Possible 2028 Democratic presidential candidates criticize Islamophobic Republican.

As a person born with a muscular physical disability, who now uses a wheelchair, I naturally hoped that all of our masajid would be accessible. The access to elevators instead of needing to climb a flight of stairs. This need for accessibility grew even more after witnessing my parents age, because it was the norm for my father to carry me up while my mother carried the wheelchair, but now it was increasingly getting difficult for them.

I unexpectedly got married, but out of shyness, I never wanted my husband to carry me publicly. The only way to climb a flight of stairs, in this scenario, was to have at least three men carry me when seated on the wheelchair, while having another person carry my other belongings. I coincidentally have two younger brothers, so they usually assist my husband when carrying me. This made me think of my privilege, which increasingly caused unsettlement over the lack of accessibility within the Masjid.

I had the privilege of not only getting married as a sister with a disability—which is sadly still rare and a topic of taboo—but also had the privilege of having more mahrams around me to help out. There was sometimes the Masjid staff uncle to help out, too, and we would accept his help whenever either of my brothers could not be present. I, however, still had the privilege of my family—especially my father—being relatively known within the Hong Kong Muslim community, which made it easier to ask for help. I recognized that this might not be the case for everyone and, therefore, did not feel comfortable accepting that our masjid was not fully accessible.

The lack of accessibility in my eyes meant that many navigating accessibility barriers are not welcomed to attend communal events. This lack of accommodation occurred even more during the month of Ramadan, because of the increased number of crowds, resulting in increased safety hazards for even trying to be lifted up the stairs.

I felt a tremendous amount of guilt for not being able to solve the accessibility barriers. This guilt increased even more as an author and disability advocate, who was also aware of the scarcity of land in Hong Kong. I understood the complexity of trying to improve accommodations within old buildings. The awareness that there were many who cared—including some in the position of authority—but they just genuinely did not know how to find solutions.

My thoughts on the lack of accessibility, due to stairs, were suddenly challenged during the November 2025 Tai Po fires in Hong Kong that killed 161 people. Residents within the Tai Po building complex were left carrying those with mobility barriers down the stairs as an act of mercy in its most urgent form. Our community was not prepared for such a dire calamity to hit, but as a larger society, we were more unprepared for effective strategies to help those with mobility barriers down the stairs, let alone in a state of emergency.

What do we do when our staircases are suddenly packed with panicked crowds because the building we are in—and surrounding buildings—are engulfed in flames?

How can we function and think in such a state?

Who are amongst those who have a higher risk of not being able to escape?

Do we choose to just save our own lives, or do we also try to save the lives of those with mobility barriers?

There was a sudden realization that stairs are not necessarily barriers at all times. Stairs can be forms of escape and the route to safety, especially when it is more unsafe to use the elevator. We will always need stairs within buildings despite other forms of accessibility. We would always need to be trained to get down the stairs even before a calamity hits.

Our city was in agony and grieving.

People with disabilities—which included me—felt this extra layer of grief because we understood how much our community needed to be prepared not only in a time of calamity but in everyday life.

Our communities have a long way to go.

I could not help but think about Ramadan after the Tai Po fires, because Ramadan is a time when our Masjid is most crowded, and when Muslims are usually in a state of panic for not wanting to miss iftaar and taraweeh prayers. Before, I thought of avoiding the Masjid during Ramadan, just to not get in the way, but now, I think Ramadan is the best time to be present, in order to train our community for emergency preparedness. I think this even more after reflecting on the purpose behind the month of Ramadan as a month of mercy and communal unity.

Here are ways in which Ramadan, as a month of merc,y can prepare us before communal calamity:

1. Acts of Mercy as a Form of Worship

Ramadan is not just a month for fasting because not everyone can fast. Ramadan is a month of mercy for us to remember Allah and also our most vulnerable. Recognize that some may not have food, or that there are community members going through calamity, and needing support. Embodying mercy is encouraged, especially as an act of worship. It should, therefore, come naturally to offer help if noticing that anyone is struggling, including with accessibility.

“Mercy can be shown by prioritizing accessibility and working together to find solutions.” [PC: Clyde He (unsplash)]

The act of offering help is just a basic act of mercy, though. Mercy can be shown by prioritizing accessibility and working together to find solutions. Stairwells without evacuation chairs, masajid without clear exit routes, and community centers without inclusive drills all place vulnerable members at risk. Ramadan, however, offers a unique opportunity to reframe accessibility as a spiritual obligation towards mercy enacted through preparedness.

“And cooperate in righteousness and piety”[Surah Al-Ma’idah: 5;2]

Why wait for an emergency to cooperate together as a community? Ramadan is the best time to learn what cooperation is, what it looks like in action, and acts of righteousness that increase one in piety.

We have lost the essence of Ramadan if we see a mother struggling to carry a stroller but choose to ignore her by rushing for taraweeh. It is a missed opportunity for righteousness and acting consciously. Piety requires us to act consciously, so the conscious effort to act with mercy inadvertently ends up as a form of worship, too.

2. Discipline from Ramadan to Communal Responsibility 

Praying the five daily prayers—as well as taraweeh—and fasting from dawn to dusk trains individuals in patience, discipline, and time awareness. These are qualities that we need in emergency preparedness. Emergency preparedness trains the community in social responsibility and cooperation, but we should not wait for a calamity to occur to develop these skills. Ramadan is there, rather, to help us develop these skills, as it is designed for us to take more social responsibility through donations and awareness of poverty. It is designed for us to cooperate in sighting the moon to decide when Ramadan begins as well as ends. Ramadan additionally facilitates us to come together to arrange and distribute food. Manage crowds gathered in one place so that everyone can pray on time and then leave with safety, too.

The discipline that we are trained to achieve during Ramadan needs to be translated more into communal responsibility in everyday life in order to prepare for emergencies. This can only occur if we know how Ramadan is training us. A lot of us are being trained without being aware of being trained. This is the missing link. Training needs to be highlighted as a form of discipline, so we can realize that it is not only helping us prepare for Ramadan, but also for emergency preparedness as a community.

A way to discipline our community further during Ramadan is to see how crowds within our Masajid can be mobilized for awareness campaigns and evacuation drills. Just as fasting heightens our awareness of hunger, preparedness heightens our awareness of vulnerability. Ramadan is not only about abstaining from food and drink—it is about feeding mercy into action by ensuring no one is left behind.

3. Ramadan Emphasizes that We are All Vulnerable and How Every Life Matters

The food we have is because of Allah . Our ability to eat is because of Allah . It is not for us to decide whose life is more valuable. Ramadan rather makes it clear that all lives are valuable and that we are all equally vulnerable before Him.

People with disabilities, and our elderly, were not the only ones vulnerable within the Tai Po fires. Every human being—and pet—present was vulnerable. The degree of vulnerability one faces may differ, but when calamity hits, this is not usually the focus. The focus usually is saving lives and getting out of a difficult situation.

The mindset that we have towards others during a calamity is a mindset necessary to keep throughout the year. Saving lives or making the lives of those around us better needs to be our general priority, even before calamity hits. Our priority must always be getting anyone out of difficulty—out of empathy—due to considering the life of someone generally valuable.

                 “Whoever saves one life, it is as if he has saved all of humanity” [Surah Al-Ma’idah; 5:32]

This mindset of valuing each life—regardless of background—can be more easily cultivated during Ramadan. This cultivation will prepare us not to think twice about whether or not to save someone during an emergency.

The Masjid that I go to may have stairs, but it also has an emergency door exit, which makes it clear that advocating for emergency preparedness through training the community needs to be a focus. Recently, a group of us has started a branch under our Masjid’s committee, called Rise with Mercy. It is hoped to eventually address the topic of accessibility—including during the month of Ramadan—to train our community towards preparedness in emergencies.

If we truly consider Ramadan a month of mercy, all of us need to commit towards making our Masajid places of safety and preparedness, so that as a community we are unified and trained before any calamity.

 

Related:

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

– Reflections On Observing Ramadan With A Disability

The post Ramadan, Disability, And Emergency Preparedness: How The Month Of Mercy Can Prepare Us Before Communal Calamity appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Ranked among the many issues for which the winter of 2025-26 might be remembered in the United States – ranging from explosive exposes of abusive tycoons linked to a country whose genocide of Palestine Washington has long supported, to a regime-change raid in Venezuela, to sabre-rattling over Greenland – is the conduct and controversy of its immigration enforcement agency, commonly known as ICE, particularly in Minnesota. And central to the Minnesota operation has been a long-running smear campaign against Somalis by the American right wing.

