

“I will take him with me,” I said.

He hesitated. “Very well,” he said finally. “But be careful.”

I gathered Far Away into my arms once more. Lee Ayi stepped aside to let me pass, her hand brushing my shoulder. Haaris stood watching, his eyes wide and shining.

I went to my room and lay down, placing Far Away beside me. I rested only the fingers of one hand on his side, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

I expected sleep to be troubled. I expected nightmares – I don’t know why. Instead, sleep came over me like cool water in summer, soft and complete, and I slept as I had not slept in a long time, like a man who, if his sins had not been forgiven, had at least been given a reprieve.

A Reckoning

We prayed Fajr. When we were done I started to rise, but Zihan Ma asked me to stay, so I settled back down with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. We sat in silence as Lee Ayi went to begin her work in the kitchen, and Haaris went out to care for the animals.

The room grew very still after they left. The faint light of dawn crept in through the window, turning the walls a pale gray.

Zihan Ma did not look at me immediately. He sat with his hands resting on his knees, his gaze lowered, as if considering how to begin.

“At what hour did you go out last night?” he asked at last.

My throat tightened. “Late,” I said. “After everyone was asleep.”

“And why?”

There was no anger in his voice. That made it worse.

I hesitated, and in that hesitation I felt the weight of all the possible answers pressing on me. I could say I had heard something. I could say I had gone to relieve myself. I could say anything. But each lie seemed smaller than the truth.

“I was training,” I said.

The words fell into the space between us and seemed to settle there.

“With the dao?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, slowly, as if confirming something to himself. “For how long have you been doing this?”

“Not long,” I said. Then, after a pause, “I go out some nights.”

He was silent again. When he finally looked at me, his gaze was steady, not angry, but searching.

“You have been studying medicine with me,” he said. “You have shown skill and care.”

I swallowed but said nothing.

“And yet,” he continued, “you go out into the night with a blade, practicing to harm.”

“To protect,” I said quickly, before I could stop myself.

His eyes sharpened slightly. “Protection is not separate from harm.”

I lowered my gaze.

“For many years,” he said, more quietly now, “I have treated wounds made by men who believed they were protecting something. Their homes. Their honor. Their pride.” He shook his head faintly. “The body does not know the difference.”

The words settled heavily on me.

He drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “You stand at a crossroads,” he said. “Whether you see it or not. A man may devote himself to healing, or to violence. The two do not walk together.”

My hands had begun to tremble. I pressed them against my thighs to still them.

He looked at me fully now.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “If I were to ask you to give this up – your training, your weapons – would you?”

The question struck me like a blow, and for a moment I could not speak. Images rose unbidden in my mind: the feel of the dao in my hand, the clean arc of a strike, the certainty of movement. Then Far Away, broken and bleeding in the dirt. Then my own hands, steady and sure, saving Far Away’s life. My talent with the dao would not have saved him. But my medicine did.

My chest tightened.

“Yes,” I said.

The word came out too quickly. Even as I spoke it, something inside me recoiled. A sharp, restrictive pain, like a belt being pulled much too tight.

Zihan Ma did not respond at once. He watched me, his gaze lingering not on my face, but on my hands.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Attend to your work.”

A Day’s Work

I rose, put on my boots and went out to join Haaris. But I was confused. Zihan Ma had said, “If I were to ask…” But he had not actually asked, had he? Or was it implied?

The day’s work distracted me from such thoughts. Haaris and I went out to the fields as usual, the frost still clinging in patches where the sun had not yet touched. We milked the cows, fed the animals and put the donkeys out to graze. We cut fodder, hauled water, checked the fences along the ditch. My body moved through the tasks with ease now. I had learned the rhythms of the farm, and my hands knew what to do without thought. But my mind was elsewhere.

Every so often I would excuse myself and go inside to check on Far Away. At midday I found him awake. He was too weak to stand, so I fed him by hand, giving him a mixture of ground organ meat and vegetables that Lee Ayi had kindly prepared.

We chopped firewood. I kept glancing back toward the house.

Haaris noticed. “He’ll be fine,” he said, pushing a bundle of cut hay toward the trough. “You did a good job. I’m proud of you.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“What were you doing outside so late anyway?”

“I, um, I heard him meowing.” Yes, I lied to Haaris. He didn’t need to know.

We finished the work more quickly than usual. As soon as we were done, I wiped my hands on my trousers and headed back toward the house.

“Where are you going?” Haaris called after me.

“To check on him.”

“You just checked on him!”

I did not answer.

Inside, the house was warm again. The smell of broth lingered faintly in the air. I went straight to my room. Far Away had gone back to sleep. He lay where I had left him, though he lifted his head when I entered, blinking slowly.

I knelt beside him and examined the bandage. There was a small seep of blood, but nothing alarming. I prepared a damp cloth and cleaned around the wound, speaking to him quietly as I worked. “You silly beast,” I said. “You big dummy. Walking all this way. I hope it was worth it.” What I really wanted to do was beg his forgiveness, but I didn’t have the heart to say the words.

He purred, a faint, uneven sound. I gave him water, and left him to rest.

Reliving the Past

This became my pattern over the next few days. Work, then back to Far Away. Study, then back again. Even when I sat with Zihan Ma during his treatments, I found my thoughts drifting, wondering if the cat had shifted, if he had tried to stand, if the splint had held.

At night I did not go out to train. I could not risk angering Zihan Ma. This was my home. I could not lose it. The dao remained beneath my mattress. I knew it was there. I felt its presence as one feels a heavy purse in a pocket.

Though I’d slept well that first night when Far Away arrived, after that I found myself lying awake in bed, my hands and feet twitching as I ran through fighting movements in my mind. When I trained for real, I performed Five Animals forms and improvised new movements. But when I trained in my mind like this, I found myself drawn to the real fights I’d been in. I relived the life-or-death battle I’d had with the robbers: parry the knife attack and stab the man in the throat. Dodge the other one’s blow and open his belly.

