Ankara has limited trade, but activists face trial for demanding end to oil transfers.

Fire at mosque in Peacehaven on Saturday night left front entrance damaged and a car burnt out

A suspected arson attack on a mosque in an English seaside town is being investigated by police as a hate crime.

The front entrance to the mosque in Peacehaven, East Sussex, was damaged and a car parked outside was entirely burnt out after the incident on Saturday night, which has been condemned by political figures and faith groups.

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A visit to Jum’ah prayer takes a shocking turn.

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

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“We all need mercy, we all need justice, and—perhaps—we all need some measure of unmerited grace.” — Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy

Allah Will Take Care Of Me

Imam Saleh stepped up onto the crescent-shaped wooden minbar, hand-built in Turkey and donated to the masjid by the Turkish consulate in San Francisco.

The Imam’s voice was steady, warm, and familiar. Deek – aware of the eyes upon him – pulled his sleeve down to cover his expensive watch, leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and closed his eyes.

He listened with interest when the Imam said:

“Brothers and sisters, let me tell you a story from my student days in Jordan, where I had gone to study Arabic and Islam. One day at the main masjid in Amman I met a man named Yusuf, who had come from Senegal to study the Quran. He had just arrived with nothing—no money, no contacts, not even a place to sleep. I asked him, ‘Where will you go?’ He smiled and said, ‘Allah will take care of me.’”

The words echoed strangely in the hollows of Deek’s chest.

The Imam continued:

“A businessman overheard Yusuf’s story, and offered to sponsor him at the Quran school indefinitely. SubhanAllah. Over the years, I saw him sometimes. He never had an income, but he never complained. Always he said, ‘Allah will take care of me.’ One night, I was out running errands, and I felt an urge to attend Ishaa’ at that masjid where I had met Yusuf. I didn’t usually go there as it was out of my way. I couldn’t explain it, but I went. And there was Yusuf.

After salat, he remained sitting. I went to him and we had a conversation. Only after I had talked to him for ten minutes, and I asked him how his studies were going, did he tell me, “I memorized the entire Quran. But I cannot return home because I don’t have money for the ticket.” I asked him why he hadn’t told me this right away, and he said he’d had a dream that he should come to this masjid tonight and meet me, and everything would work out. So he was waiting for the matter to resolve itself, as he knew that Allah would provide.

I had very little money myself. I spoke to the Imam, and he made a phone call, and soon someone had pledged the money for Yusuf’s ticket. Yusuf returned home, and I never saw him again.

This is tawakkul—trust in Allah. This world is not sustained by wealth, but by Allah’s Mercy. Whoever clings to Him, Allah provides in ways they never imagined.”

Stagnant Rainwater

Deek tried to picture the Senegalese man—hungry, alone in a foreign country, no home or friends, no money, certainly no fancy watch—yet serene. In his mind, another face emerged: his father, standing in the garden in his white dishdasha, saying, “Deek, this dunya will deceive you. Be a good Muslim. Be a good husband and father. That is wealth.” And then his father recited the ayah that he so often repeated: “Say, ‘Consider this: if your water were to sink ˹into the earth˺, then who could bring you flowing water?'”

Deek remembered praying with his daughters when they were little. Amira climbing onto his back while he prostrated in sujood, and Sanaya scolding her. Afterwards, he always scooped them up and kissed their foreheads, teaching them the dua’ after salat. His heart had been light back then.

He thought of Sanaya’s solemn face that morning, refusing even salam. How times have changed. Sadness filled him like stagnant rainwater from a rusty can.

When the prayer ended, Deek remained sitting, saying his dhikr. He’d seen a lot of brothers eyeing him during the khutbah, and it was embarrassing. He checked his phone. Rania’s reply read: “Allah will take care of me.” He stared at the screen. It was the message from the khutbah. Was she here? He stood, hoping to slip out quietly and look for her. But before he could depart, a cluster of brothers gathered around.

A Flood Of Questions

One was a tall Afghan man in a worn shalwar kameez, his beard streaked with gray. “Brother,” he said warmly, “you are Deek Saghir, yes? I heard you are doing very well with the crypto. Masha’Allah. Tell me, how do you buy these coins? Can I just go to the bank?”

A Latino brother, young and muscular and wearing a backward baseball cap, leaned in eagerly. He could have been a pro ball player preparing to take a swing. “Is it true that people become millionaires overnight? My cousin says he missed out on Dogecoin. Do you think it’s still possible?”

An older African-American brother wearing a bright African daishiki and a white kufi, frowned skeptically. “But what if it’s gambling? Some say it is haram, no different from the lottery. What do you say, akh?”

Their faces pressed close, voices overlapping.

“Are you a millionaire now?”

“Can you tell us your secret?”

“Can you give us a class?”

A tall, doe-eyed teenager sidled up beside him and tapped the sheath of the knife on Deek’s hip. “Why do you have this?” The boy seemed innocently curious, but Deek placed a protective hand over the knife.

“Pathetic.” This last came from a young African-American brother wearing black jeans and a Raiders shirt, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Deek didn’t know if the comment was a reference to Deek himself, or to the desperate, grasping admirers surrounding him.

Deek felt his pulse quicken. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He glanced across the prayer hall and caught sight of Faraz leaning against the wall, watching with his usual grin. Deek lifted his hand in a quick, sharp gesture: Is this your doing? Faraz only raised his eyebrows and shook his head, palms up in mock innocence.

Deek forced a smile, stammering. “Well, you see… cryptocurrency, it’s, ah… it’s not like dollars exactly. It’s, um, decentralized. You could say it’s like… like math, really. Secure math. People trade it, and the value goes up and down. Some… some people win, some lose…” His words tangled, and he felt heat rising in his face.

A Desperate Plea

One brother, a fiftyish Pakistani with a proud nose and a receding hairline, dressed like a college professor in slacks and sports coat, seized Deek’s lapel. Deek didn’t know the man’s name, but he’d spoken to him before. He was a doctor with a daughter a few years older than Sanaya. She was a pharmacy student. The man had always seemed calm and even slightly jovial.

Now, however, his eyes were bloodshot, and his normally well-coiffed hair looked uncombed.

“My daughter is sick,” the man said. “I’ve spent everything. I have no money left for her treatment.”

Deek tried to pull away, but the man held him fast. “Share what Allah has given you.” His voice rose. “Don’t be selfish!”

Imam Saleh stepped between them and physically pushed the brother away. “Doctor Rana!” he snapped. “This is not appropriate.”

Deek took a step back, caught his foot on the edge of a rug, and fell with a startled cry.

“I don’t care about appropriate!” Rana shouted. “Allah has abandoned me.”

Imam Saleh stepped toward the distraught doctor, and for a shocked second, Deek thought the Imam would hit the man. Instead, Saleh embraced the desperate father and whispered in his ear. Rana’s shoulders slumped, and he turned and walked out.

Saleh made shooing motions at the remaining brothers. “Everyone out, please. Show’s over. Respect brother Deek’s privacy.”

Deek got back to his feet, rubbing his wrist, which was sore from breaking his fall.

The men dispersed reluctantly, muttering thanks and salams. Deek exhaled and smoothed his lapels. His hands remained on his chest as if to shield himself. His breath was shaky.

Imam Saleh approached him gently. “I am very sorry. Dr. Rana is going through a difficult time. But that doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

Deek lifted one shoulder. “Not your fault. And I understand. If one of my daughters were sick and I couldn’t help her, I’d lose my mind too.”