Somalis as an Easy Target

Although their narratives have been bubbling for several years among the far-right, misinformation and hate-mongering toward Somalis in the United States came to international attention in December 2025 when the immigration enforcement militia descended on Minnesota and promptly began to arrest thousands of people, supposedly on suspicion of illegal immigration. Somalis have in particular been targeted by Donald Trump’s regime, whose officials have recklessly flung around accusations of scams against Somalis at large.

The American far-right has a history of targeting one minority after another – Mexicans, infamously, were an early target of choice during Trump’s first electoral campaign a decade ago – and the needle has swung to Somalis. But their status as a visible and distinctive minority is not the only reason that Somali-Americans have been targeted with special venom. Somalis simultaneously tick several boxes for the far-right and the various networks, influencers, and rabble-rousers who incite them. For one thing, Somalis are overwhelmingly Muslims; for another, they are quite distinctly black Africans. Thirdly, the Minnesotan politician Ilhan Omar, from the liberal opposition, has been a favourite target of the right-wing since she was elected in 2019. Fourthly, Minnesota’s governor, Timothy Walz, was the opposition’s vice-presidential nominee in the last election, and the government has made a point of attacking him: to claim that Minnesota is drowning in Somali fraud implicates Walz as well.

“Minnesotan politician Ilhan Omar, from the liberal opposition, has been a favourite target of the right-wing since she was elected in 2019.”

The Somalia War and the United States

Beyond internecine American politics, however, there are also broader geopolitical and institutional issues. Somalia carries popular connotations of state failure and militia anarchy owing to the civil war of the 1990s. More recently, the United States has been heavily involved in Somalia’s war, mainly but not exclusively through regular airstrikes that peaked under Trump’s first tenure. The American role in this war is rarely mentioned or debated at home, and this makes it easy for the far-right to target Somali diasporas as opportunistic “aliens”.

Somalia was famously labelled the world’s first “failed state” in the 1990s, after a longstanding military dictatorship armed to the teeth by Washington was ousted. Supposedly in order to relieve a famine – which, in fact, had largely passed by the time they deployed – American soldiers were sent at the helm of a United Nations mission to Somalia, where they proved entirely incapable of appreciating, let alone navigating, the war’s fractious politics, which they only exacerbated with their imperious and frequently gung-ho attitude.

The United Nations secretary-general Boutros Boutros-Ghali – a pro-American former foreign minister of Egypt – was unsatisfied with famine relief and intended to make the mission an example of United Nations jurisdiction backed up by American power. In fact, the leaders of the original famine relief mission, Algerian diplomat Mohamed Sahnoun and Pakistani commander Imtiaz Shaheen, resigned in disgust, Shaheen describing the attitude toward Somalia as that of an opportunistic scientist trying to test a vaccine on an animal. Boutros-Ghali’s dismissive arrogance toward the region, especially toward Somalia’s most powerful militia commander, Farah Aidid, was shared by the American admiral in charge of the mission, Jonathan Howe.

Pithily nicknamed “Animal Howe” rather than “Admiral Howe” by Somali detractors, Howe’s incompetence only exacerbated Somali polarization, while both American and other United Nations soldiers were frequently guilty of abuses and gratuitous brutality, with the Habirgidir clan in Mogadishu a particular target. Though by the conservative guess of its own military, American bombardment killed some three thousand Somalis over the course of the year, the abiding memory of the campaign was the killing of eighteen American soldiers, several of whose corpses were dragged through the streets, by Somali militants in the October 1993 Battle of Mogadishu. With no attention to the wider context or the much greater human cost borne by the Somalis, Somalia was myopically recalled in the United States as a case of barbaric ingratitude for a relief mission.

However, the 1993 campaign was only the first chapter in a long American military involvement in Somalia. During the 2000s, the United States funded a number of predatory militias to hunt down Islamists as part of its “war on terror”, and in 2006, this backfired when the Islamists captured Mogadishu. Thereafter, the United States not only ousted the Islamists with a military invasion, largely conducted through airstrikes and commandos, but did so in league with Somalia’s “Auld Enemy” Ethiopia – an aspiring regional hegemon whose rivalry with Somalia is akin to that between India and Pakistan, between China and Taiwan, or between the two Koreas.

During the late 2000s, many Somalis from the diaspora fought in the subsequent insurgency against the invasion. The most prominent insurgent faction, Shabaab, actively urged foreign and diaspora Muslims to join its campaign: in turn, American “counterterrorism” agencies increasingly focused on Somali-Americans during this period. The United States is therefore closely intertwined with the Somali war: American airpower and diplomacy have been key ingredients in a twenty-year occupation, while Shabaab appeals have prompted increased institutional scrutiny on Somali-Americans long before Trump came to power.

None of this history is countenanced, let alone appreciated, by America’s far-right: instead, Somalis, like other minorities, are treated in racist logic as “Third Worlders” genetically predisposed to make a mess of whatever country they visit. This has been amplified by the attempts of pro-Israel influencers, who have whipped up smear campaigns against many Muslim populations in North America and the United States: in the United States, Somalis have become a favoured target for far-right networks both linked to Israel and not, including those to which Trump is keenest to pander.

Theatrics and Diversions in Minnesota’s Winter of Discontent

Trump, and the American right wing at large, have long set deportations of alleged “illegals” as an unabashed aim. Mass deportations of illegal immigrants are hardly a novelty in American politics; Trump’s gleefully menacing “Border Czar” Tom Homan cut his teeth under the Democratic regime of Barack Obama. What is newer is the blatant politicization, undisguised ethnic profiling, and unrestrained glee, often crossing the line into sadism, that is involved in crackdowns. Over seventy thousand people across the United States have been arrested, frequently in galling conditions, on evidence that is usually thin where it exists at all: over four thousand of these have fallen prey to the grandly announced Minnesota crackdown, where masked “ICE” agents were joined by border patrollers with a similarly cavalier attitude toward such inconveniences as trigger discipline or proof of guilt.

This attitude was on show when masked agents shot dead, on camera, two civilians without provocation and were blamed by officials as senior as Trump’s blustery deputy James Vance for their own murders. It was also on display when Somali-American driver Ahmed bin-Hassan was accosted in his car at work by over a dozen agents who demanded his documentation. With a cool and cheeky, almost mocking humour, remarkable given that a civilian had already recently been killed by federal agents, bin-Hassan challenged the agents.

“‘Can I see your identity?’” he asked, echoing an agent’s question. “Why the hell would I show random people my ID? You want to steal my identity? Where’s your ID? Let me check if you’re a US citizen, how about that? Hey, you guys better move on, man.” Noticing their Border Patrol insignia, he added, “Dude, listen. I’m here working, you’re working too, right? So go, it says ‘U.S. Border Patrol’, this is not the border. Go to the Canada border or the Mexico border. I’m working, dude.”

Bewildered by this uncommon commonsense defiance, the agents pointed out his Somali accent, as if different accents in a multiethnic country were an indication of guilt. “Oh, so you going by accents now? Is that what it is? Is that an accent? Have you heard the Israeli accent? Have you heard the European accent? It’s garbage.”

As the faltering agents continued to hover, bin-Hassan held firm. “I’m not gonna show you, I don’t have to show you anything. If a police officer comes here, I’ll comply with it, but you, as Border Patrol, I don’t even know if you’re a real police officer. Where’s your ID? Where’s your ID?” Referring to the nameless labels that the officers wore, he added, “And I’m not gonna go by C20. That’s a, that’s a periodic chemical, that’s a periodic element. C20? What are you, Cobalt 20?”

Border police commander Greg Bovino

Matters reached such a stage that the bewildered agents were forced to call in a man without a mask, their commander Gregory Bovino – who, with his longcoat and crewcut, has swaggered at the centre of the crackdown controversy- was called in, but the Somali-American driver held his ground.

Bovino’s attempts at intimidation have often backfired, but his officers have presented a real threat: he has been known to protect and encourage even officers with blood on their hands. His theatrics eventually earned such ire that he was sidelined in favour of Homan himself.

But none of this suggests respite for Minnesota or for Somali-Americans. Under pressure for links with notorious pedophile and child-trafficker Jeffrey Epstein, a key node in pro-Israel and anti-Muslim networks, and his regime’s refusal to release Epstein’s files without redaction, Trump has continued to lash out at both Somalia and Somali-Americans, and reached for a favourite target in Omar. The Somali government, with the exception of outspoken defence minister Ahmed Fiqi, has been subdued; Omar, though, finally snapped back, “The leader of the Pedophile Protection Party is trying to deflect attention from his name being all over the Epstein files.”

The deeper Trump sinks in the mire, the more he can be expected to attack Somalis as red meat for his supporters. Even more, however, there is no indication that Somali Americans will back down.

