Introduction: Faith Meets Technology

Have you ever found yourself late at night with a question about your faith, scrolling through search results and forum posts, wondering which sources you can actually trust? It’s a modern dilemma in the timeless quest for knowledge.

However, in an age saturated with information, authenticity has become the scarcest commodity. This challenge is particularly acute for Muslims when seeking guidance on matters of belief, practice, and spirituality.

We live in an era where artificial intelligence is reshaping nearly every aspect of human life, from how we work and learn to how we seek meaning. The question isn’t if technology will touch our faith, it’s how. This article explores the intersection of Islamic Ethics and Artificial Intelligence (AI), the current state of innovation in the Muslim world, and finally examines Ansari Chat as a case study in how these ethical principles can be translated into code.

Navigating AI Through the Lens of Islamic Ethics

AI is growing fast, promising incredible benefits but also raising complex ethical questions. For Muslims, this necessitates a careful evaluation of how AI aligns with faith and values.

Islamic scholars and institutions, including the International Islamic Fiqh Academy (IIFA), Al-Azhar’s Islamic Research Academy, and the Muslim World League, are already actively debating these issues. In the West, the Assembly of Muslim Jurists of America (AMJA) has centered its 2026 Imam’s Conference around this very topic. These institutions draw on centuries of Islamic legal reasoning to ensure AI serves the common good (maslaha) while protecting the higher goals of Islamic law (maqasid al-shari‘ah).

To be clear, the goal is not to reject AI, but to provide frameworks that ensure the technology reflects the values of justice, compassion, and accountability. The real challenge is not whether Muslims should use AI, but how to use it responsibly while avoiding harm (darar).

The Current State of Islamic AI Innovation

Before diving into specific ethical frameworks, it is important to recognize that the “Islamic AI” sector is already bustling with innovation. The landscape is rapidly expanding beyond simple chatbots. We are seeing:

• Quranic Verification: Apps like Tarteel are using voice recognition AI to correct recitation in real-time, aiding in memorization (hifz).
• Islamic FinTech: AI-driven robo-advisors are being trained to screen stocks for Shari’ah compliance, automating complex financial rulings.
• Personalized Learning: Education platforms are utilizing large language models (LLMs) to tailor Islamic curricula to the specific level and school of thought (madhab) of the student.

However, this rapid innovation is not without risk. Without ethical guardrails, these tools can inadvertently amplify bias, commodify sacred knowledge, or present hallucinated information as religious fact. This is why a robust ethical framework is not just theoretical—it is an urgent necessity for developers.

Core Islamic Principles for AI

Islamic ethics is not a fixed rulebook; it is a living system that guides moral choices. When applied to the development and use of AI, four key principles stand out:

“The real challenge is not whether Muslims should use AI, but how to use it responsibly while avoiding harm (darar)” [PC: Masjid Pogung Dalangan (unsplash)]

1. Protecting the Higher Goals of Shari‘ah (Maqasid al-Shari‘ah): These include protecting faith (din), life (nafs), intellect (aql), family (nasl), and property (mal). Every AI system should be judged on its impact here. For example, generative AI that produces deepfakes threatens the intellect and social cohesion, whereas AI used in medical diagnosis actively protects life.
2. Justice (‘Adl) and Fairness (Qist): Islam mandates fairness. Training data often reflects historical social inequalities. If an AI used in hiring or credit scoring is trained on biased data, it perpetuates injustice. Technologists have a duty—each according to their capacity—to audit systems and remove these biases.
3. Trustworthiness (Amanah) and Responsibility (Mas‘uliyyah): Humans are entrusted (khalifah) with stewardship of the earth, including technology. Developers must build AI that is safe and transparent. Crucially, responsibility cannot be outsourced to a machine; humans remain accountable for the AI’s effects. This also extends to environmental stewardship, considering the massive energy resources required to power data centers.
4. Striving for Excellence (Ihsan): Ihsan means doing the best one can, as if in God’s presence. In software development, this means going beyond bare functionality to create technology that is beautiful, efficient, and truly beneficial, rather than predatory or addictive.

AI and Religious Rulings (Fatwas)

A critical distinction must be made regarding religious authority. While AI can search the Qur’an and Hadith faster than any human, the IIFA and Al-Azhar agree: AI cannot replace a human jurist (faqih).

Key reasons AI cannot replace human jurists include:

• Understanding the Spirit of the Law (Fiqh): Legal rulings require nuance and moral insight, not just pattern recognition.
• Understanding Real-Life Context (Waqi‘): A ruling must fit the specific situation, culture, and needs of the person asking. 
• Spiritual Insight (Taqwa and Basirah): Fatwas come from a life of faith, study, and devotion. AI has no soul or spiritual consciousness.

AI excels at pattern recognition, but it lacks the soul and consciousness required for moral adjudication. It is a powerful research assistant, not a scholar.

A Simple Ethical Framework for Users

For the everyday Muslim engaging with these tools, the following guide ensures responsible usage:

• Verify and Validate: Treat AI output as a starting point. Always cross-reference with the Qur’an, authenticated Hadith, and qualified scholars.
• Clarify Intention (Niyyah): Use AI for learning and solving problems, never for deception, finding “loopholes,” or generating deepfakes.
• Recognize Limits: AI is a tool, not an authority. It is fallible.
• Promote Good: Use AI to spread beneficial knowledge, while avoiding the spread of unverified information.

Perhaps one simple way to reflect on the use of AI is on the collective good (ummatic welfare). We should ask not only, “What can AI do for me?” but also, “What can AI do for the whole Muslim community?” In his article on Ummatic Soft Power, Ashraf Motiwala emphasizes how the use of AI will influence the future of the ummah: “Ummatic soft power must therefore operate on three fronts: (1) developing substantive Islamic perspectives on AI ethics; (2) influencing global discourse such that these perspectives are seen as viable and attractive; and (3) implementing them in actual technologies, through ummatic research labs, ethical standards, and applied AI platforms.” The consequence of this is that AI should be seen as a means of helping Muslims with the issue of revival, unity, and good governance.

By applying these principles, Muslims can ensure technology becomes a tool for ummatic welfare—helping with revival, unity, and good governance—rather than a source of confusion.

Operationalizing Ethics: The Case of Ansari Chat

How do these high-minded principles look when translated into actual code? One prominent attempt to answer this is Ansari Chat. Led by Dr. M. Waleed Kadous, Ansari serves as a useful case study in how to bridge the gap between Islamic scholarship and Silicon Valley engineering.

The project began in 2023 with a “proactive” philosophy. Rather than waiting for big tech companies to build Islamic tools as an afterthought, the Ansari team asked: What if the community shaped the technology to serve its unique values from the very beginning?

Transparency as Trust (Amanah)

The first ethical decision the project made was regarding trustworthiness (Amanah). In a landscape dominated by proprietary “black box” algorithms, where the decisions made by the developers are hidden, the Ansari team committed to being open source. 

This was a strategic ethical choice. For a tool dealing with sacred knowledge, the community needs to know how the answers are derived. Open source acts as a “public recipe,” allowing scholars and developers to inspect the code, verify the sources, and ensure there are no hidden agendas. This transparency builds a relationship of trust that proprietary models cannot easily match.

The Technical Fight Against Hallucination

“The community response suggests a hunger for tools that respect religious context.” [PC: Zulfugar Karimov (unsplash)]

Applying the principle of accuracy and verification, the evolution of Ansari highlights the technical challenges of “Islamic AI.” Early versions, like many LLMs, were prone to “hallucinations”—sounding confident while being factually incorrect.

To address this, the team shifted from a simple chatbot model to a Retrieval-Augmented Generation (RAG) system. In simple terms, this gives the AI an “open-book test.” Instead of inventing an answer, the AI must first look up relevant facts from a trusted database—including the Qur’an, Hadith collections, and extensive Fiqh encyclopedias—before formulating a response.

This shift drastically reduced inaccuracies. Furthermore, later iterations introduced citations, ensuring that answers include verse numbers and links to original texts. This feature supports the user’s duty to verify and validate, empowering them to check the primary sources rather than blindly trusting the machine.

Impact and Utilization

The community response suggests a hunger for tools that respect religious context. By mid-2025, data showed that users were not just asking for trivia; they were asking about Fiqh (Islamic law) and Deen/Dunya balance. The tool has been accessed in over 20 languages, highlighting the global demand for accessible knowledge.

However, the project explicitly respects the boundaries of authority. It is designed to provide information and context, but stops short of replacing the scholar in complex, personalized rulings, aligning with the consensus of the IIFA and Al-Azhar mentioned earlier.

Conclusion: An Ecosystem of Ethical Innovation

Ansari Chat, as an example, acts as a proof of concept for a broader vision: an ecosystem of Islamic AI. Whether through integrating with educational curricula, supporting local adaptations like Tanyalah Ustaz in Malaysia, or developing tools for academic research, the goal is to plant a “forest” of innovation.

The story of Ansari demonstrates that technology does not have to distance Muslims from tradition. When built with Ihsan (excellence) and Amanah (trust), AI can function as a bridge, making sacred knowledge more accessible and verifiable. It offers a blueprint for the future: a generation of Muslims who are not just consumers of technology, but architects of it, ensuring the digital age is navigated with faith, responsibility, and moral clarity.

 

Related:

– AI And The Dajjal Consciousness: Why We Need To Value Authentic Islamic Knowledge In An Age Of Convincing Deception

– The Promise of SAIF: Towards a Radical Islamic Futurism

The post Faith And Algorithms: From An Ethical Framework For Islamic AI To Practical Application appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The provincial government of Quebec, led by Premier Francois Legault’s Coalition Avenier Quebec (CAQ), has proposed sweeping new measures that would severely restrict the ability for Muslims to practice their faith in the province.

Bill 9, titled An Act for the reinforcement of laïcité in Quebec, lays out several new measures that aim to prohibit religious practice in the public sphere. While the Act doesn’t single out Islam explicitly, Muslim religious practices are the prime target of this new proposed law.

Among the proposed restrictions in the new law are the banning of public day care workers and even private school workers from wearing religious garments such as the hijab. The secularism law from 2019 had already banned public employees such as teachers, judges and police officers from wearing religious symbols. This law further advances those restrictions. Public institutions would be restricted from offering halal meals exclusively and would be required to offer non-halal options on the menu as well.

Public congregational prayer will also be banned for the first time in Quebec’s history under this new law. Individual prayer or a religious gathering with a permit in a public space would still be allowed. However, permits are said to be handed out on a case-by-case basis if they respect Quebec charter rights, such as the equality of men and women. Depending on how compliance with Quebec’s charter is interpreted, Muslim groups would likely face obstacles in receiving such a permit, considering the separate prayer for men and women in the Islamic tradition. Fines for individuals could go up to $375 and up to $1,125 for groups.

There has been uproar over public prayer in Quebec ever since it became a regular sight in the streets of Montreal over the last two years. These prayers have been happening in the context of weekly pro-Palestine rallies to protest the genocide in Gaza. The rallies usually end with a public prayer for Gaza and garnered headlines when pro-Palestine marchers prayed in front of the Notre-Dame Basilica. There was also backlash when a Muslim group held Eid prayers in a public park last year.

The situation has led the Secularism Minister Jean-François Roberge to declare that the “proliferation of street prayer is a serious and sensitive issue”. Furthermore, Premier Legault stated that “Seeing people praying in the streets, in public parks, is not something we want in Quebec,” and added that he wanted to send a “very clear message to Islamists.”

The most extreme measure proposed by Bill 9, however, is the plan to ban prayer rooms on university and college campuses. In defending his proposal, Minister Roberge explained that “Universities are not temple or church,” and argued that Quebec had “gone too far” in accommodating religious practices.

Prayer rooms on campuses are the centre of religious life for Muslim students across the province. They serve not only as a safe space for daily prayers but also as a hub for social programs like chaplaincy services, mental health counselling, and religious education. New students, especially those from abroad, use the prayer room to congregate and build social bonds that help them navigate the complexities of practicing faith in a secular environment.

Pragmatically, the prayer room also ensures that Muslims students, who are required religiously to pray five times a day, are not forced to pray out in the open. Samy Khelifi, president of Concordia’s Muslim Student Association, which hosts the biggest prayer facility on a Quebec campus, warned of students being pushed to pray in hallways: “People won’t stop praying because there’s not a prayer space. What happens to those 5,000 people if they all go pray out on random corners?”

Bill 9 will be subject to parliamentary commission hearings over the coming months; the government hopes to have it passed by next Spring. The provisions outlined in it are the latest in a long series of attacks, led by the CAQ, on the religious rights and liberties of Muslims in Quebec. Disguised in the name of secularism and presented with nationalistic overtones, the legislation is nothing more than an attempt to score political points by capitalizing on xenophobic sentiments in CAQ’s voter base for the upcoming elections.

 

Related:

– Poem and Reflection on Banning Prayer in Public Places | Ammar AlShukry

– The Duplicity of American Muslim Influencers And The ‘So-called Muslim Ban’

 

The post Quebec Introduces Bill To Ban Prayer Rooms On College Campuses appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Alone on the farm, Darius must survive hunger, violence, and the quiet ache of abandonment as he clings to hope that his father still lives.

Read Part 1

* * *

The Mayor’s Account

The Mayor lived in a narrow wooden house behind the tax office. Its roof tiles were mottled with moss, and two faded lanterns hung by the door. I knocked and waited. Through the thin walls I heard the clack of an abacus, then footsteps.

He opened the door wearing a simple hemp robe, belted high on his waist. His eyes flicked to the dao on my back, then to the calluses on my hands, then to my face. Something in his expression softened. Perhaps he saw how I had grown.

“Darius Lee,” he said, according me an unusual degree of respect. “Have you harvested already?”

“Yes,” I replied. “And I have come for my father’s salary.”

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat. A man with nothing to hide does not hesitate.

“Salary?” he repeated. “Boy… Darius… the army sends what it can. There are many delays. Your father may have-” He lifted his hand vaguely. “You understand. He might have fallen. Or the messengers may have been robbed. Highway bandits prey on couriers these days. You must consider -”

“I have considered,” I said.

He fell silent. Behind him, in the dim interior, I saw a low table with a tea set arranged neatly on a lacquer tray. Steam curled gently from the spout. The smell of roasted barley drifted through the doorway.

“What I mean,” he continued more firmly, “is that many soldiers’ families never see a coin. There are piles of unclaimed payments at the garrisons. Dead men whose names no one remembers. I am sorry, but it is likely your father is dead.”

I was only a boy. Another child might have been frightened by this commentary, or intimidated into submission. But my father had been a proud man, unafraid of anyone. He had always spoken his mind, could never be bullied, and would never, ever walk away from what was rightfully his, even as he stole from others what was rightfully theirs.

I had learned from my father what it meant to be a man. So I nodded and said, “Of course, if he were dead, I would not expect anything, Mayor. But you know what my father is like. If he is alive, and someone has withheld his pay…” I lifted my gaze to meet his. “He would come for it. And whoever kept it from him would not fare well.”

The Mayor swallowed. His hand twitched once, then settled on the doorframe.

“Well,” he said with a thin smile, “now that you mention it… I do recall something. A delivery arrived last month. A single gold coin, marked for your household. I must have… misplaced the record.”

He stepped away from the doorway with unconvincing haste. I heard drawers sliding open, the rustle of papers, a quiet curse under his breath. Then he returned, holding a coin between two fingers as though it burned him.

“Here.” He dropped it into my palm. “This belongs to you.”

The coin was cool and heavy. I closed my hand around it.

“Thank you, Mayor.”

He gave a stiff nod. “If any further payments arrive, I will notify you at once. Immediately. You have my word.”
I inclined my head politely, though I did not believe him.

As I stepped out into the street, the sunlight glinted off the coin in my fist. I slipped it into the hidden pouch sewn inside my tunic and walked away without looking back.

Down the street, I paused to observe the people entering the temple of the statue. I went to the door and watched. I was fascinated by them. They left food or coins in front of the statue, then sat before it cross-legged, chanting. Their chants were mesmerizing. Part of me wanted to join them. I had money, I could leave a few coins for the statue. I would be part of something bigger than myself.

Just inside the temple gates stood a small stone-lined pool, its surface broken only by the slow glide of bright orange carp beneath broad lotus leaves. Now and then, a ripple spread across the water as one of the fish snapped at a drifting petal, while the lanterns hanging above reflected in wavering, fractured lines. A few children lingered at the edge, tossing crumbs and laughing softly. I wondered at the lives of those fish, living all their lives in that small pool, but then I realized that there was nothing to wonder about, as my life was just the same.

The interior of the temple was peaceful and hushed. It was inviting. I could relax there a bit, and be among other people without conflict or expectations.

But I could not do it. I knew my father was right, that the statue was no more than an inanimate object. If I were to walk up and slap it, it would do nothing. No evil would befall me, no curse would tumble onto my head. Well, the worshipers would hang me from the nearest tree, but that was entirely physical and real.

I sighed. My father considered these people fools. I walked on.

I knew that the God my father had mentioned – Allah – could never be a statue, or my father would not have believed in him. And he must not have a temple, or I would have seen it. So I put the matter aside and turned to things more solid and immediate.

Lady Two

With the profit from the harvest, I bought a cow, whom I named Lady Two. She was large and was white with large brown patches, and was a lot of work.

I was already fatigued to exhaustion most of the time, not to mention distracted by the incessant gnawing of hunger in my belly. Certainly, I had food, but it was mostly a meager diet of rice and vegetables, and it did not sustain me well. Now, on top of my other work, I had to purchase and haul hay for Lady Two to eat, shovel her manure from the barn, and cart it out to the field to be used as fertilizer. I had to brush her coat, let her out to walk – I bought a cowbell to keep track of her – and milk her in the mornings.

Ah, but the milk! The first time I milked Lady Two and drank, I smiled and teared up at the same time, because it tasted so good, and it took me back to my younger years when I used to help my mother milk our cow, Lady, before my father sold her for drinking money.

Within a week of drinking her milk each morning and evening, I began to feel changes I had not expected. The constant trembling in my limbs eased, and the dull ache in my bones softened. I no longer felt as if I might topple over if I worked too long in the sun. My head felt clearer as well; I did not lose myself so easily in hunger and weariness, and I could think, plan, and even hum to myself sometimes as I worked. I slept more deeply too, without waking in the night to the pangs in my stomach.

After two months, the change was even more profound. I was startled to notice that my pants, which had previously come down to my ankles, now only reached midway down my calves, while my shirt was tight across my shoulders. I no longer dragged myself through each day but plowed and sowed the field with newfound strength. I had the energy to train with the dao in the evening. My movements were fast, and the occasional bruises from training faded faster.

I maintained my mother’s grave, just as my father had done. The flowers flourished, and I kept the plot clear of weeds. Often, when my work was done in the evening, I would sit beside her grave and look at the distant mountains, or the stars in the sky. Where was my mother now? I did not remember her well, but I remembered her gentleness, the songs she used to sing, and the small sesame cakes she made every Friday. I would like to be able to say that I missed her, but what I missed was the idea of her. The idea of being loved and cared for. But it seemed very distant now, and did not sadden me.

Far Away

A stray cat came to the house, an orange tabby that I named Far Away. My father had no patience for animals, but he was not here, so I took Far Away in, let him sleep with me on the straw mattress, and gave him a saucer of milk every morning. I found myself talking to him at times, just random things about farming, Five Animals, and memories of my mother. When I talked to Far Away, he winked and purred, and this made me happy, which was a strange sensation that I never truly got used to. I had never had a friend, and didn’t understand what friendship entailed, but it occurred to me that Far Away was my first ever friend.

The Mayor continued to send my monthly coin, to my surprise, yet another confirmation that my father was still alive. I didn’t talk about my father to Far Away nor anyone else. If I did not talk about him, he must stay alive, for the dead must be honored and remembered, but the living can be ignored. It became a superstitious rule that I imposed on myself.

The next crop came in even better, and I sold it for a pretty penny. I saw people whispering as I collected my coins, and noticed more than a few envious and even angry glances. The Mayor, when he handed over my father’s salary, was surprised to see the changes in me. “You are taller than your father,” he said. I had not realized this, and I felt embarrassed. Somehow, it seemed a betrayal of my father that I should surpass him in any way. I knew objectively that I had done more with the farm than he ever had, and this made me feel guilty. I was also ashamed that my mental image of him was growing dim.

I let the field lie fallow through winter, as my father had told me to do. I spent the winter days running through my Five Animals forms, and training with the dao and spear until the ground in front of the house became muddy with my pouring sweat. Far Away watched me, sometimes with interest, other times grooming himself as if all my leaping, striking, and kicking were meaningless. Perhaps it was.

Sent Away

I planted again when spring came. This time, however, at the 100-day mark, the Mayor came to my house in a horse-drawn wagon and informed me that my father had died in the war, and that I would be sent to live with my aunt. I did not truly believe that my father was dead, and knew that I must be here when he returned. Besides, I had been caring for myself for two years.

The Mayor produced the cloth badge that had been sewn onto my father’s uniform, indicating his unit, rank, and duty. It did not bear his name, but the Mayor explained that badges never carried names. I asked about the iron chain my father wore around his neck bearing the symbol of Five Animals style – a dragon clutching a golden ball in one clawed hand and a dao in the other – for my father had worn it every day and night since I had known him. The Mayor replied that no such chain had been sent, and that the sad reality was that bodies on the battlefield were often looted.

Yet I noticed that the Mayor would not look me in the eye. If he was lying about my father’s death, there would be much for him to gain. He could keep my father’s salary for himself. And I suspected that now that my land was producing a healthy cash crop, the Mayor wanted it for himself.

I refused to go, but the Mayor said it was against the law for a 13-year-old to live alone, and that if I did not go willingly, he would send soldiers to take me.

Anger coiled in my belly. I was tired of this man and his deceptions. I remembered how easy it had been to kill the two robbers, and pictured myself doing the same to the Mayor. The image repelled me. I was not a murderer. Besides, I could fight the Mayor, but I could not fight the soldiers who would come if I hurt him. I had no wish to be whipped and sent to prison.

There was nothing I could do. I mentioned the cow I’d purchased, and the Mayor reimbursed me half of what I had paid for her.

I told the Mayor. “If… if a mistake has been made, and my father turns out to be alive, tell him where I went.”

The Mayor nodded but still did not meet my eyes, and I knew he would not do as I asked.

I filled a peanut sack with my meager belongings, strapped the dao to my back, and concealed my purse within my clothing. The spear I took as a walking stick. I put Far Away in another sack and took him with me. Before leaving, I turned to look at my home one last time. It was a sad, pathetic place. The house had chinks in the walls through which the wind entered, and one of the walls of the barn was listing. The parcel was small, and if we had been a full-sized family living here, it would barely have sustained us.

Yet it was the only home I had ever known, and it had provided for me. I walked to the back of the house, stood beside my mother’s grave, and inhaled the cold morning air. I did not speak to her out loud. My chest rose and fell. I would have said a prayer if I knew one, and knew who to direct it to. Who would maintain her grave now? Who would water the flowers, and pluck the weeds? I shook my head helplessly, then turned and left with the Mayor.

I was put on a transport carriage bound for a city three days’ journey away.

Thoughts of my father swam through my head like the carp in the temple pool, circling endlessly. Was he truly dead, or was that a lie? And if he was dead, how had it happened? Had he killed any of the invaders? Where was his body buried? Was his spirit with Mother now? And if so, was he treating her better than in the past? Yet I did not weep for him. Alive or dead, he would not have liked to see me cry.

Loss of a Friend

When Far Away ran away, however, I did weep.

He was constantly unhappy in the sack, yowling and scratching, and the other three passengers on the carriage complained incessantly. The carriage always camped overnight, and when I woke up the second morning and opened the sack to feed Far Away, he was not there. Either he escaped, or someone let him out.

I walked through the woods, calling and calling for him, then finally fell on the ground sobbing. I felt as if my heart was a crop that had died on the vine. For my father I did not cry, but losing Far Away nearly broke me, for he had loved me with nothing but tenderness and gratitude. He was the only friend I’d ever had, and the only truly good and sweet thing in my life. Why had he left me? I was only trying to keep him safe. Why did he have to go?

I remember very little about the rest of the voyage.

The town where my aunt lived was large and bustling. I found myself disoriented by the sounds of carriages rumbling through, hawkers calling out wares, two men brawling in the street, the stink of garbage and sewage, and music drifting through the open doors of a saloon. I had never seen anything like this town, nor imagined so many people so close together.

My sweet mother used to play the flute, and I could hear one now, along with a lute, erhu, cymbals, and drums. They played a slow, sentimental tune that pulled at me. I might have gone in to listen. I was still deeply sad over the death of my father and the disappearance of Far Away, and I even missed Lady Two, and the way she greeted me by nuzzling her head against mine when I entered the barn. A little music would have been a welcome distraction, but as I took a step in that direction, two young ruffians stepped up, blocking my path.

They were thin in the way hungry dogs are thin, all sharp bones and restless movement. Their hair was greasy and tied back with filthy strips of cloth, and their clothes hung in mismatched layers that smelled of sweat and smoke. One had a scar that pulled down the corner of his mouth so that even when he wasn’t smiling, his face looked cruel.

The other had red-rimmed, feverish eyes, and filthy hands with long nails. The two of them reached into their jackets, no doubt ready to draw knives. They stood too close to me, and I could smell the alcohol on their breaths.

The one with the scarred mouth said, “That’s a pricey looking sword on your back.” And the other snarled, “Let us have a look at it.”

* * *

 

Come back next week for Part 3 – The New Town

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

No, My Son | A Short Story

 

The post Far Away [Part 2] – Alone appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

We’ve raised children who know how to take, but have we taught them how to give? This article dives into the Islamic response to a culture of entitlement.

In today’s increasingly individualized society and entitlement-driven culture -shaped heavily by Western ideals of autonomy and self-fulfillment- a worrying trend has emerged: many young people have come to see their parents not as figures of reverence, guidance, and gratitude, but as service providers; even well into adulthood. This shift is particularly visible in children who, while benefitting from years of care and sacrifice, respond with entitlement or neglect. Some even say, “We didn’t ask to be born, it was your choice!” This perspective, although widely normalized in modern Western discourse, is deeply misaligned with the values and principles of Islam.

The Islamic Understanding of Parent-Child Relationships Life as a Divine Trust

Islam offers a profoundly different understanding of the parent-child relationship; one rooted in divine purpose, obedience, and honor. Contrary to the notion that parents choose to bring children into the world, Islam teaches that it is Allah Who creates life and chooses its circumstances. He says in the Qur’an:

“To Allah belongs the dominion of the heavens and the earth. He creates what He wills. He gives to whom He wills female [children], and He gives to whom He wills males.”
[Surah Ash-Shuraa 42;49]

The arrival of a child is not merely a human decision—it is a manifestation of Allah’s Will. The argument “we didn’t ask to be born” overlooks this spiritual truth. Children are not random by-products of human desire but are sacred trusts (amanah) from Allah , and parents are the vessels through which Allah’s Decree is fulfilled.

Obedience to Parents as a Divine Command

In Islam, obedience to parents is not a personal choice—it is a divine commandment. The Qur’an establishes this in clear terms:

“And your Lord has decreed that you not worship except Him, and to parents, [show] excellent treatment. Whether one or both of them reach old age [while] with you, say not to them [even] ‘uff’ and do not repel them but speak to them a noble word.”
[Surah Al-Isra; 17:23]

The prohibition of even uttering “uff”—a mild sign of frustration—shows how seriously Islam regards the dignity of parents. Islam does not tie this obedience to whether parents are perfect, modern, educated, or emotionally ideal. It is a matter of obedience to Allah and a sign of piety.

The Prophet ﷺ also listed disobedience to parents among the gravest major sins, placing it alongside shirk (associating partners with Allah ):


“Shall I not inform you of the biggest of the major sins?” They said, “Yes, O Allah’s Messenger!” He said, “To associate others with Allah and to be undutiful to one’s parents…”
[Bukhari and Muslim]

When Parents Are Imperfect

And what about those who say, “My parents don’t understand me. They’re too harsh. They weren’t perfect.” To such people, Allah presents us with one of the most profound and emotionally rich stories in the Qur’an: the story of Prophet Ibrahim and his father, Azar.