Imam Saleh rubbed Deek’s shoulder. “You’re a kind man, mashaAllah. I’m sorry about the other brothers too. They are curious, and perhaps too eager.”

Deek’s heart was still running, but he gave a slight nod. “I understand.”

“You probably don’t want to do that seminar anymore.”

Deek swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Before leaving, Deek asked for Dr. Rana’s address. If the Imam was surprised, he didn’t show it.

Rolling In It

There was no sign of Rania outside. Faraz caught up to him in the parking lot, slapping him on the shoulder. Deek flinched, still gun-shy after his experience inside, but Faraz was an old friend, and he told himself to relax.

“Deek! Broooo! Look at you in the suit, so beautiful like a wave of the ocean. MashaAllah, mashaAllah.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “You rolling in it now, right? How much? How many millis?” He rubbed his fingers together and said, “Cha-ching, cha-ching!”

“I guessed you missed all the drama just now?”

“What, something happen? I see them crowding you. So sorry.”

Deek smiled. “No big deal. But what about you, akhi? The market is firing on all cylinders. You must have cleaned up too.”

Faraz’s face fell. “I drop it all on a meme coin. My cousin part of the project, he say the founders have a roadmap and investors. But was a scam. I lose everything. My cousin too.”

Deek was shocked. “You put everything on one meme coin?”

Faraz made an angry gesture. “Was stupid. Don’t matter, is Allah’s qadar. What happen, happen.”

Deek exhaled loudly. “That’s rough. I’d loan you some Solana but I exited crypto. I sold it all. The crash is coming.”

Faraz poked Deek in the chest. “You a oracle, smart like a Bengal tiger. I tell you what, buy me espresso machine, I be happy man.” Again his voice fell to a whisper. “Just between me and you. How much you make? I don’t tell no one.”

Deek looked at his old friend, remembering how they’d started together in crypto, both nearly broke, trading ideas and strategies over coffee and sweets. And not just any coffee, for Faraz was a coffee connoisseur. Deek remembered the first time Faraz had invited him to the masjid kitchen to chat about crypto. The man busied himself over an old coffee maker while Deek munched on some leftover birthday cake someone had left in the fridge. Deek, expecting the stale coffee that might be served in a dilapidated mosque kitchen, was stunned when Faraz served a gorgeous brew that was clean and light yet complex, with hints of berries, toffee, and sweet herbs.

Seeing Deek’s amazed expression, Faraz grinned. “Ethiopian. The birthplace of coffee.”

After that, their little crypto get-togethers became hedonistic soirees featuring whatever gourmet coffee Faraz had sourced that week, along with the Petit Ecolier cookies that Deek adored, and of course, long debates about the merits of one crypto over another.

Now, standing in front of Deek in the parking lot, Faraz gestured with his chin and said, “Is okay, you can tell me. How much?”

“Half a billion dollars.”

Faraz’s mouth fell open. Tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced Deek, then stepped back, patted Deek on the chest, and walked away.

Watching him go, Deek tasted sadness like acid in his mouth. Faraz had a wife and three kids. His job at the center didn’t pay much. What did he have left now? Why had Deek gotten rich, while Faraz went bust? It could just as easily have happened the other way around.

He could not help Faraz by simply giving him money. He had learned that much. It would humiliate the man. But maybe there was a way he could help both of them. He thought about it for some time, then made a phone call.

A Trust From Allah

The car was parked in the shade of one of the walnut trees in the masjid’s front yard. Deek sat in the car and rolled down the windows. Part of him wanted to pull his limbs and head into a shell and hide from everyone. Just manage his money and forget the world. But that would mean a lifetime of dreams in which he was haunted by the increasingly strident figments of Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah and Queen Latifah.

He had not forgotten his satori, his realization that he was meant to be a conduit for this money. This wealth was not for him to hoard. In fact, it was not his at all, but was a trust from Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’aala. Nor did he have the right to decide who was worthy and who was not. He was not a judge, nor was his own heart pristine. In fact, he could be a flat-out jerk sometimes. Lubna could certainly testify to that.

He went into a discount clothing store a block away and bought a plain black t-shirt. In the car, he removed the suit jacket, dress shirt, and German watch, and slipped on the t-shirt. He still wore the suit pants, but he mostly looked like a regular guy.

Dr. Rana lived in an upper-middle-class home in Clovis. Deek noticed right away that though the two-story house was quite large, the lawn and garden were overgrown and turning brown. He rang the doorbell and wiped nervous sweat from his upper lip.

The door cracked open, and Dr. Rana stood in the frame. His jaw was tight, his back straight as if he expected confrontation. His eyes, red from sleepless nights, held no warmth.

“Mister Saghir,” the disintegrating doctor said, clipped and formal. “I imagine you have come for an apology.”

Deek raised his hands slightly, palms out. “Not at all. I came to help.”

The stiffness in Rana’s shoulders gave way in an instant. His face twisted, and with a sudden, almost desperate motion, he stepped forward and embraced Deek. His body trembled. “Astaghfirullah,” Rana whispered. “Forgive me.”

Deek patted the man’s back, feeling his spine through his thin shirt. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Rana gestured him inside. “Please, come.”

Undimmable Grace

The house was dim, curtains drawn. The air carried the faint smells of lentils and disinfectant. Something had left grooves in the carpet. Rana led him to the dining table, muttering, “Sit, sit.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two cups of lukewarm tea, placing one carefully before Deek.

Only then did Rana sit, folding his hands tightly. His voice came soft and halting. “It is AL amyloidosis. We began chemotherapy months ago, but the response has been poor. Her kidneys are failing. The only chance now is a stem cell transplant. But Fresno cannot provide it. UCSF has a long waitlist, Stanford requires an impossible deposit, and the Mayo Clinic…” He shrugged helplessly. “Mayo is the best. But insurance will not cover it. Out of network, they say.”

Deek’s throat constricted. “If nothing is done?”

Rana swallowed hard. “She may have a year. Two, if Allah wills.”

The words hung like ash between them. Then Rana straightened slightly, as if gathering himself. “Would you like to meet her? She is resting, but… let me see if she is able.”

He rose and went down the hall. Deek heard a soft murmur of fatherly tones, the creak of a bed being adjusted. After a pause, Rana returned and nodded, eyes glistening. “She is awake enough. Please.”

He led Deek into the back bedroom. Curtains filtered the light to a dull glow. Against the wall stood a hospital bed, the girl propped on pillows, oxygen tubing running beneath her nose, IV line in her arm. Her face was thin and pale, her hair tucked back beneath a scarf. Her sunken eyes looked up when they entered. So young. A few years older than Sanaya, though the illness made her look aged.

Despite the pallor of illness, there was an undimmable grace about her, a dignity that shone even through the haze of fatigue.

Deek’s breath caught.

“This is my daughter Maryam,” Rana said softly. His hand lingered on the bedrail.

Deek stepped closer, feeling as if he were back on the planet Rust. An alien in a strange world, unfamiliar with the customs, having no words to speak. After a moment, he managed to say, “As-salamu alaykum, Maryam. It’s very nice to meet you. I’ll be making dua’ for your recovery, inshaAllah.”

Her lips curved faintly. Her voice was weak but clear. “Wa alaykum as-salam. I know your daughter… Sanaya. We met… at masjid events. She’s whip-smart. When Shaykh Saleh… asks a question… he sometimes says, ‘Anyone except Sanaya.’ Because he knows… she already knows the answer.”

The words struck Deek like an arrow, and for a moment he could only nod, his throat tight. “That means a lot. JazakiAllahu khayr.”