 

Related:

– Op-Ed: Bitterness Prolonged – A Short History Of The Somaliland Dispute

– Op-Ed: Understanding The Somaliland Recognition Decision – A Counterargument To The Prevailing Muslim Consensus

 

The post Somalis In Firing Line Of American Crackdown appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Bowing to pressure from an Israel lobby group reflects moral cowardice.

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

The Question Every Parent is Asking

Insha Allah, you’ve now watched (or hopefully your teen has now watched) seven nights of content about identity and belonging.

But here’s what you really want to know: Is anything actually changing?

Not “Did they watch the videos?” but “Are they different?”

Let’s be honest about what growth looks like—and what it doesn’t.

What Growth Actually Looks Like (It’s Smaller Than You Think)

Signs your teen is processing this material:

1. They’re asking uncomfortable questions

• “Do you think I should use my full name at school?”
• “Why did you name me [their name]?
• “Have you ever felt like an imposter?”

Growth ≠ having all the answers. Growth = being willing to ask hard questions.

2. They mention the series unprompted

• To a friend
• In passing at dinner
• When something reminds them of an episode

If they’re thinking about it outside of watch time, it’s sinking in.

3. Small behavioral changes

• They correct someone on their name pronunciation
• They pray more openly (even just one more prayer)
• They push back on a friend’s pressure (even once)
• They ask to talk about a parent conflict differently

Don’t look for dramatic transformation. Look for micro-shifts.

4. They’re journaling or reflecting Even if you don’t see it, they might be processing privately. Respect that.
5. They’re still watching Consistency = engagement. If they’re showing up each night, something is resonating.

What’s NOT a Sign of Growth (Stop Expecting These)

1. Perfect adherence to every teaching They’re not going to implement everything from all seven nights. That’s not realistic.
2. Sudden elimination of all struggles Identity crises don’t resolve in one week. Comparison doesn’t disappear overnight.
3. Constant enthusiasm about the series Teens don’t gush about personal growth. They process quietly.
4. No more parent conflicts Week 1 gave them a framework for respectful disagreement. It didn’t eliminate disagreement.
5. Immediate confidence Imposter syndrome doesn’t vanish because they watched one video. But they now have language for what they’re feeling.

Week 1 Recap: What We Covered

Night 1: Who Am I Really? (Surat Al-‘Asr)

• Identity isn’t found in a moment—it’s built through consistent choices
• Four components: Belief based on knowledge, righteous action, encouraging truth, patience

Night 2: Imposter Syndrome (Prophet Musa ﷺ)

• Even prophets felt unqualified
• Allah chose Musa WITH his weakness, not despite it
• Your inadequacy might be where Allah’s blessing shows up

Night 3: When Your Parents Don’t Understand (Surat Luqman)

• Honor parents AND maintain boundaries
• Disobedience is the last resort after exhausting all respectful options
• The 5-step process before considering disagreement

Night 4: Being Muslim in Non-Muslim Spaces (Prophet Yusuf ﷺ)

• Yusuf stayed true to himself even when completely alone
• The cost of compromise is always higher than the cost of integrity
• Better alone with Allah than surrounded by people pulling you to the Fire

Night 5: The Comparison Trap (Surat al-Hujuraat)

• You’re measuring the wrong things (Allah measures by taqwa)
• You don’t actually know who’s “better”—only Allah does
• Stop comparing, start growing

Night 6: Your Name, Your Story

• Your name is a du’a your parents made over you
• On the Day of Judgment, Allah will call you by your name
• Reclaiming your name = reclaiming your story

One thread through all six: Knowing who you are before Allah.

The Integration Question

Here’s what parents often miss:

These seven nights weren’t random topics. They were building blocks.

You can’t have healthy relationships (Week 2) without knowing who you are (Week 1).

You can’t set boundaries with friends if you’re still performing for everyone.

You can’t navigate attraction if you’re measuring yourself by comparison.

You can’t honor your name if you don’t understand your purpose.

Identity comes first. Everything else is built on that foundation.

So, before you move into Week 2 with your teen, ask:

“Which night from this week hit you hardest? Why?”

Don’t lecture. Just listen. Their answer will tell you where the work is happening.

What to Do If Nothing Seems to Be Changing

First: Check your expectations.

Are you looking for dramatic transformation? That’s not how this works.

Are you expecting them to talk about it constantly? Teens process internally.

Are you waiting for perfection? If so, you’ll be disappointed.

Second: Assess the environment.

Are you watching together? Or just telling them to watch alone?

Are you creating space for conversation? Or interrogating them after each episode?

Are you modeling vulnerability? Or just expecting them to be vulnerable?

If you’re not watching with them, start.

If you’re lecturing instead of discussing, stop.

If you’re treating this like homework instead of shared exploration, shift.

Third: Give it time.

Seven nights is not enough to undo years of identity confusion, comparison, and performance anxiety.

But it IS enough to plant seeds.

Trust the process. Keep showing up. Let Ramadan do its work.

Week 2 Preview: Relationships & Boundaries

Tomorrow, insha Allah, Week 2 begins. And it gets harder.

Because now we’re moving from “Who am I?” to “How do I maintain myself in relationships?”

Here’s what’s coming, with Allah’s Mercy:

Night 8: Friendship with Non-Muslims (Is it allowed? What are the boundaries?)

Night 9: When Friends Pull You Away (The Companions of the Cave + how to know when to walk away)

Night 10: Crushes, Attraction & Halal Feelings (The topic nobody talks about but everyone thinks about)

Night 11: Toxic Relationships & When to Walk Away (Recognizing emotional manipulation and spiritual abuse)

Night 12: Loneliness & Finding Your People (When you feel completely alone)

Night 13: Forgiveness When It’s Really, Really Hard (What to do when “just forgive them” feels impossible)

Night 14: Week 2 Recap

These topics are heavier. More personal. More emotional.

Your teen might:

• Shut down
• Get defensive
• Avoid watching
• Watch alone instead of with you

That’s okay. Keep the invitation open. Don’t force it.

Discussion Questions for Families

For Teens:

1. Which night from Week 1 challenged you most? Why?
2. What’s one small thing you did differently this week because of what you learned?
3. As we move into Week 2 (relationships), what topic are you most nervous about?

For Parents:

1. What did you learn about your teen’s struggles that you didn’t know before?
2. How are you creating space for them to process without pressure?
3. Are you watching WITH them, or just telling them to watch?

For Discussion Together:

1. If we could only remember one lesson from Week 1, what should it be?
2. How can we support each other through the harder topics coming in Week 2?
3. What would it look like to have honest conversations about relationships and boundaries?

The Challenge

Before moving into Week 2, do this:

Teens: Pick ONE night from Week 1 that hit you hardest. Watch it again. Let it sink deeper. Journal or seriously reflect on the reflection question.

Parents: Pick ONE night from Week 1 that surprised you most. Watch it. Ask yourself: “What would my teen want me to understand from this?”

Week 1 was about identity. Week 2 is about protecting that identity in relationships.

You can’t do the second without the first.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 7 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 8 – Friendship with Non-Muslims (Navigating relationships across faith lines with wisdom and boundaries)

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

Related:

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

Why Your Teen Wants to Change Their Muslim Name | Night 6 with the Qur’an

The post Week 1 in Review: Is Your Teen Actually Changing? | Night 7 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Fasting while working long hours is physically demanding. But gratitude is less abstract when hunger has been felt

• Making sense of it is a column about spirituality and how it can be used to navigate everyday life

Iftar isn’t just eating, it’s synchronisation. Everyone waits. Everyone eats together. It is a rare moment of collective rhythm.

In a world where eating has become solitary and rushed, Ramadan restores something quietly radical: shared time. Iftar is not simply the moment hunger ends but the moment waiting becomes collective. People pause together, watch the same light fade over the horizon, hear the same call to prayer and reach for food at the same time. There is no personalised schedule, no eating on the run. This age-old ritual insists that nourishment is not only physical but spiritual and social, that being fed is being seen.

Continue reading...

Lobbyists ran a hate campaign against a young man who left Gaza for Greece.

When Ramadan exposes the addiction that rules her life, a struggling Muslim convert is caught between her habit and her faith.

Note: This is part one of a two part story.

* * *

Forty a Day

Ramadan was three days away. Thinking of this, Mar winced and took a drag from her cigarette. The wind rattled the window pane. It was always windy in San Francisco. She lay in bed, propped on her elbow, a glass of lemon water beside her. Two months ago, before she converted to Islam, it would have been a double shot of vodka to help her sleep.

Quitting alcohol wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t a heavy habit. That wasn’t what made her gut knot up.

