Today, as the world observes the final days of the holy month of Ramadan, the skies over parts of the Middle East are filled not with the calm of night prayers, but with the sound of drones and fighter aircraft.

Missiles streak across the darkness while families below search for safety. For millions of civilians -from Gaza to Lebanon to Iran- war is no longer distant news. It is the terrifying reality of daily life. War does not only destroy cities, but long before buildings collapse, the human mind begins to fracture under the constant weight of fear, uncertainty, and grief. Across several Muslim lands today, ordinary people wake each morning under the shadow of conflict, unsure whether the next hour will bring safety or devastation.

For civilians, war is not an event. It becomes a condition of life.

Physical and Psychological Suffering

In Gaza, families have endured years of bombardment and siege. Entire neighborhoods have been reduced to rubble, hospitals overwhelmed, and children buried beneath the debris of homes that once sheltered them. To say that Gaza has faced continuous devastation for years is not an exaggeration—it is the painful reality of a population that has lived under repeated waves of destruction. Now the violence has expanded beyond Gaza. Iran, too, has faced intense military attacks by the joint operation of Israel and America, with airstrikes reported to have killed large numbers of civilians, including children. Such developments have further deepened the atmosphere of fear across the region. When powerful military forces engage in conflict with devastating weapons, it is often ordinary people who suffer the heaviest consequences. Yet, behind the geopolitical narratives lies a deeper story: the psychological suffering of the people.

Palestinians gather for iftar, the fast-breaking meal during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, in the rubble of destroyed buildings in Gaza City on February 22, 2026 .Jehad Alshrafi/AP Photo.

When bombs fall repeatedly, fear becomes normalized. Children learn to distinguish the sound of drones before they recognize the sound of birds. Mothers sleep lightly, listening for explosions instead of lullabies. Fathers carry the silent anxiety of protecting their families in circumstances beyond their control. Now imagine enduring this during Ramadan; the month meant for mercy, reflection, and spiritual peace. Even in war-torn homes and refugee camps, people still fast. They gather what little food they have for iftar. They raise their hands in prayer under skies filled with the sound of warplanes. In such moments, faith becomes more than ritual. It becomes psychological survival.

The Qur’an acknowledges that believers will face trials:

“And We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give good tidings to the patient.” [Surah Al-Baqarah 2:155]

For people living in war zones, these words are not theoretical—they are a lived reality.

Wanted: Guardians of the Ummah

Another reality that weighs heavily on the minds of many Muslims today is the question of leadership. Deep within the hearts of every  Muslim today burns a quiet but powerful longing: the wish to witness leadership that reflects the courage, justice, and moral accountability once embodied by figures like Umar ibn al-Khattab . Islamic history remembers leaders like him not merely as rulers but as guardians of justice and protectors of the vulnerable. He was known for his deep sense of accountability, famously fearing that he would be questioned before Allah even if a mule stumbled on a neglected road under his rule.

As ordinary people watch the suffering of fellow Muslims across the world, they often feel a fire of frustration and grief, wondering what it would mean to have leaders who place the dignity, protection, and unity of the Ummah above political interests and personal gain. It is this longing for principled leadership that continues to echo in the minds of muslims, reminding them that true leadership in Islam was never merely about power—it was about responsibility before Allah and service to humanity.

As conflict spreads across the Middle East, this painful thought continues to surface in conversations across the Muslim world. One striking reality during these crises has been the unity among ordinary Muslims. Sunni and Shia communities alike mourn the victims, pray for the oppressed, and express solidarity with those suffering. In moments of tragedy, the pain of the Ummah transcends sectarian boundaries.

Faith: Outliving Wars

But despite the bombs, despite the fear, and despite the uncertainty, the people continue to endure. They fast even when food is scarce. They pray even when mosques are damaged.

They hold onto faith even when surrounded by ruins. The Qur’an reminds believers:

“Do not think that Allah is unaware of what the oppressors do. He only delays them until a Day when eyes will stare in horror.” [Surah Ibrahim 14:42]

In the end, the story of war is often written in numbers—casualties, airstrikes, and destroyed buildings. But the true story lies in the unseen battles within human hearts. It is the mother who calms her frightened child while explosions echo outside. It is the father who stands in prayer despite the uncertainty of tomorrow. It is the believer who continues to fast in Ramadan even when surrounded by rubble. These quiet acts of faith reveal a truth that no bomb can erase: power may dominate the skies, but faith continues to live in the hearts of the oppressed. And as history has shown time and again, it is often this faith—patient, resilient, and unbroken—that ultimately outlives the wars themselves.

 

Related:

– Iranian Leader Khamenei Slain As War Brings Mayhem To The Gulf

– We Are Not Numbers x MuslimMatters – Ramadan While Under Attack In Gaza

The post The Weight Of Fear And The Will To Survive: Fasting In Times Of War appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

From quiet household preparations to the crowded lanes of Old Delhi, Ramadan unfolds through prayer, commerce, community, and resilience amid a climate of communal polarisation.

Photo essay by Omama A. Talha and Fatima Zohra.

Home to 11% of the world’s Muslim population, India marked the beginning of Ramadan on Thursday, the 19th of February. Long before the crescent moon is sighted, Ramadan announces itself quietly. Around the 15th Sha’bān, a conspicuous shift takes place within the household and, in parallel, within the self. The house enters a state of preparation: cupboards are rearranged, forgotten corners, behind doors, beneath shelves, under beds are revisited. What appears to be a domestic routine reveals itself as an external rehearsal for an inward purification.

Within Islamic theology, purification precedes devotion, and intention precedes action. As space is cleared, the self is invited to account for its own accumulations. In this act of wiping and cleaning lies the practice of tazkiyah: the cleansing of what has gone clouded through neglect, distractions left unattended, and habits carried without reflection. Before the body is asked to endure hunger, the heart is summoned to loosen its attachments. Here, devotion does not commence beneath the mosque’s dome, but within the most ordinary spaces of life. The home becomes the first site of preparation. The aroma of the spices being roasted in the kitchen permeates the domestic interior. These olfactory traces function as mnemonic cues, evoking recollections of earlier Ramadans and communal iftars.

By afternoon, this inward preparation begins to spill outward.

Men selling fried items like samosa, jalebi, and pakora for iftar at Bazar Matia Mahal outside Jama Masjid in Old Delhi.

 

People buying dates, bread, and other food items at Batla House market, New Delhi.

What takes shape within the household soon finds its echo in the street. The walled city of Delhi, founded as Shahjahanabad and known today as Old Delhi, comes alive at night during Ramadan. Long a busy commercial centre since the Mughal period, its kuchas and katras gradually stir as the day recedes towards iftar time. Congested lanes fill with passing crowds, moving slowly through narrow passageways, while the scent of freshly cooked dishes drifts from small street-side shops, saturating the air and drawing people forward.

Men in uniform patrol as Muslims gather at night in the Ramadan bazaar.

In recent years, however, Ramadan in Delhi has undergone a noticeable transformation. What was once largely a Muslim communal observance has increasingly become a shared urban spectacle, attracting crowds of diverse religions and ethnicities eager to participate. This shift stands in marked contrast to the intensification of communal polarisation and hostility directed toward the Muslim community under the current political climate.

Markets and streets lit up with Ramadan lights in the Muslim areas of Delhi.

The Ramadan bazaar is popular with visitors of all types.

Among the emerging trends is the rise of all-night food walks during Ramadan, curated by culinary experts and social media influencers and attended by visitors eager to engage with the city’s cultural life. The Ramadan bazaar, in this context, may be read as a ritualised urban public space in which religious devotion intersects with commerce, leisure, and sociality. Drawing on Henri Lefebvre’s notion of the production of space, the bazaar becomes a site where space is neither purely sacred nor purely secular, but relational, shaped by fasting schedules, prayer times, economic exchange, and embodied discipline.

A man sitting in seclusion, reading the Quran in Moti Masjid, Connaught Place, New Delhi.

 

A woman sitting in the lane of Nizamuddin, reading the Quran.

Among the most enduring traditions of Ramadan, traced to the practices of the Prophetic era, is the khatm of the Qur’an: its completion once, twice, or manifold times within the sacred month. The Quran becomes the companion of believers worldwide, who endeavour to complete at least one full recitation by the month’s end. With the Mushaf close at hand, they weave its blessings into the fabric of their hours- engaging in regular reading, recitation, and memorisation, by day amid worldly occupations and by night when silence descends, and the world lies still. Irrespective of distinctions of class, caste, or occupational status, men assemble in masajid, momentarily suspending the pursuits of worldly labour to devote themselves to Allah’s kalaam, dhikr, and sujood, while women, in turn, observe their prayers mostly within the domestic sphere.

Students offering Dhuhr prayer in congregation at the campus lawn of the central university, Jamia Millia Islamia.

 

Men offering sunnah prayer before Dhuhr at Hussain Bakhsh Madrasa, Old Delhi.

In the midst of intensifying surveillance of Muslims in India and the increasing regulation of congregational worship, the simple act of standing shoulder to shoulder in submission to God becomes a revolutionary act. Across the country, despite persistent scrutiny and administrative oversight, Muslims continue to observe Ramadan and fulfil its obligations, reaffirming the aqeedah through shared devotion. The normalisation of mob vigilantism has substantially constrained the possibility of performing prayers in public spaces. Yet within certain Muslim minority institutions, students persist in quietly defying unlawful prohibitions, carving out moments for congregational worship amid the demands of rigorous academic life.

Free Iftar meal being laid out for the public at the shrine of Nizamuddin, Delhi.

 

Free Iftar meal being laid out for the public at the shrine of Nizamuddin, Delhi.

Across the subcontinent, numerous shrines and mosques, both prominent and lesser known, open their doors during Ramadan to travellers, underprivileged, tourists, and local residents alike for the communal iftar meal. Among the most notable is the shrine of the celebrated Sufi saint Nizamuddin Auliya, situated in the heart of Delhi. Renowned for its historical and spiritual significance, the shrine exemplifies a longstanding tradition of inclusive hospitality throughout the holy month.

Men and women reciting the Quran and doing dhikr in the veranda of Nizamuddin Mosque.

A man making Rooh Afza Sharbat, a sweet, refreshing drink, which makes it to the iftar table of the Muslims in the Subcontinent.

In the hours following the ʿAṣr prayer, the atmosphere within such sanctuaries becomes charged with devotional anticipation. Men and women gather in the courtyards, arranging dates and water, laying out cloths for the iftar, reciting verses from the Qur’an, and listening to Sufi kalām that resonates through the air.

Young boys enrolled in Madrasa, washing utensils for iftar at Green Park Masjid, Delhi.

Students of Madrasa at Defence Colony.

This tradition of preparing and offering ifṭār, however, is not confined to prominent shrines and mosques; it extends equally to madrasas- institutions dedicated to Islamic learning. In many parts of India, these seminaries continue to rely predominantly upon public charity, much of which is gathered through the humble, door-to-door efforts of their staff during this blessed month. Receiving and hosting such representatives, whether in mosques, madrasas, or private settings, is widely regarded as an honour among Indian Muslims.

A man selling the famous ‘Sharbat-e-Mohabbat’(Drink of Love) in Old Delhi.

Nafeesa Begum selling plastic tablecloths outside the Jama Masjid.

Pheni/Sewayi, a traditional Indian sweet dish being sold in markets.

Ramadan also emerges as a vital source of livelihood for many. Markets thrum with energy, fruit vendors witness a surge in demand, and food shop owners experience some of their busiest evenings of the year. For individuals like Nafeesa Begum, a widow who sustains herself by selling plastic dastarkhwans (tablecloths) outside Jama Masjid, Ramadan also becomes a season of survival. Each evening, as thousands gather in the mosque’s courtyard to break their fasts, she lays out her wares, hoping the generosity of the month will bring enough income to carry her forward. Seasonal delicacies such as Pheni, a pre-fried vermicelli made with flour, semolina, and ghee, return to the markets during Ramadan, cherished at sehri and offered to guests on Eid.

Women offering Taraweeh in congregation at Ishat e Islam mosque, centre of Jamat Islami Hind.

Women offering nafl prayers at Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in Delhi.

For generations, Muslim women were largely confined to the domestic sphere, where acts of ibadah were often performed along with the demands of household responsibilities, thereby distancing them from the communal and spiritual dimensions of Ramadan. In recent years, however, there has been a significant shift. In India, particularly in urban cities such as Delhi, Muslim women have begun to reassert their presence within religious institutions and masajid, seeking not merely access but meaningful inclusion. Although equitable access to such spaces remains an aspiration for many, it is now more common to observe Muslim women participating in Salat al-Jumu‘ah and Taraweeh prayers during Ramadan, fostering bonds of sisterhood grounded in shared love for the deen of Allah subhana wata’ala.

Ramadan in Delhi today exists in a striking tension between visibility and vulnerability. The month now treated as an aestheticised spectacle was historically anchored in inward discipline and deep-rooted Muslim traditions. It has now been incorporated into broader economies of tourism, media and urban branding. Yet this visibility coexists with growing insecurity. In a political climate marked by surveillance, administrative regulation of congregational worship, and the normalisation of anti-Muslim hostility, gathering for prayer, organising public iftars, or occupying mosque courtyards after dark becomes a quiet refusal to disappear. We ought not forget that at its theological core, Ramadan resists material excess. The practice of tazkiyah calls for refinement of the self rather than amplification of display. In this sense, the growing materialisation and aestheticisation of Ramadan across the subcontinent stands in productive tension with the month’s spiritual purpose.

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The post Ramadan In India’s Capital: A Photo Essay appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

At iftar time, a mysterious traveler enters a troubled family’s home and calmly claims he has come to give something and take something.

This is a three-part story. The three parts will be published three nights in a row, inshaAllah.

Part 1

* * *

Call Me Ismail

I got up to answer the door. Zahra was suspicious of strangers, and as for Momy he had that odd fear of human interaction that was common among kids who’d grown up in the Covid era. It made me sad sometimes.

The stranger stood there, a smile on his face. He was a bit taller than me, and though his long hair was black, his eyes were a very light brown, almost hazel. He had a short beard, and the few fine lines around his eyes told me he was older than I’d first thought. About thirty, maybe. My age. His face was gaunt, and his clothes were clean but worn. He carried a faint, pleasant scent. Some kind of cologne or incense. There was something familiar about it.

“As-salamu alaykum,” he said. His voice was kind, almost soft.

“Wa alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah.”

The man held out the cloth sack. “I collected some of your lemons for you. Shame to let them go to waste.”

I took the bag, smiling quizzically. “Do I know you, brother?”

“Hard to say. People call me Ismail. I have some things to give you, and some to take.”

It was not an answer, I knew, that would go over well with Zahra. Sure enough, she appeared beside me, arms crossed, lips tight. “We could call the cops on you for trespassing. And we don’t want whatever you’re selling.”

The stranger did not defend himself. He simply regarded her with a kind of deep respect, as if her anger deserved dignity.

“I do not want money,” he said. “If I am not welcome, I will leave. I have far to travel yet.”

“We are done here,” Zahra snapped.

I did not close the door.

“Are you fasting?” I asked.

Zahra’s head whipped toward me. “Amir.”

“Have you been fasting? Do you have food?” I repeated, looking at him.

There was the faintest pause before he nodded.

“I am fasting,” he admitted, with a humility that was almost disarming. “I could take a few of your lemons for my iftar, if you don’t mind. And I’ll be on my way.”

“SubhanAllah.” I shook my head. “Don’t talk crazy. Come inside. Eat with us.”

“Amir, no,” Zahra hissed. “People do not do this. We don’t know this guy. He could be a maniac.”

“He seems decent to me,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “And he’s our Muslim brother. Feeding a fasting person in Ramadan is one of the highest forms of ibadah, you know that.”

“He just said he’s going to take something.”

“If he steals the silverware we will survive.”

Secret Ingredient

Ismail stepped inside, then knelt, unlaced his battered brown boots and placed them neatly by the door. We led him to the table. It was past time for iftar, and each of us wasted no time in saying a quick private dua, and then starting on the dates.

“Who are you?” Zahra demanded. “Where are you from?”

The stranger smiled widely, as if Zahra had just paid him a compliment. “I am a pilgrim. My name is Ismail. I’m Palestinian.”

“A pilgrim?” Zahra said. “You’re going to Hajj? And what, you’re asking for donations, right?”

“Let’s pray Maghreb,” I said, “before it gets too late.”

I asked Ismail to lead the salat. I don’t know why, except that his aura was spiritual and solemn, and I had the idea that he might even be a hafidh. But he refused, saying, “A man is the imam in his own home.”

After salat we sat to eat. Momy was quiet and passive, and Zahra was still angry, so I served the food. Even though she’d been fasting all day long, Zahra only picked at her food, while Momy ate hungrily. He was only sixteen yet already six feet tall. But he needed to fill out. I asked him how school was going.

“I got As in my mid-terms. Someone’s been spray painting swastikas on the walls at school. The administration says they’re investigating.”