When I replayed the attack in the street, I changed it. Instead of being distracted by the constable, I focused. Instead of being fooled by the feinted kick, I sidestepped the kick while simultaneously driving the point of my spear into the thug’s throat.

Each time I mentally reviewed these fights, I reacted sooner, moved faster. I almost wished I could go back in time and redeem myself.

Not surprisingly, the abstinence from training did not last. On the fourth night I could not restrain myself any longer. I needed the movement, I hungered for it. I rose from bed late at night, when everyone was asleep, and practiced in my room, in my bare feet, running through traditional Five Animal forms as well as my own improvised techniques. I knew I was disobeying Zihan Ma’s wishes, and I felt ashamed. But I couldn’t help myself.

The night after that, I had barely risen to my feet when I had an intuition, then saw the faint glow of light moving across the floor just beyond the doorway. Footsteps, soft and careful. They paused. I tiptoed to my bed and got under the covers just before the door opened partway and Zihan Ma peeked in. He was checking to make sure I had not gone out.

My eyes were open a fraction. I did not move, and kept my breathing slow and even.

After that I could no longer risk it. I stayed in bed, and it was good that I did, because on some nights a shadow passed the doorway, or a board gave a slight creak. I sensed a quiet presence, listening, confirming. This did not make me feel safe. It made something tighten inside me, a small, hard knot of anger, for Zihan Ma did not trust me.

For all the talk of me being welcome here, being Haaris’s brother, this wasn’t my home. At that moment, I felt that I had no one, nothing, except Far Away. Maybe that was extreme, but I had my father’s pride, and I still didn’t fully trust the idea of a loving, caring family. It was foreign to me. What I knew and understood was rejection and abuse.

Those nights, I lay there in the darkness, my hand resting on Far Away, and stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned. Beside me, the cat shifted slightly, pressing closer into my side, his warmth steady and unquestioning. I closed my eyes and forced myself to sleep.

Tension

In my medicinal studies I continued to learn about the chi meridians and the effects of the many pressure points. When patients came, Zihan Ma sometimes allowed me to place the needles. In Islamic studies I began studying the asbab an-nuzool – the historical events behind the revelation of specific Quran surahs and ayahs. There was an unspoken tension between myself and Zihan Ma. I felt myself slowly pulling away from him emotionally, as if I were building a suit of armor that fit me like an invisible second skin.

One afternoon as I was tending to Far Away, Haaris came into the room and stood watching me as I changed the bandage.

“You’re always with him now,” he complained.

“He’s injured.”

“So?” Haaris spread his hands. “Baba will take care of him.”

“I’m his healer,” I said, not looking up. “I have to keep an eye on him.”

Haaris made a face, half annoyed, half hurt. “You used to play with me.”

“I still do.”

“When?” he demanded.

I tied off the cloth and sat back. “When there’s time.”

“There’s always time,” he muttered.

I looked at him then. His expression softened a little, but the edge remained. “I’m busy,” I said.

He nodded, but it was a stiff, unsatisfied nod. After a moment he turned and left. I watched him go, then turned back to Far Away, adjusting the bandage once more though it did not need it.

When Thursday arrived, Zihan Ma surprised me. Still sitting on the floor after Fajr, he said, “Make sure today that all the tools are put away at the end of the day. Water the animals well and leave extra feed for them. Stack the firewood under the overhang, so it doesn’t get rained on. Make sure Far Away and Bao-bao-Bao-bao have plenty of food and water as well. Make a cushion for Far Away on the floor, in case he gets up. And check with your aunt to see if there’s any work she needs you to do.”

Haaris looked at his father with a grin. “Is he -?”

“Yes. Darius, you are coming with us to Jum’ah tomorrow. Your auntie Lee as well.”

My mouth fell open. What about my mother’s family, who would supposedly kill me if they knew I existed? And who would watch the farm while we were gone? But I asked no questions. I broke into a wide, excited smile. I was going to Jum’ah for the first time! I would meet other Muslims, see the inside of a masjid, and maybe even eat some city treats. It would be a good day for sure.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 11 – Deep Harbor

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:

As Light As Birdsong: A Ramadan Story

Kill The Courier – Hiding In Plain Sight

The post Far Away [Part 10] – Lost And Found appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

For years, conversations about Muslim children’s books have centred around one word: representation. We’ve been rightly focused on ensuring that Muslim children see themselves on the page – that they recognise their names, their families, their skin tones, and their dress. It was necessary and overdue, and it mattered deeply.

But representation was only ever supposed to be the beginning. What our children need now isn’t just to see themselves reflected. They need stories that speak to their souls – stories that centre faith not as a backdrop, but as the beating heart of their world. And they need the adults around them to actively seek out and find these books.

Diverse books became a publishing movement, and it opened doors. Over the last ten years, we’ve seen a beautiful selection of Muslim-authored picture books enter the market. From Ramadan and Eid books, family and food books, and so many more – representation in books sends a message to children. Whether it is ‘you exist’ or ‘your celebrations are important’, or ‘this is how things are done in your home too’, books that reflect traditionally underrepresented communities, that actually belong to the global majority, are still necessary and needed. What I’ve loved seeing is Muslim authors going a leap further.

Culturally connected stories tell children they matter. Spiritual storytelling tells them – you are connected to something divine.

The first affirms identity and the second nourishes the soul. Our children need both.

When I wrote my picture book, Zamzam for Everyone, I didn’t just want to explain Hajj. I wanted to invite children into it and to let them feel what faith feels like when it flows through a story. I wanted to represent faith as a living, breathing experience. Hajj is more than a once-in-a-lifetime obligation; it is a symbolic, faith-filled journey. It is community, it is connection – to Allah and to those we share our world with. I wanted children to sense awe. To understand that when their parents tell them stories of faith, it connects them to something vast and alive – history, belonging, hope.

