How von der Leyen embraced Israel's settler movement
EU boss accepted request to welcome land theft advocate.
EU boss accepted request to welcome land theft advocate.
Tom Artiom Alexandrovich was arrested in Las Vegas and is accused of attempting to lure a child but was released and left the country.
Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.
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
“When money speaks, the truth is silent.” — Yoruba proverb
A Fast DriveThe next few minutes passed in a daze. Deek’s breathing was shallow and rapid, and his skin felt clammy. Hot blood ran down the side of his face. Somehow, Marco loaded him into the passenger seat and single-handedly lifted Shujaa and dumped him in the back. His musky Yemeni cologne permeated the car’s interior. Who puts on cologne to attack someone?
History repeated itself as Deek found himself once again injured and being driven somewhere. His shirt was wet against his skin. His entire face hurt. The night was dark and suffocating, and the lights from the streetlights made him wince. He groaned and pressed a hand to his eye. Reaching for the seat lever, he reclined the seat until, with a jolt, it struck Shujaa’s legs.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Marco said. “You need the seat elevated to slow the bleeding from your head.”
But Deek could not raise the seat again, as he didn’t have the energy to sit up.
Marco – sitting on shattered glass and not caring – drove fast, making Deek rock from side to side. At one point he stopped, and Deek – feeling hazy and on the edge of blacking out – saw his friend step out of the car and pitch the gun into an inky black canal.
Shujaa recovered consciousness and began to moan, “Baba’s sendin’ me back to Yemen ‘cause o’ you, he’s sending me back. Ain’t nothin’ for me there, I’ll die there. He says I’m a loser and a failure, he don’ want me around. An’ is all your fault ‘cause you took my car. Why you got this stupid saxophone on top o’me, get it off.” He went on like that.
Sometime later – Deek couldn’t say how long – pulled up in front of Fresno Community Regional Medical Center. As strong hands helped him out of the car and onto a mobile gurney, he could smell the burning rubber of the car tires. Marco had turned that Porsche into a rocket.
Bleach and Lime“What happened to you, sir?” a woman’s Indian-accented voice asked.
“Glass in my eye.”
“Let us see. Move your hand.”
Inside, the hospital was chilly and loud, with people calling out, machines beeping, and doors opening and closing with a hiss. The corridors smelled of bleach and lime.
The gurney moved quickly, then rose in an elevator. An injection flooded into his arm. The pain faded, and as he sank into warm quicksand, he thought of Rania’s dark eyes and gentle hands. He needed her to toss him a line and pull him out. He needed her to save him.
Desperately AloneDeek Saghir woke up slowly, like a post-apocalyptic sun rising over a devastated world, yet shining onto a few green shoots springing up from the wasteland. His throat was dry, and his head was light, but he felt little pain. He opened his gummy eyes, then realized that he could only see out of his right eye. Reaching up a hand, he found his left eye bandaged, along with his left eyebrow and temple.
He was in a hospital room. Dim lighting, air whispering through a vent. A clear night sky outside the window, broken up by the silhouettes of two palm trees.
The delicately clear state of mind he had enjoyed for the last several days was gone. Deek’s chest was as full of emotion as a sea cave is full of water when the high tide rushes in. He felt desperately alone. He would have given his left hand at that moment for a hug from his wife.
What was this chaos that his life had become? Alone all the time, violence at every turn, thoughts of poverty and loss haunting him? Driving a wedge between himself and everyone he loved by throwing around piles of cash, as if money were a substitute for genuine caring and love. A substitute for actually being there. What was that saying, that ninety percent of success was just showing up? And wasn’t that true for family as well, that ninety percent of being a father—a good, genuine, loving father—was just showing up?
And he was not showing up. He had abandoned his daughters. How could he have done that? How had he not missed Sanaya’s quick wit, making fun of her university professors, sharing with him clips of old baseball games on YouTube—she’d played little league as a kid and been obsessed with the sport ever since—and telling him funny stories of the crazy things she witnessed at his job at the convenience store?
Or his dear Amira, always teasing him, losing to him at chess but never quitting, teaching him Spanish phrases and street slang that she learned from her Chicana friends at school, and always letting him know how much she loved him?
What was wrong with him? Tears came to his eyes. He moaned and rolled onto his right side, grabbing handfuls of his hair. The Namer’s potion had healed his terrible wounds after that first attack and cleared his mind, allowing him to fly in the sunlight above the clouds. But at what price? Yes, Deek was an emotional man, but by separating him from his emotion, the potion had divorced him from his own heart. Just as his family had been split asunder, he was like a great tree cut in half by a chainsaw.
Healed WoundsStartled by the sound of a snore on his left, Deek rolled onto his side to see with his right eye. Marco slept in a chair against the wall, his arms hanging limp, and the back of his head resting on the wall.
“Marco.” Deek’s voice came out low and hoarse, and he tried again, wiping his tears with the sleeve of the light blanket that was draped over him. “Señor Marco Feliciano Colón Tirado.”
Marco woke with a start, wiping non-existent drool from his chin. “You scared me, I thought I was back in Catholic school. How do you feel?”
“Where am I?”
“Fresno Regional. They operated on your eye. It’s…” Marco checked his phone. “Four in the morning.”
“Am I blind?”
“No, they say you’ll be okay.”
“Can I get some water?”
“Do you mind if I turn the light on?”
“Turn it on, man. Please turn it on.” Maybe banishing the external darkness would lighten his heart as well.
Marco filled a cup of water from a pitcher on the counter against the wall. It was cool and delicious, and Deek downed it all in one glass, then met Marco’s eyes.
“Ay Dios!” his friend exclaimed.
“What?”
“I saw you after those thugs attacked you. You were all beat up, dude. Black eye, split lip, blood coming out of your mouth, and blood pouring down the side of your face. Now look!”
“What?” he was getting annoyed. How was he supposed to know what he looked like?
“Your face is mostly healed. Just very light bruises. I mean, I can’t see the bullet wound, but the rest of your face looks good.”
You Saved MeDeek knew right away what had transpired. The Namer’s potion had used up the last of its strength healing his physical wounds, and had burned itself out in the process. That was why he was so emotional. His usual loving, desperate, bitter, envious, proud heart was reasserting itself.
Rather than feeling pleased that his wounds were healing quickly, he felt his pulse spike as guilt washed over him. Who was he to be worthy of such gifts? He was a wreck and a shame.
For just a moment, he considered going back to the Namer and asking for another dose. But no, he could not live his life in an artificially imposed state of rarefied clarity. He had to exist here, on the ground, in the real world. He had to learn to express love, be a good husband and a good friend, and to power it all with his heart, rather than a drug. This was his task: to wrestle with his own bitter soul and win the battle unaided.
He realized as well that Marco did not know that Shujaa was the one who had attacked him. Marco thought the thugs had done it. He must not have seen the first part of the fight. And – Deek remembered – Marco had saved his life. He remembered it as clearly as if it were a vision rising before his eyes: Marco swinging that trumpet like Jackie Robinson at bat, then grabbing the gun and scaring the thugs away.
He dropped the empty glass on the bed between his legs, reached for his brilliant and talented friend, and pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Oh! Qué pasa?”
“You saved me.” His voice was raw with emotion. He pushed Marco away to look him in the eye. “You could have been killed. What’s the matter with you?”
Marco blushed. “You’d have done the same for me.”
“Yes.” Deek sat back. “I would. Oh! Your poor trumpet! I’m so sorry, man. You have to let me pay for -” he froze. “Marco, where’s my car?”
“In the hospital parking garage.”
“With the window busted out?”
“I haven’t exactly had time to get it repaired.”
Deek groaned in dismay. “You remember the backpack I tried to give you at the restaurant?”
Marco laughed. “How could I not? It’s not every day you see that much -” Now it was Marco’s turn to pause. His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me it’s in the car?”
“Under the passenger seat. And there’s a second backpack with an equal amount under the spare tire. If it’s still there.”
“Ay Dios! I’ll be right back.”
Psychic Bond“Wait! I need my phone. Where’s my phone?” Had it been lost in the fight? His crypto wallets – and secret phrases – lived on that phone. Losing them would be disastrous. His stomach tightened at the thought.
“It’s here with the rest of your stuff.” Marco opened a cabinet and handed over a large plastic bag. Then he dashed out of the room like an Iranian spy with Saddam Hussein’s secret police on his tail.
Deek pawed through his bloodstained clothes, found his pants, and took his phone from the pocket. The screen was cracked, but the phone turned on and worked normally. Alhamdulillah. His shoulders sagged in relief.
Notifications popped up, showing several voicemails and messages from Rania. She had begun calling yesterday afternoon, only a few minutes after the attack had occurred. This didn’t surprise Deek. He and Rania had always shared a psychic bond. He knew how that sounded, which was why he never told anyone. But Rania always knew when he was in trouble, distressed, or hurt. In fact, now that he thought about it, he realized that rather than a two-way mental bond, it was Rania with the gift. She also knew when Sanaya or Amira were in distress. She was the one with the psychic boost.
“Habibi,” the first voicemail went. Hearing her voice brought Deek actual physical pain, like a heavy weight on his chest. Tears came to his eyes. “I know something is wrong. Call me right away, or I won’t be able to sleep.”
There were other voice messages along the same vein, each more panicked than the last.
Rather than call her at this hour, Deek wrote a text: “As-salamu alaykum honey. You’re right, I was in trouble. I got attacked on the street. But all is well. Just a few cuts and bruises. I’ll check in with you tomorrow inshaAllah.”
He checked his crypto wallets. The bull run was still plowing forward. His net worth was up another ten percent. He swapped some of the meme coins for stablecoins and utility coins, and shut it down. Sleepiness was washing over him like a river overflowing its banks, but he fought it, slapping his right cheek.
Dew On A FlowerMarco returned wearing two backpacks. “I’ve been peeking around corners, worried I’d run into Rania.”
Deek laughed. “She doesn’t work here. She’s at Kaiser, across town. Now listen. Your trumpet is ruined because of me. I want you to take $20K out of the backpack. No arguments! Get yourself the best trumpet money can buy.”
Marco pursed his lips, considering, then did as Deek had told him. He fanned the money beside his face. “I could get a custom Monette with this much money. A horn with a voice like liquid metal. Darkness wrapped in velvet, then dew on a flower.”
Deek’s smile stretched from cheek to cheek. “Beautiful. And don’t forget what I said.”
“You want to hear me recite the Quran.”
Deek nodded slowly. “You said it.”
“I might have a surprise for you on that front.”
Deek tried to say, What do you mean? But the words came out slurred. His eyelids were falling and he could not stop them, any more than a deep-sea diver can lift the sea off his own shoulders.
