Menopause, often whispered about and seldom discussed, marks a significant transition in every woman’s life. In the UK, most women reach menopause between 45 and 55 (average around 51), though perimenopausal changes can begin earlier, often in the early to mid-40s, and some women experience it outside this range.

For Muslim women, this change can feel even more complex, entwined with cultural expectations, spiritual practices, and evolving family dynamics. While medical resources are rightly covered by our Muslim physician colleagues, this article explores the emotional and relational dimensions of peri- and post-menopause. It considers how these phases can shape marriage, parenting, and identity, and how Muslim women can navigate them with faith, support, and grace.

Understanding the Emotional Landscape

Menopause is not only a biological milestone. It is also an emotional terrain shifting under your feet. Hormonal fluctuations may bring:

• Mood swings and irritability. Sudden changes in serotonin levels can lead to emotional volatility.
• Anxiety or low-grade depression. Anxiety may arise from changes in the body or identity. Some women experience a quieter, deep sadness as menopause approaches.
• A sense of loss or dislocation. Fertility and youth are tied deeply to self-image and societal roles. The loss of natural cycles can stir grief or existential questions.
• Relief or liberation. No longer facing menstrual cycles or contraception concerns, some women describe a freeing sense of autonomy.

From an Islamic perspective, recognizing these emotions as valid, even while striving to maintain patience, can be healing. The Prophet ﷺ said:

“No fatigue, nor disease, nor sorrow, nor sadness, nor hurt, nor distress befalls a Muslim, even if it were the prick he receives from a thorn, but that Allah expiates some of his sins for that.” [Bukhari and Muslim]

Women may also draw comfort from the lives of those closest to the Prophet ﷺ. Sayyidah Khadījah , for example, was a mature woman whose wisdom and dignity were deeply honored. The Prophet ﷺ remembered her long after her passing, saying:

“She believed in me when the people disbelieved, she trusted me when the people belied me, she shared her wealth with me when the people deprived me, and Allah blessed me with children from her and not from any other wife.” [Musnad Ahmad]

Her life demonstrates that maturity is not a loss but a stage marked by depth, contribution, and honor in the sight of Allah and His Messenger ﷺ.

Impact on the Marital Relationship

Menopause can subtly or dramatically shift the marital dynamic. The following highlights some of the how:

Intimacy and Libido

Changing oestrogen levels may decrease vaginal lubrication and arousal. For some, libido diminishes. This can cause:

• Discomfort or pain during intercourse, leading to avoidance or withdrawal.
• Hurt feelings, if either spouse misinterprets distance as rejection.
• Renewed opportunities, if couples communicate openly and explore alternative forms of closeness, such as affection, cuddling, conversation, and supportive touch.

The Prophet ﷺ reminded husbands and wives of their responsibility to one another:

“The best of you are those who are best to their wives, and I am the best of you to my wives.” [Tirmidhi]

This ḥadīth points to compassion and attentiveness as the norm for marital life. Together with the Qur’ānic ethic “live with them in kindness” [Surah An-Nisa; 4:19] and “you are garments for one another” [Surah Al-Baqarah; 2:187], it frames intimacy as a place for mercy, not pressure. In practice, couples can:

Menopause can subtly or dramatically shift the marital dynamic.[PC: David Dvořáček (unsplash)]

• Talk early and kindly. Use “I” statements about sensations and emotions (“I feel soreness / I’m worried I’ll disappoint you”) and agree on a shared plan for closeness during this phase.
• Prioritise consent and avoid harm (lā ḍarar wa lā ḍirār). If penetration is painful, pause. Explore solutions rather than pushing through pain.
• Broaden the meaning of intimacy. Affectionate touch, cuddling, massage, shared baths, and non-penetrative pleasure can maintain connection when penetration is difficult. Many couples also benefit from longer warm-up/foreplay, comfortable positions, adequate privacy and time, and lubricants (checking ingredients if that matters to you).
• Time it wisely. Choose symptom-lighter times of day; fatigue, hot flushes, or joint pain often fluctuate.
• Address the physical. A clinical check-in for urogenital symptoms, pelvic floor physio, sleep support, or treatment for dryness can make intimacy easier, and caring for health supports marital rights.
• Hold the fiqh balance. Spousal intimacy is important in fiqh, yet scholars also emphasize kindness, mutual satisfaction, and the prohibition of harm. Temporary adjustments or even pauses are recognised where there is credible hardship or illness, especially by mutual agreement. Rights are not a licence to coerce; they are a call to iḥsān (beautiful conduct).
• Reassure and repair. If an attempt is difficult, offer comfort, make duʿāʾ together, and try again another time rather than letting shame or resentment grow.
• Seek wise support. A faith-literate counsellor can help couples negotiate expectations, communication, and practical adaptations.

Menopause aware intimacy honors both fiqh’s regard for spousal rights and the Prophetic standard of gentleness, protecting wellbeing while keeping connection alive.

Role Shifts

Menopause may coincide with children entering adulthood, career changes, or a newfound quiet in the household. This may lead to a re-evaluation of marital roles. Some women flourish with more time for personal projects, worship, or deepening the spousal bond. Others feel unmoored without the familiar structure of motherhood. Husbands and wives benefit from acknowledging this inward journey and renegotiating roles with love and respect, guided by the Prophetic ideal of mutual support and kindness.

Parenting Through the Transition

For many Muslim women, parenting is a core identity. As menopause unfolds, children may be grown or nearing independence. This stage can feel like:

• Empty nest syndrome, an ache for purpose or belonging.
• Emotional tug as the mother, wanting to remain central in children’s lives while they claim their own time, space, boundaries, and identity, choosing how they live, what they believe, where they make home, whom they befriend or marry, and how they prioritize work, faith, and family.
• Opportunity for mentorship, duʿā, and building deeper, more balanced relationships, based on guidance rather than caretaking: checking in regularly without hovering, asking permission before offering advice, listening more than directing, making duʿāʾ by name for their needs, sharing skills or experience when invited, celebrating their independent decisions, agreeing healthy boundaries and rhythms of contact, and being available for practical help when requested.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“When a person dies, all his deeds come to an end except three: ongoing charity, beneficial knowledge, or a righteous child who prays for him.” [Muslim]

As the family evolves, women may take comfort that their nurturing role continues through du‘a and guidance, even when the daily intensity of parenting diminishes. The Qur’ān also reminds us of the honour due to mothers:

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

Community, Sisterhood, and Spiritual Identity

Menopause can feel like an invisible transition, often silent and rarely acknowledged within many Muslim communities. Yet opening dialogue can be transformative:

Menopause can feel like an invisible transition, but having peer support circles can help overcome isolation. [PC: Vonecia Carswell (unsplash)]

• Peer support circles, whether informal or virtual, allow sharing experiences of sleep troubles, mood changes, gratitude for newfound calm, and laughter about hot flushes.
• Imams or women’s counsellors knowledgeable in fiqh and women’s health can foster safe spaces to ask, “Is it permissible to pray when I am drenched in sweat? How do I manage fasting with hot flushes at suhoor?”
• Spiritual leadership repurposes this life stage. Older women can shape younger generations with wisdom, du‘a, and steadiness.