A Ramadan Night by Nadine Presley does something similar. It evokes deep emotions that are both individual and communal. A little boy’s journey to the masjid for Taraweeh prayer in Damascus, Syria, leads to an evocative exploration of how Ramadan nights feel – this is deeply personal, rich with faith and fondness of a month that is both challenging and rewarding

Ramadan For Everyone by Aya Khalil gently introduces the concept of taqwa, awareness, mindfulness and love for Allah . Ramadan is experienced wholeheartedly and beautifully from within its deep tradition. Family, faith, and fondness fill the pages.

“When children grow up with spiritual representation, they grow up with confidence in what matters most.” (PC: Rendy Novantino)

Ramadan Rain by Jamilah Thompkins Bigelow is lyrical and light in words, but deep and resonant in its message. Layers of meaning fill the pages – du’as accepted at the time of rain, and in Ramadan; the quiet friction between having and not having that is present in communities, and an exploration of what truly makes a gift.

 All three Ramadan books mention Taraweeh, the beautiful but long prayer in Ramadan. It is a prayer that seems long and arduous, and yet Muslims worldwide cling to it fervently. Faith shines from and through these books, luminous and lovely.

Stories like these don’t aim to just represent Muslim culture. They aim to awaken recognition of the sacred, the kind that lives deep inside the fitrah of every child.

It’s not just picture books that do this, but books for older readers too. Shifa Safadi Saltagi has written an NBA-winning middle-grade novel in verse, Kareem Between, as well as the chapter book series, Amina Banana. 

Graphic novelist Huda Fahmy does a wonderful job of writing from within in all her young adult titles. Autumn Allen has a new book releasing in July called You Only Live Twice, about a Black Muslim teenager’s desire to deepen her connection to her faith – Autumn is also my editor at Barefoot Books, and so much of my books’ success is because of her hard work. And SK Ali’s young adult books are a must-read for any young Muslim – her characters’ faith and identity are portrayed with nuance and confidence.

When children grow up with spiritual representation, they grow up with confidence in what matters most.  

What Happens When We Don’t Write Spiritually

The absence of spiritual storytelling leaves a vacuum. Into that vacuum rushes everything else, whether it’s stories that define value by achievement, power, and consumption or stories that elevate the self as the ultimate source of meaning.

Children internalise what stories repeatedly tell them – you are enough, you are powerful, you are in control. These are definitely important and worthy. But faith-based stories offer something radically different – a child learns that they are beloved, that they belong to Allah , and that surrender is not weakness but peace.

This isn’t about moralising. It’s about offering children a spiritual framework for wonder and resilience.

The Need to Write From the Inside

There’s a quiet revolution happening among Muslim storytellers. Writers are no longer just writing about faith, but from within it. This distinction matters.

Writing about faith often seeks translation, whether it is explanation, justification, or softening.
Writing from faith assumes understanding. Trusting the reader to enter the world as it is.

When Muslim writers write from within faith, they reclaim narrative sovereignty. They create stories that aren’t seeking validation but offering vision. They remind children that Islam isn’t a cultural identity, but rather it is a living relationship with Allah that shapes how we see, love, and create.

From Visibility to Vision

We’ve had the era of “mirrors and windows” – the call for diverse books that reflect different faces and experiences. But it’s time to go further. Muslim stories must now offer lamps by way of stories that illuminate the unseen, that help our children make meaning, that show light even in the dark.

Representation was a necessary start. But vision is what will carry us forward.

It’s time to reclaim children’s storytelling as a space of dhikr – remembrance. A space where imagination and iman are not separate pursuits, but twin acts of worship.

The stories we tell our children will either train them to explain their faith or empower them to live it.

If representation is about being seen, then spiritual storytelling is about seeing with the heart.

That is the next frontier of Muslim children’s literature – not books that merely say we belong, but books that whisper we believe.

As Muslim authors, we need the market to now support us. To buy the books, share the books, celebrate the books. Muslim authors are stepping up and writing the stories that speak our truths and fill the gaps that our generation found large and absent. Now, Muslim parents, teachers and communities need to get these stories into the hands of children worldwide.

Spiritual Storytelling Across Media

Children’s literature might be leading the way for other forms of media and storytelling. This deep-seated confidence that picture book writers, their editors, and publishers are showing should be adapted across all forms of media – TV, films, etc. 

For storytelling sits at the very heart of Islamic history and tradition. The Qur’an itself teaches through stories. These narratives are not distant tales; they are living lessons. The Prophets of Islam followed this same path, teaching through parables and moments that met people where they were. Storytelling, by its very nature, is light in its touch yet deep in its impact, allowing faith to be absorbed. This is why the Ummah needs Muslim storytellers today, who remain rooted in their faith, who write authentically from within the tradition, and who honour this sacred legacy. 

Let’s work together to strengthen our own faith and that of our next generation by doing the work, insisting that our stories are told from within faith, and reigniting the legacy of spiritual storytelling that is a part of our history. 

And when our children grow up surrounded by those stories, they’ll know that faith is not something to perform, but something to cherish.

 

Related:

 – On Representation And Intersectionality: What It Means To Be A “Muslim Author”

– Owning Our Stories: The Importance Of Latino Muslim Narratives

 

The post Beyond Representation: Reclaiming Spiritual Storytelling For Muslim Children appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Israel’s attacks on an iconic Gaza City neighborhood in October 2023 rendered it uninhabitable.

The Sira preserves moments that reveal the depth of the Prophet’s ﷺ humanity and the strength of his trust in Allah . Among the most poignant of these is the period known as ʿĀm al-Ḥuzn — the Year of Sorrow, in which the Prophet ﷺ experienced the loss of two of the most significant pillars of support in his life: his beloved wife Khadījah and his uncle Abū Ṭālib.

Khadījah was the first person to embrace the Prophet’s ﷺ message, offering comfort and support as the first verses of the Qur’an were revealed and the weighty responsibility of prophethood began to take shape. 

Shortly thereafter, the Prophet ﷺ also suffered the loss of Abū Ṭālib, who had safeguarded the public dissemination of the message within Makkah. Upon his demise, animosity towards the Prophet escalated.

For believers, the Year of Sorrow symbolises more than a mere historical event. It strongly highlights the undeniable fact that even prophets, who stand as the pinnacle of creation, faced difficulties.