The Best Peoplea forest where people lived in slender white towers hidden among the trees…
He slept fitfully, waking up often either to drink water or urinate. Dreams came like a grave robber’s hammer, smashing a path into the hidden tomb of his heart, blow by blow: Rania had disappeared, but was said to have been sighted in a forest where people lived in slender white towers hidden among the trees. Deek sped through the forest in the Porsche, but could not find his wife… He was in London. He was supposed to meet Sanaya and Amira for lunch, but he was lost, and every turn took him deeper into a gray slum where the buildings shifted and changed shape…
Somewhere in the middle, he prayed Fajr, then went back to sleep. The next time he woke, bright sunlight was streaming in through the window. The palm trees were brown and green against a blue sky.
There was no sign of Marco, but a short Filipina nurse with tired eyes and a wide nose was checking his pulse. When she saw he was awake, she smiled and left the room without a word.
A tall, dark-skinned doctor wearing black scrubs and a white coat entered the room. Her blue hijab marked her as a Muslim, and her glasses were thick enough that if you were lost in the woods you could use them to focus the sun and start a fire. Deek thought she looked Pakistani, and his guess was proven correct when she spoke in a British-Pakistani lilt.
“I’m Dr. Ali. Let’s see how you’re doing.”
“What’s my prognosis?” Deek didn’t want to look like a one-eyed pirate for the rest of his life, with people pointing at him.
“Excellent. You will have to wear that patch for three days, then a clear eye shield for a bit.” She pointed to her own temple. “We sutured the laceration.”
He breathed a smile of relief. “Alhamdulillah. Thank you so much. Are you Pakistani?”
She gave a half-shrug. “Yes, British Pakistani. Why?”
“The best people in the world.”
“Pardon?”
“You Pakistanis.” He was filled suddenly with effusive affection toward this doctor. He was as fond of her as if she were his own sister. It was not a romantic attraction. He was simply grateful.
“I never met a Pakistani,” he went on, “who wasn’t honest and intelligent. In every smile, in every deed, they bear the Ummah’s hope in word and creed.” This was something he’d heard at a poetry recital at Masjid Madinah, and had stuck in his head.
She pulled her head back and grinned in amazement. “Why Mr. Saghir! Who is that by?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well. Your wife must love hearing such poetry.” She pointed to Deek’s wedding ring. “Speaking of which. Your friend wouldn’t give us your family’s contact info, and we could not open your phone. Do you want us to call your wife?”
“Not just yet. I don’t want her to see me like this.”
She tut-tutted. “You should know better. Husbands and wives see each other in every condition. Up or down, happy or sad. But now that you mention it…” She reached out and grasped Deek’s chin, turning his head one way and the other. “There’s hardly anything to see. You look tired, but aside from that, the speed of your recovery beggars belief. Only once before have I witnessed this kind of thing. I’m going to take this bandage off.” She peeled the bandage from the side of his head, then took a pair of glasses from her coat pocket and leaned in, studying the bullet wound.
B Flat“This is… I don’t know what to say. The wound is completely scabbed over. You don’t even need a bandage anymore.” She tossed the bandage in the biohazard bin. “I must ask. How did you get this wound?”
Again, he felt that flash of guilt and irritation. So what if his wounds were healing quickly? It wasn’t his fault. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“It appears to be a gunshot wound, but because it’s superficial, I can’t be sure. If it is, I am obligated to report it to the police.”
Police involvement was the last thing Deek wanted. He had not committed a crime, but he didn’t want to open a can of worms as the police investigated the gangsters, Shujaa, Bandar, and who knew what else
“A gunshot wound? My goodness! I remember being beaten with fists. And someone swung a trumpet as well.” Putting his college drama class skills to good use, for once.
“So it’s not a gunshot wound?”
“There was definitely a trumpet.”
To his surprise, Dr. Ali laughed. “As you wish, Mr. Saghir. I’m not a bobby. We’ll call it a trumpet wound. I’d say about a B flat. Because, you know, you be flat on your back.”
This terrible joke coming from a doctor with a British Pakistani accent sent Deek into a fit of giggles. It took him fully ten seconds to shut it down.
A Strange QuestionThe doctor’s face grew serious. “May I ask a strange question?”
“Sure. What?”
“Have you consumed any sort of holistic medicine? A liquid? Maybe… A dark blue liquid?”
She was describing the Namer’s potion. He studied her face, but her expression was unreadable. The people in the Namer’s neighborhood all knew her, but Deek had the distinct feeling that talking about her to strangers would be wrong.
He changed the subject. “Can you tell me about the young man who was brought in with me? Shujaa?”
“Is that his name? We have him as a John Doe. He was severely concussed and lost a lot of blood. He is in an induced coma. Do you have contact information for him?”
Again, Deek was not sure of the right thing. Shujaa had been moaning that his father wanted to send him back to Yemen. But it was not Deek’s place to interfere. He gave the doctor Shujaa’s full name and Bandar’s name, which she wrote down.
This would be the moment to reveal the fact that Shujaa was the one who attacked him. The police would be called, and Shujaa – if he recovered – would go to jail. But Deek said nothing. He pitied the foolish young man. Shujaa had suffered enough.
“Do you mind,” Dr. Ali said, “if we revisit the previous topic?”
“Which was?”
She glanced around, then spoke in a whisper. “The Namer. I would like to meet her.”
There. She’d said it. There was no doubt now what she was after. “I’ll pass on the request. That’s all I can do.”
The doctor shrugged. “Well, you can be discharged at any time, Mr. Saghir. Come back in three days to swap your eye patch for a clear shield. Do pass on my request.” She turned and left.
As impressed as Dr. Ali had been by Deek’s poetry recitation, she had been even more amazed and disturbed by his rapid recovery. He wondered what she wanted with the Namer. To learn from her? Or something more sinister? He snorted at the foolishness of his own thoughts.
Servants of Al-GhaniRising stiffly from the bed, he changed back into his dirty, bloodstained suit, which smelled like a street gutter, then realized he did not have the car key.
He texted Marco: “Do you have the car?”
As he was washing his face and pouring a cup of water, the reply came: “I took it to get detailed and have the window repaired. They’ll call you when it’s ready. You need a ride? I could borrow a car.”
“No, it’s fine.” He would take a rideshare.
He had intended to see Rania last night, after dropping off Marco, but he needed rest. A dark tide was creeping in at the edges of his mind. The Prophet Musa, peace be upon him, had crossed the sea, and now the water was crashing back in on itself, and Deek stood in the center like an idiot.
Who did he think he was, running around with a ton of money, thinking that everyone he loved and cared about would genuflect before him in gratitude? When in reality they were all servants of Al-Malik, Ar-Razzaq, Al-Ghani. Allah was the King and Master of all. He was The Provider from Whom all sustenance was derived, and He was The Most Rich, whose wealth never diminished, even if He were to grant the wishes of every human and jinn who had ever lived. Deek himself was no one, nothing. He was a supplicant, a beggar.
As Deek walked out of the hospital, exhausted and carrying almost half a million dollars in cash, he realized he was out of ideas. He did not know what his life meant, what the money represented, or what he should do beyond the next meal, or the next desperate sleep.
* * *
[Part 18 will be published next week inshaAllah]
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The post Moonshot [Part 17] – When Money Speaks appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.
Last week some videos went around showing a road safety activist (some call him a vigilante) named Michael van Erp, AKA Cycling Mikey, trying to stop a Fiat 500 going the wrong way up a partly closed road in west London and getting his bike knocked over and his property strewn over the street. The footage attracted the attention of some right-wing newspapers, some social media lawyers and some social media driving instructors, some of whom have criticised Mikey’s behaviour in the past and been blocked. Much of the commentary has been gleeful, as if Mikey “finally got his comeuppance”, and includes suggestions that Mikey broke the law by pushing his bike out to obstruct the Fiat, or “threw his bike into the road”, and ignores the multiple offences committed by the driver of the Fiat, which should not depend on Mikey reporting it. A YouTuber called Big Jobber, who has worked in the insurance industry, gives a fairly balanced explanation of the whole incident here.
Specifically, the driver of the Fiat, who had a child in their car, drove through a road that was clearly closed in the direction they were travelling in (the exit side had been closed because of roadworks; the entry side remained open, and there were numerous “road ahead closed” warning signs along the road at every junction, including at least one that was a viable diversion), then drove at a pedestrian who was in the process of entering the road ahead, causing damage to his property, then drove off without stopping; the latter is called “failing to stop after an accident”. This was witnessed by a number of bystanders, some of whom indicated that they recognised Mikey and some of whom also recorded their own footage. There will be other camera footage (shot by the local authority and the police) showing that the Fiat was in the area; if the social media footage is not good enough, that surely will be. Some of the commentators have suggested that Mikey’s actions constitute contributory negligence that will count against him if he has to claim on his insurance, but the Fiat driver’s actions were indefensible and plain criminal.
I have not much time for Cycling Mikey in the main; he is best known for riding around looking for people doing things they shouldn’t, such as using their mobile phone at the wheel, and publishing it online and sending the footage to the police. I have sometimes questioned how he has so much time to do this. I wrote about this in a previous entry on ‘snitching’ a couple of years ago, though I didn’t mention him by name then; most of the people he catches are stationary, not in motion and he was the classic example of the self-righteous snitch. But there’s also a world of difference between an inconsequential breach of the law and using your vehicle to barge someone out of the way — as a weapon — because you don’t have the patience to do what you should have done in the first place and find another route. The only crimes in this video were committed by the Fiat driver, and there were many of them.
When the Taliban swept back into power in August 2021, they did more than reclaim Kabul—they began a radical experiment in governance. At its helm sits an elusive figure, Supreme Leader Hibatullah Akhundzada, whose influence is felt more through edicts than appearances. From the corridors of power to the dusty streets of provincial towns, a new political order is being constructed—one rooted in religious legitimacy rather than technocratic expertise, national pride over international approval, and strict social norms over liberal freedoms. The result is a nation marked by contradiction: a government praised for restoring basic security even as it restricts girls from classrooms; a leadership hailed for rooting out corruption yet hindered by a lack of professional capacity; and a movement unified in appearance but quietly divided over the realities of state-building. On the ground, a complex picture emerges of a populace enjoying newfound security yet stifled by social constraints, and growing cracks between the ideals of the Islamic Emirate and the realities of running a fractured nation still reeling from decades of foreign occupation and civil strife.
Often referred to by his religious title Amir al-Mu’minin—a term historically used to denote the ruler of the Afghani people—Hibatullah Akhundzada was appointed Supreme Leader by the Taliban Leadership Council in 2016 and assumed ultimate authority over the Afghan state on 15 August 2021, following the Taliban’s spectacular victory over U.S.-backed forces after two decades of war. Since then, Akhundzada has seldom appeared in public and never addresses the press or the international community directly, helping curate a near-mythical status in Afghanistan. The Supreme Leader sits above any bureaucratised governmental positions, freeing him from the formality of government, and allowing his role to remain organic and uncompromising. Whilst he is rarely seen or heard, his edicts from above, conveyed through decrees and intermediaries, are profoundly felt by the people he rules over, and his numerous decrees have transformed the country’s system of governance.