Azar wasn’t just a difficult parent. He was an open enemy of the truth. He built idols with his own hands and forced his son to conform to the same false religion. He didn’t just disagree with Ibrahim’s faith—he threatened him. He rejected his dawah and even said:

“If you do not desist, I will surely stone you. So leave me alone for a prolonged time.” [Surah Maryam; 19:46]

Why is this story in the Qur’an? It’s not just for bedtime storytelling.

Every word in the Qur’an is deliberate. There are no filler verses. So, when Allah preserved this conversation between father and son for over 1,400 years, it’s not for entertainment—it’s for transformation.

Have we taken the time to reflect? His example demonstrates that Islam does not permit disrespect, rebellion, or cruelty toward parents—even when obedience cannot be maintained. In most family situations, parental shortcomings do not resemble Azar’s extremity. The Qur’an instructs believers to continue accompanying their parents with kindness and patience, even amid disagreement, so long as no sin is involved:

“But if they endeavor to make you associate with Me that of which you have no knowledge, do not obey them but accompany them in [this] world with appropriate kindness and follow the way of those who turn back to Me [in repentance]. Then to Me will be your return, and I will inform you about what you used to do.” [Surah Luqman; 31:15]

Within a Muslim family ethics framework, coping with parental conflict involves maintaining adab, engaging in respectful dialogue, practicing sabr, and making duʿāʾ for guidance and reconciliation. 

Proactive Obedience as a Virtue

Moreover, the Prophet ﷺ described the most virtuous child as the one who serves and cares for their parents before being asked.

In one narration, three men were trapped in a cave and sought Allah’s help by mentioning their most sincere deeds. One man said he never fed his own children before feeding his elderly parents, even after a long day of work. His devotion was accepted, and the rock shifted. [Sahih al-Bukhari, no. 3465]. This powerful story illustrates the blessings that come from proactive, sincere obedience and care.

The Impact of Individualism on Parent-Child Relationships

“Many young adults are quick to point out their parents’ flaws but slow to recognize their sacrifices.” [PC: Nadine E (unsplash)]

Unfortunately, the culture of individualism has produced a generation that is often emotionally disconnected from its roots. Modern individualism prioritizes personal autonomy, self-fulfillment, and independence, often framing family obligations as burdens rather than responsibilities. Within this framework, relational sacrifices—especially those made quietly by parents—can become invisible or undervalued. As a result, many young adults are quick to point out their parents’ flaws but slow to recognize their sacrifices. Islam teaches that gratitude to parents is second only to gratitude to Allah :

“And We have enjoined upon man [care] for his parents. His mother carried him, [increasing her] in weakness upon weakness, and his weaning is in two years. Be grateful to Me and to your parents; to Me is the [final] destination.” [Surah Luqman; 31:14]

The entitlement culture has produced children who often consume more than they contribute, and who question the very people who sacrificed the most for them. But Islam calls us back to a sacred standard: a life of duty, compassion, and humility.

Restoring Balance Through Duty, Compassion, and Humility

Islam does not leave the parent-child relationship to culture or personal judgment—it elevates it to the level of ‘ibadah (worship). Obedience to parents is not optional; it is a spiritual duty. But this obedience is not blind servitude—it is a meaningful act that reflects humility before Allah and gratitude toward those through whom He gave us life. Just as prayer and fasting are acts of worship that earn reward, so too is every moment of kindness shown to one’s parents—even in the moments when it feels difficult.

Self-Reflection Questions for Youth

Ask yourself today:
Do I rush to help my parents the way I rush to answer my phone?
Do I speak to them with the same softness I use with strangers?
Do I honour them in private, or only when others are watching?

If we want to restore the balance eroded by individualism, we must revive these teachings—not just in books or lectures, but in our homes, hearts, and everyday behavior. A generation raised with these values will not only honor their parents—they will carry the legacy of Islam with dignity and grace.

And if you’re a young adult reading this—ask yourself: Am I writing a story that Allah will be proud of? Or one I’ll regret on the Day of Judgment? The answer lies not in grand gestures, but in the quiet, consistent choices we make every day.

Practical Ways to Honor Parents

Restoring balance begins with small, consistent actions. Here are a few ways youth can bring these teachings to life:

 – Begin by checking in on your parents daily, not out of obligation but out of love. Ask them about their day, seek their advice, and make them feel seen and valued.

 – Express gratitude openly—a simple “JazakAllahu khayran” or “thank you” softens hearts more than silence.

 – Offer acts of service without waiting to be asked—make them tea, help with chores, drive them to appointments, or assist with technology. These seemingly small gestures are weighty in Allah’s Sight.

 – Pray for them regularly, even when they are not present, for the Prophet ﷺ taught that a child’s dua for their parents continues to benefit them after death.

 – When disagreements arise, choose patience over pride; lower your voice, listen before responding, and remember that respect is a form of ibadah.

 – And finally, educate yourself and your peers—revive conversations in your circles about honoring parents, so that this forgotten sunnah becomes part of our generation’s identity once again.

The Urgency of Acting Now – Healing Families and the Ummah

One day, the voices of our parents will become memories—their footsteps in the hallway will fade, their advice will no longer be heard, and we will wish for just one more chance to serve them. Before that day arrives, let us honor them while they are still within reach. Let every message we send, every errand we run, and every word we speak be a sadaqah in disguise. The world tells us to chase independence; Islam calls us to embrace interdependence—with Allah , with our parents, and with our ummah.

If we, as the youth of today, can realign our hearts with these timeless teachings, we will not only heal our families but also mend the fractures of our ummah—one act of kindness, one softened heart, and one obedient prayer at a time.

 

Related:

– Podcast: The Rights of Parents vs Parental Oppression | Sh Isa Parada

– Family Relationships in Surah Maryam: IOK Ramadan Reflections Series #16

The post Restoring Balance In An Individualized Society: The Islamic Perspective on Parent-Child Relationships appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Introduction

Discussions surrounding a wife’s obedience in marriage are often erroneous and misinformed. Certain scholarly articles online have wrongly attributed to the Hanafi madhhab (school of law) the claim that a wife must obey her husband in all permissible matters; whether something as significant as serving his parents or as trivial as replacing a shampoo cap. This article will explain why such claims are incorrect and will clarify the Hanafi school’s actual position using the most authoritative and widely relied upon books of the school.

When a well-seasoned ustadha—who has been serving and educating women for over two decades—approached me with questions about a wife’s obedience, I was dismayed to find that her understanding and research stemmed from the same online articles. This begs the question: If those who dedicate their lives to educating and supporting women still hold misconceptions about such a fundamental matter, how can we truly serve our sisters?

Fiqh, the Sunnah, and our Dīn are our greatest sources of empowerment; we must reclaim them through sound knowledge and take them from those grounded in authentic scholarship.

Important Points to Keep in Mind

Firstly, it was a challenge to write this article in a way that stays true to scholarly, fiqh-based discussions while considering sisters from all walks of life—especially those who have been wronged through misapplication of the fiqh. Additionally, as someone who teaches a six-month course dedicated to expounding these issues, it is of the utmost importance to me that they are given the attention they deserve—something this article alone cannot fully accomplish. Hence, it is important to acknowledge its limitations: this is merely a technical study on the topic of obedience, not a reflection of Islamic marriage as a whole.

Secondly, before discussing the details of obedience in marriage, it is essential to remember that all rulings in fiqh are subject to the broader maxims of the Sharīʿah (qawāʿid fiqhiyyah) and the principles of usūl al-fiqh. This means that rulings are not absolute in every situation but must be applied within the correct context.

For example:

• A wife does not need her husband’s permission to leave the house if staying poses a threat to her safety.
• She is not obligated to engage in intimacy if it would cause her harm.

These exceptions and others are explicitly mentioned in classical fiqh texts, and demonstrate that Islamic law always considers necessity (ḍarūrah) and harm (ḍarar) when applying rulings. Understanding these nuances ensures that we do not misapply legal rulings in ways that contradict the broader objectives of the Sharīʿah (maqāṣid al-Sharīʿah), which emphasize the preservation of essential interests—religion (dīn), life (nafs), intellect (ʿaql), lineage (nasl), and wealth (māl)—together with consideration of human capacity and the prevention of harm.1

Lastly, as this article focuses solely on the issue of obedience, it does not address a wife’s rights in marriage. Women have rights parallel to and in addition to those of their husbands. Just as a husband has the right to intimacy, so does his wife. She also has the right to privacy and personal space, free from anyone who annoys or harms her. In practice, this means that a husband must ensure his wife’s comfort and consent before bringing guests into shared spaces within the home. These are a few examples, and a comprehensive treatment of a wife’s rights requires deeper exploration beyond the scope of this article.

With these points in mind, we begin the topic at hand: 

Our Beloved Prophet ﷺ said, “If a woman prays her five prayers, fasts her month, guards her chastity, and obeys her husband, she will be told: Enter Paradise from whichever of its gates you wish.”2

This and other narrations like it have been understood literally to mean a wife must obey her husband’s every request. However, fiqh is taken from fuqaha (the jurists/scholars of fiqh) and hadith from muhadithoon (scholars of hadith)3. So, what is the ruling of obeying one’s husband according to the jurists? 

When we go back to the books of fiqh (Islamic law), we find that obedience to the husband is very specific and can be summarized in two points: 

1. Intimacy and what it entails;
2. Permission to leave the house.

According to the Hanafi school, these are the only domains in which obedience is required. The following discussion presents the textual evidence from authoritative Hanafi works that establishes this position.

I. Intimacy

Zayn al-Din ibn Ibrahim ibn Nujaym al-Misri, a distinguished Hanafi jurist, outlines the limits of a wife’s obedience in his authoritative work Bahr al-Ra’iq (The Clear Sea)4. He says: 

“…a woman is not obligated to obey her husband in everything he commands. Rather, obedience is required only in matters of marriage (nikah) and its related aspects, especially if his command would cause her harm…”5

Obedience, therefore, is obligatory only in marriage-related issues. “Marriage” here—i.e., nikāḥ as used by the jurists—“is used literally for sexual relations.6” In other words, in the language of fiqh, the word nikāḥ refers to sexual relations, not merely to the contract or to marriage in general. This is further confirmed in Ibn ‘Abideen’s Hashiyah:

“[Sexual relations] is the meaning of [the word nikāḥ] in the Sharīʿah and in the language.7” 

This is demonstrated by the fiqh rulings. For example, it is imperative to seek the husband’s permission when he is home, and the wife wants to fast a nafl (optional) fast, as this may come in the way of his desire for intimacy. Also, if he asks her to take a ghusl (the obligatory purificatory bath) upon completion of her menstruation in order to be intimate, it would be obligatory upon her to do so, as this relates to his right to intimacy.

The aforementioned explicit text (nass) from the Bahr qualifies all general texts on a wife’s obedience in the Hanafi school. Accordingly, the Hanafis interpret all hadith narrations on a wife’s obedience as referring specifically to intimacy-related matters. 

Likewise, this is affirmed in other major Hanafi works. In Badāʾiʿ al-Ṣanāʾiʿ fī Tartīb al-Sharāʾiʿ (The Marvels of the Crafts in the Arrangement of the Legal Codes), Abū Bakr b. Masʿūd al-Kāsānī (d. 587 AH/1191 CE) says in the chapter on the legal consequences of the marriage contract: 

“Section: The obligation of a wife to obey her husband if he calls her to the bed.

(Section): Among [the legal rulings of marriage] is the wife’s duty to obey her husband if he calls her to the bed.8”

Al-Kāsānī is known for the meticulous detail of his legal analysis. By qualifying obedience specifically to the instance when a wife is called to the marital bed, he indicates that obedience is not intended to be absolute in all matters. Had he understood it as general, he would have simply stated, “Among the consequences of the marriage contract is the wife’s obedience to her husband,” without mentioning any such qualification.

A question may arise here: what about the many other texts that speak of obedience in general terms? Why set those aside in favor of this more specific understanding?

This approach precisely follows the guidelines for issuing fatwas (legal edicts). Muhammad Amin ibn ‘Umar ibn ‘Abideen (d. 1252 AH/1836 CE), known as the “Seal of the Scholarly Verifiers” (خاتم المحققين), outlined these principles in his work ‘Uqud Rasm al-Mufti (The Treatise on the Duties of the Muftī), stating explicitly: “… specifying something in textual transmission implies the negation of anything beyond it.9” 

This means that when an authoritative text qualifies, or places conditions on a general ruling, that qualified ruling becomes the main and definitive position of the madhhab (legal school). It must then be applied consistently, even to other texts that discuss the issue in broader or more general terms.

Hence, no one can argue here that these few texts may not specify the more general texts, as the Bahr al-Raa-iq is an authoritative text and the rules of issuing fatwa (i.e., a formal legal opinion) dictate that this understanding/qualification of obedience is therefore applied to all texts in the Hanafi school10.

II. Permission to Leave the House 

A wife’s obligation to remain in the home unless given permission by her husband to go out is closely connected to the obligation of intimacy, as it is regarded as a means of fulfilling that right.

Imam al-Haskafi says in his al-Durr al-Mukhtar: 

“There is no financial maintenance (nafaqah) for the woman who leaves [her husband’s] house without right…”11

This ruling establishes that if a wife leaves the home without justification, she forfeits her financial rights as a wife, since marital maintenance (nafaqah) is provided in return for her physical presence in the marital home.

There are details to what is considered ‘justified’ in going out, as Imam Ibn ‘Abidīn highlights in his commentary on al-Haskafi’s Durr al-Mukhtar:

[Al-Haskafi’s] statement “so she must not go out, etc.”… meaning: “If she has received (the dowry), then she must not go out, etc.”…According to the apparent implication of the text, if she has received her dowry, she is not allowed to go out—even for necessity or to visit her family without his permission.

However, there are cases where she is permitted to go out, even without his permission12, as mentioned by the commentator (shāriḥ). This is explicitly stated in his commentary on al-Multaqa (The Joining of the Two Seas), citing al-Ashbāh (Analogies and Similar Cases): “Similarly, she may go out if she wishes to perform the obligatory Hajj with a maḥram, or if her father is chronically ill and requires her service, for example…”13

There are also other exceptions to the rule requiring a wife to seek her husband’s permission before going out—such as when she is a midwife or a woman who washes the deceased—as noted by Ibn ʿĀbidīn. The detailed discussion of when a wife must seek permission and when she may go out without it warrants a separate article.

Clarification On Household Duties

Household duties are not from the husband’s rights but may be considered the wife’s responsibility based on customary practice (‘urf) and her socio-economic status.

This is mentioned explicitly by al-Haskafi in his commentary, al-Durr al-Mukhtar (The Chosen Pearl) on Tanweer al-Absaar (The Illumination of Insights):

If the woman refuses to grind flour and bake bread because she is not someone who serves [but is rather served, i.e., has servants], or if she has an illness, then he must provide her with prepared food.

However, if she is someone who normally serves herself and is capable of doing so, then he is not obligated to provide prepared food, and she is not permitted to take payment for it, as it is considered obligatory-religiously (diyānatan) upon her.14

Therefore, this duty is tied to a wife’s socio-economic background. If she comes from a wealthy family with servants and is not accustomed to cooking or performing household tasks, she is not obligated to do so in her marital home; rather, her husband must provide her with prepared food. Conversely, if she is accustomed to serving herself, then cooking becomes obligatory upon her. However, even in such a case, if she is ill or in a state in which she would customarily be cared for—such as during the postpartum period—her husband must provide her with prepared food.

The term “obligatory-religiously” (diyānatan) is used in contrast to “obligatory by law”  (qadaa-an), which is enforceable by the courts. When something is ‘obligatory-religiously’, it still means that she must fulfill it, and failing to do so would be sinful, but it is not enforced by a judge in a court of law. 

This is why household duties are not a “right” of the husband; rather, they fall under personal religious obligations, similar to a wife’s duty to nurse her child or pray witr (according to the Hanafis). These are matters between her and Allah , not something the husband can demand. A key implication of this is that the extent and manner in which she fulfills this obligation—how much she cooks and what she prepares—is her decision, as the duty rests upon her, and does not involve her husband.

Further proof that household duties are not the husband’s right is found in al-Kāsānī’s discussion on the legal consequences of marriage. When listing the obligations of the wife and the rights of the husband, he does not include household tasks such as cooking and cleaning.15

This omission is particularly significant given that al-Kāsānī is highly detailed in this chapter, addressing matters such as inheritance, in-law relations, and even the permission of the spouses to look at and touch one another—yet this so-called “right” is never mentioned.

Conclusion

Misunderstanding obedience in marriage has led to serious consequences. The expectation of absolute obedience places an immense burden on women, resulting in stress, resentment, and, at times, oppressive treatment. For example, some husbands demand that their wives serve their in-laws—visiting their homes to clean—while still maintaining their own homes; a combination that causes significant stress and anxiety. Many women from traditionally rigid fiqh backgrounds who follow this erroneous position find themselves overwhelmed by these supposed “duties.” Sadly, as this has been accepted as the status quo, it is no wonder women are struggling in their marriages, as these expectations are both unrealistic and unfeasible.

Additionally, husbands take their wives’ service for granted, viewing it as an entitlement rather than an act of kindness. Such an understanding can readily lead to an abuse of authority, where the husband’s demands are never-ending, and the wife can never fully satisfy them. This breeds resentment and undermines the very foundation of a healthy marriage.

In conclusion, we see that it is not obligatory to obey one’s husband in matters related to in-laws16, guests, or yes—even the shampoo bottle cap. The reality, as defined by the fuqaha (jurists), grants women far more autonomy than is commonly assumed. The correct understanding of obedience, rooted in legal texts, safeguards against the misuse of religious rulings to justify control, suppression, and injustice. 

As scholars have long emphasized, “rights are for the courts and the miserly,” whereas true companionship is grounded in the sublime Sunnah of our Beloved Prophet ﷺ and his Noble Family; sunnahs of mutual kindness and iḥsān (excellence). Just as a wife is expected to help fulfill not only her husband’s needs but also his preferences, he is equally expected to support hers, honoring her hopes and aspirations beyond mere needs. Ultimately, a marriage that focuses solely on rights and obligations—without regard for each other’s hopes and aspirations—may be doomed to failure or misery.

May Allah grant us the success and ability to follow the Sunnah in our marriages and bless them with love and mercy.

والحمد لله ربّ العالمين

 

Related:

– Podcast | Happily Ever After (Ep 2) – What Are The Limits Of Wifely Obedience?

– A Primer On Intimacy And Fulfillment Of A Wife’s Desires Based On The Writings Of Scholars Of The Past

 

 

1    Human capacity means that obligations only apply within a person’s ability. For example, if one can’t pray standing, she sits. 2    Ahmad ibn Hanbal, Musnad Ahmad, Hadith no. 1661. 3     In a well known narration, Imam al-A‘mash, the exegete and hadith scholar, says to Imam Abu Hanifa, the jurist and founder of the madhhab: “O group of jurists, you are the doctors, and we are the pharmacists.”4    Zain al-Din Ibn Ibrahim Ibn Muhammad Ibn Nujaym (d. 970 AH/1563 CE), Bahr al-Ra’iq (The Clear Sea) is a commentary on Kanz al-Daqaa’iq (The Treasure of Subtleties), one of the foundational texts of the Hanafi school by Abū al-Barakāt ʿAbd Allāh b. Aḥmad al-Nasafī (d. 710/1310), a prominent Hanafi scholar.5    Ibn Nujaym, Al-Bahr al-Ra’iq Sharh Kanz al-Daqa’iq, vol. 5, p. 77, Dar al-Kitab al-Islami, 3rd ed.6    ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn al-Ḥaṣkafī, Al-Durr al-Mukhtār Sharḥ Tanwīr al-Abṣār (The Chosen Pearl on The Illumination of Insights), vol. 3, p. 5, Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 3rd ed., 1984.7    Ibn ʿĀbidīn, Ḥāshiyat Radd al-Muḥtār ʿalā al-Durr al-Mukhtār Sharḥ Tanwīr al-Abṣār, vol. 3, p. 5, Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 3rd ed., 1984.8    Abū Bakr b. Masʿūd al-Kasani, Badāʾiʿ al-Ṣanāʾiʿ fī Tartīb al-Sharāʾiʿ, vol. 3, p. 613, Dār al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2nd ed., 2003.9    Muhammad Ameen Ibn Umar Ibn ‘Abideen, Majmu’atu Rasaa-il Ibn ‘Abideen, quoting Ghayat al-Bayan, p. 41 (Beirut: Dar Ihya al-Turath al-Arabi, n.d.).10    A more detailed explanation of intimacy and its conditions will be covered in another article, in shā’ Allāh.11    Al-Ḥaṣkafī, Al-Durr al-Mukhtār, vol. 3, p. 604-5.12    Emphasis added.13    Ibn ‘Abideen, Ḥāshiyat, vol. 3, p.154.14    Al-Ḥaṣkafī, Al-Durr al-Mukhtār, vol. 3, p. 608.15    Al-Kāsānī, Badāʾiʿ al-Ṣanāʾiʿ, vol. 3, p. 605.16    . When it comes to significant matters that affect both spouses, such as in-laws and family dynamics, both partners must exercise due consideration to ensure that each feels valued and fulfilled. Neglecting this balance can lead to resentment, ultimately undermining the maqāṣid (higher objectives) of the Sacred Law in fostering a stable and harmonious marriage.

The post The Limits Of Obedience In Marriage: A Hanafi Legal Perspective appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A brutal childhood under a violent father forges young Darius into a skilled fighter, setting the stage for a life shaped by hardship, survival, and a search for meaning.

* * *

Author’s Preface

I woke up recently with the idea for this story in my head, and immediately sat down and began to write. Maybe it was a dream I had, I don’t know. I’ve never been short of ideas, alhamdulillah. I have more ideas than I know what to do with.

If you’re a long-time reader of mine, you’ve noticed that my early novels focused heavily on action and international intrigue. Later stories, such as Day of the Dogs, The Things He Would Say, and the most recently completed Moonshot, were more about family dynamics. All That Is In The Heavens is, of course, straight-up sci-fi. I do plan to return to that, by the way.

I like changing things up. I’m not one of those writers who churns out dozens of novels based on a single formula. Maybe I should be, since some of those authors make a lot of money. Speaking of which, I met Danielle Steele once at a charity auction at Fort Mason in San Francisco, and bought her old antique typewriter. Another time, I made a delivery to her mansion, which occupies an entire block in Pacific Heights. There’s someone who took a formula and alchemized it into pure gold.

But no, I prefer to push myself and explore new fictional territory. This next story is a first. I hesitate to call it a fable. It is based in the real world, and rooted in the culture and historical circumstances of 1700’s rural China, featuring a Hui Muslim family. The Hui are an East Asian ethno-religious group that is predominantly Muslim. Today, the official Chinese census says there are 10 million of them. They are not segregated, but live intermixed with Han Chinese, and their practice of Islam tends to be low-key.

I did a lot of research to keep the story historically accurate. However, I never name China as such.

The narrator’s tone is brutally honest yet distant, as if narrating these events from a time many years removed. As such, it is not extremely detailed. That’s why I almost call it a fable.

It won’t be a full novel. Maybe 20,000 words, of which 10,000 are already written. Eight to ten chapters. I hope you enjoy it. – Wael Abdelgawad, Author

* * *

Father and Son

When my father, whose name was Yong Lee, wasn’t in prison, he taught me to fight and to steal. He was a small man and a drunkard, and he treated my sweet mother badly. I despised him. When Mother died of a breathing disease, all I could think was that instead of taking me with her into the realm of silence, she had left me behind. I was seven years old. I remember that I cried for many days, and struck my father, blaming him for Mother’s death. He was a violent man, yet, when I hit him he did not react.

Someone had taught my father to fight very well – not street brawling, but a fighting style that he called Five Animals, that consisted of rapid, fluid movements, deep stances, dramatic leaps and kicks, and the use of the spear and sword.

The sword was curved, single-edged, and about as long as my young arm. My father called it a dao. He had long since sold his genuine dao to buy wine, but he’d made two replicas out of hardwood, and a pair of spears as well. We owned a small rice paddy that had gone to seed, and was a rat-filled nest of weeds and mud. My father would take me out to the paddy and run me through dao and spear forms, and then we would fight. He was not gentle, and by the end of the session I was always bleeding and bruised.

Failed Defiance

One time, I defied him, throwing down the dao and screaming that I hated him and would not do it anymore. He seized my shirt with both hands and put his face very close to mine. His breath reeked of wine. “This is the only thing of worth I have to give you, Darius,” he said. “You will take it, or I will kill you, then kill myself.”

I believed him, and I never refused to train after that.

Once, when we went into town to steal, the Mayor approached us. He looked me up and down – my ragged clothes, split lip, cut cheek, and a gash on my arm – and told my father plainly that if he did not treat me better, they would take me away and send me to live with my aunt. This was the first time I knew that I had an aunt.

My father raged that the Mayor could not do that. The Mayor cowered, for everyone knew my father’s fighting prowess, but to his credit, he held his ground and said that he would do it anyway. After that, my father treated me a little better, for though he still forced me to train, he did so less violently.

My father stole food from local vendors, cheated at card games, and picked pockets. He excelled at these things, and on the rare occasions he was caught, the locals would decline to press charges, for they knew my father’s temper and abilities.

In the town there was a temple with a great statue, and the people went there to pray, meditate, and leave offerings. My father scoffed at this, saying these people were brainless idiots, and he would sooner stab himself in the eye than waste his time and money on a hunk of bronze that could not see, speak, nor even defend itself. “The only one to worship is Allah,” he said, but when I asked him about the meaning of this word, and who was Allah, and where was his temple, my father fell mute.

Wake Up Hungry, Sleep Hungry

My father was not foolish enough to steal from nobles, but some traveling nobles dressed plainly so that you did not know their status, and every now and then, my father would be caught stealing from such a one; or from a traveling businessman or functionary. These people had no fear of him and always pressed charges, whereupon my father would be whipped and sent to prison.

Whenever this happened, I was left to fend for myself. After seeing my father whipped, I was not brave enough to pick pockets, so I confined myself to going out at night and stealing corn, potatoes, and tomatoes from local farms. The amounts I stole were so small that either no one noticed or they pretended not to, for they feared my father even in his absence. When I was younger, I had sometimes helped my mother cook, and I knew enough to boil the vegetables, which I ate plain with a bit of salt.

I was very thin, and my clothes were so tattered they were nearly falling off. I was lonely, but I did not despair. My days of crying myself to sleep were long past, and I knew my father would return. I did not know how far away the prison was, but I did not feel that my father was far away. His presence was commanding and inescapable, even in his absence. In addition, I was long since used to waking hungry and sleeping hungry. To me, it was a normal state of existence, and in fac,t I could not imagine what it might be like to have companionship and a belly full of food.

Hiding

Three times, the Mayor and a few others came to the house looking for me, but each time I hid. I barred the door with a chair, doused the candle, and crawled beneath the straw mattress, which was silly because if they managed to enter they would see my form anyway. I held my breath and watched the movement of shadows beneath the door as the men stood outside calling, “Darius Lee!” But they did not enter, for they knew better than to enter the house of Yong Lee without permission, even in his absence. Eventually, they went away.

I did not know if they wanted to punish me for stealing, or to send me to live with my aunt. I did not want to be sent away. Though I hated my father, I also loved him and missed him. I cannot explain this except to say that he was all I knew, and I felt a strange loyalty to him. He had spent countless hours teaching me Five Animals style, and though he was brutal, it was personal and intense. In his twisted way he cared about me and perhaps even loved me, though he had never expressed such a thing, and I had only ever heard that word – love – from my mother.

There was an enemy invading our lands from the south. It was said that they came on great ships, and wore armor of a kind our weapons could not penetrate. Wherever they went, they massacred our people and burned our homes. They were said to be tall and ivory-skinned, and fought with long, straight swords. I had never seen such a person, and could not imagine why they wanted our hardscrabble rice and corn fields. But every time I went into town to beg for a little money to buy salt, I saw more and more refugees either passing through or living in shacks on the outskirts of town.

