Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

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“The example of those who spend their wealth in the cause of Allah is that of a grain that sprouts into seven ears, each bearing one hundred grains. And Allah multiplies ˹it more˺ to whoever He wills. For Allah is All-Bountiful, All-Knowing.” – Quran 2:261

Anonymous Gift

Deek went to the hospital gift shop, bought a t-shirt with an image of Yosemite Valley, changed in the restroom, and stuffed his dirty red shirt and suit jacket into a plastic bag.

On impulse, he took a rideshare to Masjid Madinah. It was not even close to Dhuhr time, but the musalla would be open. He made a generous wudu’, washing himself thoroughly. Wearing one of the backpacks and carrying the other, he entered the musalla. It was cool and quiet, with thick carpets, calligraphic paintings on the wall, and no sound but the turning of the ceiling fan. There was no one there except Imam Saleh, sitting in a corner, reading the Quran. Deek waved to him, then prayed. It felt good to lower his head before Allah.

When he finished his prayer, he handed one of the backpacks to Imam Saleh and murmured, “Donation for the masjid.” Not waiting for a response, he walked out.

As he stood in front of the masjid, swaying with exhaustion, Imam Saleh came hurrying out, carrying the backpack. He was a tall man with midnight-black skin, a sharp nose, and a fist-length beard, wearing a gray thobe, Arab slippers, and beige kufi.

“Brother Deek! Are you sure about this? It’s a lot of money.”

Deek gave him a weary look. “You’re not going to refuse it, are you?”

“That depends. Are you sure you can afford it? Your first obligation is to your family.”

“I guess you haven’t heard about my situation. Yes, I’m sure.”

Saleh smiled. “I don’t listen to gossip. Why, what is your situation?”

Deek sighed. Might as well tell him, why not? “I made a lot of money in the cryptocurrency market. More than I could have imagined. But I’m struggling a bit.”

Saleh nodded slowly. “Any rapid change in life can be disconcerting. But remember that there is one relationship that never changes.”

“You mean between me and Allah.”

“Exactly. No matter how much wealth you have, you are destitute before Allah. You need him now as much as ever. More, in fact. Keep to the deen, keep your salat. They will steady you and keep you on the lighted path. In any case, alhamdulillah. I’ll announce this donation to the community, it will fire them up and bring in more, inshaAllah.”

Deek nodded. “Don’t mention my name, please. Strictly anonymous.”

The Imam gave a half shrug. “MashaAllah. Good for you, akhi.” He looked up and down the street. “Do you need a ride?”

Deek gave a tired smile. “It’s okay.”

“Come see me,” the Imam said, “if you’d like to talk about anything at all.”

Atop the Covers

Back in his hotel room, he wanted to take a scalding hot shower, change his clothes, and make himself a big breakfast with the groceries he’d bought a few days before. But he had no energy to even order room service. Not even taking off his street-stained pants, nor the heavy knife that hung from his hip, he dropped the remaining backpack on the floor and collapsed into the huge bed, lying atop the covers. It was as if the bed were a grave that opened up to greet him.

Morro Rock

As he fell asleep, he heard the fountain splashing gently. It brought up a memory of sitting on the beach with Rania, listening to the waves lapping the shore. It was the first vacation they’d taken together. They’d been together for a year, and saved a little money, so they’d said goodbye to the sweltering Central Valley summer and spent a week in Morro Bay, where the sun shone gently and the cooling fog rolled in off the sea.

They rented bicycles and rode out to the amazing Morro Rock, rising sheer out of the coastal water like the head of an awakening colossus. They took a bay cruise and spotted sea otters and dolphins. Visited the skateboard museum, of all things. And enjoyed the king-sized bed in the motel room. That bed had been almost as comfortable as this one.

He had a vague thought that there was something he was supposed to do today. But darkness crept in around the edges of his mind, and he could not remember. The bubbling of the fountain was a siren song that pulled him down. Soon he fell into a mile-deep sleep, even as the sun rose high in the sky outside, casting sharp-edged shadows through the curtains.

Pain and a Pant Suit

Rania Al-Rashid stepped out of her house and took a breath, letting the late morning sun warm her face. She pressed a hand into the hollow of her aching lower back and rubbed it in circles. It helped a little. But the ache never went away entirely. This time, the pain had been activated the day Deek left, when she fell on her tailbone in the driveway.

This morning, she’d rolled out of bed and fallen onto her hands and knees. Desperately swallowing two naproxen tablets, she waited until the agony retreated, like a hyena knowing it would not make a kill this day.

Nevertheless, she looked good, and she knew it. She wore a gray rayon pant suit with a four-button waistcoat and a two-button silk-lined jacket, atop a white dress shirt. Her gray hijab was tucked into the shirt. Her low-heeled black cabaret loafers were comfortable yet professional.

She’d parked her gold colored Honda Accord on one side of the driveway, in case Deek came home and wanted to park his Porsche in the garage. She walked to it and swiped a finger across the roof. The car needed a wash.

She had a complicated relationship with cars. You couldn’t function in a widely spread country town like Fresno without a car. But driving made Rania nervous.

The Accident

Her mind went back – as it had so many times, whether she wanted it to or not – to that day when her father had let her borrow the family Camry to drive her younger brother, Hasan, to his soccer game. It was a Saturday morning in spring. She was seventeen years old and had just gotten her license a month before.

Hasan sat in the passenger seat, chewing sunflower seeds and spitting them into a paper cup. The windows were down. She was listening to music on the radio and dancing in the seat, obeying traffic laws but not really paying attention, not scanning her mirrors or looking right and left as she’d been taught in driving school. The light turned green at Maroa and Ashlan, and Rania started forward immediately. She never saw the pickup barreling through the red light until the screech of tires split the air and the rear of the Camry lifted like a kicked can.

She remembered the sound—like a steel drum splitting in two. Then pain, like a white flash in her lower back. Not sharp, but deep, as if something important had been torn or jarred loose. There was no blood—only sunflower seed shells on her face and in her hair.

Hasan was shaken, but fine. Rania was hospitalized for two days, and then released with instructions on how to care for her back. Exercises, rest, ice, and medication only when she needed it.

The pain receded for a while, then returned like a stalker—during college finals, during shifts on her feet, during pregnancy. Now it was a familiar companion, flaring under stress then fading, but always waiting.

There were moments when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore and would go mad. Then there were times when she was grateful for the pain, wallahi, she welcomed it, because it was teaching her. It humbled her, and reminded her of what mattered in life. It kept her dependent on Allah.