When I found the opportunity to ask government officials and provincial governors about their enigmatic leader, I sensed both reverence for his position and deference to his authority, partly from a deeply rooted culture of obedience but also–after decades of war and instability–there is an appreciation of the need to close ranks in what is a period of vulnerability. Among his many executive powers, Akhundzada is responsible for governmental appointments at all levels, from the prime minister and other members of the cabinet to judges and provincial and local leaders.
The officials I spoke to working in the municipality of Kabul confirmed as much. The deputy mayor jovially explained how he had absolutely no relevant experience or expertise for his current role but was appointed by virtue of his achievements as a mujahid on the battlefield, his knowledge of Islam and his reputation for honesty and integrity. This, one senior scholar of the Taliban explained, is the defining feature of their system of governance: “This is the first time since the time of the Sahabah that the ulema control of all branches of government,” he proclaimed, arguing that their leadership has proven more effective than the so-called specialists who previously held these positions.
One such individual was Mohammed Khalid of the Mayoral Office, who appeared visibly delighted to have the opportunity to present the accomplishments of his administration. Speaking from the Mayoral complex—once occupied by U.S. forces—he eagerly outlined their initiatives aimed at tackling corruption and improving operational efficiency. Among the successes he highlighted were the cleaning and expansion of a canal in Kabul, the development of water distribution systems, and the planting of two million trees—all achieved with limited resources and at a fraction of the expected cost.
Khalid also described bold internal reforms, including the dismantling of several projects tainted by nepotism and the dismissal of 1,860 government employees whose primary activity appeared to be the misappropriation of public funds. The meeting concluded with a quiet acknowledgement that, despite the administration’s earnest efforts, further progress would require the support of skilled specialists, and ingenuity alone was not enough to elevate Afghanistan to the next stage in its development. “Tell the world the truth about what you see,” Khalid told me. “If there are mistakes, be open about it”. My visit to the Kabul Municipality reflected my broader impression of the departments and officials I encountered: warm, welcoming, and dedicated, yet constrained by international isolation—an issue that is, to some extent, of their own making.
The Taliban’s presence is now firmly established throughout the country. Even a short drive through Kabul involves passing multiple checkpoints manned by smiling, youthful, Kalashnikov-clad guards. Yet, their presence rarely feels oppressive or intrusive. Many locals attest to a transformation in the overall security situation. Before 2021, people were hesitant to even use their mobile phones in crowded public areas. To my amazement, I passed open-air currency exchangers handling bundles of cash, some even pushing wheelbarrows full, seemingly without a care in the world. The streets are unexpectedly clean and orderly, with a sense of calm and tranquillity that locals, having endured two decades of violence and instability, are vocally appreciative of, even while harbouring grievances with other aspects of the Taliban’s rule.
At the forefront of recurring grievances during my stay was the issue of girls’ education. Whether speaking to a street vendor in Kabul, a former Taliban fighter, or current ministers, the longer I remained, the more frequently I encountered frustration over the Taliban’s current ban on girls attending secondary school and beyond. Schools for Quran and Islamic studies are still open to girls of all ages, but secular education remains out of reach. One particularly striking conversation was with a civil engineer and long-time supporter of the Taliban, who expressed deep frustration over the lack of a clear plan for female education—he has daughters of his own and is desperate for them to have access to schooling.
Even senior figures within the current administration admit that the education ban has become a major obstacle to Afghanistan’s reintegration into the global economy, acknowledging that the two primary barriers to international recognition are the restrictions on girls’ education and ongoing security concerns. Notably, there are reports of some high-ranking Taliban members sending their own daughters to study in countries like Pakistan or Qatar—an indication of the internal divisions that exist beneath the movement’s outward display of unity. At the same time, the Taliban have appealed to members of the Afghan diaspora, particularly the intelligentsia, to return and help rebuild the country. But many have declined, unwilling to compromise their daughters’ education in exchange for appeals to national pride.
I spoke directly with one of the Taliban’s most respected scholars on the issue, who offered a passionate defence of their policy. He insisted that the Taliban is not inherently opposed to girls’ education, but views the current restrictions as a temporary measure aimed at shielding Afghan society from what he described as the corrosive influence of Westernisation. In his view, girls’ education has been used as a vehicle to undermine Islamic values and reshape women’s roles in ways that conflict with their moral framework. He was eager to point out that thousands of girls’ schools still operate across the country, where secular subjects are taught, and he assured me that education for girls would resume once the system had been comprehensively restructured in line with their principles. However, the core concern remains: no timeline has been provided—a fact that offers little comfort to those hoping for a swift return to normalcy.
This points to a broader issue within the new system of governance: a lingering uncertainty rooted in the absence of communication with the Afghan public. One senior minister candidly acknowledged this, telling me, “We are good in a practical sense, but we are not so good at communicating our message.” It’s a fair assessment that aligned with what I observed—whether in the absence of public explanations for the strict social edicts issued by the newly formed Department of Calling to the Good and Forbidding the Evil, or in the failure to articulate a clear political vision for the country’s future.
When I asked a senior official from the Interior Ministry about a timeline for the long-promised constitution—and whether it would be ratified by the people—he answered only the first part, saying a committee is currently working on its composition alongside the Supreme Court and the Supreme Leader. Notably, he gave no indication of a timeline. Perhaps more troubling is the lack of clarity around the question of leadership succession. In systems where power is concentrated in a supreme leader, authority is rarely relinquished except through death. The Taliban have given no indication of how a future transfer of power would take place. This ambiguity fosters further uncertainty, undermining efforts to build stability, reassure the population, and attract much-needed foreign investment to a country still reeling from decades of war.
This complex transition from insurgency to statecraft was perhaps best illustrated during a journey into the mountains of Paghman. As we set off for a hike through the breathtaking mountain passes, we were joined by Abu Khalid, a former mujahid turned government official. With a Kalashnikov slung casually over his shoulder, he climbed into the 4×4 and greeted me with a warm, affectionate smile. Having fought through two decades of war, Abu Khalid carried with him an endless trove of stories—tales of battles against U.S. forces delivered with vivid detail and tireless enthusiasm. Gazing out of the window, a glint in his eye and a faintly melancholic smile on his face, he spoke of his fallen comrades: “They were the lucky ones. They achieved martyrdom. Now we carry the heavy burden of running the state.” In that moment, I saw a man proud of their victory, yet quietly yearning for a simpler time—when the path was clearer, and the mission less burdened by the complexities of governance.
Afghanistan is often referred to as the graveyard of empires, and en route to Panjshir province to meet its governor, we encountered a stark visual reminder of that legacy — a vast expanse of decimated Soviet tanks stretching into the mountainous horizon. As we clambered over the rusting remnants of a once-feared empire, I was struck by how, for many, the Taliban have come to symbolise unwavering resistance to imperial domination — first against the Soviets in the 1980s, and more recently against the Western coalition over the past two decades. In their shift from insurgency to governance, their refusal to compromise on core principles or bow to international pressure regarding their vision for society has earned them admiration across parts of the Global South, where the spectre of Western imperialism is ever present. “It is important for us to maintain the mentality of Jihad in the people — the U.S. has done a lot of damage to the mindset of the people,” one senior official told me, highlighting the continued emphasis on preserving their ethos of religious struggle in a post-conflict era.
Afghanistan today stands at a fragile crossroads. Under the Taliban’s rule, the country has emerged from the chaos of occupation and civil war into a fragile order, one defined more by security than by inclusion. Despite the many contradictions at the heart of the Taliban’s rule, what I encountered across Kabul and beyond was a nation cautiously recalibrating after decades of war. Beneath the rigid ideology and the lingering opacity of leadership, there exists a cadre of officials determined to deliver change—often with limited resources but abundant resolve. From municipal reforms to local security improvements, there are signs, however modest, of a government attempting to build from the ruins of occupation and civil strife. The challenges are undeniable: restrictions on education, the absence of clear constitutional direction, and the lack of specialist expertise remain pressing concerns. Yet within the movement itself, and among its rank and file, there are voices calling for pragmatism and reform. If those voices grow louder—and are heeded—the Islamic Emirate could gradually shift from insular authority to engaged governance, rooted not only in religious conviction but in the trust and participation of its people. If the Taliban can evolve from rigid rulers to responsive stewards, Afghanistan may yet chart a path forward—one that honors its principles while finally breaking the cycle of isolation and instability.
Related:[Podcast] Man2Man: Afghanistan Beyond the Headlines | Abdullah Zikria
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More than 230 Palestinians in Gaza, including 106 children, have starved to death.
Isn’t fantasy football just for fun? How could it possibly be haram?
Omar Usman tackles the topic of sports gambling amongst Muslim men, how it has become unexpectedly common and acceptable, and the serious repercussions of gambling at a societal level. If you enjoy watching (and betting on) sports, or know someone who does, this khutbah is necessary to listen to and share with your friends!
Related:
The post [Audio] How Sports Gambling is Destroying Muslim Men | Omar Usman appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.
The Bosnian genocide that reached a pinnacle thirty years ago provoked widespread grief and horror both among Muslims and in the “West”. Yet little has been learned from the Bosnian tragedy, whose lessons continue to be relevant today both in Bosnia itself and in the wider world. This article will examine how the Bosnian genocide and issues around it retain relevance today.
The United States and Europe’s Sphere of InfluenceThe most obvious point of relevance is, of course, the fact that the United States and much of the rest of Europe still treat the former Yugoslavia as a “sphere of influence”, with regional envoys and ambassadors acting more as suzerains among squabbling vassals. In the case of Bosnia this was rendered official through the 1995 Dayton Accord, which entrenched the Serb-majority areas as a “state within a state” and insisted on a cyclically rotating leadership, based on ethnic group, that precluded any real settlement, truth, or reconciliation.
The respite that the Serb ethnonationalists received via the American war would encourage Serbia to turn on Albanians in Kosovo; when this happened, the United States flung on the mantle of rescuer and bombarded them so fiercely that they were forced to retreat. Washington then adopted the Kosovo region, which became an officially independent country in 2008 yet still retains enormous American influence, so that in recent years attempts to break away from American tutelage have met with regime change.
This means that the Yugoslavia conflict was never resolved but only “frozen”, and Serb irredentism unchecked: as recently as 2020 Washington urged a regime change against a Kosovo government seeking to break free from the American fold, and threatened the same government after it was voted back in power and confronted Serb irredentists. It is ironic that the United States’ continuing hegemony in the Balkans requires a maintenance of the same divisions whose resultant war Washington had claimed to stop in the 1990s.
Ethnonationalism and its Muslim VictimsOutside the region, there are eerie similarities between much contemporary nationalist politics and the Yugoslavia case. The way that Serb ethnonationalism, and to a lesser extent its Croat counterpart and rival, trained on an “alien” Muslim enemy was key both to the former Yugoslavia’s collapse and the Bosnian genocide.