There were posters in the shop windows. I knew how to read and write, as my dear mother had taught me. The posters said that anyone who volunteered to fight the invaders would be paid five gold pieces upon inscription, and one gold piece a month. The minimum age was fifteen, however, and at that time I was only eleven.

Return

My father came home from prison. He’d always been a strong and hard man, yet he returned from prison with new scars, and a terrible rage in his eyes. I thought he might take his anger out on me, in training, but when he saw my condition – I was so thin that my cheeks were hollow and my ribs protruded – he squatted down, covered his face, and wept. I had never seen my father crying, and did not know what to do. Torn between comforting him – how would I do that exactly? – and walking away to preserve his dignity, I sat down in front of him and said nothing. He suddenly seized me. I tensed up, ready to fight or flee, but he only embraced me and whispered, “I am sorry.” At this, I did flee, for it confused and saddened me more than all the beatings.

My father had quit drinking. He was not an affectionate man, and he still stole from time to time – but our training, though still exhausting, was no longer bloody. Furthermore, he began working the land. He would wake me up at dawn, and we would labor and sweat, clearing weeds, planting peanuts, and fertilizing. My father worked feverishly, as hard as any horse or donkey, and I understood that this was his way of pouring out of himself the terrible anger that – like a horse carrying a millstone – he had carried home from prison.

When the first peanut crop came in, he took me into town, where we sold the crop to a merchant. Then he took me to an eatery, where we sat at a table like normal citizens. My father ordered a huge quantity of food, and we gorged ourselves on rice, beef, green beans, sesame buns, bean cake, broccoli, and egg noodles. I had never even tasted some of these things.

When we could eat no more, my stomach felt like it would burst. I felt sleepy and content for the first time in many years. “So,” I thought. “This is what it’s like to be full.” I felt something I could not identify, which I later came to understand was contentment, and it frightened me because I knew it could not and would not last.

Infestation and Enlistment

My fear was premonitory. An infestation of rats destroyed our crop, and we were left destitute. My father stomped through the field, hacking at the rats with a plow and screaming foul words. He seemed not angry but despairing, and this shocked me, as I had never imagined my father this way.

The next day, he went into town by himself. I was afraid he had gone to drink and would return to beat me as in the past, but no. When he returned, he wore a scabbard hanging from his hip. He sat me down and handed me a small purse. I looked inside and saw five gold pieces, shining like the sunrise. “I have enlisted to fight the invaders,” he told me. “With this money you can buy traps and poison to kill the rats, then plant a new crop. You know how to raise the crop, how to harvest, and where to sell it. You will be fine. I will send my salary home to you.”

Then he removed the scabbard from his hip and drew a shining steel dao with a razor-sharp edge and a pommel wrapped in green cord. He re-sheathed it and handed it to me with both hands. “I bought this for you,” he said. “Never let anyone take what is yours.”

I begged my father not to go. I debased myself, throwing myself on the ground, crying and clutching his legs. But he left.

Robbers

I killed the rats and planted the crop. I lived simply, never wanting to let anyone know of the gold I had. The dao remained with me at all times, on my back when I worked in the fields, and by my side as I slept. At times, I took it out and practiced. It was lighter than the wooden version I had trained with, and was very sharp. Once, I cut my own thigh by accident. The cut became infected, and I passed two days in a fever, thrashing on the little straw-stuffed mattress, until I got up and dragged myself to the medicine man in the village. He cleaned my wound and slathered it with something sweet-smelling, and I paid in gold, receiving some silver and copper coins in return.

That night, two men broke into my house seeking the gold. They were young, rough-looking men who wore no masks, and were armed only with knives. I was still unsteady on my feet. Nevertheless, I drew my dao. The men laughed. “A boy with a shiny toy,” one said. “That will soon be mine.” He lunged at me with a knife. I parried it easily with the dao, and in a single smooth motion, thrust the sword into his throat. The other, shocked, took a step back. When I went after him, he threw the knife at me. I dodged it, then leaped forward and slashed him across the belly. Clutching his hands to his belly, he turned and stumbled away, and I let him go.

Evil Banners

The floor of the house was no more than baked earth, and was now stained heavily with blood. I went out to fetch a bucket of water from our small well, to clean the floor, and saw a blood trail from the second man leading into the peanut field. I found his dead body in the field, his hands still clutching his belly as his entrails hung out like evil banners, and a portent of bad things to come.

Leaving the man in the field for the moment, I scrubbed the floors inside. Seeing in my mind the point of the sword entering the man’s throat, remembering the slight resistance as it penetrated, I vomited, then cleaned that up as well.

Then I dug a deep hole in the field and buried both men. This took two days of labor, as I had to use a pickaxe to get through a layer of limestone and shale. When it was done, I collapsed into bed and slept for three days and nights, waking only to drink water. When I recovered, my leg wound had healed. No one ever came to ask about the dead robbers.

New Songs

I continued to practice with the dao. I cycled through all the moves my father had taught me, then improvised. If movement were a song, then I broke the words apart and put them back together in random ways, creating new songs that sometimes made no sense, and other times struck my own soul like gongs, leaving it shivering. I cut myself a few more times, but not seriously, until there came a point where that was no longer a concern. The dao was part of me. I would no more cut myself with it than I would poke myself in the eye, or punch myself in the stomach.

My father had taught me to count the days from planting, and harvest the peanuts at 130 days. The crop came in full and heavy, and I sold it for a good price. While I was in town, I went to see the Mayor. My father had said he would send my salary, but it had not arrived.

* * *

 

Come back next week for Part 2 – Alone

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

No, My Son | A Short Story

 

The post Far Away [Part 1] – Five Animals appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

How Ahmed al-Ahmed’s selfless intervention at Bondi Beach exposed the lie of stereotypes and showed the highest expression of Islamic faith in action.

Going Out For Coffee

On the evening of Sunday, December 14, Bondi Beach was crowded in the way only a summer Sunday allows. Thousands of people filled the promenade and shoreline, lingering at the end of the weekend. Among them were hundreds gathered for Chanukah by the Sea, a public celebration marking the beginning of the eight-day Hanukkah festival, held in a small park just off the beachfront.

Ahmed al-Ahmed was there for a far more ordinary reason. He had gone to Bondi with a friend for coffee. A simple plan. An unremarkable outing. Ahmed was not attending the celebration, not looking for spectacle, and certainly not expecting violence.

Ahmed is 43 years old, a Syrian immigrant from the town of Idlib, who arrived in Australia in 2006. Over nearly two decades, he built a life through patience and work. He became an Australian citizen, opened and ran a small convenience and tobacco store, married, and became the father of two young daughters, aged three and six. His parents, long separated from him by war and displacement, had only recently been able to reunite with him in Sydney.

Shots Across The Sand

Shortly after 6:45 pm, the ordinary rhythm of Bondi Beach shattered.

Witnesses reported that two gunmen opened fire from an elevated footbridge leading toward the beach. Shots echoed across the sand. Video footage later showed people in swimwear sprinting for cover, scattering across open ground with nowhere to hide. Panic spread instantly. Parents grabbed children. Strangers dropped flat. The attack continued for several minutes before police were able to intervene.

Ahmed and his friend arrived to scenes of chaos.

Speaking to Australia’s ABC, Ahmed’s father, Mohamed Fateh al-Ahmed, said his son was shocked by what he saw when they reached the area. Armed men firing into crowds. People lying on the ground. Blood visible on the pavement.

“Their lives were in danger,” his father said. “He noticed one of the armed men at a distance.”

According to the family, Ahmed saw people lying wounded on the ground, some bleeding heavily. At that point, calculation gave way to instinct, and perhaps to training as well, as reports say that Ahmed had been a policeman in his native Syria.

“When he saw people laying on the ground and the blood everywhere,” his father said, “immediately his conscience and his soul compelled him to pounce on one of the terrorists and rid him of his weapon.”

Making A Move

A screenshot shows Ahmed Al-Ahmed wrestling with one of the shooters.

At some point during the attack, Ahmed began sneaking up on one of the gunmen. Reports say that the attacker had momentarily exhausted his ammunition, but I have watched the video several times and there was no indication of that. Rather, it appears that Ahmed crept up between two parked cars, and – as the shooter was still actively firing – charged him from the side.

He charged the attacker unarmed, and wrestled with him for control of the rifle. The shooter fell to the ground, leaving Ahmed in control of the weapon. Again, reports say that during the struggle, Ahmed was shot several times in the shoulder, but I do not see that in the video. Rather, it appears that he was unharmed during the struggle, which leads me to believe that he was then shot by the other attacker, who was still firing from atop a bridge nearby. But this is speculation.

In any case he was shot in the hand and four to five times in the shoulder, with some of the bullets still lodged inside his body, according to his parents. He was rushed to hospital and underwent emergency surgery.

In the hours that followed, family members described the toll the injuries had taken. Jozay, a cousin of Ahmed, said that he was recovering from his first surgery and had two more operations still to come. “He took a lot of medication, he can’t speak well,” Jozay said after leaving the hospital on Monday evening.

Couldn’t Bear To See People Dying

Another cousin, Mustafa al-Asaad, told the Al Araby television network that Ahmed’s intervention was not driven by anger or impulse, but by something deeper.

“When he saw people dying and their families being shot, he couldn’t bear to see people dying,” Mustafa said.

“It was a humanitarian act, more than anything else. It was a matter of conscience. He’s very proud that he saved even one life.”

Mustafa recalled Ahmed explaining the moment in simple terms.

“When he saw this scene, people dying of gunfire, he told me, ‘I couldn’t bear this. God gave me strength. I believe I’m going to stop this person killing people.’”

The attack ended. Many lives were lost, but – without a doubt – many lives were also saved by Ahmed’s heroic actions.

What Would You Do?

It’s easy to call someone a hero after the fact. It is much harder to grasp what such a moment actually demands. Which raises a question that should unsettle us.

What would you do in that situation? What would I do?

I am a trained martial artist. I have spent years in classes gaming out scenarios exactly like this. How to tackle an active shooter, how to control the weapon, how to disable the shooter and create distance. But class training is one thing. Seeing it happen in real life, with the noise of the shots, the screams, the chaos, is something else altogether. I like to believe I would act courageously. I like to believe training and moral conviction would carry me forward. But only Allah knows.

Because this is the reality: if the shooter had spotted Ahmed’s approach – if he’d caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye – and turned – Ahmed would be dead. He’d be shot dead in the parking lot, leaving his two young daughters without a father. And he undoubtedly knew that. Think about that.

None of us truly knows what choice we will make until we are confronted, face to face, with that level of evil. Training, faith and strength of character all help. But certainty only arrives when fear, instinct, and conscience collide in real time.

Ahmed al-Ahmed does not have to imagine.

When asked about his actions, he expressed no regret. He did not speak of bravery or heroism. I cannot speak to his specific religious convictions, as the reports do not mention this. He might be a Sunni, Shiah or Alawi. He might be practicing or not. But he bears the name of our beloved Prophet (s), and he gave the credit for his actions – as any believer would – to Allah, saying that God granted him courage.

Ahmed’s father emphasized that his son’s decision was not shaped by identity or affiliation.

“When he did what he did, he wasn’t thinking about the background of the people he’s saving, the people dying in the street,” Mohamed Fateh al-Ahmed said. “He doesn’t discriminate between one nationality and another. Especially here in Australia, there’s no difference between one citizen and another.”

A Grim Irony

There is, however, a grim irony that cannot be ignored.

Authorities later confirmed that the attackers were also Muslim immigrants. This fact, widely reported, inevitably stirred anxiety within Muslim communities already accustomed to collective suspicion.

The man that Ahmed wrested with and disarmed was named Sajid Akram. He was 50 years old, originally from Pakistan.

Here, on the same beach, in the same violent moment, stood two radically different representations of what it means to invoke Islam.

On one side, a profound betrayal of faith. A reduction of religion to grievance, rage, and indiscriminate murder. On the other, the apex of faithful action, a man who ran toward gunfire to protect strangers, including members of another religious community, without hesitation and without calculation.

Have we, in recent memory, seen a clearer reminder that no group is monolithic? That no religion, race, or nation can be reduced to its worst representatives? That Islam can be invoked as a pretext for horror, or lived as a shield for others?

Whoever Saves One Life

Chris Mims, New South Wales premier, visits with Ahmed Al-Ahmed.

In the days that followed, public gratitude poured in. Political leaders visited Ahmed in hospital. Fundraisers raised extraordinary sums (over a million dollars, it is said) to support his recovery and his family. Officials credited his intervention with saving lives.

For Muslims, the value of a life saved is not dependent on that person’s faith, character, nationality or identity, for Allah tells us in the Quran:

“Whoever saves one life, it is as if he has saved the lives of all humankind.” (Quran 5:32)

This is especially true when you save a stranger. By saving the life of someone you don’t know, you have symbolically saved the life of anyone and everyone. Ahmed Al-Ahmed, therefore, saved my life and yours, as well as that of everyone else in the world.

Let’s Choose Our Own Heroes

This is an age when Western entertainment culture is relentless in shaping our imagination of heroism, trying to force its own imprint onto our brains. The hero is a mythical Norse god wielding lightning, a billionaire playboy in an iron suit, a Superman wrapped in red, white, and blue. These figures are entertaining, but they are not moral templates.

We already have heroes.

At the dawn of Islam, we have the sahabah. Hamzah ibn AbdulMuttalib at Badr. Nusaibah bint Kaab, Musab bin Umair and Talhah bin Ubaidullah at Uhud. Salman al-Farisi, Ali ibn Abi Talib, and Hudhaifah ibn al-Yaman at Khandaq. And any others. Men and women whose courage was inseparable from humility, restraint, and devotion to Allah and His Messenger.

In the modern age, we must choose our heroes as well. Not from movie screens or marketing campaigns, but from real human beings who act rightly when it costs them dearly.

Ahmed al-Ahmed is one such hero. No, I’m not comparing him to the sahabah. But we do not live in the time of the sahabah. We live in an age of runaway technology, overhwelming mass media, and widespread oppression and corruption. We must laud our heroes when they appear.

Ahmed is not a hero because he is flawless. Again, I know little about his personal relgious convictions. He is a hero because, in one decisive moment, he chose other poeople’s lives over his own safety, conscience over calculation, and mercy over self-preservation.

Sources

• • ABC News (Australia)
    Interviews with Ahmed al-Ahmed’s father Mohamed Fateh al-Ahmed regarding the events at Bondi Beach, Ahmed’s injuries, and his motivations.

  • News.com.au
    Reporting on Ahmed al-Ahmed’s background, injuries, surgeries, and public response following the Bondi Beach attack.

  • NSW Police Force Media Releases
    Official statements on the Bondi Beach public place shooting, timeline of events, and police intervention.

  • The Guardian (Australia)
    Coverage of the Bondi Beach attack, investigation details, and confirmation of the attackers’ identities.

  • SBS News (Australia)
    Reporting on Ahmed al-Ahmed’s medical condition, recovery, and statements attributed to family members.

  • Al Araby Television Network
    Interview with Ahmed’s cousin Mustafa al-Asaad describing Ahmed’s actions as a humanitarian act and a matter of conscience.

Related:

A War Hero Comes For Taraweeh – The Remarkable Story Of Hajjah Hasna al-Hariri

Do You Know These Heroes of Eid?

The post Ahmed al-Ahmed and the Meaning of Courage appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Laziness and lack of passion, combined with the rise of artificial intelligence (AI), will be the bane of our Ummah’s existence. Short-form media that constantly fires our synapses for that feel-good chemical, catering to limited attention spans, has taken over our lives. This has narrowed our chances of passing the ultimate test of the dunya.

In Islamic tradition, the Dajjal is described not only as a figure of physical trial, but as a master of deception, illusion, and confusion, someone who blurs the line between truth and falsehood until people no longer know what to trust. Whistleblowers are dismissed as conspiracy theorists, seemingly Islamic videos microdose incorrect information to slowly make people question their faith, and scholars are categorized as extremists. The Dajjal will not be as apparent as many of us are falsely led to think. With the onslaught of microtrends, mainstream fashion, popularized language, and made-up ideologies, deception is already infiltrating our minds, not through force, but through familiarity, convenience, and constant exposure.

How Deep Has This Deception Sunk In? 

It has become increasingly difficult to hold onto our faith in this day and age, as foretold to be a sign of the end of time. As narrated by Anas ibn Malik , the Prophet said:

“A time of patience will come to people in which adhering to one’s religion is like grasping a hot coal.” [Sunan al-Tirmidhī 2260, Sahih (authentic) according to Al-Albani]

With the world changing so rapidly, Islam can sometimes feel centuries behind in its practices. Determining what is halal and haram, and what is permissible in interactions, dealings, and research, can make Islam seem more rigid than it truly is. While endless information is available with a few clicks, the more advanced technology becomes, the less informed people seem to be. 

AI Videos and the Threat of Misinformation 

AI has been in development long before its public release. Now, with common citizens having access to powerful technologies, it is increasingly difficult to discern what is real. Globally, this poses threats to security, sincerity, and solidarity. Fake pictures and videos can deceive the untrained eye and spread misinformation rapidly. Recently, videos of sheikhs, muftis, and scholars have been scrutinized for questionable statements. Short clips of muftis giving fatwas without proper evidence have become popular among those who lack deep knowledge of Islamic Fiqh. Comments often show confusion and doubt, highlighting the need for proper understanding.

“Relying solely on what we see, instead of belief grounded in authentic teachings, contradicts Islamic principles.” [PC: Aerps.com (unsplash)]

 As AI improves, individuals are creating videos of prominent leaders and spreading them as if the scholars themselves produced them. Earlier this year, an AI-altered clip of Sheikh Dr Abdur Rahman Al-Sudais circulated widely, spreading biased misinformation. Even after being debunked, the confusion persisted, demonstrating how easily trust can be eroded. The General Presidency for Religious Affairs at the Two Holy Mosques released a statement confirming the clip was false, underscoring the scale of the problem. 

This illustrates a severe unity and media literacy problem within the Ummah. Many Muslims turn against one another online, often prioritizing personal validation over seeking truth. Relying solely on what we see, instead of belief grounded in authentic teachings, contradicts Islamic principles. Being knowledgeable in deen should not negate being competent in understanding the world around us. Proper understanding of religion requires awareness of modern technologies and media, as well as the tools to critically assess information. 

The Rise of “Sheikh GPT” and AI Misguidance 

AI is increasingly being used as a resource for Islamic guidance. Columbia Journalism reported that AI models provided incorrect answers to more than 60 per cent of queries (Columbia Journalism, 2025). These systems can offer biased, speculative, or incorrect responses. Many people unfamiliar with scholars turn to conversational AI for religious advice, believing they are receiving reliable guidance. 

Religious questions, especially nuanced ones, require consultation with scholars, muftis, or sheikhs. Classical knowledge involves research, evidence, and context, often unavailable online. The preservation of Islamic knowledge was never casual or convenient. Scholars of hadith would travel for months, sometimes years, to verify a single narration, carefully examining chains of transmission, the character of narrators, and the consistency of reports. Imam al-Bukhari is reported to have memorized hundreds of thousands of narrations, accepting only a fraction after rigorous scrutiny, prayer, and verification. Knowledge was earned through discipline, sacrifice, and accountability, not instant answers or surface-level familiarity.

AI cannot replace the depth of human scholarship or the oral traditions through which Islam has historically been transmitted. Old manuscripts, parchments, and other sources of wisdom are not accessible to AI, which only draws from online content. While AI may provide answers to simple questions, it encourages habits of shallow engagement, diminishing the practice of active research and reflection. 

Digital Manipulation and Contextual Misuse 

Creators who are not knowledgeable about Islam often take ayahs, hadith, and practices out of context to produce viral content. These clips spread quickly, often with inflammatory captions, provoking outrage rather than informed discussion. A 2025 UNESCO report described AI-generated content as creating a “crisis of knowing,” making it difficult for users to distinguish authentic from fabricated material (UNESCO, 2025). 

This is particularly dangerous for religious content. AI-manipulated videos of respected scholars, like the case of Sheikh Dr Al-Sudais, demonstrate how quickly misinformation can erode trust. AI models are often seen as convenient conversationalists, but they lack accountability, depth, and the ability to interpret religious context, nuance, and jurisprudential principles. Overreliance on these tools fosters a “copy-paste” mentality and encourages superficial engagement with Islam. 

The Role of AI in Surveillance and Control 

The concept of AI itself is not inherently bad. AI has many legitimate applications in research, organization, and efficiency. However, with it increasingly used directly against Muslims, including in surveillance, data tracking, and social monitoring, we must approach it with caution. Reliance on AI can subtly condition compliance and make us more receptive to the tricks of the Dajjal. It is no longer merely a tool for convenience; it has become an instrument of influence and control that can weaken spiritual and communal resilience. 

Returning to Authentic Learning of Islam

“Deep engagement with the deen is essential to develop discernment, patience, and spiritual strength.” [PC: Ishan-Seefromthesky (unsplash)]

The solution begins with dedicating time to formal Islamic education or, at the very least, setting aside daily periods to study directly from scholars, classical books, and verified sources. Learning Islam cannot be outsourced to algorithms or unverified online creators. Deep engagement with the deen is essential to develop discernment, patience, and spiritual strength. This knowledge must be complemented by digital literacy so that we can critically assess the content we encounter online. 

Patience and discernment are essential. The Prophet ﷺ warned that a time would come when holding firmly to one’s religion would be like grasping a burning coal, a trial that demands endurance, clarity, and restraint (Jamiʿ al-Tirmidhi, no. 2260). Critical thinking, verification, and measured responses are necessary to avoid deception. Knowledge of both deen and dunya is crucial. Understanding Islamic teachings while being aware of modern communication methods, digital influence, and misinformation allows the Ummah to protect its faith and its community.

AI is not inherently evil, but when misused, it becomes a tool of confusion, division, and doubt. The responsibility falls on each of us to seek knowledge actively, question critically, and prioritize authenticity over convenience. The Dajjal may not appear in the form we expect. His influence may already be present, infiltrating minds subtly.

Yet the remedy remains steadfast: patience, authentic knowledge, and unwavering commitment to Islam. 

 

Related:

– The Promise of SAIF: Towards a Radical Islamic Futurism

– [Podcast] Man 2 Man: How Social Media Is Killing Your Imaan

The post AI And The Dajjal: Why We Need To Value Authentic Islamic Knowledge In An Age Of Convincing Deception appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Deek shows his family the Saghir Building, reveals a great surprise for Faraz, and confronts his own mission during a heartfelt picnic.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28| Part 29 | Part 30  | Part 31

* * *

“Every being on earth is bound to perish. Only your Lord Himself, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain.”
– Surat Ar-Rahman, 26-27

A New World

The next morning Deek woke up newly born, as if he’d fallen through the black depths of the river, passed through an underground tunnel, and risen into a new world where the sun shone, he was loved, and miracles happened every day.

Of course, he realized, that was how the world had always been. He simply hadn’t appreciated it as he did now.

He was still weak from his near-death experience, and at moments felt like his legs might not hold him up. But he was back with his family. Sunlight the color of egg yolks streamed in through the windows, bathing his skin and warming him, as if to remind him that there was more than one kind of natural flow, and that life went on. Looking out of the window, he saw Marco’s incredible sculpture hovering in the front yard like a sign of unimaginable things to come.

Bagila bil-Dihin

Rania and the girls were still asleep. Deek padded into the kitchen in his pajamas and slippers, and started pulling ingredients out of the pantry and fridge. A half hour later he’d prepared bagila bil-dihin, a slightly heavy Iraqi breakfast dish consisting of fried eggs over broad beans and soaked pita bread, topped with hot oil. Alongside it, he prepared thin-sliced Hollandaise cheese, black olives, a few sweet pastries he’d found in the fridge and warmed up, and fresh dates.

The girls trickled out, awakened by the smell of the food, and helped him set the table, and Rania came out last, rubbing her eyes.

“MashaAllah ya Deek,” Rania said. “You made breakfast for a queen.”

“And you are that queen?”

“Obviously.”

“How do you know it was me?” Deek said. “It might have been the girls.”

“Sanaya would have made a vegetarian omelette, and Amira would have heated up a frozen bean burrito.”

“Whatever Mom,” Amira objected. “It’s not my fault nobody taught me to cook.”

“I could never tear you away from the video games long enough to learn.”

Ah yes, Deek thought. I’m definitely home again.

As they ate, Rania kept reaching out to caress Deek’s shoulder, or rub his back. It was odd but sweet.

After breakfast he said, “I need help. I’m not feeling all the way back to normal strength, but I need to check out of the hotel and bring my stuff home.”

“Good idea,” Sanaya said. “It’s about time you checked out of that palatial dreamland.”

“Is it a palatial dreamland?” Rania asked. “I’ve never seen it.”

Wacky Symbolism

“I have another favor to ask,” Deek said. “I want to invite our friends and family to a picnic at Lost Lake Park. And my office staff too. It will be catered, but I want to ask them to bring potluck dishes as well.”

“What office staff?” Rania asked, and Deek saw that sharpness again, that sense of being excluded.

“You’ll see. I’ll take you there.”

“At Lost Lake?” Sanaya said incredulously.

Amira smiled. “That’s a bad-ass power move. A picnic on the spot where you died.”

“He didn’t die,” Rania said firmly. “And don’t say ass.”

Amira giggled at this. “You just said it, Mom.”

“Sanaya,” Deek said. “Could you organize it with one of those online event organizers? And mail invitation cards too?”

“You should ask Amira. She’s the event organization whiz. All our friends ask her to organize their birthday parties.”

“I had no idea.”

An Uninvited Guest

The doorbell rang, interrupting Deek’s last few bites. He found a 20ish Arab-looking brother standing there, holding a plastic portfolio case. He was the color of cafe au lait, with curly black hair and an off-the-rack suit.

“As-salamu alaykum akhi,” the man began, and continued in Arabic, asking Deek if he was Mr. Saghir, the wealthy investor.

Deek held up a hand and spoke in English. “I don’t know you, and I didn’t invite you here. If you have a proposal, contact my finance manager, Zakariyya Abdul Ghani. Don’t come here again.” He shut the door, even as the guy was trying to speak.

He was barely at the table when the doorbell rang again. Anger rose inside him like a volcano as he strode to the door. “Habibi,” Rania called in alarm. “Take it easy.”

Flinging the door open, Deek seized the man’s shirt in two hands and took a step forward, causing the man to stumble and pinwheel his arms. “Get away from my door,” Deek hissed, “before I call the police.” He shoved, and the man fell to the ground, just missing Marco’s sculpture. The portfolio opened, and papers scattered across the lawn. Deek felt guilty, but held his ground, even as the man rose, collected his papers and began to curse him, telling him he was not a real Muslim, and that Allah would make him suffer.

When he was back at the table, his face as dark as a thundercloud, Rania said, “That happens sometimes. I usually just keep the door locked.”

“We can’t live like that. Contact your contractor, and tell them to build a wall around the house, with a secure gate. Tell him it’s a top priority.”

Rania nodded. “I’ll do it today. We can’t have you tussling with strangers on the doorstep.” Deek shot her a sharp glance, thinking she was rebuking him, but her gentle smile said otherwise.

The Venetian Suite

Before they left the house, Deek pulled Rania aside. “Honey, are you sure you don’t want to stay home and rest? The girls told me how much your back has been hurting.”

She patted his chest. “It’s the weirdest thing. Since I dove into the river and saved your life, I haven’t had the slightest twinge of pain.”

That’s because you traded the pain, Deek thought, for the right to remind me for the rest of our lives that you saved my life. But he didn’t say this out loud, for she truly had saved his life, and had earned the right to say so.

* * *

As Deek drove, Rania continued reaching out and touching his shoulder. Finally he glanced at her and raised his eyebrows.

Rania blushed. “You’re so handsome now. I think you’re in better shape than when we met.”

What he saw in her gaze made Deek blush as well, and he returned his eyes to the road.

A half hour later the family stood in the living room of Deek’s suite at the Marco Polo hotel. Rania walked slowly around the suite, marveling at the size, the designer furniture and the Venetian decor.

“No wonder you didn’t want to come home,” she said. She walked to the bed, shed her shoes and climbed in. “I could get used to this. When is it paid until?”