“Oh! MashaAllah for the good grades. You always do well, I know. That’s crazy about the racist stuff.”

He shrugged. “It’s everywhere. Nobody cares.”

“Never mind that,” Zahra said. She pointed her fork at Ismail. “I want to know why you’re here.”

Egyptian Molokhiyyah soup

“Not for money,” Ismail replied. He used a wedge of Arabic bread to scoop some molokhiyyah, then popped it into his mouth. “MashaAllah, so good,” he said. “Who made this?”

I pointed to my sister.

“It’s amazing,” the traveler said. “I can taste the lemon, garlic and coriander, but there’s something else. Something bright yet slightly earthy.”

Zahra lifted her chin proudly. “Sumac. Americans aren’t familiar with it, but it elevates savory dishes.”

I knew this, but I was surprised to hear Zahra say it. She usually kept her recipe secrets to herself.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Zahra said, but her tone had softened. “Why are you here?”

“I have things to give, and things to take.”

A Great Man

“What does that even mean?” Zahra snapped, annoyed again. “And why our house? Out of all the Muslims in Fresno, what brought you to our door?”

“Your father was a great man.”

I’d been about to take a bite out of a chicken leg, but I looked up sharply at the mention of my father. “You knew our father? He died twenty years ago. You would have been a kid.”

“He gave the most amazing khutbahs,” Ismail said. “It wasn’t just Islamic instruction. He made you feel like anything was possible, subhanAllah. Like you could do anything, you could change the world. And when he recited the Quran, his voice would pass right through your chest into your heart, and echo for hours afterward.”

My mouth hung open. That was exactly what my father was like. He’d passed away when I was ten, and there wasn’t a day since then that I didn’t miss him. With a few words, Ismail had brought him back to life again.

Zahra set her fork down and sat back in her chair. “Someone could have told you that,” she protested, but her tone carried no conviction. “What masjid was it?”

“Masjid Al-Madinah of course. But the old masjid, when it was a rented storefront across from City College. They had a ping pong table and an air hockey table in the backyard. Your dad would play air hockey against the kids, and he always lost. Everyone knew he was losing on purpose, but no one cared. And he always had butterscotch candies in his jacket pocket for the kids. Allah have mercy on him. He was a man you don’t forget.”

“I’d forgotten about those candies,” I said, and rubbed my face to forestall tears that threatened to spill.

“So give us what you have to give,” Zahra said.

“Do you mind if I eat first?” Ismail pleaded. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

“I’m not satisfied that -”

“Let the brother eat,” I said firmly. When I used that tone, Zahra knew I was serious. “Anyway,” I went on, “I have something to tell you.”

Zahra glared at me, lips pursed. “What?”

“I’ve made a decision. I’m going to buy a scooter. For myself. I’ll leave the car to you from now on.”

She sat back and put her hands on her thighs. “Okayyy…” she said slowly. “That, umm…” She shrugged. “That would be fine.”

I almost laughed at her inability to say thank you. But laughing at her would have ruined everything. Instead I merely nodded. “Alright then,” I said.

“Alright then,” she echoed.

Worse Places

When we were done eating, Zahra brought out the remainder of a lemon cake she’d baked yesterday, and a pot of tea for everyone.

“This house,” Ismail said between bites, “has a kind soul. It feels like a lot of good memories have been made here.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Zahra muttered. “Another way is to say it’s a prison for people who have nowhere else to go.”

He looked at her, and there was no pity in his gaze, only understanding.

“I have been in worse places,” he said simply.

She narrowed her eyes. “Like what?”

“Oh, I’ve slept in homeless shelters, alleys, and parks. The parks are actually nice, I like being out under the stars. But the jails.” He shuddered. “Jails down south are especially no fun.”

I saw Zahra stand halfway up, as if she would run away. “What do you mean, jail? What were you in jail for?”

Ismail shrugged. “Vagrancy, mostly. Some towns don’t appreciate a stranger pitching a tent in the local park. Disturbing the peace, a few times.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I stood on a fruit crate and preached Islam. I don’t do that everywhere. But some places have a hopeless feeling, like everyone has given up, and shaytan has come to fill the void. I couldn’t leave a place like that without speaking a word of truth.”

Zahra was back in her chair, but I could tell from the tension around her eyes that she was far from relaxed. “So you’re a crazy person, is that it?” she said.

The traveler laughed. “Maybe so.”

I was thinking that if this man was crazy for doing that, then all the Prophets were crazy, for had they done any differently? We American Muslims were so modern, so removed from the reality of our own history, but in the end, didn’t every Muslim owe their faith to a man standing in the middle of a hostile crowd, speaking the truth?

The Giving

“Well,” Ismail said. “May Allah reward you for this amazing meal, and bless this home, and bless your hands, sister Zahra.” He lifted his pack from the floor. “It’s time for the gifts.”

The traveler reached into his pack and withdrew a small object wrapped in a square of cloth. He set it gently on the table between us and unfolded the cloth. It was an incense burner. “This is for you, Amir,” he said.

I stared at it, my hand frozen halfway to his glass.

The burner consisted of a bowl small enough to sit in the palm of a hand, fashioned from polished brass that caught the dim kitchen light and reflected it warmly. Its outer surface was covered with delicate patterns of curling Quranic calligraphy etched into a reddish enamel. The bowl rested on a curved brass base shaped like two slender branches.

“There’s something familiar about that,” Zahra said.

No kidding. It was identical to the kind my father had owned, and had kept in his study. The kind I had seen nearly every day of my childhood.

Ismail opened a cloth pouch and placed a stone of frankincense on the burner, then struck a match. The flame touched resin. Smoke breathed upward in a thin, graceful ribbon.

The scent arrived like my father’s hand touching the back of my neck. It was warm, soft and deep, and was like coming home.

The Burning Stars

My breath stopped halfway in my chest. I was not in the dining room anymore. I was not a thirty year old junior professor with stifled dreams, pining for a lost love. Instead I was nine years old, lying on my stomach on the rug in my father’s study, doing my homework as he sat in a stuffed chair, reading a book. A brass incense burner sat on his desk, and the woody, spicy scent of frankincense filled the room.

“Amir,” my father said, and I looked up.

“Listen to this. Ali ibn Abi Talib, radi Allahu anhu, said, ‘You think you are a small entity, but within you is enfolded the entire universe.’ What do you think that means?”

I sat up and made a clicking sound with my tongue as I thought. “That everyone is connected to everyone else?”

“Excellent guess. It has been interpreted in various ways. One is that a person might feel insignificant and powerless, yet within him lies the ability to change the course of history and lift others from oppression. A single person can do that. You can do that. The way you look at the world, the questions you ask. You’re a bright child and you care deeply. Never underestimate yourself. Within you is power greater than the burning stars and the spinning galaxies. That’s why Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’ala said, ‘And We have certainly honored the children of Adam, and carried them on land and sea, and provided for them of the good things, and preferred them above many of those whom We created.’ Do you understand?”

In my mind I saw the galaxies turning, and the stars blazing blue and red. “Like Ali himself,” I said. “When he was a kid, and the Prophet called his relatives and said, who will be my supporter and success.. success -”

My father moved forward to the edge of his seat. “Successor.”

“Yeah. When he said, Who will be my supporter and successor, and Ali said I will, and the relatives laughed because Ali was a skinny little kid, but the Prophet lifted Ali’s hand and said, This is my supporter and successor.”

“Yes!” My father left his chair, came down to the floor, and embraced me. “What one man has done, you can do, Ya Amir. And if no one has yet done it, you can be the first.”

“Amir!” Zahra said loudly.

I looked up and twenty years had passed, and here I sat at this table, complaining about being stuck in life, when I had all the tools I needed at my disposal. I felt dazed. I looked around and saw everyone’s eyes on me: Momy watched me curiously, Zahra with concern, and the stranger seriously, as if he knew that something important had just transpired.

I looked at the stranger – at Ismail – with a terrible, almost fearful respect. “I don’t know who you are. But thank you.”

“I don’t understand,” Zahra complained. “What just happened?”

Ismail turned his attention to Momy, who sat watching these proceedings with wide, attentive eyes. “Muhammad,” Ismail said, using Momy’s proper name. “Do you wish to receive your gift?”

* * *

Come back TOMORROW for Part 3.

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

 

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

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

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The Deal : Part #1 The Run

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

The post The Pilgrim [Part 2] – Things To Give appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

What Taqwa Actually Means — And Why the Mistranslation Is Costing Our Teenagers

There is a word at the center of Islamic practice that most Muslim parents use constantly — and that most Muslim teenagers cannot define.

The word is taqwa.

Ask your teenager tonight what taqwa means. If they say “God-consciousness” or “fear of Allah” and stop there — tonight’s episode can give them something more precise, more practical, and more actionable. This guide is for the parent who wants to understand what their teenager received — and how to reinforce it at home.

The mistranslation and its consequences

“God-consciousness” is not wrong as a partial description of taqwa. But it is incomplete in a way that has practical consequences — because consciousness sounds like a feeling, and feelings come and go. You cannot build a life on a feeling. You cannot make a decision in a moment of temptation by reaching for a feeling that may or may not be present.

The classical definition — from the early Muslims, from Abu Hurayrah and other Companions — is structural rather than emotional. Taqwa is the active protection of yourself from what would harm your relationship with Allah and your standing in the akhirah. It is the gathered garment. The careful step through thorns. The bowl of milk carried through a crowded city without spilling a drop.

That definition gives your teenager something to do, not just something to feel. And for a generation navigating more temptations, more distractions, and more complexity than any previous generation — something to do is exactly what is needed.

The practical consequence of the mistranslation: when taqwa is taught as a feeling, teenagers who don’t feel particularly God-conscious on a given day conclude that they don’t have taqwa — and stop trying. When taqwa is taught as a practice, the teenager who doesn’t feel particularly spiritually elevated can still choose to carry the bowl carefully. The practice doesn’t depend on the mood. The mood often follows the practice.

The fear conversation Muslim parents need to have

This is the section of tonight’s guide that I suspect will be most uncomfortable — and most necessary.

Many Muslim parents in the West have, consciously or unconsciously, sanitized fear out of their children’s relationship with Allah. For understandable reasons — we don’t want our children to experience religion as threatening, we want them to love Allah, we want their Islam to be a source of comfort rather than anxiety.

But the removal of fear has produced a generation of Muslim teenagers who have essentially no functional consequences for their religious choices. They love Allah in the abstract. They don’t fear His accounting in the concrete. And without that fear — the fear that the angel is recording, that the bowl is being watched, that every drop spilled will be accounted for — taqwa is impossible.

Ibn al-Qayyim’s analogy of the bird is the framework every Muslim parent needs: one wing is fear of Allah’s punishment, the other is hope for His mercy and reward, and the body of the bird — the core — is to worship Allah because He is deserving of it. All three are essential. Remove any one and the bird cannot fly.

The goal is not to terrorize your teenager. It is to raise a teenager who genuinely understands that their choices have weight — that the angel is real, the recording is real, and the accounting is real — alongside a genuine love for Allah and a genuine hope in His mercy. That combination produces a Muslim who can actually navigate temptation. The love alone, without the fear, produces a Muslim who loves Allah in theory and makes whatever choice is most convenient in practice.

Have the fear conversation with your teenager. Not as a threat — as a completion. You’ve given them the love wing. Give them the fear wing too. Let them fly straight and stable.

The bowl of milk story — what to discuss at home

Tonight’s video tells a wisdom story about a young man who came to a shaykh asking how to lower his gaze. The shaykh’s answer — carrying a bowl of milk through a crowded city under threat of public humiliation — is one of the most elegant pedagogical illustrations of taqwa available.

The story is worth retelling at home and discussing explicitly — because it connects several threads simultaneously that your teenager has been building across the series.

It connects to Night 2 — the imposter syndrome episode. The teen who felt disqualified by their weaknesses, their limitations, their particular struggles. Allah — al-Aleem, al-Khabeer — sees not just the outcome, but what had to be overcome to achieve it. He sees the hand that trembled trying not to spill. That is not a threat. It is the most profound comfort available.

It connects to Night 20 — the pornography and addiction episode. The young man in the story came asking for a technique to lower his gaze. The shaykh gave him a foundation instead. The practical strategies for resetting the brain matter — but without taqwa underneath them, strategies alone are furniture on a floor that doesn’t exist.

It connects to Nights 24 and 25 — ikhlas and legacy. The person carrying the bowl doesn’t need the audience’s reaction — they’re focused on not spilling. The person with taqwa plants trees even when no one is watching — because Allah is always watching, and that is enough.

Discuss the story together. Ask your teenager: what is the bowl you are carrying right now? What does carrying it carefully look like in your specific life this week?

Taqwa as the capstone of Week 4

Tonight is the theological capstone of Week 4 — and Muslim parents who have been following the series will recognize why it had to come here, at the end of the week, after purpose and ummah and ikhlas and legacy.

Every conversation in Week 4 has been building something. Purpose: what are you building and for whom? Ummah: who are you building with and for? Ikhlas: what keeps the building from being hollow? Legacy: what will the building outlast?

Taqwa is the foundation all of it rests on. The khalifah who has no taqwa loses their orientation and starts building for themselves. The ummah member who has no taqwa stops feeling the body’s pain when it’s inconvenient. The person seeking ikhlas who has no taqwa has nothing to anchor the intention to when the audience’s approval is available. The legacy builder who has no taqwa plants trees for recognition rather than for Allah.

Taqwa is not the fifth topic of Week 4. It is what Week 4 was always about — revealed at the end because the other four conversations were the context that makes it land.

Warning signs that taqwa is absent

Complete absence of religious consequence-awareness — the teenager who genuinely believes their choices have no weight, that Allah will forgive everything automatically, that the accounting described in the Quran is not personally relevant to them.

The inability to maintain Islamic practice in private — the teenager whose practice exists entirely for a social audience and disappears when no one is watching. This is the ikhlas conversation from Night 24 applied to taqwa: the bowl is only carried carefully when the servant is visibly present.

Functional antinomianism — the teenager who loves Allah in general terms, but consistently makes choices that contradict what Allah has commanded, without apparent internal conflict. The love without the fear produces exactly this: a pleasant relationship with a deity who makes no demands.

Scrupulosity without foundation — the opposite problem: anxious, rule-focused religiosity that is driven by fear alone without love or genuine orientation toward Allah. This produces exhaustion and eventual collapse rather than the steady, sustainable practice that taqwa is designed to support.

Discussion questions for families

For teens:

1. Before tonight, how would you have defined taqwa? How has the definition changed — and what does the new definition ask of you that the old one didn’t?
2. What is the bowl you are carrying right now? What does carrying it carefully look like in your specific life this week?
3. Which wing is stronger in you — fear or hope? What would it look like to strengthen the weaker one?

For parents:

1. Have you given your teenager both wings — fear and hope — or have you emphasized one at the expense of the other? What would a more balanced conversation look like?
2. How do you model taqwa in your own life in a way that your teenager can see? Not the performance of religiosity — the actual, private practice of carrying the bowl carefully?
3. Is there a specific area of your teenager’s life where you suspect the bowl is being spilled — where a taqwa conversation, rather than a rule conversation, might be more effective?

For discussion together:

1. Read Surah al-Talaq 65:2-3 together. Where in your family’s life right now do you need a makhraj — a way out you cannot currently see? Make du’a for it together.
2. Retell the bowl of milk story in your own words to each other. What details stand out to each person?
3. What is one specific practice your family can adopt this week that reflects the definition of taqwa — the active, deliberate carrying of the bowl?

The bottom line

Taqwa is the foundation. Not a feeling — a practice. Not a mood — a discipline. Not God-consciousness in the abstract — the active, vigilant protection of your book of deeds from everything that would harm it.

Your teenager has spent 26 nights building something. Help them understand what it all rests on.

The bowl is in their hands. Help them carry it carefully.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 26 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 27 — The Muslim You Are Becoming

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

What Will You Leave Behind? Legacy in Islam | Night 25 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post Taqwa: The Foundation | 30 Nights with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

O Allah, I beseech you with Your Blessed Names as the One & Only, the Relied upon. I call out to You by Your Greatest Name – the Eternally Living, the Sustaining of All, to bless my children with righteousness.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أني أدعوك بأسمك الواحد الأحد
الفرد الصمد وأدعوك بأسمك الأعظم الحي القيوم
أن تمنن علي بصلاح أحوال ذريتي

My Lord, increase their life span & bless their health, strengthen them with obedience & worship of You.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أمدد في أعمارهم مع الصحه
والعافية في طاعتك ورضاك ..

My Lord, help me raise up the young, strengthen the weak and cure the infirm.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
رب لي صغيرهم
وقوي لي ضعيفهم
وأشفي لي مريضهم ..

My Lord, strengthen their bodies, tune their hearing, sharpen their sight, clear their congestion, mend their wounds and make them whole.