Rana placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Rest now, Beti.” She closed her eyes, the faintest smile lingering as they left the room.

Back in the living room, Rana lowered himself heavily into a chair. His hands rubbed together compulsively, his voice hesitant. “I did not introduce you to her to burden you, brother Deek. You’ve already been kind. I only wanted you to understand why—”

Deek raised a hand, firm. “Doctor. Don’t say anything else. I will pay for everything. The treatment, the travel, the lodging, and the bills you owe already. All of it. Don’t argue, don’t refuse. Your daughter’s life is not up for negotiation.”

Rana blinked, as if the words did not register at first. “It could… it could be a lot of money.”

“It wouldn’t matter if it were millions. Consider it paid for.” He handed Rana one of his new business cards. “Email me the info on anyone you owe money to, whether medical providers or anyone else. And send me your bank account information, I’ll deposit some money for your immediate needs.”

Rana sagged back into the chair, covering his face with both hands. When he lowered them, his eyes were wet but steady.

“You are a great man.”

“No.” Deek shook his head. “I’m really not. I just want to know who I am when I look in the mirror.”

“What do you mean?”

Deek smiled. “Nothing, just… trying to figure things out. Mercy is what sustains the world, right? Isn’t that what the Imam said today? I need your mercy on me, Doctor Rana.”

Rana looked astounded. “My mercy on you?”

Deek nodded. “Yes. I think so. I need your dua’, and your friendship. Take care of your daughter, Doctor.”

***

Come back next week for Part 25 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:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 24] – What Sustains The World appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A suspected arson attack on a mosque in an English seaside town is being investigated by police as a hate crime. The front entrance to the mosque in Peacehaven, East Sussex, was damaged and a car parked outside was entirely burned out after the incident on Saturday night, which has been condemned by political figures and faith groups

• Suspected arson attack at East Sussex mosque investigated as hate crime

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Shaker, wanted over his connection to deadly shootout between militants and army, had been hiding out in Palestinian refugee camp

A Lebanese pop star turned wanted Islamist militant handed himself over to the country’s military intelligence service 12 years after going on the run.

Fadel Shaker had been on the run since the bloody street clashes between Sunni Muslim militants and the Lebanese army in June 2013 in the coastal city of Sidon. He was tried in absentia and sentenced to 22 years in prison in 2020 for providing support to a “terrorist group”.

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Last Thursday it was reported that a man had stabbed two people to death outside a synagogue in Manchester. Today the man’s name was revealed to be Jihad al-Shamie, a name widely ridiculed by people who have never heard of Jihad being used as a first name (I have, many times), but it was also revealed that he in fact stabbed not two but one person before he was shot dead by police as he appeared to be wearing a bomb around his waist; the second fatality and a third injury were in fact caused by police gunfire. There is also a pro-Palestinian, anti-genocide demonstration also planned for tomorrow, as there has been most weekends since the genocide began in October 2023; a number of politicians have demanded it be called off. Starmer also made some ludicrous remarks in a speech on Thursday, claiming that “antisemitism is a hatred that is rising once again, and we must defeat it once again”, and that Britain not only provides refuge, but a home.

That last claim comes as the Labour government, in an attempt to outflank the Deform UK party, has proposed to double the length of time it takes to secure Indefinite Leave to Remain (Deform have talked about abolishing it altogether, which will mean no means for foreign nationals to live in the UK permanently other than by taking British citizenship) from five years to ten. The first claim will be news to anyone who has witnessed the rising tide of hatred towards both Muslims and asylum seekers in the UK over the past year; hotels housing asylum seekers, including children, have been subject to ‘protests’ by racist goons that often turn violent, while racist tropes increasingly dominate the public space, especially on social media and the Deformist new media, finding ways to blame Muslims in general for grooming gangs in particular. I’ll believe antisemitism is the hate that is rising when I hear a harsh word about Jews or Israel from Nigel Farage, Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (who is expected to visit Israel as a guest of the minister of diaspora affairs Amichai Chikli later this month, barring another run-in with the law) or Matthew Goodwin, or when a synagogue is actually besieged by a mob because of a crime someone presumed to be Jewish committed.

Both politicians and media have been demanding that anti-genocide protests planned for this weekend be called off so as to “respect the grief of the Jewish community” (they legally can’t force them to be for that reason). “This is a moment of mourning. It is not a time to stoke tension and cause further pain. It is a time to stand together” tweeted Starmer; Shabana Mahmood, the home secretary, called the protests “un-British and wrong” and told us to “take a step back and allow [the Jewish community] to grieve”. The protests are not aimed at the Jewish community; they are invariably routed away from synagogues and when people wanted to demonstrate near the BBC’s Broadcasting House one Saturday, it was banned because there is a synagogue a few streets away. They are aimed at the state of Israel and its backers in the British government, which include Starmer. It’s interesting how a demonstration in London against a genocide being perpetrated against Palestinians by the state of Israel is deemed to be hurtful to British Jews, or to interfere with their grief at a single Jew being killed by a low-life (who was not even Palestinian) in Manchester. We have a Palestinian community here too; many of them are grieving relatives lost in the genocide — to say nothing of hundreds of thousands of Muslims who have seen their brothers and sisters slaughtered in huge numbers, while not being chased from place to place while starving, for the sake of Israel’s final solution. Yet the establishment still demand that the precious feelings of British Jews govern what we can and cannot say about Israel and Palestine, and how Israel treats Palestinians.

The media have also repeated some of the slurs: that pro-Palestinian demonstrations are full of antisemitism, or that they make Jews feel threatened, or that they are fronts for Hamas or at least riddled with Hamas supporters, or supporters of other ‘terrorist’ groups such as Palestine Action. These days ‘terrorist’ means whatever the government says it means; as with PA, they do not have to do anything that resembles actual terrorism, which means targeting the general public with violence to force political change, but the limit of “support for Hamas” at some demonstrations consists of things like pictures of gliders on people’s clothing, or one or two incidents of “reckless speech”; there has been no large-scale demonstration of support for Hamas itself. As for antisemitism, the Palestine solidarity movement has always bent over backwards to avoid language that implicates Jews in general, or even mentions them; it mentions Israel and Zionism, and specific atrocities. The propaganda is long on accusations and short on evidence, and is aimed at people who have never been on one, and do not know anyone involved.

So, you’re grieving. Boo hoo, so are we. There’s a genocide going on. People are dying in huge numbers. There’s still an occupation going on in the West Bank, Palestinian natives being forced off their land because Israeli settlers covet it, or some other reason, and still being threatened by settlers and soldiers as they go about their daily lives. Mainstream Jewish organisations in the UK, including the Chabad Lubavitch organisation that runs the synagogue targeted last week, loudly support much of this (if not explicitly, then through genocide denial, victim blaming and repeating other Israeli propaganda) and use ‘antisemitism’ smears against those who expose and oppose it. Unlike when terrorist acts are committed by Muslim organisations or when violent acts are committed by individual Muslims, there is no pressure on the Jewish community to condemn or distance itself from the perpetrators; any attempt at such pressure is met with antisemitism smears. So, excuse us for not minding your feelings while we march against the genocide you support. You stop killing, we stop marching.

Israeli army closes main north-south route along the coast for traffic in and out of Gaza City as war minister threatens Palestinians who stay.

Democratic voters recognize reality of genocide as elected officials and mainstream media fall short.

When Ahmed Al-Sharaa addressed the United Nations on September 25th, he made history as the first Syrian president to do so in 60 years.

He also capped a remarkable string of successes that no human could have imagined when Bashar al-Assad was sitting pretty in Damascus a year ago.