Deek followed her and sat on the edge of the bed. “I did so want to come home,” he insisted. “Anyway, it’s paid for another three days.”

“Does it come with free breakfast?”

“Yes. I usually ate in the room. Sometimes they’d set it up on the balcony for me.”

“Really? What would they bring you?”

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Deek answered. “Whatever I wanted. Omelets, smoked salmon, avocado, cheese, espresso, fruit. Once they got to know my tastes they started bringing me shakshuka, fresh mango, berries, Turkish coffee.”

Rania sat up in the bed. “No donuts?”

Deek winced, understanding the barb: you enjoyed all this, while I was at home alone and in pain. He shifted nervously. “I don’t eat that stuff anymore. I’ve changed a lot of things.” Forgive me, he meant to say, but let it lie.

“How about if we stay here a few days?”

“But honey,” Deek pleaded. “I’m tired of this place. Lately it feels like a prison. I want to go home.”

Sanaya had already begun packing Deek’s clothing into the two large suitcases they’d brought with them, while Amira sat on the edge of the fountain, letting the water splash off her hand.

“Mom,” Sanaya said, “Why don’t you go soak in the jacuzzi for a while? There are robes in the bathroom. Amira and I will pack, and when we’re done we’ll order room service for lunch.”

“There’s a jacuzzi?” Rania brightened at that and slipped off into the bathroom. Sanaya gave Deek a wink. “Mom deserves a little pampering,” she said. “You don’t have to give her the moon and the stars. Just a little luxury for a day.”

Deek chuckled. When had his daughter become so wise?

The Saghir Building

Just north of a small shopping center near the river, Deek pulled into a parking lot and parked in front of a six story white office building with mirrored windows.

“Where are we?” Rania asked.

The Saghir Building

Deek only smiled. “Come.” Exiting the car, they walked forward into a wide open-air plaza, a welcoming forecourt paved in pale stone and framed by neat rows of olive trees and tall ornamental grasses. A low burbling fountain provided a soft, rhythmic backdrop. The air smelled faintly of rosemary, as someone had planted herbs along the walkway.

Off to one side stood a metal bench, and beside it a large bronze sculpture of several children clustered around an open book, their faces intent, their postures relaxed and natural. The details were exquisite—the folds of clothing, the smooth curve of a child’s cheek, the sense of motion captured in stillness.

Rania pointed at the sculpture. “That’s a Clement Renzi! He was a Fresno sculptor. I’ve seen a few of his pieces at Fresno State and in the Tower District.” She walked her fingers lightly along the edge of a bronze sleeve. “This is a nice space. Whoever owns this building has good taste.”

Sanaya spun in a slow circle, taking it all in.

Amira hopped up onto the low fountain wall and stuck her hand in the water. “Why are we here, Baba? Are we meeting someone?”

Rania turned back toward Deek, smiling but puzzled. “Yes. What is this?”

Deek pointed behind her.

Mounted on a column of black marble, just a few steps from where she stood, was a brushed-steel plaque.

Rania read it aloud:

THE SAGHIR BUILDING
Offices & Executive Suites

She blinked. Then frowned at the plaque. Then at Deek.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why is our name on here?”

Sanaya’s mouth fell open. “No, Baba, really?”

“Really what?” Rania demanded.

“This is legit, Baba,” Amira said.

Rania looked back at Deek. “Did someone dedicate it? Is this a coincidence?”

Deek shook his head softly. “No, honey. We own it.”

Rania’s mouth opened slightly. “We what?”

A Different Reality

“I bought it,” Deek said gently. “Well, technically the family office did. One floor is ours. The other floors are leased to tenants.”

Rania stared at him as if the words were rearranging themselves in the air and refusing to land.

“You bought… a building.” Her voice was faint. “A six-story building.”

“Uh-huh.”

Color drained from her face, not in fear, but in overwhelmed disbelief.

She sank onto the bench, one hand pressed lightly to her cheek. “La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah… I need a moment.”

The girls exchanged a look – half amused, half concerned – and flanked her on the bench.

Rania let out a long breath. “Habibi… I thought you meant an office. A suite. Maybe some desks. She gestured helplessly at the smooth white facade, the mirrored windows, the plaza blooming around them. “Not this.”

Deek sat beside her. “I should have told you earlier. I know that. But I didn’t want to tell you while we were fighting. And then… everything happened at the river.”

Rania covered his hand with both of hers. “Deek… this is enormous.”

Deek made a half apologetic face. “Not really. Commercial real estate is in a slump right now. I got it for only three million. That’s a drop in the bucket.”

“Three million dollars is a drop in the bucket?”

“I get that you’re having trouble adjusting. But I need you to try. Our reality is very different now. This is part of what we need to talk about. There are decisions that need to be made. Anyway, let’s go upstairs.”

She studied his face for a long moment—and finally nodded. “Okay. I’m ready. Show me.”

The girls stood, grinning, and the four of them stepped inside. The lobby smelled faintly of eucalyptus and fresh paint, and the noonday sun sliced in through the wide front windows, reflecting off cream-colored marble tiles. A small waterfall bubbled along one wall, and a receptionist sat behind a sleek walnut desk.

She stood as they approached. “Good morning, Mr. Saghir.” She offered a radiant, professional smile. “Welcome back.”

Rania blinked. “She knows you?”

“We met recently,” the receptionist explained.

“What button do we press?” Amira asked in the elevator.

“Four,” Deek said.

Sanaya frowned. “You’re the owner, you don’t get the top floor?”

“This building had existing renters. Architecture firm on one, medical billing on two, call center on three, law offices on five and six. Four was available so that’s what I took.”

“Wow.” Amira pressed the glowing four with ceremonial reverence. “Baba, you’re like—an actual big shot.”

Deek laughed, embarrassed. “I only have what Allah gave me. It doesn’t make me a big shot. It’s an obligation. It’s important that we understand that.”

Family Office

The elevator chimed, and the doors opened onto a hallway lined with framed black-and-white cityscape photographs. A frosted glass door stood ahead, the lettering elegant and understated:

Saghir Family Office
Private Investments & Philanthropy

Rania put a hand on her hip. “You started a family office without telling your family?”

Deek grimaced, embarrassed. “It evolved very quickly. Even I have only been here twice.”

Inside, the reception area was bright, modern, every design choice intentional. A long teal sofa hugged one wall, beneath a painting of the San Joaquin River at sunset. A coffee table held a bowl of fruit and a wrapped tray with a selection of baklawa.

A mid-twenties African-American woman in a beige hijab stood from her workstation. “Alhamdulillah, you’re well, Mr. Saghir!” Her smile was genuine and warm. “We’ve all been making dua for you. Hi Sanaya, Amira.”

“Naeema?” Sanaya laughed. “You work for my dad now?”

“She’s our administrative coordinator,” Deek said. “She keeps the office from collapsing into chaos, or so I’m told.”

Naeema beamed.

“This is my wife, Rania,” Deek said.

Naeema shook hands graciously. “We’ve met, I don’t know if you remember.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you have time, try the cafeteria downstairs. Your husband switched the menu over to halal Mediterranean food. Everyone loves it, even the other tenants.”

Rania raised an eyebrow at Deek. “Mm-hmm. That’s nice.”

From another office, a young man stepped out—tall, with wire-rim glasses and a short beard. Crisp blue shirt, sleeves rolled up.

“This is Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani,” Deek said. “Our CFO.”

“And admirer of your husband’s ability to perform ten impossible tasks at once,” Zakariyya said with a polite nod. “Sister Rania, it’s wonderful to meet you. The girls too. Deek, we have a few additions to the staff. Do you want to meet them?”

“Not right now. Where’s Marcela?”

“Out scouting. Plus, city inspection on the church property. She said she’ll text with updates.”

Deek nodded, then turned to the family. “Marcela is the real estate director. She wants to buy a lot more commercial property, while prices are low. Anyway, come, I want to show you something.”

Those Whose Hearts Tremble

He led them down a short hallway to another door with frosted glass. The sign read:

Executive Suite — Private

He opened it.

The room was larger than their living room at home, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the slow bend of the San Joaquin River. Sunlight danced across the water and flashed across the polished hardwood floors.

A massive U-shaped desk dominated the center. A second seating area with a plush sofa and armchairs occupied one corner. Bookshelves lined a wall, still mostly empty except for a Qur’an on a stand, a model of a dhow ship, a sculpture of a lion mid-stride, and one of Sanaya’s kindergarten paintings, framed and labeled “Baba #1.”

Rania covered her mouth with her hand.

Amira ran straight to the window. “Baba! You can see the river. Like, the exact part where-” She stopped herself, glancing back at him.

“It’s okay,” Deek said gently. “It’s good to see it from a different angle.”

Rania walked a slow, reverent circle around the office.

“It’s not finished,” Deek said quickly. “Some art still needs hanging. And I want something representing Iraq, and -”

Rania cut him off with a sharp wave. “It’s astonishing.” Yet when she looked at him, her face registered something other than pleasure. “Makes the home office I’m building for you look quaint.”

Deek went to her, took her hand. “No, honey, you’re wrong. The home office is a thousand times more precious to me than all of this. I’ll drop by this office frequently, but I’ll work from the home office.”

“You don’t have to do that, Deek. This is obviously where you belong.”

Deek sighed. “Let’s go to the conference room.”

The conference room was glass-walled and sunlit, with a long walnut table, eight modern chairs, and a Quranic selection – ayahs 2 and 3 of Surat Al-Anfal – framed on the far wall:

“The believers are only those whose hearts tremble at the remembrance of Allah, whose faith increases when His revelations are recited to them, and who put their trust in their Lord. Those who establish prayer and donate from what We have provided for them.”

Quiet Apprehension

They took their seats, the four of them clustered near one end of the long table. Deek pressed a small console button.

A soft chime sounded. “Yes, Mr. Saghir?” Naeema’s voice came through a ceiling speaker.

“Naeema, could we have coffee, water, and a plate of muffins? Whatever’s fresh.”

“Of course. Be there in two minutes.”

Amira slouched comfortably in the chair. “Wow. You can just… call people and ask for muffins.”

Rania gave her a pointed look. “Your father has always been able to ask for muffins. He just never did.”

Deek didn’t even know what that meant, but he let it pass. He looked around at his family. Their faces – all three – showed a quiet apprehension. They felt the seriousness of the moment.

Deek folded his hands on the table. “I don’t think you all grasp how much money we really have. And yes it’s we, not me. Whatever Allah has blessed me with belongs to this family, and to your future children, girls, and their children after them.”

“Okay…” Sanaya tapped on the table with a fingernail. “How much do we have? Millions, right?”

Deek chuckled nervously. “Some of the investments I made just recently have done well. Our net worth now stands at about six hundred million dollars.”

Rania simply sat, wide-eyed. Sanaya whistled. Amira put her hands together, threw them out suddenly and made the sound of an explosion. “Sound – of – mind – blowing,” she said.

Sanaya nodded slowly. “It’s pretty wild.”

“Say alhamdulillah,” Deek reminded them.

“Alhamdulillahi rabbil aalameen,” Rania whispered.

“I wanted to bring you here,” Deek said, “because our lives are changing. And before they change any further, I want us to decide together what that future looks like.”

The girls exchanged a quick look. Rania stared at him steadily.

“Baba,” Sanaya said carefully, “what does that mean?”

Deek gave her a warm, reassuring smile. “It means that everything you’ve worked for still matters. Nothing you’ve done is wasted. Sanaya, you’ve studied hard in pharmacy. You are brilliant. And if you truly want to continue and become a pharmacist, I will support you fully.”

She nodded, though uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

“But,” Deek continued gently, “I want you to know that our reality is different now. You don’t have to work in a pharmacy for the rest of your life. You could own a chain of them. You could build something far bigger than what pharmacy school prepares you for.”

Sanaya looked stunned – not flattered, not dismissive – just stunned.

Amira frowned thoughtfully. “Does that mean… I shouldn’t go into event organizing anymore?”

“No,” Deek said, turning to her. “It means you don’t have to settle for being someone people hire to run their parties. You could own an entire venue. A banquet hall, a wedding garden, a conference center – whatever you dream.”

Amira’s eyes widened. “Own a venue?” She sat straighter. “Actually… that sounds kind of amazing.”

Rania touched Amira’s hand, smiling. “We’ll help you think it through.”

Deek took a breath. “And your mother… I know she’s taken leave from the hospital. And I know she’s exhausted.”

Rania’s eyes softened, but she said nothing.

“I thought,” Deek continued, “she might want to take on something meaningful, something that uses her compassion, her insight, her organizational strength. The family office needs a philanthropic director. Someone to oversee our charitable work, guide big decisions, partner with masajid and relief groups… someone with a heart like hers.”

Rania stared at him for a moment, then looked down, overwhelmed.

“And Sanaya,” Deek added, “you could intern under her. Learn the ropes. Run projects. Continue school if you want, or explore other paths. You’re at the right age to shape something new. I’m not telling you what to do. These are options.”

Sanaya swallowed hard. “This is… a lot.”

“It is,” Deek agreed. “But that’s why I wanted us here. I don’t want what happens next to feel like something happening to you. I want it to be something we build together.”

The New House

“Last thing,” Deek said. We need to talk about the new house.”

“I haven’t even seen it,” Rania stated flatly. “As usual.”

“It’s unfinished. But it’s 50 acres of prime land, with a view of the river. I paid a good chunk of money for it. But I don’t want to move there. The girls say it’s spooky and too far away, and I’m happy in our current house.”

“Fifty acres,” Rania mused, elbows on the table. “I’ve been enjoying the process of building the home office. Learning about the codes, dealing with the architect, all of that. What if I were to finish that house, then we sell it? Could you finance that?”

“Would you really want to take that on?”

“I think it would be fun.”

“Then knock yourself out. Build a mansion, pool, jacuzzi, tennis court, horse stables… Whatever you can dream of. But consult with Marcela, she’ll tell you what features are popular with buyers.”

Rania sat back, smiling.

Stay Grounded

Muffin and latte art

A soft knock came, and Naeema entered with a tray—coffee, tea, water, and a basket of warm muffins. She set them down, smiled, and slipped out. Rania snatched up a muffin and bit into it without hesitation, and the girls followed suit. Still munching, Rania poured coffee for the four of them, her hands steadier now.

“Yummy and hot,” Amira commented.

“And there’s one more thing,” Deek said. “We have properties in San Francisco that need oversight. Someone has to visit occasionally. Check the books, monitor development. Whoever does that will have a driver – I have someone in mind, an amazing driver and bodyguard. I’m just mentioning this because Sanaya, I know you don’t like to drive on the highway, and Amira you don’t have a license yet. To cut to the chase… Long-term, one of you will be running the family business. I’m not choosing who. I want you to grow into it at your own pace.”

The girls looked at each other again—this time not with confusion, but dawning awareness.

“However,” Deek added firmly, “none of this means becoming one of those spoiled rich families who winter in the Caribbean and summer in Europe, and whose hardest decision is which designer outfit to wear.”

Rania raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “Yes. Wouldn’t that be terrible.”

The girls laughed.

Deek squeezed her hand under the table. “I’m serious. We live normally. We stay grounded. We serve Allah. We help people. We stay humble. I’m telling you. My stay at the Venetian didn’t make me happier. I’ve seen what the other side is like – rich and lonely. It’s not pretty.”

Rania leaned back in her chair, her expression softening into something proud and resolute.

Amira reached for another muffin. “So, Baba… what you’re saying is…”

“Yes?”

“We’re leveling up. Like in a video game.”

Deek laughed. “Yes, habibti. But we’ll do it one step at a time. You know what happens when you level up?”

“It gets harder,” Amira said solemnly.

“Right. And stop eating muffins, already.”

Sanaya reached across the table and put a hand on his. Rania laid hers atop Sanaya’s, and Amira slapped hers on top, making her mother grimace.

For the first time since the river, Deek felt wholly, completely steady. The future was no longer something to fear. It was something they would walk into together.

Bengal Beanz

That evening, Deek texted Faraz.

Can you meet for coffee? I’ll pick you up.

Faraz replied immediately: Of course, akhi. I am ready.

When Deek pulled up, Faraz climbed into the passenger seat, brushing bits of rice off his shirt and adjusting his crown-style kufi.

“Where we going?” he asked.

“You’ll see.”

When they pulled into the parking lot of a newly renovated café called Bengal Beanz, Faraz leaned forward, studying the freshly painted sign depicting a Bengali tiger wearing round spectacles, reading a book while sipping a steaming mug of coffee.

Faraz grinned. “Ahh, Bengali pride! This used to be Fresno Roast, akhi. I guess they go out of business. But look! Bengali tiger and book. Now this is respectable coffee shop.” He chuckled, pleased.

Inside, they found themselves at the tail end of a long line, but the assistant manager behind the counter – a short, thin blonde woman who looked like she ran marathons – spotted them and waved. “Evening, Mr. Saghir!”

Faraz raised his eyebrows. “The barista know you? You coming here a lot?” He looked around. The place was packed, nearly all the tables occupied, mostly with young hipsters and college students, some working busily on their laptops.

Studying the menu, Faraz winced. “Seven dollar for coffee? Astaghfirullah. How a college student pay that? When I am in college I live on rice and dried lentils that I pick up from the street.”

Deek gave his friend a skeptical look. He very much doubted that Faraz had collected lentils from the street. He seemed to remember that Faraz’s father was an official in the Bangladeshi foreign ministry.

“Don’t worry,” Deek said. “I invited you, remember? It’s my treat.”

“Even so… We could have free coffee in the masjid kitchen, like old days. You remember After Isha we sit and talk crypto for hours, and eat those French cookies you like.” Then, embarrassed, he cleared his throat. “I mean, I forget you are… you know.” He waved vaguely. “Rich now. But still. Wasting money is wasting money.”

Deek smiled. “You should be glad so many people are willing to pay seven dollars for a coffee.”

“Why you say that?”

“It’s money in your pocket.”

“What pocket we talking?”

Instead of answering, Deek pointed to an item on the menu. A stylized tiger paw print labeled a specialty blend:

Bandarban Arabica — Bright, Floral, Single-Origin

Faraz leaned in, incredulous. “Bandarban? Is a district in Bangladesh! How they get beans from my homeland all the way here?” He slapped the counter. “Okay, I take that one! With hazelnut syrup.”

Deek ordered a Turkish latte for himself.

They took their drinks to a small corner table. Steam curled upward; the shop hummed with quiet conversation and soft instrumental music.

Rough Time

“So,” Deek said, blowing over his cup, “how are you doing, akhi?”

Faraz sipped his coffee. “Unbelievable! Is real Bangladeshi coffee. Is like I am home again. Really blowing to my mind.”

“I asked how you are doing.”

Faraz waved a hand. “Fine, fine.”

“No.” Deek touched his friend’s arm. “I really want to know.”

Faraz hesitated, cleared his throat. “Rough time. I lose all my savings in crypto. Not only crypto but bank savings. We sell one of the cars. I have to convince my wife to move to one bedroom apartment. With three kids, imagine? But rent is killing us. Masjid Madinah don’t pay that much, you know. I been doing handyman jobs… whatever comes. Alhamdulillah for everything, but…” His voice cracked. “Is been hard.”

Deek frowned. “Have you actually moved yet?”

“No. Looking for cheap place.”

Deek nodded. “You should hold off on that.”

“Hold what?”

“I mean, don’t move.”

“Why? We can’t afford -”

“Come with me.”

They went through a door marked Employees Only as the barista gave Deek a knowing smile. Walking down a short corridor, they stepped into the small manager’s office.

Partners

Faraz stopped dead.

Two framed photographs hung on the wall, side by side. One showed Deek, smiling and holding a steaming mug beneath the Bengal Beanz sign. The other was a photo of Faraz, taken at a masjid barbeque, laughing with a half-burnt skewer in hand. Each photo had a plaque beneath it.

DEEK SAGHIR — Partner
FARAZ AHMED — Managing Partner

Faraz stared. His lips parted. His throat bobbed. “Akhi,” he whispered. “What… what is this?”

Deek placed a hand on his shoulder. “This shop is yours and mine. I invested, but you run the place and we split the profits. My people have looked over the books. This place is a money machine. You can pay yourself a salary of one hundred K per year to start. Honestly, when you’re ready we could open a second location and double your salary.”

Faraz only stared. “One hundred what? Dollars? Per day?”

“No, my friend,” Deek said gently. “One hundred thousand dollars per year. I’m trying to tell you, this place is yours. We’re co-owners. Both of our names are on the deed.”

Faraz covered his face with both hands as tears came. Soft at first, then shaking. Deek stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

“You deserve this, brother,” Deek said. “You dedicated your life to caring for the masjid and the people there. Now it’s your turn.”

When Faraz finally calmed, Deek guided him gently into the manager’s chair.

“Try it,” Deek said softly. “Get comfortable.”

Faraz obeyed hesitantly, like someone touching a dream that might evaporate. He sank into the chair, palms flat on the desk, staring around the small office.

“When you’re ready,” Deek told him, “the assistant manager will teach you everything—inventory, payroll, scheduling, espresso machines. You’ll pick it up fast.”

Faraz nodded, unable to speak. Deek let himself out quietly, closing the door behind him.

Lift As You Climb

Walking back through the plaza, Deek felt a lump grow in his own throat. It hit him suddenly, sharply, like a slap to the chest: If not for the insane, impossible moonshot of the New York Killa coin—if not for that miracle that set everything else in motion – he would have been where Faraz was now. Overworked, broke and ashamed. Still sitting in that stifling closet, the little fan trying to keep him cool, eating too much junk food and losing money. Fighting with Rania, losing the respect of his family.

Allah had saved him from all of that. SubhanAllah, alhamdulillah. He had no illusions about that. Of course he had worked very, very hard, but nothing happens without the help and will of Allah. He never could have imagined the life he had now.

Faraz had been his partner in a way. The two of them had hung out almost every night, sharing strategies and knowledge. So what kind of man would Deek be if he didn’t share his good fortune with his partner?

November Evans

What had the driver said? November Evans, the fierce little bodyguard who took down a whole squad of North Korean soldiers single-handed. “Lift as you climb. As you progress in life, as you climb the ladder, you bring your people with you. You don’t leave them behind. You lift them up along with you.”

This was why Allah had saved him, and he must never forget it. He whispered under his breath as he stepped into the cooling Fresno night. “Ya Allah, let me be worthy.”

Lost Lake

One week later, Lost Lake Park was alive with people and food and laughter. The air smelled of pine sap and grilling meat. Two halal food trucks and a dessert truck were parked side by side beneath the trees, their windows open, their griddles hissing. A sign on each read, “Free food while it lasts.”

In addition, nearly everyone had brought food, and a wide variety of Arab, American and Pakistani food was laid out on two picnic tables, along with a multitude of desserts.

A handmade banner strung between two trunks read:

WELCOME, FRIENDS & FAMILY
Potluck Picnic – Lost Lake

Amira had chosen the font and colors herself, and it showed; even the little doodled stars around the edges looked professional.

There were about forty people in all. When Deek and his family first arrived, he walked to the edge of the river and gazed out, spotting the overhanging tree branch he’d strapped himself to, until he slipped and fell beneath the water. And there, just downstream, where the river was as wide as an anaconda’s mouth, and as dark as a desperate man’s thoughts, was where Rania must have found him, drowning and essentially dead, not knowing who he was, or at which point in time he existed.

It was astounding that she’d found him underwater in a pitch-black river on a dark night. It was not coincidence or luck. Deek no longer believed in such things. It was Divine providence. It was Allah saying, “Go back to the living for now. I have things in mind for you.”

The ground still bore the tracks of emergency vehicles. He jerked in surprise as someone touched his shoulder, but it was Rania.

“That was a moment,” she said, “that has passed, and will not return. Everything that happens is a barakah if it teaches you something. Turn around.” She grasped his shoulders and turned him to face the lively picnic. “All these people are here because they care about you. They’re not here for the free food. They would have come without that. They’re here for you.”

Deek nodded, shaking off the ghosts of yesterday, and of the more distant past. He gave his wife a hug, then pulled back. “Your back still doesn’t hurt?”

Rania shook her head. “Not a twinge. I can’t explain it.”

“Alhamdulillah. Let’s not look a gift back in the spine.”

Rania laughed. “That doesn’t even make sense.” She took his hand. “Come on, let’s talk to your guests.”

They moved from group to group hugging people, trading jokes, accepting duas and well-wishes. Every plate of food, every smile, felt like a small, shining proof that he was still alive.

Walk With Me

Lubna and her husband sat on a blanket, hats pulled over their eyes, napping. Their kids were under a pop-up canopy with Zaid Karim, Safaa, Hajar and Anna, the gaggle of kids playing and occasionally running to the food trucks, while Zaid and Safaa talked quietly and stuffed themselves with heaping plates of food.

Marco held court at a picnic table with Naeema, Marcela, Zakariyya, and a few of the other family office staff, arguing cheerfully about how monetary policy would affect the price of gold, and whether BRICS would displace the dollar in international trade. Tariq and his wife were sitting with Imam Saleh, probably talking about the Seerah of the Prophet (s), or the lives of the Sahabah. A group of Rania’s nursing friends chatted in the shade, and Rania stayed to talk to them while Deek moved on.

Faraz’s wife Saadiyah and their three kids sat at one of the picnic tables eating, but Faraz was not there. He was at Bengal Beanz, no doubt. He was taking the job very seriously, putting in a lot of work. Saadiyah had already come to Deek’s house once, bringing multiple platters of food, sobbing and thanking him. It had been extremely awkward. He waved, but gave them a wide berth and walked on.

A knot of teenage girls—Sanaya’s and Amira’s friends—hovered around the drinks cooler, laughing at something on a phone. Deek waved to them and walked on.

He spotted Zaid. He’d left his group and was wandering around, scanning the area, looking more like a security guard than a guest. Deek caught up with him.

“Come walk with me a bit,” Deek said quietly.

Lost Lake Park, Fresno

They strolled around the perimeter of the picnic. There was a Hispanic family sitting at a nearby picnic table: a young couple, an older white-haired woman with a cane, and three kids lying on a nearby blanket, looking bored. Deek noticed the envious glances they cast toward the larger group. He approached them.

“Hi guys, how’s it going?”

“Hey, good, wassup?” the father said. He was muscular, with thick black hair and a white brimmed hat, and dressed in what Deek sometimes thought of as a Chicano outfit – baggy shorts, white t-shirt under an oversized flannel shirt, white knee-high socks and white sneakers.

“My name’s Deek.” He gestured. “That’s my party.”

“Is it your birthday?” the young mother asked.

“I almost drowned in the river right there.” He pointed. “My wife saved me. I guess I’m celebrating being alive.”

The Hispanic family made surprised sounds. “Our lady of angels, Mary, mother of Jesus, saved you,” the grandma said.

Deek smiled, not wanting to debate the issue. “Anyway, the food trucks are free. No cost at all. Why don’t you go over and get something? If anyone asks, tell them Deek said it’s okay.”

“Dude, that’s what’s up,” the father said. “God bless you, man.” The kids dashed toward the food trucks while the mother helped the grandma onto her feet. Deek and Zaid walked on.

“Zaid,” Deek said. “I haven’t forgotten what you did. You risked your life for me. You’ve been there for me in a lot of ways, and you never asked for anything.”

“Actually,” Zaid said, grinning. “I asked for my daily fee plus expenses. You gave me a whole lot more.”

“I gave you nothing,” Deek said firmly. “Nothing like you deserved. If you ever need anything at all, you call me. I mean that.”

Zaid smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “It’s the other way around, big man. You’re carrying a boulder now. If you need anything, you call me. Day or night.” He tapped Deek’s chest. “That’s what family is for.”

Moved, Deek pulled his savior and friend into a hug.

Shoulder to Shoulder

From the middle of the meadow where the picnic was going on, a clear voice rose, calling the adhaan for Dhuhr, the sound threading through the trees. Conversations faded. Some of the teenagers fell quiet mid-laugh. Deek and Zaid hurried to join. Imam Saleh stepped forward to lead salat on a flat patch of grass the youth had cleared. Men and women lined up. Picnic blankets became ad-hoc prayer rugs.

Deek found himself shoulder to shoulder with Marco in the first row.