With the officially universalist ideology of socialism in retreat, the 1980s saw a surge of nationalism throughout Yugoslavia, and this was most damagingly harnessed by Serbia premier Slobodan Milosevic. He attained a mass following largely by presenting Yugoslavia’s supposedly cosmopolitan establishment as indulgent toward ethnically-Albanian Kosovar criminality at the expense of the gallant Serbs. Yugoslavia had long feuded with Albania and this lent venom to the idea that Yugoslav Albanians were a fifth column, though in fact the crimes attributed to them were equally to be found among other groups.
In fact, of course, the Yugoslavia establishment was quite accommodating to Serb ethnonationalism, particularly under Milosevic, but the very fact of minoritarian participation meant that he could portray himself as champion of the Serbs and harness state resources toward Serb supremacism. From Kosovars to Croats and then Bosnian Muslims (Bosniaks) Serb ethnonationalism espoused by Milosevic, and taken even further by many regional ethnonationalists, found one enemy after another and provoked a backlash.
In the particular case of the Bosniaks, the Muslim factor was particularly key: they were presented as either the descendants or easily-led collaborators of Ottoman Turks, and various ideologists—even Biljana Plavsic, who briefly sat on Bosnia’s elected council—espoused racialist ideologies to argue for their inferiority. The parallels with numerous, mainly but not exclusively far-right, parties in and outside the West today are too obvious to notice.
Modern ParallelsGeert Wilders in the Netherlands made his career with sustained vilification of Muslims. Germany’s far-right competes with establishment “centrist” Friedrich Merz, who describes Arabs in animalistic terms. France has long been infamous for homogenizing autocracy against minorities in general, and Muslims most particularly under the cover of laicite.
In the same way as Milosevic fixated on Albanian “criminality”, various British far-right parties have adopted a racially selective approach to the issue of crime and sexual abuse and grooming gangs, which are to be demonstrated against only if of a certain hue and background; rabidly anti-Muslim minister Michael Gove contrived a much-hyped scandal by claiming that Islamists were trying to infiltrate British education. A large number of American politicians, especially those closest to Israel, have made careers of impunging Muslims.
Hindutva radicals
Nor is this an exclusively Western phenomenon: the attempt of India’s Hindutva trend to expunge Muslims from Indian society has ranged from total revisionism of the same sort that Serb ethnonationalists pursued against Bosniaks to everyday organized harassment to massacres, among whose key architects Narendra Modi was rewarded by becoming prime minister. Media, of both rightwing and liberal variety, is often willing to play along.
Though European states have made a habitual policy of issuing condolences every July, it appears that few have learned the lesson. This is epitomized in the glib condolences on the Bosnian genocide issued by European Union leader Ursula von der Leyen, herself an unambiguous supporter of a genocidal Israeli state whose extermination campaign against Palestinians has relied on much the same rabid anti-Muslim viciousness and often the same strategies, such as ethnic cleansing for territorial supremacy, that the Serb ethnonationalists used in Bosnia.
Western IndifferenceIt should be noted that, much as Israel’s anti-Muslim propaganda found a willing ear in Europe and North America, even the Bosnia of the 1990s was viewed with callous indifference if not outright hostility by major European leaders. Francois Mitterrand bluntly rejected the idea of Bosnia as a viable European state; any doubt that this was related to Islam could be cleared by the remarks of British officials who spoke of a “painful but realistic restoration of a Christian Europe”.
Despite a centuries-long heritage, Bosnia’s Muslims were viewed not only by random bigots but at the top levels of government as alien by virtue of their Islam. That so many Bosnians held onto Islam in such circumstances is a remarkable feat and a sign of Allah’s favour. Decades of secularization in the Balkans at large has led to a frequent tendency to view Bosniaks as only nominally or culturally Muslims, yet their commitment to their religion and identity under the harshest duress was remarkable.
Foreign Governments: Sympathy and Muted SupportOne major difference between the 1990s and the current period was the initiative of many Muslims, both governments and private individuals, in attempting to alleviate Bosnia’s plight. A United Nations embargo, which practically left Bosnia defenceless against already-armed opponents, came under considerable criticism from Muslim countries; though several joined the United Nations peacekeepers, they were vocally critical of the mission’s passiveness.
Pakistani units led by Qasim Qureshi, Bangladeshi units by Fazlur-Rahman, and Egytian units led by Hussein Abdel-Razek manned important fronts but made no secret of their discontent, particularly at the inequity of the embargo. In fact Pakistani spymaster Javed Nasir made an attempt to break the embargo, for which the United States pressed Islamabad to sack him in spring 1993.
Gulf States Humanitarian Aid and FrictionsHasan Cengić, Bosnian Finance Minister (1992–1995), known as the “Flying Imam” for his diplomatic fundraising flights.
It was only a year later, when Washington was able to mediate between its primary vassal Croatia and Bosnia, that it turned a blind eye to Iranian weapons, sent by Ali Fallahian and Akbar Torkan. Other governments, such as the Gulf states, sent humanitarian and financial support, particularly such Gulf states as Saudi Arabia—handled by future king Salman bin Abdul-Aziz, who had experience doing the same for Afghanistan’s anticommunist insurgency in the 1980s—and Kuwait.
The Bosnian finance minister Hasan Cengic, whose frequent journeys abroad to obtain support earned him the moniker of “Flying Imam”, particularly aimed to get support. Valuable as donations were, they were occasionally delivered through zealous advocates of the Islamic schools predominant in Arabia, who would occasionally object to what they perceived as Bosniak irreligiosity.
One tract by a foreign volunteer, using Kuwaiti official channels, to chide the Bosniaks for what allegedly incorrect religious practices provoked a sharp response from Bosniak preachers such as Dzemaluddin Latic and Enes Karic: not only were Bosniaks emerging from years of enforced secularism but their school of Islam anyway differed. These frictions were relatively rare but were later exaggerated for political reasons after the United States assumed the role of suzerain in the Balkans: they were used to portray foreign Muslims at large as intolerant fanatics unaccustomed to Bosniak tradition.
The Cost of Paranoia: Foreign Fighters and Their BetrayalUndoubtedly the most famous aspect of foreign support were mostly Arab foreign fighters recruited to the Bosniak army. These came largely independent of state support, though Bosnia’s opponents accused Sudanese diplomat Fatih Hassanain of recruitment. The best-known figure, though he actually left Bosnia quite early on other commitments, was Hadrami recruiter Mahmoud Bahadhiq, known as Abu Abdul-Aziz Barbaros for his red beard.
Muhammad Habashi (Abul-Zubair), from Makkah, was another Arabian volunteer who set up a volunteer battalions. A Hezbollah force from Lebanon, led by Ali Fayad, also arrived in support. The Bosnian army set up units, led by Asim Koricic, Amir Kubura, Serif Patkovic, and Halil Brzina, to work with the Arabs, as did local volunteers organized by the preacher Nezim Halilovic. The most famous foreign Muslim unit was led first by a Libyan doctor, Abul-Harith, and then Jamal Abul-Maali.
Media Propaganda and Smear CampaignsNot only did Serbian media vilify these foreign fighters to scaremonger about a Muslim invasion on the gates of Europe, but their propaganda found welcoming ears abroad. Several Israeli writers and analysts poisoned the discourse. A case in point is Yossef Bodansky, a rabidly anti-Islam “expert” for the American congress. He acted on behalf of both the Israeli and Serbian governments, and regularly scaremongered about Bosnia’s “radical” regime: over the next fifteen years he would produce similar alarmist propaganda ranging from Chechnya to Sudan. Anti-Muslim alarmists such as Steven Emerson also made their name in American security circles by scaremongering on Bosnia.
The upshot was that the American “rescuers” of Bosnia were singularly suspicious of “Islamism” in Bosnia and sought to contain it. The 1995 Dayton Accord, which institutionalized ethnic cleansing campaigns against Bosnia under an American protectorate, was accompanied by the assassination of Abul-Maali, which was widely suspected on American intelligence. Just months earlier a more radical militant who had taken refuge in Denmark, Talaat Qassem, entered the Balkans, only to be abducted at Croatia in the first “extraordinary rendition” carried out by American intelligence. Qassem had links with Ayman Zawahiri’s insurgent organization against Cairo, and an acquaintance with Anwar Shaaban, another Bosnia volunteer who disappeared at about this point. Such episodes were used in a guilt-by-association smear campaign accusing Bosnia volunteers at large as Qaeda: after 2001, this became an entire sub-genre within the counterterrorism industry.
Consequently the United States also became more paranoid against foreign Muslims in Bosnia. Many Arab fighters had married and lived law-abiding lives in Bosnia after the war, with the protection of Alija Izetbegovic’s government. After Izetbegovic died, the United States exerted increasing pressure on Sarajevo to monitor or expel the Arabs, warning that their retention might jeopardize Bosnia’s entry into the European Union. In the late 2000s the United States systematically undermined Bosnian interior minister Tarik Sadovic, complaining that he would not crack down on the Arabs.
“They Look Alien”Abu Hamza, a Syrian volunteer during the Bosnia war.
Exploiting and exaggerating the brief religious friction between Arabs and Bosniaks from the 1990s, American diplomat Raffi Gregorian tried to portray a crackdown on Arabs as a defence of Bosniak tradition against fanatics: “They look alien,” he snapped. “They talk alien. They act alien. This is a parochial society that has its own approach to Islam, and they don’t fit in.” In the prevalent paranoia of the “war on terror” there was simple scope to remark on the irony of an American diplomat asserting who was and was not alien to Bosnia, about Arabs who had risked their lives to help the country against a genocide. The contrast with the glowing coverage of, for example, foreigners fighting in Ukraine—even those of pointedly radical, such as far-right, colours—is too stark to miss.
The truth was of course that these “aliens” had risked their lives to help Bosnia against the hostility or indifference of various foreign states, and even the helpless political inaction of most Muslim countries. With little meaningful justice for Serb genocidaires, it is hardly a surprise that in recent years Milorad Dodik, the unrepentant leader of this Bosnian-Serb unit, has aggressively resorted to the same sort of rhetoric that coloured the genocide, nor that Bosnia’s governments have generally been helpless to do much about it. The genocide remains keenly relevant in Bosnia because the rhetoric and political frameworks that incited it run rampant under the American-European aegis.
Conclusion: Lessons Still ResonateThe Bosnian genocide is also relevant abroad. For millions of foreign Muslims in the 1990s it was a shocking reminder of the depth and extremes of anti-Muslim nationalism; for minority Muslims in particular it served as a wake-up call to how far supposedly neutral institutions might go to shield the worst anti-Muslim crimes. With an even bloodier genocide taking place today that has killed, maimed, starved, and expelled Palestinians by the millions in the most sadistic ways; the strained efforts of various institutions throughout the West to deny the evidence of their eyes in favour of Israel; and the impunity with which Israel’s supporters regularly incite anti-Muslim animus from Amsterdam to Los Angeles—the lessons of the horrors experienced by Bosnia’s Muslims in the wreckage of Yugoslavia resonate with us today.