My Lord, with Your Mercy protect them from Illness, sin, mistakes, errors & misguidance as consequence of their devotion to You.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
عافهم فِيُ
أبدانهم وأسماعهم وأبصارهم
وأنفسهم وجوارحهم وأجعلهم
من المعافين من البلاء برحمتك
المعصومين من الذنوب والزلل
والخطأ بتقواك الموفقين للخير
والرشد بطاعتك ..

O Allah, cause them to obey in love their parents, without rebellion, sin or error or disrespectfulness.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أجعلهم لي مطيعين غير
عاصين ولا عاقين ولا خاطئين ..

Ya Allah, help me raise them well with high morals & firm ethics of righteousness that blesses them & I.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أعني على تربيتهم وتأديبهم
وبرهم وأجعل ذلك خيرا لي ولهم ..

My Lord, I entrust You with my progeny, for no trust is lost with You. I entrust You with clearing them of impediments, ailments & immorality.

I trust in You to guard them from evil that spreads by night, or envious eyes sharpened by the light of day & from the jealousy of hateful friends

My Lord, protect my children from all sides, above & beneath, right & left, front & back.

Ya Allah, let my children be reason for honour and source of my pride.

Let them be loved by those who love You & turn their hearts to my children.

ٱللَّـَـَـَـْہم
أني أستودعك ذريتي يامن
لا تضيع عنده الودائع من
كل آفه وعاهه و من سوء الأسقام
والأمراض ومن شر طوارق الليل
والنهار ومن شر عين كل حاسد،
وغل كل حاقد ومن أصدقاء السوء ، اللهم احفظهم من بين ايديهم ومن خلفهم وعن ايمانهم وعن شمائلهم ومن فوقهم..
اللهم اجعل ذريتي مصدراً لفخري واعتزازي
اللهم اجعل محبة ذريتي في قلوب عبادك وسخر لهم القلوب..

Ya Allah, bless my children with a good share in this Dunya, in Knowledge that leads to You, in Your obedience, in character & love.

اللهم ارزق ذريتي حظاً في الدين.. وحظاً في العلم.. وحظاً في الخَلق.. وحظاً في الخُلق.. وحظاً في محبة الناس ,

My Allah, elevate my children’s status amongst others & grant them successful positions that bring happiness, piety & wealth. My Lord, bless them with purity, charity, mercy, helpfulness, knowledge of You that they share with others.

اللهم عظم مكانة ذريتي وارفع شأنهم بين عبادك,
اللهم اجعلهم من السعداء الأتقياء الأنقياء, الأغنياء, الأسخياء, الحلماء, الرحماء, العلماء, الأصحاء.

Ya Allah, protect my children from humiliation & dishonour. Bring them joy that will make me happy.

اللهم لاتجعل ذريتي من الأشقياء..
اللهم أعزهم ولاتذلهم , اللهم أسعدهم وأسعدنا بهم ومعهم, ولاتشقيهم وتشقينا بهم..

Ya Allah, bless their hearing, sight & other blessings of health, intelligence & character.

اللهم أنعم على ذريتي بنعمة السمع والبصر , وجميع النعم ولاتحرمهم خير ماعندك بسوء ماعندي.
اللهم ارزق ذريتي الصحة والعافية والذكاء والنباهة,
اللهم ارزقهم حسن الخلق ,

My Lord, let my children & those entrusted to me in responsibility be proof for me on the Day of Judgement.

اللهم اجعل ذريتي ومن أوليتني امرهم حجة لي لا علي.
اللهم آمين، و صل وسلم على سيدنا محمد وعلى آله وصحبه أجمعين .

Ameen, my Lord, Ameen.

I send the most complete prayers of peace & salutations upon my master Mohammed, his family and companions.

Related:

Speaking to Allah in the 10 Nights of Ramadan | Part 1

The post Speaking to Allah in the Last 10 Nights: Du’a for Our Children | Part 2 appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

I have always loved Ramadan. Every year I find myself waiting for it long before it begins. When the month finally arrives, it feels as though time slows down in a beautiful way. My heart feels lighter, my mind calmer, and everything around me seems to carry a different kind of peace.

But if I’m honest, the part of Ramadan that moves me the most is the last ten nights.

As the month comes closer to its end, something shifts. The nights feel quieter, more meaningful, almost as if they are inviting us to pause and reflect. There is a sense that these final days hold something special, and that every moment matters more.

For me, fasting has never been only about staying away from food and drink. It creates space in my life. Space away from the daily routine, the distractions, and the constant rush of responsibilities. During these final nights especially, that space becomes an opportunity to reconnect with Allah in a deeper way.

Ramadan reminds us that fasting is not just a physical act but a spiritual one. It teaches patience, discipline, and empathy for others. The Qur’an beautifully reminds us:

“O you who have believed, decreed upon you is fasting as it was decreed upon those before you that you may become righteous.” [Surah Al-Baqarah 2:183]

This verse has always resonated with me, especially when I reflect on my time in Gaza. Living through war and uncertainty changes the way you see the world. Food was not always guaranteed, and some nights we went to sleep hungry. Yet even in those difficult moments, faith remained strong.

Fasting in those circumstances was not simply an act of worship—it was a reminder that strength comes from Allah . Hardship did not weaken faith; in many ways, it strengthened it.

Ramadan in Gaza taught me gratitude in ways I had never experienced before. Every meal felt like a blessing. Every prayer felt more meaningful. Even the simplest moments carried a sense of appreciation that is easy to forget in more comfortable times.

As the last ten nights of Ramadan arrive, that sense of reflection becomes even stronger. These nights remind us that Ramadan is not just about completing the fast, but about seeking closeness to Allah and making the most of the time we have left in this blessed month.

And at the heart of these nights is Laylatul Qadr.

Allah tells us:

“The Night of Decree is better than a thousand months.” [Surah Al-Qadr 97:3]

This verse always fills me with hope. It reminds me that even small acts of sincere worship can carry immense value. A single night of prayer, reflection, and heartfelt du’a can hold rewards beyond what we can imagine.

Laylatul Qadr is a reminder that what truly matters is our relationship with Allah . Not the things we own or the achievements we chase, but the sincerity in our hearts when we turn to Him.

The last ten nights are also a beautiful time to guide the next generation. Teaching children about prayer, kindness, and charity during these nights helps nurture their faith and shape their character for years to come.

In the end, fasting is not just about hunger or thirst. It is a journey of the heart.

My experiences have taught me that even in the most difficult circumstances—when life feels uncertain and overwhelming—faith can still grow and flourish. Ramadan reminds us that true blessings are not always what we see or possess, but the connection we build with Allah .

May Allah allow us to witness Laylatul Qadr, accept our fasting and prayers, and help us carry the lessons of Ramadan with us long after the month has passed.

 

Related:

– The Last Nights Of Ramadan in Gaza: Starvation, Supplication, And Survival

– We Are Not Numbers x MuslimMatters – Ramadan In The Time Of Genocide

The post Entering The Last 10 Nights: What Ramadan In Gaza Taught Me About Gratitude appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

On a rainy Ramadan afternoon, a mysterious traveler knocks on a troubled family’s door as they are about to eat iftar.

This is a three-part story. The three parts will be published three nights in a row, inshaAllah.

Part 1

* * *

Lemons on the Ground

It was a Friday afternoon in Ramadan, and it was winter. I’m a 30-year-old Egyptian-American history professor, and not much of a cook. But in Ramadan, I try to do my share, so my sister and I were in the kitchen, working to prepare iftar.

That was the moment when the pilgrim appeared. I call him the pilgrim, but he had a name, and even so, he could have been anyone or anything. I’ll never know.

The sky outside was the gray of a bedsheet forgotten on a clothesline. The yard was flooded, looking like a shallow green swimming pool. There were squirrels living out there, and I wondered how they stayed dry in weather like this. We had a big lemon tree in the front yard, but we had not picked the ripe fruits, and many lay on the ground rotting. I was busy with work these days, but I should have asked Momy, my sister’s teenage son, to collect the lemons. All he did, when he wasn’t in school, was play video games in his room.

My sister Zahra – at forty years old, ten years my elder – closed the oven.

“The mahshi looks good,” she commented. “I’m glad I went with zucchini, they’re super fresh right now.” Glancing at me, she saw where I was looking.

“Why didn’t you pick those damn lemons?” she snapped. “Do you know how wasteful that is? Those are organic lemons. Do you have any idea how much they cost in the store? No, because you don’t shop, Amir, you don’t do anything. You go to work, go to the gym, come home, and treat me like a servant. And when you’re at work, we’re stuck here like prisoners, because there’s only one car.”

I could have barked back. I could have pointed out that since her husband, Waleed, divorced her three years ago, she lost her nursing job two years ago, and then came to live with me, I had supported her and her son without complaint. My salary not only paid all the bills, including for the food we all ate, but also her phone and her son’s, their clothing and other personal needs, and I had even paid for the gaming console that Momy spent all his time on.

As for the car, I was only a junior college professor, having completed my PhD two years ago. My salary was decent but not lavish. I couldn’t afford two cars.

I was tired of fighting with Zahra. Okay, yes, her life had taken a bad turn, and I was the only one around for her to take it out on. Even her son avoided her. In the end, I merely said, “You’re right. I’ll collect them tomorrow inshaAllah.”

“You always say that. I can tell you this, Amir, if this were my house, things would be done differently.”

Recriminations

This was a frequent line of attack. The house was a Craftsman, built in the 1920s, and designed with many whimsical flourishes, like integrated bookcases in the living room and a built-in window seat beside the bay window. It was built with all-natural materials, including stone and brick, and a wide front porch.

We had grown up here, Zahra and I, and our brother Ali. When our parents passed away a decade ago, they left their considerable life savings to Zahra, as she was married with a young child, and they left the house to Ali and me. Zahra hadn’t complained at the time, as she’d gotten the better end of the deal. But now that her inheritance was gone – invested in her husband’s failed business- my ownership of this house seemed to rub salt in her eyes.

As for Ali, he’d gone to law school and become a successful litigator. He owned a Chicago penthouse and hardly cared about this old house. We rarely saw him.

“And trust me,” Zahra went on, “if I owned this house, you would pull your weight around here, or you’d be out on your ass.”

This was too much. I should have said, “I’m fasting.” After all, isn’t that what the Prophet ﷺ taught us? I had heard the hadith often enough that I could recite it in Arabic or English: “Fasting is a shield. So the person observing the fast should avoid sexual relations with his spouse and should not behave foolishly and impudently, and if someone fights with him or abuses him, he should say to him twice, ‘I am fasting.’”

But no one could rile me up like Zahra. It was like I was a broken piano and she knew just which keys to hit to make the worst off-note sounds. So I lashed out.

“And if it were up to me,” I snapped, “I’d be married, and Samina and I would live together in this house, and maybe we’d have a child by now. But we in this house are all just like those rotting lemons out there, aren’t we?”

Zahra’s face turned red. She had lifted the lid on the pot of molokhiyyah, but her hand shook so badly that the lid clattered to the floor.

“I’m sorry we ruined your life!” she screamed. “I’m sorry for being born!” She stormed out of the room.

I shook my head. This was no way to spend a Ramadan afternoon. I should not have said that. I mean, it was true, certainly. Two years ago, I’d been engaged to a lovely young Pakistani-American woman. She was tall, outgoing, and religious, and maybe too beautiful for me, but for some reason, she admired and respected me. I had planned to marry her and bring her here to live with me, in this hundred-year-old, two-bedroom house.

When Zahra came to stay with me, I put my marriage plans on hold, since Zahra had one bedroom, Momy had the other, and I slept on the sofa. I did it willingly, because I cared about my big sister, and because her life had gone from teetering on the edge of a cliff to plunging over the side.

I had imagined that my sister would stay with me for three or four months, until she found a new job and got back on her feet. But two years later, here she still was. She refused to apply for nursing jobs, saying that she was burnt out and needed more time.

My fiancée Samina, meanwhile, had broken off the engagement. I swallowed hard, remembering it. What was my future now? A life single and unloved, a barely relevant professor making no contribution to the world?

Keys in the Stream

I picked up the pot lid, wiped it clean, and covered the molokhiyyah. There was also a pan of slow-simmering chicken and peppers on the stove. Under normal circumstances, Zahra would never have left it to me. I spooned a bit of the sauce, blew on it, and tasted it. Then I added a generous squeeze of lemon and a dash of cayenne, along with a touch of oregano and a little more pepper. Zahra might complain, but I liked my food spicy. Served her right for leaving me to handle everything.

I didn’t know how much more I could take. Zahra and I had occasionally clashed in the past, but not like this. I remembered a time just before she’d gotten married when the three of us – Zahra, me, and our middle brother Ali – went on a hike in the Sierras, near Shaver Lake. Ali and I used a fallen log to cross over a stream, but Zahra was reluctant. Finally, she said to toss her the car keys, and she would go back and wait in the car. I was about to say no, we would find an easier trail, but Ali went ahead and chucked the keys, which fell short and landed in the stream.

There was an instant in which we saw the strong current carrying the keys away, dragging them over the river rocks – then Ali and I were in the stream, splashing and slipping, trying to catch the keys, as Zahra roared with laughter. We caught the keys, changed our clothes in the parking lot, and we all went to a diner in Shaver for hot food and coffee.

That had been one of the last truly fun moments we’d shared. After she got married, she gradually lost her sense of humor. And sometime around four years ago, it was like someone had flipped a switch to activate the anger center in her brain. Her tongue became sharper than a scimitar. Lately, I spent more and more time at my university office, or at the gym. I had muscles popping out everywhere. But all I really wanted was peace and quiet.

A Stranger

As I tended to the food, I considered my upcoming course on El-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz, known to most people as Malcolm X. My parents had been immigrants, but I was American, and my heroes were Americans: Sitting Bull, John Brown, Lucy Parsons, Cesar Chavez, Muhammad Ali, and more – but none more so than Malcolm.

I wanted to do more than just teach a course. I had the idea to establish an annual Malcolm X youth conference, where we would bring young thinkers, poets, and scholars from all over the world to celebrate Malcolm’s legacy. We would take Malcolm’s ideas out of the history books and into the lives of these youth.

But how could I do that? It was a huge undertaking, and I was just a nobody junior professor in a small Central California city.

My train of thought was interrupted when I glanced out of the kitchen window and saw a stranger standing in front of the house. It was the pilgrim, though I did not know that yet. He was tall and olive-skinned, wearing a brown pack that hung heavily from his shoulders. His wavy black hair fell to his shoulders. He was painfully thin and wore faded jeans, a long-sleeved green army shirt, a pair of battered brown boots, and a Palestinian kefiyyeh around his neck.

I had never seen the man before. It wasn’t like I owned the street. The sidewalk was public property. But he wasn’t walking by, or standing on the sidewalk. He was standing in our yard beneath the big lemon tree, his head tipped back, as if enjoying the pale sunlight on his face. I saw him lower his gaze as he studied the lemons on the ground. Then he drew a cloth sack from his brown pack, bent over, and began sorting through the lemons. Whenever he found a good one, he put it in the sack.

I smiled. At least someone would get use out of those lemons. Then the sun caught something reflective on the pilgrim’s pack and glinted in my eyes, making me blink and look away. When I looked again, the man was gone.

Seven Minutes Left

Cupping my mouth, I called out that it was almost time for iftar. I proceeded to set the table with plates and silverware, and a jug of guava juice. Then I warmed three loaves of Arabic bread in a fresh pan.

When no one came, I went upstairs. Momy was playing a video soccer game with his headphones on. I liked that he chose that instead of war games, though a book would be better. I pulled the headphones off and grinned. “Iftar.”

I knocked gently on Zahra’s door.

“I heard you!” she shouted. “I’m coming.”

Soon we were all downstairs. There were seven minutes remaining until the Maghreb adhaan. We set dates and grapes on the table and filled the water glasses.

“There was a guy outside collecting the lemons,” I commented.

“What?” Zahra’s eyes were wide. “Our lemons? Did you call the police?”

I gave her a quizzical look. “Of course not. He was taking the ones on the ground. And he had on a kefiyyeh.”

Zahra shook her head. “I don’t get you. You let a stranger come onto our property.”

“There’s three minutes left,” I said, changing the subject.

We sat, and I raised my hands and thanked Allah for the food and for making us Muslims. I asked Allah to have mercy on my parents and on our family. I asked Allah to liberate the Ummah from oppression, and to free my Egyptian homeland from tyranny.

Lastly, I asked Allah to bring me a good Muslim woman with whom I would live in happiness. I did not ask specifically for Samina, even though I knew she was still single. She had left me, and though I still loved her, I would trust Allah to bring me someone better.

Momy, watching his phone like the eagle of Salahuddin tracking a rabbit, let us know that it was time to eat.

That was when a knock sounded at the door.

* * *

Come back TOMORROW for Part 2.

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:

Cover Queen: A Ramadan Short Story

Impact of Naseehah in Ramadan: A Short Story

 

The post The Pilgrim [Part 1] – A Ramadan Story appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

Raising Children Who Build for Eternity — Legacy, Sadaqah Jariyah, and the Long Game

There is a conversation most Muslim parents never have with their teenagers.