She exhaled the smoke through her nostrils, watching it fall, then rise, passing in front of the bedside lamp like a line of crows passing in front of the sun.

Her habit was up to forty cigarettes a day, often lighting one from the last. She hadn’t gone to the movies in years because she couldn’t get through two hours without smoking, let alone an entire day.

With a name like Marijuana I was doomed from the start, she thought as she took another drag. Her mother’s work, naming her that. But she went by Mar. No one had ever called her Marijuana except her mother, the DMV, and new teachers on the first day of school – making the class break out in a riot of laughter.

The cigarette had burned down to the filter. She took today’s number 39 out of the pack. For a long time she’d held herself to thirty, swearing up and down that she’d never cross that burning red line. But what use was it? She had no control.

She must have fallen asleep and dropped the cigarette, because she woke when it burned her forearm. “Crap!” she cried out, snatching it up and smacking the sheet to put out a burning bit of tobacco.

She sat up, swinging her bony legs down, and setting her feet with their yellow toenails onto the floor. “Astaghfirullah,” she said. “Sorry for the curse word, Allah.”

Thirty Years of Sucking Smoke

Feeling chilly, she rubbed her arms, thinking that it had been a long time since she’d been touched by another human being. Not since her brief, failed marriage in her thirties.

She’d started smoking when she was fourteen years old, to impress a boy. But instead of becoming her boyfriend, he became physically aggressive with her, then dumped her when she fought his advances. Instead of quitting the cigarettes, her young, stupid self doubled down, finding in the delicate little cylinders a moment of escape and independence – a middle finger to the world.

Now she was forty four. Thirty years of sucking smoke into her lungs.

A vicious coughing bout tore through her, and she nearly dropped number 39 again. When the coughing passed, she dropped the glowing butt into the water glass.

She went to the bathroom, brushed her tar-stained teeth and performed wudu at the sink. Her reflection in the mirror showed a woman on the brink of a chasm, hanging on to a rope. This Islam thing was her last chance. It had to work, and it would, because she truly believed in it. She prayed salat al-Ishaa holding a cheat sheet in her hand, reading the words for each posture of the prayer. She was working on memorizing them, but it was hard.

In bed, she cast one last, longing glance at the pack. Cigarette 40 sat untouched, calling sweetly to her like a mischievous jinn, promising flavor and friendship, but in reality providing nothing more than ash.

She turned off the lamp.

She pulled the blanket – pockmarked with cigarette burns – tightly around herself and fell asleep listening to the rattling of the window pane and thinking of her idiotic 14 year old self, trying to impress a boy. It had all been downhill from there. Her studies suffered. She lost friendships and relationships. She barely made it through college, scraping by with nicotine-fueled late night study sessions as she worked as an at-home sex line operator.

But now she had Islam. Now she had a way forward. If it wasn’t too late.

A Good Word

The next day on the way to work, as she came up out of the Powell Street station a man of twenty five or so asked her for a dollar for food. He was well dressed and didn’t look hungry, though one could never tell for sure, she supposed.

“I’ll buy you a slice of pizza if you like.” Mar gestured. “Pizza by the slice, right there. It’s pretty good.”

“Go shoot yourself, you ugly hag,” the man snarled.

Mar’s eyes narrowed. She wanted to say something vicious and demeaning. But what she said was, “Peace be upon you,” and walked away. Two months ago she would have cursed him out with every filthy phrase known to man, woman or beast. She’d always had a sharp tongue, and as life had soured her heart and spirit, her tongue had become a razor blade.

But Islam had taught her better, and she was trying to change. At one of the Jumuahs she’d attended shortly after her conversion, the khutbah had been all about language. The Prophet, sal-Allahu alayhi wa sallam, said that every joint of the body had to do sadaqah every day, and a good word was sadaqah. He also said, and she remembered this verbatim, “The believer does not insult others, he does not curse others, he is not vulgar, and he is not shameless.”

People came to Islam for different reasons, she knew, but in her case it was all about the Prophet ﷺ. She’d seen a random video about him on the internet, and then had purchased and read a detailed biography of the man. The level of detail astounded her.

And what a man! Unmistakably human, but with the courage of a lion. She’d fallen in love with him, not romantically but from the soul. And that, in turn, had led her to the Quran, which she had realized was the source of strength that the Prophet ﷺ drew from, and the guide that kept him on the path.

So if he told her not to curse, then she would not curse.

Ugly Hag

Striding up Powell Street, dodging tourists, litter and taxis, the beggar’s words burned their way through her mind like creeping lava. “Ugly hag.” She could not object, for he was right, she was uglier than the old rubber mat inside her apartment door. She was so thin that her cheeks looked scooped out, and her hip bones protruded through her pants. Her skin was yellow, and her teeth were stained brown. Her hair was as thin as cut straw, and her left side was burned from when she’d fallen asleep smoking and the sheets caught fire.

Remembering the words of the Prophet ﷺ, she wondered if giving herself a good word counted as sadaqah. “Hang in there, Mar,” she told herself. “You’re Muslim, and in Islam no one is better than anyone else, except by taqwa. Stay the course.” But the words rang hollow in her rickety, worn out heart.

Arriving at her building, she found to her dismay that the sole elevator was under repair. The office was on the second floor. Surely she could make it? But by the tenth step she was gasping like a goldfish taken out of its tank, and gripping the railing with white knuckles. She slowed it down. Take a step, wait a full minute, take a step.

When she was a kid, their little apartment was on the fourth floor above her mother’s bakery. When Mar was done at the bakery, she ran up the four flights to the apartment, taking the steps two at a time. She’d been healthy and happy back then. How had she let this happen? No one ever chose self-destruction, she supposed. Instead they made a series of choices, each one like a little paper cut. Death by a thousand cuts.

Take a step, wait a minute.

You Stink

She was a manager at a call center, with thirty people working under her. They all despised her, as she had cursed them all out more than once. She stopped doing that after she became Muslim, but their opinions of her were formed in concrete, she was sure. Walking in, she didn’t bother greeting anyone. Stepping into her office, she heard someone say, “walking chimney,” followed by low laughter.

A thought hit her, and she froze. With the elevator down, how would she take her smoke breaks? There was no way she could walk up and down the stairs every time.

Yet she did. Up and down the stairs at ten. When she did it again at eleven, she fell to her knees on the stairs, broke into a fit of hacking coughs that left her dizzy, and nearly tumbled down the stairs.

Luckily by noon the elevator was repaired.

At the end of the day, as she stepped into the elevator to go home, three of her subordinates were behind her. Seeing her in the elevator, they hesitated.

“We’ll catch the next one,” one of the women said.

Mar wanted to say, “How about if I fire you all instead?” But what she said was, “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for being a rotten boss.”

“It’s not that, ma’am.” This was Sarah Kim, a young Korean-American woman who was one of her best workers. “It’s just that…” Sarah looked at the ground. “You smell bad. You stink of cigarette smoke. And it’s catching. Like, if I’m around you, I can smell it on my own clothes later. I’m so sorry.” Sarah turned away, embarrassed by her own words. Another young woman, Katie, stood open mouthed, waiting to see what fiery insults Mar would unleash.

“I understand,” Mar said.

The elevator closed.

Get Through The Day

The next two days passed in a cloud of smoke and with a heart full of dread. Then Ramadan arrived. It was a Wednesday, and Mar had to work, like any other day.

Just get through the day, she told herself. Twelve hours. Half a clock face. The instant the sun goes down you can light up your own little fire.

The converts meeting took place every Wednesday night at the Islamic center. She’d been to four of these meetings already, and to her dismay she had found herself isolated, shut out by the other sisters. She didn’t think it was racial. The majority of them were Latinas and African-Americans, but there were a few white women there too, and occasionally an Arab or Pakistani. But they did not sit with her, did not invite her to sit with them, and didn’t talk to her beyond a salam or a nod of the head.

The exception was Juana, a Latina convert who’d been Muslim for many years, and was Imam Ayman’s wife. She didn’t always attend, but when she did she was a whirlwind, always prepping and serving food, passing out materials for workshops, and cleaning up afterward.  Juana was the only one who spoke kindly to Mar, greeting her with the salam and asking about her experience with Islam so far.

Tonight there would be a special Ramadan iftar. The masjid would provide the main meal, but the attendees were expected to bring side dishes. Mar had decided to bake brownies. Nice and simple, and it was something she did well, or at least she used to. She hadn’t baked in a long time, it was true, but she’d known how to bake nearly anything by the time she was twelve years old. By the time she was fourteen she could have practically run her mother’s bakery by herself, if her mother hadn’t banned her from the shop. “You stink of smoke,” her mother had said. “You’re contaminating the food.” As if she was a disease, not a daughter.