Related Posts:History of the Bosnia War [Part 1] – Thirty Years After Srebrenica
The post History Of The Bosnia War [Part 2] – The Continuing Relevance Of The Bosnian Genocide appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.
Drones lit up Amman’s skies as global chefs hosted five-course dinners.
Brussels and Tel Aviv brainstorm on funding new weapons amid genocide.
Alḥamdulillāh.
This is not a clickbait title. It is a serious question—one that haunts countless Muslim hearts around the world, especially as they witness genocide broadcast in real time, funded and shielded by the world’s most powerful empire. And now, as Israel continues to brazenly bomb Syria—again and again—without a single missile fired in return, without even the illusion of deterrence, the truth becomes undeniable: Israel never sought a just peace, and it never will. Its record is long and well-documented by countless international institutions and human rights organizations—marked by massacres, ethnic cleansing, an entrenched apartheid regime, flagrant violations of international law, and the continued occupation of Palestinian land. And America gives Israel everything it needs to do that and to dominate, destabilize, and subjugate our Muslim people—defending it at every level, from UN vetoes and massive military aid to proxy wars, diplomatic impunity, economic coercion, and total narrative control through its monstrous media apparatus.
And let me be clear at the outset: this is not an expression of hatred toward Jews, so don’t be quick to dismiss it as an anti-Semitic rant. As Muslims, we have lived alongside Jews for centuries, and—aside from the hypothetical case of Unitarian Christians who uphold Mosaic law—no religion is closer to Islam—ritually, legally, and theologically—than Judaism. We yearn for a just peace, one in which we can welcome our Jewish cousins back—from the Euphrates to the Nile—not as overlords, but as co-citizens, with dignity and justice for all.
So let us begin. But before we proceed further, let me distill the reality into two unshakable premises—both supported by overwhelming evidence and visible to anyone not numbed by propaganda or paralyzed by moral confusion. These are not abstract positions. They are the foundation upon which this entire discussion rests, and if one cannot accept them, it is unlikely that anything that follows will make sense.
1. Two Premises We Will Not DebatePremise 1: Israel is an evil entity—not merely a misguided aggressive state. It is a settler-colonial project grounded in ethnic supremacy and systemic dehumanization. It seeks to dominate and subjugate the surrounding Muslim region—indeed, Muslims from Casablanca to Jakarta—by brute force, espionage, sabotage, and genocide.
Premise 2: America enables this. Some used to say Israel is the West’s arm in subjugating Muslim lands. Today, the stronger case may be the reverse: that America is subordinated—morally and politically—to the Zionist project. Whether one calls it a “special relationship” or strategic alliance, the fact is that America has become so entangled in Israeli interests that its institutions, diplomacy, and credibility are routinely sacrificed for Israel’s impunity.
I will leave aside the CIA’s covert operations, regime changes, and empire-building. What I want to focus on here is the primary reason why America is hated across the Muslim world—its undying, militant, and shameless support for Israeli crimes against our people over the last 77 years.
2. So, Should We Hate America?If it is true—as the evidence overwhelmingly shows—that Israel has spent decades committing massacres, enforcing apartheid, and occupying Palestinian lands and other territories of neighboring countries, and if it is equally true that the United States protects, funds, and shields it at every level, then the question is not rhetorical:
Should we, as Muslims, hate America?
There are three common answers:
An absolute yes—fueled by righteous anger, but often collapsing into indiscriminate rage that blurs moral distinctions, alienates allies, and undermines strategic action.
An absolute no—which too often amounts to denial, normalization, or silence in the face of horror.
A muddled answer — driven by confusion, personal entanglement, or a performative pursuit of hollow intellectualism, often resulting in moral paralysis or the quiet normalization of injustice.
I reject all three. What we need instead is a fourth position: not neutrality, not moral compromise, but principled clarity. One that recognizes the full extent of America’s complicity, names it without hesitation, and yet insists on responding with justice, discipline, and purpose—not blind fury or empty slogans. This is not about softening the truth. It is about staying anchored to it—so that our resistance is not only fierce, but meaningful.
This may be the first question we need to ask ourselves: Are we hateful people? Does Islam allow us to hate a country, a people, a civilization?
To answer that honestly, we must begin not with their slogans, but with our own tradition. Then we can examine what others preach—and whether they live by what they claim.
Don’t be fooled by propaganda that tells you to “love your enemies.” They want you to love the ones who buried your children under the rubble—as they continue to bury them. They want you to love the settlers in al-Khalīl (Hebron) who terrorize the indigenous population, your brethren, and subject them to unthinkable daily humiliation and violence. It is not enough for them to steal your home; they want your embrace as they do it.
Yes, we hate oppression and the oppressors. We love our human family—the children of our father Ādam (ʿalayhi al-salām)—but we do not love evil or those who embody it. We do not suspend moral judgment in the name of abstract universality. We hate evil and we hate those who embody evil, insofar as they embody it. But we do not hate their transcendent egos—their souls—for we still hope for their repentance, their guidance, and ultimately their salvation.
This is not emotional vindictiveness. This is al-barāʾ—the principled disavowal of injustice and those who persist in it.
4. What Is “America,” and What Shapes Its Conscience?Some ask, “But what is America? Is it the land, the system, the elites, or the people?” It’s a fair question. We must always distinguish between parts and wholes. Just as it is crude to reduce individuals into their collectives, it is equally misleading to ignore the existence of larger structures, dominant trajectories, and the reality of a collective conscience—a national posture that emerges through patterns of behavior, policy, and public sentiment.
And the American collective conscience regarding Israel is shaped by several dark and destructive forces:
a. Apocalyptic Religious FanaticismAmong a significant segment of evangelical Christians, the Zionist project is not about justice or history. It is about facilitating the return of Christ. They believe Jews must return to Palestine, even if it means war and bloodshed, to fulfill prophecy. Unlike Catholics, many evangelicals also carry a theological inferiority complex—believing that Jews are divinely chosen in an absolute and ongoing sense, even by bloodline. As Muslims, we do not deny that righteous among the Children of Israel were chosen by God at specific times in history. But that chosenness was always contingent upon faith and obedience—not ethnicity—and it was never a blank check for oppression.
b. Projected Guilt from European AntisemitismEurope’s centuries of violent antisemitism—culminating in the Holocaust—have produced in Western societies a deep guilt. But instead of facing their crimes, many have outsourced the cost of that guilt to the Palestinians. Support for Israel becomes an act of catharsis, even if it means cheering on oppression.
c. Social DarwinismAmong certain secular elites, Israel is admired not in spite of its ruthlessness, but because of it. Its material success, military dominance, and strategic cunning are seen as self-justifying. Within this framework, power is its own proof, and survival its only ethic. The fact that Israel can impose its will is taken as evidence that it has the right to do so—regardless of the moral cost or human toll.
d. Mass Apathy and PropagandaMany Americans do not know, do not care, or have been deliberately misinformed. A media apparatus that is not only corporate but deeply corrupted, cynically manipulative—shamelessly complicit in manufacturing consent for war and whitewashing Israeli crimes—works hand in hand with bought-and-paid-for politicians and a deeply compromised educational system to produce a public too apathetic to care and too distracted to ask.
e. Political Cowardice and CorruptionFrom Congress to the White House, fear of AIPAC and the broader Israel lobby defines American politics. Some officials are morally weak; others are fully bought. Some are bribed, and some—like Jeffrey Epstein’s known associates—are likely blackmailed. And Epstein, after all, is just the one who got caught. We don’t know how many Epsteins are still out there, nor how deep the web of compromise runs. But the result is the same: a political system that safeguards Israeli impunity at virtually any cost, even when it violates American interests, morality, or global standing.
f. Identitarian Religiosity and IslamophobiaFor many in the West—religious and secular alike—support for Israel is not just about Israel. It is about opposition to Islam itself. Islam has long been cast as the civilizational “Other,” and in a world increasingly fragmented by culture wars, many view Muslims not as fellow citizens of the world, but as ideological threats. For some Christians, Islam is the antichrist religion. For many secularists, it is a relic of the past. In this framework, Israel becomes a symbolic bulwark of the West against the rise or resurgence of Islam—no matter how unjust its actions may be.
g. Imperial RealpolitikFor much of the 20th century—especially during the Cold War—Israel was seen as a vital outpost for American power: a stable, militarized ally in a volatile region, serving as both intelligence hub and deterrent against Soviet-leaning Arab states. In that era, Washington viewed Israel as a necessary tool to maintain Western dominance over oil routes, suppress regional independence movements, and counterbalance nationalist or Islamist uprisings.
But times have changed. The Cold War is over. Most Muslim-majority countries today are not anti-American by default, and many are open to meaningful partnerships based on mutual interest and respect. In fact, the economic, demographic, and geopolitical advantages of fair alliances with the Muslim world far outweigh the diminishing returns of blind support for an apartheid regime that isolates America, inflames global resentment, and tarnishes its credibility.
America has everything to gain by reassessing this obsolete arrangement—and everything to lose by clinging to it. Yet America remains blindfolded.
You may be surprised to see this listed here, and you may have expected antisemitism to be a force aligned with the Palestinians. But we are a nation committed to justice, and we strive to see things as they are. Some antisemites are motivated by religious resentment toward Jews for rejecting Jesus and may feel closer to Muslims who honor him as one of the greatest messengers of God and his mother as a virgin and saint. Yet, most antisemitism today is rooted not in theology, but in delusions of racial or ethnic supremacy. And those who harbor such views may despise not only Jews, but even more other Semites—namely Arabs, and by extension, Muslims. It is worth remembering that many of the political forces that supported the creation of Israel were driven not by sympathy for Jews, but by a desire to relocate their so-called “Jewish Problem” to lands far away from Europe. That tragic calculus had nothing to do with justice for either people—and we are all still living with its consequences.
5. But There Is More to America Than ThatYes, the system is corrupt. But no, it is not absolute.
a. Individuals of Conscience Still Speak OutThere are journalists, activists, clergy, and ordinary citizens who continue to speak the truth—not out of political opportunism, but from a place of moral conviction. Some are secular humanists, animated by the belief in the equal worth of all human life. Others are Christians who draw on the ethical core of their tradition— not on identitarian religion, apocalyptic fantasies, or the theology of empire, but the example of the prophets. Many have paid dearly. Rachel Corrie gave her life standing in front of an Israeli bulldozer to protect a Palestinian family’s home. Aaron Bushnell died in flames outside the Israeli Embassy to protest a genocide the world dares not name. Norman Finkelstein, the son of Holocaust survivors, was effectively pushed out of academia—denied tenure and marginalized—because he defended Palestinian rights with unflinching integrity and dared to challenge the sacred myths of power—they are proof that conscience still breathes, even within a system built to suppress it.
b. Fragile but Functional InstitutionsAmerica still offers, for now, limited space for dissent. The judiciary remains independent to a great extent—often capable of resisting political interference and upholding constitutional rights. But freedom of speech, while constitutionally protected, is not always consistently or equally granted—especially when it comes to criticism of Israel or advocacy for Palestinian rights. Social, professional, and institutional pressures often suppress certain voices long before the courts ever intervene. And even the judiciary is ultimately constrained by laws crafted by a legislature increasingly compromised by lobbyists, ideological capture, and foreign influence. If these trends continue, even the remaining institutional safeguards may not hold.
c. Real Patriots Still ExistThere are Americans who love their country not because it is powerful, but because they believe in what it claims to be. They see blind support for Israel—especially when it undermines American values or endangers its true interests—as a betrayal of the country’s founding principles. For them, dissent is not treason; it is a responsibility. They want an America that is respected, not merely feared; admired, not resented. And they understand that such an America cannot coexist with the defense of apartheid, military occupation, and the open shielding of war crimes.