A Long List of Accomplishments

In the nine months since Al-Sharaa’s rebel alliance shocked the world by toppling the Assad regime, his transition government has pulled off success after success amid mortal challenges.

He has maintained the loyalty of hardened fighters, some of whom were probably ready to string up former Assad officials and charge into the occupied Golan Heights.

He has struck interim deals with other rebel factions and, so far, avoided full-blown conflict with the Syrian Democratic Forces even as it stalls on integration.

He has signed an interim constitution that established a path to representative government, satisfied public expectations for governance rooted in Islam, and guaranteed religious freedom to Syria’s diverse population.

He has shown respect for various Islamic schools of thought and embraced Syria’s Christian, Druze, and Alawite citizens, consulting with their leaders and sending soldiers to protect their houses of worship.

He has built diplomatic ties with countries usually at odds with each other, like the UAE, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar, avoiding the coup plots that doomed Egypt’s first democratically elected president, the late Dr. Mohamed Morsi.

He has defused multiple violent sectarian flare-ups instigated by separatist militias, Assad loyalists, and the Israeli government, all of whom seek to destabilize the government and ultimately partition the country.

He has condemned abuses by his own forces committed during those clashes and launched independent investigations into the violence.

He has secured multiple meetings with President Trump, who lifted executive branch sanctions on Syria without demanding that the country jump through years of hoops or make intolerable concessions, such as joining the so-called Abraham Accords.

The Muslim World’s Eyes On Syria

Now Al-Sharaa has made history at the United Nations. In his brief speech, he reintroduced Syria to the world, outlined his vision for the future, and concluded with support for the people of Gaza.

As the world now watches Syria’s progress with cautious optimism, Syrians are not the only ones rooting for his success.

So are many Muslims across the globe who have endured years of political heartbreak: Israel’s genocide in Gaza and ethnic cleansing of the West Bank, the rise of Hindutva extremism in India, the genocidal persecution of Uyghurs in China and Rohingya in Myanmar, civil wars in Libya, Yemen and Sudan, and renewed autocracy in Egypt and Tunisia.

The apparent victory of the Assad regime over Syrian revolutionaries was perhaps the most bitter pill for the Muslim world to swallow, and his sudden downfall was widely seen as a miracle.

If Al-Sharaa’s government now succeeds in reuniting, stabilizing, and reconstructing Syria, that, too, would be a miracle—one that could make the 42-year-old an inspiring political leader in the Arab and Muslim world for decades to come.

Al-Sharaa’s Syria vs. Israel

Perhaps that explains why the Israeli government has spent months trying to undermine Al-Sharaa by smearing him to Western audiences, destroying Syria’s military assets, lobbying the U.S. to maintain its sanctions, enabling separatist militias to rebel, and even threatening to assassinate Al-Sharaa himself.

Israel opposes Syria’s new government for the same reason it opposed the Arab Spring: it wants Syria and the wider Arab Muslim world internally divided, militarily weak, and politically impotent—ruled by dictators who keep a lid on the tens of millions of people who want their governments to reflect their values and stand up for the Palestinian people.

Benjamin Netanyahu recently justified bombing Syria by saying, “I understand who we are dealing with.” Indeed, Netanyahu sees in Al-Sharaa what many Muslims see: a devout, pragmatic warrior-turned-politician who managed to subdue extremist groups like Al-Qaeda and ISIS, spearhead the overthrow of an entrenched dictator backed by a superpower, and restore Syria to its rightful place in the world, all in a few years.

To be clear, Al-Sharaa does have critics in the Muslim world, who usually accuse him of being a tool of the West or argue he has not done enough to help Gaza or respond to Israel’s attacks on Syria. Yet no one should be surprised by Al-Sharaa’s hostility to Iran and Hezbollah, given the sectarian violence they unleashed against the Syrian people to prop up the Assad regime, and no one should have expected his forces to somehow stop the Gaza genocide or jump into a war with Israel, given their limited military strength, unprotected airspace, and tenuous control of Syria.

What Al-Sharaa has done instead is repeatedly condemn Israel’s attacks on Gaza and refuse to join the Abraham Accords despite the Caesar sanctions that Israel First members of Congress still dangle over his government.

Although Al-Sharaa’s tenure has hardly been perfect and the future of Syria’s transition remains unclear, the Syrian people and Muslims around the world have reason to hope that he will continue to make history and maybe, just maybe, inspire other Arab Muslim nations to do the same.

 

Related:

– Fort Down In A Fortnight: Syrian Insurgents Oust Assad Regime

The post Is Syria’s New President The Type Of Political Leader Muslims Have Been Waiting For? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

We speak with Ahmed Abu Artema about surviving genocide and leaving behind everything, before fleeing to the Netherlands.

UVision sees genocide as a business opportunity.

Oakland groups protest 280 military cargo shipments to Nevatim Airbase in Israel.

Have you ever heard of the ‘trolley problem’? It’s a thought experiment involving two hypothetical scenarios that prompts us to examine our own morals and ethics, and has resulted in numerous variations. One offshoot of this classic dilemma is as follows: ‘If you were to press a button to win 5 million dollars but kill 5 people somewhere in the world, would you press it?’ This question forces you to shorten the distance between yourself and a ‘faraway’ problem. While many of us may easily disregard this particular quandary as unchallenging and fictional, how many of us could easily dismiss the real-life trolley problems we face?

In recent years, Temu, a Chinese online marketplace, has skyrocketed in popularity, not only in the United States but also in countries like my own, Sri Lanka. Ranked the world’s second-best e-commerce platform, it’s known for its rock-bottom prices, ridiculously high and frequent discounts, and for the sheer variety of products it offers. It can attract customers with high-end taste as well as those with an appetite for aesthetic gimcracks, many of which can be purchased in bulk for half the price found elsewhere. Sounds too good to be true? Well, if you have any qualms, the arrival of the vibrant orange package at your doorstep —the item inside in perfect condition— will immediately squash it. 

By design, Temu is meant to beguile you, and, true to its slogan, you can shop like a billionaire.  I’ll admit, I too, was convinced in the beginning; I bookmarked products I wanted to buy in the future, products that reflected my Pinterest boards, products I could customise – it was easy to fall in love with this marketplace. That compulsion, however, was soon stifled when I learnt of its dark secrets. How does a large marketplace like Temu maintain its appealing price tags? 

Temu and Forced Labour

Fast fashion often comes at the cost of something, and while many of us may direct our attention to its ill effects on the environment, the allure of Temu whitewashes its complicity in human rights abuses. 

East Turkestan (or its colonial name ‘Xinjiang’, which translates to ‘New Territory’) is a region at the center of grave human rights abuses, an annexed region in China, and home to Uyghurs and other Muslim minorities. These communities have been forced into labour by Chinese companies affiliated with the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). In turn, the CCP disguises these camps as projects to ‘alleviate the province’s poverty’ and has displaced labourers to other areas, some as far as 2,600 miles away from home, to avoid import bans. 

Yet, despite these concerns, Temu does not have a system in place to vet products in its marketplace. The company has even admitted to not barring ‘third-party sellers from selling products based on their origin in the Xinjiang Autonomous Region’. To make matters worse, its parent company, PDD Holders, was once accused of mandating its employees “to work 380 hours per month, which resulted in several deaths”. But the issue of human rights abuses does not end there.

Genocide in East Turkestan

China’s campaign against these communities is all-encompassing, and, as pointed out by Uyghur intellectual and activist, Mamtimin Ala, there’s a problem when we narrow the discussion to just forced labour. It deflects from a wider conversation that China is committing a genocide. 

