Nadav Zafrir is making a killing.

Greg Abbott’s move heightens the clash with Muslim groups and usurps federal authority

Texas governor Greg Abbott declared the Council on American-Islamic Relations (Cair) and the Muslim Brotherhood to be “foreign terrorist organizations” on Tuesday, prohibiting them from acquiring property in the state and authorizing legal action to shut down affiliated entities.

The move marks a massive escalation in Abbott’s confrontation with Muslim organizations and communities in Texas, though states have no authority to designate foreign terrorist organizations on behalf of the US.

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As the Muslim Book Awards are in full swing, judges Amire Hoxha and Zainab bint Younus discuss Amire’s book “Amar’s Fajr Reward,” which brings Kosovar representation to the Muslim kidlit space, and what it was like for Amire to write as a minority within a Muslim minority. They explore trends in Muslim bookselling, and what’s still missing in the Muslim kidlit space.

If you’re a Muslim writer, publisher, or reader, you won’t want to miss this episode!

Related:

Podcast: Refugee Representation In Muslim Literature

Podcast: A Glimpse Into Muslim Bookstagram

[Podcast] Books, Boys, & Kareem Between | Shifa Saltagi Safadi

 

The post [Podcast] Kosovar Rep & What’s Missing In Muslim KidLit appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

How banning Palestine Action has led to the banning of Palestine in prisons.

Former federal police director Nicoletta della Valle directly criticized.

It was once the darling slogan of liberal Muslims in the West, their talisman against suspicion, their get-out-of-Guantánamo-free card. In the shadow of 9/11, when Muslims were being strip-searched at airports, interrogated at borders, and rounded up in their neighborhoods, Western Muslim leaders found themselves endlessly parroting this question. It was their shield, their mantra, their desperate attempt to prove to the “civilized” world that they were not, in fact, bloodthirsty savages. The Prophet Muhammad , they said, was compassionate, tolerant, patient, merciful, endlessly forgiving—more yoga instructor than warrior, more monk than statesman. And so, every Friday sermon, interfaith dinner, and panel discussion circled back to the same soothing line: “What would Muhammad do?”

But how curious the silence today. Gaza burns, Palestinians are starved and slaughtered in numbers that recall the darkest chapters of the twentieth century, and the “good” Muslims—the liberal Muslims, the moderates, the tireless ambassadors of interfaith kumbaya—suddenly forget their favorite question. Nobody wants to ask what Muhammad would do in the face of genocide. Why not? Because the answer is too obvious, and too uncomfortable.

The Post-9/11 Muhammad: A Pacifist Mascot

Let us recall the context. After 9/11, Muslim leaders in the West scrambled to perform what might be called the ‘Great Pacification of the Prophet.’ No longer the man who organized armies, brokered treaties, defended his community, and met aggression with force—Muhammad was rebranded as a pacifist saint. His patience in the face of insults was exalted. His forgiveness of enemies was endlessly quoted. His emphasis on inner struggle (jihad al-nafs) was turned into the *only* jihad worth mentioning.

The goal was transparent: to convince a deeply suspicious Western public that Muslims were not ticking time bombs. “See?” these Muslims pleaded. “Our Prophet is just like your Jesus—peaceful, forgiving, nonviolent.” The “What would Muhammad do?” question became their version of “What would Jesus do?”—a saccharine slogan perfectly fitted for bumper stickers and youth group T-shirts.

It was not entirely disingenuous. The Prophet Muhammad did indeed show patience, did indeed forgive, did indeed emphasize inner reform. But the narrative was highly selective. It was also deeply political. In the ‘War on Terror’ climate, Muslims were under enormous pressure to prove their loyalty, to sanitize their religion, and to present Islam as a benign spiritual hobby rather than a political force.

The Vanishing Question

Fast forward two decades. The bombs fall on Gaza. Hospitals, schools, and refugee camps are obliterated. A population penned in like cattle is starved, denied water, denied medicine. The word “genocide” is whispered at first, then shouted openly. Muslims across the world watch in horror, rage, and despair.

And yet, those same liberal Muslims who once found their tongues so nimble with the phrase “What would Muhammad do?” now fall mute. Where are the interfaith panels, the carefully rehearsed sermons, the op-eds in The Guardian? Where are the hashtags and the bumper stickers?