Khadījah : Strength at the Dawn of Revelation

At the dawn of revelation, when the first encounter with Jibrīl in the Cave of Ḥirā marked the beginning of prophethood, the Prophet ﷺ returned home deeply shaken by the magnitude of what had unfolded before him. At this juncture, Khadījah provided him with solace and encouragement. Her words are among the most profound affirmations chronicled in the Sira:

“Allah will never disgrace you. You maintain ties of kinship, you speak truth, you bear the burdens of the weak, you honour the guest, and you assist those afflicted by hardship.” [Bukhari]

Khadījah’s statements offer more than just comfort; they articulate a divine and spiritual truth by outlining key ethical behaviors in Islam, such as maintaining family ties, truthfulness, charity, hospitality, and supporting the vulnerable. Her response demonstrates an innate understanding that Allah does not abandon those whose lives are directed towards truth, devotion, and service to others. Her words continue to fortify the hearts of believers, serving as a reminder that a life founded on sincere intention and devout commitment is never forsaken by Allah .

Abū Ṭālib: Protection Amid Opposition

The Prophet ﷺ not only mourned the death of Khadījah but also suffered the loss of his uncle, Abū Ṭālib. Abū Ṭālib had nurtured him since childhood and was a staunch and unwavering guardian of his nephew. Due to his esteemed position as a leader of Banū Hāshim, Abū Ṭālib was instrumental in securing the Prophet’s safety in a social structure where tribal affiliation was the sole determinant of individual protection.  

Even though he did not embrace Islam, Abu Talib publicly and resolutely supported the Prophet ﷺ. He upheld this position despite the relentless pressure he endured from the Quraysh leaders because he recognised the Prophet’s ﷺ sincerity and moral integrity.

His death marked a significant change in the outward circumstances of the Prophetic mission. Although the divine message continued to be conveyed, the environment became increasingly difficult.  

With both his inner support and outer shield now gone, the Prophet ﷺ faced a much steeper path ahead.

Ṭā’if: A Day of Profound Difficulty

Given the escalating resistance to his message in Makkah, the Prophet ﷺ looked for a setting where his teachings might be met with openness. This prompted his journey to Ṭā’if. He was hopeful that its leaders would be receptive and would offer a platform for the Islamic message.

Sadly, the response he encountered in Ṭā’if was deeply distressing. He was met with rejection and harsh treatment. Even in this moment of profound difficulty, the Sira reveals something remarkable. The Angel of the Mountains appeared, offering to crush the inhabitants between the mountain ranges due to their defiance. However, the Prophet ﷺ did not display anger or seek vengeance. Instead, his response was marked by forgiveness and an enduring hope that future generations descended from them would dedicate their devotion solely to Allah .

In the aftermath of Ṭā’if, the Prophet ﷺ turned to Allah with words that reveal the depth of his reliance upon his Lord:

“O Allah, to You I complain of my weakness, my limited ability, and my insignificance in the sight of people.
O Most Merciful of those who show mercy, You are the Lord of the oppressed, and You are my Lord.
If You are not displeased with me, then I do not mind what I face, though Your protection is greater comfort for me.”

Sorrow does not distance the believer from Allah . Rather, it draws the heart closer to the One who knows the weights of its burdens. The Prophet’s ﷺ serves as a blueprint for spiritual resilience – prioritising Divine Pleasure over creation, recognising the difficulty of the moment, yet his concern remains firmly focused on Allah .

He does not measure success through the response of people:

If You are not displeased with me, then I do not mind what I face…

In this heartfelt supplication, the heart is directed towards the true measure of success. While human acceptance wavers, circumstances may shift, and outcomes may remain hidden, the believer finds stability in seeking the pleasure of Allah above all else.

In the wake of Ta’if’s hardships, this duʿā reveals a heart that is entirely anchored in Allah . It powerfully demonstrates the Prophet’s ﷺ boundless generosity of spirit, even at his most vulnerable state; he met cruelty with grace, proving that his nobility was shielded by a deep awareness of Divine Care. 

Despite fierce opposition, the core truth of the divine message remained untarnished. The Prophet’s ﷺ sincerity was unyielding, anchored by a steadfast resolve that no pressure could break. Throughout every trial, he found his ultimate strength and solace in Allah alone. 

Spiritual Insights from the Year of Sorrow 1. Faith: The Spiritual Anchor

The Sira shows that grief does not contradict spiritual strength. The Prophet ﷺ experienced deep loss, yet his trust in Allah remained an unwavering anchor amidst the waves of sorrow. Faith does not remove sorrow but calms and steadies the soul, orienting it towards Allah .

2. Sincerity: The Mark of Faith

Khadījah’s words show us that sincerity to Allah is reflected in good character. Upholding ties of kinship, speaking the truth, supporting those in need, and caring for the vulnerable are signs of a heart devoted to Allah . A life marked by generosity, integrity, and concern for others is never insignificant with Allah .

3. Allah Alone: The Eternal Source of Strength

The presence of Khadījah and the protection of Abū Ṭālib show that Allah places means through which His Servants are strengthened. Yet, the Sira is a powerful reminder that human support is limited, imperfect, and falters. Allah alone is Al-Ḥayy, the Ever-Living, and Al-Qayyūm, the One who sustains and upholds all things. Consequently, we learn that our ultimate trust should be placed in the One whose sustenance is never-ending.

4. Compassion – The Pinnacle of Resilience

The Prophet’s ﷺ response to the cruelty of Ṭā’if redefines strength. Years later, when ‘Aishah asked if any day had been more difficult than the battle of Uhud, he ﷺ identified Ṭā’if as one of the most painful days of his life. Yet it was in this moment of peak suffering that his character shone. This proves that a heart connected to Allah is clear and compassionate, even when broken. True resilience is not just the ability to survive hardship, but also being magnanimous in a harsh world; choosing mercy over vengeance, and guidance over grievance.