Uyghurs and the other ethnic groups have faced violent crackdowns for adhering to their religion or maintaining their cultural heritage and traditions. They face imprisonment for basic practices such as fasting during Ramadan, wearing the hijab, abstaining from alcohol, or even engaging with the Qur’an. A report by The Guardian exposed these abuses, like the example of a 70-year-old Uyghur woman who was arrested and given a six-year prison sentence for “studying the Qur’an between April and May 1967, wearing conservative religious dress between 2005 and 2014, and keeping an electronic Qur’an reader at home”. In another ludicrous case, an Uyghur woman was sentenced to prison for ten years for “illegally studying scripture with her mother for three days […] when she was just five or six years old”.

Muslim trainees work in a garment factory at the Hotan Vocational Education and Training Center in Hotan, Xinjiang, northwest China. (CCTV via AP Video, File)

These crackdowns are ultimately a result of China’s deep-seated fear — an inability to maintain totalitarian control over people: mind, body, and soul. But through intensive surveillance, fear is then inversely permeated within these communities. Such nauseating anxiety of being watched becomes a punishment in itself. “[Islam] has to be gone completely [for the CCP],” Uyghur activist Arslan Hidayat said, “so that [Uyghurs] are not able to implement it into their lives, when they’re making decisions about what to eat, when they’re making decisions about how to do business, how to interact with individuals, who they choose to marry, what they choose to wear.”

But it’s not just religion. Using their own language, lacking zeal when using Mandarin, or being absent from “flag-raising ceremonies” also puts them at risk. 

Isn’t there a cruel irony in all of this? Through our purchases, we rob people of their freedom of expression just so we can own products that pander to our taste.

With identity markers labelled as “extremism”, these individuals are thrown into horrific “re-education” detention camps, where human rights abuses are rampant. In a 45-page report published in 2022 by former UN human rights commissioner, Michelle Bachelet, abuses against Uyghurs include “beatings with electric batons while being strapped in a “tiger chair”” (chairs which captives are tied to and kept in painful positions) as well as subjugation to extended periods of solitary confinement. Other forms of torture include rape, forced sterilisation, forced disappearances, and organ harvesting. 

China allegedly plans to increase its organ transplant centres by 2030. This expansion ultimately means that there will be a total of nine organ transplant centres for a mere population of 26 million. That’s alarmingly excessive and should raise a lot of questions, especially when official records show that the region generally has a low donation rate. Contrast that ratio with the Guizhou province in China: the province, as highlighted by The Telegraph, has only three transplant centres for its population of 39 million. 

The Chairperson of the ‘End Transplant Abuse in China (ETAC)’ organisation has said, from marginalised prisoners alone, “[organs] were harvested forcefully, including from otherwise healthy prisoners against their will” and were sometimes done so while “the patients were still alive”.

Call to Action

When we bear witness to the Ummah’s suffering, what should our response be? 

To answer this, I’d like to highlight an incident that occurred during the life of Jabir ibn Abdullah .

It is reported that one day, Jabir was carrying some meat with him when he encountered Umar ibn al-Khattab . When the latter inquired about it, Jabir replied, “Amir al-Muminin. We desired meat, and I bought some meat for a dirham.” Umar then said, “Does one of you want to fill his belly apart from his neighbour or nephew? How can you overlook this ayat? ‘You squandered your good things in the life of this world and sought comfort in them.'”[Surah Al-Ahqaf: 46;20]

From this brief interaction, we observe how Umar   linked individual consumption with an awareness of the needs of others. Putting this into practice will undoubtedly instill a sense of contentment and empathy. But the lesson Umar conveys here can teach us a lot more and should shake us into introspection. If we are to be mindful of our purchases because others lack them, what can be said if our purchases directly affect them? 

It is not enough to simply acknowledge the atrocities committed against the Uyghurs. This would make no difference, especially when one is a contributor to that pain. The Prophet said,

“A Muslim is a brother of another Muslim, so he should not oppress him, nor should he hand him over to an oppressor.” [Sahih al-Bukhari 2442]

Hence, I believe it’s time we reject marketplaces like Temu. In fact, some of the ‘ulema are active proponents of boycott movements. Sheikh Abdullah ash-Shanqiti, for instance, has said that if we declare ‘we will not import [China’s] products until they stop mistreating Muslims, that will be beneficial for the Muslims. […] It is as if [Muslims] are unaware of what is beneficial for them. Their enemies plan for them, and they execute these plans. Therefore, look at this weakness and this failure.’ To not do so, Sheikh remarked, would be a wasted opportunity.

Since 2023, there has been a robust amplification of the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement for Palestine. Unfortunately, while people tend to boycott the goods, they freeze the principles behind such a movement. Palestinian writer Muhammed el-Kurd once highlighted the importance of creating analogies for people to understand causes better and the connections between them. “The fault in a lot of what we do,” he said, “is that we tend to exceptionalise Palestine and we tend to exceptionalise Zionism.” The principles gained from the BDS movement must transcend one cause as they are grounded in solidarity with the oppressed and are against the imperial rule it presides over. 

So, in a full circle moment, we go back to the trolley problem. Are we really willing to purchase from Temu, knowing fully well that the one dress we bought could have been the cause of much pain and suffering to a ‘faraway’ Uyghur Muslim? 

 

Related:

– Understanding Boycotts And Buying Within Our Communities

– Top Books To Read On Uyghur Cause

 

The post Is Your Temu Package Made With Uyghur Forced Labour? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Serbian nationals also accused by Serbian police of defacing Jewish sites, as French officials investigate foreign interference

Serbian police have arrested 11 people, accusing them of “inciting hatred” in France and Germany, and linking them to acts that include placing pigs’ heads near mosques and defacing Jewish sites.

The arrests came days after French prosecutors said foreign interference was probably to blame for a spate of provocative acts that had targeted Jewish and Muslim sites in France in recent years, as tensions run high over the war in Gaza. French officials have previously said they were investigating Russia’s role in destabilising operations that have stoked social tensions and sown division in France.

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Hungry and emaciated, children are the first and most severely affected.

Bass player and founder member of Pentangle who worked with John Martyn, Nick Drake and Kate Bush

Afounder member of the British folk-rock band Pentangle, the double bass player Danny Thompson also added depth and resonance to recordings by artists as varied as Nick Drake and Kate Bush, Cliff Richard and Everything But the Girl, Graham Coxon and John Martyn – to name a handful among the hundreds of sessions he played on from the early 1960s into the 21st century.

Thompson, who has died aged 86, was a musician’s musician, his bass always compl. His fluid playing enriched the albums Five Leaves Left (1969) by Drake and Solid Air (1973) by Martyn, and he went on to form a long working relationship with Martyn, and, later, the singer-songwriter Richard Thompson (no relation).

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Israel targeted and destroyed a high-rise tower adjacent to our building but we refuse to leave.

Rania suffers an emotional breakdown, and Deek’s relationship with his daughters goes downhill.

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

* * *

A man came to the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) and said, “O Messenger of Allah, direct me to an act which, if I do it, [will cause] Allah to love me and the people to love me.” So he (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said, “Renounce the world and Allah will love you, and renounce what the people possess and the people will love you.” – Ibn Majah

Remember the Good Stuff

By the time Rania had finished her impassioned recitation of the poem, tears coursed freely down her cheeks. Deek pressed his palms into his eyes to stifle his own imminent tears.