The silence is not accidental. The silence is strategic. Because everyone knows what Muhammad would do in the face of genocide. And it does not fit the pacifist rebranding.

The Uncomfortable Answer

The Prophet Muhammad , faced with the annihilation of his people, did not advise patience and Twitter activism. He did not retreat to his prayer mat and wait for celestial justice. He organized. He defended. He made it an obligation for his followers to resist. The Qur’an itself makes the duty explicit: “What is the matter with you that you do not fight in the cause of God and for those oppressed men, women, and children who cry out, ‘Lord, rescue us from this town of oppressors!’” [Surah An-Nisa; 4:75]

This is not an obscure or fringe interpretation. It is the mainstream of Islamic tradition: defensive jihad is mandatory when a community faces extermination. For Muhammad , the defense of the vulnerable was not optional, not metaphorical, and certainly not reducible to therapy-speak about “resisting your lower self.” It was concrete. It was armed. It was non-negotiable.

So if one were to ask, honestly, “What would Muhammad do?” in the face of Gaza, the answer would be devastatingly clear: he would organize a protection force, and he would make defense a duty. He would not wring his hands about “messaging” or fret about what white liberals might think. He would not outsource morality to the State Department. He would stand between the slaughterer and the slaughtered.

And that is precisely why the question is not being asked.

The Liberal Muslim Dilemma

Here lies the dilemma of the “good” Muslim in the West. For two decades, they have invested heavily in the pacifist-Muhammad narrative. They have reassured their governments, their colleagues, and their neighbors that Islam is peace, that jihad is just a personal detox retreat, and that the Prophet was basically a life coach with a beard.

To now say, “Actually, Muhammad would call for armed defense of Palestinians” is to risk unraveling two decades of carefully curated branding. It risks losing the approval of the very Western societies they have bent over backwards to placate. It risks being lumped in with the “bad” Muslims—the militants, the radicals, the ones forever marked as barbarians.

And so, better to stay silent. Better to issue vague platitudes about peace, condemn “violence on both sides,” and retreat into the comfort of interfaith dinners. Better to mock or sideline those “useful idiot” imams who dare to speak the uncomfortable truth. Better to remain respectable, even as Gaza burns.

The Politics of Selective Piety

The irony, of course, is glaring. When cartoons of the Prophet appeared in Denmark or France, the “good” Muslims were quick to remind us: Muhammad ignored insults. He forgave his enemies. He never condoned mob violence. And they were right.

The true taboo question then is not “What would Muhammad do?” but “Why are liberal Muslims afraid to ask it?” [PC: Aliaksei Lepik (unsplash)]

But when it comes to genocide? When children are pulled from the rubble, when families are obliterated in their homes, when a besieged people cry out for help—suddenly, the Prophet is nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the selective piety that once filled conferences and press releases evaporates. The Prophet, once paraded as a mascot of moderation, is now locked in the attic, too embarrassing to bring out.

This is not simply cowardice. It is complicity. It is the internalization of Western hegemony so deep that one’s own religious tradition must be amputated to fit the demands of respectability. It is to reduce Muhammad to a caricature—first as a saintly pacifist, now as a silence-inducing taboo—rather than grapple with the full complexity of his legacy.

The Real Taboo

Here, then, is the true taboo question: not “What would Muhammad do?” but “Why are liberal Muslims afraid to ask it?”

The answer is not flattering. They are afraid because they know the truth: Muhammad would not sit idly by in the face of genocide. He would act. He would fight. He would obligate his followers to defend the oppressed.

And that answer does not play well at interfaith luncheons. It does not reassure security agencies. It does not flatter the liberal order. So the question is buried. The Prophet, once deployed as a prop for Western acceptance, is now silenced by those same Muslims who once could not stop invoking him.

Conclusion: The Prophet They Dare Not Name

“What would Muhammad do?” was never really about Muhammad . It was about politics. After 9/11, it was about survival: Muslims needed to prove they were safe, and so they fashioned a Prophet who was permanently nonviolent. Today, in Gaza, the same question would expose a truth too dangerous for “good” Muslims to utter: that their Prophet was not only merciful but militant when justice demanded it.

And so the silence speaks volumes. The “good” Muslims have trapped themselves in their own narrative. They are so invested in the pacifist Prophet that they cannot now call upon the real one. They have chosen approval over integrity, respectability over responsibility.