6. To Muslims Abroad: Don’t Be Naïve—And Don’t Be DividedThis message may not reach you. But if it does—and you still do not see Israel as your existential enemy—then you are either comatose, or you have been bought. And if you still believe that America can serve as a fair broker between you and Israel, then you are dangerously mistaken—for it is not brokering peace, but managing your submission.
To the leaders, diplomats, and strategists among you:
No one is asking you to fight America. But you must:
You are looking at America from a distance. No one can blame you for focusing on the collective impact—the violence, the instability, the devastation you feel in your daily lives. And how could I possibly tell the parents of children buried beneath rubble not to hate the entity that supplied the weapons and shielded the killers?
I only ask this: take a closer look at the picture every now and then—examine its details. When you do, you’ll see that America is not a monolith. The reality inside is more layered and more conflicted than it appears from a distance. And I know that most of you already do.
I also ask that you:
Demand that your leaders act with dignity and strategic clarity—but also understand their constraints. Even China cannot reclaim what it sees as its own island, Taiwan, for fear of confronting the American military machine. Do not expect your governments to do what even superpowers hesitate to do.
Instead, work for righteous governance—without plunging your lands into chaos. There is a place for armed struggle, such as in the case of Syria under mass butchery, but most of the time, civil and principled struggle for reform is safer, more enduring, and more consistent with our religious values. Your enemies want to see you divided, disillusioned, and self-destructive. Do not give them that satisfaction.
And most importantly: be introspective. Your enemies did not make you weak—they only exploited the weakness you left unaddressed. They have benefited from your divisions, your corruption, your disorganization. Be angry with America. But be angrier with yourselves.
7. On Asymmetric Warfare and Moral and Strategic LimitsIf the West stands firmly behind Israel, does that mean Muslims must suspend resistance until they are strong enough to defeat the entire Western bloc militarily? No—it doesn’t work like that. The West will not support Israel forever. It will stop when the cost becomes unbearable—politically, economically, and morally.
But until then, Muslims around the world ask: What should we do? Does asymmetric warfare have a legitimate role in resisting Israeli hegemony and oppression?
Sometimes asymmetric warfare is the only option—but necessity does not excuse lawlessness, and desperation cannot replace guidance. In Islam, warfare must be governed by Sharīʿah, not by emotion or expediency. Also, asymmetric resistance is sometimes necessary, but often insufficient—and it can never replace long-term strategy aimed at decisive, just, and lasting victory. It may delay defeat, but it rarely delivers final success unless it is part of a broader vision rooted in divine guidance, moral discipline, and strategic clarity. Here are some guiding thoughts:
We do not mirror our enemies’ crimes.
Islam forbids us from targeting women, children, and medics—even if our enemies do so without remorse. Moral clarity is not a luxury; it is a command. Yes, those on the weaker side often lack the luxury of precision. And yes, it is unimaginably difficult to maintain moral discipline while your children are buried under rubble by an occupier defending apartheid. But الدنيا سجن المؤمن—“this world is the prison of the believer”—and the Sharīʿah, when rightly understood, does not place us at an insurmountable disadvantage. It binds us to justice, not helplessness.
Asymmetric warfare is costly to the weaker party.
In Islam, leaders are not permitted to recklessly endanger their troops or populations. Sharīʿah requires that the expected benefit of armed resistance must clearly outweigh the potential harm. This decision must not rest with religious scholars alone. Their role is to outline the moral and legal parameters. But the actual assessment of benefit and harm must be made by those with expertise in warfare, politics, intelligence, and public welfare. Moral legitimacy depends not only on intent, but on responsibility and sound judgment.
The decision to take Muslims to war belongs to legitimate leadership
Islam does not grant individuals the right to unilaterally initiate warfare—whether symmetrical or asymmetrical. Acting without authority (iftiʾāt ʿalā al-sulṭān) is a violation of the Sharīʿah and a betrayal of communal trust. No individual has the mandate to drag an entire people into war based on personal judgment or zeal. On this, there is—and should be—no disagreement, not only among scholars, but among all sane and responsible people.
Public opinion matters—now and always.
The war for global perception is not trivial. The Prophet ﷺ took great care to consider how actions would be interpreted, and how they might affect the long-term credibility of the message. He once said, “So that people do not say…” (لا يتحدث الناس) when refraining from an action that could be misunderstood. Caring about how we are seen is not weakness—it is wisdom. This is even truer when we cannot defeat our enemies militarily and must rely on moral clarity, global awareness, and public support to sustain our struggle.
Build power—don’t merely react.
Allah says:
﴿وَأَعِدُّوا لَهُم مَّا اسْتَطَعْتُم﴾
“And prepare against them whatever you are able…” (al-Anfāl 8:60)
This is not just a call to arms—it is a call to capacity. Asymmetric warfare may resist occupation, but it rarely delivers decisive or enduring victory. Even in Vietnam and Afghanistan, America was not forced into military surrender—but it was outlasted, outmaneuvered, and compelled to retreat, unable to impose its political will despite overwhelming force. But Palestine is different. Israel will not leave. And America will not leave Israel—unless the cost becomes too high to sustain.
The Prophet ﷺ said three times:
”ألا إنَّ القوَّةَ الرَّميُ ألا إنَّ القوَّةَ الرَّميُ ألا إنَّ القوَّةَ الرَّميُ”
“Indeed, strength lies in shooting.” (Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim)
Today, “shooting” means delivering the most accurate and devastating strike—faster and farther than your enemy. This requires not only weapons, but excellence in science, engineering, and systems. But military power is not built in isolation. A B-2 bomber isn’t built on physics alone—it depends on an entire society cultivating long-term investment, human development, discipline, creativity, and trust.
And even that is not enough.
A society that achieves technological mastery but neglects justice and righteousness will not be honored by God. The Prophet ﷺ said:
“كيف يقدس الله أمة لا يؤخذ لضعيفهم من شديدهم؟!”
“How can Allah sanctify a nation in which the rights of the weak are not taken from the strong?”
And even justice is not the final goal. If our efforts are not for Allah, then even our achievements are weightless. Allah says:
﴿وَقَدِمْنَا إِلَىٰ مَا عَمِلُوا مِنْ عَمَلٍ فَجَعَلْنَاهُ هَبَاءً مَّنثُورًا﴾
“And We will turn to whatever deeds they had done, and make them as scattered dust.” (al-Furqān 25:23)
So let our short-term strategy and long-term vision move in harmony—toward a revival that is powerful, principled, and anchored in God. Asymmetric warfare may be a phase in our struggle, but it must not become our identity. It is a response, not a strategy; a tool, not a philosophy.
8. To Muslims in America: You Live Inside the PictureYou do not have the luxury of distance. You see this system up close. And if you allow your anger to collapse into total despair, you will never help change it. You live inside the picture. And while it’s necessary to step back at times to see the whole, your proximity also binds you to the details: to the institutions, the individuals, the mechanisms, and the nuances. You must learn to engage both the part and the whole—to see the system for what it is, and to act within it wisely and effectively.
You must:
Yes—hate the corrupt elements of the system and its protagonists, and stay angry at the entrenched forces that profit from your despair and feed off injustice—those who manipulate power, suppress truth, and normalize cruelty:
But do not reduce all of America to these forces. Let your anger sharpen your vision—not blind it. Do not allow rage to erase the virtues that still exist within this system, or the individuals of conscience who, in some cases, have done more than you or me in defense of truth and justice.
If your hatred becomes blind, you’ll be unable to act with clarity or purpose. And if you are so overcome that you can no longer function here emotionally or spiritually, no one can blame you for seeking peace elsewhere. That may well be the wisest choice for your well-being and the well-being of your family.
But for those who remain: Don’t be domesticated. Don’t be defeated. Don’t be consumed.
Final ThoughtsIn Gaza, I witnessed firsthand how non-Muslim American doctors were embraced by the people—even after it became known that they were American. The doctors were surprised. I was not. This is who we are. This is what Islam teaches.
Stay angry. But stay just.
Be sharp. But be kind.
Be strategic. But be principled.
And never forget: this is not merely a struggle for land. It is a struggle for the future of truth and justice—for the dignity of all humanity.
وصلى الله على محمد والحمد لله رب العالمين
Related:The post The Terrorist Entity of Israel Is Our Existential Enemy — Should We Hate America? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.
Jumilla’s ban on gatherings in public sports centres breaches right to religious freedom, says Madrid
Spain’s central government has ordered officials in a Spanish town to scrap a ban on religious gatherings in public sports centres, describing it as a “discriminatory” measure that breaches the right to religious freedom as it will mainly impact Muslims.
“There can be no half-measures when it comes to intolerance,” Ángel Víctor Torres, the minister for territorial policy, wrote on social media on Monday. Rightwing opposition parties, he added, “cannot decide who has freedom of worship and who does not”.
Continue reading...Yesterday, at a protest organised by Defend Our Juries in Parliament Square, London, more than 500 protesters, many of them elderly, were arrested for holding banners supporting the organisation Palestine Action, proscribed last month after invading an RAF base to spray red paint into the engines of two aircraft used to refuel planes which conduct spying missions over Gaza out of RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus. The group has carried out a series of actions targeted at companies which supply the Israeli military and this was going on well before the genocide began in 2023; there had been calls to proscribe them before, but the decision was made once the news of the Brize Norton air base invasion broke. Nothing the group has ever done meets any traditional definition of terrorism; they have never killed anyone, nor carried out any action that endangered or was intended to intimidate the general public, but the Terrorism Act 2000 uses a broader definition that does away the need for a group to target the general public or try to kill anyone. At the time, animal rights activists were running a “direct action” campaign targeting companies that bred animals for experimentation, some of which were family farms, and their tactics were often described as terrorism. The same act also criminalises not only carrying out group activities or fundraising, but any public expression of support, such as carrying a banner or wearing a T-shirt giving the impression of support, or making statements which are reckless as to whether they give the impression of support. All this for organisations which need not be involved in actual terrorism; rather, it’s terrorism if the government call it that.