Not about career choices or university applications — those conversations happen constantly. Not about religious practice — that happens too, sometimes too much and too anxiously.

The conversation that almost never happens is this one: what are you building that will outlast you? What tree are you planting whose shade you may never sit in?

That conversation — about legacy, significance, and the long game — is what tonight’s episode is about. And this guide is for the parent who wants to bring it home.

Why legacy is a teenage conversation, not an adult one

Most parents think that the concept of legacy is something only for those who are older — when they have established themselves, figured out their direction, accomplished something worth building on.

That instinct is understandable and mistaken.

Legacy is not built later. It is built now — in the habits, the character, the knowledge, and the orientation toward Allah that your teenager is developing right now. The seed planted at seventeen has been growing for decades by the time a person reaches forty. The character built in adolescence is the foundation everything else will rest on.

Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef — the educator and founder of Al-Maghrib Institute whose story tonight’s video tells — dreamed of what he would build when he was less than 20. He founded Al-Maghrib in his latter twenties. He was forty-seven when he passed away. The trees he planted are still growing.

The legacy conversation is not premature for your teenager. It is overdue.

The Islamic framework for legacy — what Islam actually teaches

The Prophet ﷺ said: “When a person dies, his deeds come to an end except for three: sadaqah jariyah — ongoing charity, knowledge that is benefited from, and a righteous child who prays for him.” (Muslim)

This hadith is the most complete Islamic account of legacy available — and it deserves careful attention from parents who want to raise teenagers with a long-game orientation.

Sadaqah jariyah is broader than the classic examples of wells and masajid suggest. Any resource invested in something that continues to benefit people after you are gone qualifies. The institution built. The program started. The fund established. The project launched. The principle is: put something into the world that keeps giving.

For teenagers, this means that the projects they begin now — however small, however local — can be sadaqah jariyah. The health fair organized at the masjid that becomes an annual event. The tutoring program started for younger students. The school initiative that will one day become a k-12.  The community initiative launched and then handed off. Small beginnings with the right intention can become ongoing charity that outlasts the person who started it.

Knowledge that is benefited from is Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef’s primary legacy — and it is available to every Muslim regardless of whether they found an institution. Knowledge shared genuinely, carried by the person who received it into their own life and passed on to others, is sadaqah jariyah. Your teenager doesn’t need to be a scholar. They need to share what they know with sincerity and care.

Quick example: I remember a Muslim convert who visited Mexico with a dawah group. They knew so much more than him, but he just focused on teaching surat al-Fatihah to every person who accepted Islam. His intent was to benefit from each time they recited it. We all know surat al-Fatihah alhamdulillah, but did we every consider that possibility, and the potential for serious return in the hereafter?

A righteous child who prays for their parents is perhaps the most personally relevant form of legacy for Muslim parents reading this — because it is a description of what you are building right now. The du’a your teenager makes for you after you are gone is your sadaqah jariyah arriving. Which means that raising a child who prays for you is itself an act of planting a tree whose shade you will benefit from in the most literal possible sense.

The Sulayman ﷺ lesson for parents and teenagers

Prophet Sulayman’s ﷺ request — “grant me a kingdom such as will not belong to anyone after me” [38:35] — makes many Muslims uncomfortable. It sounds like the request of someone seeking glory for its own sake.

But Allah gave it to him. And praised him as an excellent servant in the same moment.

The lesson for your teenager — and for you — is that ambition rooted in the right intention is not un-Islamic. The desire to build something significant, to leave something that outlasts you, to ask Allah for the resources and the platform to do something meaningful — this is a legitimate and honored aspiration when it comes from a heart already turned toward Allah; the heart seeking the pleasure of Allah.

The conversation worth having with your teenager is not: be humble and don’t want too much. It is: want greatly, ask boldly, and make sure what you’re building is for Allah rather than for yourself.

Sulayman wanted an unprecedented kingdom. What does your teenager want to build? Have you asked them? Have you told them that asking Allah for it — specifically, boldly, repeatedly — is exactly what a prophet did?

That conversation could change everything.

The quiet majority — redefining success for your teenager

One of the most important things tonight’s video communicates — and one that parents need to reinforce explicitly — is the significance of the quiet majority.

Most of Al-Maghrib’s students did not become scholars or community leaders. They went on with their lives. But they were transformed. They approached their careers differently. They raised their children differently. They interacted with society differently — because of what they learned.

That quiet transformation — unglamorous, invisible to the world, measurable only in the changed texture of ordinary daily life — is, in aggregate, the most important part of Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef’s legacy.

Your teenager does not need to be famous to leave a significant legacy. They need to be genuinely transformed — and to live that transformation in the ordinary choices of an ordinary life. The doctor who treats every patient as khalifah. The teacher whose students remember one thing that changed how they saw the world. The parent whose children grow up with taqwa. The friend who showed up when it mattered.

The quiet legacy is the legacy that actually changes the world. Help your teenager aspire to it.

Practical guidance for parents

Have the legacy conversation explicitly. Ask your teenager: what do you want to build that will outlast you? Not as a pressure question — as a genuine invitation to think about the long game. If they don’t have an answer, that’s fine. The question itself plants a seed.

Name the gap together. Look at your community, your masjid, your neighborhood together. What needs doing that nobody is doing? Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef saw a gap and designed something to fill it. Help your teenager develop the habit of noticing gaps and asking: could I be the one to fill this?

Model sadaqah jariyah visibly. What are you building that will outlast you? Do your teenagers know? Do they see you investing in things that will benefit people after you are gone? Legacy is caught as much as taught.

Make du’a for legacy together. The Sulayman ﷺ du’a — asking Allah specifically and boldly for the resources to build something significant — is a du’a you can make as a family. Ask Allah together for what you want to build. Let your teenager see you making that du’a. Let them make their own version of it.

Honor the people whose shade you’re sitting in. Who planted the trees whose shade your family benefits from? Name them. Tell your teenager their stories. Make du’a for them together. That practice builds ummah consciousness, gratitude, and the understanding that they are part of a chain — and that their job is to extend it.

Warning signs that legacy orientation is absent or distorted

Complete short-term thinking — no capacity to defer gratification, no interest in building anything that takes longer than a few months. This is not a moral failing, but a developmental signal that the long-game orientation needs cultivation.

Legacy as performance — the desire to be famous, recognized, and celebrated rather than to genuinely contribute. This is the riya conversation from Night 24 applied to legacy specifically. The distinction between building for visibility and building for impact is worth making explicit.

Paralysis in the face of the question — “I’m too young,” “I’m too ordinary,” “I don’t know what I’m good at.” This is often fear masquerading as humility. The response is the examples: Dawud, al-Bukhari, Sheikh Muhammad al-Shareef — all of whom began in obscurity, all of whom built something that outlasted them.

Discussion questions for families

For teens:

1. What gap do you see in your community, school, or masjid that nobody is filling? What would it take to begin addressing it?
2. If you could ask Allah for anything — specifically, boldly, the way Sulayman ﷺ asked — what would you ask for? What do you want to build?
3. Who is someone whose legacy shaped you — someone whose tree you’re sitting under right now? What did they plant in you?

For parents:

1. Have you told your teenager what you are building that will outlast you? Do they know what your sadaqah jariyah is or could be?
2. How do you talk about success in your home — in terms of achievement and recognition, or in terms of genuine contribution and transformation?
3. What tree are you planting together as a family right now?

For discussion together:

1. Read the sadaqah jariyah hadith together. Which of the three forms of ongoing legacy does your family feel most called to? What would it look like to begin building it?
2. What is the gap in your community that your family could be the ones to fill?
3. Who are the people whose du’a we should be making tonight — the ones whose legacy shaped ours?

The bottom line

Your teenager is standing at the beginning of the long game. The seeds they plant now will be growing for decades. The character they build now is the foundation everything else will rest on. The knowledge they pursue, the habits they form, the trees they plant — these are not preliminary to their legacy.

They are their legacy. Beginning now.

Help them plant something worth leaving. Help them ask Allah boldly for what they need to plant it. Help them understand that the shade they leave is already needed — by people they may never meet, in a future they may never see.

That is the long game. And it begins tonight.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 25 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 26 — Taqwa: The Foundation of Everything You Build

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

The Why Behind Our Actions | Night 24 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post What Will You Leave Behind? Legacy in Islam | Night 25 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

What if someone told you that $30 of your $100 donation went not to buy food or care for children, but into the personal bank account of the person who asked you to give?

The co-authors of “Where Does Your Dollar Go? – How We Can Avoid Another Beydoun Controversy” join Zainab bint Younus on the MuslimMatters podcast to break down the issue of commission-based charities. Are commission-based fundraisers even halal? What do professional fundraisers hold as ethical conduct? Does Muslim fundraising culture need to change?

Tune into this episode for the answers to all this, and more!

Related:

Zakat Eligibility of Islamic Organizations

Can You Give Zakah to Politicians? A Round-Up

The post [Podcast] Is Your Sadaqah Paying an Influencer Instead of Going to Charity? | Mufti Abdullah Nana & Dr Shafi Lodhi appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

Raising Children with Ikhlas in the Age of Social Media — Sincerity, Performance, and the Slow Drift

There is a parenting challenge that didn’t exist a generation ago — and most Muslim parents haven’t fully reckoned with it.

Your teenager is growing up in an environment where virtue is performed publicly by default. Where the good deed undocumented is the good deed that didn’t quite happen. Where the metric of whether something matters is whether people responded to it.

And you are trying to raise a Muslim whose good deeds are for Allah.

Those two realities are in direct tension. And tonight’s episode addresses that tension directly.

This guide is for the parent who wants to understand what their teenager received tonight — and how to reinforce it in a home environment that takes ikhlas seriously.

Why this topic is more urgent now than ever before

The Prophet ﷺ described riya — doing good for an audience other than Allah — as al-shirk al-asghar, the minor shirk. And he said it was what he feared most for his ummah — more than the major sins, more than the Dajjal.

His reasoning, as the scholars explain, is that riya is internal and invisible in a way that external threats are not. The Dajjal can be fled from. Riya has to be confronted within.

Your teenager’s generation faces this challenge at a scale no previous generation has encountered — because the architecture of their social environment is specifically designed to make riya the path of least resistance. Every platform they use rewards performance, visibility, and the optimization of content for audience response. Every metric they are surrounded by measures external validation.

This does not make your teenager uniquely corrupt or weak. It makes them human, in an environment specifically engineered to exploit the human desire for belonging and recognition. Understanding this should produce compassion, not judgment — and a commitment to giving them the tools the environment doesn’t provide.

What Qabil and Habil’s story teaches that most Islamic education misses

The story of Qabil and Habil is usually taught as a story about envy and murder — the first sin committed between human beings after the exit from Jannah.

But the Quranic account begins one step earlier than envy. It begins with the offering.

Habil brought his best — the finest of his flock, held nothing back. Qabil brought the lowest quality of his harvest — something he didn’t value, that cost him nothing real.

Allah accepted Habil’s offering and rejected Qabil’s.

The standard question asked about this story is: why did Qabil kill Habil? The more important question — the one that leads to the ikhlas lesson — is: why was Qabil’s offering rejected in the first place?

The scholars are clear: the rejection was not about the category of the offering — agricultural produce versus livestock — it was about the quality of what was given and the intention behind it. Habil gave his best because he was genuinely giving to Allah. Qabil gave his worst because he was going through a motion — performing the act of offering without the substance of it.

And when the performance was exposed — when the acceptance went to his brother and not to him — Qabil’s response was rage. The rage of someone whose performance didn’t get the reaction it was supposed to get.

That distinction — between the grief of sincere rejection and the rage of performance disappointed — is one of the most practically useful tools you can give your teenager for examining their own intentions. When your good deed doesn’t receive the response you hoped for, which reaction do you feel? That reaction is data.

The slow drift — what parents need to understand

One of the most important things tonight’s video communicates — and one that parents need to understand clearly — is that riya is almost never a decision. It is a drift.

Your teenager is unlikely to consciously choose to do their good deeds for an audience rather than for Allah. What is likely is that the drift will happen gradually, imperceptibly, through the accumulated effect of an environment that constantly rewards external validation.

The stages of the drift, as the classical scholars identified them:

It begins with a genuinely sincere act. Someone notices and responds positively. The positive response feels good — as it should; Allah created human beings to value belonging and recognition. The good feeling becomes part of the motivation. The motivation gradually becomes mixed. And eventually, without any single conscious decision, the deed is being done primarily for the audience.

The signal that reveals how far the drift has gone is the deflation that appears when a good deed goes unseen. When the prayer is made and no one notices. If that deflation is present — and significant — something has shifted in the foundation of the intention.

This signal is not a condemnation. It is information that can be addressed — through the practices the video described: the secret deed and the tajdid al-niyyah, the renewal of intention before each act.

Your role as a parent is to help your teenager develop the habit of self-examination that makes catching the drift possible before it goes too far.

The Imam al-Bukhari model — what to teach your teenager about legacy and ikhlas

The story of Imam al-Bukhari that tonight’s video tells is one of the most powerful illustrations of ikhlas in the Islam — and it deserves extended attention in your home.

Al-Bukhari arrived in Baghdad to the greeting of tens of thousands. He left alone, driven out by the envy of scholars who spread rumors about him. He returned to obscurity. He died in a small village with almost no one present.

Yet, before every single hadith he recorded — in what would become the most authenticated book in Islamic history after the Quran — he made ghusl, prayed two rakaat, and made istikharah regarding the authenticity of what he was about to record.

Every hadith. Ghusl. Two rakaat. Istikharah. For years.

That practice — invisible, unglamorous, known only to Allah — is the foundation of a book that a billion people have benefited from for a thousand years.

There is a conversation worth having explicitly with your teenager about this: the relationship between ikhlas and legacy. The deed done purely for Allah — without regard for audience, recognition, or immediate reward — carries a weight that nothing else does. Al-Bukhari’s work outlasted every critic, every rumor, every empty hall by a millennium.

Your teenager is building something right now. The question is what it is built on — and for whom.

The 59:19 warning for parents

Tonight’s video also introduced an ayah that deserves careful attention from parents as well as teenagers:

“And do not be like those who forgot Allah, so He made them forget themselves.” [59:19]

The application to parenting is direct and somewhat uncomfortable.

Muslim parents who are primarily raising their children for the approval of the community — whose primary anxieties are about what other Muslims will think, whose primary measures of success are whether their children appear religious enough in public — are, in a very real sense, modeling the very dynamic this ayah warns against.

If your teenager grows up in a home where Islamic practice is primarily performed for a community audience — where the question is always “what will people think?” rather than “does this please Allah?” — they will absorb that framework. And they will apply it to their own practice.

The ikhlas conversation begins not with your teenager, but with you. Are you modeling a relationship with Allah that is genuinely between you and Him — or a performance of religiosity for a community audience?

That question is worth sitting with honestly before the conversation with your teenager begins.

Practical guidance for parents

Create a culture of the secret deed at home. Make it a family practice to regularly do good things that no one will know about. Give sadaqah anonymously together. Do acts of service without documenting or mentioning them. Make the secret deed a normal, celebrated part of your family’s Islamic life — not the exception but the expected.

Talk about motivation explicitly. When your teenager does something good, make it normal to ask: what was behind that? This builds the habit of examining motivation, rather than just evaluating the action.

Separate Islamic practice from community performance carefully. Be intentional about which aspects of your family’s Islamic practice are for Allah and which are for community visibility. Where the two have become confused, work to disentangle them. Your teenager is watching.

Share the Bukhari story in full. Read it together. Ask: what would you have done in the empty hall? What does his response — “I came with an intention and I didn’t want to abandon my intention” — say about what ikhlas actually looks like under pressure?

Discussion questions for families

For teens:

1. When was the last time you did something good that no one knows about? How did it feel compared to things people saw?
2. What does al-Bukhari’s response in the empty hall — “I came with an intention and I didn’t want to abandon my intention” — mean to you personally?

For parents:

1. Are you modeling ikhlas for your teenager — or are you modeling the performance of religiosity for a community audience? Be honest.
2. How does your family handle public recognition of good deeds? Do you celebrate the secret deed as much as the visible one?
3. When your teenager’s good deed goes unnoticed or unappreciated — how do you respond? Do you reinforce Allah’s awareness, or do you focus on the injustice of the lack of recognition?

For discussion together:

1. Read Al-Ma’idah 5:27 together — the story of Qabil and Habil’s offerings. What does Habil’s response tell you about what ikhlas actually looks like under pressure?
2. What is one practice our family can build together to protect and strengthen our ikhlas?
3. If no one ever saw or knew about any good deed our family did — would we still do them with the same effort and care?

The bottom line

Your teenager is growing up in an environment where the performance of virtue is not just possible, but sadly, the default. Where every good deed can be documented, shared, and measured by audience response.

In that environment, ikhlas — doing good for Allah alone — is not the path of least resistance. It is a spiritual discipline that has to be actively cultivated, protected, and practiced.

The tools exist. The secret deed. The check of the deflation feeling. Tajdid al-niyyah. The example of al-Bukhari in the empty room.