But history is merciless. When future generations ask, “What did you do during the genocide in Gaza?” the “good” Muslims will not be able to say, “We asked what Muhammad would do.” They did not dare. And perhaps that silence will be remembered as their loudest answer.

 

Related:

– Beyond Badr: Transforming Muslim Political Vision

– The Terminal Hypocrisy Of A Crumbling West And The Dawning Of A New Age for Muslims

The post What Would Muhammad Do? – Silencing The Prophet: Liberal Islam’s Cowardice In Gaza appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Sara Sharif

Today an independent review into the murder of an eight-year-old girl of mixed Pakistani and Polish parentage, Sara Sharif, was published. The review (PDF) by the Surrey Safeguarding Children Partnership (SCP), identified five particular failings, mostly by the court system, but also mistakes on the part of the local council which contributed to the failure to prevent the murder. These include the courts giving undue weight to the opinions of court-appointed guardians rather than social workers, a report compiled by an inexperienced social worker which meant a judge subsequently had insufficient information, a rushed response to a report of a bruise on Sara’s cheek which led to no action being taken, and failure to update records such as the Sharifs’ address. However, one section of it mentions that neighbours reported being “afraid of being called racist” and that visiting social workers did not ask why Sara was wearing hijab at home at age 8 when no older females were doing so, when the hijab was being worn to hide bruises and injuries to her head. These last points are, predictably, what racists have seized on.

To clarify, in Islam, hijab becomes compulsory for a girl at puberty. Some women don’t wear it, though, and you are more likely to find a girl wearing it before that time if her mother, aunts or other older female relatives wear it (and not in the family home in the presence of a female visitor, like the occupational therapist mentioned below). In the case of Sara Sharif’s family, they did not, and the type of hijab Sara was shown wearing in a police handout is one you would see on a girl from a more religious family whose relatives wore hijab. Social workers are familiar with make-up, face paints or food being used to cover bruises or injuries, but hijab is probably less common (and all the more so in a small Muslim community in an outer-suburban town like Woking). The visitor, as the report notes on page 20, was a newly-qualified occupational therapist, not a social worker at all. A social work department from an inner London borough or other district with a substantial Asian and/or Muslim population might have had a social worker from that background they could have sent on the visit, but the visit was not about Sara Sharif at all; rather, it was to support her father and stepmother in caring for their other children. It was noted that the OT “has reflected that she may have been reticent to talk about it for fear of causing offence”, but she was inexperienced, unaware that there was any history of Children’s Services involvement with the family and was visiting for reasons unconnected to Sara.

However, the Times’ headline writer puts it all down to the race aspect: “chances to prevent murder ‘lost to racial sensitivities’”, it proclaims, glossing over the fact that the report identifies failings that were nothing to do with “racial sensitivities” but consist of failure to share or act on information. Reform agitator Matt Goodwin goes even further in a Twitter post linking to the Times’ report:

Sara Sharif was murdered after officials failed to ask why she was wearing a hijab because “they didn’t want to offend”.

Exactly what happened with the rape gangs. Our culture is more interested in protecting minorities from “harm” than saving lives 

Again, she was an occupational therapist there to help the family, not an ‘official’, was inexperienced and not there to check on Sara. But more to the point, social workers and other staff not knowing enough about Asian or Muslim culture contributed more to this tragedy than any ‘sensitivity’: they did not realise that her wearing it in these particular circumstances was abnormal, and in some cases did not know about her family’s past, so did not know why it was not just abnormal but suspicious and that the “innocent explanation”, that she had been on a trip to Pakistan and was wearing it out of ‘pride’ in her culture and food, was likely to be spurious. 

The report also mentions that the family’s neighbours were interviewed; they said they had heard worrying things from within the family home but were reticent to share these with the authorities because they “feared being branded as being racist, especially on social media”. In the same paragraph on page 41, it quotes a work by the American academic Robin DiAngelo titled White Fragility, as if this was the reason the neighbours failed to report what they were hearing:

The Child Safeguarding Practice review panel report notes that ‘DiAngelo (2018) suggests that it is ‘white fragility’ – or a defensiveness – that is triggered when white individuals, even those who consider themselves to be progressive, encounter racial stress. This can result in individuals turning away from honest dialogue about racism, focusing instead on their own feelings of victimisation rather than on the person or people of colour who have been interpersonally and/or systemically harmed.’