She could be annoyed by a thousand things, from a colleague who chewed gum noisily to not having eggs in the fridge; but when she was in pain, all she wanted was for the pain to disappear. Nothing else mattered.

So when the pain disappeared for a time, she found herself deeply grateful, and aware of the beauty that permeated the world. The neighbor’s cat, sunning itself on her back patio, was a living miracle. The taste of raspberry yogurt, the weight of Deek’s hand in hers, Sanaya and Amira’s good health, all these things were monumental blessings, and Rania was all the more aware of them because of her constant, nagging teacher, whose name was Pain.

To this day, she could not stand sunflower seeds, however.

Looking for Signs

She got in the car and headed to her meeting. Her daughters were meeting Deek for lunch in just a little while. Rania had not been invited, but might have tagged along anyway, just for the opportunity to talk to her husband. But this meeting with the architect was important.

She had done a tremendous amount of research in preparation for this meeting. She had $100,000 to spend to build Deek his own full-sized home office and library. It would be fully equipped with its own bathroom, a hardwood desk, split AC and ceiling fan, leather sofa, and wall-to-wall bookshelves. The $100K was all the money that Deek had left her. She could not spend a penny more. It would have to be enough.

Would this bring Deek back to her? Allahu a’lam. There was no way to know. But she knew Deek; he was always looking for “signs.” Before they had married, he once asked, “What if I wanted to move away from here, would you be okay with that?” And she replied, “I would go with you to Nepal, Antarctica, or the Burmese jungle. As long as we are together.” He later told her that was the sign he was looking for.

More recently, after he’d put in a few years of work on the cryptocurrency thing with no success, Rania had occasionally suggested – gently – that perhaps it was time to go back to teaching. But Deek insisted he was waiting for a sign.

This office would be his sign, as well as a concrete expression of her regret for doubting him, and for the five years he’d spent working in the walk-in closet. Deek was a highly intelligent man, and she should have trusted his ability.

During these days apart, she had missed his embraces, and the way he always lightened her mood after a long day at work. She missed his back massages, so helpful when the pain flared up. She missed his lame jokes (Why did the cell phone see a therapist? Because it kept feeling drained). She even missed his well-intentioned -though clumsy- help in the kitchen.

She didn’t care about the money, truly. He could keep it all for himself, or give it all away, and she would not utter a peep. She just wanted her husband back, the father of her children, the man she loved.

Design Negotiations

The architect’s office was located in a stylish building with a metallic facade that swept up into the shape of a sail. Rania stepped into the sunny conference room clutching a slim binder. She ignored the pain in her back, which was tolerable at the moment – merely an annoying and insistent reminder of the steady grind of time and age. Overall, she felt calm and professional, even if the film of sweat on her forehead said otherwise.

Across the glass table, Mr. Lewis—her architect—spread out a set of glossy renderings for the new office/library addition. He gave her a warm smile.

Mr. Lewis was a big, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped red hair. He looked more like a football player than an architect. But, she told herself, that wasn’t fair. People judged her on her appearance every day. She shouldn’t do the same to others.

“Looks great, Mrs. Al-Rashid,” he said. “To hit these design goals—built-in walnut shelving, clerestory windows, radiant-heated stone floor—you’re looking at about $160 a square foot once permits, engineering, contractor fees, and finishes are rolled in.”

Rania opened her binder. “That’s over my budget,” she said evenly. “And over the standard rate. I’ve reviewed the California Residential Cost Data. Fresno averages are closer to $130 per square foot for mid-range builds. So you can deal with me fairly, or I’ll find someone else for the job.”

Mr. Lewis smiled thinly. “I assure you I was not trying to cheat you, if that’s what you’re implying. You wanted walnut shelving and radiant stone flooring. Those are premium features and cost more. But if you switch to painted MDF and simple porcelain tile, we could shave 15%. I can get you down to that $130 target. You just have to work with me and trust me. I’m an honest businessman.”

Rania nodded, feeling chastised. “Very well. I’ll need an itemized spreadsheet. And since I’ve already applied for our Fresno permit, include any plan-check resubmittal fees.”

Mr. Lewis grinned. “You’ve done your homework. You sound like a pro.” He began typing on his laptop.

After twenty minutes of discussion, reviewing options, and note-taking, Mr. Lewis rapped on the table. “Okay. With the adjustments we’ve made, we’re at $130 per square foot. That’ll leave you room in your $100,000 budget for furniture and lighting.”

Rania offered a small, satisfied smile. “Perfect. Let’s move forward.”

She stepped out of the office already sketching a new quilt pattern in her head. This quilt would go on the wall and would be the perfect finishing touch to Deek’s dream workspace.

Masjid Treasures

Zaid Karim pulled up to Masjid Madinah just in time for Dhuhr prayer. His assistant Jalal sat in the passenger seat.

He’d spoken to Aunt Faiza that morning and learned that she’d talked to Jamilah late last night, California time. Jamilah had narrated the dream of a Palestine in Jannah, and Munir’s presence there.

“I’ve been telling everyone about the dream,” Faiza said. “It gives people hope, including me. It is spreading quickly.”

When Zaid told her that he was sending her thirty thousand dollars, she said, “Allah bless you Zaid, but what I truly wish is to see you. I need family by my side.”

Zaid could not say no to that, and had booked a flight to Amman immediately. He would pray Dhuhr and be on his way, leaving the car with Jalal.

In Masjid Madinah there were a dozen people gathered for salat, including men and women. Zaid knew most of them:

Faraz, the Bangladeshi facilities manager, was obsessed with cryptocurrency. Bayyinah, a Syrian hafiza with a gentle voice, was a mother of seven but always had time to teach Quran. And of course, Imam Saleh, tall and traditionally dressed as always. He was highly educated and was the kindest man Zaid knew.

These people were regulars. Deeply faithful, productive individuals, all of them carried their own special lights, shining in a color like no other, serving the community in a way that no one else could. Each of them was a treasure, and a representation of what a Muslim should be.

It was wonderful to visit grand masjids in other countries, but there was nothing like praying in your local masjid, because it was your second home, and home was the place that always took you in. It didn’t matter whether it was fancy or bare-bones, because you were standing in front of Allah, Master of the universe, Who at the same time knew and cared for every crawling ant, every plant stretching to the sun, and every man or woman weeping in the dark.

A Favor

After salat, Zaid sat cross-legged in front of Imam Saleh.

“I’m leaving for Amman. Make dua’ for my trip to be successful, and for my Aunt Faiza, as her son Munir just returned to Allah.”