“Allahu akbar,” Imam Saleh called, and the jama’ah followed suit.

Deek raised his hands and felt the familiar settling that came with the opening takbir. Beside him, Marco did the same. When they bowed together in ruku, Deek’s eyes stung unexpectedly. How many times had he and Marco sat in dingy apartments or greasy spoons, arguing about God, meaning, randomness, the cruelty of the world? And now here they stood, shoulder to shoulder, foreheads touching the same patch of earth for the sake of the same Lord.

When Deek recited, “Alhamdulillahi rabbil-aalameen,” the words hit hard. There was so much to be grateful for.

After the salat, the lines dissolved. Kids sprinted away, and young men began organizing teams for a soccer game. Someone produced a ball, and someone else laid out makeshift goals using folding chairs.

Still Got It

“Deek!” Tariq called. “You’re on my team!”

Deek laughed and joined in. At first he jogged cautiously, worried that his lungs or legs might give out. But as the game went on, he found himself cutting, feinting, even managing a decent sprint as he drove the ball before him, finally passing it to Zakariyyah, who shot a clean goal.

The youth cheered as Deek and Zakariyya jogged away with arms raised, Deek nearly tripping over a tree root but staying upright.

“Still got it, Baba!” Sanaya called.

“Barely,” he panted, grinning.

After twenty minutes his chest burned pleasantly and sweat cooled on the back of his neck. He waved himself off the field, wandered to the edge of the clearing and sank down with his back against a broad oak. The bark pressed solidly between his shoulder blades. Above, leaves whispered in soft conversation. The scents of grilled meat and fried onions drifted over on the breeze. In the distance he saw Imam Saleh sitting with the Hispanic family, eating and chatting.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

Dream Visitors

He was still under the tree when he opened them again. The light had changed. The sky above was deeper, an almost-indigo blue, and the edges of the world felt too sharp, too crisp. The children’s shouts had faded to a distant hum.

Someone sat down on his right.

He turned and saw a small, thin woman in a plain wool garment, her face lined but luminous, eyes dark and unwavering. It was his ancestor and conscience, Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah, the great saint and ascetic. On his left, in a beach chair, Queen Latifah lounged in a sweatsuit and sneakers, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of cold apple juice in her hand.

Deek huffed a laugh. “Long time no see.”

Queen Latifah tilted her head. “You’ve been busy, baby.”

On his right, Rabiah watched him with a gaze that seemed to look straight through his skin and bones. She spoke softly, her voice carrying like the river. “Kullu man alayha fan, wa yabqa wajhu rabbika dhul -jalali wal-ikram.”

He knew these ayahs from Surat Ar-Rahman: “Every being on earth is bound to perish. Only your Lord, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain.”

Rabiah said nothing else. She didn’t need to. Her silence weighed more than any lecture. In her eyes he saw a white, six-story building crumbling, phones going dark, bank accounts erased like chalk in the rain. He saw graves closing over the richest and the poorest alike. He saw the river, black and cold, and the moment when nothing mattered except the state of a man’s heart with his Lord.

Queen Latifah gave a low chuckle. “Sister Rabiah be hittin’ you with the heavy truth,” she said. “But she’s right. All that paper?” She flicked her fingers, scattering imaginary bills. “What sticks is love and charity.”

She leaned back against the tree, took a slow sip of her juice, and added, “It don’t mean you can’t enjoy a little mac n’ cheese. We’ll always be here for you, dog.”

Deek blinked, and woke.

A thin line of drool dampened his cheek. The football game raged on in front of him, the shouts of youth rolling across the field. He pushed himself upright, stretching his back. After a moment, he rose and scanned the clearing.

He found Tariq seated beneath a cottonwood tree near the water, earbuds in, gently rocking as he listened to Qur’an recitation on his phone and repeated the ayaat under his breath.

“Hey,” Deek said, approaching.

Tariq pulled out one earbud. “As-salamu alaykum, brother.”

“Wa alaykum as-salam.” Deek paused. “Did you bring any of that mac n’ cheese?”

Tariq grinned proudly. “You’re a man on a mission, aren’t you?”

Deek chuckled. Then his expression softened, thoughtful, as if considering the words more deeply. “I suppose I am.”

THE END

***

Author’s Note: I broke into tears when I wrote the words, “The End.” It’s not that I was sad. Just that I’ve been writing this book since April. I pour my heart into my work, I lose sleep, I dream about it, I think about it all the time. So that moment of culmination, when the project is realized, is emotional.  I feel that Deek is on a good path from here. I don’t think he will be corrupted by his wealth, for he will always have his ancestor Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah in his dreams, reminding him of what matters. Even if he were to somehow lose all the money, I think he’d be okay. There won’t be a sequel to this book, but there will be more Zaid Karim novels inshaAllah, so we may well see how Deek’s life progresses through that lens. I hope you enjoyed this book. If anything in it benefited you, make dua’ for me and my family. I appreciate your loyalty as readers. You mean a lot to me. Jazakum Allah khayr.

 

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:

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

Breakfast With The Khans [Act One] – A Play

 

The post Moonshot [Part 32] – FINAL CHAPTER: A Man On A Mission appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Across the country, Muslim Student Associations (MSAs) are facing a coordinated wave of harassment.

Non-student provocateurs are showing up unannounced to campus events, filming students while they pray, mocking their faith, and disrupting peaceful gatherings. In some cases, these incidents have escalated into violence and desecration of a copy of the Qur’an.

CAIR has received reports of individuals deliberately tracking MSA events online and appearing in person to provoke fear.

This is not spontaneous; it’s organized. Their tactics – cameras, confrontation, heckling – are designed to pressure Muslim students into retreating from campus life.

These agitators’ goal is to provoke and intimidate young Muslims and make them feel vulnerable in their own academic spaces.

But here’s the reality: Muslim students are not helpless; they are not alone; and they will not be intimidated.

Resilience is in our DNA.

American Muslims have endured hostility before in the form of social and political pressure, discrimination, and exclusion. History shows a consistent trend that efforts to silence us only strengthen our resolve.

As Muslim students stand up for their safety and rights with the support of MSA National and national organizations, including CAIR, universities also have an important responsibility to protect them from harassment, safeguard religious freedom, and ensure that campuses remain spaces for learning, not intimidation.

This moment requires action. That’s why CAIR issued a letter recently to over 2,000 colleges and universities across America to take concrete steps to protect Muslim students.

In addition to action, Muslims rely on our faith in these times. It teaches patience under pressure, dignity in the face of mockery, and perseverance when others attempt to undermine our confidence.

Throughout Islamic history, many Muslim leaders and scholars have faced ridicule and harassment, yet remained steadfast and principled. No example is more evident of this than the example of our beloved Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.

The trials we face today cannot compare to the hardships he ﷺ endured. In the darkest moments, he ﷺ was strengthened through divine guidance and unwavering purpose.

And Palestinians have reminded the world during every day of Israel’s genocide, that this spirit of resilience lives on in today’s generation of Muslims.

The fact is that these coordinated disruptions aren’t targeting weakness – they’re targeting strength. Detractors fear a generation of American Muslims who are confident in their identity, visible in public spaces, and active in civic life.

Muslim candidates successfully sweeping races to serve in public office have predictably unleashed a new tide of Islamophobia, and the coordinated campaign of harassment on campuses is one symptom of this wave of hate bias.

To Muslim students, these agitators fear your conviction. Your power. Your unity. They fear the past that doesn’t define your ambitions, and the future leadership you promise.

That fear says more about them than it ever will about you.

Your choices are not theirs to make.

Your education is not theirs to exploit.

And your faith is not a liability for them to pry away from you.

You have every right to gather, organize, pray, and lead. Ignorance, hate, and bigotry will not win.

Your presence – both on campus, and here in America – is not an intrusion. It is a gift, a promise, and a contribution to a brighter future for our country.

Our hardships don’t define us; how we rise through them is what shapes the core of our identity.

Don’t cancel your activities. Take precautions, be vigilant, but stay active and keep organizing.

Support and uplift one another. Build and strengthen alliances with other student groups and interfaith organizations.

Document and report incidents, notify your campus administrators, and contact your local CAIR office.

CAIR will continue to hold institutions accountable to adopt clear anti-harassment policies that address religious intimidation, provide security, enforce consequences for disruptions, and publicly affirm your rights.

This is also a call to action for the broader Muslim community:

We cannot stay on the sidelines while students face these battles. Let’s attend and support MSA activities and programs. Let’s publicly condemn harassment and amplify student voices. Let’s invest in on-campus Muslim chaplaincy programs and student leadership initiatives to mentor, fund, and empower our future generations

Let these coordinated attacks have the opposite effect of what was intended. Let them ignite a movement of confident, connected, courageous young Muslims across our country.

Muslims know that, with Allah by our side, we never stand alone. Let’s assure students that their community stands with them too.

 

Related:

– [Podcast] How to Fight Islamophobia | Monia Mazigh

– Islamophobia In American Public Schools

The post Op-Ed – When Islamophobes Try To Intimidate Us, They Underestimate Our Resolve: A Call to Stand With America’s Muslim Students appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

There are occasions when state power reveals its insecurities with embarrassing transparency. The United States’ revocation of Dr. Naledi Pandor’s visa — executed without reason, without process, and without even the courtesy of bureaucratic finesse — is one such moment. It is not a matter of administrative procedure. It is a symptom. A tremor of anxiety running through a violent Zionist project confronted by a woman whose authority is rooted not in might but in moral clarity.

Pandor, a former Minister of International Relations, a distinguished academic, and one of the most respected voices in the global struggle for Palestinian liberation, is hardly the kind of figure whose movements need to be policed. She commands no militias, stirs no insurrections, and threatens no borders. Her influence derives from something far more subversive: coherence, principle, and the audacity to insist that international law should apply universally rather than selectively.

Her central “offense,” of course, was South Africa’s decision — under her stewardship — to bring a genocide case against Israel before the International Court of Justice. It was a move that shook the architecture of impunity, interrupting a decades-long assumption that Western-backed states remain immune to the world’s highest judicial mechanisms. The ICJ case galvanized the Global South and infuriated those invested in shielding Israel from accountability. Once South Africa shattered the taboo, global dialogue shifted, and Pandor became both symbol and strategist of this recalibration.

Against this background, the visa revocation appears not as an isolated gesture but as part of a broader retaliatory pattern. From Trump’s bizarre political fantasies of a “white genocide” in South Africa, to the discourteous treatment of South Africa’s president during an official visit, to the refusal to receive its ambassador — each episode signals a punitive attitude toward a country that dared to challenge Zionist prerogatives.

Hence, the targeting of Dr. Pandor is not merely administrative mischief. It is a deliberate effort to punish a Global South diplomat who refused to genuflect before power.

The Threat Dr. Pamdor Represents

What, then, makes Pandor such a threat to Zionist power and imperial elites?

It is not merely her criticism of Israel. That alone, while provocative to some, would not have triggered such a response. The deeper threat lies in her refusal to compartmentalize global injustices, and her ability to narrate oppression as a structural, interconnected phenomenon rather than a series of discrete events.

During her recent engagements in the US, in city after city, Pandor spoke with piercing clarity about how the logic of domination in Gaza mirrors forms of dominance elsewhere. Her critique was global, mapping relationships of power that stretch from the Middle East to Africa to South Asia. This is where imperial elites feel uneasy: when the oppressed begin to see their struggles as shared, and when voices like Dr. Pandor help articulate the architecture of empire.

Her comments on Pakistan — careful and measured — highlighted the country’s political pliancy to imperial and Zionist interests. Pakistani-American audiences understood these references immediately, given the widespread repression of dissent in their homeland.

Without naming individuals, she alluded to a political figure widely admired and widely punished, whose pursuit of justice has made him intolerable to Pakistan’s power elite. The audience required no elaboration. The injustice is too stark.

Her comments struck a deep chord because they reflected a broader truth: that oppression does not respect borders, and that regimes aligned with empire frequently adopt the methods of empire. Pandor’s critique was not aimed at personalities but at structures — at the machinery of domination that sacrifices justice to the appetites of global power.

Dr. Pandor’s American hosts — Muslim communities, activists, human rights organizations — deserve credit for extending her platforms across the country, often to overflowing crowds. Their instinct to invite her, to engage with her, and to honor her moral leadership reflects a recognition of her stature in the global struggle for justice. The fact that these communities saw in her a defender of humanity and a champion of Palestine speaks well of their political sensibilities.

Zionist Panic and the Visa That Exposed It

This is what Zionist and Western supremacists cannot tolerate: clarity of analysis, breadth of moral vision, and the ability to illuminate connections across continents. A figure like Pandor cannot be allowed to circulate too freely within the public square because her presence has catalytic potential. She reframes debates. She humanizes victims. She speaks in the language of law rather than the language of propaganda. And she exposes the hypocrisy of invoking human rights selectively while violating them systematically.

By revoking her visa, fanatical Zionists attempted to place a boundary around her influence. Yet the attempt has only drawn more attention to her work and to the anxieties that drove this petty act of reprisal.

The message is unmistakable: the world’s most powerful elites are afraid of a woman whose only weapons are truth and integrity.

And that fear, ironically, magnifies her authority.

The Moment and the Movement

Dr. Pandor does not require rescuing. Her legitimacy rests on foundations far sturdier than any visa stamp. Whether she sets foot in the United States again is immaterial to her global stature. Her influence is already transnational, already expansive, already woven into the moral fabric of contemporary struggles for liberation.

But her treatment by American rulers matters for a different reason: it reveals the boundaries that Zionism attempts to impose on dissent, and the lengths to which it will go to punish those who challenge its preferred narrative. In this sense, defending Pandor is not a personal obligation; it is a political one. It is a refusal to normalize retaliation disguised as procedure.

Let us therefore take three truths forward:

First, Dr. Naledi Pandor remains one of the clearest moral compasses in global politics.

Second, her analysis of oppression — whether in Gaza or the Congo – remains indispensable.

Third, her visa revocation is not a reflection of her weakness, but of Zionist fear and panic.

The real question now is not who fears Dr. Pandor.
We know that answer.

The real question — the one that determines the future of solidarity — is: Who among us is prepared to stop fearing the Zionists that fear her?

 

Related:

– Prominent Journalist And Analyst Sami Hamdi Abducted By American State

– The Witkoff Massacre: Slaughter Of Starving Palestinians Undercuts Trump Pretensions

 

The post Who’s Afraid Of Dr. Naledi Pandor? – Zionist Panic and a Visa Revoked appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

sistIn the hospital and at home, Deek can’t shake the deep chill of the river.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28| Part 29 | Part 30

* * *

“Your Lord has not forsaken you… and the future will be better for you than the past.”

— Surah Ad-Duha, 93:3–4

“In the heart of every winter is a trembling spring.” – Khalil Gibran

Stranger Every Day

The first morning after the harrowing experience at the river, Deek lay in the hospital bed, still deeply tired, barely able to keep his eyes open. He was covered in layers of blankets, though the nurse assured him his core temperature was normal. Rania sat on the bed beside him, her head bandaged from the blow she’d taken, and the girls in chairs by the wall. Dr. Ali, the tall British-Pakistani doctor who had previously treated his gunshot wound, studied Deek critically.

“You do live a strange life, Mister Saghir,” she said.

“Stranger every day,” he agreed.

Deek knew that he should be grateful and happy that he had survived that terrible ordeal, and he was indeed grateful, yet the terror clung to him like a layer of mud he could not wash off. A part of him was still in the roiling river, fighting for his life, not knowing whether he was himself or his uncle.

“You suffered something terrible,” Rania said, rubbing his hand between hers. “Give yourself time. You’ll be back to your normal, crazy self in no time, inshaAllah.”

The constant visitors did not help. Deek didn’t know how word of his hospitalization had gotten out, but the stream of people wanting to visit him was unending. They brought flowers and gifts, asked for loans, grants or investments, or simply wished him well. Some he knew – including some of the same wealthy physicians from Masjid Umar who used to ignore him in the past – and some he did not.

Deek had no patience for this nonsense, nor for these fair-weather friends and bloodsuckers. At his request, the hospital installed a security guard outside his room, and admitted no one without his permission. They billed him for this service, of course.

Many of the visitors, though, were welcome. Dr. Rana, his wife and their daughter Maryam were at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, but Dr. Rana’s sister in law brought spicy Pakistani food, which Deek loved.

Rania was there most of the time of course, while the girls came and went.

Mac N’ Cheese

At one point the security guard informed him that a man named Tariq was there. “Short black guy in a colorful shirt,” the guard said. Deek’s mood immediately brightened. Tariq was a recent convert, an elementary school teacher who had only been Muslim for a year. The day he took his shahadah Deek gave him his own musalla that he had with him, and ever since then, whenever they saw each other they always talked. Occasionally they played chess on a table in the masjid’s yard. Tariq was a defensive player, the kind that built up ranks of connecting pawns that were like a fortress. Sometimes Deek won, sometimes Tariq.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Send him in.”

“As-salamu alaykum.” Tariq had a quiet, soft voice. Today he wore a colorful daishiki over jeans, and an embroidered green kufi. Tariq presented a casserole dish, and Rania took it from him.

“What is it?” Deek asked.

“Southern style mac n’cheese. I don’t know if ya’ll Arabs eat that, but it’s pretty good, I have to say.”

“I want to try!”

Tariq laughed. Rania fed Deek a large spoonful. It was dense and rich, with a creamy, almost custard-like texture, and a deep cheese flavor.

“Oh my goodness, subhanAllah. This is so good.” He licked his lips. “You’re not related to Queen Latifah by any chance, are you?”

“Matter of fact, my cousin’s wife is one of her personal trainers. But we ain’t related, nah. Why?”

“Brother, you can come visit anytime.”

What School?

Lubna and her husband came, though without the kids, as children were not permitted. The husband spent most of the visit out in the hallway on his cellphone, and Deek found himself missing Hammurabi, oddly enough.

There was something different about Lubna that Deek could not put his finger on. She wore a beautiful cream-colored pantsuit and a double-breasted white coat that made her look like a fashion model, and her face seemed… what? Relaxed, Deek realized. The worry and frown lines that often creased her visage were gone. She looked happy, and this happiness gave her a radiance that he had not seen shining from her since they were children. This made him very happy, and he found himself beaming as she reported the progress on the school.

“I’m missing something,” Rania interrupted. “What school?”

Lubna looked surprised. “Well… Your husband is founding an Islamic school. It’s called Renaissance Islamic Academy, and will combine traditional learning with progressive teaching methods.”

“Oh.” Rania looked back and forth between Deek and his sister. In her eyes he saw hurt, then bewilderment, then a brief flicker of disappointment she didn’t quite hide. A lot had happened during their time apart, and he hadn’t had a chance to fill her in.

“We have a property,” Deek announced. Which was true. Marcela Gómez, the feisty Colombian who was now his family office real estate director, had texted him just an hour ago. She’d found a large church complex in a great neighborhood in north Fresno. It had classrooms, a cafeteria, a football field, basketball courts… Church membership was declining and they couldn’t afford to keep the property. It was valued at $10 million but Marcela thought the owners would go as low as 7.

“Do it,” Deek texted her. “Negotiate the best price you can and start the process.” Then he texted Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani, the young financial advisor – who was now CFO of Deek’s family office – to approve the purchase.

He informed Lubna of this now.

“You bought a church for ten million dollars?” Rania exclaimed. She seemed shocked by the idea.

“No,” Deek said defensively. “For seven million. If Marcela says she can get it down to seven, she can.” He reached out and took Rania’s hand. “Our reality is different now, honey. When we get home we’ll sit down and talk.”

Rania said nothing.

“Fantastic.” Lubna shook her head in amazement. “It’s really coming together. Part of me believed it was all a fantasy. You should also know, by the way, that I interviewed your friend Marco and checked out his references, and found him to be highly qualified and generally a cool guy. I have hired him to teach science. He wants to revamp the curriculum slightly to include the contributions of Muslim scientists. I’ll be paying him well. He asked me for a small advance, by the way. I’m not too crazy about that. But I know he’s poor, so I gave it to him.”

“Marco Tirado?” Rania said incredulously. “You’re hiring Marco? Wouldn’t you want a Muslim instead? And someone… well… reliable?”

Deek gave Rania a sharp glance. Her comment reminded him of the Rania of the last few years: sharp tongued, judgmental and critical of Deek and everything around him, including his friends.

“That’s not very nice,” Deek said, “Marco’s a good man. And he is Muslim now. You should hear him recite the Quran. His voice is as beautiful as a bird on the wind.”

Rania said, “Allah Akbar,” and sat back in her chair, looking dazed.

A Terrible Story

“Lubna,” Deek said. “I want to tell you something.”

She sensed the change in his tone. “Uh-oh. What is it?”

“Pull up a chair.” When she did, he continued. “Do you know why we left Iraq?”

Lubna frowned. “I was very small obviously, but I remember Mama saying that Iraq was a poor country, and that we would have a better life in America. It surprised me, because I never thought we were poor.”

What about our uncles, Khalid and Tarek?

Lubna squinted quizzically. “Ammu Khalid died in a car accident, and Ammu Tarek moved to England to open a bakery.”

“None of that is true.”

Lubna sat up straight. “Why are you telling me this? Is this something I need to know?”

“Maybe not. But it’s about me too. If you don’t want to know, it’s okay.”

Lubna made a displeased clucking sound with her tongue – a very Arab gesture – and shook her head. Then she rubbed her face with both hands.

“SubhanAllah,” she said. “Go ahead and tell me.”

Deek proceeded to relate the whole story: Tarek’s political activities, the arguments in the house, Tarek’s arrest, and the rescue, where young Deek himself helped to pull his father and a wounded Ammu Tarek out of the river. As he told the story he saw his wife leaning forward, listening intently. He had never narrated these events to her.

“The dissident movement smuggled Ammu Tarek out of Iraq to Turkey. He spent a year there, and made his way to England. We fled Iraq in the back of a panel truck with a false wall. You were allowed to take only one suitcase with you. You cried because you had to leave most of your dolls behind. I held you and told you that you’d find better dolls in America.”

Lubna sat back. She had tears in her eyes, and her hands were shaking slightly. Rania had come to sit beside Deek during the story, and massaged his shoulder with one hand.

“I remember that trip in the truck,” Lubna breathed. “I thought it was a bad dream I’d had.” She looked at Deek sharply. “And Ammu Khalid? You said that was not true either.”

“He committed suicide. He didn’t leave a note, but I heard Baba and Mama talking about it one time. Baba believed Khalid had been involved in political killings, and that the experience forced him to confront his own history. Mama thought it was probably the guilt over killing his fellow soldiers.”

Lubna stood up and walked to the far wall of the small hospital room. “This is all horrible. Why did you tell me this?”

“Those events traumatized me. I became withdrawn and moody. I blamed Baba, because there was no one else to blame. Tarek stood up for what he believed in, and Khalid at least was a strong man of action, but who was Baba? A quiet Quran teacher with no convictions. I know it’s ridiculous. But it’s why I changed. I became unkind to you too, and I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t seem to help it.”

Lubna nodded slowly. “I remember that you changed after we came to America. I used to think that America made you bad. I’m sorry you went through that.”

“I’m not asking for sympathy. It’s your forgiveness that I need. I told you these things so you would understand that I never hated you. You’re my little sister. I always loved you. I was just messed up by the weight of the past.”

Lubna came to the bedside and patted Deek’s hand. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

After she left, Deek spoke to Rania. “She wasn’t happy that I told her that story. Notice she didn’t say that she forgives me?”

Rania massaged his shoulder. “Give her time. It’s a lot to take in. And on anyone and everyone’s behalf, I forgive you.”

Allah Saved You

Zaid Karim and Safaa came to visit. Unlike the strangers and halfway acquaintances who only wanted to take, Zaid always made life easier. He and his assistant, Jalal, had retrieved Deek’s and Sanaya’s cars from the riverside, and had arranged a tow to take Rania’s mini-SUV to the shop. Zaid apologized that he had not been able to help when Rania called.

“Your dua was help enough,” Rania said. “For when Allah wishes a thing, he only says to it, “Be!” and it is.”

Zaid, tanned and with his beard growing out, told them about his trip to Jordan, Baby Munir’s funeral, and his visit to the Palestinian refugee camp. “Imam Saleh gave me $100,000 to donate to the camp, and he didn’t say so, but I know that money came from you, Deek. So you are helping people without even knowing it, mashaAllah.” He came close to Deek and spoke in a low voice. There was no one in the room at that moment except for Zaid, Deek, Rania and Safaa. “This is why Allah saved you twice, brother. He has a mission for you, and don’t you ever forget it. Don’t get comfortable, don’t get lazy. Ask Allah what He wants you to do, and do it.”

Deek swallowed and nodded. Zaid was right, of course. He should have been dead at least twice, or five times if you wanted to count the encounter at the riverside when he was young, the very risky escape from Iraq, and the gunshot graze to the head he’d received recently, which Zaid did not know about.

He gripped Zaid’s arm and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Not Over

Two days after Deek’s brush with death, Dr. Ali entered his room.

“Do you want to give me the information I asked for?”

She meant the identity and contact information of the Namer, Deek knew. He smiled and gave a slight shake of the head. A secret was only a secret if you didn’t tell anyone.

The doctor harrumphed. “In any case, your tests are good. I wanted to make sure there was no water remaining in your lungs, or you could become very ill. But you’re all clear. You can go home.”

Rania drove Deek’s Kia. It was a warm morning, but it had rained briefly, and a rainbow hung in the sky like a giant welcome home sign. The girls chattered in the backseat about mutual friends and their doings. Amira in particular seemed giddy with happiness, and often laughed. Rania was reserved, keeping her eyes on the road.

“I’m sorry,” Deek said quietly. “I shouldn’t have left home. You just pushed me too far. And by the way, I didn’t care for your comments about Marco. He’s been a good friend to me, and he saved my life recently.”

Rania shot him a hard glance. “So did I, remember? Anyway I apologize for my comment. But you’re right that you shouldn’t have left, and certainly not for so long. It’s been a bad time for me, and you weren’t there to help. And you’ve made a lot of major moves without me. You bought a house and a church!”

“I’ve been calling you and texting you, but you don’t answer. You shut me out completely. I had to go ahead and make choices on my own. But habibti, when I was drowning in the river, all I wanted was an opportunity to make things right with you. Allah granted me that.”

Rania glanced at him. “How do I know this won’t happen again?”

Deek smiled. “We made it through twenty years before this blowup. Let’s agree not to do it again for another twenty years.”

Rania snorted. “Not funny.” A few minutes later, she added, “This isn’t over. We have a lot more to talk about, and a lot more work to do. I need to know that you’re with me for real, for good.”

Deek nodded. “I know. And I am.”

Weariness overcame him, and he fell asleep. He dreamed that he had a highly intelligent pet monkey that could talk, and was also very good at predicting the weather. An all around genius, like Marco. They had such fun together, playing chess blindfolded and throwing peanuts at passers-by. But the government kidnapped the monkey, taking him away in a bus with dark windows. Deek followed the bus on his motorcycle, looking for an opportunity to rescue the monkey. A truck passed between them, and when it was gone, the bus had vanished. He was angry and sad.

Rania touched his shoulder. “We’re home, habibi.”

Deek rubbed his eyes sullenly. “It’s not nice to steal anyone’s monkey.”

The girls laughed, but Rania only patted his cheek and said, “You’re right. It’s not nice.”

Welcome Home

 

Exiting the car, they all stopped in their tracks. In the front yard, floating calmly above the grass, was a crescent moon. Not a lawn decoration. Not an inflatable. A hovering crescent moon — silver, smooth, and suspended four feet above the ground with no wires or platform visible. In front of it stood a small handwritten sign that read:

WELCOME HOME SAGHIR FAMILY

(It won’t explode).

Sanaya and Amira ran forward, Rania close behind them.

“Careful,” she warned, though her voice carried more awe than caution.

The girls circled the sculpture, inspecting it from every angle. Amira crouched low, squinting beneath it.

“There’s nothing under it,” she exclaimed. “It’s actually floating.”

Sanaya pointed. “Wait… look here.” Along the inner arc, a faint thread of something transparent ran upward to a slim rod staked into the ground behind a bush. “This is a tensegrity structure!”