Is that relevant here? The neighbours might have been looking for an explanation for why they failed to act. They are not held to professional standards; all they had to do was pick up the phone and let the police do the rest. White fragility is more relevant when a white person is accused of racism, or is told that an attitude they express is racist, or hears negative things said about their nation’s past and takes it personally.

One aspect of this report recalls the case of Ellie Butler, who was murdered by her father who had fought the local social services to get her and another child back, having been earlier accused of inflicting a shaking injury; the family courts sidelined the social workers who had tried to protect her, appointing a ‘consultancy’ to carry out any social work activity that involved the family, and sweeping away all the objections to returning a little girl to a plainly unstable and violent household. All the parties involved in that case were white. Much of the rest of this case consists of the usual problems of different official bodies, health, education, social work and courts, failing to share vital information. But the racists’ conclusion, that a girl died because “officials were too busy minding what they say about Muslims”, turns reality on its head: ignorance about Sara’s and her family’s religion and culture is what shielded them from any concerns about why Sara Sharif had started wearing the hijab at an age and in situations where Muslim girls do not. If they are given too much credence, the next tragedy could be because social workers were unwilling to be the ones learning about the cultures of the families and children they help, unwilling to be the goody-goody or even a traitor by defending an unpopular minority.

Israel continues to block medical supplies.

Muhammad and Amal tell their story.

Katharina von Schnurbein is being shielded from scrutiny.

Testimonies reflect systematic policy, rather than isolated incidents, says human rights groups.

Swept into darkness, Deek fights to survive while his family—and their love—reach for him from both sides of the unseen.

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

* * *

“Through love the bitter becomes sweet,
through love the copper turns to gold.”
— Rumi, tr. Nicholson

Grave Marker

Sanaya pelted downhill, her shoes slipping on loose gravel and damp tufts of grass. The cold night air burned in her lungs, and the smell of wet earth rose around her. Every few steps she threw out her arms for balance, her breath ragged in her ears, her heart pounding hard enough to drown out everything but the whisper of wind in the trees. She tried all at once to see her footing in the dark, not lose her balance on the steep slope, and decide who—if anyone—she should call.

Though she felt the urgency of the situation, she was not panicked, perhaps because she was not convinced that her father was, in fact, in the river. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Amira’s vision. It was just that Amira had never had a vision before. All of Sanaya’s life, she’d known that Mom had a second sense, but it wasn’t any great, world-changing talent. Mom knew when the phone was about to ring, and when she and Baba were apart she would get a feeling when he was unwell. Mom didn’t consider it anything special, and referred to it modestly as female intuition.

Amira’s “feelings” were stronger. Not only did she know when the phone was about to ring, but who was calling as well. One time they’d been in the car, stopped at a red light—Mom driving, Sanaya and Amira in back. When the light turned green Amira leaned forward, seized Mom’s arm and said, “Don’t go yet.” A second later a drunk driver ran the red and t-boned the car in front of them.

So yes, her sister had a talent. But to be able to say that Baba was in the river… That was a step beyond what Sanaya’s rational mind could accept.

Amira ran ahead of her, galloping down the hill like a gazelle, her dark hair flying behind her. Sanaya couldn’t fathom how the girl could move so fast without tumbling head over heels. The slope funneled them toward the sound of rushing water—low, steady, and menacing, like a growl in the dark.

She reached the bank and slid down a muddy trail, her hands sinking into cold muck as she steadied herself. The river smell hit her—damp reeds, algae, something metallic and raw. At the bottom, Amira stood on a narrow sandy beach, breath misting in the moonlight, yanking off her shoes and jacket with trembling hands.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to look for Baba!” Amira’s face was pale, her eyes wide. She took a step toward the river.

Sanaya seized her sister’s arm. “No! No way. Look at it!” She jabbed a finger at the broad, ink-black expanse of water. The current moved fast, eddies flashing dull silver under the moon. It hissed against the bank and tugged at stray branches floating past, as deadly and sinuous as a giant boa constrictor.

“That water is freezing! If you go in there you’ll drown.”