Imam Saleh put a hand atop Zaid’s hand. “Of course, akhi. May I ask a favor? Will you have time for a side trip?”

Zaid was surprised that the Imam would have anything for him to do in the Middle East, but if there was anyone in the world he trusted fully, it was this man.

“We have a relationship,” the Imam explained, “with a Palestinian refugee camp outside Amman. It’s called the Gaza Camp. You may know that Gazan refugees in Jordan have trouble obtaining services like education and healthcare. And many are hungry.”

Zaid was surprised to hear this. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Could I give you money to deliver to the camp? You can give it directly to the UNRWA administrator, his name is Hamid Sabah. He’ll use it to buy food aid and health care supplies. Or if you’re in any way uncomfortable, you can rent a truck and buy flour, rice, and beans yourself, and deliver it.”

“I’m fine with delivering the money to Hamid. I’d be happy to.”

Imam Saleh opened a backpack that had been sitting against the wall. It was stuffed with cash. The Imam counted out one hundred thousand dollars and put it into a plastic bag for Zaid.

“MashaAllah! Where did this come from?”

“Anonymous donor. Just this morning, actually.”

Zaid gave a sly smile. “Is the anonymous donor tall like you, with curly hair, and named after a rooster?”

Saleh lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “You truly are a detective. But as I said, it’s anonymous. I cannot confirm or deny.”

As Zaid left the masjid, he asked Allah once again to bless Deek Saghir. The man was like a blind and good-hearted elephant, crashing through the forest, knocking down trees and injuring himself, but in the process opening up paths and sowing the seeds of growth.

Half My Kingdom

Deek dreamed again that he was a treasure hunter, but this time he had finally found the treasure!

The desert burned like a sea of molten glass, but the weight of his haul—ancient coins, velvet sacks of gems, golden statuettes—was a crown of impending power. Riding slowly across the desert, swaying atop the camel’s back, he could already hear the clink of payment, feel the gazes of admiration, taste the gratitude owed to him. The wind carried the echo of plans: new houses, debts erased, favors bought, and most of all, vindication.

He barely noticed his lips cracking, the river of sweat down his spine, the cottony roughness in his throat. His waterskin was empty, but no matter. Water could be found.

The desert betrayed him. The familiar wells on the caravan maps were bone-dry, as if the earth had swallowed its own mercy.

He staggered on. The treasure grew heavier by the moment. His throat was a hot chimney full of ashes. He dropped to his knees, the soft sand giving no comfort.

Then she appeared.

Queen Latifa’s robes were the color of weathered stone and twilight. Her eyes held the quiet depth of a well that had never run dry. She carried a single waterskin, ordinary in shape, and held it out with both hands.

“Latifah,” he croaked. “I’m so happy to see you. I need water.”

Her gaze didn’t flicker. She didn’t smile. She asked, simply, “What will you trade?”

“But you’re my friend.”

She withdrew the waterskin, hiding it in her coat.

“Half!” Deek gasped. The words came fast, his thirst overriding all considerations. “Half of my treasure.”

She handed him the waterskin, and he tipped it back and drank. Coolness slid down his throat like a balm. He tipped it back further and drank more, and yet more, greedily, until the skin was empty and his belly was full. He was saved.

A deal was a deal. He began unloading his packs, dividing everything in half.

Soon, he felt the need to relieve himself. He had drunk too much too fast. He continued to divide the treasure until the job was done. Hoisting her half onto impossibly strong shoulders, Latifah walked away.

Deek’s need to relieve himself was urgent. He walked behind a large rock, but release would not come. The pressure in his bladder became sharp and unrelenting. He doubled over, his breath catching in bursts. Any moment, his bladder would burst, and he would die. He stumbled to his remaining treasure and plunged his hands into a pile of coins. They were worthless.

Latifah appeared as if she had never left. She watched him with the same still weight.

He looked up at her, eyes wide. “What do you want? I cannot answer nature’s call. I am dying.”

“What would you give for release?” Her tone held no scorn, only the quiet truth of arithmetic.

“The other half. Take it all.”

“You are free.”

Deek stumbled behind the stone again and relieved himself, weeping in relief. When he returned, having cleansed his hands with hot sand, Latifah was still there. She studied him closely.

“What is a treasure worth,” she asked, “If you would give half to take water in, and the other half to let it out?”

Deek had no reply. The treasure lay dully on the desert floor, for Latifah had not taken it. Deek’s chest heaved. He felt smaller than the grains of sand, and the desert’s vast emptiness felt like a reflection of the hole inside him.

Latifah grinned, and suddenly she was his old friend again, the one who sang, acted, dispensed wisdom, and ate mac ‘n cheese at two in the morning. “Catch you on the flip, brother Deek. Last word: Be a good husband and a good dad.” She walked away, vanishing into a mirage.

Her words seemed to echo: “Dad… Baba… Dad…”

Surprise Visitors

“Dad!”

“Baba!”

He tried to open his eyes, but they were crusted shut. Reaching up, he found a bandage on the left eye. That’s right… He was blind in that eye. Rubbing the crust out of the right eye, he opened it.

He was in the hotel room, lying face-up on the rumpled bed, one arm dangling toward the floor, still wearing the filthy suit pants he’d had on when he was attacked and fell in the gutter. The knife was still in its sheath, but had twisted beneath him, causing his belt to tighten uncomfortably around his waist. His red shirt and jacket spilled from a plastic bag at the foot of the bed.

Sanaya and Amira stood above him. Their eyes roamed the palatial suite, then returned to him.

“Baba?” Amira whispered. She reached out, gently touching his shoulder. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been in a war.”

Deek blinked his right eye blearily. “Girls?” His voice was husky, throat thick. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“We have a lunch date!” Amira protested. “We got the maid to let us in.”

“What happened to your forehead and your eye?” Sanaya demanded. She placed her fists on her hips, just as her mother did when she was angry. “Why are you wearing a knife? What on earth is going on here, Dad?”

* * *

[Part 19 will be published next week 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.