The Qur’ān itself honors the voice and concerns of women. When Khawlah bint Tha‘labah brought her distress to the Prophet ﷺ about her husband, Allah revealed:

“Indeed Allah has heard the statement of she who argues with you [O Muhammad] concerning her husband and directs her complaint to Allah. And Allah hears your dialogue; indeed, Allah is Hearing and Seeing.” [Surah Al-Mujādilah; 58:1]

This verse is a powerful reminder that women’s lived realities matter deeply in the sight of Allah .

The Prophet ﷺ also said:

“The best among you are those who learn the Qur’ān and teach it.” [Bukhari]

This opens the door for mature women to embrace teaching, mentoring, and guiding, drawing on their life experience to benefit the next generation.

Practical Strategies for Muslim Women

Here are some tangible ways to navigate this stage with resilience:

1. Educate yourself. Learn about symptoms, treatments, and self-care strategies, including diet, hydration, exercise, and sleep hygiene.
2. Open dialogue with your spouse. Frame conversations around feelings, not blame. Small shifts in communication can yield deep compassion.
3. Connect with sisterhood. Sharing breaks isolation.
4. Prioritize self-care and spiritual rhythm. Ensure you can observe prayer comfortably, even through sleepless nights. Some women turn insomnia into time for tahajjud, drawing strength from night worship. The Prophet ﷺ said: “The most beloved prayer to Allah after the obligatory prayers is the night prayer.” [Muslim]
5. Seek Islamic-medical guidance. Engage professionals who understand both health and faith. There are a number of Muslimah womb health and/or perimenopause experts and advocates online, such as Honored Womb, Fit Muslimah, and Barakah’s Womb.
6. Reimagine purpose. Let menopause be the prologue to new journeys such as mentoring, studying Qur’ān, or serving the community.

When to Seek Help

While mood changes and emotional shifts are normal, professional help is important if you experience:

• Persistent sadness or hopelessness that doesn’t lift.
• Severe anxiety, panic attacks, or escalating worry.
• Rage flashes – sudden, intense anger or outbursts that feel out of control, lead to verbal or physical aggression, or create fear/ongoing harm at home.
• Relationship breakdowns that feel stuck or irresolvable.
• Physical symptoms (e.g., sleep disturbance, pain, hot flushes) that significantly impact daily life.

Seeking help, whether medical or therapeutic, is not a deviation from tawakkul (trust in Allah ). It is a sign of wisdom and self-compassion.

Menopause is more than biological. It is a spiritual, relational, and emotional terrain that beckons Muslim women toward new chapters. It may stir grief or liberation, distance or newfound intimacy. It challenges identity and nurtures wisdom.

Within a faith that honors the dignity of every phase, menopause becomes an opportunity. By drawing on sisterhood, honest dialogue, renewal practices, spirituality, and faith-affirmed support, Muslim women can move through this shift with grace, finding in themselves new light, new connection, and renewed purpose.

 

Related:

– Purification Of The Self: A Journey That Begins From The Outside-In

– The Fiqh Of Vaginal Discharge: Pure or Impure?

The post The Muslim Woman And Menopause: Navigating The ‘Invisible’ Transition With Faith And Grace appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

On a cold Fresno night, Deek’s search for purpose draws him to the river’s dark pull—and to the brink of his own redemption.

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

* * *

“When the mother is safe, the family is safe, the community is safe, the world is safe. She is the sun from which warmth and love radiate. If she shines, her family blooms.” – Deek Saghir

Shark Alone

Deek woke up shivering, lying atop the covers in the sprawling hotel bed. The room was dark, with no light but the pale illumination of the night time city coming through the window. The window was open, and the curtains billowed as a cold breeze gusted in.

He checked his watch: it was only an hour past sunset. Alhamdulillah, he could still catch Maghreb. He closed the window, made wudu’, pulled on a pair of jeans and a brown leather jacket, and prayed.

After salat he sat cross-legged on the musalla, not knowing what to do. He had nowhere to go, no place to be, nothing to do, no one to be. It was said that a shark must keep swimming, or he would die. But why would he die? Could a shark drown in the sea? Or did he die of loneliness, weary of decades criss-crossing the oceans alone, killing to survive, wearing the scars of battle upon his scaly hide?

It was a mistake to think that sharks were evil. Allah created all things with a purpose. The shark had a purpose, and so too did Deek have a purpose, though he no longer knew what it was. He had no family to look after. He had no fortune to yearn for, since he’d achieved that and didn’t know what to do with it. He had no cryptos to manage, for he was out of that market.

He tapped the marble floor with a fingernail, then drummed on it with both hands, making a slapping sound against the hard surface.

He didn’t want to return to that local gym. They treated him like a long-lost relative who needed their support and kindness. It was embarrassing.

He was an Arab who’d grown up along the banks of a river, so in a way he was a creature of both sand and water, and found comfort in both. There was no sand around here, but there was water.

Foundation

A half hour later he stood upon the foundation of his unfinished, derelict house, the concrete cold beneath his boots. The wind came in long, sighing gusts from the west, fluttering the loose plastic sheeting that clung to rebar like ghosts. Somewhere nearby, an owl called once—long and low, like a warning or a question.

It was a bitter night. Fresno cold, dry and sharp. He zipped up his coat and stuffed his hands in his pockets, but the wind still found him. It crept down his collar and hissed through the empty house, whispering through joists and overhangs, promising nothing, taking nothing, leaving only the sound of moving air.

Below, the San Joaquin River was a ribbon of blackness, moonlight sliding across its surface like oil. From this height, he couldn’t see the banks clearly, only hints of motion—ripples, eddies, things unseen—and that same deep magnetic pull that rivers always had for him. A kind of whisper in the blood.

Rivers had frightened him since childhood. Not the crashing kind like the ones you saw in movies, but the slow, heavy ones. The ones that moved with their own patient will. They reminded him of people who never said much, who never showed emotion, who just kept going until one day they swallowed you whole.

Yet he couldn’t look away.