Give your teenager those tools. Model them yourself. Build a home where the question is always: who is this for?

The One who was watching before anyone else was — is still watching. And His reward does not require a caption.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 24 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 25 — What Will You Leave Behind? Legacy, sadaqah jariyah, and planting trees whose shade you won’t sit in.

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

Your Place in the Ummah | Night 23 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post The Why Behind Our Actions | Night 24 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Ramadan has a way of surfacing what we usually manage to keep buried. 

Through our constant snacking, scrolling, and background noise playing, we rely on small escapes throughout the day without noticing. When this blessed month arrives and strips away our regular coping mechanisms, the old grief, the shorter fuse, and the fatigue suddenly loom. The self remains exposed and, for many, pained and unsettled.

The Qur’an Foreshadows Difficulty – and Trains Us for It

Ramadan’s intensive schedule mirrors the discomfort and disruption that life’s trials bring to the believer. 

How beautiful then, that Allah frames Ramadan as the month of the Qur’an [Surah Al-Baqarah 2:185], which repeatedly returns us to sabr (patience, steadfastness, endurance) in moments of difficulty. The Qur’an does not mention patience once but returns to it again and again, as if anticipating how quickly we succumb to pain:

 

“And be patient, [O Muhammad], and your patience is not but through Allah . And do not grieve over them and do not be in distress over what they conspire.” [Surah An-Nahl 16:127]

“So be patient. Indeed, the promise of Allah is truth. And let them not disquiet you who are not certain [in faith].” [Surah Ar-Rum 30:60]

 

“O you who have believed, persevere and endure and remain stationed and fear Allah that you may be successful” [Surah ‘Ali-Imran 3:200]

“O my son, establish prayer, enjoin what is right, forbid what is wrong, and be patient over what befalls you. Indeed, [all] that is of the matters [requiring] determination.” [Surah Luqman 31:17]

“And We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give good tidings to the patient” [Surah Al-Baqarah 2:155]

Patience is not the Absence of Pain

These verses do not promise exemption from pain; rather, they soberly remind us to expect difficulty. However, the Qur’an does promise orientation within the pain through the practice of sabr, inviting us into an active spiritual effort. The Qur’an illustrates that the one who demonstrates patience actively resists the narratives that pain tempts us to believe: that we have been abandoned, that we are deserving of punishment, that this pain is meaningless, that ease must be sought immediately at any cost. In other words, we understand that patience does not magically remove pain, merely that impatience (i.e., panic, despair, agitation) compounds it. Patience involves staying upright in the midst of discomfort without surrendering to despair, resentment, or a diminished opinion of Allah . 

The Prophet ﷺ embodied this understanding of patience. When people came to him, overwhelmed by hardship, his counsel was often simple and direct: be patient. Nowadays, some may misinterpret such advice as a platitude or a dismissal of pain. However, neither the Qur’an, nor the Prophet ﷺ, romanticize suffering. Rather, the teachings from the Qur’an and sunnah explicitly suggest that personal growth, purification (tazkiya), and moral formation are all benefits to be earned from practicing patience. 

Why Modern Life Is Making Us Spiritually Brittle

This approach stands in stark contrast to modern life, which sells us instant escape at every moment. Comfort, convenience, and immediate gratification beckon to us, quietly compel us to soothe every discomfort, even at the lowest level. As a result, we collectively lose our tolerance for difficulty, leaving us increasingly brittle and emotionally dysregulated. 

True sabr, as our scholars have taught, invites an inner struggle to remain intact when everything in the lower self (nafs) demands immediate relief. Through purposeful steadfastness, sabr disciplines the nafs. Fasting in Ramadan is our 30-day invitation to forgo our usual appetitive coping mechanisms in search of higher self-based modalities until the relief of the adhan at Maghrib echoes through the speakers. Ramadan, then, recalibrates our relationship to discomfort itself. 

Sabr and Self-Soothing: Two Languages for the Same Work

But what does it look like to be patient? How does one actually do that? In contemporary therapeutic language, the ability to regulate one’s nervous system in moments of stress without resorting to numbing or dismissive behaviors requires self-soothing. Self-soothing may very well be the modern adaptation of sabr in that it is about containment, allowing a person to remain present and grounded even in the midst of pain. 

Practicing self-soothing might look like deliberately pausing to breathe before responding right away to a message that triggers anxiety (i.e., heart rate spikes, thoughts race). The message remains, but you meet it from a place of steadiness rather than pain. Practicing self-soothing might also look like accepting that a season of life has shifted, when “home” has moved, and what once felt close now feels distant. There is grief in that awareness, and time cannot reverse the movement. Self-soothing offers the quiet work of tenderly cradling what feels heavy.

As a tradition, Islam understands patience as an active spiritual discipline. Shaykh ad-Darqawi once captured the concept of sabr with disarming clarity when someone was overwhelmed with dismay, stating, “Relax your mind and learn to swim.” Sabr, practiced through self-soothing, asks us to breathe deeply, trust that we are being carried, and remain afloat even when sometimes all we can manage is to keep our head above water.

Practices That Strengthen Spiritual Endurance

Suggestions for self-soothing practices abound. Anyone looking for self-soothing techniques rooted in an Islamic paradigm may strengthen their ability to endure through the following:

• Regulating breath: Slow, intentional breathing is one of the most effective ways to calm the nervous system and quell spiraling thoughts. I like to pair breathwork with remembrance through dhikr, anchoring every breath in the Divine Presence.
• Physical containment: Therapeutic practices recommend a self-hug to create a sense of safety. One may wrap oneself in one’s arms or use a weighted blanket to wrap around the body. We remember that Sayyida Khadija enfolded the Prophet ﷺ in a cloak following the frightening encounter in the cave. 
• Repetition and ritual: Ritual grounds and comforts us. Fixed acts such as wudu and salah – when the body instinctively moves from muscle memory – provide stability when external circumstances scream instability. 
• Grounding through sound: Sound, or melody, has a powerful regulatory effect on the brain. The Qur’an – literally translated as The Recitation – describes itself as a shifa, or healing. The melodic recitation of the Qur’an provides spiritual and neurological stability. 
• Meaning: Distress intensifies when pain feels random or meaningless. After one uses the above somatic therapies to contain the pain felt in the body, one may move into reframing the hardship as purposeful. The Qur’an consistently explains that Allah sees our struggle, our pain, and is with us through it all. Sabr sustains this meaning, reminding us that nothing is lost with The Most Compassionate.

When Meaning and Melody Carry Us

The last two suggestions in this list provide the motivation behind “The Trials Playlist,” a small collection of Qur’anic chapters to play on audio when we find ourselves in the midst of hardship. Think of each chapter listed as a “track,” not in a trivial sense, but as points of return when in need of melody and meaning. Each “track” can be listened to in Arabic, allowing the cadence of recitation to do its neurological and spiritual work, or in English (for example, through The Clear Quran app), so the meanings can be received directly.

The playlist is by no means a fixed list, only my personal go-tos in my work as a chaplain. Reader, you should feel free to substitute chapters that speak to you personally. But for those who want somewhere to begin, here is a starting list.

The Trials Playlist, or Qur’an Chapters for Hard Days Access the ready “playlist” here.

• Al Fatiha (The Opener) – The anchor chapter, nicknamed Al-Shifa (The Healing), we return to again and again, often described as an intimate conversation between Lord and servant. We begin here to welcome Allah’s blessings and Divine openings as we seek Him.

Centering verse: “You [alone] we worship and You [alone] we ask for help.” [1:5]

• Ad-Duha (The Morning Hours) – Revealed to Prophet Muhammad after a painful pause in revelation as reassurance that silence is not abandonment and a reminder that Allah is always there. 

Centering verse: “Your Lord has not abandoned you, nor has He become hateful of you.” [93:3]

• Ash-Sharh (The Relief) – Closely paired with Ad-Duha in meaning and comfort, providing a reframe of hardship as an experience that carries ease within it, encouraging us to look for the ease in the midst of the difficulty. 

Centering verse: “Surely with hardship comes ease.” [94:5]

• Yusuf (Joseph) – A poignant narrative of overcoming immense adverse experiences through sustained patience and trust in Allah’s unfolding Mercy. It also honors grief in the story of Ya’qub and his model of endurance. 

Centering verse: “I complain of my anguish and sorrow only to Allah.” [12:86]

• As-Sajda (The Prostration) – A sobering reminder of Allah’s Majesty and complete Governance. For those feeling wronged and unseen, it restores moral clarity. 

Centering verse: “It is Allah Who has created the heavens and the earth and everything in between in six Days, then established Himself on the Throne. You have no protector or intercessor besides Him. Will you not then be mindful?” [32:4]

• Ta-Ha – Known for the account connected to Umar ibn al Khattab’s turning point toward Islam. A steadying surah for those feeling overwhelmed. Heartfelt reminder that Allah sees all of our trials and challenges, and He is preparing us for our destiny. Every story within repeats the lesson that whoever walks this path with Allah as their Companion will find every obstacle surmountable. 

Centering verse(s): “You are always watching over us.” [20:35] … “So We reunited you with your mother so that her heart would be put at ease, and she would not grieve. ˹Later˺ you killed a man ˹by mistake˺, but We saved you from sorrow, as well as other tests We put you through. Then you stayed for a number of years among the people of Midian. Then you came here as pre-destined, O  Moses!” [20:40]

• Al-Kahf (The Cave) – A weekly stabilizer (encouraged to read on Fridays) that trains us in priorities and how to conduct oneself in the midst of challenges. In particular, the story of Musa with the righteous teacher provides an important perspective about tests, trials, and Allah’s intricate Plan. Musa’s teacher repeatedly reminds Musa (and, by extension, all of us) to practice patience in the face of what we cannot comprehend.

Centering verse: “How can you be patient with what is beyond your knowledge?” [18:68]

• Al-Hadid (The Iron) – A teacher once advised me to read this surah when I feel depleted because the chapter’s name suggests strength and fortification, provided through multiple reminders of the akhirah as our ultimate goal. It reassures us that what is meant for us will reach us, and what reaches us is never fully ours anyway. 

Centering verse(s): “No calamity [or blessing] occurs on earth or in yourselves without being written in a Record before We bring it into being. This is certainly easy for Allah. [57:22] “We let you know this so that you neither grieve over what you have missed nor boast over what He has granted you.” [57:23]

I pray that each of these chapters offers you companionship, a way to remain present with pain. This patient presence includes an ongoing effort to regulate the self without abandoning trust in God, to endure discomfort without fleeing meaning, and to remain oriented toward the Divine when relief is slow to appear. 

 

Related:

– The MuslimMatters Ramadan Podcast Playlist 2025

– Quranic Verses For Steadfastness For The Valiant Protesters On Campus

The post The Trials Playlist: A Chaplain’s Set To Steady Your Heart appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Ramadan arrives every year wrapped in images of community — crowded masjid halls, long iftar tables, families gathered in warm circles of light. But some believers enter the sacred month quietly, carrying a loneliness they don’t know how to name – even at this point in the holy month.

Some walk into Ramadan without a masjid that feels like home. Without a community that sees them. Without the comfort of belonging.

They fast alone. They break their fast alone. They pray in the corners of their bedrooms while the world posts pictures of taraweeh rows and communal du‘ā’.

And yet… Allah sees them.

He sees the believer who worships in isolation, not by choice but by circumstance. He sees the one who longs for a spiritual home but finds none. He sees the heart that feels uninvited by people yet refuses to turn away from Him.

In Surah ad-Duha, Allah reminds the Prophet ﷺ:

“Did He not find you lost and guide you?” [Surah Ad-Dhuha 93:7]

This verse is not only history — it is a lifeline. It is for every believer who feels spiritually displaced. It is for the ones who enter Ramadan with a quiet ache, hoping this month will stitch something inside them back together.

Because the truth is this: Ramadan is not owned by communities. It is not owned by masajid. It is not owned by those who have spiritual abundance.

Ramadan belongs to Allah — and Allah gives it to whom He wills.

For the spiritually homeless, Ramadan becomes something different. It becomes a sanctuary built not by people, but by God Himself.

When you eat suhoor alone, the angels keep you company. When you break your fast in silence, Allah is the One who witnesses it. When you pray taraweeh in your room, your footsteps are written in the heavens. When you whisper du‘ā’ with no one to say “ameen,” the angels say it for you.

Your worship is not small. Your worship is not lacking. Your worship is not unseen.

Sometimes, the most beloved acts to Allah are the ones done far from the eyes of people.

So even at this point in Ramadan, if you feel spiritually homeless, make this your du‘ā’:

“My Lord, expand for me my chest. Make my path gentle. Make my heart a home for Your light.”

Let this be the month where you stop waiting for a community to invite you in — and instead allow Allah to invite you to Himself.

There is still time. May this Ramadan be a sanctuary for your uninvited heart. May Allah make you among those He draws close in the quiet, in the unseen, in the places where only He can find you.

And may you discover that you were never spiritually homeless — you were simply being guided home to Him.

 

Related:

– The Many Faces Of Ramadan

– When Ramadan Arrives To Heal What Life Has Broken

 

The post Ramadan For The Spiritually Homeless appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

My Lord, I cannot account for the praises that are due to You; You are as You praise Yourself.

Sublime is the Countenance of Your Face; Exalted is Your position. You do as You will by Your Power and Ability, and You decree as You want by Your Honor.

O Allah, we seek refuge in You from knowledge that does not benefit; and from a heart that is not humbled in devotion to You; and from an eye that does not weep (out of love and Fear of You); and from inner cravings that are never satisfied; and from a supplication that is not heard.

I take refuge in the perfect words of Allah from His anger & punishment & from the evil of His servants & from the touch & appearance of devils.

Ya Allah there is no strength or ability except by Your Leave. Ya Allah, I ask You the request of the weak & needy. Ya Allah by the sacredness of this Month that is soon to end, I pray to You alone for my need.

I ask for security from fear, a cure from every ailment, prosperity after austerity, happiness that ends sorrow, love that bars hate, rizq that I share with others, children that grow under Your Hidaaya & parents that live long & worship You until the end.

La hawla wa laa quwata illa bik.

Ya Allah give me sabr in calamity, temperance in anger, humility in success, forgiveness in offense, kindness in authority & charity in wealth.

Ya Allah bless us with the Quran. Allow me to learn of it that which I know not and permit me the remembrance of that which I was led to forget. Ya Allah illuminate my heart with Your Words, release my stress with its rhythm, elevate my spirit with its message, cleanse my error with its healing and increase my love for You through its Wisdom. Ya Allah cure us with Al-Quran and protect us with its blessing.

Ya Allah, forgive me & forgive those who forgive me.

Ya Rabb, You alone open hearts & remove feebleness from it. Ya Rabb strengthen our stance through qiyam & weaken our lewd desire with siyaam. Lift our fear with the Quran and extinguish our sins with generosity. Brighten our eyes with righteous children and bless us with the dua of our parents. Ya Rabb allow us comfort in our spouse& fill our home with compassionate mercy.

Ya Allah, I seek Your forgiveness for all the times I spoke when I should have listened; became angry instead of patient and reacted when I should have waited.

Ya Allah, I seek Your Forgiveness for indifference when I should have encouraged; criticized when I should have educated and reprimanded when I should have forgiven.

Ya Allah, Forgive those who wrong me & let my prayer for them be Light for me.

I take refuge in the perfect words of Allah from His anger & punishment & from the evil of His creation & from the touch & appearance of devils.

Ya Allah, I call You & want none but You. I call upon You, with All Your Names, for All Your Kindness that removes harm and secures tranquility. I call to You with Your treasured Name that unties the binds, & cures the ailment & replenishes the weak. Ya arhama-raahimeen renew my faith & expel my doubt and provide me what others are withheld.

Ya Rabb! To You alone I raise my hands in supplication, bend my back in adoration & dust my face in prostration.

Ya Allah Your blessings are incalculable & my requests are many. But You are the Light of the Heavens & the Earth, & with You is the Matter in its entirety.

I beg nearness to You through righteousness in word, deed & conscious intention.

Ya Allah, to You I complain & with You I find comfort. To You I supplicate and with You is the answer.

To You I turn & with You I find protection.

To You I vow & with You is my ability.

Ya Rahman ya Raheem, Ya Hayyu ya Qayyoom, biraahmatika astagheeth! Your Mercy I seek.

Related:

What Shaykh Muhammad Al Shareef Taught Us About Making Dua

Beyond Longing – Dua: A Deliberate Act Of Divine Love

The post Speaking to Allah in the 10 Nights of Ramadan | Part 1 appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

Raising Children Who Feel the Ummah

There is a specific kind of Muslim parent anxiety that doesn’t get talked about enough.

It’s not the anxiety about whether your teenager is praying or fasting or wearing hijab — as important as those things are. It’s the anxiety about whether your teenager feels like they belong to something. Whether they have a community that is real enough, warm enough, present enough to support them when things get hard.