It’s no secret that some powerful people are annoyed at the continual protests in London against the genocide in Gaza. We frequently have Jewish accounts on Twitter whingeing that London “is not safe for Jews” every Saturday (as that’s the day they are usually held); one the occasion that the protesters wanted to demonstrate at the BBC’s Broadcasting House, the government intervened to ban it, on the grounds that there was a synagogue a few streets away and it was the Sabbath. There are, however, rarely arrests at these events for anything more than speech offences under the aforementioned Terrorism Act. The same cannot be said, of course, for the “peaceful demonstrations” outside hotels housing migrants or refugees arrived via the “small boat” route; these demonstrations routinely attract thuggish elements and have led on a number of occasions to violent acts that target the migrants themselves, and when people have posted on social media calling for such hotels to be burned, and are convicted of long-established crimes of incitement to violence, we see Reform supporters calling them political prisoners and calling for their release, with Rupert Lowe (MP for Great Yarmouth, leader of Reform splinter group) having indicated his intention to host her at parliament on her release; some of these same people have been congratulating the same police for arresting hundreds of “useful idiots” (fancy a supporter of Israel calling someone a useful idiot!) or “radical leftists” supporting the ‘psychopaths’ of Hamas.
Arresting more than 500 people for a non-violent speech offence isn’t a good use of public resources. As a result of years of cuts to the criminal justice system, it takes years for serious crimes to get before a court, with some victims dropping out after a year or two. I heard that personnel were drawn in from other police forces across the country to police what they knew would be a non-violent protest, because anti-genocide protests have been, since the start. We have enough problems in London; we have a spike in mobile phone thefts, while bicycle and motorcycle thefts routinely go unpunished with victims expected to rely on insurance to deal with the problem, with the result that pavements have strips reading “Mind the Grab” warning of snatch thieves and it can cost upwards of £1,000 to insure a 125cc motorcycle in London for fire and theft. When my bike was stolen a few years ago, I had to just buy a new one for £400 (which is what my old one also cost), and my bike was used to get me to town and to the park, not to bomb tents or kill doctors and schoolchildren. The police can and do refuse to deal with certain crimes for lack of resources; the prosecution service can and do refuse to prosecute because it would not be in the public interest, and there is no better example of “not in the public interest” than prosecuting someone for holding a banner (something, by the way, nobody was doing until the government banned it!) supporting an organisation that sought to arrest a genocide when the government refused to
When people criticise the police, they and their supporters commonly remind us of who we’d call on if we were raped or if our house was burgled or our relative was murdered. They fly the “thin blue line” flag, or use it as their profile picture (some police forces allow it as a patch on the uniform; the Met does not). Who is it keeps us safe, they ask? Yet it’s not much safety to be only safe if you keep your mouth shut if you have opinions the powers that be despise. The American Founding Father Benjamin Franklin famously wrote that “those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety”; we are currently in that state of having neither. Our police are protecting those who deal death and oppression, denying us our freedom while neglecting our safety.
Image: Defend Our Juries.
Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.
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
“Never say that those martyred in the cause of Allah are dead—in fact, they are alive! But you do not perceive it.”
– Quran 2:154
Zaid Karim Al-Husayni walked in the door of his apartment and smiled, luxuriating in the aroma of Iraqi food that filled the place. He was bone tired, not so much physically, but emotionally. His heart was like an old rug, beaten to knock the dust off, only to find that the stains were permanent.
The apartment, at least, was a haven. Safaa had decorated it in the style of a traditional Arabic home. A low daybed beneath the window was piled with embroidered cushions in rose and cream, and a brass tray held Safaa’s silver teapot and two tiny glasses. Above, an ornate filigree lantern hung from the ceiling, casting warm light onto a mosaic-tiled floor of terracotta and cobalt.
Safaa had done a phenomenal job. Zaid felt so at peace here.
“As-salamu alaykum,” he called out. “Bismillah, ya Allah iftah lee abwaba rahmatik.” O Allah, open for me the doors of your mercy.
The girls ran to greet him, and he dropped to one knee to embrace them. Anna was growing like a weed, and seemed taller every time he came home. She preferred plain clothes, like jeans and oversized t-shirts, and would not wear anything colorful or frilly. Hajar, on the other hand, looked like a wrapped dollop of sunshine in a ruffled yellow dress, and with a yellow ribbon in her hair.
“Guess what, Baba,” Anna said. She had begun calling him Baba unbidden about a year ago, and he never stopped her. She knew very well who her biological parents were, and she retained her given name – Anna Anwar. But for all genuine purposes, Zaid and Safaa were her parents now. Legally as well, since they had formally adopted her.
“Hajar says she wants to marry Ishaaq. I said she should find a boy with more qualities.”
“He has lots of qualities!” Hajar protested.
“Oh, really?” Zaid smiled. Ishaaq was a Yemeni boy in Hajar’s class. Zaid had always thought the two of them didn’t get along. “Like what?”
“Like he can draw a perfect circle, and he knows all the jokes.”
“Those qualities seem good.”
Hajar smiled. “You want to play Life with us?”
Zaid stood up, threw out his arms like an opera conductor and sang, “The game of Life, the gaaaaaame of Life, you will learn about life when you play the game of Life!”
Hajar threw back her head and laughed, while Anna said, “What is that, a commercial from the 1800’s?”
“You girls go play your game,” Safaa said. “Baba and I have to talk about grown up stuff.”
“Yucky,” Hajar commented, and the girls scampered off.
The EnvelopeSafaa leaned in for a kiss. He pulled her close, embraced her and closed his eyes, reveling in her scent. He tightened his arms, squeezing her, and she gave a delighted laugh. When he released her she took his hand and said, “Come. I have something to show you.”
She led him to the bedroom, sat him on the bed and took an envelope out of a dresser drawer. “Deek Saghir stopped by. He dropped this off.”
Zaid took the envelope. It was heavy and full to bursting. He knew right away what was in it. On the front there was a note: For a true hero. The least I could do.
Zaid’s mouth turned down, and a sour feeling rose in his gut. “Did you count it?”
“It’s one hundred thousand dollars.” She raised her eyebrows and grinned as if to say, Isn’t this an exciting development!
“I told him he only owed me $1,500. I’ll return the rest.”
Safaa sighed. “This again, baby? Why are you so determined to turn away money?”
Zaid’s mouth opened, then closed. He couldn’t tell her the details of what he’d done to rescue Deek. He couldn’t tell her that this was blood money. One hundred thousand? That was thirty three thousand per life taken. The cost of a new car. Was that what a human life was worth now, a car? If a man’s life was worth a mid-sized sedan then what about a child’s life? A scooter? The envelope felt like a brick of lead in his hands. He dropped it onto the bedspread.
Safaa studied him. She knew him well, and even though she didn’t know the details of what he’d done, she must have read some of it in his face. She took his hand gently.
“After you rescued Anna, I told you that you didn’t need me at all, that it was all of us who needed you, do you remember?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe that was true then. But now, baby, all we need is each other. You, me, Hajar and Anna. We don’t need this money. If you want to return it, I won’t object. But listen, sweetheart. This isn’t dirty money. It’s gratitude. You saved Deek in some kind of way, I know that. Every dollar in that envelope is a debt we all owe you, and you deserve every cent. I know you carry weight in your heart, but let me carry this one for you. I’ll take the money and spend it for our family, and I will carry the burden. I’m so proud of you—always.”
Zaid wanted to reply, but the words were caught in his chest like a butterfly in a net. He nodded.
Rather than embrace him, Safaa pushed him onto his back, straddled his torso and began to rain mock punches on his head. “Who’s the tough guy now, huh?”
Zaid laughed and called out for the girls. They came running, and he said, “Mama is beating me up, help!” With squeals of delight, the girls grabbed pillows and began to hit Safaa. The envelope fell off the bed and rolled under a nightstand. In that moment, Zaid forgot Deek, who was like a living Janus coin. He forgot Badger, and the teenage girl he’d returned home, and Bandar, and even Panama, and luxuriated in the joy of a moment like a precious pearl in a long string of gems. Allah had always been good to him, and always would be.
“I surrender!” Safaa pleaded. “Help, Zaid!”
He gave a mock villain’s laugh, and grabbed a pillow.
Letters and BooksHe was still laughing when the cordless phone on the nightstand made a sound like a bird’s warble. He answered with a smile, but it faded as his father said, “As-salamu alaykum Zaid.” There was a softness to his tone that surprised Zaid, but worried him.
They’d spoken only once or twice since Zaid’s return from Panama. It wasn’t that Zaid blamed him for Mom’s behavior. Just that they had little to say to each other. After a lifetime of seeking attention from an emotionally absent father, a lifetime of hoping and wishing for a dad who would play with him, attend his school events, talk to him, notice him, Zaid had finally given up.
Although… His father had written to him regularly when he was in prison. They were not emotional, “I love you and stand by you,” kind of letters. That wasn’t his father’s style. More like, “I’m working on a major engineering project, your mother has been diagnosed with high blood pressure, Uncle Tarek sold the store…” That kind of thing. Yet even these dry notes were more than many had done, and – Zaid knew – were an expression of love.
On top of that, his father had sent books. Every month, Zaid received a new book, and even though Zaid never requested any particular book, his father always seemed to send something appropriate. Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago, about the desperation of the Russian political prison system. A collection of Palestinian poetry of resistance. The incredibly detailed Life of Muhammad by A Guillaume. A sci-fi novel about a bodyguard pursued across multiple worlds by an alien race. The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and Muhammad Asad’s Road to Mecca. And so on.
Zaid couldn’t keep more than five books in his cell by regulation, so he would read the books and then donate them to the prison library.
He still sometimes thought of that library, and what new prisoners must think coming into the pen and finding – instead of the usual collection of Louis L’Amour westerns – an eclectic collection of sci-fi books, Arab poetry, and Islamic treatises.
His father, absent though he may have been, had earned himself a lot of goodwill in Zaid’s heart with those letters and books.
Bad News“Wa alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah. It’s good to hear from you, Dad.” Saying this, Zaid realized that he sincerely meant it.
His father cleared his throat. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I have bad news, however.”
Panic rose like a geyser in Zaid’s chest. “Is it Mom?”
Safaa said something to the girls, and they trotted out. She closed the bedroom door, then returned to sit very close to Zaid, taking his hand.
“No,” his father said. “Baby Munir died last night. He went into a seizure and his heart stopped.”
The world narrowed. The breath he was about to take stalled. He heard something like an intake of air from the other side—maybe a sympathetic reflex, maybe nothing—and then his father continued, “Faiza called me this morning. She’s handling it. There will be a small memorial in Amman. I don’t know yet what the arrangements are. You can do whatever you think is appropriate.” His words were precise, like measurements on a blueprint—accurate and clear, with an almost imperceptible hint of concern.
Zaid didn’t speak for a long moment. There were more tears inside him than water in the Mediterranean, that warm and fruitful sea that kissed the shores of Gaza, but from which the Gazans were not allowed to fish.