“A what?” Rania asked.

“It’s a physics thing,” Sanaya said, voice rising with excitement. “Floating structures that stay up because tension forces cancel gravity in just the right places. You have to calculate every vector perfectly or it collapses.”

Amira tugged gently on the thin lower wire. “This one’s not holding it up… it’s holding it down.”

Sanaya nodded. “Yeah. It’s balanced. Suspended by tension. Whoever built this did serious math.”

Deek stared at the glimmering crescent, its shadow faint on the wet morning grass. Balanced perfectly, precise to the millimeter, playful yet genius-level engineering.

He let out a soft laugh.

Rania raised an eyebrow. “You know who did this?”

“Of course,” Deek said. “Only one person we know would greet me with a floating moon, use enough physics to launch a satellite, and make it look effortless.”

The girls turned to him.

“Well?” Amira asked. “Who?”

Deek smiled. “The only man who thinks love should be explained with equations. This is what he spent his advance on.”

“Marco,” Rania said.

“Indeed.”

“Well. It’s beautiful. But he stole my thunder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come.”

Rania took his arm and gently tugged. Deek resisted for a moment, eyes still on the floating crescent moon. “Can we keep it?” he asked, aware that he sounded like a child begging to adopt a pet.

“Of course. But ask Marco to move it to the backyard, so no one steals it. Speaking of which, come on.”

Deek’s Office

This time. Deek let himself be led toward the side gate. To his surprise, Deek saw that the side gate and fence were gone, and the ground bore tracks of heavy vehicles.

He stopped. “What is this? What happened?”

The girls giggled.

“You’ll see.” Rania tugged on this arm, leading him to the backyard.

When Rania stopped and pointed, he followed her gaze—and stared.

A wide rectangle of earth had been cleared and leveled, the grass and brush stripped away down to clean, fresh soil. Wooden cement forms framed the outline of what would become the foundation, neat and sharp-edged. Bright metal rebar lay inside in a tight grid, bound and ready for the concrete pour. Orange construction flags fluttered in the breeze, marking the corners like a surveyor’s promise.

But what struck him hardest wasn’t the work that had been done. It was the sign.

Just a plank of wood mounted on two posts and hammered into the soil at the near corner. The lettering painted on in Rania’s elegant, looping handwriting:

DEEK’S OFFICE

Bismillah.

His breath hitched in surprise, and his knees nearly gave out. “You’re building me an office?”

Rania slipped an arm around his waist. “Quite a nice one. I didn’t know how long it would take you to come home,” she said softly. “But I knew you’d need a place of your own to land when you did. Now come inside, there’s something else.”

Inside the house, he saw that the living room had been transformed. The sofas, love seat, coffee table and end tables were gone. Instead, the room was dominated by a gorgeous L-shaped wooden desk that would have been at home in a CEO’s office. A large black office chair stood behind it, with two blonde chairs in front of the desk, facing it. On the desk stood a framed photo of the entire family together. Deek recognized it from a trip they’d taken to San Francisco a few years back.

Behind the desk, a huge hutch dominated the wall, with spaces for books and computer equipment. On one wall hung one of Rania’s quilts, and on the other wall was a large, Mondrianesque painting, consisting of blue, red, yellow and black squares.

Deek’s mouth hung open. “This is amazing,” he said. “It’s a beautiful office. But where will guests sit?”

“I don’t care about guests,” Rania replied. “I only care about you.”

A Monumental Force

That night, Deek and Rania prayed Ishaa together. The girls had gone to a youth lecture at Masjid Madinah. When they were done with the salat, Deek turned to face Rania and sat cross legged, saying his dhikr. After a few minutes, Rania crawled to him and sat facing him, knees to knees. She reached for one of his hands and held it between hers.

“Habibi,” she said. “Why did you go in the river?”

Deek’s eyes moved from side to side. He didn’t want to talk about this. “I was checking out the new property. I wanted to see the riverside access.”

Rania shook her head. “That doesn’t explain why you would physically step into the river at night, alone. Sanaya said she thought she heard shouting. It’s why she turned the car around.”

“Does it matter?”

She nodded solemnly. “Very much.”

Deek’s hand, still held between his wife’s, was sweating. He wanted to pull it away but did not. “I was angry and lonely. Everyone abandoned me. Sometimes I think of a river as a purifying force. I imagine that it will wash out all the ugliness and pain.”

“But that’s not your history,” Rania pointed out. “I heard the story you told Lubna. Rivers to you are not purification, but death. Or perhaps the purification of death. When you feel rage toward someone, you talk about drowning them in the river. I think you had another reason for going into the river.”

Now Deek did withdraw his hand. His jaw clenched. “What are you saying?”

He fidgeted as Rania watched him silently for a long time. Then, to his surprise, she said, “I was impressed at the hospital. Astounded, even.”

“What do you mean?”

“You helped a lot of people in ways I didn’t know about. You saved Maryam Rana’s life, you’re starting a school with Lubna as principal, you got Marco a good job, you’re helping Palestinian refugees, you gave money to Masjid Madinah, and probably others I don’t know about. And you didn’t tell me about any of it, because it’s not about fame or praise for you. You are a monumental force for good in this world. People adore you. You are a hero to them. And I realized that people don’t really fundamentally change. You have always been a force for good. People have always loved you. You have always been a hero. I knew that, but I forgot it for a while.”

“And the one who loves you most,” Rania went on, “aside from Allah, who is Al-Wadud – is me. And then your daughters. We adore you too. You are a hero to us too.”

Deek’s face turned hot and he felt tears behind his eyes. He didn’t know what to say, but he realized that the chill he had felt ever since the near-drowning was lessening. He’d thought that upon returning, he would feel like an outsider in his own home, but Rania had done and said everything possible to make sure that wasn’t the case. She’d done more than he could have imagined.

Rania rose onto her knees, leaned forward and gripped his thobe in two hands, bringing her face close to his. He found himself looking into her eyes, as dark as the depths of the river, yet at the same time as bright as the sun breaking fiercely through the clouds on a winter afternoon.

“Listen to me,” she said intensely. “You are not nine years old anymore, dragging your father and uncle out of the Euphrates. You are not alone, abandoned or forgotten. Leave your ghosts behind. Wake up to the world in front of you. Death will come for you at the time appointed, not a moment sooner or later. Until then embrace every moment of your life as if it is the last bite of food you’ll ever eat. And don’t you ever do anything like that again. Promise me.”

Hypnotized by his wife’s mile-deep eyes and pressing tone, Deek nodded slowly. “I promise.”

Rania gripped even tighter, and came so close that her nose touched his. “Because if you ever do something like that again, I will drown you in the river myself.” She kissed him hard, leaning all her weight on him. He fell back onto the musalla, laughing, then pulled her to him.

“Forget the river,” he said. “I’m already drowning in your love.”

***

Author’s Note: I thought this would get the last chapter, but there’s actually one more. So come back next week for Part 32  – the REALLY FINAL chapter of Moonshot! In which a decision is made about where to live, Rania makes a career move, Deek’s surprise for Faraz is revealed, and Deek hosts a party for his friends.

 

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:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

The post Moonshot [Part 31] – Stranger By The Day appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

From October 1, 2025, to November 12, 2025, the United States government was “shut down” due to legislative disputes over the contents of a spending bill. This shutdown meant that thousands of non-essential federal employees were furloughed, and thousands more were required to work without knowing when their next paycheck would come.

Government shutdowns, while uncommon, have occurred numerous times in the past.1 However, not only was this most recent 43-day shutdown the longest in American history, but it was also the first time the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) was suspended over a lack of allotted funding. SNAP benefits provide monthly food assistance to roughly 42 million Americans, or 12% of the population; 70% of SNAP recipients are children, seniors, and people with disabilities.2 What people expected, and feared, became true once the shutdown dragged into November: people would not be receiving their SNAP benefits, it was unclear when (or if) they would receive them again, and they were now left scrambling to find food assistance elsewhere. Some states pledged to cover people’s SNAP benefits for the month of November, but this was only meant to be a temporary, partial fix.

With the end of the government shutdown, SNAP benefits have been restored, and SNAP will be funded through the end of the fiscal year in September 2026.3 While the immediate crisis has subsided, a greater, longer-term crisis still looms. Food continues to grow more expensive, while wages remain stagnant. The One Big Beautiful Bill Act that was signed into law in July 2025 will cut the SNAP budget by 20% over the next ten years, in addition to placing stricter work requirements on recipients.4 A vicious cycle is thus created where more people will end up needing help affording food, while access to help is made increasingly difficult for fewer benefits. Compounding this crisis, and one of the primary reasons for the shutdown, is the astronomical cost of healthcare in this country that regularly forces people to choose between seeking medical care and paying for other basic living expenses. 

I do not want to mince words or downplay this plight: I believe this is a moral failing of our government leaders. In a nation as wealthy and full of resources as the United States, there is no acceptable justification for why food insecurity is so widespread. Our government spends billions of our tax dollars each year on military operations around the world that cause, at minimum, societal and economic destabilization, and, at worst, genocide. Corporations and the richest Americans get tax breaks, while millions more must scrape by on their minimum wage paycheck or meager social security/disability payments. The scale of injustice being seen here is massive and dire, and it should disturb anyone who is paying attention and has a conscience.

As I spend time reflecting on this as a Muslim, I remember the many times in the Qur’an where Allah has urged the believers to feed those who are hungry. The two passages that have always stood out to me most regarding our duties to give come from Surah al-Balad and Surah al-Ma’un:

“If only they had attempted the challenging path! And what will make you realize what the challenging path is? It is to free a slave, or to give food in times of famine to an orphaned relative or to a poor person in distress, and–above all–to be one of those who have faith and urge each other to perseverance and urge each other to compassion. These are the people of the right.” [Surah al-Balad, 90; 10-18]

“Have you seen the one who denies the (final) Judgment? That is the one who repulses the orphan, and does not encourage the feeding of the poor. So woe to those (hypocrites) who pray yet are unmindful of their prayers; those who (only) show off, and refuse to give (even the simplest) aid.” [Surah al-Ma’un, 107; 1-7]

The message Allah shows us here is very clear: giving food to needy people is morally good, even in times of difficulty, and denying food to needy people is morally wrong. The verses of al-Ma’un in particular illustrate the hypocrisy of those who may follow the “letter of the law” (through outward acts of piety like salah) but disregard the “spirit of the law” by ignoring Allah’s Command to care for those who are vulnerable. Throughout the Qur’an, Allah frequently pairs “belief” together with “righteous deeds,” illustrating that our deen requires both from us in order to have sound faith. With these imperatives, it is our Islamic duty to address these issues to the best of our ability.

There is an oft-cited hadith from Sahih Muslim where our Prophet ﷺ says,

“Whoever among you sees an evil action, let him change it with his hand [by taking action]; if he cannot, then with his tongue [by speaking out]; and if he cannot, then with his heart [by at least hating it and believing that it is wrong], and that is the weakest of faith.”

This is frequently used as a rallying call to action amongst Muslims, especially in situations where people may feel that there is little that they personally can do due to a lack of power or physical distance (for example, the genocides in Gaza and Sudan). In the case of the American hunger crisis, however, we are in a position to counter these evil actions (purposeful, artificial shortages of food resources) with our hands, tongues, and hearts. 

 – With our hands: The most direct way we can help our neighbors who are hungry is, unsurprisingly, to provide them with food or money for food. There are many ways this can be done, and some ways may be more beneficial to certain people than others. For example, in my local Buy Nothing group on Facebook, people regularly request and offer groceries and meals. Because this group has a large user base, requests for food are generally met quickly and abundantly.

“The most direct way we can help our neighbors who are hungry is, unsurprisingly, to provide them with food or money for food.” [PC: Nico Smit (unsplash)]

Local mutual aid groups are also a direct, effective way to give assistance. We can donate shelf-stable foods to food pantries, either official ones or informal grassroots ones like Little Free Pantries or community refrigerators. Food banks are able to purchase food in bulk at much lower prices than at retail stores, so monetary donations can be stretched further. Some people may not have the time or ability to cook, so for them, prepared meals or ready-to-eat foods will be the most helpful. Others may not have a car or reliable transportation, so we can offer rides to food pantries or the grocery store. Even people facing food insecurity themselves can help others, perhaps by offering to cook for those who can’t, or by passing along foods that they won’t use to others who will, so it won’t go to waste. If your masjid or Islamic school doesn’t have a food pantry or offer financial assistance to hungry community members through zakat or sadaqah funds, work with them to make this a reality.  

Alhamdulillah, Muslims have already been demonstrating a commitment to serve our neighbors. At the small Islamic school my daughter attends, one parent’s suggestion to provide food assistance to students and their families led to a fundraising campaign that has collected $1,300 for groceries. In a now viral TikTok series, a woman named Nikalie Monroe filmed herself cold-calling dozens of houses of worship requesting baby formula. She did not need the formula, but she wanted to conduct a “social experiment” to see how receptive religious institutions would be to people directly asking for assistance. Most of the churches she contacted either denied the request or directed her to different organizations, but a few places, including The Islamic Center of Charlotte in Charlotte, North Carolina, offered to help her get formula with no questions asked. Touched by this masjid’s generosity and quick response, donations have been pouring in, which the masjid says it will use to fund a food drive. These are beautiful examples of Allah’s Words being put into action, and illustrate how one kind act can birth even more goodness. Allah says in Surah al-Baqarah: “The example of those who spend their wealth in the cause of Allah is that of a grain that sprouts into seven ears, each bearing one hundred grains. And Allah multiplies to whoever He wills. For Allah is All-Bountiful, All-Knowing.” [2;261]

 – With our tongues: This is where our recent experience with Palestine/Sudan activism will be useful. Get involved with advocacy groups that work towards policies that fight hunger and systemically address poverty and the massive income inequality in the United States. This can be on a national, state, or local level. For example, you could start or join a campaign for your local school district to provide universal free breakfast and lunch for its students, so no child will ever have to worry about skipping meals at school or having lunch debt.

Write and deliver a khutbah or bayan/khatirah about what the Qur’an and sunnah say about helping our hungry neighbors. If you’re a parent, talk with your children about hunger and how widespread it is, as well as what Allah has asked us to do to address it.

 – With our hearts: Du’a and taqwa are our greatest tools. Make heartfelt du’a asking Ar-Razzaq, the Provider, to bless us all with His Rizq (provisions). Ask Allah to help us in helping others, and that we may be agents for what is right. Remember how Allah has warned us against oppressing others, and ask Him to keep us from being among the wrongdoers and those who cause harm.

Pray that the hearts of those in power are opened and guided to the Truth, and that they use their power to enjoin goodness and justice for people, especially those who are vulnerable and marginalized. 

We may not be able to solve problems like hunger alone, but inshaAllah each step we take to help our neighbors means one less person goes to bed hungry. May Allah bless and help those who are struggling in body, mind, and spirit, and guide us to always do what is pleasing to Him. Ameen!

 

Related:

– When The Powerful Eat Full And The Poor Go Hungry

– The Architecture of Withholding: When Charity Becomes Control

1    “Funding Gaps and Shutdowns in the Federal Government”. https://history.house.gov/Institution/Shutdown/Government-Shutdowns/2    “Explainer: Understanding the SNAP program–and what cuts to these benefits may mean”. https://www.hks.harvard.edu/faculty-research/policy-topics/social-policy/explainer-understanding-snap-program-and-what-cuts3    Desilver, Drew. “What the data says about food stamps in the U.S.” https://www.pewresearch.org/short-reads/2025/11/14/what-the-data-says-about-food-stamps-in-the-us/4    Explainer: Understanding the SNAP program–and what cuts to these benefits may mean”. https://www.hks.harvard.edu/faculty-research/policy-topics/social-policy/explainer-understanding-snap-program-and-what-cuts

The post The Hunger Crisis: Reflections Of An American Muslim appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Latino Muslims have often been spoken about, but rarely heard on their own terms. Their stories are too frequently marginalized, misrepresented, or ignored altogether. This is why narrative ownership matters. Without it, the richness of Latino Muslim identity risks being flattened into stereotypes or erased from broader religious and cultural histories.

As someone who has spent more than two decades researching, writing, and advocating for the visibility of Latino Muslims, I have witnessed both the challenges and the power of reclaiming our narratives. The struggle to be recognized as authorities in telling our own stories is ongoing, particularly in spaces that remain patriarchal and dominated by outsiders. Yet it is precisely because of this marginalization that it becomes all the more urgent to affirm the voices and contributions of Latino Muslims in the United States and beyond.

My exploration of Latino Muslim identity began during my undergraduate years at the University of Maryland, where I majored in modern languages and linguistics, specializing in Spanish and education. Having embraced Islam only five years earlier, I was still learning to navigate the intersection of cultural heritage and faith. Through coursework, I became fascinated by how Islam had shaped Spanish and Portuguese culture, and, by extension, the Americas. Linguistic, culinary, and traditional threads revealed connections between my ancestry and my faith, highlighting how deeply entwined Islam has long been with Latino identity. These discoveries reinforced the importance of telling stories that illuminate our history, assert our belonging, and resist erasure.

“Our goal was simple: to make knowledge about Islam accessible to our families and to other Spanish-speaking families. At that time, resources about Islam in Spanish or within a Latino context were scarce.” (PC: Stepping Stone Charity)

This academic curiosity soon evolved into a personal mission as I began volunteering at my local mosque to assist Spanish-speaking visitors and newcomers to the faith. After marrying my husband, another Latino convert whose family hails from Ecuador, we founded the PrimeXample Company in 2005, and it later evolved into Hablamos Islam. Our goal was simple: to make knowledge about Islam accessible to our families and to other Spanish-speaking families. At that time, resources about Islam in Spanish or within a Latino context were scarce. We began translating articles, fatwas, and educational materials, building a website, and offering our services as interpreters and translators at local mosques and community events. Our work was born out of the necessity for resources to explain our decision to embrace Islam in a way that resonated with our families’ cultural backgrounds and values. However, as we expanded, we discovered a broader community of Latino Muslims who shared our experiences and aspirations. Our work transformed from serving our own families to supporting a growing network of Spanish-speaking Muslims nationwide and even beyond US borders.

The Raíces Run Deep

When we moved to New Jersey, my husband and I became active in the North Hudson Islamic Education Center (NHIEC), where we helped their outreach committee and organized events for the predominantly Latino community in Union City. In a city where over 80% of the population is Latino, Spanish was the language of daily life. Take, for example, my husband’s grandmother; she migrated from Ecuador to New Jersey in the mid-to-late 1970s and did not speak a word of English despite living in Union City for decades. His parents learned broken English, but Spanish remains their dominant language.  Even in the mosque, the Friday sermon was simultaneously translated to Spanish on headsets for those who could not understand the usual Arabic. The outreach committee planned open houses and street parties, held regular classes for new converts, translated materials, and created spaces where Latino Muslims could connect, learn, and share their stories. However, the gathering they are most widely known for is the annual Hispanic Muslim Day, held every Fall, typically around Hispanic Heritage Month. A young Puerto Rican convert, Daniel Hernández (now Imam Daniel Hernández), conceived the idea for this celebration with the former Imam of NHIEC, Mohammad Alhayek. This year (2025) was the event’s 23rd anniversary.

Through our outreach work, we learned that Latino Muslims had been building communities long before us. From the inner-city Bani Saqr movement in Newark, New Jersey, and the Spanish-speaking mosque in New York, Alianza Islamica, to the Latino American Dawa Association (LADO), we connected with individuals and organizations dedicated to supporting Latino Muslims. In the days before social media, we networked through Yahoo groups, AOL chats, and email threads, forging bonds that transcended geography. We often reminisce about how we were connected even before social media. There is an untold history that is deeply personal, rooted in the desire to reconcile our heritage with our faith and to make sense of our identities in a society that failed so many times to recognize our existence beyond our conversion stories.

Despite our longstanding presence and contributions, Latino Muslims have often been sidelined in mainstream narratives. Too frequently, nuestras historias – our history and our stories – are told by outsiders like non-Muslim academics, journalists, or other opportunists, who lack the lived experience to truly understand our journeys. I have witnessed, time and again, how the phenomenon of Latino Muslim conversion is reduced to a headline, a curiosity, or a trend, rather than a testament to the resilience and diversity of our communities. The latest tendency seems to be checking off Latino Muslim characters on a diversity list to fulfill equity requirements without offering an authentic voice. I have personally received messages from people outside our community, who have never even met a Latino Muslim, yet want to add such a character to their books or illustrations simply because it is now considered “the thing to do.” Often, this is at the suggestion of an editor or professor eager to feature this so-called “new, up-and-coming” group, even though we are not new at all but have been an integral part of the dawah in the United States since the earliest documented conversions.

What’s Old is New Again?

This observation led me to dedicate my master’s thesis to researching Gen X and early millennial (Xennial) Latino Muslim converts and their contributions to American Muslim communities as I pursued graduate studies at Chicago Theological Seminary. I wanted to shift the focus from conversion to continuity, to examine what happens after the shahada, when the initial excitement passes and a lifetime of living Islam begins. As part of my research, I conducted in-depth interviews with Latino Muslims who have practiced Islam for twenty to thirty years. These individuals have raised families in the faith, established organizations, translated Islamic knowledge into Spanish, and built the institutions that others are now benefiting from. Their stories prove what the literature has missed for decades: that Latino Muslims are not the “new kids on the block” or the latest slot on the diversity checkbox.

“The work of Latino Muslims is not motivated by a desire for recognition, and so many of us are content to stay under the radar. But there is power in preserving history in our own words.” [PC: Social Cut (unsplash)]

Incidentally, marginalization of Latino Muslims, as well as other minority groups like African American and Native American Muslims, is not just external. It is compounded when individuals, sometimes even those with Muslim names, usurp our stories for personal gain. I recently encountered a book, cleverly titled “Latin Islámica,” which purported to explore the history of Latino Muslims. I ordered it on Amazon despite my better judgment, and upon receiving it, I was disappointed to discover that it was little more than a hastily assembled, AI-generated text, no more than sixty pages long, masquerading as scholarship, devoid of depth, authenticity, or respect for the lived experiences of Latino Muslims.

As someone who has spent years writing, translating, and advocating for my community, I find the trend of thoughtless reporting on Latino Muslims deeply insulting.

Our stories are not commodities to be packaged and sold for profit. They are the lifeblood of our communities, shaped by struggle, sacrifice, and unwavering faith. To see them reduced to superficial summaries or exploited for fame is a painful reminder of the ongoing battle for narrative ownership.

Additionally, Latino Muslims are not a monolith; our journeys to Islam are as diverse as our backgrounds. Even terms like Hispanic and Latino do not fully encompass our diversity. Some of us are converts, others were born into the faith, and many have family histories that span continents and generations. We are from several Caribbean islands and from every nation in North, Central, and South America. We are professionals, educators, community organizers, and scholars. Our contributions to our families, communities, and the broader Muslim ummah are vast and varied.

Historically, Latin America has embraced immigrants from every Muslim-majority country, including our brothers and sisters from Palestine, who could not find refuge in the US. They have been able to settle there, establish successful businesses, and reach some of the highest political positions. Yet, despite our shared history, our stories are overlooked, misunderstood, and/or misrepresented. The mainstream narrative tends to focus on the novelty of Latino Muslim conversion, ignoring the rich histories and ongoing work of those who have been Muslim for decades, or even generations. It fails to recognize how we have navigated cultural, linguistic, and religious boundaries to build vibrant, resilient communities.

Uplifting Latino Muslim Voices

The work of Latino Muslims is not motivated by a desire for recognition, and so many of us are content to stay under the radar. But there is power in preserving history in our own words. If we do not take ownership of nuestra historia, others will do it for us. The time has come for Latino Muslims to reclaim our heritage and assert our rightful place in the tapestry of American Islam. To do so means writing, speaking, and sharing our truth so that future generations, searching for guidance, inspiration, and reassurance, can benefit from it. We must also hold accountable those who seek to appropriate or misrepresent our experiences. Outsiders can research, conduct studies, perform surveys, and even sit at our tables, but they will never fully understand what it is like to live in our shoes, to walk our path, and to experience Islam as we do. It is even more frustrating when someone creates an AI-generated text, slaps a Latino title on it, and claims to have researched Latino Muslims. That is just pure laziness and a disrespect to all of us.

I have been raising my voice since at least 2005. And as time passes and I grow older, perhaps becoming less patient, my voice will become louder and more direct, because it is imperative to recognize those who have been working tirelessly to bring visibility to the Latino Muslim community in the US. I do not claim this work as mine. Many others deserve recognition, including Benjamin Perez, Khadija Rivera, Ibrahim González (may Allah have mercy on them), Juan Galvan, the creators of Banu Saqr, and the founders of Alianza Islámica. Dr. Juan Suquillo, Sheikh Isa Garcia, the Dawah committee at the North Hudson Islamic Education Center, the people at Islam in Spanish, and my contemporaries at the Ojala Foundation, LADO, LALMA, Latina Muslim Foundation, ILMM, and so many more have all contributed to our community’s growth and visibility. We must also remember the countless Latino Muslims who converted in the 1920s and 30s, and those who came before them.

We have to be respectful and mindful of our history. Just because we live in the age of social media and AI does not mean we are the first to do this or that, nor does it make us experts on others’ lived experiences. Our stories are not marketing tools or diversity props. They are sacred narratives shaped by struggle, faith, and resilience, and they deserve to be handled with integrity. As Latino Muslims, we will continue to speak for ourselves and preserve our own history, but we cannot do this work alone. I call on the wider Muslim community to uplift authentic voices, to seek out and cite the work of those who live these realities, and to support initiatives that support and empower our Latino brothers and sisters. Most of all, we must ensure our stories are told accurately and respectfully.

 

Related:

– The Fast and the ¡Fiesta!: How Latino Muslims Celebrate Ramadan

– 25 Things Latino Muslims Want You To Know

 

The post Owning Our Stories: The Importance Of Latino Muslim Narratives appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

By Ibrahim Moiz

Tributes And A Legacy of Defiance

Imam Jamil in his youth, known then as H. Rap Brown

The death in a high-security prison of veteran civil rights activist and community imam Jamil “Rap Brown” Amin has brought forth a tide of grief and tributes from throughout the United States and beyond. A pioneering and influential figure in the 1960s civil rights movement, imam Jamil’s life ended in a quarter-century of imprisonment under hotly contested charges and repeated refusals of appeal that could not staunch his influence as a groundbreaking activist and community leader within and beyond the Muslim and black communities.

Tributes have poured in for an aged activist long seen within his communities as a political prisoner falsely accused of crime and vindictively imprisoned despite a terminal illness. “Unsurprisingly,” remarked activist Zoharah Simmons, “the carceral system was unwilling to show any mercy for Brother Jamil…refusing a compassionate release! They made sure he would spend his last days under federal lock and key. But the State didn’t have the last word. Brother Jamil was bloody but unbowed.”

Outrage, Love, and Community Grief

Kalonji Changa mourned the imam, who “was not only my spiritual leader, he was one of my movement leaders, so I take his death personal. They allowed him to go blind and suffer the ravages of cancer while denying him the basic, life-saving medical care owed to any human being, let alone a political prisoner!”

The imam Omar Suleiman wrote, “For years we fought to free him. Today he is free. From prison to paradise God willing. He never lost his dignity, his voice never shook. His innocence was proven, but the system didn’t care. We cared. We loved. And InshaAllah, we will continue to move forward with his legacy.”

Who was this community leader that has attracted such fierce loyalty and affectionate solidarity? We will proceed to recount the remarkable life of Jamil Hubert Abdullah Amin Brown, who played a notable but largely overlooked role in the history of the United States, its civil rights and minority rights, decolonial struggle, and Western Islam.

Rap Brown

Nicknamed “Rap Brown” for the razor-sharp wit that he frequently used to cutting effect in firestarting condemnations of the American status quo, Jamil Abdullah Amin was born as Hubert Gerold Brown at Baton Rouge in 1943, growing up in Louisiana during the “Jim Crow” heyday. He and his elder brother Ed Brown were involved in activism for the rights of the widely downtrodden black community, reading widely and plunging into student politics.