“We have to do something!” Amira screamed, her voice breaking. “He’s drowning.”

“We don’t know that! He might still be up by the house, maybe he went for a—”

Her words died as she saw a large rock at the top of the beach. Baba’s wallet and keys sat atop it, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Amira was right. Her father was in the river.

“We’ll call 911,” she declared, even as a wave of hopelessness washed over her. And we’ll search along the shore. But we’re not going in the water.”

Sanaya couldn’t pull her eyes from the stone with the wallet and keys. It felt like she was looking at a grave marker. The night seemed to press in tighter, the roar of the river swelling until it filled her chest.

“Fine. Come on then!” Amira turned and began working her way along the bank, her small flashlight beam jittering wildly as she called out into the dark, “Baba! Baba!” The river swallowed her voice and carried it away downstream.

Get Up to Get Down

Deek burst to the surface choking, the river black and endless around him. The cold cut through his clothes like a thousand knives. He kicked weakly, lungs burning, every breath tasting of mud and iron. The current dragged him, tumbling him sideways, then downward again. He fought his way up, gasping for air. The roar of the river filled his head — not just sound but pressure, a living force pulling him into its depths.

Something struck his hip — a jagged rock hidden beneath the surface — and the pain flared white-hot, blotting out everything. He cried out, but the sound was swallowed by water. Still, the pain anchored him, reminded him he was alive. Kicking with what strength remained, he spotted a dark shape hanging over the river. It was a low-hanging tree branch! He lunged toward it. His muscles screamed, his breath came in ragged bursts, and his hands felt like stone. Somehow, impossibly, he reached it and thrust his hands upward, grasping. They closed around the rough branch and he clung there, the water still up to his neck, and his feet not touching the bottom.

Above him, the clouds broke. The stars spilled across the sky, sharp and clear, as bright as neon. He blinked the water from his eyes and found himself staring at a constellation he hadn’t thought about in years — the one his father had pointed out when he was a boy. That’s yours, his father had said. The lion watching over the travelers.

His grip faltered. His hands came apart, sliding off the coarse branch as if it had turned to glass. The current seized him again, dragging him backward, spinning him into the dark. He went under.

The world dissolved.

In his mind, he was standing on the planet Rust.

The sky was copper-red. The wind carried the dry scent of old metal. All around him, the cities of the giants lay in ruin — broken towers and rusting bridges stretching into emptiness. No movement. Only silence.

He thought he was alone. Then he saw the fire.

It flickered beneath a vast tree. Three figures sat cross-legged around it, a small pot bubbling over the flames. The smell — something savory and sweet — reached him.

Rabiah al-Adawiyyah looked up first. Her eyes shone like polished amber. “Assalamu alaykum, Asad,” she said softly. “The Lion of Islam. The Lion of Love.” She turned back to the pot and dipped a wooden spoon, tasting the broth as if his arrival had been expected.

Across from her sat Queen Latifah, wrapped in a cloak the color of deep plum. “I’m just here for the food, brother,” she said. “But I’ll say this — you got to get up to get down.”

Deek blinked, trying to make sense of it all. “What—where—”

Before he could finish, a third figure rose to her feet. Rania. Her hair was loose, drifting like ink in the red wind. She crossed the small space between them and took him in her arms. He felt her warmth, the familiar scent of her skin, and for the first time since the river, he wasn’t cold.

She drew back, cupped his face in her hands. Her palms were warm, strong. She said nothing. Her eyes were wide and dark, but within them he saw the stars — and there, shining in their depths, the same constellation. The lion watching over the travelers.

The pressure of her hands grew. Not painful, but insistent, as if she were trying to hold him in place. He tried to speak, to ask what she meant, but his mouth wouldn’t move. The warmth became heat. Her grip tightened until it was unbearable, light pouring from her fingers—

—and he was falling again, the river claiming him.

Making Calls

Sanaya scrambled through brambly bushes that clawed at her legs, scratched her hands until they bled, and tried to snatch her hijab from her head. Thank goodness for Baba’s leather jacket at least. She called 911 on the run, panting, and gave them a breathless description of her location. They said they would send a rescue team, but it would take a half hour. How useless.

Amira was up ahead, moving faster, shouting for Baba at the top of her lungs.