By ten in the morning her hands began to tremble.

It started in the fingertips, a faint electrical buzz, as if she’d touched a live wire and never quite pulled away. She tried to type through it. The cursor jittered across the screen. She backspaced entire sentences and retyped them, only to delete them again.

Her mouth would not stay wet. She swallowed her saliva, but there hardly seemed to be any to swallow. Her tongue felt too large for her teeth, as if it had been swapped out for a horse’s tongue.

She glanced at the clock obsessively. Six hours until sunset. Five hours fifty minutes. Five hours forty five minutes.

Inventing Reasons

At noon she stood up too fast and the room tilted. Her office swayed as if an earthquake had hit. Out on the floor, someone laughed. The sound drilled into her skull. The fluorescent lights hummed – a sound she had never noticed before and now could not escape.

Her body began inventing reasons to smoke:

Just one in the stairwell. No one would know. Allah is Most Merciful. It’s not food, after all. Just smoke. How is it any different from walking down the street and breathing in smog? It shouldn’t count. I’d still be fasting.

Twice she reached for the pack in her purse, then pulled her hand back. Allah was watching. Islam was her deen. She had to stay the course, she must. There was nothing else left for her. Nothing of purpose in this life.

She sat down hard in her chair and gripped the armrests until her knuckles blanched. “La ilaha il-Allah,” she whispered, not as repentance but as a buoy in a rough sea. “La ilaha il-Allah.”

A wave of heat rolled through her. Sweat broke out across her back, under her arms, along her hairline. Her heart kicked like it was trying to climb out of her chest. Her leg began to bounce uncontrollably. She pressed it down with both hands.

By noon the headache came. It was not pain but pressure, a metal band cinching her skull. She closed her eyes and imagined the flare of a lighter. Both her thumbs were heavily calloused from flicking the metal wheel of the lighter. Opening her eyes, she realized she was actually flicking her thumb.

She grabbed her purse and stood up. Exiting her office, she took a step toward the elevator, then stopped. If she went downstairs, she would smoke.

She returned to the office and shut the door. The tremor had spread to her whole body. She sank onto the floor with her back against the desk, breathing like she’d just run a mile.

If she was hungry, she wasn’t aware of it. Thirsty, yes. Her throat was a desert. But most of all it was the cigarettes. She wanted the nicotine, she craved it, she needed it. The hunger pulsed with every heartbeat.

“I’m fasting,” she told the empty room. “I’m Muslim and I’m fasting. Allah, help me out. I beg you, help me.”

Baking Brownies

Home, but not Maghreb time yet. She was exhausted. Her legs felt like matchsticks.

In her apartment, she went straight to the kitchen and opened the brownie mix she’d bought on the way home, feeling ashamed to be baking from a mix. But there was no way she could bake from scratch. Her hands shook so badly she tore the box opening it.

Her cigarettes lay on the counter beside the sink, exactly where she’d left them in the morning. The lighter on top. The familiar geometry. They expanded until they filled her field of vision. The cigarette box, as big as a building, the beautiful contrast of red and white. The lighter, that magical fire maker. They were her friends. Her beloved pets. Her lovers in a world where no one else loved her. In an instant she could light up and inhale, and all this physical pain – the headache, shakes, nausea – would vanish.

“Aoothoo billah,” she said out loud. “Help me Allah, help me.” She thought of the Prophet, peace be upon him, in the early years of his mission in Mecca. Rejected and abused by his people, mocked by those who had formerly loved him. Yet he had persisted in his mission, even in the face of possible death.

She would stick to her plan.

Turning on the oven, her mother’s kitchen rose in her mind: flour dust in sunlight, the long wooden spoon, her half-hippy mother’s CD player belting out Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix. You measure from the wrist, honeypie, her mother would say. Not from the cup.

Her hand reached for a bowl and knocked it over. It rolled across the floor and struck the wall.

Her eyes returned to the cigarettes and lighter. She snatched them up, walked to the bedroom. Ignoring the unmade bed, the sheet with holes burned in it, and the glass of water with two cigarette butts floating in it like dead fish, she shoved the cigs and lighter into the pocket of an old winter coat hanging in the closet.

The batter was lumpy. She mixed harder, arm aching, until it smoothed.

When she slid the pan into the oven she waited for that old, familiar scent of baking brownies: chocolate, rich and warm. The scent never came, and she frowned until she remembered that she had very little sense of smell anymore. The cigs had killed it off long ago, along with her sense of taste. Part of why she was so thin. Food tasted like nothing anymore. Why eat if everything tasted like newspaper?

She went to the little bookshelf and slid out her copy of the Quran. Sliding down to the ground with her back against the wall, she flipped it open to the well-worn page of Surah 94, Al-Inshirah:

Have We not uplifted your heart for you,
relieved you of the burden
which weighed so heavily on your back,
and elevated your renown for you?
So, surely with hardship comes ease.
Surely with hardship comes ease.
So once you have fulfilled (your duty), strive (in devotion),
turning to your Lord with hope.

It was true, Allah had relieved her of the burden of a life without meaning. He’d given her light and hope. “But I’m still waiting for the ease, Allah,” she said out loud. “I know it’s coming, but I’m just saying.”

The Uber

The driver was white, middle-aged and portly, with thin blond hair. He glanced at Mar in the rearview mirror as she got in the back seat, pan of brownies in her lap. Within a block he rolled his window down. By the second block he rolled the other one down. At the third he pulled to the curb.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at her. “You can’t ride in my car smelling like that.”

She glared at him. “Like what?”

“Cigarettes. The smell gets into the fabric of the seats. Other passengers complain, I get bad ratings… I don’t need that.”

“I’ll tip you extra.”

“It’s not about the tip.”

Her chest tightened. “I’m going to the mosque. I’m fasting. Please.”

He met her eyes then, briefly, and she saw the decision had already been made. “You need to get out.”

Mar wanted to say, “And you need to run out of gas on a dark road. With a serial killer loose.” But what she said was, “Peace be upon you,” and got out of the car.

The evening was cooling. The sky was an aging gray battleship shot through with red rust. In the West, fog from the ocean poured over the hills and down into the Civic Center district where she stood. The wind cut right through Mar’s coat. The masjid was two miles away. She took out her phone and checked the bus schedule: next bus in forty minutes. But iftar was in twenty minutes. She felt hollowed out, as if someone had drilled holes in the bottoms of her feet, and all her blood had run out, disappearing into a storm drain in a crimson stream. Reaching into her purse, her hand gripped the pack of cigarettes, squeezing it too tightly.

She thought of the Prophet ﷺ in his Year of Sorrow, after the death of his beloved wife Khadijah and his protector Abu Talib. He had walked all the way to the city of Taif to preach to them. They rejected him and stoned him, and he walked out bleeding from head to toe.

She was not the Prophet ﷺ, but he was her example. She let go of the cigarettes and began to walk.

Breaking Fast

Every step jarred her head. Halfway there she had to stop and lean against a light pole, her breath sawing in and out.

Finally she sat on the edge of a low planter in front of a medical complex, unable to walk further. She could see the masjid in the distance, a block and a half away. She set the brownies and her purse on the planter beside her. The brownies were as cold as ice by now. The sun was gone, disappeared behind the aggressive bank of clouds rising in the west. A minute later the sound of the adhaan rose from her phone. It was time for Maghreb.

Mar had no water or dates, and didn’t want to spoil the brownie tray by eating from it. Excuses, she knew. With trembling hands, she drew the pack from her purse, withdrew a single, sweet cylinder, and lit it. She knew the dua for breaking fast, but did not say it. How could one say a dua before smoking? It would be obscene.

The first drag hit her lungs like rocket fuel. Her whole body sagged. The headache dissolved. The tremors stilled. She smoked it to the filter, watching the sky darken to purple, then flicked the butt into the planter. Shame coursed through her veins. She’d broken her fast with a cigarette. She’d made a joke out of her religion.

She prayed Maghreb on the sidewalk, in the cold, accepting the feel of the hard, dirty cement against her knees and forehead as a kind of penance.

Then she resumed walking. By the time she arrived at the masjid, the converts meeting, which was held in the masjid cafeteria, was half over. She set the pan of brownies on the end of the serving table. No one looked up.

Ignoring the jugs of juice and coffee, she took a large cup of water and a few dates, and sat at one of the sisters’ tables. To her disappointment, Juana was not there. At the front of the room, an Egyptian sister named Ranya was lecturing about the true meaning of Ramadan, which, she said, was not hunger or thirst, but growing closer to Allah.

The sister next to her scooted her chair away, widening the space between herself and Mar. Then the sister on the other side did the same.