Somewhere, Rania might be praying. Or maybe reading in bed, a cold compress on her aching back. Sanaya and Amira might be curled together on the sofa, watching a movie they’d seen five times already. Lubna, probably up late studying teacher resumes, a mug of tea gone cold on her desk. Marco—who knew? Walking somewhere, talking to himself, fighting off the shadows only he could see.

And Deek was here. On a concrete slab in the dark.

Everything he’d done had been for his family. This new house wasn’t supposed to be his home, it was supposed to be the family home. A legacy they could grow into. A multi-generational property, a home to the Saghir family for a hundred years to come or more, though Deek was not accustomed to thinking in such terms.

He took his phone out and called Sanaya. He had no expectation that she would answer, yet she did, dully.

“Dad?”

“I bought a new house for the family. For all of us.”

“I don’t think Mom will want that.”

“Will you come see it?”

“What, now?”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a long pause. Finally Sanaya said, “Text me the address.”

Spooky

Driving up a winding road into the low hills north of Fresno, Sanaya checked the GPS repeatedly. It was dark outside, but the full moon provided a pale illumination that outlined the surrounding hills and mesas.

Amara chewed on a fingernail. “He bought a house out here? Where even are we?”

“Above the river somewhere. Fresno County. Remember, don’t say anything about Mom. She doesn’t want us to.” Mom had not been to work in three days. Her back still hurt, and she’d fallen into deep depression, barely rousing herself to eat. Sanaya had confiscated her pain pills, and now Mom wouldn’t talk to her.

“Whatever.” Amara spit a fingernail fragment onto the car floor.

“Don’t do that, it’s gross.”

“Ask if I care.”

Sanaya sighed. Amira had been constantly sullen and withdrawn lately. She was very attached to Dad, and had taken his absence hard. Sanaya didn’t know what was going to happen, how things would work out, but she herself felt weary. Her life had flipped. Those who were supposed to care for her had turned their faces away, and now she found herself caring for them. She’d become her depressed mother’s caretaker and her moody sister’s parent. Between that, work and school, she was exhausted.

Her nostrils flared with anger as she thought about it. But it didn’t matter. Bring it on. She could handle it, along with whatever other test this dunya gave her. Amara might be closer to Dad, but she was a lot more like Mom than she would ever admit.

Sanaya, on the other hand, knew in her heart that she’d been created from Dad’s mold. She carried his strength and determination, for he was a man who set his vision on a goal and never gave up, no matter what.

* * *

Deek watched as Rania’s brown mini-SUV came up the road, crunched along the gravel driveway, came to a stop, and disgorged Sanaya and Amira. He grinned with pleasure. He hadn’t been sure Sanaya would come, nor that Amira would come too.

The two of them approached to about ten feet and stopped, looking around, surveying the property. Sanaya wore only slacks, a light sweater and a hijab, and stood shivering in the frigid wind. Amira stood with her arms tightly crossed, biting a fingernail.

Deek walked to his daughters, took off his jacket and put it around Sanaya’s shoulders. Then he spread his arms out wide. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful up here,” Sanaya said, slipping her arms into the jacket sleeves. “But that’s not a house.”

Deek laughed. “Not yet. A year from now, inshaAllah, it will be a six bedroom, three bath house with a pool, hot tub, tennis court, you name it. Give me your wish list and we’ll build it. And we have fifty acres of land up here. Fifty acres! We could have horses.”

“It’s too far from school and work. I couldn’t live up here.”

“Come on Sanaya, don’t be like that. Give it a chance.” He looked to his younger daughter, who had not yet spoken a word. In the past she would have come to him and hugged him, and spoken up in defense of his choices.

Amara spat out a bit of fingernail. “It’s spooky. And I think you’re living in a dream world.” She turned and walked back to the car, kicking a rock out of her way.

Deek’s heart sank into his stomach. “Why did you come then, if all you want to do is put down what I’m doing?”

A Beautiful Thing

Sanaya gazed at him levelly. “Because Maryam Rana called me. She told me what you did. She’s been accepted into a treatment program at the Mayo Clinic. You did a beautiful thing, Baba. You saved her life.”

A rush of emotion threatened to flood Deek’s eyes with tears. Sanaya had not called him Baba in many years. At some point she’d switched over to the less personal “Dad,” and he had let it go, because you had to let young people be who they were.

“Alhamdulillah,” he murmured. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“It means a lot to me. She told me that you paid off hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of medical bills. And the fact that no one in the community knows, that you didn’t make a thing out of it. It says a lot about you.”

Deek shrugged, embarrassed. “She talked about you. Called you whip-smart. She’s a sweet girl. I would do the same for you, your sister or your mother. I would do anything in my power to help you.”

“Are you sure about that? They say that charity starts at home, but sadaqah is not just money, you know. You told me something, once. You said that if anything ever happened to you, that I should take care of Mom, because she’s the sun from which warmth and love radiate. When she shines, our family blooms. And you said that mothers are the world’s heart, that when they are safe, the family is safe, the community is safe, the nation is safe, and the world is safe.”

“I said that?”

“Yes. Now I’m going home. It’s freezing up here. Aren’t you going back to the hotel?”

“In a while. I want to explore a little.”

Sanaya shook her head. “You’re crazy, Baba. And I’m keeping the jacket.” She turned and walked away.

Dark River

When the sound of the car had faded, Deek walked around until he found the path that led down to the river. Without making any conscious decision, he began walking downhill to the river. Unlike that last river visit, this time it would be dark. This thought slowed his feet, but he felt the river’s deep, beautiful waters calling to him. The river was pure and clean, and yes, ruthless as well. It was beneficent, yet would snatch the life away from any fool who approached it with less than utmost caution.

He had no plan or goal beyond a vague notion that the river could cure his angry emptiness.

The surface of the water was a black mirror that displayed a rippled reflection of the moon above. At the river bank, he rolled up his pant legs and climbed carefully down to the water’s edge. He put his wallet and keys beside a large rock, but kept his phone, putting it on flashlight mode. Still wearing his shoes, he waded into the frigid, black water.

The phone’s light seemed to shy away from the extreme darkness of the water, and served only to remind Deek of how untamed and merciless this river could be. The current was fast; rocks shifted beneath his feet; eddies rippled and splashed. Reeds danced in the night breeze.

He stayed in the shallows, the water just at his lower shins, yet even here the water cut into his legs with a ferocity that made him hiss through his teeth. It was Sierra Nevada snowmelt, as icy sharp as knives.

Rather than tranquility or clarity, Deek found himself filled with rage. Everything he’d done and accomplished had turned out to be useless. Well, if no one needed him, then he didn’t need them either.