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The post Moonshot [Part 18] – Half My Kingdom appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم

الحمد لله رب العالمين والصلاة والسلام على رسوله الكريم وسيد المرسلين وعلى آله وصحبه أجمعين

[The detailed work of al-Imām Abī ʿAbdullāh Shihāb al-Dīn al-Tūrbishtī al-Ḥanafī, Maṭlab al-Nāsik fī ʿIlm al-Manāsik, contains sections on the virtues of the Levant and its people, its importance now, in the past, and in the end of times, followed by a section on al-Aqṣā, a translation of which may similarly follow. All of these shed light on the spirit of the Levantine peoples, particularly the Palestinians, in light of current events, for where many others would break apart in the advent of such atrocities—in the face of the loss of families, bloodlines, destruction of homes and one’s homeland as well as all that he had ever known—the Palestinian, as Taha Abderrahmane succinctly indicates, remains to be the embodiment of the Perfect Man (al-Insān al-Kāmil) in our age, proclaiming God’s praise and treading forward with duty regardless of what befalls him. This is not detached from the blessings the Levantine lands have been imbued with. As such, there may hardly ever be a more appropriate time to recount their virtues and significance—not to succumb to the civilizational weakness of the ummah and romanticize the anguish of our brethren, but to remember the nobility of the land we fight for, its inhabitants, and the sacrifices of those who have entrusted the torch to us that we must carry. May we be proven worthy.]

God, the Exalted, said, “Exalted is He who took His Servant [i.e., Prophet Muḥammad ﷺ] by night from al-Masjid al-Ḥarām to al-Masjid al-Aqṣā, whose surroundings We have blessed.”1 This verse indicates the virtue of al-Aqṣā from two perspectives.

One, [it refers] to the night journey undertaken by the Messenger ﷺ from the Ḥarām thereto so that he may fulfill his particular position in the most perfect of manners, complete his ﷺ status as the noblest of the Prophets, and so that for him the two virtues may be gathered and a qiblah from the two may be preferred.

Two, it is an indication to the blessings dedicated for its surroundings, for the blessing being connected to the general surroundings are closer and more complete in relation to the meaning than for the case to be restricted to the mosque alone, and so there is an exhortation towards the affirmation of the blessings that are perpetuated from it to the worlds.

Then we understand from the meaning of the statement that the most beneficial of these blessings and exalted in welfare is the foundation upon the earth of the Mosque, which necessitates the perpetuation of blessings in its surroundings. It is as the root, and the surroundings as the ancillary, and as such the latter follows in being blessed, as is the case for the surroundings of the Ḥaram in relation to the Bayt al-Ḥaram.

And which land may be more blessed than the one which God has chosen for his faithful servants? There is not a place therein where so much as a fingertip may reach except that a Prophet had prostrated thereupon or glorified God. None has preceded it in attaining this status except Masjid al-Ḥarām.

From the time of the one who spoke to God—Moses, peace be upon him—it was a station of prayer till the time of the abrogation [of the Mosaic prophethood]. Seventeen months following the emigration, Muḥammad ﷺ faced it, before which he prayed therein with the Prophets during the night of Isrāʾ. It is blessed from every aspect, and so, then, we do not say that today it retains the same honor it did as the days prior. Rather, it has become even more honorable by the virtue of the Messenger ﷺ turning to it, being taken thereto during the night journey, and praying in it. The virtues of the two Sanctuaries are even greater in nature, but these do not decrease from its virtue, but attest to and increase its noble nature.

It is more noble to supplicate to God, the Exalted, by being in its vicinity and praying therein, seeking closeness to Him by visiting it. The Messenger ﷺ particularly designated it as a place of visitation along with the two Sanctuaries.

It was narrated from Abū Saʿīd al-Khudrī, may God be pleased with him, that the Messenger ﷺ said, “Do not undertake a journey except to three mosques: Masjid al-Ḥarām, my own Masjid, and Masjid al-Aqṣā.”2

He, may God be pleased with him, said, “The Ḥarām was mentioned, as was the Aqṣā in the Book, in the form of adjectives. As for what has come in the Sunnah, they are majorly in the form of annexations, like the saying ‘congregational mosque (Masjid al-Jāmiʿ) and ‘truth of certainty’ (ḥaqq al-yaqīn), indicating the mosque on a given day in which a congregation is held or the truth of certainty belonging to a specific matter. The Ḥarām is the Mosque of the greater nation, whilst al-Aqṣā is the mosque of a smaller portion.”

There is another facet of this to uncover, which is that the Arabs connected larger ideas to singular words when there were two different words to denote a particular concept. As such, they would use “al-Aqṣā” to denote the mosque, but this carries the larger meaning of the larger compound as was mentioned by the Messenger ﷺ and his companions.

Masjid al-Aqṣā is an Islamic name. It has come in some ḥadīths in the form of Masjid al-Īliyāʾ. We have cited this facet in the first chapter of our book, and such is how it was known prior to the advent of Islām. It was also referred to by Uri Shalem, by the People of the Book, in Hebrew. It was said that it means “House of Peace” (bayt a-salām)—this is how it was known to the Arabs. Al-Aʿshā said,

Wealth has been carried—

To the ends of Amman, Homs, and Uri Shalem.

Abū Naṣr al-Ḥāfiẓ al-Sajzī called it Uri Salem—with an “s” (sīn), and the “l” appended with an “-e/-i” (kasrah)—as if he was Arabizing it. From a ḥadīth from ʿAṭāʾ, it was mentioned in some books, “Give Uri Shalem the glad tidings of the rider of the donkey.” (This is in reference to the Messenger ﷺ when he journeyed during the night of Isrāʾ.) As was narrated from Kaʿb, “Paradise is in the Seven Heavens, centered by Bayt al-Maqdis, for which it was called Uri Shalem (the Complete Light).”3

He said, God be pleased with him, that the d (dal) Bayt al-Maqdis is pronounced only slightly, followed by an -i vowel (kasrah). It was named such for it had been purified—cleansed—of sins. It was also said that it was to be pronounced as Bayt al-Muqaddas.

It was narrated from Anas bin Mālik that the Messenger ﷺ said, “I arrived in an animal larger than a donkey but smaller than a mule, which would place its hooves [when it ran] as far as its sight [went]. I mounted it, and Jibrīl, peace be upon him, was with me, and so we left. He told me to dismount and pray [after a point], and so I did. He asked, ‘Do you know where you prayed? You have prayed at the center of emigration (Madīnah). He said again [later], ‘Dismount and pray.’ I did so, and he asked [again], ‘Do you know where you have prayed? You have prayed at the Ṭūr of Mount Sinai where God [the Exalted] had spoken to Mūsā, peace be upon him.’ [We traveled some more] and then he asked [once more], ‘Do you know where you have prayed? You have prayed at Bethlehem where ʿĪsā, peace be upon him, was born.’ I entered Bayt al-Maqdis afterwards, and the Prophets were gathered before me, peace be upon them, and Jibrīl walked me to lead them [in prayer].”4

If it is asked that the statement that “I prayed where the emigrants stepped [foot] in” contradicts the ḥadīth of Jarīr—“Indeed, God, the Exalted, revealed to me, “Whichever of these lands you settle in will be the place of your emigration: Madīnah, Bahrain, or Qinnasrīn.”5—why is it that the first report involves specification and the latter choice?”