When the lecture ended, people went for the food. Someone cut the brownies into neat squares. For a moment her heart lifted. A girl took one. Another. Mar herself had very little appetite. What she really wanted was another cigarette. She accepted a small serving of rice, salad and chicken, and sat by herself. The food had little flavor, but was hot in her belly. It felt good.

Smell Funny

When she was done eating she took her paper plate to the trash can. The brownies were there, in the garbage. Barely eaten pieces, most untouched, piled on top of the plates. A smear of frosting against the black trash bag.

As she stood there, a little boy tossed a brownie into the trash. Mar wanted to seize his ear and call him a wasteful rug rat. But instead she asked him why he was throwing it away.

He shrugged. “It smells funny.”

“Funny how?”

“Like my uncle.”

Mar pursed her lips. “Does your uncle smoke cigarettes?”

The boy nodded, wide eyed. “Uh-huh. How did you know? It’s cool. He looks like a dragon.”

“It’s not cool. It’s what made the brownies smell.”

“Oh, okay.” The boy ran off.

Outside the night air was cool. She walked to the bus station, lit a cigarette and waited, empty brownie pan hanging by her side in one hand. A car passed by with sister Fatima at the wheel – one of the sisters from the meeting. Two others rode in the back seat. Mar knew they saw her – Fatima’s eyes met hers – but they did not stop.

By the time the bus came forty five minutes later, she had smoked five cigarettes, tears running silently down her cheeks, smearing her mascara. She didn’t bother wiping her face. For the first time since she had said the shahada she wondered if there was a place for her in this religion that had already become the only place she had left.

Jumuah

By Friday, the third day of Ramadan, the tremors had moved deeper into her bones.

It was no longer the visible shaking of her hands, though that still came and went, but a hollow, vibrating weakness in her thighs and lower back, as if her skeleton had been replaced with one of those plastic Halloween skeletons, and could not support even her meager weight.

She had slept badly. She always slept badly now. The ten cigarettes she crammed into the hours between Maghreb and bedtime gave her a brief, treacherous calm, and then her heart ran wild in her chest for hours. She woke before fajr with her mouth tasting like burnt paper and her mind already begging. There was just enough time for one or two hasty cigs, smoked hungrily, then she was back to fasting.

The cycle was wrecking her.

Today was Jumuah. From the first week she became Muslim, she’d made arrangements with her workplace to have Friday afternoons off. Now, at the masjid, the women’s section was crowded. The khutbah hadn’t started yet, and voices murmured in Urdu and Arabic. Maybe the women smelled nice. She guessed so. She moved to the wall and lowered herself onto the carpet with her back against it, leaving a clear space between herself and the nearest group of sisters, not wanting to offend them with her disgusting presence.

No one sat near her.

Her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck briefly to the roof of it when she tried to swallow. The headache had returned – not the iron band from the first day but like a small hammer pounding rhythmically on her forehead.

She folded her hands in her lap to hide their shaking.

Imam Ayman began. At this masjid, the women and men were in the same hall, with only a low barrier separating them. Seated, she could see the Imam at the mimbar. He was a tall, lean Palestinian, and was surprisingly young – mid 30s, maybe – and with a very good American accent.

Baby Gods

“Some of you,” Imam Ayman said, “are carrying around little baby gods in your hearts and minds, and praying to them all day long, while thinking you are sincere Muslims. You worship these baby gods instead of Allah, and if you don’t change, I worry you will face an unpleasant surprise when you meet Allah.”

This was different. Mar was intrigued. What could the Imam be talking about?

“Some people are obsessed with wealth. Every decision in their lives – their educational path, career, where they live, their lifestyle, friendships, and how they view other people – is based on the acquisition and preservation of wealth. If they must abandon Islamic principles to increase their wealth, they do so. If they have to cheat and lie, neglect their children, neglect their own health even, mashi, full speed ahead.  Money to them equals success, no matter what else is happening with their family and the world. They don’t worship money physically, but in their hearts they are in a permanent state of sajdah to the almighty dollar.”

Mar nodded slowly. She’d seen a few people like that, though she’d never been one, alhamdulillah. Even though she’d been rough on her workers in the past, and she’d certainly fired people for a variety of things – being drunk on the job, always late, stealing supplies – she’d always resisted pushes from corporate to fire people simply for being slightly less productive than others.

“Other people worship their egos. They post to social media obsessively and check constantly to see how many likes and followers they have. Their entire sense of self-worth is tied to what people think of them. Not what Allah thinks. Not what good they are doing in the world. Their ego is a baby god and they chase it like eager little worshipers.”

A teenage girl in front of Mar turned off her phone and discreetly put it away.

“And some people,” Imam Ayman said, “worship a dirty habit. Gambling, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, porn, zinaa. That’s their own little god. They are slaves to it, as surely as if their necks were chained. They cannot say no to their god, and don’t want to. Their day is structured around it. Their money is spent on it, rlationships are damaged for itk, health is destroyed for it. They leave gatherings for it, stand outside in the cold or the heat for it. They hide it from their loved ones, knowing it’s filthy.”

Mar’s breath caught in her chest.

“They are the servants of their habit. It commands, and they obey. All the while thinking they are servants of Allah. No. They have a baby god riding their backs.”

Mar’s hands tightened into fists.

“And the tragedy,” Ayman said, “is not only that they worship the habit – but that it does not love them, does not forgive them, and does not save them.”

Thirty Years

The words struck Mar with physical force.

For a moment the masjid disappeared and she saw herself at fourteen, leaning against the brick wall behind the bakery, the boy’s lighter in her hand, inhaling and coughing while he laughed.

She saw her mother sitting in the small living room, tears on her face from worry and fear for her daughter who had not come home until one in the morning.

She saw the hospital room where her mother had spent her last days, the machine beside the bed, the way Mar had stepped outside to smoke because she could not exist without it.

Thirty years of enslaving herself to a vicious little baby god that rode her like a demon.

Her chest began to heave. She bent forward slightly, pressing her forehead to her palms, hoping it looked like reflection.

She understood now that quitting smoking during the day was not enough. All she was doing was enduring so she could prostrate to the baby god again at sunset. La ilaha il-Allah. O Allah, forgive me.

The khutbah ended and the prayer began. She prayed where she was, alone against the wall.

Sea in Spanish

On the way out of the masjid, a wave of dizziness hit. Just outside the building was a courtyard with a planter surrounded by a low wall. She sat on the wall, gripping the rough trunk of a tree that grew out of the planter.

A man approached. He was tall, maybe 6’1”, a youngish white guy with close-cropped blond hair. “Sister, are you alright?”

Mar swallowed. “It’s just the fast. I’m not used to it.”

The man chuckled. “None of us are. This is only my second Ramadan, myself. What about you?”

“First.”

“I’m Layth.”

Mar nodded. “Mar.”

“Like sea in Spanish?”

Mar shrugged. “If you like.”

“Hold on.” The man looked around and called out to a tall, elegant African-American woman in a green dress and black hijab. She sauntered over.

“Making friends?” the woman said. She had a Southern drawl. The Carolinas maybe, or the Virginias.

“Babe, this is Mar. It’s her first Ramadan. Mar, this is my wife Khadijah.”

Khadijah sat right next to Mar on the wall, and the blond guy found a chair and pulled it up.

Mar and Khadijah talked about Ramadan, being Muslim, and family, while Layth mostly listened. The two of them were a charming couple, and very obviously in love. Mar noticed how Layth watched his wife as she talked, and how Khadijah reached out every now and then to touch her husband’s arm or shoulder. Mar wondered, had she ever been that in love with her husband? She thought she had, but she hadn’t treated him well, and the marriage soured quickly.

At a lull in the conversation, Mar said, “Don’t you think I smell bad?”

Khadijah touched Mar’s arm. Her hand was warm. “Why would you say that?”

“You smell like ikhlaas to me,” Layth said.

“Don’t be corny, honey,” Khadijah said.

“What is ick-loss?” Mar asked tentatively, afraid she’d been insulted again. If that were the case, it would break her heart. “I don’t know that word,” she finished lamely.

Layth grinned. “I know, learning all the Arabic is a killer. I’m lucky, or maybe unlucky, because I’m fluent. Ikhlaas means sincerity.”

“He’s trying to say,” Khadijah added, “that you smell sweeter than a peach pie, because of your faith.”

Mar’s lower lip trembled, and she began to cry. Khadijah put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

Layth had a red sports car with an engine that roared. He and Khadijah gave her a ride home. They didn’t usually attend the converts meeting, they told her, but if she would be there next week, they would too.

“Layth, why would you be unlucky because you’re fluent?” Mar thought to ask.