A small boulder, about the size of a toaster, stuck up out of the water. Deek bent, wrestled it out of the mud, cocked an arm, and with a shout, heaved it out toward the center of the river, where it landed with an unseen splash.

He found another, bigger rock. This one came up easily, but was heavy. With a grunt he brought it up to his shoulders, then, using both hands, shot-putted it into the air, screaming as loudly as he could. The wind snatched away his scream as the boulder splashed down nearby, wetting him.

Going Back

Driving downhill a short distance away, Sanaya pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped.

“Did you hear something?”

“I thought the river looked awesome in the moonlight,” Amira remarked. “And it would be totes cool to have horses. But I didn’t want to tell him that. Why are we stopping?”

Sanaya craned her neck, peering into the darkness behind them. “I’m not sure it was a good idea to leave him alone.”

“Baba can take care of himself. He’s strong.”

“We should go back.”

Amira rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

Sanaya gunned the engine and cut the wheel, whipping the car in a 180 and causing the back wheels to fishtail. She hit the accelerator and the car leaped forward.

“What are you doing?” Amira gasped.

“Something’s wrong.” She sped up the mountain road, hugging the curves. This was not like her. Mom and Amira were the ones with second sense, not her. Yet she pushed the pedal and went faster, barely staying on the road.

Man Against Nature

Deek took another step deeper into the river, then another, until he was in up to his knees. His feet had gone numb from the cold. He spread his arms for balance and closed his eyes.

This was dangerous, he knew. The river was deep in the middle, and the bottom could drop out at any point. People drowned in the San Joaquin and Kings rivers all the time. If he slipped and fell, no one would know until his body turned up somewhere downriver.

He stood for a few minutes, braced against the flow, letting the icy water wash him clean.

“La ilaha il-Allah,” he breathed. “Muhammadur-Rasulullah.”

For reasons he could not articulate, he stepped in further, closer to the deep center. The water was up to his waist now. It was a stupid thing to do, but also thrilling. If he could defy this mighty river, or perhaps harmonize with it, he could do anything. It was a real thing, a real accomplishment that he could take pride in. Man against nature, wasn’t that the oldest and most primal struggle of all.

Or was the original struggle man against Shaytan? Confusion swirled through his mind. He lifted a foot to return to the shore, but a strong current lifted him and he lost his balance. The excitement vanished as panic flooded his mind. He waved his arms and took two quick steps, recovering his balance. The phone was gone.

Desperate, he lunged toward the shallows and slipped, falling completely into the water. He felt himself being pulled along the bottom. His head began to ring from the shock of the freezing current. He hardly knew up from down. Reaching blindly with his hands, he grasped a clump of reeds growing in the shallows. He seized them and used them to hold his position as his knees found the river bottom and his head broke the surface. He gasped desperately, sucking in air.

He was on hands and knees and the water was up to his neck. The current tugged at him hard, trying to drag him under again. It was a living thing that had tasted him and savored his fear, and would not release him until it consumed him. Deek was overwhelmed with terror, not of death but of the river itself. His mind froze, and he remained stuck in place, holding onto the clump of weeds like a lifeline. He didn’t have the energy to rise to his feet. The cold was in his bones now. He yearned for sun and warmth.

He remembered what Sanaya had said: Mothers are the sun from which warmth and love radiate. He needed Rania. He understood now how foolish and stubborn he had been. It was time to put all ego, resentment and pettiness aside, and go home to his wife. He gathered his strength and tried to rise, but he was weak, and the river snatched him away, dragging him toward the center, where the water was deep, lightless and unforgiving.

In The River

Sanaya circled the hulking shell of a house, peering into every shadow, while Amira ran to check the caretaker’s house.

“He’s not there,” Amira reported when she returned. “Maybe he took an Uber back to town.”

“That makes no sense. His car is here. Plus, no one passed us on the road.”

“Maybe he -”

Sanaya cut her off. “Stop talking and just listen.” She knew that Mom had an extrasensory gift of some kind, and it had been passed to Amira, but not to her. This did not bother her. Every child inherited something different from their parents, and all was a barakah. So she watched Amira intently as the girl turned slowly in a circle, eyes closed.

Amira’s eyes opened wide, and fear filled them like dark water. “He’s in the river.”

The hair stood on the back of Sanaya’s neck. “Let’s go!” The two of them began to run down the trail to the river below.

***

Come back next week for Part 29 inshaAllah

 

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

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

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

Related:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

The post Moonshot [Part 28] – Dark River appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Bombarded Palestinians in Gaza face hazards both visible and invisible.

Forty Labour and independent MPs call on Steve Reed to take ‘important step’ of defining anti-Muslim hatred

More than three dozen Labour and independent MPs have written to the housing secretary calling on the government to adopt a definition of Islamophobia, after recent figures revealed hate crimes against Muslims were up by nearly a fifth.

Forty MPs, including Labour MPs Diane Abbott, Dawn Butler, Kim Johnson and independent Andrew Gwynne, were among the signatories on the letter from Afzal Khan who wrote to Steve Reed on Friday asking him to adopt a definition of anti-Muslim hatred as an “important step” in addressing discrimination, prejudice and hatred the community faces.

Continue reading...

A thug takes a brick to the groin in last year’s racist riots.

A few years ago I saw someone say on Twitter that people would happily call each other feminazis or grammar Nazis, but would not call a Nazi a Nazi. In the past year or so since the Southport murders and the subsequent riots and since Donald Trump returned to office in the US and launched his war against legal and illegal immigrants, citizens and anyone else who “looks foreign”, racists have got increasingly strident in pretending that they are the ones who are in danger: the likes of Matt Goodwin have issued ‘warnings’ about the ‘dangers’ of calling people racists or “far right”, as it might lead to another politician or commentator being assassinated, as was Charlie Kirk last month (though the actual motives for that are unclear). Meanwhile, Muslims and others who march against the genocide in Gaza are branded as “antisemitic marchers”. I have noticed a climate in which it is considered unwise or dangerous to call people racists, and this has to be opposed.