The mud sucked at Sanaya’s shoes, while rocks moved beneath her feet, threatening to turn her ankles. She debated with herself whether to call Mom. Her mother had been depressed and in pain, and Sanaya didn’t see the sense in adding to her problems until they knew for sure what had happened. The question resolved itself when the phone rang in her hand. It was Mom, of course.

Working to keep her voice calm and make it sound like everything was under control, Sanaya explained what had happened. At Mom’s insistence, she gave her the house address and the directions down to the beach.

The Sound of Palestine

Zaid Karim sat cross-legged on the thin carpet of the Atlanta airport chapel, having just finished praying Ishaa. The faint scent of disinfectant hung in the air. Beyond the door came the muffled hum of the terminal, but here it was still.

He was on his way home from Jordan. He’d gone to help his aunt bury her baby son, and had made a side trip to the Gaza Camp to deliver a large cash donation to the UNRWA representative.

The qanun

At the camp’s food distribution center, he had found a family of musicians performing for the refugees. The father sat on an overturned crate, plucking an oud, while his teenage daughter played the qanun and sang, her voice a small flame in the cold air. Two boys clapped rhythmically beneath her melody, laughing when they missed a beat.

The man’s wife and two other children, Zaid learned, had been killed in an Israeli airstrike months before. Yet there was no lament in the music. The song was about the orange harvest — how the whole village once turned out to gather the fruit, singing and calling to each other through the groves, their baskets heavy with organic gold.

The sound of the qanun in particular was the sound of Palestine itself – joyful, defiant, delicate but alive. It made Zaid’s heart soar. He stood among the refugees, humbled by their strength. This, he thought, was sabr.

His phone vibrated beside him, interrupting the memory. Rania. There was a sign on the wall that said no cell phone usage in the chapel, but there was no one else here at the moment, so Zaid answered the call.

“Assalamu alaykum Rania, what’s up?”

“Zaid,” she said. Her voice was tight. “I need your help. Deek is lost.”

“Lost? What do you mean—”

“At the San Joaquin. The river.” Her voice caught. “He’s gone. Meet me there, as fast as you can. I will text you the -”

“Rania, listen. I’m in Atlanta, I just—”

The line went dead.

Zaid lowered the phone, his pulse hammering. Then he raised his hands.

“O Allah, You are the Giver of life and the Rescuer of the lost. Grant Deek strength to hold fast, light to guide him, and mercy to carry him to safety. You know what we do not know. Protect him, Ya Rahman. Bring him back.”

He remained that way, palms open, as the sound of a departing plane rumbled through the floor beneath him.

Holding On

The vision of his wife, and the heat of her palms against his face, gave Deek an iron resolve he did not know he possessed. He felt utterly drained, yet he found the strength to keep his face above the swirling, racing water, even as it carried him along at a mad pace.

Again, a dark shape loomed ahead, not above the river this time but within it. It was a rock jutting from the current like the fin of some sleeping beast. With all the strength he had left, he swam toward it, not so much stroking with his arms as flailing them at the water. Yet he reached it. His chest slammed into the cold granite, arms wrapping around it. He clung there, trembling, his cheek pressed to the slick surface. His whole body shook with cold. He had lost feeling in his legs. His fingers would not close.

He clung there, not knowing why he bothered to continue trying. No one was coming for him, and he could not reach the shore on his own. He was going to die here. If that happened, he would take comfort in the fact that he’d raised two smart, strong daughters. And he’d done some good, hadn’t he? He’d donated large sums of money to important causes, and had saved Dr. Rana’s daughter, by the will of Allah. He’d started the process of establishing an Islamic school, and had secured his family’s financial future. All of that would continue. The trusts he’d set up would continue to pay his family, and the family office that the Indian kid was building – what was his name? Deek couldn’t think, couldn’t remember anything. The Indian kid, the family office, would do something…

But his wife. Rania didn’t care about the money, she was pure-hearted. She was better than he deserved. His dear wife was the saint of the family; she was the sun shining its warmth, and he was an anchor around her neck. Or maybe the anchor was around his neck, and it was this river pulling him down. All he knew was that Rania needed him. So he held on. Without hope, without warmth, without feeling in his hands, he held on.

***

Come back next week for Part 30 inshaAllah

 

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

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

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

Related:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

The post Moonshot [Part 29] – Holding On appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.