Brown joined the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, which began sit-ins and protests against racial segregation and discrimination in southern universities. In summer 1963 he witnessed its protests at the Maryland town Cambridge, led by Gloria Richardson, and was convinced that black activists needed to retain the right to fight back against violent intimidation.

Under Surveillance and Pressure

Though Richardson reached an accord to end Cambridge’s official discrimination with attorney-general Robert Kennedy, the brother of American president John Kennedy, civil-rights activism would repeatedly find itself in the cross-hairs of both racial prejudices as well as Cold War paranoia.

Even conciliatory variations of minority activism, such as the trend led by the preacher Martin Luther King, were routinely vilified as communist subversion not only by reactionary bigots but by many politicians and by officials as senior as Edgar Hoover, the sinister doyen of American security who directed his Federal Bureau of Investigation to use what can only be described as secret-police tactics against civil rights leaders. Unapologetically outspoken activists such as “Rap Brown” were a prime target of Hoover’s “Counterintelligence Program”, often called Cointelpro.

This drew a correspondingly sharp response from activists such as Brown; though he had been involved in legal civil-rights actions, such as the registration of black voters, he increasingly reserved the right to respond to violent provocation. Activists such as Brown, Malcolm Little, and Stokely Carmichael were also influenced by the decolonization of Africa and coordinated with liberation movements in African, Muslim, and decolonized, often leftist, countries, whose struggle they saw as linked to their own: in a reflection of this influence, the trio would change their names to, respectively, Jamil Abdullah Amin, Malik Shabazz “X”, and Kwame Ture.

Cold War and Confinement

After Malcolm’s murder, Ture, who led the Nonviolent Committee with Jamil as a major lieutenant, set up the Black Panthers movement, whose grassroots organization and “shadow governmental” structure immediately attracted subversion by Hoover’s agency. Jamil, who succeeded Ture as leader of the Nonviolent Committee, changed its name to “Student National Coordinating Committee” because, he quipped, “violence is as American as cherry pie.”

Indeed, the 1960s were a violent period, with assassinations claiming the lives of not only Malcolm but the Kennedy brothers and King. In this context and against significant intimidation, Jamil saw little need to adopt nonviolence as an inflexible principle. “Black folks built America, and if America don’t come around, we’re going to burn America down.”

This attracted caricatures of firebrand trouble-making; in fact, Jamil proved a thoughtful, disciplined organizer who would nonetheless hold his ground under fire with an often blisteringly sharp tongue. Though open to negotiations, he refused terms set by what he saw as a plainly unjust status quo.

In spring 1965 he joined a delegation that met Kennedy’s successor in the presidency, Lyndon Johnson, and was alarmed at the level of deference shown in what was effectively a negotiation. When Johnson complained that the activists’ nightly demonstrations had disturbed his children’s sleep, Jamil gave his condolences for the inconvenience but added that “Black people in the South had been unable to sleep in peace and security for a hundred years.”

Escalation, Resistance, and the Road to Arrest

Johnson did introduce civil-rights protections, but only at the cost of a militaristic foreign policy whose cauldron was the Vietnam war. For Jamil, who linked the struggle for civil rights to international solidarity against colonial supremacism, this was an unacceptable compromise.

In typically cutting parlance he called Johnson the“the greatest outlaw going” for his militarism abroad: “He fights an illegal war with our brothers and our sons. He sends them to fight against other colored people who are also fighting for their freedom.” This matched the views of the Black Panthers, who attempted to merge organizations and promoted Jamil to their honorary “justice minister”.

Jamil’s call, influenced by decolonial struggles abroad, for urban insurgency against oppression put him on thin ice, and the security establishment soon swooped. In summer 1967 he revisited Cambridge, which had dishonored its end of the 1963 agreement; he was promptly arrested in hotly disputed circumstances for supposedly inciting a riot; police chief Brice Kinnamon claimed to have staunched a “well-planned communist attempt to overthrow the government”, and governor Spiro Agnew alienated most black voters with his insistence that Jamil had been responsible. The case attracted widespread attention and was interrupted when the courthouse was bombed; Jamil went underground for eighteen months before he was sentenced to a five-year imprisonment.

Revolution by the Book

During his five-year imprisonment, Jamil converted to Islam. When he emerged, still only in his mid-thirties, and moved to Atlanta he led a life that belied the propaganda that had depicted him as a reckless troublemaker. In fact, he focused on quiet community building, beginning at the mosque and spreading out through the community, both Muslims and otherwise.

In one of his last interviews, delivered from prison, he quoted the Muslim caliph Umar Farouq ibn Khattab’s statement that Islam depended on community, which depended on leadership, which depended on allegiance and commitment to the roles and guidelines outlined by Allah. Thus a community, the incarcerated and ailing imam took pains to emphasize, depended on commitment to the path set by the Creator.

Jamil lived by his words, and set by personal example a thriving community of black Muslims grew in west Atlanta; Masood Abdul-Haqq, who moved there in autumn 1992, saw “the West End Muslim scene [unfold] like some sort of Black Muslim Utopia. A soulful adhan was the soundtrack to Black children of all ages in kufis and khimars playing with each other on either side of the street. The intersecting streets near the masjid gave way to a large covered basketball court, on which the game in progress had come to a halt due to the number of players who chose to answer the melodic call to prayer.

Overlooking this scene from the bench in front of his convenience store, like a shepherd admiring his flock, was a denim overall and crocheted kufi-clad Imam Jamil. Before I heard him utter a single word, it was obvious to me that I was in the presence of a transcendent leader.”

Building a Model Community and a Revolutionary Ethic

Khalil Abdur-Rashid, who grew up in the same community, noted that Jamil “would retain his devotion to changing the prevailing system and worked to teach his community to cultivate an alternative way of living that is not indicative of token social justice programs. He taught the importance of the five pillars of Islam and revolutionary ‘technologies of the self’ that, when actualized at the communal level, transform the society into a better one.”

Remarkably in a period where neoliberal economics and a burgeoning drug epidemic had ravaged much of the urban United States, the imam took pains to combat such social evils, which he linked to spiritual and material impoverishment. Man was not, he would emphasize, an animal consigned to give in to its appetites, and to surrender to such social evils was both personal and communal harm.

Though privately regretting certain “unseemly” language in earlier work, Jamil never compromised on his belief in communal liberation and emphasized the role of spiritual and personal development in his later writings, tying together personal and political progress for the community in his Revolution by the Book.

He visited these themes again at the funeral of his longstanding comrade Kwame Ture, and influenced his elder brother and longstanding influence Ed to embrace Islam as well. Though he maintained a low profile, he played a major role in leading what was by all accounts a dynamic and profound society; Atlanta mayor John Johnson gave the imam with an honorary police badge as a token of appreciation for his social work.

Confinement in the age of “War on Terror”

Yet with the end of the Cold War and the replacement of communism as a major irritant with “radical Islam”, Jamil once more found himself in the crosshairs of state paranoia. As a well-known Muslim who had collided with the state a quarter-century earlier, he was sporadically questioned whenever an incident of “Muslim terrorism” came up during the 1990s. In spring 1999 he was pulled up for allegedly imprisoning a policeman, simply because he had kept the badge given him by the mayor.

The following spring, two policemen tried to bring him in, did not find him at home, and after leaving were shot, one fatally. The survivor accused Jamil, even though his description of the suspect was wildly different and another individual later confessed. In any case, the accusation was enough to bring Jamil into custody. Capitalizing in large part on the anti-Islamic paranoia that took hold after 2001, the prosecution managed to convict him in spring 2002 and he was put in a high-security prison.

We need not recount at length the story of Jamil’s trial beyond the curiosity that key pieces of evidence were pointedly ignored, as was the confession of another man, and that the authorities, eventually as high as the Supreme Court, refused appeals and even clemency in light of the elderly prisoner’s failing health. The case bore similarities with his imprisonment in the late 1960s: contrived charges that ran rougshod over contrary evidence, coupled with paranoia relating to the alleged threat of the day: communism in the 1960s, “radical Islam” now.

A Passing That Echoes Through History

It is small wonder that supporters considered Jamil a political prisoner deliberately left to perish in a high-security confinement absurd for a sick, dying old man. Changa, who had been introduced to both Islam and revolutionary activism by the imam, was unequivocal: “This was a cold, calculated, STATE-SPONSORED EXECUTION designed in the high offices of the colonial apparatus!” He referred to it as “the assassination of an aging prisoner, carried out not with a noose, but with a waiting list and a bureaucratic denial slip!”, and “the refinement of the colonial terror—using the prison hospital as the final torture chamber for those deemed too dangerous to live in freedom, and too old to survive neglect!”

But he ended on a calmer note: “Imam Jamil al-Amin was a prisoner of conscience until his very last breath. Now, by the mercy of Allah, he is truly free of their chains…Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. To Allah we belong, and to Him we shall return.”

Editors note: MuslimMatters offers our condolences to the Amin family and those who loved Imam Jamil Al-Amin, to his followers in the Dar movement. We learn from his life and commitment to Al Haq. We encourage people to attend his Janazah bi Gha’ib that is being held in several locations.

إِنَّا لِلَّٰهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ

Related:

Book Review of Revolution by the Book by Imam Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin (Formerly known As H Rap Brown)

What Does the Civil Rights Movement Mean For Muslims?

 

The post A Remarkable Life Unbowed: Jamil “Rap Brown” Amin appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

By Robert S. McCaw, Director of Government Affairs Department, Council on American-Islamic Relations

Arriving, Gathering, and the First Sparks of Debate

Like the rest of the nation, many Muslims celebrate Thanksgiving. Walk into any Muslim home on Thursday and you will see a familiar scene. A salaam and a hug at the door. Shoes off without even thinking about it. Kids racing between cousins they have not seen since Eid. A loud chorus of “Bismillah” before anyone touches the turkey. And even though everyone says they will avoid politics at the table, anyone who has ever attended a Muslim Thanksgiving knows that this promise will not survive the first twenty minutes.

The first debate will start right away. Someone will ask whether Thanksgiving is a harmless non secular family tradition or a broken promise wrapped in myth. Others will say it is a reminder of colonialism and the violence that built this country. Someone will draw a straight line from that history to modern examples of European and Western colonial projects, with Israel cited as a living case study of land theft and domination.

At the same table others will note that the American Muslim community is incredibly diverse. Many Muslims are reverts. Many come from mixed families. This author has celebrated Thanksgiving in years past with Christian and Jewish relatives. Sometimes Thanksgiving simply means bringing the Muslim branch of the family tree to a relative’s home where someone was kind enough to buy a halal or kosher turkey. And yes, Muslims can eat kosher too.

Victories, Representation, and Shifting Political Winds

After that opening round, everyone will pivot to the cheerful political news. Someone will ask, “Did you hear about Mamdani winning and that meeting at the White House with Trump?” Another uncle will jump in with a full plate, “Speaking of which, did you hear about the local Muslim who just won their race?” Then the whole table will start comparing stories about the more than forty Muslims elected across the country in 2025, backed by exit polls showing Muslim voters turning out in force.

The tone will eventually shift. Adults will talk about the rising hateful rhetoric coming out of Congress and from governors in places like Texas and Florida. Everyone knows why this is happening. As Israel’s genocide of innocent Palestinians drives global outrage and as public opinion shifts, the distraction playbook is obvious. The same people cheering the killing of Muslims are now pretending Muslims are the threat. Around the table the shared response will be steady. We will persist.

Family Drama, Familiar Lines

Then it will be time for family politics. Someone will whisper, “So is he or she finally getting married” and the cousin in question will immediately escape to the basement to play video games with the younger cousins until dessert appears. An auntie will insist it is time for someone to settle down. Someone else will insist they are too busy focusing on school or career. Everyone knows their lines.

Midterms, Mobilization, and What Comes Next

By the end of the night the conversation will shift to the midterms. The table will become an unofficial strategy session. Who is vulnerable. Which districts could flip. Where Muslim voters can make a difference. How Gaza will shape the national political climate. And who is actually going to volunteer for phone banking once the primaries begin.

This is Muslim Thanksgiving in 2025. Faith. Food. Family. Arguments about history. Arguments about the future. And political conversations everyone pretends they are not having but absolutely will. After the final Alhamdulillah and the last slice of pie, families will leave with one reminder. Even in a year filled with grief and injustice, our communities are still showing up, still building strength, and still refusing to be silent.

That is the real tradition.

Related:

Recognizing The Indigenous Crisis This Thanksgiving

Muslims, the Turkey, & the Thanksgiving Day Question

The post Op-Ed: What Muslims Will Really Be Talking About Over the Halal Turkey This Thanksgiving appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

For the last two years, the world witnessed horrific tragedies in Gaza. Painful images and stories emerged as innocent people were displaced, bombed, maimed, raped, starved, and killed. Many of those affected were women and children, and although a formal ceasefire was recently established, there are still frequent reports of bombs continuing to drop.

For the besieged Palestinians and much of the world, the ceasefire was a small sigh of momentary relief, a temporary respite from the daily destruction. And yet, the difficulties have not ceased; by all accounts, they are still continuing as we ask how the Palestinian people can even begin to rebuild all that they have lost. 

Here at home, a sense of helplessness sometimes haunts us as we watch such unspeakable suffering. But we are not helpless, and there are simple but powerful things we can do right here in our communities to show our support.

On November 29th, the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People will be globally observed. This day, established in 1977 by the United Nations General Assembly, commemorates the adoption of the United Nations Partition Plan (UN Resolution 181) on November 29, 1947, to advocate for the establishment of a two-state solution and for the Palestinians’ right to return to their homes. We can show our solidarity and support for our brothers and sisters on this day and even during the entire month of November. Here are some suggestions of what we can do:

1. Fly a Palestinian flag at every home and/or organization to show support for Gaza and Palestine. Another option is to wear a Palestinian flag pin on your lapel, jacket, hijab, bag, etc. 
2. Organizations and allies of the Palestinian people can screen documentaries/films on the oppression and systematic genocide that occurred, and in some cases, is still occurring in Gaza and in Palestine (a suggested list is included). Have multiple showings if possible.
3. Host talks and discussions on the situation in Gaza.
4. Wear Palestinian pins, bracelets, colors, and or the kaffiyeh during the month of November in support and remembrance of the Palestinian people and their fight for survival.
5. Take consistent and regular action, letting your elected officials know that you expect them to uphold justice for the Palestinian people (through phone calls, letters, emails, visits, etc.).
6. On Nov 29th, encourage fasting and extra prayers in solidarity with the Palestinian people (prayer is one of the most powerful things we can do).
7. Continue activism (in any form that works for you [eg, fasting, prayers, contacting elected officials, supporting the BDS movement, hosting talks, wearing Palestinian colors/kaffiyeh, etc.]) to protest the ongoing occupation and brutal genocide. Continue until the Palestinian people are free.

The following list of films, documentaries, and videos all showcase powerful stories of the Palestinian people. Their voices carry through loud and clear, asking us to hear what they are trying to share. Many of these films have won multiple awards and accolades:

1. • Gaza: Journalists Under Fire (www.bravenewfilms.org)
   • The Voice of Hind Rajab (official trailer on YouTube)*
   • Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk (official trailer on YouTube. In theaters Nov 5)
   • Starving Gaza (Al Jazeera)
   • This is Gaza: Witnessing the Israel-Hamas war (YouTube, Channel4.com)
   • It’s Bisan from Gaza, and I’m still Alive (YouTube)
   • The Night Won’t End: Biden’s War on Gaza (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Israel’s Reel Extremism (www.Zeteo.com, YouTube)
   • In Reel Life: Hidden War
   • 3000 Nights (Netflix)
   • Resistance, Why? (YouTube, Vimeo.com)
   • Ma’loul Celebrates its Destruction (Justwatch.com)
   • 5 Broken Cameras (Apple TV) 
   • The Wanted 18 (Amazon Prime, Justwatch.com)
   • Aida Returns
   • Farha (Netflix)
   • Ghost Hunting
   • Naila and the Uprising
   • Little Palestine, Diary of a Siege
   • Eleven Days in May (Al Jazeera)
   • Al-Nakba: The Palestinian Catastrophe (YouTube, Al Jazeera) 
   • The War in June 1967 (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • The War in October: What Happened in 1973? (YouTube, Al Jazeera)
   • The Price of Oslo (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Jerusalem: Dividing Al-Aqsa (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Palestine 1920: The Other Side of the Palestinian Story (Al Jazeera)
   • Gaza, Sinai, and the Wall (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Israel’s Automated Occupation: Hebron (Al Jazeera, YouTube
   • Weaponising Water in Palestine (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Rebel Architecture: The Architecture of Violence (Al Jazeera)
   • No Other Land (2025 Academy Award Winner! On Amazon, Apple TV, etc.)

This is only a partial list. There are many other films also documenting the plight of the Palestinian people. Please support these brave filmmakers as they share their stories. Together, we can show our solidarity with Palestine. This genocide is one that the whole world is watching in real time, and it is incumbent upon all of us to uphold justice in the face of such atrocities. There is much truth in the old adage “Together we stand, divided we fall”. Let us stand firm and united for Palestine. 

[*The film received a record-breaking 24-minute standing ovation after its world premiere at the Venice Film Festival and won the Grand Jury Prize. Release date TBA. No USA distributor as of the date of this printing.]

 

Related:

– Watch, Learn, And Speak Out: Films And Documentaries About Palestine Made Available Online For Free

– From Algeria to Palestine: Commemorating Eighty Years Of Resistance And International Solidarity

The post November 29 Is The International Day Of Solidarity With The Palestinian People – What Will You Do? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

From Muhammad Ali to Malcolm X to Zohran Mamdani, the deliberate distortion of Muslim names reveals how Islamophobia and power intersect to deny identity and belonging.

By Shaik Zakeer Hussain

Misnaming as a Tool of Power

Zohran Mamdani

Zohran Mamdani’s historic victory in the New York City mayoral election has been hailed as a triumph against staggering odds, a beacon of hope for marginalised communities across the United States. Winning this high-profile race amid fierce opposition, including attempts by wealthy billionaires to undermine his campaign, Mamdani’s success represents more than an electoral win; it is a challenge to entrenched political powers resistant to change.

Yet, throughout his campaign and into his leadership, Mamdani’s Muslim identity and very name became targets of calculated mockery and discrediting.

Powerful figures such as Andrew Cuomo and Elon Musk repeatedly mispronounced or deliberately distorted Mamdani’s name, not out of ignorance but as an act of strategic dismissal. Cuomo, at times, mispronounced Mamdani’s name to undermine his legitimacy, while Musk went further by mocking him on social media. On 4 November, Musk tweeted: “Remember to vote tomorrow in New York! Bear in mind that a vote for Curtis is really a vote for Mumdumi or whatever his name is,” publicly ridiculing the Democratic nominee’s name while endorsing Cuomo.

A History of Refusal: Ali and Malcolm X

Muhammad Ali

Mamdani is far from the first to face such dehumanising tactics. Decades ago, Muhammad Ali, born Cassius Clay, famously changed his name after converting to Islam, a profound declaration of religious and cultural identity. Yet, for years, many refused to call him Muhammad Ali, clinging to his “slave name” as a means of control and erasure. Ali confronted this head-on, demanding, “Say my name!” and turned the act of name recognition into a powerful assertion of dignity and resistance.

Similarly, Malcolm X’s journey was deeply shaped by Islamophobia entwined with racism. By replacing his “slave name” with an “X” to symbolise the loss of his African heritage, Malcolm directly challenged systemic racism and the social order. This provoked relentless refusal and mockery from those unwilling to grant him full recognition. The experiences of both Ali and Malcolm X reveal how misnaming and name refusal function as tools to reinforce power hierarchies by denying agency and respect to those who challenge dominant cultural narratives.

The Social and Psychological Weight of Misnaming

A common thread runs through these practices: the refusal or mockery of names enforces social power by denying identity and belonging. It exerts control over who is accepted within the social fabric. Sociologists and psychologists describe this as a form of social exclusion and symbolic violence, where names, integral to personal and collective identity, are rejected to marginalise individuals. Misnaming erodes belonging, damages self-esteem, and signals disrespect, fostering alienation and psychological harm.

Leading scholars such as Derald Wing Sue, an expert on microaggressions, have articulated this phenomenon clearly. Sue explains, “Misnaming and mispronouncing intentionally or habitually can be a form of microaggression, an act that communicates dismissiveness or a lack of respect, reinforcing social hierarchies that marginalise certain groups.”

This underscores that misnaming is not merely a matter of pronunciation but an expression of social power, enabling dominant groups to assert control through symbolic acts of disrespect that erode a person’s sense of identity and belonging.
Islamophobia is not incidental but central to the repeated targeting of Muslim identities, shaping how figures like Ali, Malcolm X, and Mamdani are perceived and attacked.

Beyond Symbolic Victories

So, does Mamdani’s victory signal a meaningful shift in this pattern? His success inspires hope and demonstrates the potential for political transformation, but it does not immediately dismantle the deeply ingrained Islamophobia and exclusionary behaviours that persist. Islamophobia remains a pervasive social current that electoral achievements alone cannot eliminate. Ali, despite becoming a cultural icon, never escaped attacks on his religious identity, illustrating that recognition in one sphere does not guarantee acceptance in all.

This ongoing pattern highlights how systemic power structures selectively embrace individuals for what benefits or entertains the dominant culture, while continuing to marginalise aspects of their identity that challenge prevailing norms or threaten existing hierarchies. Muhammad Ali’s religious convictions and  political stances faced sustained targeting despite his fame. In Mamdani’s case, his political identity challenges entrenched power dynamics, provoking similar resistance, particularly from those invested in maintaining the status quo.

From Muhammad Ali to Malcolm X, and now Zohran Mamdani, the lesson is clear: cultural acceptance and political success do not automatically translate into full social inclusion or an end to identity-based discrimination.

About the Author

Shaik Zakeer Hussain

Shaik Zakeer Hussain is a journalist based in Bangalore, India. He is the founder and editor of Barakah Insider.

He can be reached on X at: Zaknetic

Related:

Reclaiming Malcolm X’s Legacy

God’s Plan and Muhammad Ali – Imam Zaid Shakir

 

The post “Say My Name”: Why Muslim Names Remain Battlegrounds — From Muhammad Ali to Zohran Mamdani appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Carried along by the river, on the edge of death, Deek relives a terrible moment from his past – even as rescuers search for him desperately.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28| Part 29

* * *

“So I swam, striving for the shore, and the great wave carried me on.”
— Homer, The Odyssey

Leaking Light and Heat

Deek was as helpless as a leaf, pushed along by the frigid, fast-paced current. He was on the verge of drowning, but had not yet given up. At times, he sank beneath the surface, but always he kicked up again, pawing at the water, craning his head to suck in a lungful of life-saving air. He’d swallowed a lot of water already, and the brackish taste was thick in his throat.

At times, he didn’t know why he kept fighting. Why not surrender to the hungry, sucking river, and let himself be taken away to a place where, whatever his life might be, it would not consist of lonely hotel rooms and lost friendships? He could not feel his extremities. He felt as if his hands and feet had been severed, and his life’s energy was flowing out of the stumps, flowing into the river’s black current.

At other moments, he remembered what Rania had said to him that night in the car, parked outside the hospital:

“If my love for you on our wedding day was hot and passionate, then it is a still burning flame, as powerful as ever. I’m trying to hold on to you, but it’s like holding on to an electric eel. You have to do your part as well.”

She was right, he was an eel, because didn’t eels live in the water? And here he was, dying in water just as he’d been born from it. She was right as well that he had not done his part. If he survived this, he would do his part and more; he would.

Lion of Love

He could not die letting his beloved wife think that he did not love her and want her. He could not die without apologizing to her for his intransigence, stubbornness, and lack of gratitude. So he kept his mouth shut like a spaceship’s air lock, lips pressed tightly together in spite of the burning in his lungs, because he knew that if he were to open it and take that icy water into his lungs, he would be finished. His life belonged to Allah, and Allah would take it or spare it as He willed, but in the meantime, Deek would fight like a cornered lion. In his waking dream, Rabiah al-Adawiyyah had called him Lion of Love, and so he would be.

He’d once seen a video of a lion in Africa being hunted by a man with a rifle and his team. They pursued the lion into the bush, fanning out and beating the bushes. There came a point, however, when the lion had had enough, and decided to make a final stand. He came charging out of the bush, running straight for the hunter, ignoring the beaters and support crew. SubhanAllah! The lion knew exactly who his enemy was. The hunter dropped to one knee, aimed, and shot the lion in the head when it was almost atop him, and the lion tumbled to the side.

Deek despised that hunter, but he lauded the lion for his immense courage and fierce will to live. The lion was all who suffered under the leaden weight of oppression, yet refused to surrender. The lion was the indigenous peoples of the world, the Tibetans, Uighurs, Palestinians, Rohingya… It was Deek himself, and he would not die until he could see Rania one last time.

The river spun him in circles. His wet clothes threatened to drag him into the depths. He struck a man-sized chunk of floating wood, and a sharp edge cut his shoulder. He tried grabbing onto it, but it bobbed away on the current.

Lost Lake

Sanaya struggled through the thick undergrowth along the bank, trying to keep up with Amira. She could hear her younger sister up ahead, calling out for Baba again and again. Every few seconds, her eyes shot to the river and she scanned it, looking for any sign of her father. The water was terrifying. Sanaya had never learned to swim. She had a rich friend, a Muslim girl named Halima, who lived in a mansion with an indoor pool. Halima occasionally threw girls-only pool parties. Sanaya would splash around in the shallow end, but even that made her anxious.

Suddenly, the heavy underbrush disappeared, and she found herself standing on a stretch of evenly cut grass. There were trees and picnic tables. She recognized this place. It was Lost Lake Park. A misnomer, since it was not a lake at all, but a riverside park. Some of the Muslims would hold Eid picnics here. Amira stood on one of the tables, screaming Baba’s name at the top of her lungs.

“Why are we stopping here?” Sanaya asked.

Amira looked down at her. There were tears in the younger girl’s eyes. “I don’t know. I just feel like we should.”

Teeth clenched, Sanaya tried calling her mother again. The call went to voicemail. Then again – same result.

Driving Blind

Rania drove madly up the mountain, now and then glancing at the GPS on her dash-mounted phone. Her back hurt badly, and every turn of the dark, winding road seemed to make it worse. On one curve, the car fishtailed and would have gone over the cliff, except that the rear of the car slammed into a pine tree that grew right on the edge. Rania’s head rocked to the side and hit the window. Needles and pinecones rained down on the car. She moaned, dazed. Her head ached badly, and her vision was hazy. She knew she was concussed.

Her phone had popped out of the mount. She found it on the floor. The screen was cracked, and it was dead. No matter – she had an image of the map in her mind. She pressed the gas to resume the mad dash, but the car had died. She turned the key again and pressed the pedal, and the engine turned over, making a noise like a frog chanting, “raka raka raka,” yet did not start. Pausing for a long breath, she tried to calm herself. She whispered, “Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem,” then turned the key, and the car started! She was off like a shot, tires squealing in protest.

“Hold on, Deek,” she said out loud. “Wherever you are, I will find you.” Her vision was still gray around the edges, and it was suffocatingly dark out here. She had no map and drove blind, only halfway sure she was going the right way. But when a sudden turn appeared on the left, heading steeply downhill, she hit the brakes and took it. It was not the route that she remembered from the map, but somehow it felt right. It was an old, thinly paved road with cracks and extrusions where tree roots had pushed up the pavement. The car bounced and shook, and Rania feared it might come apart.

Hanging

Deek could not fight the river. His spirit was willing, but his body was a drained husk. He whispered a prayer in his mind, asking Allah to forgive him, and to welcome him home. Just as he stopped kicking his feet and let his arms fall limply to his side, he seemed to hear his name being called. It was impossible, of course. No one would know to look for him here, and he wouldn’t be able to hear them anyway, out here in the middle of the river.

Yet he heard it, and in response, he thrust his arm up out of the water. Impossibly, his hand struck something, and he willed his frozen fingers to clamp shut. With his last molecule of strength, he pulled himself up.