The other day a video came up on my YouTube feed which was about the ten most unpleasant people in rock music. The eight men and two women were not the actual criminals — no Ian Watkins or Jim Gordon, for example — but mostly people who treated other musicians badly or who walked off stage or had fans ejected, for example. I noticed that one of those listed was a racist and another was known for exploiting young women, but neither of these facts was mentioned in the video as if being a racist was not something worth mentioning in that context. Did he think it would alienate some of his viewers, or does he sympathise with the views in question? I did point out that he’d left those details out, but he didn’t acknowledge or reply to my comment. Another case in point comes from the New Statesman at the end of September: an article instructing Labour activists, in the run-up to the Ellesmere Port by-election, not to call Nigel Farage racist because the “median voter” did not consider him to be; by doing so, Labour activists were scolding the voter and telling them they were wrong. A poll, sourced from “Merlin Strategies”, whoever they are, claims that even among current Labour voters, only 46% of voters considered Farage to be racist and among northerners, it was only 33%, with 47% disagreeing. The word ‘racist’ is generally considered derogatory, and someone who actually is a racist will generally not call themselves that; people “not considering Farage to be racist” thus includes those who agree with him as well as those who somehow, after hearing all he has had to say throughout his political career, continue to believe that he is not.

We are also seeing the racists and far-right in politics in the media increasingly playing the victim. The assassination of Charlie Kirk has given them additional licence to cast themselves as being the ones in danger, when in fact racism is what puts people in danger. Goodwin, two weeks ago, accused “the Left” of “[setting] the stage for the attempted assassination of Donald Trump and the murder of Charlie Kirk”, both of whom had enemies on the neo-Nazi far right as well as the Left and elsewhere; Kirk’s alleged assassin may well have been a ‘groyper’ although his motives have yet to be fully investigated. However, the historical facts are that while anti-racism may produce the odd assassination (often in the midst of intense racist violence, as with the assassinations of Ernst von Rath and Reinhard Heydrich, which provided pretexts for early Nazi atrocities), racism itself results in far greater levels of destruction and death than anti-racism, or false accusations of racism, ever have; even the raft of false accusations of antisemitism during Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership of the Labour party did not kill anyone. Goodwin tells us off for calling Nigel Farage an enemy; the same language was used in the Tory press during Theresa May’s premiership for judges and others they saw as trying to frustrate “the will of the people” on Brexit. (They, of course, still happily throw the Antisemitism slur around, as well as calling Black politicians racist for identifying white racism.)

A number of years ago, the Muslim Tory peer Sayeeda Warsi observed that Islamophobia “passed the dinner-table test”: that prejudice towards Muslims could be expressed in respectable circles with no fear of censure. In 2025, many more forms of prejudice not only pass that test — Islamophobia, anti-Black and anti-Asian racism, blind hostility to refugees and other real or perceived immigrants — but rather, opposition to them is what no longer passes that test. If we call people racists or fascists, we are accused of having contempt for what the ordinary person thinks or feels, and of putting politicians’ lives in danger even as actual racist thugs terrorise refugees and asylum seekers housed in hotels and two Asian women have been raped in the last month or so by white men who made their racist intentions clear to them. Even Keir Starmer could not call the goons rampaging around English towns after the Southport murders last year racists; he settled for calling them “far-right thugs” as they attacked people for their skin colour. As both Tory and Reform politicians and media demand the right to offend, the right to “criticise Islam” and to ridicule others’ beliefs (as per a bill currently going through Parliament, presented by Tory MP Nick Timothy), we must also be free to call out and condemn racism and to call racists what they are. They are the ones threatening everyone with violence, not us.

L. Brent Bozell III spread beheaded babies lie.

I wanted to die instead of admitting I couldn't help my cousins.

International silence during continued bombing of Gaza an “unforgivable moral and humanitarian failure,” civil defense says.

Akeela Ahmed, of British Muslim Trust, says experience is part of a wider rise in anti-Muslim hatred

The chief executive of the government’s new official partner in tackling Islamophobia has spoken about being refused service in a shop for being Muslim, amid concerns about a rise in insidious anti-Muslim “microaggressions”.

The British Muslim Trust (BMT) is launching a government-backed telephone and online reporting service for hate crimes. In July, the trust was selected as a recipient of the government’s “combating hate against Muslims fund”, and in the months since its chief executive, Akeela Ahmed, has been meeting members of Muslim communities, including in Bradford in West Yorkshire, East Sussex, Greater London and Greater Manchester.

Continue reading...

Thousands of Palestinian remain displaced after Israel decimated entire neighborhoods.

Settlers emboldened by government with ambitions for annexation.

Baby Razan was named after her grandmother, who died of starvation.

Deek builds his new financial team, explores a riverfront property, and shares a moment of brotherhood with Imam Saleh. But is it enough?

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

* * *

Abu Huraira reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The world is a prison for the believer and a paradise for the unbeliever.”
– Sahih Muslim 2956

Everything You Love Will Be There

Lying in bed that night, trying to calm himself enough to sleep as a thousand thoughts whirled through his mind, Deek could still see it as if it were yesterday. The prayer rugs rolled out across the living room floor, the faint scent of oud lingering from his father’s sabha beads. Deek – eight or nine years old at the time – sat cross-legged beside little Lubna, the cool tile pressing through his thin cotton pants. Mama leaned against the sofa and smiled, while their father sat with his back straight, palms on his knees, eyes bright with knowledge and love.

“Children,” his father said, “in Jannah, there is no pain, no sadness, no hunger. There is no death. Everything you love will be there, but better.”

The words no pain, no sadness had washed over him like a lullaby, but the rest of it—everything you love will be there—that was what set his imagination alight.

In his mind, Jannah was him and Marco with every game they ever wanted to play. A perfect baseball diamond that stretched to the horizon, gloves that never tore, bats that never cracked. Two gleaming BMX bikes waiting by the fence line. Skateboards with the latest urethane wheels and endless smooth pavement to ride. No homework, no chores, no one calling them in before sunset. Just open sky, the smell of grass, and all the time in the world.

 

He could still hear his father’s voice that evening, low and certain: “And the greatest joy is that Allah will be pleased with you. You will never fear again.”

Years later, when Deek had his own family, Jannah meant something else. It was a place where Rania would be free of pain. Where he and Lubna could talk without pride rising like a wall between them. A place where Iraqis of all faiths and colors lived together in peace, where the Palestinians were victorious and free, and where no child ever cried from hunger.

And Marco—always Marco—would finally find himself there. He would know what he was meant to do, and he would live without the gnawing anxiety that had shadowed him all his life. There would be music and laughter, not in smoky bars but in the gardens of Paradise, where the rivers flowed not with liquor but with mercy.

Now, older and slower, Deek no longer pictured Jannah as a guarantee. He knew better than to assume his own worthiness, or to imagine who might be kept out. Faith had softened into humility. But maybe—just maybe—he and Marco would enter through the same gate, side by side, into that lush, forgiving world. A world free of poverty and loss.
A world where the joy of youth never ended.