5. Divine Pleasure: The Sanctuary of the Soul

The heartfelt prayer at Ṭā’if reorients the heart towards the true measure of success: seeking the pleasure of Allah above all else. When the believer finds sanctuary in Allah’s Pleasure, even fluctuating circumstances, no matter how harsh, cannot shake the foundations of faith.

 

The Prophet’s ﷺ  legacy reminds us that while the world can be harsh and cruel, in those moments our response must be grounded in our faith: a God-centred life can be a source of light for the world. 

 

Related:

– On Prophetic Wisdom and Speaking to Children in Times of Distress

– Prophetic Lessons From The Muslim Men In Gaza

 

 

The post The Year Of Sorrow: Key Lessons On Spiritual Resilience From The Seerah appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A look at the Ottoman Empire’s rare and dramatic victory over the British at the 1916 siege of Kut, and what it reveals about colonial ambitions and Muslim resistance.

By Ibrahim Moiz for MuslimMatters

A Rare Ottoman Victory

The First World War was a seminal moment in modern Islamic history, setting off a chain of events that led to the collapse of the longstanding Ottoman Sultanate, which theoretically claimed leadership over the world’s Muslims as a caliphate, and the imposition of colonial rule in much of the Near East, with administrative structures and borders that have long outlasted the actual colonies.

The war also saw the encroachment of Western European, namely British and French, power in the region for the first time since the medieval era, with Britain in particular playing a major role in establishing a regional dominance unmatched by any non-Muslim power until the United States displaced and inherited its hegemony later in the twentieth century.

Yet at the outset of the war British success was far from certain, and stiff opposition, whether by Ottoman forces or local Muslim militants, continued for decades. This month marks eleven decades since a rare Ottoman victory against the British Empire, at the siege of Kut in central Iraq during the spring of 1916, which will be the subject of this article: the first of several examining key moments in the colonization of the Muslim world’s centre during these years.

Background and Build-Up

The Ottoman Empire just before World War I

British relations with the Ottomans had begun in the sixteenth century, and apart from a period of hostility in the early 1800s, where Britain backed the secession of Greece, had been more or less cordial for most of the nineteenth century.

Over this period Britain came to rule probably the single largest amalgamation of Muslim populations in the world, including such far-flung regions as Egypt and India, which became the regional bases for British policy toward the Middle East. Generally Britain maintained a legal fiction of simply “protecting” its vassals, such as various nobles in India and sheikhs in Arabia, as well as former enemies such as the former caliphal aristocracy of Sokoto and the religious orders of Sudan, which Britain had defeated at the turn of the twentieth century.

In practice, however, it held the whip hand. This was demonstrated in late 1914, shortly after the outbreak of the World War; when Cairo’s nominally independent government supported the Ottomans, its British “protectors” simply replaced it.

The British elite’s stance towards Muslims was mixed; parts of the imperial elite were outright hostile, while others, particularly the so-called “Arabists”, were fascinated, and a handful even embraced Islam. Circles within this elite had tended to favor Ottomans as a check against the powerful Russian Empire; others, particularly liberals, caricatured the “Turks” as oriental tyrants and, for either racial or religious reasons, sympathized with the Russian policy of trying to foment Christian minorities against the Ottomans.

It was not until the early twentieth century that Britain put this policy into practice.

Epitomized by Horatio Kitchener—the ruthless defense minister legendary throughout the British Empire for his exploits in Sudan, South Africa, and the Indo-Afghan borderland—the British elite had long feared that the Ottoman sultanate might incite an international jihad by the Muslims under or around their rule. When the Ottomans joined the World War and did just this, they found takers aplenty.

Muslim discontent in India, overlapping with calls for independence, was high, and many Muslim soldiers deserted the British army. Cairo had to be subdued from joining the Ottomans; the governments of Iran (then Persia) and Afghanistan formally declared neutrality despite severe pressure, and the Afghan regime at least hosted a largely Muslim “Free Indian” government in exile and intermittently supported Pashtun raids on the Indian frontier.

In Africa the Darfur sultanate, the Sanousi order in Libya, and the Dervish emirate in Somalia also lent support to the Ottomans. These were too scattered to change the war’s eventual outcome, but they did create a major headache for the British empire.

Under the rule of the energetic but heavy-handed “Young Turk” junta, the Ottomans in their core territories had managed to antagonize considerable proportions of their ethnic and religious minorities over the 1910s. Yet among at least its Muslim subjects support for the Ottoman cause remained extraordinarily high: only a small minority of Arabs and Kurds defected, many thousands instead fighting and dying under Ottoman colors in such arenas as Libya, eastern Anatolia, and the Dardanelles.

Messing with Mesopotamia

The strategically located and diversely ethnosectarian land of Iraq was one strategic arena: Britain had long suspected it to hold rich oil wealth, and it lay between three oil-rich regions—west of Persia, south of the Caucasus, and east of the Ottoman heartland on the Persian Gulf.

Britain would soon develop an obsession that Mosul was a hotbed of oil, but it was protecting their oil interests in Persia that were the first focus of their campaign. Britain had an arrangement with an Arab chieftain in the Ahwaz region of southern Persia, Khazal Jabir, to protect their pipeline and wanted to prevent its interception by the Ottomans.

For their part, despite a history of dissent in Iraq the Ottomans were able to rally widespread support; their commander in Iraq Hasan Cavit was even able to rally Shia clansmen and gain the support of the Shia cleric Kazim Tabatabai, who had a generally accommodationist attitude toward authority and would lose his own son in the war.

Ottoman soldiers

A British expedition, led by Arthur Barrett, landed in the Basran delta in autumn 1914 and after hard fighting managed to push back Cavit’s lieutenant there, Suphi Bey. Thousands of Arab clansmen, led by sheikhs Ajaimi Saadoun and Umran Saadoun, assembled a riverine fleet to sail to the coast to fight.

Meanwhile the Lami clan led by Ghadban Bunayya, a rival of Khazal, sabotaged the British pipeline at Ahwaz and ambushed the British reinforcements that arrived in response. In turn the British army, led by George Gorringe, ravaged the marshlands of southeast Iraq, his heavy bombardment killing hundreds in an attempt to dissuade Arab clansmen from joining the Ottomans.