The tears did not come, however. There would be a time for that.
“How is Aunt Faiza?” he asked finally, and the question came out smaller than the grief that had already rolled through him, and now lay like foam upon the surface of his inner sea.
“She’s keeping it together,” his father said. “She asked after you. Said you were the one who always talked to her when she needed to not fall apart.”
“Are we…” Zaid wasn’t sure what to ask. “Are we doing anything?”
“I cannot go to Amman right now, if that’s what you mean. You may do as you desire. Do what’s right.”
The “do what’s right” landed like a hand on his neck. Zaid had spent so much of his life trying to figure out what that phrase meant when it came from his father—was it obedience? Was it presence? Was it performance? He had no translator for grief that arrived wrapped in the same language that had once been a whip.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and it came out brittle. His father made a small sound that could have been either acknowledgment or impatience.
“Take care of Safaa and the girls.”
“You take care as well,” Zaid managed, then realized that his father had already hung up.
Money’s Purpose“What is it?” Safaa asked quietly.
“Baby Munir died.” The words were hollowed out by a lifetime of grief for his homeland and his relatives who had suffered and died. The old, complicated catalog of feelings—guilt, frustration, love, helplessness—rolled through him, heavy as the envelope that had tumbled under the nightstand and now lay somewhere out of sight.
The envelope! The money. His mind spun. The $100,000 had felt too heavy earlier, the numbers like a ledger of lives—how many had been paid for, how many had slipped away. Now the same stack of money was a bridge. Deek’s mess of debt and salvation folded back on itself: the man he’d pulled from the jaws of death had, without asking, given him the means to keep another small part of his own family from vanishing without acknowledgment.
Even as he thought this, his mind recognized the coldness of the mental arithmetic, and he recoiled. What was wrong with him? This wasn’t a trade: saving Deek’s life in exchange for a consolation prize for Faiza. Who was he to measure Allah’s grace, or to act as if he had a part in managing the balance? Astaghfirullah.
“Ya Allah,” he whispered, “Forgive me for counting what only You can weigh.” He let the impulse settle into something purer: he would send Aunt Faiza the money not to settle a debt or to manipulate the mizan – the heavenly scale that weighed all people’s deeds – but as an act of love. Nothing more..
Safaa put her arms around him, whispering Islamic prayers and words of comfort.
“I’m going to send Aunt Faiza thirty thousand dollars to cover the funeral costs, and to help with her living situation, inshaAllah.”
Safaa rubbed his back. “Of course, habibi. Whatever you want.”
“Allah have mercy on Deek Saghir,” Zaid said. “May Allah grant him good in the dunya and the aakhirah.”
“Ameen.”
Jamilah Al-Husayni“I need to call Jamilah.” His cousin Jamilah Al-Husayni had a special fondness for Baby Munir. She deserved to know what had transpired.
Jamilah lived and worked in a rehab clinic on the Northern California coast.
Jamilah lived and worked in a rehab clinic on the Northern California coast. She returned every four or five months to visit her mother and brother in Madera, but no one knew her phone number and precise address except Zaid—‘for security,’ she’d insisted, because the patient she cared for needed privacy.
“You’re a private eye,” she’d once told him with a wink. “You know how to keep secrets. That’s why you’re the only one with my phone number. I expect discretion.”
Zaid had taken this act of trust seriously. Her number was saved in his contacts as simply “C” for cousin. As he pressed the call button, the room was quiet—only the soft rustle of the girls playing somewhere down the hall, the ordinary sound of life trying to push past the weight in the air.
Her voice came through, a little breathless. There was a whipping sound like a strong wind. “Zaid? Hold on, I’m sitting on the patio and the wind is coming off the ocean. Let me go inside.”
Zaid heard a door slide open and closed, and the background noise quieted. “It’s been too long. Where are you now?”
“In Fresno,” he said. “Home. Safaa is with me, you’re on speaker.”
“Safaa!” Jamilah exclaimed. “I miss you so much. We need to get together. How are the girls?”
Safaa’s tone was subdued, knowing what was coming. “They’re great, alhamdulillah. Anna calls us Baba and Mama now. Hajar wants to marry a boy named Ishaaq because he draws perfect circles.”
Jamilah laughed. “My cousin Shamsi has a checklist too, but that’s not on it.”
“I need to tell you something,” Zaid said. “It’s not good news.”
There was a pause, and when Jamilah spoke again her voice was subdued. “I think I know. Baby Munir returned to Allah, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Who told you?”
“No one. And I wasn’t actually sure.”
“He died last night. Allah have mercy on him,” Zaid said. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon.”
Without missing a beat, Jamilah recited an ayah from the Quran in Arabic, then translated:
“Never say that those martyred in the cause of Allah are dead—in fact, they are alive! But you do not perceive it.”
The ayah hit Zaid like a cold ocean wave, shocking him. SubhanAllah! His father had said that Munir had “died,” and Zaid had parroted the statement to Safaa and Jamilah. But no! We never speak of the shuhadaa that way. I know better. But sometimes I forget.
“You’re right,” he said. “Jamilah?”
The line went quiet, save for a faint hum that rose and fell. Had the line been disconnected? “Hello? Jamilah?” The sound continued. Safaa touched his arm and mouthed, “She’s crying.” Zaid closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and waited.
The DreamAlmost a full minute later, Jamilah spoke, and her voice was surprisingly strong. “The heart grieves, and the eyes weep, but we know the promise of Allah is true.”
Zaid mouthed the word, “Wow,” to Safaa. Who was this woman he was talking to? Jamilah had changed so much in the last few years. The younger Jamilah had been impulsive, angry, and sometimes arrogant, but this Jamilah was pious and wise beyond her years. His cousin kept a lot of secrets, but Zaid was sure that something profound must have happened to remake her in this way.“I knew something had happened,” Jamilah went on, “or was about to. I dreamed of baby Munir last night.”
Zaid didn’t expect the small hitch in his chest, the way his breath caught. “What did you see?”
“Falastin,” she said, and the word came out like a prayer. “Palestine. * (see author’s footnote). Not demolished homes and kids shot by snipers. Not murdered journalists, kidnapped children, bulldozed farms. No bombs falling. No. I saw a new Palestine being built in Jannah, block by block, street by street, town by town.
There is a new Falastin being built in Jannah, and it is glorious. Streets paved in gold bricks catch the sun and hold it like a promise. All the millions of Palestinians who hold keys to demolished or stolen houses? Those houses are being perfectly rebuilt with stones from the hills of Palestine. Everywhere there are arched doorways and domed roofs decorated with carved plaster swirls and rosettes. Courtyards with bubbling fountains, colorful tiles, and marble floors, and every home is finished with inlaid jewels and mother-of-pearl.
Families sit in their courtyards eating platters of grilled fish, musakhan, maqluba, bread, hummus, and olives. Children play football in the street, and these kids are strong and smiling, with eyes like bright stars.
There are vast orchards of tall olive trees, heavy with fruit. Cows and sheep graze the grass-covered hillsides. Fishermen return with great hauls of sea bream and sardines. Artisans make cheese, linen, and olive oil, just for the joy of it.
No one is hungry, no one is frightened or grieving. Laughter, love, and dhikr fill the air, and the sun shines as gently as a kiss. All those who believed and did righteous deeds have gardens beneath which rivers flow, just as the Quran promises.
I was there. It is real. I stood there, on those streets. The air smelled like sea salt, fresh bread, za’tar, and jasmine. Everywhere I heard the sound of people reciting the Quran. The adhaan sounded from a shining silver masjid, and the sound was so sweet it made me weep. People streamed to the masjid from every direction, men in white thobes and kefiyyehs, women in traditional red and black dresses with tatreez embroidery. They strolled to the masjids happily, swinging their children, and praising Allah.”
“That’s incredible,” Zaid said. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.” Beside him, Safaa wept quietly, covering her mouth. He put an arm around her and held her tight.
Jamilah went on, and Zaid heard a tremor in her voice now. “Munir was there. I recognized him right away. He looked a lot like you, Zaid, when you were young. He wasn’t a baby, but a boy of ten years old, healthy and laughing. Thick brown hair and a big smile. He was doing a freestyle rap praising Allah, and other kids were standing around him, smiling and listening. He glanced my way and grinned, like he knew who I was.
And guys, those Palestinians… All the shuhadaa were there, and all who have been imprisoned and tortured, but they were whole people. They carried no weight, they weren’t healed because they were never broken. Because we Palestinians do not break.”
Still MeZaid didn’t answer immediately. The sound of his own breathing filled the silence, thick and raw. He felt something behind his eyes, warm and wet. He swallowed it down. “Tell Faiza,” he said. “Tell her what you saw. Let her know he’s somewhere better. That she’s not alone in carrying him.”
“I will,” Jamilah said. “I’ll call her tonight, inshaAllah.”
Zaid exhaled. “You’ve changed so much,” he said quietly. “Remember when I ran into you in San Francisco, and you were sitting on that armchair on the sidewalk, wearing your cycling outfit? Sometimes I miss the crazy Jamilah of the past, but I think the new Jamilah is a lot happier.”
He heard the sound of Jamilah’s smile. “There are places that try to break you, and places that build you back up. “I’m in a place that builds people back up. You’re right, I’ve changed. I was foolish and arrogant back then. I’m still me, Zaid. Just… Some of the edges have been softened. Things are clearer. Safaa, you’re so quiet. Are you still there?”
Safaa wiped her nose on Zaid’s sleeve, then said, “You’re a special person, Jamilah.”
“And you, Safaa, are the rock that my cousin leans on, and the light that shows the way.”
Safaa smiled and brushed tears from her cheeks.
“Should we do something for Faiza?” Jamilah wanted to know.
“I’ve got it covered,” Zaid said. “I’m sending her a good amount of money. Courtesy of a brother named Deek Saghir.”
“In that case,” Jamilah said, “Allah barik feek, ya Deek Saghir. Allah bless you, whoever you are.”
After the call, Zaid remained sitting, thinking about Jamilah’s dream. Allah had given her a true dream, which was one of the signs of imaan. He felt it acting as a salve inside him, softening the ragged edges of his wounds. He clung to it as a talisman, believing in it fully.
The dream did not erase the suffering of the Palestinians. The evil being committed against his people was unfathomable. But after all he’d been through, Zaid had come to grasp a certain truth: the dunya did not make sense without the aakhirah. In the dunya, people sometimes got away with their crimes, and innocents died without recompense.
By changing the time scale, by adding a dimension to human existence, and by factoring in a Day of perfect judgment when every stone and tree would be a witness, the aakhirah changed everything.
* * *
Footnote: this dream of Falastin in Jannah was dreamed by one of the residents of Gaza a few months ago. It was narrated to me by someone who heard it from that person. It was specifically a dream of a new Gaza being built in Jannah. I fully believe it to be true. In this story I changed it to Palestine more generally.
[Part 17 will be published next week inshaAllah]
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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.
Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.
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