The Offer

The next morning he logged onto the dashboard Zakariyya Abdul Ghani had given him, and was stunned to see that the job was done. All the outstanding medical bills had been paid. Deek hadn’t expected that. He’d imagined a few of the bills would be caught in bureaucratic limbo — an unreturned call, a missing invoice — but when he logged in to check the account, every item was reconciled, paid, and neatly logged in an online ledger.

He called Zakariyya to confirm, and the young man’s soft voice came through, calm and assured. “Yes, sir. I pulled a few all-nighters. I sensed your urgency in wanting it done quickly.”

That was enough for Deek. He drove straight to the office under the flight path. The same faint scent of cardamom greeted him when he walked in, the same rattle of glass from the window as a plane passed overhead.

Zakariyya stood from behind the desk, surprised. “Mr. Saghir. I didn’t expect you—”

Deek waved him down. “Relax. I’m not here to check your math.” He pulled a chair closer, sat, and leaned forward. “I’m here because I need someone like you. I’m setting up a family financial office. You’ve shown me you can handle pressure, and you don’t miss details. I want you to run it.”

The young man blinked. “Me? I’ve never done anything like that. I’m barely out of college.”

“You’re young, but that’s fine.”

He remembered a time years ago, when they’d done a remodel on the house and Deek had hired a twenty-three-year-old Iraqi immigrant named Fadil to run the job. The boy could barely speak English. Rania had thought Deek was crazy. But Fadil had a degree in civil engineering, experience as a tradesman, and had to start somewhere. He’d done the job well, and within a few years was running his own small construction firm. Fadil still called every Eid to say thank you.

Deek smiled faintly at the memory and added, “Sometimes taking a chance on a young person pays off.”

Zakariyya adjusted his glasses, clearly thrown off balance. “How much money do you need to manage?”

When Deek shared the figure, Zakariyya sat up very straight and whistled, then added, “MashaAllah, I mean. But sir, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Deek replied. “How much are you making now?”

The young man hesitated. “Fifty thousand per year.”

“That’s respectable. But I’ll triple it. One hundred and fifty, plus benefits, plus performance bonuses. You will search out and recruit the team.”

Zakariyya stared at him, speechless. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he repeated softly.

“Say bismillah,” Deek said. “And get started. Find an office space — one without planes overhead, please. Then let’s start with an accountant, an investment analyst, and an office manager. A legal advisor, but not full-time. Also, a Shariah compliance officer, but again, a consultant, not full-time. That last could be a remote position if we don’t have anyone local. I might have a few people in mind for other positions. I’ll keep you posted.”

A plane roared overhead, and the windows rattled again. But this time, Deek didn’t even flinch.

As he stepped out into the parking lot, the late afternoon light turned the pavement gold. He felt steady, almost serene. For once, he wasn’t patching holes or running from fires; he was building something that might last. Not just wealth, but order. Not chaos, but continuity. The only other thing he needed was his family. He had to find a way to cross this barrier, which was feeling more insurmountable every day.

The River House

Standing outside Zakariyya’s office, Deek’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a message from Marcela Gómez.

I have a property for you. When are you available?

He typed a single word: Now.

A moment later, her reply appeared.

Meet me in half an hour. I’ll send the address.

The address dropped into his messages: a location he didn’t recognize, somewhere on the edge of the city, close to the river.

The road wound through farmland and low bluffs before ending at a half-finished driveway that curved uphill toward a skeleton of steel and concrete. The structure sprawled across the ridge — modernist lines, concrete, and pillars — but most of it was bare framing beneath a vast unfinished roof. Tall grass and weeds grew where floors should have been. A blue porta-potty leaned on its side, sun-bleached and cracked.

Marcela was already there, her SUV parked near a temporary construction trailer. She waved as he pulled up.

“Mister Saghir,” she called, “what do you think?”

He climbed out and took it in. The roofline was elegant, almost soaring, but the space beneath it looked more like a ruin than a home. “What am I supposed to do with this? Sleep under the stars?”

She laughed softly. “It’s true that it’s only ten percent finished. The builder ran out of money and walked away. But look at what you get — fifty acres of riverfront land.”

She pointed east. Through the tall grass, Deek could see the San Joaquin River glinting like hammered silver. Cottonwoods and valley oaks lined the banks, their leaves flickering in the breeze. Sprays of orange and red poppies illustrated the hillsides, making the scene look like a painting. The air was crisp and clean, though as he inhaled deeply, he caught the faintest whiff of skunk, which made his nose wrinkle.

“Down there,” she said, “are old trails that lead straight to the water. You could hike, fish, build anything you want. To find riverfront land in Fresno is almost impossible. This is a miracle waiting for money.”

Deek raised an eyebrow. “A miracle that needs plumbing and walls.”

Marcela gestured toward a small stucco cottage tucked near the tree line. “There’s a caretaker’s house. One bedroom, kitchen, bath. All finished. You could live there while the main house is built.”

He stood in silence for a long moment, surveying the land. The wind carried the scent of dry grass and river water. Somewhere below, a hawk cried.

Marcela folded her arms. “Don’t look at what it is,” she said. “Look at what it could be.”

Just Like That

“Alright.” Deek turned to her. “How much?”

“Six million dollars. I bargained them down from seven, and it wasn’t easy. You said not to bother negotiating, but I am Colombian; it’s in my blood. I would have felt like an idiot taking their asking price. I could maybe – maybe – get them down to five five, but it wouldn’t be easy.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

Marcela’s face went hard. “It’s a good price for this property. The question is, are you serious or not serious?”

Deek raised one arm in the air, fist pointing to the sky. “Six million it is. I’ll take it.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Just like that? You’re not kidding?”

“Just like that.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “You don’t hesitate, do you?”

“It’s worked for me so far.”

“The sale still has to go through escrow,” she said, handing him a small key ring. “But that’s a formality. These are for the caretaker’s house. You can check the place up -”

“Check it out.”

“That’s what I said. Check it out, hang out, even sleep there if you like. Might be best not to move your stuff in until escrow goes through, though.”

He took the keys. The metal was warm from her hand.

He hesitated, then added, “Marcela, I want to talk to you about something. I’m building a family financial office — investments, property, all of it. I want you to run real estate acquisitions. Homes, apartment complexes, whatever makes sense.”

She considered. “Actually, Mister Saghir, commercial real estate is where the profit is right now. Fresno is full of empty buildings — offices, strip malls. Oversupply means we can buy low. If you want income, that’s where it is.”

Deek smiled. “Then you’re the one I need. Come on board.”

Marcela tilted her head, half-amused, half-intrigued. “You don’t waste time.”