By this point Britain was in some consternation after its early hopes of conquering Istanbul by sea had been shattered at the Battle of Gallipoli. Their new commander Eccles Nixon now set his sights on conquering Iraq.

In April 1915 he was encouraged with a major success at Shuaiba. The Ottoman army, usually based in Baghdad, was already overstretched, and relied heavily on the volunteering Arab clansmen under Muntafiqi chieftains Saadouns Abdullah and Ajaimi. Despite their courage, they were routed and their field commander Suleiman Askeri committed suicide.

The new Ottoman commander Mehmet Nurettin—known as “Bearded Nurettin” as the only Ottoman general to sport a beard—would earn a reputation as a ruthless, even fanatical, soldier; but, contrary to racialized British ideas of “oriental” incompetence that should have been put to bed at Gallipoli, he could fight.

The Ottomans had often relied on their German allies to provide military advice, if not outright command, as at Gallipoli, and much European opinion assumed that in the absence of German officers the “Turks” made good soldiers but poor commanders. Their overconfidence soared when by the summer the British army took the cities of Nasiria and Kut: Charles Townshend, commanding the British vanguard, dreamt of becoming “governor of Mesopotamia”.

Kut Cut Down to Size

Something of a vainglorious maverick, known for playing ribald songs on a banjo and bursting into bouts of spontaneous French, Townshend was already famous as “Chitral Charlie” in Britain for having led a besieged garrison in the highlands of the Indian frontier, now in northern Pakistan, against an Afghan siege twenty years earlier.

Nixon now ordered him to march all the way up to Baghdad. Though he romanticized about the fabled city, Townshend realized that his army might be overstretched. He preferred to stay at Kut, the Tigris town upriver of Baghdad. But despite his objections he was ordered forward.

By then, the British army had telegraphed its intention long enough for Nurettin to make thorough preparations.

The armies met in November 1915 at the site of the former Sassanid capital Ctesiphon, once the world’s largest city known as “Madain”, or metropolis, by the early Muslims, but now a backwater of Baghdad. It was an appropriate stage for a climactic battle, where the advantage tilted one way and another and nerves frayed.

Rendering of the Ctesiphon arch as it would have appeared in 1916.

At various stages both Townshend and Nurettin contemplated retreat as thousands were killed. However, it was the British army that buckled first, and Townshend fought his way out back to Kut with Nurettin in hot pursuit.

The British garrison in Kut was surrounded and a long siege set in over the winter as British supplies dwindled.

It was a rare moment of Ottoman advantage over Britain, and the Ottoman defense minister Ismail Enver, who had planned the Ottoman coalition against Britain’s Entente the previous year, arrived to soak in the moment.

Enver had spent much of the previous year in a bitter, bloody, and costly war to the north against Russia, whose main “achievement” had been the destruction of the Armenian community in response to a Russian-backed Armenian insurgency. He now replaced Nurettin with veterans of that campaign: firstly his uncle Halil, and secondly an experienced Prussian general recalled from retirement by Germany to help the Ottomans, Colmar Goltz.

If Nurettin had a reputation as a hard man, Halil was positively remorseless in the massacres against the Armenians. But he was tenacious; he had ridden on horseback to Iraq ignoring a serious, untreated injury, and his commitment to the cause was undoubted.

Goltz, for his part, had been advising the Ottoman military for decades, and though he had threatened to resign in order to stop the anti-Armenian slaughter, he was also committed to the Ottoman military, whom he saw as the engine to recover Turkish prestige.

Halil and Goltz took over just as the British army was preparing to counterattack in the new year. In early 1916 the British commanders, Fenton Aylmer and Gorringe, made three enormous attacks on Ottoman lines east of Kut; each one was repelled with thousands of soldiers slain.

Morale in the British army, both inside and outside Kut, sank; the Ottomans helpfully incited Muslim soldiery to defect from the British ranks to join their fellow Muslims; and Townshend, rotting inside Kut, blamed Nixon for ever having sent him toward Baghdad.

Indeed Nixon, whose nerves were shot to pieces, resigned, but his replacement Percy Lake had no more luck in relieving Kut.

Surrender and Aftermath

Even the death of their German taskmaster Goltz, who had spent much of his seventy-odd years with the Turks, did not dampen Ottoman spirits; it was an upbeat Halil and a glum Townshend who met on the Tigris river to arrange the terms of surrender in April 1916.

In the tradition of Ottoman soldiery, Halil was a sporting enemy—he congratulated Townshend on his heroic defense—but quite determined not to let his prey go. Townshend suggested a large financial sum in return for letting the garrison evacuate Iraq, but Halil cheerfully refused what he regarded as a bribe.

Similarly his nephew Enver, still relishing his checkmate of the infamous Kitchener, dismissed the British defense minister’s offer of payment in return for evacuation. When news of these offers spread, it embarrassed Britain greatly; Arnold Wilson, then a soldier and later to hold high office, bitterly complained about “our incredibly stupid attempt to secure by British gold what British military virtue was unable to compass.”

Kitchener would be killed two months later, in the summer of 1916, just before the bloodiest battles of the World War’s Western front. He left a long shadow that loomed not least over the Muslim world and Britain’s conquests therein, among his last experiences the humiliation against a Muslim army at Kut.

Halil would thereafter adopt the town’s name, Kut, as his personal surname. Its British garrison was captured and marched off to Anatolia, many soldiers dying on the route; however, Townshend was given a comfortable imprisonment at Istanbul and, much impressed with his captors’ gentlemanly treatment, would become a firm advocate for an arrangement with the Turks.

That came after Britain, “Kut” down to size by its experience in Iraq, resorted to subterfuge to undermine their Ottoman opponents, an episode that will be the next article in this series in sha Allah.

Related:

Part I | The Decline of the Ottoman Empire

Nationalism And Its Kurdish Discontents [Part I of II]: Kurds In An Ottoman Dusk

The post Kut and Thrust: The Ottoman Victory That Humiliated The British Empire In 1916 appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Jon Elmer reports on Hizballah’s innovative tactics in targeting Israeli military infrastructure.