We respond that the difference comes due to history [and timing], which does not imply a deficiency on any part. It can be said thus that he was inspired before the Isrāʾ for what was mentioned in the ḥadīth of Jarīr, before or after which the night of Isrāʾ was clarified to him. He had been informed about his migration but was unable to stay in Madīnah. He made it easy for his companions, as appeared in his saying: “I was shown your place of migration. I was shown a salty land with palm trees situated between two volcanic stones.”6

From what supports this is that a group of anṣār (Helpers) met with the Messenger ﷺ, who spoke to them about the situation. They said, “When we return to our people, we will convey this ḥadīth.” The following year, twelve men came and pledged allegiance to him upon Islām—this was the first pledge of al-ʿAqabah. They promised to arrive the following year with the rest of their people and take him to their homeland. The year came, [the promise was fulfilled,] and this was the second pledge of al-ʿAqabah. The majority of the people of knowledge held that the Isrāʾ was after the first pledge of al-ʿAqabah and before the second. There are also those who say that it was prior to the hijrah by a year, or a year and two months, or sixteen months. Further positions were not mentioned to us.

If the ḥadīth of Abū Mūsā is asked about, wherein the Messenger ﷺ said, “I saw in my dream that I emigrated from Makkah to the land where dates grow, and I was afraid that it was al-Yamāmah or Hajr, when it was [in fact] the city of Yathrib.”7 We say that this report does not contradict the previous one, as he said, “I was afraid (fa-dhahaba wahlī, literally meaning “my fear turned to…”).” This is not based on an opinion or anything of the sort, but is a grammatical matter that is not concerned with the knowledge of Prophethood in any form.

“When it was [in fact] the city of Yathrib”—there are differences concerning what led to his fear, so the reality was clarified to him. It is the same whether it was explained to him during the dream or whilst he was awake.

It was narrated from Dhū-l-Aṣābiʿ that he said, “O Messenger of God [ﷺ], if we are tested with remaining after you [have passed], what do you command us to do? He responded, ‘Upon you is Bayt al-Maqdis. Perhaps God [the Exalted] may provide you with offspring who visit it [frequently].’”8

With a chain tracing back to al-Ṭabarānī, it has also been narrated via Dhū-l-Aṣābiʿ that he asked, “O Messenger of God [ﷺ], should we be tested with remaining after your passing, where do you command us [to go]? He replied, “Upon you is Bayt al-Maqdis. Perhaps offspring will be made for you who will visit the Masjid frequently and be delighted.”9

It was narrated from Dhū-l-Aṣābiʿ that he said, “O Messenger of God [ﷺ], if we are tested with remaining after you [have passed], what do you command us to do? He responded, ‘Upon you is Bayt al-Maqdis. Perhaps God [the Exalted] may provide you with offspring who visit it [frequently].’” [PC: Cole Keister (unsplash)]

If this ḥadīth is proven, then it acts as an addition (ziyādah) in the evidence we have already established and follow, enriching what we have thereby mentioned. For which virtue is more complete and greater than choosing a particular place for travel which is greater than all places save for the Two Sanctuaries (Ḥaramayn) and for the performance of prayer—none compares save for the Two Mosques.

As for the virtues of prayer therein, we have mentioned several aḥādīth prior.

Regarding the virtues of praying in Bayt al-Maqdis, we have also mentioned several reports. Among those is what has been narrated from Abū-l-Dardāʾ, may God [the Exalted] be pleased with him, that the Messenger ﷺ said, “Prayer at the Masjid al-Ḥarām is similar to a hundred thousand prayers, at my Masjid a thousand, and at Bayt al-Maqdis five hundred.”10

It was also  narrated from Abū-l-Dardāʾ that the Messenger ﷺ said, “The virtue of prayer in the Masjid al-Ḥarām, compared to prayers outside of it, is a hundred thousand [of such]; in my Masjid, it is like a thousand; and in Bayt al-Maqdis, it is like five hundred.”11

With a chain tracing back to Aḥmad al-ʿAssāl, it was narrated from Abū Dharr, may God [the Exalted] be pleased with him, who said, “I said, O Messenger of God ﷺ, is prayer at your Masjid more virtuous than prayer at Bayt al-Maqdis? He replied, ‘A prayer in my Masjid is better than four prayers there (i.e. Bayt al-Maqdis)—a blessed place for prayer. It is the land of gathering and resurrection.’”12

If it is said that this report contradicts what has preceded, we respond that these reports, if they are taken from Saʿīd bin Bashīr Abī ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, the leader of Banī Naṣr from the people of Damascus, then many of the aʾimmah of the text[-ual sciences] have spoken regarding this, saying, “He had a poor memory and atrocious handwriting.”13 On Saʿīd bin Sālim al-Qaddāḥ—Abū ʿUthmān al-Khurāsānī—they narrated, “He would make several mistakes in narrations, and would bring reports the opposite way.”14

The matter is thus as Abū Dharr had narrated, which is the first of the reports mentioned. God [the Exalted] had increased it in its virtue by mentioning it beside, and subordinating it to, the virtue of the mosque of Madīnah.

If it is asked, “Why is the matter not settled in the heart?” We respond that the matter is based upon sayings on the virtues of prayer in the mosque of the Messenger of God ﷺ, which is equivalent to a thousand prayers offered elsewhere. This is all based on authentic textual evidence as opposed to statements that lack such decisive proof, and God [the Exalted] knows best.

If it is then asked, “Did the authentic texts not establish that prayer in the mosque of the Messenger ﷺ is better than a thousand prayers elsewhere save for the Ḥarām, which implies that prayer al-Aqṣā and other masājid are of the same value? How is this contradiction resolved?”

We respond that it has been established in the reports of Abū-l-Dardāʾ and Abū Dharr, and it is possible to resolve [the apparent contradiction] between the two, which is to affirm that prayer in al-Aqṣā would have resembled prayers elsewhere save for the Two Sanctuaries if not for what we have already established [in terms of it being equivalent to five hundred prayers in typical circumstances]. God [the Exalted] is aware of its authenticity.