Deek held his palms up to say, “What’s the word?”

Imitating Deek’s decisive gesture, Marcela Gómez shot an arm into the air and declared, “I will think about it!”

Deek laughed. “Fair enough.”

The Caretaker’s House

After she drove away, Deek wandered down the slope, the tall grass brushing against his jeans. He reached the edge of the ridge where the land fell away to the river. The sun was high now, painting the world in gold and shadow. It reminded him of his childhood vision of Jannah: grass, a river, and time to play. Though he and Marco were not children anymore, they hadn’t played any sports together in a long time.

Below him, the water moved slow and heavy, glittering with light. Cottonwoods swayed, and red-winged blackbirds flashed through the reeds. A blue heron stood motionless in the shallows. The air was warm and thick with the smell of river mud and wild fennel.

Deek sat on the grass, watching the heron lift off in a single, slow beat of its wings. He took out his phone, snapped a photo of the river stretching wide and calm, and sent it to Rania.

He waited. The screen stayed dark. No reply.

He pocketed the phone and kept watching the water. The wind came down from the hills, rippling the grass around him like the surface of the river itself.

The caretaker’s house was smaller than he expected — smaller, in fact, than his hotel room. One narrow bedroom, a kitchenette, and a bathroom with a stand-up shower. No bathtub. The place smelled faintly of pine cleaner. Someone had left a few personal items behind: a chipped coffee mug, a paperback novel with a cracked spine, and a faded baseball cap hanging on a nail by the door.

The walls were rough plaster, the furniture plain but solid — a table, two chairs, a firm sofa. It was clean, though. That counted for something. He could live here. He’d lived in worse.

He opened the windows. Warm air drifted in, thick with the scent of wild grass. There was no AC unit, only a ceiling fan that ticked as it spun.

He wandered through the back door and discovered a small patio he hadn’t noticed before — a slab of concrete shaded by a vine-covered trellis, with a built-in barbecue facing the river. From here, he could see the water shimmering between the trees, slow and drowsy under the midday sun.

He pulled out his phone again. Still no reply from Rania.

He stood there for a while, listening to the wind and the distant call of a jay, then slipped the phone back into his pocket.

The Hoops at Masjid Madinah

He couldn’t bring himself to go back to the hotel. Instead, he drove to Masjid Madinah.

The air inside the masjid was cool and smelled faintly of carpet and rose water. After the prayer, Imam Saleh clasped Deek’s shoulder and said, “You look tired, brother. Come outside for a bit.”

They stepped into the parking lot, where a cheap basketball hoop and backboard were bolted to a rusted light pole. The asphalt was cracked, the rim slightly bent.

“Come on,” the Imam said, tossing Deek a ball. “Let’s play a few rounds. It’ll clear your head.”

Deek chuckled. “I’m not very good.”

“Neither am I,” the Imam said, already dribbling. “Bismillah.”

Twenty minutes later, Deek was bent over, panting, sweat running down his temples, while the Imam sank another shot with effortless grace.

“I thought you said you weren’t good,” Deek said, hands on his knees.

“I said neither of us was good. But you’re worse.”

They laughed. The sound echoed across the empty lot.

Still catching his breath, Deek nodded toward the hoop. “You ever think about putting in a proper court?”

The Imam shrugged. “There are a lot of things we’d like to do. But this isn’t Masjid Umar. This community isn’t wealthy.”

Deek wiped sweat from his forehead. “How much would it cost? Not just for a basketball court but everything on your wish list — masjid expansion, classrooms, basketball court, whatever you need.”

The Imam stopped bouncing the ball and tucked it into his side. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the traffic on the main road nearby.

“Brother Deek,” he said finally, “you’re not the community piggy bank. I don’t want you to start seeing me that way — or for me to see you that way. I value you as a friend, and as a member of the community. That’s all.”

The words struck Deek harder than the Imam’s best shot. He nodded slowly, touched in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Understood,” he said. For the first time in a long while, he felt something like belonging. It occurred to him that this feeling of brotherhood and companionship was a tiny glimpse of Jannah, where such feelings would be universal, and loneliness would be a thing of the past.

“You and your family,” the Imam added. “You’re all welcome here.”

At that, Deek’s momentary feeling of contentment collapsed in on itself. Did the Imam know of his family situation? Was he giving him a message?

Deek suddenly felt very tired. He shook the Imam’s hand and trudged to his car. Loneliness might not exist in Jannah. But Deek lived on earth.

***

Come back next week for Part 28 inshaAllah

 

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

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

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

Related:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

The post Moonshot [Part 27] – Everything You Love appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Gaza City is determined to rebuild, but promises of aid and equipment are already being broken, says Asem Alnabih.

The poll is seen as a litmus test for the Netherlands and its democratic ideals, as activists decry a hardening of political discourse driven by Geert Wilders

The drawing depicted two women; a young blonde with a friendly expression and a scowling older woman wearing a headscarf. On top of the image was a nod to this month’s general election in the Netherlands, along with the phrase “The choice is yours.”

The social media post, made by the far-right, anti-Muslim politician Geert Wilders, prompted a record 14,000 complaints to the country’s anti-discrimination hotline. “Many of those who called to report the image compared it to Nazi propaganda from the second world war,” the hotline said in a statement, adding that the 19 anti-discrimination agencies associated with the hotline had flagged the post to police, amid concerns that it could be an incitement to hatred.

Continue reading...

Trump ally Laura Loomer took credit for Sami Hamdi’s detainment in move denounced as ‘affront to free speech’

The British journalist Sami Hamdi was reportedly detained on Sunday morning by federal immigration authorities at San Francisco international airport, and the Council on American-Islamic Relations (Cair) says that action is apparent retaliation for the Muslim political commentator’s criticism of Israel while touring the US.

A statement from Cair said it was “a blatant affront to free speech” to detain Hamdi for criticizing Israel’s ongoing military campaign in Gaza while he engaged on a speaking tour in the US. A Trump administration official added in a separate statement that Hamdi was facing deportation.

Continue reading...

Maccabi Tel Aviv fans singing one of their favourite chants (source: 5Pillars).