“Because of where I learned.”

Khadijah, sitting in the back seat with Mar, put her hands around her mouth and mouthed, “Iraq.”

Mar mouthed a silent, “Oh.”

* * *

Come back next week for Part 2 – Cold Turkey

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 NICOTINE – A Ramadan Story [Part 1] : With A Name Like Marijuana 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.

The Name Crisis We’re Not Talking About

There’s a quiet surrender happening in Muslim families across the West:

Khadijah becomes “Kady.” Muhammad becomes “Mo.” Ibrahim becomes “Abe.”

On the surface, it’s just convenience. “People can’t pronounce it. It’s easier this way.”

But underneath, something deeper is dying: The connection between a child and their story.

The First Day of School

Picture this:

Teacher: “Let’s take attendance. Jessica?” Jessica: “Here.”

Teacher: “John?” John: “Here.”

Teacher: “Uh… I know I’m going to butcher this … uh … Moo-HAM-mud?” Class laughs

Muhammad, age 10: “It’s Muhammad. But you can call me Mo.”

From that day forward, he’s Mo.

Not because he chose it. Because he learned: My real name is a burden. An inconvenience. Something that makes me stand out. Something to hide.

And that lesson compounds:

• Age 10: My name is hard to pronounce
• Age 12: My name makes me stand out
• Age 16: My name represents everything I’m trying to escape

By college, “Muhammad” is someone he used to be. “Mo” is who he actually is.

Except it’s not. And deep down, he knows it.

Why Teens Hide Their Names (The Real Reasons)

1. Exhaustion of Explaining

Every. Single. Time.

“How do you spell that?” “Where’s that from?” “Where are you really from?”

After the 100th time, it’s just easier to say “Call me something else.”

2. Wanting to Be “Normal”

When your name is Sarah or Adam, nobody asks questions.

When your name is Fatima or Yusuf, you’re marked as different before you even speak.

And when you’re a teen? Different = bad.

3. Protecting Themselves

Post-9/11, post-Trump, post-Gaza—Muslim names carry weight.

Some teens have experienced:

• Bullying because of their name
• Jokes about terrorism
• Assumptions about your loyalty

Changing your name isn’t just convenience at that point. It’s self-preservation.

4. Not Feeling “Worthy” of the Name

“My name is Aisha, but I don’t feel like THE Aisha.” “I’m named after a prophet, but I’m not holy.”

The name feels like a prophecy they’re failing to fulfill.

What the Quran Teaches About Names

The video explores a pattern most Muslims miss:

In the Quran, names aren’t random—they’re prophetic.

Ibrahim ﷺ (father of multitudes) → Became a father of nations. Musa ﷺ (drawn out) → Drew his people out of slavery.  Muhammad ﷺ (praised) → The most praised human in history.

The name reflects the mission.

And here’s what’s revolutionary: This isn’t just about prophets. It’s about you.

When your parents named you:

• Aisha – They prayed you’d be wise and confident like the Mother of Believers
• Ali – They prayed you’d be brave and just like the Lion of Allah
• Khadijah – They prayed you’d be trustworthy, strong and steadfast
• Yusuf – They prayed Allah would stand up for good no matter the obstacle

Your name isn’t a label. It’s a du’a that follows you through life.

The Hadith That Changes Everything

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“On the Day of Judgment, you will be called by your names and the names of your fathers, so choose good names.” (Abu Dawud)

Think about that:

The Day of Judgment—the most important moment in existence.

And Allah will call you by your name.

Not your GPA. Not your achievements. Not your social media presence.

Your name. The one your parents gave you.

Question: When Allah calls your name on that Day, will you recognize it? Or will you have spent so long going by something else that you forgot who you actually are?

For Parents: What to Understand

1. The pressure to assimilate is real

You might have grown up with your Muslim name in a Muslim country. It was normal. Western names were the ones that people had a hard time pronouncing.

But your child is growing up where their name is:

• Mispronounced daily
• A marker of “foreignness”
• Sometimes a target

This doesn’t make them weak. It makes their struggle different from yours.

2. “Just use your real name” isn’t enough

Telling them to “be proud” doesn’t teach them how to navigate the daily microaggressions.

What helps:

• Roleplay how to correct pronunciation confidently
• Share stories of when YOU stood firm on your identity (if you have them)
• Connect them with Muslim role models who own their names publicly
• Celebrate when they introduce themselves by their full name

3. Ask yourself: Did you give them this name because of its meaning, or just because it’s “Islamic”?

If you chose it because of a prophet or companion—tell them that story.

If you don’t remember why—find out the meaning together and own it now.

A name with a story is a name worth keeping.

For Teens: Reclaiming Your Name

1. Find out why you were given this name

Ask your parents tonight:

• “Why did you choose this name for me?”
• “What did you hope I would become?”

Their answer might surprise you. And it might change how you see yourself.

2. Teach people how to say it

You don’t have to be rude. But you can be clear.

“Actually, it’s Muhammad, not Mo. I’d appreciate if you’d use my full name.”

Most people will respect it. And the ones who don’t? That’s a them problem, not a you problem.

3. Understand: You’re not “worthy” yet—and that’s the point

You’re named Aisha but don’t feel wise? The name is calling you to become wise.

You’re named Muhammad but don’t feel like you’re doing anything praiseworthy? The name is a du’a that you’re growing into.

Your name isn’t describing who you are. It’s describing who you’re meant to become.

4. Own it publicly

Start small:

• Use your full name on social media
• Introduce yourself by your real name in new settings
• Correct people when they mispronounce it

When you own your name, people respect it. When you hide it, you teach them your identity is negotiable.

The Story I Didn’t Tell in the Video

When I was in high school, I could never find another name to escape from my own, though I wanted to.

And the kids at my school never let me forget how “foreign” I was, though I was born in the same place that they were!  No matter how hard I tried to fit in, they wouldn’t let me because of my name.

Only years later did I realize that my name was actually a shield that protected me from falling into regret. That name that my parents gave me prevented me from falling into the misguidance that literally sidetracks other people for decades, if not their whole life.

That name did make me stand out. But it was only later that I discovered that it made me stand out as a believer, as a servant of Allah.

You are different than everyone else around you, and that’s not a bad thing. Yes, it’s so hard and I know how badly you want to just “be normal” and fit in. But Allah has selected you for something better, more honorable and noble. I promise that you will eventually see that, just like I did ….

Discussion Questions for Families

For Teens:

1. Do you introduce yourself by your full name or a nickname? Why?
2. What would it cost you to use your full name? What’s it costing you to hide it?
3. Do you know the story behind your name? If not, are you willing to ask?

For Parents:

1. Have you ever told your child the story of why you chose their name?
2. How do you react when your child uses a nickname instead of their given name?
3. What does your child’s relationship with their name tell you about their relationship with their identity?

For Discussion Together:

1. How can we honor the names we have while growing into them?
2. What would it look like to celebrate our names instead of hiding them?

The Challenge

This week:

• Teens: Use your full name in one new setting
• Parents: Tell your child the full story of their name
• Everyone: When someone mispronounces your name (or your child’s), correct them kindly but firmly

Your name isn’t a burden to explain. It’s a banner to carry. It’s your shield against sin.

Continue the Journey

This is Night 6 of Dr. Ali’s 30-part Ramadan series, “30 Nights with the Quran: Stories for the Seeking Soul.”

Tomorrow, insha Allah: Night 7 is our Week 1 Recap—reviewing the biggest lessons from Identity & Belonging before we move into Week 2: Relationships & Boundaries.

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

Related:

The Comparison Trap | Night 5 with the Qur’an

When You’re the Only Muslim in the Room | Night 4 with the Qur’an

The post Why Your Teen Wants to Change Their Muslim Name | Night 6 with the Qur’an appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Rupert Lowe, the MP for Great Yarmouth elected on a Reform UK slate in 2024 who subsequently went independent because his views on immigration were too extreme even for Nigel Farage, has now formed his own party, Restore Britain. Its policies include abolishing the BBC licence fee, abolishing inheritance tax, abolishing hosepipe bans (cutting immigration is meant to help with that), restricting postal voting, “restoring” the British pub and the High Street (by clamping down on immigrant associated businesses such as barber shops), abolishing foreign aid and the mass deportation of not only illegal migrants but also legal immigrants who they regard as unproductive or burdensome, and the removal of “COVID relics” and the annulment of convictions for breaking lockdown rules incurred during “the darkest time in recent British history, a time where our freedoms were trampled over all in the name of bent ‘science’”. They have not, so far, scored any defections by MPs but a few councillors have defected and some local activists previously associated with Reform, such as the leader of the “Pink Ladies” Orla Minihane (who a few weeks ago told us she wasn’t going to run for a council seat for Reform but dedicate herself to her new Rhiannon Whyte Foundation, named after a worker in a migrant hotel who was murdered by one of its residents; now we know why).