Because you know — perhaps from your own experience — that a Muslim who truly feels they are part of the ummah is a very different person from a Muslim who practices alone. And you’re not sure, looking at your teenager, which one they are becoming.

Tonight’s episode addresses that directly. And this guide is for the parent who wants to understand what their teenager received — and what you can do to reinforce it at home.

The loneliness diagnosis

The cultural context tonight’s video opens with is worth sitting with as a parent: your teenager’s generation is the most connected and one of the most lonely in recorded history.

This is not a peripheral observation. It is the central challenge of raising Muslim teenagers in the West today — because the ummah’s answer to loneliness only works if the ummah is functioning as it was designed to function.

The Prophet ﷺ described the Muslim community as a single body — one in which every part feels the pain of every other part, and the whole system responds. That is the design. That is what Islam offers your teenager as an alternative to the hollow connection of social media and the transactional relationships of peer culture.

But for that offer to be real — for it to be something your teenager can actually access — it has to exist somewhere near them. It has to be embodied in a community they can show up to, be seen in, and be held by.

The question for Muslim parents is not just: does my teenager understand the concept of ummah? It is: does my teenager have actual experience of it? Have they felt the body respond to them? Have they seen what it looks like when Muslims show up for each other at real cost?

If the answer is no — or not yet — then building that experience is part of your work as a parent.

What the single body hadith actually demands

The hadith of the single body is quoted frequently in Muslim communities. It is less frequently practiced.

What it demands — taken seriously — is that the wellbeing of every Muslim is your business. Not in an intrusive or controlling sense, but in the sense that a body takes its own health seriously. You don’t ignore a wound in your finger because it’s far from your heart. You respond.

For Muslim parents, this means several things practically:

It means your home should be a place where the struggles of the broader Muslim community are felt and prayed for — not just noted and scrolled past. When your teenager sees you stop at news of Muslim suffering somewhere in the world and make du’a — specifically, by name, with genuine feeling — they are learning what ummah consciousness looks like in real life.

It means your family’s relationship to your local Muslim community should be one of investment and presence, not just attendance. The difference between a family that shows up to the masjid and a family that is genuinely embedded in the community — present for each other’s joys and hardships, available when someone needs them — is the difference between knowing about the ummah and experiencing it.

It means that when your teenager struggles — with doubt, depression, shame, or any of the things Week 3 addressed — the community around them should be the kind that responds, rather than judges. And if it isn’t yet, you can work to make it so.

Kuntum khayra ummah — raising a Muslim who understands their role in the world

One of the most important gifts you can give your teenager is a correct understanding of kuntum khayra ummah — and that means correcting two common misreadings before they take root.

The first misreading is arrogance. “We are the best ummah” read as superiority — as a reason to disengage from or look down on the non-Muslim world. This reading contradicts everything the Prophet ﷺ modeled and produces Muslims who are isolated, self-referential, and unable to fulfill the actual purpose of the ayah.

The second misreading is passivity. “Allah said we’re the best, so we must be fine as we are.” This ignores the fact that the ayah defines the best ummah by three active qualities — enjoining right, forbidding wrong, and believing in Allah. It is a description of what you do, not a permanent status you hold regardless of your actions.

The correct reading is both humbling and galvanizing: you are part of a community that was brought forth — ukhrijat, sent out — for the benefit of all of humanity. Lil-nas — for people. Not just for Muslims. For the whole human family.

This means your teenager’s engagement with the non-Muslim world around them is not a compromise of their Muslim identity. It is one of the primary expressions of it. The Muslim teen who is known in their school for integrity, kindness, and showing up for people regardless of their background — that teenager is living kuntum khayra ummah in a suburban high school.

Help your teenager understand that their presence in the broader world is purposeful. They are not there despite being Muslim. They are there as Muslims — brought forth, for the people around them.

The inheritance conversation — what your teenager owes and what they will pass on

One of the most powerful sections of tonight’s video is the invitation to trace the chain of how Islam reached your teenager — through the generations of ordinary Muslims who kept the prayer alive, the Quran memorized, the community functioning, until it eventually reached your family.

This conversation is worth having explicitly at home. Not as a guilt trip — your teenager didn’t choose the inheritance and doesn’t owe a debt they can’t repay. But as a source of identity and responsibility.

Do you know how Islam reached our family? That question, asked genuinely and answered honestly — with stories, with names, with the specific details of your family’s Islamic history — gives your teenager a sense of being part of something larger than their individual life. A chain that came from somewhere and is going somewhere.

And then the forward-facing question: what are you building that someone after you will receive?

That question reframes your teenager’s ordinary choices — whether to maintain their practice, invest in their community, be a consistent example of Muslim character in their school — as acts of chain-building. Acts of passing something on.

They are always passing something on. The only question is what.

The jama’ah — why community is not optional

One of the clearest teachings of tonight’s video is that the jama’ah — the Muslim community — is not a lifestyle preference. The entire structure of Islamic practice assumes community. Jama’ah prayer. Friday prayer. Zakat. Marriage. Janazah. None of these make sense in isolation.

For Muslim parents in the West, this means that finding, building, and investing in a local Muslim community is not optional enrichment for your teenager’s Islamic life. It is a structural necessity.

This is harder in some contexts than others. Many Muslim families live far from a masjid or in communities where the local Muslim population is small or scattered. A number of teenagers find the masjid culture alienating — dominated by older generations, conducted in languages they don’t speak, not designed with them in mind.

These are real challenges. But the response to them cannot be withdrawal. It has to be engagement — finding what exists, investing in it despite its imperfections, and where necessary, building what doesn’t exist yet. This entire series, in fact, is an effort to do just that – build something for the needs of our young Muslims – the next generation.

Your teenager’s generation is, in many Western Muslim communities, the generation that will either build the institutions that the next generation needs — or leave a gap that will be very hard to fill. That is not a burden to place on a teenager. It is an inheritance being placed in their hands.

Help them receive it with the seriousness and the excitement it deserves.

Warning signs that ummah disconnection has become serious

Normal teenage ambivalence about the Muslim community — finding the masjid boring, feeling like they don’t fit in, preferring their non-Muslim friends — is not cause for alarm. It is developmentally expected and can be addressed through the practical steps above.

The following indicate something more serious:

• Active rejection of Muslim identity — not just ambivalence about the community, but a desire to distance themselves from being Muslim altogether.
• Complete social isolation — no Muslim friends, no connection to any Muslim community, and no non-Muslim friendships either. Isolation from all community simultaneously.
• Expressing that they have no one to turn to when things are hard — that there is no community, Muslim or otherwise, that would show up for them.

If these are present, the work needed goes beyond community investment — it likely includes the mental health support resources from Week 3, and a deeper conversation about belonging and identity.

Discussion questions for families

For teens:

1. Do you feel like you belong to the Muslim ummah — not just in theory, but actually? What would make that feeling more real?
2. Who in your life — Muslim or non-Muslim — have you shown up for recently in a way that cost you something?
3. What does kuntum khayra ummah mean for how you engage with the non-Muslim people around you at school?

For parents:

1. Does your teenager have actual experience of the ummah functioning as a body — of Muslims showing up for each other at real cost? If not, how can you create that experience?
2. How do you talk about the broader Muslim community at home? Do your teenagers hear you speak of it with love, with investment, with the language of belonging?
3. Have you told your teenager the story of how Islam reached your family? Do they know the chain they are part of?

For discussion together:

1. Read the hadith of the single body together. Which part of the Muslim ummah do you feel most connected to? Which part feels most distant?
2. What would it look like for our family to be more involved in our local Muslim community — not just attending, but genuinely present?
3. What are we building together, as a family, that the generation after us will receive?

 

The bottom line

Your teenager is part of something fourteen centuries old, spanning every nation on earth, held together by a shared testimony and a shared direction of prayer.

That is not abstract. That is an identity, a community, and a responsibility — all at once.

Your job as a parent is to make that real for them. To give them actual experience of the body functioning. To help them understand that they were brought forth — specifically, deliberately — for the benefit of the people around them.

They are not just themselves. They never were.

Help them live like it.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 23 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 24 — Doing Great Things for the Right Reasons: Ambition, Ikhlas, and the Danger of Doing Good for the Wrong Master

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

What’s My Purpose? | Night 22 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post Your Place in the Ummah | Night 23 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Zakah is often described as a financial obligation. Yet in reality, it is one of Islam’s most profound acts of spiritual discipline, shaping how believers understand wealth, responsibility, and trust in Allah .

Allah says in the Qur’an:

“Take, [O, Muhammad], from their wealth a charity by which you purify them and cause them increase, and invoke [ Allah’s blessings] upon them. Indeed, your invocations are reassurance for them. And Allah is Hearing and Knowing.” [Surah At-Tawbah 9:103]

The Prophet ﷺ also reminded us:

“Charity does not decrease wealth.”[Sahīh Muslim]

Zakah is often reduced to a number.

2.5%.

A calculation entered into a spreadsheet. 

A reminder set in a calendar. 

A transfer made before a deadline.

For many of us, this is where our relationship with zakah begins, and sometimes where it quietly ends. We fulfil it because it is the third of the five pillars of Islam, and because we do not wish to fall short. And while obedience is never small in the sight of Allah , zakah was never meant to be confined to arithmetic alone.

Zakah purifies wealth, but more importantly, it purifies the heart that holds it.

This is why the Qur’an speaks of zakah not merely as charity, but as purification.

In the Qur’an, Allah repeatedly pairs prayer with zakah, reminding us that worship is not confined to private devotion. How we handle our wealth reflects our imaan. What we release for the sake of Allah says as much about us as what we guard.

Understanding Nisab and Calculating Zakah

Zakah becomes legally obligatory when a Muslim’s wealth reaches the nisab – the minimum threshold, and a full lunar year passes while it remains above that amount. At that point, 2.5% of qualifying savings and assets become due.12

Classical jurists derived the nisab from Prophetic guidance that fixed the threshold at twenty dinars of gold or two hundred dirhams of silver. In contemporary terms, scholars approximate this as about3:

• 87.48 grams of gold
• 612.36 grams of silver

In the Hanafī madhhab, the value of silver is typically used to determine the nisab threshold and eligibility for zakah. The other schools of law generally calculate the nisab based on the value of gold.

Because the value of these metals fluctuates, the monetary value of the nisab changes throughout the year.4 When a person’s qualifying wealth reaches this threshold and remains above it for a lunar year, zakah becomes obligatory.

This ruling applies equally to men and women. Islam recognises each legally responsible Muslim as financially accountable before Allah . In the Hanafi school, zakah is obligatory upon a Muslim who is legally responsible (sane and mature) and possesses wealth above the nisab. In some other schools of law, zakah may also be due on the wealth of minors if it reaches the nisab, with a guardian responsible for paying it on their behalf. This diversity of interpretation reflects the careful legal reasoning developed by scholars across the Islamic tradition. Zakah, therefore, is tied not to gender or status but to ownership and responsibility.

Wealth may be visible or quiet: savings accumulated over time, gold received as gifts, inheritance, investments, business income. Yet Islam counts what we own, not how publicly we hold it.

Zakah generally applies to liquid wealth: savings, cash, investments, business assets, and, according to many scholars, gold and silver. Everyday essentials such as clothing, furniture, mobile phones, electronic devices or the home one lives in are not subject to zakah. If one’s wealth does not reach the nisab, zakah is not due. The law of Allah is not burdensome; it is measured, precise, and merciful.

There are also scholarly differences, particularly regarding jewellery. In the Hanafi school, gold and silver jewellery, even when worn, are considered zakatable if they reach the nisab5. Other schools generally regard personal jewellery intended for regular use as exempt.6

What matters most, is following sound and reliable knowledge with consistency rather than anxiety.

The Inner Meaning of Zakah

Beyond the rulings lies something deeper.

Zakah is not generosity; it is a right of those whom Allah names in the Qur’an: the poor, the indebted, the vulnerable, those striving in His cause.7 It is not about rescuing others; it is about restoring balance. It acknowledges that wealth circulates by Allah’s Decree and that some of what we hold belongs, by right, to others.

Allah says:

“And in their wealth there is a known right,

for the one who asks and the one deprived.” [Surah Al-Ma’arij 70:24–25)

Letting go of 2.5% can still feel difficult. In a world that teaches us to prepare for every uncertainty, releasing wealth requires trust. Zakah gently disrupts the illusion of control. It reminds us that security does not lie in accumulation, but in reliance upon the Provider.

Even its structure contains mercy. If wealth drops below the nisab during the year, the zakah year resets. If it remains above the threshold, zakah is due only on what one owns at the end of the lunar year. Precision replaces panic.

It is also important to distinguish between zakah and sadaqah. Zakah is fixed, obligatory, and rights-based. Sadaqah is voluntary and expansive.8 One cannot replace the other. Together, they cultivate a heart that gives with discipline and compassion.

From Calculation to Consciousness

There is barakah in intentionality.

Zakah given mechanically fulfils a duty. Zakah given consciously softens the heart. Before transferring the amount, pause. Name it for what it is: worship. Gratitude. A recognition that what you hold is a trust from Allah .

Ultimately, zakah is an invitation – an invitation to align faith with finances and devotion with justice. It teaches that spirituality is not abstract. It lives in quiet calculations made for the sake of Allah .

Perhaps this is the deeper secret of zakah: it loosens the heart before it lightens the account. It teaches us to release without fear and to trust the One who promises that nothing given in His cause is ever lost.

When a believer gives zakah with awareness, they affirm that provision comes from Allah , that dignity belongs to every member of the ummah, and that nothing given sincerely for His sake is ever lost.

As the Qur’an reminds us:

“Say, “Indeed, my Lord extends provision for whom He wills of His servants and restricts [it] for him. But whatever thing you spend [in His cause] – He will compensate it; and He is the best of providers.“ [Surah Saba 34:39]

 

Related:

– Keep Zakat Sacred: A Right Of The Poor, Not A Political Tool

– Can You Give Zakah to Politicians? A Round-Up

1    Zakat calculator | Islamic Relief UK 2    How to calculate the Zakat – IslamQA3    Zakat Nisab – IslamQA 4    Nisab Value – What is Nisab? – Zakat and Nisab | Islamic Relief UK5    How does a Wife Who Has No Source of Income Pay Zakat on Her Jewellery?6     Zakat on jewellery | Islamic Relief UK Does One pay Zakat on Gold Jewelry? – IslamQA 7    Qur’an 9:60 (Sūrat al-Tawbah). 8    Difference between Zakat and Sadaqah | Islamic Relief UK

The post Zakah: More Than The 2.5% – Where Wealth Meets Worship appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Most of us grow up understanding Ramadan as the month you stop eating and drinking from Fajr to Maghrib. And that’s true. But if we’re truly honest with ourselves, that framing barely scratches the surface of what fasting is actually asking of us. 

I’ve come to realize that fasting, in the fullest sense, isn’t just about the stomach. It never was. The scholars of our tradition described fasting as having three distinct levels, each one deeper than the last, each one asking more of us than we might be comfortable giving.1 And understanding all three isn’t just an academic exercise. It’s what separates a Ramadan that changes you from a Ramadan you simply get through. The honest question we should all be sitting with is: which level am I actually at? 

Now, as we enter the last ten nights, that question becomes even more urgent. These are not ordinary nights. These are the nights the entire month has been building toward. Don’t let them pass as just more days of hunger and thirst. Let them be the nights where all three levels of fasting come fully alive. 

Level One: The Fast of the Body

This is where most of us live, and there’s nothing wrong with starting here. The fast of the body is the foundation: no food, no drink, no intimate relations from the time of Fajr until the sun sets. Allah makes the purpose of this crystal clear:

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

Notice that Allah didn’t say fasting was prescribed so we could lose weight or detox. He said that it has been prescribed for taqwa. God-consciousness. That heightened awareness that there is a Creator watching, that our choices matter, that we are more than our appetites. 

What I find profound about this level is what it’s really training for. The purpose of abstaining from lawful sustenance, food that is halal, water that is clean, isn’t punishment. It’s re-ordering. It’s teaching the self, deliberately and repeatedly, to prioritize the spiritual over the physical. Every time your stomach growls and you choose not to eat, you are proving something to yourself: I am in control of my body, not the other way around. That is genuinely powerful, and we shouldn’t take it lightly. 

The Prophet said:

“‏ الصِّيَامُ جُنَّةٌ ‏‏“

“Fasting is a shield.” [Bukhari & Muslim] 

A shield protects you. It keeps harm away. But a shield only works if you actually hold it up. And a lot of us put the shield down at Iftar. We go from restraint all day to a table overflowing with food, and somewhere in that transition, the discipline we built quietly dissolves. The physical fast is meant to carry through to how we eat when we break it, too, with moderation, with gratitude, with intention. 

In these last ten nights, especially, be mindful of how much you eat at Iftar and Suhoor. Heavy meals make heavy hearts. If you want to stand in Tarawih and Tahajjud with focus and presence, treat your body as a tool for worship, not a reward to indulge after a long day. The body’s fast, when honored all the way through, is what gives you the energy and clarity to make the most of these blessed nights. 