The saga over the Aston Villa versus Maccabi Tel Aviv football (soccer) fixture next month revealed a lot about how far our political establishment will go to defend Israel and to spare the feelings of its supporters. There has been a campaign to get the match called off, on the grounds that Israel is a genocidal state which should be treated as a pariah, as is Russia currently, for the past few weeks but last week the local Safety Advisory Group (SAG) recommended that MTA’s fans should not be allowed to travel to the game on the grounds that there was a strong likelihood of violence if the fans’ past record is anything to go by: picking fights with local Muslim minorities and singing offensive and racist songs (albeit in Hebrew, but they are not the only ones who understand Hebrew). They have, in short, a major hooligan problem and there was no guarantee that they would not get into, or start, a fight with Birmingham’s large Muslim community. The advice attracted scorn from the entire political class; it was accused of at best caving into antisemitism and at worst actual antisemitism; my former MP Ed Davey, leader of the Liberal Democrats, opined that the way to oppose antisemitism was not by banning its victims. Meanwhile, the reaction from many of the Tories and parties further Right was to accuse the SAG of being afraid to offend Muslims, and accused local Muslims of being a threat to the visiting fans rather than the other way round.

Over the course of last weekend, events took several turns until the Israeli club announced that it would not sell tickets for the match to their own fans, which would mean there would be no MTA fans at the match. A man claiming to be the leader of Aston Villa’s own “Jewish supporters’ club” turned out not to be Jewish at all and the fan club turned out not to exist. Stephen Yaxley-Lennon then announced that he (and a bunch of his supporters) would turn out in support of the tourists; a derby match between MTA and another Tel Aviv side, Hapoel, had to be cancelled on advice from local police after riots inside and outside the stadium. The latter left a lot of politicians with egg on their faces; the former prompted the fake Jewish fan to change his position, calling for the match to be held behind closed doors with no fans, as had an earlier MTA fixture with a Turkish side (held behind closed doors in Hungary). Still, politicians continued to link the decision to bar the MTA fans to antisemitism, alleging that they never just banned away fans for this reason (not true), only when the away fans are Israeli, and brushed aside concerns about hooliganism, repeating claims that the violence in Amsterdam last year was a pogrom against them by local Muslims, ignoring reports from local police that the fans were violent and racist as well. Others were wringing their hands over our supposed admission that “Jews aren’t safe in Britain’s second city”, despite the fact that Jews live in Birmingham and travel there every day, and other teams with associations with the Jewish community (e.g. Tottenham Hotspur) have played there many times with no trouble, nor any reason perceived to ban them. The fact that they are Jewish, or that Israel is a Jewish state, has nothing to do with why locals do not want this group of fans in their city.

My solution would have been, instead of a game behind closed doors with no fans at all, to hold the match in a stadium away from Birmingham, fairly close to an airport if possible, where the fans could be bussed from the airport to the match, and then bussed back and flown out as soon as possible after it ends. This way, both sets of fans get to see their team play and antagonism to the local community is kept to a minimum. Two possibilities that spring to mind are the stadiums in Reading and Milton Keynes — both large, both within easy reach of Birmingham for Villa’s fans and within easy reach of Heathrow airport (and in MK’s case also Luton airport) for the Israeli fans, and crucially neither in residential areas where locals could be subjected to major inconvenience or antagonism.

However, I must stand in defence of the Muslim community who objected to holding the match in their area. Who can blame them for feeling uncomfortable with large numbers of Israeli football supporters with a record of violence coming into their area? The political space and media the last few months has been full of talk of the country being ‘invaded’ by asylum seekers described as “fighting-age males”, and any misdeed of one of them is held up as proof that they are all a menace; yet, we expect Birmingham’s Muslim community to tolerate this large group of actual fighters, people (men and women) who six months or a year or two ago were in an army whose main function was terrorising unarmed people, mostly Muslims, in their villages and orchards on the West Bank, protecting lawless,  racist settlers who destroy their homes, crops and livestock, enforcing an occupation that has persisted for more than 50 years, with its regime of arbitrary detention, oppressive checkpoints, and a pseudo-justice system consisting of military tribunals, and who the past two years have been waging a genocidal war against the civilians of Gaza? When people said they didn’t want “Israeli hooligans” around, they were accused of antisemitism for suggesting that Israeli hooligans were worse than other football hooligans, but the fact is that other football hooligans are not war criminals.

According to police intelligence as reported in the Guardian last Tuesday, the fears were precisely about extremists linked to the club and not about danger to the Israeli supporters from locals: that Dutch police had told British police that the MTA fans instigated violence in Amsterdam and that scores of extremist fans with a history of racism and violence were expected to travel. The fans would have had to travel through London as there are no direct flights from Israel to Birmingham, which would have raised the possibility of further violence while they travelled to and from the game, and that specialist riot police would have had to be drafted in from across the country (this could, again, have been solved with charter flights and direct buses to a nearby stadium). The assessments were not made with any consideration of whether they could be interpreted as antisemitic or as ‘pandering’ or a surrender to antisemitism; they did understand that if you had not seen the intelligence, you could conclude that it was because the fans were Jewish; in my opinion, only bigoted Zionists — the sort that would not accept that the deliberate slaughter of tens or hundreds of thousands of Palestinian civilians after referencing an actual incident of genocide in the Bible was genocide, or that travelling Israeli fans could not possibly have started previous violence, even if local police had said so — would have concluded this.

Our political and media class are so devoted to Israel right now that they are willing to ride roughshod over local people’s feelings to allow some of the worst of them to come to the UK and roam around for several days, something which would not be allowed for a team from anywhere in Europe with such a record (and was not allowed for our fans when British hooligans were a major problem in the late 1980s and their behaviour contributed to a fatal disaster). With all the talk about whether the MTA fans were safe, and whether the police could police the match and the journey to and from it effectively, nobody seemed to be asking whether it was justified to impose any level of inconvenience on local people just so that a group of fans with a history of racist violence, from a country still engaged in an orgy of war crimes, could go to a football match. This would have affected everyone, but it was Muslims and Arabs (or anyone perceived as such) who were at particular risk from their behaviour, and this did not matter to politicians and the media, but all the while we see hand-wringing about how “Jews are not safe” because Israeli thugs are told they are not welcome, and indeed any time a strident criticism of Israel is made in a public forum. Sod everyone else’s feelings, but watch you mind theirs.

Critics of the Democratic nominee for NYC mayor have called him everything from ‘jihadist candidate’ to ‘terrorist sympathizer’

On Thursday morning, hours after a combative final New York mayoral debate that failed to move the needle in his favor, Andrew Cuomo’s attacks on his progressive Democratic rival Zohran Mamdani resumed a familiar, racially charged theme.

“God forbid, another 9/11, can you imagine Mamdani in the seat?” the independent candidate and former governor told the conservative radio talkshow host Sid Rosenberg, referring to the 2001 terrorist attacks on New York City by Islamic extremists.

Continue reading...

New US rhetoric, but same Israel.

My uncles and cousin were killed by an Israeli drone strike while they prepared a meal on their rooftop in Gaza.