John Ashby, who subjected woman to prolonged assault in her home, a ‘deeply unpleasant racist’, says judge

A white man “filled with hatred” has been jailed for life after racially abusing a Sikh woman as he raped her.

John Ashby, 32, followed the woman home after spotting her on a bus in Walsall, West Midlands, in October last year, and subjected her to a 24-minute ordeal after breaking in armed with a metre-long stick.

Continue reading...

Amid rising antisemitism and anti-muslim bigotry, community and faith leaders are stressing the need for unity

Maurice Ostro, founder patron of the Faiths Forum for London, has been engaged in interfaith work for decades. For much of that time, he said, he was teased by good-natured people who insisted there was little need for it in the UK.

“People used to laugh at me for doing this work,” he said, but now, amid record-breaking incidents of antisemitism and anti-muslim hatred, the jokes have stopped.

Continue reading...

Defendants in the Filton case have been prevented from arguing that their actions amounted to reasonable force to prevent war crimes.

Kallas serves a cocktail of dishonesty and farce.

Sara Larijani and Taha Zeinalih from We Defend Iran on the Iranian people’s commitment to retaining control of the Strait of Hormuz. Jon Elmer on fierce resistance in Lebanon and more.

Muslim Council of Britain under Wajid Akhter wants to replicate Zohran Mamdani’s grassroots voting drive

Zohran Mamdani’s victory to become New York’s first Muslim mayor took place thousands of miles from the UK. But at the Muslim Council of Britain (MCB), the campaign was being closely studied.

“We actually spent some time with his campaign team to work out what the secret sauce was,” said Dr Wajid Akhter, who took over as secretary general of Britain’s largest and most diverse national Muslim umbrella body last year.

Continue reading...

Sovereign wealth fund must formulate clear human rights standards, high court rules.

Shaykh Abdullah Mullanee and Zainab bint Younus muse over the nostalgia of the Golden Age of Islam, and question the tendency to romanticize the past without living up to its spirit. This episode pushes us to stop resting on our historic laurels and to examine how we can take the lessons of the past to rebuild the Ummah today: with creativity, curiosity, and exciting new contributions. So can the Golden Age of Islam actually save us, or is it just another legend that we tell without doing anything about the state of our Ummah today?

Related:

The Unsung Heroines Of Islamic History

Stats not Stories: Problems with our Islamic History

The post [Podcast] Can the Golden Age of Islam Save Us? | Sh Abdullah Mullanee appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Time Hoppers: The Silk Road is a time-travel adventure whose child heroes must save the legacy of Islamic scholars who shaped modern science. Its makers reveal their inspiration, and reflect on their success

‘Some people said it doesn’t exist – that it’s a fantasy.” So says Flordeliza Dayrit of the silk road, the vast network of trade routes that once connected Asia, Africa and Europe – and the starting location for Time Hoppers: The Silk Road, the animated feature she co-created with her husband, Michael Milo.

Speaking from their home in Edmonton, Canada, the couple describe a project that started with personal intrigue and grew into something far more ambitious. With its theatrical release in UK cinemas, Time Hoppers turns this sense of curiosity into a fast-moving children’s adventure: a story in which four young protagonists travel back in time to the medieval Islamic world, meeting the scientists and scholars whose discoveries shape our current everyday lives.

Continue reading...

Why won't the press probe if a Leonardo representative has lobbied his former Ministry of Defence colleagues?

On 29 February 2024, the Israeli military killed over 100 Palestinians seeking aid and injured more than 750 near Gaza’s al-Nabulsi roundabout.

Exclusive: Home secretary understood to have withdrawn authorisation for speaker at Unite the Kingdom rally in May

A US-based anti-Islam influencer who had been authorised to attend a far-right rally in London has been blocked from entering the UK by the home secretary.

Valentina Gomez, a self-styled Maga influencer, was given permission last week to enter via a UK electronic travel authorisation (ETA).

Continue reading...

Israelis subjecting Gaza to systematic, escalating process of engineered starvation.

How the Four Great Imams Might Model Unity, Humility, and Principled Disagreement Today

“And hold firmly to the rope of Allah all together and do not become divided.” Qur’an 3:103

Introduction

The Muslim community has never been entirely free of disagreement, nor should disagreement itself be treated as a sign of failure. Difference in interpretation, legal reasoning, and scholarly judgment has long existed within the Islamic tradition. At its best, that diversity reflected the richness of a civilization rooted in revelation, disciplined by scholarship, and guided by a sincere search for truth. Yet in our own time, disagreement often feels less like a mercy and more like a fracture. What was once carried with adab is now too often expressed through suspicion, polemics, and the urge to delegitimize those who differ.

In such a climate, it is worth pausing to imagine a different model. What if the four great Imams of Sunni jurisprudence, Abu Hanifah, Malik ibn Anas, Muhammad ibn Idris al-Shafi‘i, and Ahmad ibn Hanbal, were seated together at the same table today? What would their conversation reveal about knowledge, humility, disagreement, and responsibility in a divided age? More importantly, what might their example teach a community that is struggling not simply with difference, but with the loss of the ethical discipline required to navigate it?

To imagine such a gathering is not to romanticize the past or pretend that these towering scholars agreed on every matter. They did not. Their differences were real, substantive, and at times significant. Yet those differences unfolded within a shared moral and intellectual universe, one anchored in reverence for the Qur’an, fidelity to the Sunnah of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, and deep awareness of the responsibility of speaking about the religion of Allah. They disagreed without abandoning humility, and they defended principle without surrendering respect. Their legacy reminds us that the true measure of scholarship is not only what one knows, but how one carries that knowledge before Allah and before others.

A Gathering Rooted in Humility

The first quality that would likely become evident in such a gathering is humility. Each of these scholars understood the weight of speaking about the religion of Allah, and none of them claimed absolute infallibility. Abu Hanifah held his conclusions with seriousness, yet without arrogance, recognizing that legal reasoning is an effort to approach the truth, not to possess it completely.