Level Two: The Fast of the Limbs

This is where Ramadan starts to get uncomfortable, in the best possible way. The Prophet said something that should stop us in our tracks: 

“Whoever does not give up false speech and acting upon it, Allah has no need of him giving up his food and drink.” [Bukhari]

Read that again. Allah has no need of it. Not that it’s less rewarded, not that it’s incomplete. He has no need of it. That’s the full weight of this hadith. It means that fasting without controlling what comes out of our mouths, what we look at, what we listen to, and how we treat people, is missing the entire point. 

The fast of the limbs is a full-body commitment. It means guarding the tongue from gossip, slander, and pointless argument. It means lowering the gaze from what Allah has made forbidden. It means not letting your ears become a dumping ground for things that don’t please Him. Your hands, your feet, your eyes, your whole self is fasting, not just your digestive system.

In the last ten nights, this level takes on even greater weight. These are the nights where Laylatul Qadr may fall, and we want every part of us to be in a state worthy of meeting it. Guard your tongue in these nights. Step away from arguments, from gossip, from anything that would weigh your record down on a night that is better than a thousand months. Let your limbs fast so your heart can soar.

What this level produces, beyond the individual, is integrity and social responsibility. By training these moral faculties during Ramadan, we align our outward actions with whatever we’re trying to build inwardly. And the beautiful thing is that these habits don’t have to stay in Ramadan. Integrity, empathy, and patience with people; these are Ramadan gifts that are meant to be taken with you into Shawwal and beyond.

Level Three: The Fast of the Heart

This is the level that Imam al-Ghazali wrote about at length, what he called tazkiyah al-nafs, the purification of the soul. And it is the rarest of the three, because it requires something the other two levels don’t: complete sincerity, with no audience.

The fast of the heart means that your inner world, your intentions, your thoughts, your desires, are also turned toward Allah . Not just your visible actions. It means you’re not fasting to be seen fasting. It means you’re guarding against the subtle sins that nobody else sees: the envy that rises when you see someone else blessed, the arrogance that quietly settles in when you feel your worship is going well, the pride that makes you slow to apologize, the grudges you’ve been carrying so long you’ve forgotten they’re even there.

Allah says:

“Call upon Me; I will respond to you….” [Ghafir 40:60] 

That ayah is an open door. The fast of the heart is about walking through it, consistently, privately, sincerely. It’s the du’a you make when nobody’s watching. It’s the Qur’an you read not because it looks good on your story, but because something in you genuinely thirsts for it. It’s the moment you feel envy rising and you choose to make du’a for that person instead of letting bitterness take root. 

Allah also describes the people of taqwa in Surah Adh-Dhariyat:

“And in the hours before dawn, they would seek forgiveness.” [Adh-Dhariyat 51:18) 

Not once a year. Not only in Ramadan. In the pre-dawn hours, consistently, as a way of life. That is the fast of the heart. It doesn’t clock out when the month ends. 

And in these last ten nights, the fast of the heart is what determines whether Laylatul Qadr truly lands in your life. You can stay awake all ten nights, but if the heart isn’t present, if it’s distracted, hardened, or performing for an audience, the night passes without its full gift. But a heart that has been fasting, purifying, and turning toward Allah all month? That heart is ready. These nights are made for it. 

The Last Ten Nights: Don’t Let Them Pass You By

Aisha was reported to have said: 

“When the last ten nights began, the Prophet would tighten his belt, bring his nights to life, and wake his family.” [Bukhari & Muslim]

Three things. He exerted himself. He prayed through the night. And he woke his family. Not just himself. His family. There is something deeply powerful in that last detail. The Prophet did not keep Laylatul Qadr to himself. He called his household to it. He wanted them to share in it. 

Wake your family. Gently shake your spouse. Tap your child on the shoulder. Call your parents if they live nearby. Tell them to get up. Tell them these nights are unlike any other. You may be the reason someone in your home catches Laylatul Qadr. What a gift that would be, both for them and for you. 

Pray at night. Even if it’s just two rakʿahs after everyone has gone to sleep, stand before Allah alone, in the quiet, and give Him those moments. The night prayer in these ten nights is one of the greatest acts of worship you can offer. The Prophet said: 

“Whoever stands in prayer on Laylatul Qadr out of faith and seeking reward, his previous sins will be forgiven.” [Bukhari & Muslim]

Previous sins. Forgiven. That is what is on offer on these nights. Don’t sleep through it.

Give sadaqah. Give generously. Give consistently. Every single night of the last ten. Because if Laylatul Qadr falls on the night you gave, your sadaqah carries the reward of having been given for over a thousand months. The Prophet also said: 

“Sadaqah extinguishes sin as water extinguishes fire.” [Tirmidhi] 

You don’t have to give a large amount every night. But give something. Give with intention. Give thinking about the person on the other end who needs it. Let your wealth fast too, by releasing it for the sake of Allah . And if you can, give to causes that serve the ummah in lasting ways; orphans, the poor, communities without access to clean water or Islamic education. Let your sadaqah in these ten nights be a reflection of the heart that has been fasting all month. 

Small Habits That Hold It All Together

This is where a lot of us fall short, not because we lack intention, but because we don’t have a practical plan. So let’s be specific, because the transformation Ramadan offers doesn’t happen through grand gestures. It happens through small, consistent habits repeated across thirty days and carried beyond them.

Read Qur’an daily.

Not a full juz if that’s not where you are right now, but something. Even five to ten minutes after Fajr, sitting with a few verses and actually thinking about what they mean. The Prophet said:

“The most beloved deeds to Allah are those that are consistent, even if small.” [Bukhari & Muslim] 

Start small, but start, and don’t stop when Ramadan ends. 

Make sincere du’a. Not du’a as a checkbox, not a rushed list before you sleep. Actual conversation with Allah . Tell Him what’s worrying you. Tell Him what you want for your children, your marriage, your work, your akhirah. Tell Him where you’re struggling. And in these last ten nights, make this du’a often: 

اللَّهُمَّ إِنَّكَ عَفُوٌّ كَرِيمٌ تُحِبُّ الْعَفْوَ فَاعْفُ عَنِّي

“O Allah, You are the Pardoner, You love to pardon, so pardon me.” [Tirmidhi]

The Prophet taught this du’a specifically for Laylatul Qadr. Say it in your sujood. Say it between rakʿahs. Say it in the stillness of the night when the house is quiet, and it’s just you and your Lord. Mean every word. 

Show kindness consistently. Smile at someone when you don’t feel like it. Help without being asked or thanked. Give sadaqah that actually costs you something, not just the spare change in your pocket. These acts aren’t just nice things to do. They are the outward expression of an inward purification. When the fast of the heart is working, it shows in how you treat people. 

They Were Never Meant to Be Separate

Here is what I find beautiful about these three levels: they’re not a ladder you climb rung by rung, leaving the lower ones behind. They build on each other and reinforce each other simultaneously. The physical fast trains self-discipline. The moral fast nurtures ethical conduct and social responsibility. The spiritual fast strengthens the heart and cultivates a lifelong connection with Allah . All three, working together at once, is what Ramadan was always designed to produce. 

The Prophet brought all three together in one hadith: 

“When one of you fasts, let him avoid obscene speech and foolishness. If someone argues with him or insults him, let him say: I am fasting, I am fasting.” [Bukhari & Muslim]

Notice how the response to provocation isn’t a theological argument. It’s a reminder to oneself. I am fasting. That reminder carries all three levels at once. The body hasn’t eaten. The tongue won’t lash back. The heart remembers why it’s here. It’s the whole person speaking. 

The Question Worth Asking

As the last ten nights move through their days, sit with a genuinely honest question: Am I just not eating, or am I actually fasting? 

These nights are a mercy from Allah that comes once a year. No one is promised next Ramadan. No one is guaranteed another chance at these nights. So show up for them fully. Wake up for Tahajjud. Wake your family. Give sadaqah every single night. Make du’a with a broken and sincere heart. Guard your tongue. Protect your gaze. And let your heart, the heart that has been fasting and purifying all month, finally meet the fullness of what Allah placed in this month.

 

 

“The Night of Decree is better than a thousand months.” [Al-Qadr 97:3]

A thousand months. Over eighty years of worship, in a single night. It is one of the greatest gifts Allah has ever given this ummah. Don’t let it pass while you’re asleep. 

May Allah allow us to reach Laylatul Qadr with a body, tongue, and heart that all testify for us. May He accept our fasting in all its levels, forgive us where we fall short, and grant us a portion of these blessed nights that transforms whatever comes after them. 

الَّلَّهَُّم تَقََّبَّ ْل مَِّنَّا، وَا ْرزُقْنَا قُلُوبًا َصاِئمَةً عَ ْن كُ ِّل مَا لَا يُرْ ِضي َك 

O Allah, accept from us, and grant us hearts that fast from all that does not please You. Ameen. 

 

Related:

– Quranic Contemplations: The Prophet’s Understanding of the Verses of Fasting

– What Fasting Demands From Us | Mufti Taqi Uthmani

 

1    References: 1.Al-Ghazali — Ihya’ ’Ulum al-Din (The Revival of the Religious Sciences), specifically Kitab Asrar al-Sawm (The Book of the Secrets of Fasting), vol. 1, published by Dar al-Ma’rifa, Beirut. 2. Ibn Qudama al-Maqdisi — Mukhtasar Minhaj al-Qasidin (An Abridgment of the Path of the Seekers), specifically Kitab Asrar al-Sawm (The Book of the Secrets of Fasting), published by Maktabat Dar al-Bayan, Damascus, 1398 AH / 1978 CE.

The post The Three Levels Of Fasting: What The Last Ten Nights Are Really Asking Of You appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

When Your Teen Asks “What is the My Purpose?” — A Guide for Muslim Parents on Purpose, the Khalifah Framework, and Raising Young People Who Know Why They’re Here

At some point — usually in the teen years — a question surfaces that most Muslim parents are not prepared for.

Not the theological questions about God’s existence or Islamic rulings. Something quieter and in some ways harder: what is the point of my life? What am I actually here for?

When this question appears, many Muslim parents reach for the obvious answer: you are here to worship Allah. And that answer is true. But for a teenager sitting in a suburban school, navigating social pressure, scrolling through a feed of people apparently living their best lives — it often lands as abstract, unsatisfying, and disconnected from the actual texture of their daily existence.

Behind the Scenes of this Question

First: take the question seriously. When your teenager asks what the point is — whether they ask it directly or express it through apathy, withdrawal, or the sense that Islamic practice feels disconnected from real life — they are not being faithless. They are being honest.

The worst response is dismissal — “don’t ask questions like that” or “just focus on your studies and your deen.” This communicates that the question is dangerous rather than important, and drives it underground where it will do more damage.

The second worst response is a purely abstract answer that doesn’t connect to their actual life. “You are here to worship Allah” is true but incomplete — it doesn’t tell a seventeen-year-old anything about what to do with their specific gifts, their specific situation, their specific time.

What teenagers need is a framework — a way of understanding purpose that is both Islamically grounded and practically applicable to their real life. Tonight’s video gives them one. The khalifah framework.

The khalifah framework

When Allah announced to the angels that He was placing a khalifah on the earth [2:30], He was making a statement about the nature and purpose of every human being who would ever live.

A khalifah is a steward. Not an independent agent pursuing their own agenda, but someone entrusted with a role, accountable to the One who gave it to them.

When Allah later said to Dawud ﷺ directly — “O Dawud, We have made you a khalifah in the earth” [38:26] — He was using the same word. The same framework that describes every human being’s purpose was applied specifically to Dawud in his particular role.

What this means practically is that your teenager’s purpose is not generic. It is specific. Allah placed them — with their particular gifts, in their particular family, in their particular time and place — with a specific purpose. Their purpose is to steward what Allah gave them, in the place Allah put them, with the intention of pleasing the One who sent them.

This framework does several things that the abstract “worship Allah” answer doesn’t:

It makes purpose personal. Your teenager’s gifts and interests and opportunities are not random. They are data — indicators of what they are specifically here to do.

It makes purpose actionable. The khalifah doesn’t wait for a grand moment of significance to begin fulfilling their role. They begin where they are, with what they have, now.

It makes purpose durable. The khalifah’s metric is faithfulness to the One who appointed them — not the approval of an audience. That metric holds steady across every season of life, in obscurity and in visibility alike.

What ibadah means — closing the gap between religious life and real life

One of the most common sources of spiritual confusion for Muslim teenagers is the gap between “religious life” and “real life.” Prayer and fasting feel like one domain. School, friendships, ambitions, creative interests feel like another. And the two don’t really seem connected.

The khalifah framework closes that gap — but only if teenagers understand what ibadah actually means in Islamic teaching.

Ibadah is not limited to explicitly religious acts. The scholars — Ibn al-Qayyim most comprehensively — teach that ibadah is the orientation of the entire life toward Allah. Every action performed with the intention of pleasing Allah, in accordance with His guidance, is worship.

The Prophet ﷺ said: “Whatever you spend seeking thereby the Pleasure of Allah will have its reward, even the morsel which you put in the mouth of your wife.” (Bukhari, Muslim) The most ordinary domestic act — feeding your family — becomes ibadah through intention.

This means that your teenager’s studies, their friendships, their creative work, their athletic pursuits, their service to the people around them — all of it can be ibadah. Not instead of salah and fasting, but alongside them. The entire life, oriented toward Allah, becomes worship.

When teenagers understand this, the gap closes. There is no longer a “religious self” and a “real self.” There is just a Muslim human being whose entire life — in all its ordinary, specific, unglamorous detail — is an act of khalifah fulfilled.

Help your teenager make that connection explicitly. Ask them: what are you good at? What do you care about? How could those gifts, used with the right intention, be a part of your ibadah?

The shepherd years — why ordinary seasons matter

One of the most important things tonight’s video communicates — and one that Muslim parents should reinforce at home — is the significance of what I’m calling the shepherd years.

Before Dawud ﷺ faced Jalut, before the prophethood and the kingship and the Zabur, he was a shepherd. Years of ordinary work, invisible to anyone who wasn’t watching closely, with no indication that anything larger was coming.

Those years were not wasted. They were formative. The courage and trust in Allah that he displayed when he faced Jalut were not qualities that appeared from nowhere. They were built in the shepherd years — in the daily discipline of caring for what Allah entrusted to him, in the ordinary faithfulness that preceded the extraordinary moment.

Your teenager is likely in their shepherd years right now. And the culture they live in aggressively communicates that these years are less valuable than the years of visible achievement, public recognition, and measurable success.

As a parent, one of the most important things you can do is help them understand that the shepherd years are where khalifah is built. The character being formed now. The relationship with Allah being developed now. The habits of faithfulness and integrity being established now. These are not preliminary to their purpose — they are their purpose, right now, in this season.

The metric conversation

Tonight’s video raises something that deserves a dedicated conversation between Muslim parents and their teenagers: the question of which metric you are using to measure a successful life.

Your teenager is immersed in a culture that offers a very specific metric: visibility. Followers. Engagement. The confirmation that people are watching and approving (through likes, etc.). And that metric is not neutral — it shapes behavior, priorities, and the definition of what a life well-lived looks like.

The khalifah metric is different. The khalifah is accountable to Allah, not to an audience. The question is not whether people are watching or approving, but whether the One who appointed you is pleased.

This conversation is worth having explicitly and repeatedly — not as a lecture but as a genuine discussion. Ask your teenager: what does success look like to you right now? Where did that definition come from? What would success look like if the only audience that mattered was Allah?

These are the questions that shape a life.

Discussion questions for families

For teens:

1. What do you think you’re specifically good at — not what you think you should say, but what you actually notice in yourself?
2. If the only audience that mattered was Allah — no social media, no peer approval, no grades — what would you spend your time on?
3. What does the khalifah framework change about how you think about your ordinary daily life?

For parents:

1. Do you know what your teenager thinks they’re here for? Have you ever asked them directly?
2. How do you talk about success in your home — which metric dominates your family conversations?
3. Are you modeling the khalifah framework in your own life? Do your teenagers see you measuring your choices against Allah’s approval rather than social approval?

For discussion together:

1. Read Surah al-Baqarah 2:30 together — the announcement of the khalifah to the angels. What does Allah’s response — “I know what you do not know” — mean to you?
2. What are the shepherd years in your family’s history — the ordinary seasons that built what came later?
3. What would it look like for our family to pursue the khalifah metric together — measuring success by faithfulness to purpose rather than visibility or accumulation?

The bottom line

Your teenager’s question — what is the point? — deserves a real answer.

The khalifah framework is that answer. You are here because Allah placed you here — specifically, deliberately, with full knowledge of your gifts and your weaknesses — as a steward in this time and place. Your purpose is expressed through your specific gifts, used in your specific context, with the intention of pleasing the One who sent you.

Not vague, not abstract. That is the most personal, most specific, most actionable account of human purpose.