It was narrated from ʿAbd-Allāh ibn ʿUmar, may God be pleased with him, that the Messenger ﷺ said, “Sulaymān, the son of Dāwud, when he created Bayt al-Maqdis, asked God [the Exalted] for three things: judgment that would correspond to God’s own, and it was granted to him; for a kingdom unlike which none will arise thereafter, and it was granted to him; that the one who enters his mosque does not do so except to pray therein, and leaves it sinless as the day he was born.”15

It was narrated from ʿAbd-Allāh bin ʿUmar that he heard the Messenger ﷺ say, “Sulaymān, the son of Dāwud, asked God [the Exalted] for three things. He was granted two of them, and I hope the third came to him as well. He asked his Lord for judgment that would correspond to His own, and he was granted such; he asked for a kingdom unlike which none would have, and he was granted such; and he asked that when a man leaves the mosque—meaning, Bayt al-Maqdis—having intended nothing but prayer therein, leaves so sinless as the day he was born. We hope this was granted as well.16

He said, may God be pleased with him, this (i.e., the issue of leaving Bayt al-Maqdis sinless after prayer) matter is connected to hope, for he was not inspired with an answer with regard thereto, nor was he made certain regarding it. However, even if this affair was not clarified specifically, it was still done so on a general level due to his saying that “[the supplication of] every Prophet is answered.”17

He said, God [the Exalted] be pleased with him, the addition (ziyādah) in this narration— according to what we have narrated from the book of al-Nasāʾī—is not reliable, due to the position of ʿAbd-Allāh bin Muḥammad bin Saʿīd bin Abī Maryam al-Miṣrī. Ibn ʿAdī, regarding him, said, “He was neglectful and did not know what left his head or would purposefully lie.”18

It was narrated from Maymūnah, the freed slave of the Messenger ﷺ, that she said, “O Messenger of God [ﷺ], instruct us regarding Bayt al-Maqdis.” He replied, “Go there and pray therein”—the land was in a state of war at the time–“and if you cannot do it, then send oil so that its lamps may be lit.”19

He [Ibn Mājah] said, may God [the Exalted] be pleased with him, that in some chains of the report, it has been narrated as follows: “Go there and pray, for prayer therein is as a thousand prayers elsewhere.”20

It was narrated from Abū Hurayrah, may God [the Exalted] be pleased with him, that the Messenger ﷺ said, “Whoever passes away in Bayt al-Maqdis, it is as though he has passed away in the heavens.”21

Abū Jaʿfar Luwayn said, “What is meant in the report is not Bayt al-Maqdis itself, but the city in which it is located.”

Our master said, “In the chain (isnād) of this ḥadīth is Yūsuf bin ʿAṭiyyah Abū Sahl al-Ṣaffār al-Baṣrī, who is weak. Even if the report is proven, the implication of the saying that ‘it is as though he passed in the heavens’ carries a tone of reverence of the place and its loftiness and the safety of the Muslims who pass away therein, for the people of the Heavens are not amongst the punished due to their own elevated nature and the particularization of the place that has been indicated.”

Then we mention that it is the greatest of frontiers of Islām—a House wherein the Prophets had worshipped [God, the Exalted]—where the Muslims had gathered to overpower their enemies, for which much blood was shed at the beginning of the sincere servants of God [the Exalted]. But when the Commander of the Faithful, ʿUmar, may God be pleased with him, arrived, they became afraid, their hearts trembled, and their thoughts became troubled. Unable to find a way out, they requested safety in a state of subjugation. Terror had filled them—they departed, with God [the Exalted] having weakened their foundations, broken their supports, and disappointed their hopes.

Following their end came [new] generations—a time of seizing a novel opportunity—a group from Banī ʿUbayd camped there and took control, making clear the faults in their defenses and the futility of their hopes. God [the Exalted] then willed that their capabilities should be weakened and their structures destroyed after ninety years of rule by the King and mujāhid Nūr al-Dīn Muḥammad bin Sanqar [al-Zengī], may God sanctify his martyrdom and elevate his soul. He was a pillar of the Abbasid Caliphate—may God [the Exalted] raise its position and increase its supporters—who unsheathed his sword with his battalions whose mention extended to the horizons, rising [in the lands] with the dawn of Islām [in the lands], till the Holy Land was freed of the filth [it possessed prior], save for the Holy House (al-Bayt al-Muqaddas), as it was difficult for him due to the protection surrounding it and impenetrability. He thus took control of its highs and lows for fifteen years. Then he, God have mercy on him, passed away after much service, his memory being remembered in verses:

I said, “May God allow their souls to thrive”—

As though I saw them, and only them.

So whoever passes from good attains [further good],

And whoever is absent, through his remembrance is still present.

After his rule, al-Nāṣir Yūsuf bin Ayyūb stood to power, may God reward him for the good he brought for Islām, and so he took what he took, and so did they. He restricted their capacity to breathe for seven years, until they were finally uprooted and the truth was established in their place.

It has reached me from him, may God have mercy on [his soul], that when he conquered the land and ordered the washing of the rock from impurities, he used his beard instead of a broom [out of reverence]. It is no wonder that God, the Exalted, raised his status when he humbled himself before His Majesty, and honored through him the Ayyūbids. Any breach against the religion, through their presence, remained closed, and schemes of the misguided repelled, until weakness befell them through the sight of what al-Malik al-Kāmil witnessed.22 By God’s grace, he was astute, using his cunning to shield his shortcomings, and being a steed that raced past to be unable to recover from faltering. He retained some things, and yet others eluded him. The words of the poet proved true23:

Seeing is for the eyes that remain dormant [on the visible],

And witnessing is for that which is not present.

The fury of the dīn and the bed of humiliation were unleashed upon al-Quds, a place of mercy. A poor man from the Ḥijāz walked to Bayt al-Maqdis after the days of the formation of the heinous truce—not out of necessity—and there he saw the foul ones—the bearers of defilement—treading within the purified Mosque. He turned his eyes towards the guard posts, which had now become pens for pigs and seats for those worse than pigs. The zeal of Islām stirred within him as did the generosity of faith, and so he sang:

O king whose aspirations

Have struck the domes of glory above the highest stars

We have laid forth what we have out of concern for the kings of the Levant, the guardians of the truth, in the event that their hearts soften towards the enemies of God [the Exalted] and the enemies of His Messenger ﷺ, and out of compassion for them to wear the armor of shame and be clothed therein. God [the Exalted] honored them by honoring the religion and elevated their rule by elevating His Word. Were honor sought through anything other than those, God [the Exalted] would have turned away from them, their power leaving them, and the earth becoming narrow for their presence despite its vastness.