Imam Malik famously taught that every statement may be accepted or rejected except that of the Messenger of Allah ﷺ. Imam al-Shafi‘i revised a number of his own legal views during his lifetime, demonstrating that intellectual maturity includes the willingness to refine one’s understanding. Ahmad ibn Hanbal preserved and transmitted narrations even when they challenged his own inclinations, placing fidelity to the Sunnah above personal preference.

If these four Imams were gathered today, their humility would shape the tone of the room from the beginning. The purpose would not be to defeat one another, nor to defend positions for the sake of pride, but to strive collectively toward what is most faithful to revelation and most beneficial for the Ummah. Their example reminds us that sincere scholarship requires openness to correction and fear of Allah in every word that is spoken.

Anchored in the Teachings of the Prophet ﷺ

Despite their methodological differences, the four Imams shared an unshakable foundation. Their scholarship was rooted in the Qur’an and the Sunnah of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. These were not merely sources among others. They were the compass that guided every discussion, every disagreement, and every legal conclusion.

Abu Hanifah, often associated with the use of reasoning and analogy, never placed personal opinion above authentic Prophetic guidance. He understood reason as a tool to apply revelation faithfully, especially when new situations required careful judgment. Imam Malik built much of his legal method upon the inherited practice of the people of Madinah, believing that the living tradition of the city of the Prophet ﷺ preserved the Sunnah in action. His work Al-Muwatta became one of the earliest systematic efforts to gather hadith and legal rulings rooted in the Prophetic tradition.

Imam al-Shafi‘i clarified the authority of the Sunnah within Islamic law and established a structured methodology that balanced the Qur’an, the Sunnah, consensus, and analogy. Ahmad ibn Hanbal devoted his life to preserving the words and actions of the Prophet ﷺ, compiling vast collections of hadith and refusing to compromise the authority of revelation even under political pressure. Though their methods differed, their devotion to the guidance of the Prophet ﷺ united them more strongly than any disagreement could divide them.

Listening Before Speaking

A defining feature of classical Islamic scholarship was the discipline of listening. These scholars were not formed in isolation. They studied with one another, learned through chains of transmission, and inherited traditions of respectful engagement. Imam al-Shafi‘i studied with Imam Malik. Ahmad ibn Hanbal studied with Imam al-Shafi‘i. Their relationships were built upon learning, not rivalry.

If they were seated together today, they would begin not with accusation, but with careful listening. Abu Hanifah might explain the role of analogy in addressing new circumstances. Imam Malik might emphasize the importance of preserving the living tradition of the community. Imam al-Shafi‘i would clarify the principles that govern sound legal reasoning. Ahmad ibn Hanbal would insist that speculation must remain anchored to authentic narrations. Each would listen before speaking, knowing that justice in scholarship requires understanding before judgment.

Advising with Wisdom and Respect

Their disagreements would be real, but they would not be stripped of adab. Islamic intellectual history shows that strong debate can exist alongside deep respect. The Imams differed on many issues, yet they spoke of one another with honor. Advice would be given with sincerity, not hostility. Correction would be offered as a means of preserving the truth, not defeating an opponent. In an age when disagreement is often driven by ego, their example teaches that sincere counsel can itself be an act of mercy.

Scholarship Lived Through Moral Courage

These Imams were not only scholars of law. They were people of moral courage. Abu Hanifah refused positions offered by rulers when he feared that authority might compromise justice. Imam Malik endured punishment for speaking truthfully. Ahmad ibn Hanbal remained steadfast under pressure rather than surrender what he believed to be the truth. Their lives remind us that scholarship carries responsibility, and that knowledge without integrity becomes a source of harm.

If they were to address the Muslim community today, their guidance would likely extend beyond individual legal questions. They would call for scholars to work together across schools of thought. They would encourage consultation and disciplined dialogue. They would remind students that disagreement has always existed within the tradition, but that it must be carried with humility and restraint. They would emphasize that the health of the Ummah depends not only on correct rulings, but on correct character.

Civil Debate as an Act of Worship

For the four Imams, debate was never entertainment or a contest for dominance. It was part of fulfilling the trust of knowledge before Allah. Disagreement was approached with seriousness, patience, and awareness that every word spoken about religion carries accountability. When governed by sincerity and taqwa, disagreement could become a source of mercy. When governed by pride, it became a source of division.

A Model for Today’s Muslim Community

The real lesson of imagining this gathering is not to ask what rulings the Imams would give today, but to ask how they would conduct themselves. They would listen deeply. They would advise sincerely. They would disagree honestly. They would preserve conviction without arrogance. They would hold firmly to the truth while maintaining respect for those who sought it sincerely.

The schools of law they established were never meant to divide the Ummah into factions. They provided structured ways for Muslims across different lands and generations to live according to the guidance of the Qur’an and the Sunnah. Their diversity was not a weakness of the tradition, but a sign of its depth and flexibility.

Conclusion

If the four great Imams were sitting together today, they would remind us that the real crisis is not that Muslims disagree. The real crisis is that we have forgotten how to disagree. We have mistaken loudness for strength, suspicion for piety, and factional loyalty for faithfulness to the truth.

Their legacy teaches that unity does not require uniformity. It requires humility, discipline, and fear of Allah. It requires scholars who speak with integrity and communities that value adab as much as argument. The future strength of the Ummah will not come from winning debates, but from producing people of character, scholars of sincerity, and communities that hold firmly to the rope of Allah without allowing difference to break their bonds.

In an age of division, the example of Abu Hanifah, Malik, al-Shafi‘i, and Ahmad ibn Hanbal calls us back to a more excellent path, one in which knowledge is joined to humility, conviction is joined to mercy, and disagreement is carried with dignity before Allah.

Related:

The Rise of the Scholarly Gig Economy and Fall of Community Development

Common Mistakes When Dealing With Crisis in the Ummah

The post If The Four Great Imams Sat At The Same Table Today appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.