“Do you remember,” Rania went on, “our first little apartment on Millbrook?”

“It was hot and miserable, and we used to fight.”

“That’s not what I remember. I think about the sprinkler.”

Deek smiled involuntarily. They’d bought a rotary sprinkler for the little high-fenced backyard, and when the apartment grew too hot, they would play in the sprinkler. Rania would hike her dress to her knees and dance a flowing, graceful khaleeji dance, making billowing motions with the skirt.

“I forgot about that.”

“That’s your problem,” Rania said. “All you remember is crypto passwords. You forget the good times.”

Deek smiled slyly. “Oh, I remember plenty of the good stuff.”

“Okay, so?”

Deek inhaled deeply through his nose, then let it out. “Here’s where I get stuck. What if I had not struck it rich in crypto? What if I were still working like a dog in that sweltering closet, trying and failing? Would you be reciting love poetry and talking about the good old days? Or would you still be ridiculing me, shouting at me, and hanging out with Dr. Townsend?”

Now it was Rania’s turn to look away. Deek saw her jaw muscles clench and relax as she wiped tears away with her sleeve.

What Do You See?

To Deek’s shock, Rania suddenly leaned across and grabbed his jacket with both hands. Her face came close to his, and he thought she might kiss him. This thrilled him, but at the same time, he didn’t want it. He pulled away, but she held him tight.

“Look into my eyes, habibi. What do you see?” His wife stared into his eyes from only a few inches away. He could feel the heat coming off her skin and smell the tuna on her breath. Her eyes were as wide and dark as the night sky. Looking into those beautiful orbs, he saw love, fear, worry, and anger. He tried to speak, but his tongue was tied. Desire and resentment warred inside him, two old enemies battling alone on a scarred and barren plain. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Well?” Rania demanded.

Deek closed his eyes tightly and dropped his chin.

“Fine!” Rania thrust him away and moved back to her seat. Her mouth was a hard line. “Undo it all, then.” She tossed the Milestone debit card onto the dashboard. “Keep that. I’ll send back the money you transferred. Don’t give me anything at all. Keep it all for yourself, I don’t care. But come back to me.”

“Yeah.” He blurted out the first thing that came into his head. “But you know I have the money. So you can say that.”

Anger flashed across her face. “Ya electric eel! What will convince you? Whatever I say, you respond with suspicion. This money has poisoned you. Keep it all and don’t give me a penny. Wallahi, I mean it. Keep it all. Cancel the trust payments. I have to get back to work.” She exited the car and walked away.

Mummifying Himself

Watching her depart, Deek chewed on his lip. She’d said many beautiful things. She was right, what did he expect her to do? The answer was that he didn’t know. He had no idea what he wanted. He was a bull in a china shop, smashing everything around him because, well, that’s what happens when you put a bull in a tight space.

Zaid had once said, “Go the distance,” but what did that mean now? Deek was already wealthier than he could have ever imagined. Love of money might be the root of all evil, but Deek had been poor as well, and that wasn’t fun at all. So why did he feel like this crypto windfall was a slow poison working its way through his system, not killing him but turning him into a shade of his former self?

If love and forgiveness brought people’s hearts closer, then money seemed to do the opposite. It spurred misunderstandings, resentments, and even violence.

Deek felt like he was outfitting his own tomb. He was a pharaoh of old, but instead of having slaves to bury him when he died, he was doing it with his own hands: digging the tunnel, excavating the silent subterranean room, and filling it with the treasures that would surround him when he was nothing but a rotting corpse. Soon he’d be wrapping himself in cloth, mummifying himself for the long, still, and solitary centuries to come. The tomb might be called the Marco Polo, and the mummy’s rags were an Italian suit.

Adrift On The Tigris

Rania consoled herself with the thought that she’d done the best she could. She’d laid her heart open like a spatchcocked chicken. Limping painfully back to pediatrics, she made a little gesture with her hand, as if to say, it is what it is.

She had been tempted – when Deek was blathering on about the old Rania vs the new Rania, as if she were a soft drink whose formula had changed – to tell him about the home office she was building for him. But no, the office was a gift and an expression of love. She would not cheapen it by turning it into ammunition to fire at him during an argument. He would learn about it when he came home, inshaAllah. If he did not, he would not.

Unlike Deek, she knew what money was for. It existed to serve the needs of the family and the deen. Not to separate people.

She imagined herself now as a woman standing on a raft, adrift in the great Tigris River with no oar. The current would take her where it would. Hasbun Allahu wa ne’m Al-Wakeel.

Desiccated Fruit

It was very late when she arrived home, and the girls were asleep. The small knife stabbing her in the back had turned into a sword. Every step was an effort. She turned on the kitchen light, grabbed a yogurt out of the fridge, and saw the backpack on the table. This must be what Deek had sent with the girls.

She unzipped it and saw that it was stuffed with cash. There were wrapped stacks of 50 and 100-dollar bills. There was no letter, no card. Nothing personal at all. Just money.

She counted it. Two hundred thousand dollars. She felt her face turning hot. Was this a family or a mafia operation? Nostrils flaring with fury, she seized the backpack and shook it. The money stacks spilled out like desiccated fruit falling from a drought-struck tree. Rage suffused her body down to the very cells. She grabbed the edge of the dining table and lifted. The table tipped over with a crash, spilling the money and yogurt to the floor, along with last Sunday’s newspaper, a notebook, a pile of bills, and a glass bowl filled with fruit.

The bowl shattered, sending glass in every direction. Apples rolled across the floor and thudded against the wall. The money packs hit with a soft thud. At the same time, Rania’s back gave way, and she fell to the floor with a cry. She heard shouts from the girls’ rooms and a moment later they ran out, barefoot and hair disheveled. Their faces showed fear and shock. Sanaya looked all around, imagining an intruder, then stepped on broken glass and shouted, hopping on one foot. Amira was frozen in place.

Yet still Rania’s rage had not abated. As the girls – stepping carefully – pulled her off the floor, she rolled up to her knees and elbows and slapped the ground with one hand, sobbing.

The girls began to weep as well. Amira’s arms circled her and held on tightly. “It’s okay, Mom, ” her daughter said between sobs. “Everything’s okay.”

She had to stop. She was scaring her daughters. With an effort, she brought herself under control. “I’m sorry,” she told them. “You’re right, everything’s fine.”

With the girls’ help, she made it to the sofa, where she took a hydrocodone pill with a glass of water, then lay on her back with two cushions beneath her legs.

Sanaya sat beside her, cleaning and bandaging her own foot while Amira swept up the broken glass.

“I’m sorry about your foot,” Rania said.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

“You’re legit freaking us out,” Amira added.

“I’m sorry. I had an awful day, plus my back hurts. I lost a patient. Then I came home and saw all that money from your father, like he thinks it makes everything okay. I lost it. I went crazy.”

“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Sanaya asked.

Rania gave a bitter laugh. “I just came from there.”

Sanaya made a helpless motion. “What do you want us to do?”

Rania reached out and pulled her daughter into an embrace. “I’m fine now. I’ll sleep here. You two go back to bed.” She waved a hand toward the kitchen. “Tomorrow I want you to take that money back to your father.”

Electric Eel

The girls righted the table and picked up the fruit and other items. They each kissed her cheek, then returned to bed. Rania lay in the dark, regulating her breathing, trying to wrestle the hot pain into submission, and when that failed, trying to push it to the edge of her awareness. She breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. Silently, she cursed cryptocurrency and wished it had never been invented.