The party and its sole MP have been putting out lots of videos, mostly of Lowe giving speeches and attacking Nigel Farage more than any other single politician. There’s a video of Nigel Farage apparently backtracking on one policy statement and then another, with The Who’s song “Won’t Get Fooled Again” as a backing track (not sure if Pete Townshend’s lawyers are onto it). Another is titled “National Restoration” and consists of a flickering array of old images of 20th-century England: steam trains, ladies in floral prints walking in pretty streets of small towns and sitting down to tea, red squirrels, the cliffs of Dover, RT buses, military band performances. “In 1997, Britain was in good shape,” the voice-over informs us. “We knew who we were, we were still one country; most importantly, the population was stable and immigration was under control.” 1997? Oh yes, the year Tony Blair was elected and eighteen years of Tory government ended. If Rupert Lowe likes Tory government so much, why doesn’t he just become a Tory? But the mention of 1997 makes all the images absurd. AEC Regent or RT buses were a London Transport mainstay from World War II through to the 60s which was finally withdrawn from service in 1979, the year Margaret Thatcher first came to power; the route shown, number 152, had last used that type of bus in 1970. Red squirrels were as rare in most of England in 1997 as they are now. Steam trains only ran on preserved lines, as now. You don’t see too many women dressed quite like those in RB’s clips in 2024, but fashions change.

I remember 1997. I was 20 that year. Labour won the election with a landslide and pro-European, progressive parties won a very comfortable majority of the popular vote, with the Tories reduced to 30.6% and wiped out in Wales and Scotland. There was much demand for self-rule from both Wales and Scotland and for peace in Northern Ireland, which everyone knew would not be achieved with permanent direct rule. Immigration had been reduced since the late 1960s, but it was still possible to bring spouses very easily from the “New Commonwealth” countries such as India and Pakistan and many did; the 2001 Oldham riots and the terrorist attacks that year led to spousal migration being restricted so that anyone not making a good salary was excluded (Lowe’s policies include an end to this for countries not included on his “red list”). The Tories were widely derided, were hopelessly divided over Europe with the prime minister calling some of his own cabinet ‘bastards’ and reported as threatening to “f**king crucify” others; they had a reputation for meanness, imposing VAT on domestic fuel in breach of their manifesto, and attacking single mothers from the conference podium (at the time, the electronic dance band The Prodigy released a single called “Smack My Bitch Up”, which caused much controversy as you might guess; a BBC radio comedy show quoted a politician as saying the title was acceptable as it referred to a single mother).

The Blair dream went sour in his second term, but in 1997 there was a lot of optimism and joy at the result. There’s nothing to be optimistic about from Lowe’s pronouncements. Like Farage before him, he blames immigration for everything. Just today, he posted a rant about litter by the side of Britain’s motorways, moaning that “our country is increasingly becoming a third world dump”, and then proclaiming that his government will put “healthy Brits who consistently refuse work” out to work cleaning it up (this is actually a job we currently pay people for) and that there would be “no foreigners on benefits” under his rule either. Elsewhere on his Twitter feed, he has a side-swipe at “the healthy British shirking class”. In another one-minute video posted on Twitter, he tells people who “don’t want to work” not to vote for him and rails against doctors signing people off work on “sick notes” because of headaches and other trivialities, against a backdrop of what looks like 50s London. All just recycled prejudices culled from Sun editorials and Tory party conference speeches.

Restore Britain is a backward- and inward-looking party that appeals to the same people who produce nostalgia videos about the once-great British high street, back when everyone was white and men were men and women were women. Lowe has gained much publicity from his unofficial “rape gang inquiry” over the past few weeks, but in truth he does not care much for the British working class: he proclaims in the 1997 video that “the individual is good, the state is bad” (except when it’s rounding up and deporting people, of course). Restore might not be a neo-Nazi party as it doesn’t have that heritage (although it has attracted a few supporters from that quarter), but he is still a politician that appeals to bigotry while romanticising a past that was never real, offering policies that will leave most people worse off.

Time Hoppers: The Silk Road, an animated film co-written and directed by Canadian Flordeliza Dayrit, had a limited theater release in early February 2026. This indie film is created by Muslim Kids TV and seems to primarily focus on Muslim audiences. 

It follows an inventor father and his daughter who flee from Seattle to Vancouver to keep an invention from being stolen. Once in Vancouver, Layla enrolls at her aunt’s school, Aqli Academy, and forms friendships with her cousin Khalid and two other children, Aysha and Abdullah. The father, Habib, reveals his time-travelling invention to the four children, and they are asked to collect information about Islamic history by watching footage from drones Habib has sent back in time.

However, they embark on a winding rescue mission once Abdullah accidentally time-travels. The three children join him back in time in Baghdad. There, they meet an evil scientist, Fasid, who is plotting to disrupt other scientists’ work. The children chase Fasid through Baghdad, Timbuktu, Cairo, and Aleppo. In every city, they meet and come to the aid of different Muslim scientists, including: mathematician Al Khawarizmi, emperor Mansa Musa, optics scientist Ibn al-Haytham, and inventor of the astrolabe Maryam Al-Ijliyyah. The film ends on a cliffhanger when Fasid and the modern bad guys might join forces, possibly hinting at a sequel. 

Review

As far as the film itself goes, the animation was good overall. The early action scenes of the film in Vancouver and Baghdad were enjoyable to watch, for kids and adults alike. Later in the movie, when the children are running around different cities at night, the animation felt a little stale and slightly sloppy. Fatima from Illinois, who watched the film with her four-year-old daughter and six-year-old son, said, “For their age, the effects were enough.” The voice acting was also good. The sound mixing of the dialogue within the film was of variable quality. In my particular showing, the speech of the characters was distorted to a distracting level for a portion of the film, and Shama in the DMV area experienced the same issue. I appreciated the musical score that accompanied the film. Overall, the film had a good enough production value for an indie project, and I was impressed at how high the quality was. 

I appreciated that the film explored different places in the Muslim world and showed the diversity of the ummah. The plot of the film was personally slightly confusing, and multiple people I interviewed agreed or commented that kids older than ten were bored. The film passed over the various scientific achievements from the past on a surface level, and it would have been nice to further explain them. Many parents I interviewed raved about the Muslim kids playing superheroes and liked seeing characters who were wearing hijab and identifiably Muslim.

Perplexingly, Ibn al-Haytham and Al Khawarizmi were depicted as weak and scared characters with the added trouble of them mumbling, which made them difficult to understand. Whether or not that is historically accurate to the scientists themselves, I would have hoped the film would portray the scientists as superheroes in their own right, similar to how Layla and her friends are portrayed.

The resonating message the film tried to send to kids was not an Islamic one per se, but one that focused on emotional growth. There was an undercurrent about being brave running through the story, but I can’t recall how it was resolved by the end of the film. The plot and some aspects of the film left more to be desired, but I do believe the film tried and succeeded at making Muslim children feel proud about themselves and their rich history

Audiences applauded this landmark effort as the first film for Muslim children to hit theaters in America. My six-year-old son exclaimed he loved the film, specifically, “learning all the new things, seeing all the places, and everything that happened back in time.” He spent some portions of the film covering his eyes due to the suspense in some of the scenes. Out of the 15 kids at our showing, all seemed to enjoy it except for a couple of the older middle school-aged kids.

I’d recommend this film for children between five and nine years old. As a parent myself, I’m excited for my son to see a Muslim animated film as the first film he’s ever seen in theaters. Ghada, another parent at the film screening we were at, said, “It was a good attempt. You have to start somewhere.” Ifrah, who took her six children (ages ten to four months), appreciated that it was just under 1.5 hours, and said all but one of her children seemed happy enough to sit through the whole movie. Nadia from California took her 12-year-old daughter and said, “All in all, it’s a great concept, and we’re happy to support a Muslim animated film.” Paola from Illinois raved, “I loved the film!” and noted how it was so special to see Muslim kids portrayed as heroes. Every parent I talked to seemed to agree on two things: we’re rooting for this film and future projects for our Muslim kids to be a success, and the jokes that the soldiers told were a nice treat for the adults in the audience.

 

Related:

– Farha Film Review: Palestinian Stories Will Be Heard

– 5 Things to Know About The Movie Before Watching It | Review of Bilal: A New Breed Of Hero

The post [Film Review] Time Hoppers: The Silk Road appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

University lectures in Gaza are being held at wedding venues, but attendance has dropped due to financial and other hardships.