Help your teenager find it. Help them see that their ordinary life — right now, in the shepherd years — is already the place where khalifah is lived.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 22 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 23 — You Are Not Just Yourself: Your Relationship with the Ummah

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

Doubt, Depression, Grief, Shame, Addiction: Week 3 Recap | Night 21 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post What’s My Purpose? | Night 22 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Ramadan is considered the month of fasting, but many Muslims are unable to fast due to health reasons. Allah has therefore exempted them from fasting as an act of mercy. Those exempted are encouraged to engage in other acts of worship that are manageable for them.

The Qur’an, after all, reveals that:

“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear…” [Surah al-Baqarah; 2:286]

This exemption—and the redirection towards other acts of worship according to one’s health circumstance—already conveys that accessibility is a form of mercy. It lays the foundation for disability justice by ensuring that those with disabilities are included in Ramadan through manageable acts of worship. Fasting is one act of worship, but it is not the only accepted act of worship.

We can further understand how Ramadan guides us towards disability justice, especially in terms of accessibility as mercy, through Laylatul Qadr.

Laylatul Qadr—Multiplying Reward Through Mercy

Laylatul Qadr, the Night of Power, multiplies even the smallest acts of worship as a form of mercy. These acts can include praying, giving charity, reading the Qur’an, showing kindness, and any form of remembrance of Allah .

The Qur’an reveals that:

“The Night of Decree is better than a thousand months” [Surah Al-Qadr; 97:3]

The fact that it multiplies even the smallest acts of worship—to the extent that it is better than a thousand months of worship—demonstrates that mercy and justice ensure everyone can partake in divine reward. No one is excluded from participation. Disability justice, as defined by contemporary scholars, insists that justice means giving people with disabilities the right to participate fully in society. It is the recognition of dignity through ensuring inclusion facilitated by accommodation. Laylatul Qadr models this by preventing believers from being excluded from magnified reward.

Night-Time Accessibility and Divine Accommodation

It is also significant that Laylatul Qadr occurs at night rather than during the day. Muslims fast only during daylight hours, and fasting is not counted among the acts of worship specific to Laylatul Qadr. This timing ensures that those unable to fast are not deprived of reward for fasting during Laylatul Qadr. Instead, they stand on equal footing, and are able to attain maximum reward through their sincere efforts in other acts of worship. Muslims are also not rewarded based on the quantity of worship but on the sincerity of striving. This makes Laylatul Qadr inherently accessible as a form of mercy.

It is through understanding the purpose behind Laylatul Qadr, and why Allah has decreed it to be better than a thousand months, that we can further see the extent to which Laylatul Qadr is a guide towards disability justice.

According to the tafsir on why Laylatul Qadr is better than a thousand nights, Ibn Kathir notes that the Prophet Muhammad was shown the lifespans of earlier nations that lived for centuries. He, therefore, worried that his Ummah—with shorter life spans—would not be able to match their deeds. Allah , in response, gifted Laylatul Qadr for his nation, so that one night’s worth of worship equates to a thousand months.

This divine gift demonstrates accessibility as mercy and accommodation at the highest level. Allah adjusted the scale of reward to ensure equity for a community with shorter lifespans. Accessibility here means accommodating out of mercy so that everyone can participate fully and fairly. This is the essence of disability justice: providing accommodations out of mercy to ensure equitable participation.

Short Supplication as Accessibility

It is not only the purpose behind Laylatul Qadr, its timing, or its forms of worship, but also the supplication encouraged on this night that guides us further in understanding accessibility as mercy and disability justice.

The Prophet taught Aisha a simple—yet important du’a—for Laylatul Qadr that all believers are encouraged to recite:

              “Allahumma innaka ‘afuwwun tuhibbul-‘afwa fa‘fu ‘anni”  

“O Allah, You are Most Forgiving, and You love forgiveness; so forgive me.” [Sunan al-Tirmidhi]

This short accessible supplication shows that minimal effort—in the form of a short supplication—can carry significant weight. Accessibility in worship is, therefore, not about doing less. It is rather ensuring that every believer has a way to connect with Allah and seek His Mercy.

Year-Round Accessibility as a form of Mercy and Disability Justice

Laylatul Qadr may be a single night, but its lessons on accessibility as mercy should be incorporated throughout the year. Disability should never be a reason to discourage someone from attending prayers at the mosque or studying Islam.

l human beings have spiritual needs, including those with disabilities. Muslims with disabilities must be accommodated to learn, grow, participate, and worship just like everyone else. This is not only their spiritual need but also their dignified human right.

Just as Allah adjusted the chance to seek reward due to our shorter lives, communities must adjust structures for believers with disabilities. Accessibility is a year-round obligation. Justice means ensuring that every believer is given the space to participate—whether through prayer, du‘a, reading the Qur’an, or acts of kindness. This space extends beyond homes and mosques to the wider community.

Laylatul Qadr is a night that multiplies reward to compensate for human limitations. Disability justice prioritizes mercy to be embedded within societal structures as a form of mercy. Just as Allah magnifies reward for shorter lifespans, and places the greatest blessing at night when fasting is not required, we must magnify opportunities for Muslims with disabilities. Accessibility is not simply an act of mercy—it is justice and empowerment that is meant to be facilitated throughout Ramadan and beyond.

 

Related:

– Ramadan, Disability, And Emergency Preparedness: How The Month Of Mercy Can Prepare Us Before Communal Calamity

– [Podcast] Muslims and Disability: A Way Forward | Sa’diyyah Nesar

The post Accessibility As Mercy: How Laylatul Qadr Guides Towards Disability Justice appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

In early February, the Fiqh Council of North America released a fatwah permitting the giving of zakah funds to political campaigns in America. This topic spurred significant debate, including a dissenting fatwah from other members of the Fiqh Council of North America. So where does this leave you, the average Muslim American?

This round-up provides a list of the different discussions around this subject, to provide help readers explore the topic in more detail and consider for themselves the consequences of this fatwah.

Original Fatwah:

A Joint Fatwah Issued by the Fiqh Council of North America and the Assembly of Muslim Jurists of America

This fatwah, signed by fourteen scholars from the FCNA and AMJA, provides validation for the concept of giving zakah funds to political campaigns, though this fatwah is portrayed as somewhat conditional. These include donating to institutions rather than individuals, limiting the contribution to 1/8th of one’s total zakah portion, and “reasonable signs to believe that such funds would help the cause for which it is being raised.”

Dissenting Fatwah:

Dissenting Opinion to the Council’s Position on Zakāh: A Jurisprudential Case for Restrained, Non-Clerical, and Holistically Accountable Zakāh Practice in North America

This dissenting fatwah, signed by five scholarly members of the FCNA, rebuts the original fatwah by challenging the premise of the fatwah, an exploration of the reality of Islamophobia and the limited impact (if any) of zakah given to politicians, and a re-centering of the spiritual factors around zakah.

A Roundtable Discussion:

Safina Society | Ramadan & Zakat with Dr Hatem al-Haj & Shaykh Hamza Maqbul 

This roundtable discussion featuring Dr Hatem al-Haj, Shaykh Hamza Maqbul, and Shaykh Shadee Elmasry provides varying perspectives on the matter of donating zakah contributions to political campaigns. This topic includes clarification around the Maliki madh’hab’s legal restrictions around the category of “mu’allafat al-quloob” as recipients of zakah funds.

Theory Vs Practicality:

On “Giving Zakat for Political Campaigns”: Why theoretical permissibility is not the same as practical viability, and why the difference matters for your zakat.

Shaykh Joe Bradford approaches the topic from the perspective of theory vs practical reality. He addresses the serious consequences that the original fatwah will result in, as well as critiquing the foundations upon which the fatwah was based.

A Coalition of Objecting Scholars:

Purify Zakat: A Formal Statement Issued by a Coalition of American Scholars Representing the Four Madhhabs, Rejecting the FCNA/AMJA Fatwa as Methodologically Unsound and Harmful to the Rights of the Poor.

This website includes a statement signed by 47 American scholars from all four madhaahib, expressing strong objection to the original fatwah and its premises. The statement includes an assessment of the academic veracity of the fatwah, its internal contradictions, and the the socio-spiritual consequences of this fatwah. The website also includes separate statements from scholars of the Maliki, Hanbali, Hanafi, and Shafi’i schools of jurisprudence, detailing their specific responses and critiques to the original fatwah. Additionally, a statement is provided from the American Fiqh Academy, the faculty of Dar al-Qasim, and video analyses by Shaykh Suhaib Webb and Shaykh Shadee Elmasry.

A Detailed Breakdown

A Detailed Analysis and Comprehensive Breakdown of the FCNA/AMJA Zakat Statement

Shaykh Abdul-Sattar begins by challenging the assumptions posed in the question that led to the original fatwah, provides a detailed definition of “mu’allafati quloobihim” per each madh’hab, and raises concerns over the failure of tanqih al-manat and tahqiq al-manat with regards to this fatwah.

Other Perspectives:

• Keep Zakat Sacred: A Right Of The Poor, Not A Political Tool
• Op-Ed: Can Zakat Be Used For Political Campaigning? An Argument In Favor
• Zakat Does Not Belong Here 

What contributions to this discussion have we missed? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

Related:

Where Does Your Dollar Go? – How We Can Avoid Another Beydoun Controversy

Faith In Action: Zakat, Sadaqah, And Islam’s Role In Embracing Humanitarianism In A Globalized World

The post Can You Give Zakah to Politicians? A Round-Up appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This series is a collaboration between Dr. Ali and MuslimMatters, bringing Quranic wisdom to the questions Muslim families are navigating.

Six nights. Six struggles. One theme.

Week 3 of “30 Nights with the Quran” went somewhere that Islamic content rarely goes — into the interior life of Muslim teenagers with honesty and without flinching. Doubt. Empty prayer. Depression. Grief and loss. The feeling that Islam is a burden. Guilt and shame. Addiction.

This recap is for the parent who wants to understand what their teenager may have received this week — and what it means for how you show up for them.

The thread that ran through every night

Each night of Week 3 told a different story with a different struggle at its center. But every story had the same movement at its core.

Ibrahim ﷺ brought his need for reassurance directly to Allah. Hanzalah brought his spiritual low to the Prophet ﷺ. Ayyub ﷺ cried out from years of suffering — raw, unfiltered, exactly as he was. Yaqub ﷺ poured his grief out before Allah and no one else. Ka’b stood before the Prophet ﷺ and refused to construct an excuse.

In every case, the turning point was the direction they turned toward. The person stopped carrying their struggle alone and brought it — exactly as it was, without managing or cleaning it up first — to Allah.

That is the movement Week 3 was teaching. From carrying it alone to bringing it to Allah.

If your teenager watched this week, that is the seed that was planted. The question for you as a parent is: are you the kind of person they can practice that movement with?

What each night was really saying to your teenager

Night 15 — Doubt: Your teen learned that doubt is not the opposite of faith, and that Ibrahim ﷺ — Allah’s beloved friend — needed reassurance. They were given permission to bring their questions to Allah rather than bury them.

Night 16 — Empty Prayer: Your teen learned that spiritual lows are human and expected, that the Prophet ﷺ explicitly addressed it, and that the prayer done when you feel nothing may be the most valuable prayer of all. They were encouraged to keep showing up even when it feels hollow.

Night 17 — Depression: Your teen learned that depression is not a lack of faith, that Ayyub ﷺ suffered for years and was called righteous, and that seeking clinical help is following the Sunnah of seeking treatment. They were given permission to acknowledge that they are struggling and to seek help.

Night 18 — Grief: Your teen learned that Yaqub ﷺ wept until he lost his sight and the Quran recorded it without criticism, that pouring grief out before Allah is the Prophetic model, and that the wisdom behind loss is often invisible from inside the pain. They were given permission to grieve honestly and to bring that grief to Allah.

Night 19 — Islam as Burden: Your teen learned that all people are a slave to something, that desire never satisfies, and that Allah promises a genuinely good life — hayatan tayyibah — to the believer who does good. They were given a vision of what obedience produces, not just a list of what it prohibits.

Night 20 — Guilt and Shame: Your teen learned that guilt and shame are different, that Ka’b ibn Malik’s radical honesty before the Prophet ﷺ was what saved him, and that there is no refuge from Allah except in Him. They were encouraged to stop hiding and start returning.

What this week revealed about the teenage interior

One of the things Week 3 made visible — and that parents most need to understand — is how much Muslim teenagers are carrying alone.

The shame around doubt. The embarrassment around empty prayer. The fear that depression means weak faith. The grief that has never been properly expressed or released because Muslim grief is supposed to look composed. The desire that feels shameful to name. The addiction that has never been told to a single person.

These are not edge cases. They are the normal interior life of a significant proportion of Muslim teenagers in the West today.

And most of them are managing it alone — not because they don’t need support, but because they have not been given a safe place to bring it.

Your teen’s willingness to bring these struggles to you depends almost entirely on one thing: whether they have evidence that you can hold difficult truths without withdrawing love, without panicking, without making their struggle about your feelings.

That evidence is built over years — in small moments, in how you responded to smaller failures, in whether you have modeled your own vulnerability and return to Allah in front of them.

Week 3 gave your teenager permission to bring things to Allah. Your job is to be a safe human being they can practice that with.

The common parenting mistakes Week 3 was pushing back against

Across the six nights of this week, several patterns of parental response kept appearing as things that make each struggle worse:

Performative faith expectations. Expecting teenagers to present a composed, certain, spiritually elevated version of themselves — and responding with alarm or disappointment when they don’t. This teaches them that their real interior state must be hidden.

Theological short-circuits. Responding to depression with “just pray more,” to doubt with “Muslims don’t ask that,” to grief with “have sabr,” to shame with “make tawbah and move on.” These responses are not wrong exactly — but they are incomplete, and when delivered without sitting with the struggle first, they communicate that you don’t understand what your teenager is actually dealing with.

Making their struggle about you. “How could you feel this way after everything we’ve done?” “What will people think?” “This is shameful for the family.” These responses center your feelings over their wellbeing and guarantee that they will not come to you again.

Isolation as discipline. Withdrawing warmth, connection, or relationship in response to a teenager’s spiritual struggle. This is the opposite of what every story this week modeled. Every turning point happened when someone was met — by Allah, by the Prophet ﷺ — not when they were pushed further away.

What Week 3 is asking of you as a parent

Be the person they can bring things to.

You don’t need to have perfect answers to their doubt. You don’t need to fix their depression or resolve their grief or cure their addiction. You need to be a safe place — a human being in whose presence they can say something true and not be met with panic, judgment, or withdrawal.

Watch tonight’s video with your teenager if you can. Or share it. Let the Week 3 recap be an opening — a way of saying: this week happened, I watched it, I want to know how it landed for you.

The conversation doesn’t have to be deep at first. It just has to begin.

Resources from Week 3

• Khalil Center (khalilcenter.com) — Muslim mental health support covering depression, grief, and addiction
• Purify Your Gaze (purifyyourgaze.com) — Muslim-specific recovery program for pornography addiction
• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — call or text 988 if any struggle has become a crisis
• Surah Yusuf — the Quran’s most complete portrait of suffering, patience, and restoration. Read it together this week.
• Surah at-Tawbah 9:117-118 — Ka’b’s forgiveness. Read it, and the accompanying tafsir, with your teenager.

Discussion questions for families — Week 3 reflection

For teens:

1. Which night this week landed hardest for you? What did it name that you’d been carrying?
2. Is there something you’ve been managing alone that you’ve been afraid to bring to Allah — or to anyone else?
3. What does it mean to you that every prophet and companion in this week’s stories brought their struggle directly to Allah without cleaning it up first?

For parents:

1. Which night surprised you most — either in its content or in how you think your teenager may have received it?
2. Is there a struggle your teenager might be carrying for which you haven’t created a safe space so they can bring it to you?
3. How do you model bringing your own struggles to Allah in front of your children?

For discussion together:

1. What is the difference between managing a struggle and bringing it to Allah?
2. Which story from Week 3 resonated most with you, and why?
3. What is one thing our family can do differently — practically — to make it safer to name struggles rather than hide them?

Looking ahead: Week 4

Next week — Purpose, Legacy, and the Long Game — moves from the interior to the horizon. From what you’re struggling with to what you’re building. From surviving to contributing.

Week 3 cleared the ground. Week 4 is about what gets built on it.

The bottom line

Your teenager spent this week being told — through Quranic stories and prophetic examples — that they don’t have to carry it alone, and that it is very human to experience the emotions covered. That Allah meets people exactly where they are. That the turning point is when we turn fully to Allah and make Him our refuge.

Your job is to be a human embodiment of that same message.

Be the person they can turn toward.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 21 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Week 4 begins — Purpose, Legacy, and the Long Game

For daily extended reflections with journaling prompts, personal stories, and deeper resources, join Dr. Ali’s email community: https://30nightswithquran.beehiiv.com/

Related:

I’m Addicted and I Can’t Stop | Night 20 with the Qur’an

30 Nights with the Qur’an: A Ramadan Series for Muslim Teens

The post Doubt, Depression, Grief, Shame, Addiction: Week 3 Recap | Night 21 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.