The money in that backpack presented a dilemma. If she kept it, she could take a sabbatical from her job and pursue other opportunities. She could take the girls on a vacation. But the price was too high.

Deek was slipping away. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d spoken of their marriage in the past tense. She was trying to hold on to an electric eel, but it was too filled with voltage. Yet she would not let go, for though he thought he was leaving her behind, in reality, he was leaving the water that sustained him.

The refrigerator hummed, and ice from the ice maker rattled into the tray. A nightbird called with a mournful sound. She recited Surat Al-Ikhlaas, Al-Falaq, and An-Naas, then made her usual dua’ before sleeping. Finally, the pain faded, and sleep came like a ferryman, taking her – for a few hours at least – across an expanse of Stygian water, to a place where the only reality was Allah’s watchful dominion, and the only interruption would be her daily resurrection, by Allah’s will.

Neither Friends Nor Enemies

A knock sounded on the door of Deek’s suite early the next morning. Still sleepy-eyed, he opened the door expecting the maid, but there stood Sanaya. She was always a serious girl, but this morning she looked especially solemn.

“Sanaya!” He reached to give her a hug, but she pulled back. She did not greet him with salam. Instead, she thrust the backpack at him and said, “Mom had a breakdown last night. She doesn’t want the money.” She hesitated, then added, “Amira and I each kept a stack of cash.” Then she walked away.

Deek stood blinking. “Hey!” he called after Sanaya’s disappearing form, but she did not respond, and was soon gone, like a cheetah passing a lion in the tall grass and shying away, neither friends nor enemies.

It was one of the briefest and least amicable interactions he’d ever had with his eldest daughter.

The Man In The Mirror

Sinking into the desk chair with a worried frown, he texted Rania. “What happened? Sanaya says you had a breakdown. Why did you send back the money?”

He had been looking at Fresno real estate, particularly riverside homes, and as he browsed the offerings, he repeatedly glanced at his phone, awaiting Rania’s response. When it came, it was terse: “I had a bad day. I’m fine. Don’t want any money from you.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. So Rania wanted nothing to do with him. Lashing out, he kicked the bottom of the desk sullenly, then said, “Ow!” as his toes throbbed with pain.

It was time to move out of this hotel. He needed a real home. There was a high-end real estate office at Palm and Nees, near the river. They had an electronic board in the window that displayed some of their offerings, and Deek had looked at it from time to time in the past, fantasizing about which of the homes he would buy if he had the money. He looked up the number and made an appointment for 10:30 am.

He showered and put on the third suit he’d purchased, sliding into the charcoal herringbone jacket like it was armor. The fabric hugged his frame, clean and tailored, the steel-blue shirt beneath catching the light just enough to reflect his mood — sharp, cool, detached. He strapped on the knife as well, but it was mostly covered by the suit jacket, with only the tip showing along his hip.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he took a breath. The suit looked good. Yet he felt like he was looking at a stranger. How was he supposed to feel, wearing something like this? Showy and smiling like a politician? Cool and detached, like James Bond? Or sharp, like a Wall Street finance shark? He’d always known exactly who he was. Deek Saghir, son of an honorable Iraqi family, a Muslim, a loving husband, and a doting father. A man who worked hard to provide. A man with dreams that seemed beyond his reach, but toward which he was not afraid to stretch his arm. But the man in the mirror was someone he did not know.

Nomos Glashütte Tangente

The meeting with the real estate agent was still a few hours away, but he was already rehearsing how he’d ask for something bold — something no one else could find. A fortress by the river. A place to disappear.

His eyes drifted to the prayer rug rolled up on a chair. Today was Jum’ah. He hesitated. Was this suit too much for the masjid? Too expensive? Too loud?

He shook his head. I earned it. I’m walking my path. I have nothing to be ashamed of. He smoothed the lapels and reached for his wallet. It occurred to him that he wanted a watch. It seemed beneath him to have to dig his phone out whenever he wanted a time check. A man who was dressed as he was should have a watch.

Tangente Nomos Glashütte wristwatch

The clothing shop in the hotel lobby offered a selection of fine watches. Deek went downstairs, browsed for a bit, and bought a German watch called a Nomos Glashütte. The Tangente model cost over two thousand dollars, yet had a minimalist design with a thin profile. The saleswoman assured him that the watch could last generations, and would make an excellent heirloom.

He devoured a spinach and mushroom omelette in the hotel restaurant, being careful not to stain the suit.

Leaving the hotel, he made a quick stop at a print shop and ordered business cards. They printed 100 for him on the spot and told him he could pick up the rest of the order tomorrow. The cards furnished his name, phone number, and email, and nothing else.

The meeting with the real estate company was a farce. He was assigned an older man with lacquered white hair and an unnaturally bright smile. The man pulled out an actual, honest-to-goodness plastic binder and showed him home flyers in plastic sleeves. None were remotely what Deek was looking for. Unfazed, the man ushered Deek out to a silver Lexus and spent an hour and a half driving him from one McMansion to another, all of them miles from the river. “You’ll love the HOA pool, Mr. Saghir,” he said brightly.

Deek instructed the man to return him to the office, thanked him, and walked out without taking the man’s proffered card.

Masjid Madinah

It was time for Jum’ah. Masjid Madinah was small, with an actual grassy front yard shaded by walnut trees, and a ping pong table in back. Very different from Masjid Umar, where he’d gone last week. Where Umar served a community of wealthy immigrant males, Madinah was mostly working-class converts: African-Americans, Latinos, and the occasional Caucasian, with a scattering of immigrants. Women actually outnumbered men. Rather than a private ethnic club, Masjid Madinah felt like a family.

Deek was early, and the masjid was mostly empty. Sitting with his back to the wall, he noticed that the paint on the walls, which formerly had been peeling and worn, was now fresh and bright, and the once threadbare carpets had been replaced with lush new rugs. He knew this was probably due to his donation, and this made him smile.

It was hard to believe that it had been only a week since he’d struck it rich in crypto. It was only last Friday that he’d bought the doomed Porsche. Crazy how much had happened.

He texted Rania again, asking her how she was. Then he picked up a mushaf and read for a while, refreshing his memory of the Juz ‘Ammah surahs. The much-needed sense of peace that had eluded him by the riverside finally descended. He felt like he was sitting beside a high-country lake in Yosemite, like the gorgeous Dog Lake at 9,0o0 feet. He and Marco had driven up there one summer and picnicked beside the mirror-bright water and crowded pines. The memory was like a dream: the stillness and silence, but for the rat-a-tatting of a woodpecker, and the occasional call of a frog.

His first indication of impending trouble came when he heard loud whispering and looked up to see a couple of young Latino brothers studying him intently. In fact, a lot of eyes were on him. Looking around, he shrank into himself when his eyes met those of Dr. Rana, a slight acquaintance whom he’d talked to a few times. The Pakistani cardiologist was staring at Deek as if he meant to devour him. His thinning hair was disheveled, and his dress shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were hollow, as if he hadn’t slept in many days.

Deek breathed a sigh of relief when Imam Saleh walked in. The masjid was full from wall to wall by then. The Imam must have noticed the air of agitation, because after beginning his khutbah, he stopped to call for silence, then continued.

***

Come back next week for Part 24 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:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 23] – The Man In The Mirror appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A man arrived at the masjid carrying nothing but need and an ancient faith: that houses of worship exist for those whom life has abandoned, that communities claiming connection to the divine actually honor divine commands about mercy.

His request was simple. Direct. Money for survival. The transaction that should flow as naturally as water from those who have abundance to those facing drought.