He had grasped a slender, low-hanging tree branch that hung far out over the river. He wrapped his other arm over it, catching the branch in the crook of his elbow. Looking around wearily, almost hopelessly, he saw nothing, for the night was as dark as despair. He knew he didn’t have the strength to hold on for more than a few seconds, so with one hand he undid his belt, pulled it free, and used it to lash his arm to the tree branch. He pulled the belt tight and notched it. With this, exhaustion overcame him, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

A Risky Plan

“There!” Amira jumped up and down on the table, pointing. “It’s Baba, there, there, there!”

Sanaya peered but could see nothing. A dark shape hung over the river on the other side, maybe ten feet from the far shore. “I think that’s a tree branch.”

“I know that. He’s hanging from the tree branch!”

Amira leaped down, pulled off her shoes and socks, then began to take off her jacket.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to rescue him!”

Sanaya seized her sister’s arm. “You don’t know how to swim. Neither of us do. Even if that’s him out there, you’ll only drown yourself.”

Amira struggled, trying to pull her arm away. “Let me go!” Sanaya bear-hugged her, and the two of them fell into the grass, struggling.

Amira went limp. “Fine! You win. What’s your plan, then?”

Sanaya stood and called emergency services, updating them. She got off the phone to see Amira hanging on a long tree branch, jumping up and down to break it off. With a loud crack, it snapped, and Amira screamed as the branch fell atop her.

“What’s this, then?” Sanaya demanded as Amira stood, rubbing a fresh bruise on her forehead.

“You hold one end, I’ll hold the other and wade out into the river.”

Sanaya considered. It was a ridiculous plan, but Amira was right; they had to do something. But she wasn’t going to let Amira enter the water. “You hold one end, and I will wade out.”

Sanaya shucked her father’s heavy jacket, but kept her shoes on. She gasped when the icy water swirled around her legs. “It’s freezing!”

“Then get him out!”

Holding on to the end of the branch, with Amira at the edge of the shore, Sanaya was still far from the center of the river, let alone the far side where her father hung. The water was up to her hips. Letting go of the branch for a moment, she braced herself against the current, removed her hijab, spun it into a rope, and tied one end to the end of the branch. Gripping the other end gave her about another three feet, and she waded out a bit more, hoping the cloth would not tear.

It was hopeless. The water was up to her belly button now, and pulled at her strongly. She was terrified. Her teeth chattered, and her heart pounded in her chest like a ship’s cannon. Suddenly, there was a bit of give to the hijab, and she waved her arms, floundering. Looking back, panicked, she saw that Amira had waded out into the water. She was trying to help Sanaya reach Baba, but it was impossible; he was too far away.

“No!” Sanaya screamed. “Go back!”

Crash

Rounding a sharp, downhill curve, the road opened up into a straight stretch, and Rania saw a long stretch of parkland stretched out along the river. She knew this place. She’d been here for a few Eid picnics. Lost Park, or something like that.

She barrelled into the parking lot too fast, and jammed her foot on the brake pedal, but it was too late. The car hit the curb and bounced. Rania lost control of the wheel, and before she could react, the car slammed into a tree. Rania flinched, turning aside just as the air bag deployed, bashing one side of her face.

Struggling out from behind the air bag, Rania ran toward the river. She saw the scene at a glance: her daughters were in the water! She dashed into the freezing water, seized Amira around the waist, and began dragging her back to the shore.

Cold and Shock

Sanaya had given up on this plan. Fear made her movements jerky as she struggled back toward the shore, even as Amira was wading in deeper. She was startled by a tremendous crashing sound, and saw that a car had crashed into a tree a short way away in the park. Its front end was smashed in, one headlight still shining. Wait… was that Mom’s car?

Astonished, she watched as Mom struggled out of the car and then sprinted toward them. When Mom began to drag Amira out, Sanaya held tightly to the hijab as it went tight. Amira was pulled out of the water, and she followed. Alhamdulillah, she thought. Alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah.

Back on the shore, she lay panting and shaking with cold and shock. Amira was on her feet, talking and pointing.

“Mom,” Sanaya gasped. “Your face!”

“The air bag.”

As her mother began to remove her clothing, Sanaya realized what she meant to do. She sat up. “Mom! What about your back? Can you swim?”

No Pain

“I’ll be fine”, she said. “I can swim better than you can imagine. Listen to me. You two stay out of the water! I will bring your father back, by the will of Allah. Sanaya, get out of those wet clothes. There’s an emergency blanket in the back of the car; use that.”

As she said these words, she stripped to her underwear, knowing that wet clothing would drag her down. Then she dashed into the water. It was very cold. She’d spent countless afternoons swimming in the Tigris, but that river was much warmer than this one.

She hit the water running. The river’s cold was a living thing, slamming into her chest, stealing her breath for a heartbeat. Her skin recoiled, but her mind did not. She had no space inside her for hesitation or fear. Once the water was up to her waist, she dove in, her body knifing through the surface, and began stroking strongly toward Deek.

She realized for the first time that her back was as free of pain as when she was a child. For weeks, pain had been her constant shadow–every step, every twist, every attempt to work or sleep. Now there was nothing. Her head still throbbed fiercely from the car crash. Her vision pulsed with gray at the edges. But her spine felt straight and strong.

As she hit the center of the river, the current threatened to snatch her away. Rather than waste energy trying to fight it, she let it wash her downstream as she continued to cut across the river. Once she’d cleared the center, she reoriented on Deek. Four breaststrokes, then a breath. She cupped her hands to pull at the water more effectively and kicked hard the whole time.

She saw now that Deek had lashed himself to the branch and hung, either unconscious or dead. Even as she watched, however, the notch on the belt slipped free, and her husband slipped underwater and disappeared. He was gone.

River of Memory

As Deek’s body drifted in the icy river, slipping deeper and deeper down into the blackness, his last thought was of the day they rescued his uncle.

The memory rose out of the darkness like a lantern rising from the sea.

He was nine years old again, sitting cross-legged on the cool tile floor of their Baghdad apartment, a battered wooden checkers board between him and Lubna. She was only four, pudgy-cheeked and bossy. She slapped one of her black pieces onto a red square and said, “Shaikh mat,” though it was the wrong game entirely. Deek tried not to smile.

Their grandmother moved about the kitchen humming an old love song from her youth, something about jasmine and moonlight. The smell of frying eggplant and tomatoes filled the house. Outside, the neighborhood kids were playing football in the alley, their shouts drifting through the open balcony door. It was evening, a warm spring night, and everything was ordinary.

Then the front door slammed.

Ammu Khalid, the eldest brother in the family, stomped in, still in his police uniform, his face tight and angry. He tossed his cap on the couch so hard it bounced to the floor. Behind him came Ammu Tarek, his father’s younger brother, nineteen years old, slender, bright-eyed, wearing the same denim jacket he always wore when he went “out for a walk”—which everyone knew meant plastering pro-democracy, anti-government flyers on electrical poles after midnight. Their father, Uthman, followed quietly, closing the door gently as if trying to balance out the force of his brothers.

The argument began even before the table was set.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Khalid snapped, pulling off his boots and rubbing his temples. “And not only yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Tarek shot back. “Loving your country is not wrong.”

“Loving your country is not the same as making yourself a martyr.”

“Someone has to tell the truth!”

“And what about the rest of us?” Khalid snapped. “What about my job?”

“Your job,” Tarek sneered. “Working for Saddam the Butcher. Abu Ghraib is full of ghosts because of him.”

“Keep your voice down! I know all this.”

Grandmother shushed them sharply, setting plates of food on the low dining cloth, but the shush only slowed them for a heartbeat. Soon they were yelling again, Tarek accusing Khalid of cowardice, Khalid accusing Tarek of recklessness.

Baba sat at the edge of the cloth, folding bread into neat triangles. He did not look at either brother, only murmured, “Come, come, enough. Sit and eat. No good ever comes from shouting.”

But they didn’t stop. The fight felt larger than them—like the entire country had cracked down the middle, and the fissure ran straight through the Saghir family.

Deek didn’t understand most of it. In school, he was taught that Saddam was the protector of Iraq, the hero of the Iran War. Posters of the President hung in every classroom. But he’d heard whispers, too—men lowering their voices when certain names were spoken, neighbors who vanished without explanation.

To Deek, all of that felt distant and confusing. What he understood was checkers, drawing, and his father’s gentle voice reciting Quran. And Lubna sticking her tongue out whenever she lost.

He moved a piece on the board. “Your turn,” he whispered.

Lubna didn’t move. She was staring at the adults, her lower lip trembling with confusion and fear.

He leaned close and whispered, “It’s okay. They always fight.”

But that night felt different. Even as a child, he sensed it.

Ammu Tarek stormed out after dinner. Uthman sighed, rubbing his beard. Khalid sat with his face in his hands, his untouched food growing cold.

Rania in the Dark

Rania angled her trajectory to compensate for the current. Her legs kicked hard, arms pulling in long, practiced strokes. The old muscle memory came back as if it had been waiting just beneath her skin. The Tigris had taught her this when she was a girl, spending entire summer afternoons in the water while her cousins shrieked and splashed nearby.

“Deek!” she shouted, but the word broke apart on water.

She saw him then, a dark shape rolling in the current, being dragged inexorably toward a bend in the river. He bobbed once, then vanished.

“No,” she gasped, and drove herself forward, kicking harder. She stopped fighting the current and let it carry her toward her husband. When she reached the spot where she estimated Deek should be, she whispered, “Bismillah,” and dove.

The river was inky black. She could see absolutely nothing. She spread her arms out wide, moving them about. Lungs burning, she surfaced, took a breath, dove again, then repeated the process a third time.

Her fingers brushed cloth. She reached, missed, reached again.

This time her hand slid across his shoulder, then under his arm. She clamped her arm tight on his, and pushed for the surface, kicking for all her life. Breaking the surface, she took great, heaving breaths, then adjusted her position relative to Deek, hooking her forearm across his chest from behind to keep his face above water, just as she’d once seen a lifeguard do in Mosul. His head lolled back against her shoulder, his face gray and slack, eyes closed. She did not know if he was breathing or not, and could not check.

“I’ve got you,” she panted, though he could not hear her. “Wallahi, I’ve got you. You are not getting away this time.”

She rolled onto her side, his weight against her, and began to kick with everything she had, using her free arm to scull and pull. The current fought her for every inch, snatching at them both like greedy fingers.

She set her jaw and kicked harder.

Her vision narrowed to a tunnel: a patch of darker shadow that was the far bank, the dim blur of trees, the pull in her shoulder, the weight of her husband’s body. She could hear Amira screaming, Sanaya shouting something, their voices thin across the rushing water.

She did not answer. All her breath was for swimming.

“Just a little more, Deek,” she told him, though his body did not respond. “Do you remember what I told you? I love you because you never give up. You’re my great Iraqi prince.” She gasped these words using breath she could not spare. But Deek needed to hear it.

Kidnapped

Nine-year-old Deek was awakened deep in the night by pounding fists on the door and the roar of motors outside. He sat up, heart hammering. Lubna cried out in the dark.

Their grandmother ran past the bedroom door yelling, “Wake up! Wake up!”

Uniformed men burst into the house with flashlights and boots. They dragged Ammu Tarek out of bed, tied his hands, hooded him, and shoved him into a transport truck. Their grandmother screamed until her voice cracked. Their father did not move, did not speak—his face was carved from stone.

When the police trucks finally roared away, grandmother fumbled for the phone with shaking hands. She called Khalid.

He arrived before dawn, pale and grim. There was no argument this time, no shouting. Only orders.

“Pack. All of you. One suitcase each. Hurry.”

“What will they do to him?” grandmother demanded.

Khalid’s jaw worked, but no words came.

Then he turned to Baba. “Uthman… I need you. Come with me.”

Deek felt his breath catch. Fear surged through him like electricity. He couldn’t lose his father. He couldn’t.

So he did the only thing he could do. While Khalid and Uthman loaded into the covered jeep, Deek crept out, slipped behind them, and curled up on the floor behind the back seat, pulling a dirty blanket over himself. The engine vibrated through his bones as they drove.

Ambush

They left the city and entered an area of heavy forest by the Euphrates. Khalid unlocked a chained gate with a key that glinted in the headlights. He drove off the road, between trees, until the jeep was swallowed by darkness.

Then came the sound of metal: a rifle being checked and loaded.

Deek peeked from beneath the canvas. Khalid handed their father a pistol.

“I know you’ve never used one,” he said hoarsely. “But tonight you might have to.”

Baba nodded once, though his hands trembled.

Deek followed them on bare feet, shivering in the cold, hiding behind shrubs. His teeth chattered loudly enough that he feared they would hear him.

Just after dawn, a police truck rumbled down the road and through the gate.

Three policemen got out. They opened the back and hauled five hooded men onto the dirt. Even from a distance, Deek recognized the way one of the prisoners stood—a wide stance, the familiar denim jacket, the rangy frame. It was Ammu Tarek.

Deek’s breath hitched. He bit his knuckle to stop the cry rising in his throat.

The policemen forced the prisoners to their knees by the riverbank. Rifles lifted.

At that instant, Khalid stood, shouting something wordless and furious, and opened fire. Baba stood beside him, hands shaking but steady enough as he fired the pistol. Two policemen fell, and one fled into the trees. But not before he fired a wild burst at the prisoners.

Deek saw it in slow motion: One prisoner dropping forward with a ruined skull. Another tumbling backward into the water, and Tarek toppling into the river like a sack of sand.

The other two prisoners tore off their hoods and ran into the forest.

“Get Tarek!” Khalid yelled. Then he ran after the last policeman.

Rescue

Baba sprinted to the river, dove in without hesitation. The water was a heaving brown rush, cold and fast. Deek watched his father surface gasping, dive again, surface, dive again. Each time he came up, his face was more frantic.

Little Deek couldn’t stay hidden. Terror propelled him. He ran down the bank, stumbled into the water.

“Baba!”

His feet sank into cold mud. The water was frigid, pulling at his legs like living hands. The current smelled of silt and diesel, and something metallic.

He couldn’t swim well. But he went anyway.

His father surfaced, choking, dragging Tarek’s limp body by the collar. The current yanked Baba sideways, threatening to twist him under.

Then he saw his son, and his face went white.

“Deek! Get back!”

But Deek didn’t. He splashed toward him, arm outstretched, crying, “Baba!”

Baba reached him, grabbed his wrist, and together—fighting the current, slipping in the mud—they dragged Tarek to the bank. Uthman collapsed beside his brother, applying pressure to the wound in his back as blood pooled darkly beneath them.

Escape

Ammu Khalid returned, muddy and panting, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Into the jeep!” he barked.

They laid Tarek across the back seat. Baba climbed in beside him, pressing the wound with both hands. Deek pressed himself into the corner, soaked and freezing, watching his father’s hands turn red.

Khalid drove like a man possessed, through back alleys and farm roads, until they reached a modest home on the edge of town. A dissident leader—a nurse by trade—opened the door, looking terrified. Once he saw Tarek, however, he ushered them inside.

They left him there, not knowing whether he would live or die.

They returned home only long enough to collect their other family members.

That night, hidden behind a false wall in the back of a panel truck, Deek listened to his sister sobbing, to his grandmother whispering prayers, to his mother’s silence. He did not understand everything, but he understood one thing: they were leaving Iraq forever.

Weeks later, they learned that Ammu Tarek had survived and had been smuggled to Turkey. And that Ammu Khalid was dead. The adults told the children it was a car accident.

Years later, Baba told Deek the truth, that Khalid had committed suicide. For a long time, Deek believed that Khalid must have done it out of shame that he betrayed his leader and his colleagues. Or perhaps he knew he might be suspected as the culprit and did not want to be tortured.

It was only in recent years, when the memory came to Deek one day as he was bathing, did it occur to him that Khalid had known where the prisoners would be taken. Which meant that he himself had executed men in just this way. Maybe the shame and guilt of his own deeds finally overcame him. Only Allah knew.

River of Echoes

Now, reliving all of this in his dying moments, Deek’s reality blurred, and he began to think that he was Ammu Tarek. He had been bound, hooded and shot, and thrown in the river, and now here he was, drowning. The cold stole the air from his lungs. The hood clung to his face. Water filled his ears. The river tumbled him end over end.

Hands seized him from behind. Strong hands, gripping his arm, dragging him upward. Then earth beneath him. He was being dragged. Voices shouting, “Deek!” and “Baba!” This confused him. Who was he, really? Was he in Iraq, or somewhere else?

It didn’t matter. He felt himself being drawn away again, but not through water this time. Rather, he was being pulled away from his own body, from the world, from this confusing and lonely existence. He could not decide if this was good or bad.

Dead

As Rania neared the shore, towing Deek behind her, the girls ran into the water and pulled her and Deek out. Rania’s breath heaved in her chest, and her arms and legs felt like spaghetti noodles, devoid of all strength. She let the girls do the bulk of the work as the three of them worked together to have Deek up the bank and onto the grass, where they laid him out on his back.

Quickly, professionally, Rania checked Deek’s vitals. Her hands trembled, but she had done this thousands of times. Deek’s eyes were open, and his body was very cold. He had no pulse, and was not breathing. He was dead.

“No,” she whispered. “You are not dead.” She knew that very cold water could preserve brain function for a long time. She would revive him by the will of Allah.

Rania tilted his head back, swept his mouth clean with her fingers, sealed her lips over his, and gave him five long rescue breaths—slow, steady, forcing the air in, watching his chest for any lift. On the third breath, a small bubble of foam escaped his lips. She wiped it and continued, switching to chest compressions. The girls were weeping beside her, Sanaya hugging Amira tightly, sharing the silvery emergency blanket with her sister.

“Back up,” she told the girls, breathless but firm. “Don’t distract me.” This moment was everything. She placed her hands on his sternum and began pushing. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…

Her elbows locked. Her shoulders burned. Deek’s body gave no response at all.

“Mom!” Amira cried behind her. “Listen—sirens!”

Rania ignored her. Her world consisted of her hands against her husband’s cold chest.

“Come back to me,” she said through clenched teeth. “A burning flame, remember? That’s what you and I have, that’s what we are. A burning flame of love. You never give up, you’re crazy like that. It’s not in your nature to give up. Deek. IT’S NOT IN YOUR NATURE.”

Thirty compressions. She leaned down, gave him two more breaths. More water dribbled from the corner of his mouth, but still no chest movement of his own.

She did another cycle. And another. Her arms were shaking uncontrollably. Her vision pulsed with pain from the concussion. She was about to call Sanaya to come and take over. Rania could coach her, tell her what to do. She could hear the sirens now, loud.

What Did You Say?

“Amira,” she said. “Stop crying and come talk to your father.”

To her credit, Amira did not ask what she should say. She stifled her sobs and dropped to her knees, leaning close to her father’s ear. “Baba, we’re right here. Please, Baba, we need you. You always told me, you and me together until the end of the line, remember? Keep your promise.”

Something shifted.

Rania couldn’t put her finger on it, only that suddenly the world was enveloped in silence. She pressed down hard with the last possible compression she would be able to do—

—and Deek’s entire body jerked beneath her hands.

She froze. “Deek?”

A second later, he convulsed and coughed—a weak, strangled sound that tore itself from somewhere deep inside him. A gush of river water spilled from his mouth, splattering onto his chin and shirt. Then he rolled onto his side in a spasmodic reflex, heaving violently as he vomited water and mud.

“Allahu Akbar!” Rania cried. “That’s it, habibi, let it out.”

Deek gagged again, spit, coughed, then sucked in a ragged, shuddering breath that sounded like wind gusting into a cave. Rania put a hand on his chest and her ear against his mouth. His breathing was irregular—fast, then slow, then stopping for a moment before restarting. His body shivered uncontrollably, muscles spasming under his soaked clothes.

“Sanaya, put the blanket on your father!”

Sanaya draped the emergency blanket over Deek, and Rania pulled her daughters in tightly around him. They huddled together, their bodies forming a cocoon of warmth around his trembling frame. Amira recited Surat Al-Fatiha, while Sanaya said a long dua for protection in times of danger – one that Rania herself did not know.

“Mom,” Amira whispered, crying and laughing at the same time. “He’s breathing.”

“Yes,” Rania said, smoothing Deek’s wet hair back from his forehead. “But he’s not out of danger. Keep holding him. Keep him warm.”

Red and blue lights flashed. Tires screeched in the parking lot. Rania jumped up and pulled her clothes and hijab back on, then returned to Deek’s side.

Her husband sputtered again, a shallow cough, then looked from Rania to his daughters with eyes filled with sadness and confusion. He whispered something low and ragged.

“What did you say?” Rania came close to his mouth. “Say that again.”

“I said,” Deek replied in a voice as rough as sandpaper, “Where am I?”

Rania’s eyes widened with fear. Had Deek suffered brain damage from the lack of oxygen? That was a very real risk.

“You’re in Fresno,” she replied. “On the banks of the San Joaquin River. Can you tell me your name?”

He smiled faintly, even as tremors ran through his body. “I am Deek Saghir, and you are Rania Al-Hassan, my beloved wife. And I’m sorry for everything. I want to come home now.”

Rania didn’t look away from him.

“Deek, you fool,” she said. “You have one heck of a sense of timing.” She took one of his hands, clasped it tightly. “You’re home, habibi. You’re home.”

***

Come back next week for Part 31 inshaAllah – the FINAL chapter of Moonshot!

 

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:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

The post Moonshot [Part 30] – Two Rivers, Two Lives appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

If you are a Muslim man reading this after having intentionally clicked on the article link, may Allah reward you. Even if you don’t have a wife, you definitely have a mother, and maybe even a sister or daughter. I promise you, this will be relevant. 

As a husband, part of being your wife’s qawwam (protector/maintainer) is being actively involved in helping her meet her spiritual, emotional, and physical health needs. This applies to fathers as well. If your own father did this, then alhamdulilah, you are so privileged to have such a Prophetic example. If not, then it’s up to you to break that cycle by educating yourself on what kind of support your wife needs during her midlife years and helping her through it.

Shifts in Midlife

There are funny social media reels about husbands being told their perimenopausal wives now detest the way they smell/breathe/sleep/chew. Beneath that humour is the very real issue that, as hormones shift during perimenopause, even the most solid of marriages can be tested. 

For example, a wife who has been happily homeschooling her three young children may now be far too exhausted by her hormonal changes and much more prone to anger. Midlife is a time for a mother to start looking inwards on how to nourish herself better, after nurturing her own children. Perimenopausal symptoms can start in some women as early as their mid-thirties, while most women start feeling symptoms of declining estrogen and progesterone in their forties until they reach menopause.

I actually asked my husband for tips on how to write this article, and he has plenty of gems to share. 

 – Make sure she eats well

With the gradual decline of bone density and muscle mass starting in her late thirties/early forties, protein is now absolutely necessary to help strengthen her bones and muscles. Stock up on protein, and – even better – prepare a protein-rich dish for her. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but knowing that she doesn’t need to hunt for more protein will help to ease some of her mental load.

Plant-based protein shakes are also helpful. Yogurt smoothies with nuts and fruit are another tasty and easily-prepared option. Offering her a slice of her favourite bread with high-protein peanut butter and jam can make a huge difference in her mood. 

 – Exercise together

Exercising together is a lot more conducive than nagging her to exercise. Ask me how I know. It helps to have a partner to go on walks with, and it’s even better to have a partner to spot you while you both lift heavy. In addition to building muscle and bone mass, exercise works wonders for improving mental health, blood circulation, and mobility.

“At the very least give your wife the gift of time to exercise regularly.” [PC: Elena Kloppenburg (unsplash)]

For those who are financially able, consider investing in a personal trainer to support your wife in her fitness journey, and/or gift her with a ladies-only gym membership. 

For those who aren’t, you can still support her by giving her the gift of time to exercise regularly. Consistency is difficult to maintain even in the best of times, so supporting your busy wife means committing to looking after your children or arranging for childcare, to give your wife the time and space to exercise. Renewing this beautiful intention to support your wife’s exercise journey is also a means of pleasing Allah .

 – Facilitate her good sleep

If your wife is struggling to sleep, then please know that this is part of perimenopause. If she is also neurodivergent, then getting sleep during perimenopause will be even trickier than usual! The irony is that nightly long stretches of uninterrupted sleep are exactly what will help to regulate your wife’s hormones, but falling asleep can be harder than ever. 

Ask her how you can help support her nighttime sleep routine. Mothers often sleep late at night because they crave that silence and uninterrupted time to themselves. To counter this, brainstorm ways to give her time to herself during the day. After a rough night, do her a favour and give her the chance to sleep in. 

Whenever possible, take charge of the morning school drop-off routine so she can rest a little while longer. Give her the opportunity to nap during the day by looking after your children, or arranging for a trusted babysitter or family member to do that.

 – Be understanding of her libido changes

Marital intimacy comes in stages – the excitement and discovery of the newlywed stage, the exhaustion after newborns, and the fluctuating state of perimenopause. Vaginal dryness can be a reality for many perimenopausal women, and this can definitely impact her decreasing libido. It’s important to investigate different types of lubrication that can help, as well as the possibility of dietary changes or supplements. Foreplay is even more important in this stage of marital intimacy. 

Jabir bin ‘Abdullah narrates saying, “The Messenger of Allah (may Allah bless him and give him peace) forbade intercourse before foreplay.” [Khatib, Tarikh Baghdad: the chain was deemed sound by Dhahabi]

Figure out a way to schedule regular marital intimacy instead of leaving it to chance. It’s natural for perimenopausal wives to feel anxious about intimacy, but avoidance only makes it worse. 

Supporting your wife throughout the day will endear you to her, making her much more receptive to marital intimacy at night. Keep in mind that, on top of hormonal changes that make your wife feel uncomfortable, her body shape has probably changed over the years, too. Telling her that you still find her beautiful  and attractive will help allay any anxieties she may feel. She is the mother of your children, and her body has gone through a tremendous change with every child she brings earthside. 

 – Keep lines of communication open

Every marriage has its own stresses, but coupled with perimenopause, it’s more important than ever to remember that you’re both on the same team. Make daily bids for connection by turning towards each other, rather than turning away. There are simple things you can both do to show your love and concern, e.g., preparing a favourite drink/snack, affectionate touches, and using terms of endearment. You can think of this as filling up each other’s love tank, so you can both function well together as a team, as opposed to sputtering on empty.

In addition to small daily gestures of kindness, make an effort to schedule at least weekly date nights and/or coffee dates together. It makes all the difference to have intentional conversations about meeting each other’s needs – especially during difficult stretches. It’s important for husbands to also express what kind of support they would like too. Plan for success to help both of you thrive. Supporting your wife does not mean obliterating your own needs – that will only create resentment.

 – Hormone Replacement Therapy 

By the time a woman has reached menopause, even the most supportive husband cannot replace the role of hormone replacement therapy (HRT). I’m at least ten years away from menopause, if not less, but I’m already reading about the benefits of HRT. All of the most common perimenopausal struggles listed above can be alleviated by the right dose of HRT.

In the words of Dr Vonda Wright, an orthopedic surgeon and expert on women’s aging and longevity:

“Estrogen, when started within 10 years of your last menstrual cycle, doesn’t just help with hot flashes or night sweats. It significantly reduces your risk of the top killers of women in midlife and beyond: heart disease and osteoporotic fractures. In fact, studies show it can reduce the risk of heart disease by 40–50%. That’s not a small perk—that’s a game-changer.”1

Conclusion

By the time you have reached this point in your marriage, alhamdulilah, you have already graduated through the newlywed and newborn babies stage. Now is the time to continue to nurture your wife through her midlife years by ensuring she has enough protein to eat, exercises, and sleeps well. Understanding her shifting libido will help to keep your marital intimacy going, as well as supporting her decision to explore hormonal replacement therapy. It’s important for husbands and wives to keep having regular conversations around how you can both meet each other’s needs, as a team, with Allah’s Pleasure in mind.

InshaAllah, the love and care you give your wife during this critical stage will reap tremendous reward in both this life as well as the next. 

 

Related:

– The Muslim Woman And Menopause: Navigating The ‘Invisible’ Transition With Faith And Grace

– A Primer On Intimacy And Fulfillment Of A Wife’s Desires Based On The Writings Of Scholars Of The Past

 

1    https://www.drvondawright.com/blog/what-if-we-told-you-estrogen-could-help-you-live-longer

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