Whoever ponders upon these words will come to know that it is a reminder for the intelligent and an exhortation towards the negligent. We ask God [the Exalted] to grant us and them success in fulfilling the right of that land and the re-establishment of its sanctity, for it is a place designated for His worship, the exaltation of His Name—a place rendered for sending forth His Revelation, blessed by the Holy Spirit, characterized by an increase in rewards for prayer and iʿtikāf therein for iḥrām (for ḥajj) on one’s path to Masjid al-Ḥarām. We have previously mentioned a ḥadīth narrated from Umm Salamah, may God be pleased with her, from the Messenger ﷺ in the chapter on times (bāb al-mawāqīt).

There were those who had assumed iḥrām from the muhājirīn and the fuqahāʾ from within their population. Amongst them was ʿAbd-Allāh bin ʿUmar, may God be pleased with him; from the anṣār was present Muʿādh bin Jabal; and from the tābiʿīn Kaʿb al-Aḥbār and others. We have previously mentioned others from various generations.

My heart gives in due to the dissipation of this virtue. Although I hail from the Ḥijāz, this intention had come to my heart when I had only been a child. I was light on my feet and able to walk well, and yet I was not taken. Now, I grieve over the loss of that blessing, as I am in my sixties, or have at the very least struck my sixtieth year, and I do not despair that my Lord will grant me the capacity to fulfill this long-cherished desire, enabling me to reach that noble station. It is the place described to quench the thirst of those devoted to God [the Exalted], and to fill with hope the souls of those who were neglectful prior. It is hardly surprising [that it occupies such a status], given that its soil was made more virtuous through one Prophet after another—particularly through the friend of the Most Merciful, may God’s salutations be upon him.

Upon him, from the beloved, every day—

The peace of God when peace is remembered.

I was afraid to seek the landmarks of our faith—

The days of your reign in the lowest of the earth.

Are you not from a noble people?

Blessed roots bring a blessed nature to the tree.

You erected the banners of guidance to crush disbelief,

With a dangerous spear and sharp blade.

They came to destroy what has been established.

I have determined—not the eyes of envy—

That you have seated the enemies of the Messenger,

Raising their sons to the status of the [believers] who prostrate.

Respect the Sharīʿah, for it has changed—

The Law of the Canon has been altered.

Many a covenant was taken from Prophets—

All blasphemed by wine and swine, O Promised One.

My grief lies for the Purified House, for it

Has housed many infidels.

Be honored upon Islām, lest you meet [the fate] of those

Who strut proudly in the mosque.

If you do not fear the gloating of the envious,

The stubbornness of the tyrant, and the power of the aggressor,

Beware the tears of the Muslims and their grief,

And the supplications of the pious.

Remember when you stood in regret, seeking forgiveness

In a day now past from the Prophet Muḥammad.

The Cross has united its supporters—

So O Nation of Islām, does [Islām] have its supporters?

Blessed is the one destined to be the neighbor of that noble Prophet and his noble children.

As for the virtues of the Holy Land and its abundance of characteristics—which the one who spoke to God [the Exalted] asked to be brought to him within a distance of a stone’s throw—[we will mention the following].

It was narrated from Abū Hurayrah, may God be pleased with him, “He asked God that the Holy Land be brought to him within the distance of a stone’s throw.” He added, “The Messenger ﷺ said, ‘If I were able, I would have shown you his grave which lies beside the road, beneath a red dune.’”24

The road to Al-Aqsa [PC: Levi Meir Clancy (unsplash)]

This is the last of what we had intended to establish in this book, and we are not free of the remaining portion regarding the investigation and refinement concerning what was initially indicated at the beginning of this book. By God [the Exalted], it is as a lump that lies in a throat that one chokes on which no patience may endure. To God [the Exalted] do we complain, and to Him is our resort. He is the One who grants strength to the weak from the strong, and avenges the oppressed from the oppressor—to Him do we seek forgiveness for the slips of our tongues.

So in conclusion, we return to what we had begun with in the opening. Thus, we say, with a tongue entwined with humility and need, rather than one with eloquence and freedom: O God, by Whose grace good deeds are completed, by whose Words bones are scattered, by Whose signs the heavens and the earth are cut open, and by Whose Names the mountains are set firm: we praise You whilst acknowledging our inability to ever be able to do so sufficiently, and thank You whilst noting our deficiency in doing so. We ask you to send your blessings upon the one who guided us to You—the Prophet of Mercy, Muḥammad , with the purest of blessings and the most perfect of greetings, and to bestow him with the highest of ranks.

[Bestow such as well] upon his family who followed what he legislated and followed the light which was revealed to him—we ask that you bestow upon us from the radiance of Your Glorifications what delivers us from the darkness of ignorance, and guide us thereto [as You protect us from] missteps. Teach us the greatest of ways with which we may glorify You by which we may attain safety from misery and attain Your pleasure on the Day of Meeting. Allow us to taste the coolness of Your forgiveness and the sweetness of Your love, from what we find from You in the essence of life and the delight of subsistence, and not be rendered needy from any other than You—not rendered humiliated by any except You and be fearful or hopeful of any other; in distress except through Your exaltation; in abundance except by Your Face; and in annihilation except in You.

Reward our parents and those who guide us with a reward that fulfills their right on our behalf, and do with us and them as befits You; fulfill our hopes, for we have extended to You the hands of supplication, O Guider of the perplexed, and the Face of those who ask; O God, assist the nation of Islām by filling their schisms and uniting their spread, for the rupture has spread far and wide.

Preserve, O God, Your Prophet Muḥammad, peace and blessings be upon him, in every branch of his fountainhead and tree—the bringer of guidance with the party of truth. O God, support him with a support… from which stem the signs of victory and triumph. O God, this House—the stronghold of Your religion and the nest of Your friends, is from Your creation and subtlety. Help the builders [of nations built in Your Name], the helpers of those who call to You, and soldiers who fight for You. Break, O God, those who seek to break us, and strike them with a crushing force to break their faces and backs. Do not, O God, allow the party of Satan and tyrants to attain victory over those who have witnessed and held firmly to the truth in Your path. Indeed, You are Most Noble and Merciful (al-Karīm al-Raḥīm). Praise be to God, Lord of the worlds, and blessings and salutations be upon our Prophet Muḥammad and his family.