The imam’s refusal was equally direct. “There’s a process,” he explained. Forms to complete. Committees to consult. Procedures that transform divine obligation into bureaucratic theater.

What happened next was the systematic destruction of a human soul desperate for grace.

First, a kiss to the imam’s forehead, a cultural gesture seeking to unlock mercy through respect. When respect failed, the hands came next, the universal language of supplication escalating the plea. Finally, the feet. A grown man kissing the ground where compassion should have stood, surrendering the last fragments of his dignity for scraps of help.

Each kiss was hope translated into humiliation. Each gesture revealed how completely we have corrupted divine instruction, replacing God’s immediate commands with our endless complications.

“I felt very uncomfortable,” the imam later confessed during his lecture on emotional intelligence, sharing this soul’s destruction as an example of challenging situations where community leaders might need support in processing difficult encounters.

Here’s what should make you uncomfortable: your system created this scene.

As he spoke, different discomfort carved itself into my chest. The sound of spiritual bankruptcy is so complete that it forces human beings to kiss feet for acknowledgment of their basic worthiness to exist.

That drowning man wasn’t manipulating anyone. He was performing increasingly desperate acts to penetrate bureaucratic armor with raw human need. And we made him do it.

You Are Not Allah’s Gatekeeper

Stop pretending you are.

When did you appoint yourself the quality control manager of Divine Mercy? When did you decide that Allah’s Provision requires your investigative approval before reaching His Creation?

What costs more, occasionally helping someone who might not have desperately needed it, or turning away someone who actually did?

Your price for being deceived: pocket change that won’t change your life. Their price for your refusal: death. Despair. The final decision that mercy doesn’t exist in this world.

You’ve deluded yourself into believing that protecting money from theoretical fraud justifies protecting yourself from actual human suffering.

They Shame You Daily

While you construct investigative committees and debate worthiness, Americans have revolutionized compassion through trust. GoFundMe has moved thirty billion dollars to people in crisis. No background checks. No worthiness tribunals. No humiliating applications.

Crisis gets posted. Money flows. Help arrives.

They respond with lightning efficiency while you deliberate with glacial bureaucracy, despite your possessing more explicit divine commands about immediate charity. They built highways to mercy while you constructed obstacle courses to protection.

Listen to your Quran’s clarity:

“And in their wealth is a recognized right for the needy and the deprived.” [Surah Adh-Dhariyat; 51:19]

A RIGHT. Not charity you graciously bestow after thorough investigation. Not assistance contingent on proving worthiness to your satisfaction. A right as fundamental and immediate as their need for oxygen.

You have perverted this divine right into a bureaucratic privilege, transforming what Allah made simple into what you made impossible.

Your Perverted Architecture

Ramadan fundraising operates like professional campaigns, raising millions through passionate appeals and competitive generosity. Building projects, conference funding, speaker fees, your money machinery runs with High precision when serving your institutional priorities.

Then Monday morning desperation knocks. That family facing eviction discovers your money requires different rules entirely. Poverty documentation. Weekly committee meetings. Urgent crisis transformed into patient waiting for your convenience.

The mathematics condemn you: Muslim Americans pour 4.3 billion dollars annually into charity, yet homeless families sleep in parking lots while you debate their documentation requirements.

The Prophet’s masjid featured dirt floors, yet permanently housed whoever needed shelter. Your marble palace develops procedural complications for temporarily helping anyone.

You’ve replaced sanctuary with bureaucracy, mercy with management, divine hospitality with human gatekeeping.

The Predators You Birthed

Your failures have consequences beyond slow help; they create hunting grounds for predators.

When official channels fail through endless committees and waiting, desperation seeks alternatives. Your inadequacy births exploitation targeting those you claim to serve.

“When you make legitimate help so difficult that people seek alternatives, you bear moral responsibility for every predator who fills the vacuum you created.” [PC:Nick Fewings (unsplash)]

Community members offer assistance while expecting inappropriate access or gratitude. But worse: individuals weaponize charity itself, positioning themselves as brokers between wealthy donors and desperate families, then wielding this borrowed power like medieval lords extracting tribute.

They demand public gratitude for others’ money. They create humiliation theater where recipients perform appreciation for strangers’ entertainment. They document their “generosity” on social media using funds they never earned to purchase social status they never deserved.

When resistance emerges, they deploy psychological warfare. Sighing about “ungrateful attitudes” during community gatherings. Manufacturing consensus against dissenters. Mobilizing desperate families (terrified of losing their lifeline) to attack anyone challenging the broker’s illegitimate authority.

They transform charity from liberation into social control, discovering that controlling assistance means controlling people. They command armies of the desperate, each family a weapon against the next who might resist.

This is your creation. When you make legitimate help so difficult that people seek alternatives, you bear moral responsibility for every predator who fills the vacuum you created.

Gaza Reveals Your Hypocrisy

Right now, millions flow toward Gaza through channels you know are imperfect. Military checkpoints extract tribute. International facilitators charge devastating commissions. Bureaucratic mazes delay aid while people starve. Twenty percent of donations might reach intended recipients if fortune smiles.

Yet you give urgently, accepting imperfection, understanding that crisis demands immediate response despite systemic complications.

Meanwhile, here in America, you spend weeks investigating whether the homeless man outside your masjid deserves twenty dollars for food.

You accept flawed efficiency for distant suffering while demanding perfect systems for local mercy. You understand that war complicates Gaza distribution, yet refuse to understand that poverty, addiction, and desperation create complications requiring immediate response rather than extended investigation.

Gaza mirrors your moral failure. You give to faraway crises with trust while bureaucratizing nearby mercy with suspicion.

The Divine Trap You Cannot Escape

When someone asks for help, Allah arranged that intersection. The Lord of all circumstances orchestrated this meeting of their need and your resources. He delivered them to your door specifically.

The Creator positions a person in need before you, and you respond with suspicion, investigation, or delay? You demand they prove to you what Allah has already authenticated by bringing them to your attention?

Every broken soul stumbling through your doors carries divine examination wrapped in human flesh: “Will you be My mercy on earth, or another reason to surrender hope?”

That struggling man isn’t failing his test by arriving imperfect. You are failing yours by demanding perfection before offering mercy.

Your Orders Are Simple

Emergency funds available same day. No exceptions. Dignified assistance, recognizing that asking for help has already cost them everything. Clear criteria published transparently.

But fundamentally: Give when someone asks. Give what you can afford to lose. Stop investigating backgrounds. Stop interrogating motives. Stop creating barriers between recognizing need and responding to it.

If someone deceives you, that becomes their account with Allah , not yours. Your spiritual record stays clean because you responded to apparent need with mercy.

Your Judgment Approaches

That man kissing the imam’s feet revealed your system’s moral bankruptcy. You have created structures so divorced from mercy that desperate people must perform degrading acts to access what should flow like rain.

The Prophet said:

“Whoever relieves a believer’s distress of the distressful aspects of this world, Allah will rescue him from a difficulty of the difficulties of the Hereafter.”

Every barrier you construct will be examined. Every delay you impose while people suffer will require accounting. Every humiliation you demand will be weighed against your own desperate need for mercy on the Day when no committee will deliberate your worthiness, and no process will delay divine judgment of how you responded when mercy was needed most.

Every day you delay, another soul learns that your masjid is where hope goes to die.

 

Related:

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

– [Podcast] A Riba-Free Future With A Continuous Charity | Faizan Syed

The post The Architecture of Withholding: When Charity Becomes Control appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Palestinians mourn over the bodies of loved ones as Israel continues to massacre hundreds.