 

Related:

– The Glorious Virtues of Al-Masjid Al-Aqsa

– 8 Things You Didn’t Know About Masjid Al-Aqsa

1    Al-Isrāʾ, 12     Al-Tirmidhī, 3263    It was cited by Abū Mūsā al-Madīnī in al-Majmūʿ al-Mughīth fī Gharīb al-Qurʾān, 1:108, and Ibn al-Athīr in al-Nihāyah fī Gharīb al-Ḥadīth, 1:804     Sunan al-Nasāʾī, the Book of Prayer, 4505    Al-Tirmidhī in his book on the Virtues of the Messenger ﷺ; al-Ḥakīm al-Tirmidhī in al-Mustadrak, 3:3; al-Ṭabarānī in Muʿjam al-Kabīr, 2417; some others have narrated the report as well from Jarīr bin ʿAbd-Allāh, may God be pleased with him.6    A part of a report narrated by al-Bukhārī in his Ṣaḥīḥ in Kitāb al-Kafālah7    A part of the ḥadīth narrated by al-Bukhārī in his Ṣaḥīḥ in the Book of Virtues/Signs of Prophethood in Islām, 34228     Al-Ṭabarānī, Muʿjam al-Kabīr, 42379    Ibid, 423810    Mu“jam al-Kabīr; it has likewise been narrated in al-Haythamī’s Majmuʿ al-Zawāʾid, 7:711    Al-Bazzār, Musnad, 414212    Al-Ṭabarānī, Musnad al-Shāmiyyīn, 271413    Ibn Abī Ḥātim, al-Jarḥ wa-l-Taʿdīl, 6:414    Ibid15    Sunan al-Nasāʾī, Book of Masājid, 69316    Al-Ṭabarānī, Muʿjam al-Kabīr, 1455417    A part of a ḥadīth of ʿĀʾishah, may God, the Exalted, be pleased with her, and its verification has preceded18    Ibn ʿAdī, al-Kāmil fi Ḍuʿafāʾ al-Rijāl, 4:25519    Sunan Abū Dāwud, Book of Prayer, 40720    Sunan Ibn Mājah, 1407; al-Ṭabarānī, Muʿjam, 55; Musnad Abū Yaʿlā, 708821    Luwayn al-Maṣṣīṣī, Juzʾ fīhi Ḥadīth, 9222    Al-Malik al-Kāmil Muḥammad ibn al-Malik al-ʿĀdil Muḥammad bin Ayyūb, Abū al-Maʿālī Nāṣir al-Dīn, was an Ayyūbid Sultan who passed away in the year 635 AH. See: Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-Aʿyān, 5:7923    Maḥmūd al-Warrāq. The verses were taken from his Dīwān, 106.24    ʿAbd al-Razzāq, Muṣannaf; this source builds on al-Qurṭubī, al-Mufhim li-mā Ashkala min Talkhīṣ Kitāb Muslim, 6:222

The post The Virtues Of Al-Aqsa And Traveling Thereto: A Translation From Maṭlab Al-Nasik appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Quadcopters are being used to encircle residential blocks and coerce civilians into fleeing under armed threat, rights group reports.

Those who died at the beginning of the genocide were the luckiest.

My wife and I have been thinking a great deal about how we divest our children from accolade culture when it comes to understanding how they value themselves in the world, and how they value their relationship to Allah .

This has not been as easy as it might seem, largely because the world is built on a diet of measuring ‘success’ – thus a successful child is one who attains high marks, receives accolades, has multiple degrees, until they are then successful in a high-paying profession. We’ve tried to make little adjustments to try and redress this; for instance, we might celebrate an end to their exams, as opposed to celebrating at the point of their results being released. To even purchase them gifts based on their effort, not based on their results.

Ultimately, we have been trying to encourage our children to experience the world as one that is connected to ihsan and taqwa – to not measure themselves by what the world informs them of what makes a human valuable.

Over the last two years, I’ve had the examples of others informing me of what a life filled with dignity looks like. The son of a friend took part in the Cambridge University encampment to protest the ongoing genocide in Palestine. The son was calling me seeking advice about what the encampment should and should not be doing. After a while, I called my friend to ask him about his son’s degree being at risk, and how he was engaging this action. My friend explained that he initially balked at the idea that his son might not be able to complete his education, but then reminded himself that a fulfilled life cannot be reduced to a degree from Cambridge, but has to be in the stances we take at times when courage is needed – no time more pressing than the midst of a genocide. I was impressed by my friend’s position – it seemed validating to know that other parents were willing to support their children take stances that might materially impact their futures.

More recently, I came to support the protests taking place at the SOAS Liberated Zone, where students have been attempting to force SOAS to divest from Israel academically and financially. In the process of making their demands, there has been a process of repressing pro-Palestinian voices among the student body by the SOAS student union and the administration of the Vice Chancellor, Adam Habib, known for calling the police on his own students during his previous role as the chancellor of a university in South Africa.

Among those who took part in the protests at SOAS is Haya Adam, a second-year Law and International Relations student who was suspended pending an investigation by the university. Although excluded from university premises, Haya continued to protest against the university and her personal treatment, highlighting the layers of complicity. Always at these protests, you will meet the wheelchair-bound Aunty Azza, the mother of Haya, staunchly standing by her daughter’s stance, regardless of the outcome. When you look at Aunty Azza, you don’t see a fear of her daughter’s future; you see a complete certainty in Allah’s Promise that a life lived in dignity and in defence of the oppressed, is far more valuable than anything else. Haya herself maintained that while she would always fight her suspension, she would never apologise for her advocacy of the Palestinian people.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak at a protest in support of Haya. As I listened to the other speeches and heard from Haya herself, I realised that there was very little I could actually do for her, other than express my solidarity. The protest was taking place just outside of the gates of SOAS, and I looked at the buildings that I would once frequent for my own Master’s in Law, having graduated twenty-one years ago. Seeing Haya, a small but very powerful young Muslim woman, I wanted to express my heartfelt solidarity, and so, when I took to the platform, I expressed that I would burn my SOAS Master’s certificate should she be expelled from the university – as an act of solidarity for her. My words were met with a great deal of applause, with Aunty Azza specifically taking me aside to thank me for my proposed gesture.

Two weeks later, I heard the news that Haya was indeed expelled after a sham investigation process. I thought back to my own public commitment to her that I would burn my certificate– and so I did, recording it to highlight my anger at the SOAS administration. This didn’t seem enough, though. It didn’t seem much of a sacrifice to just burn a piece of paper that I could easily re-order if I needed one again. I felt that there was no real sacrifice at the end of such a symbolic act. The following morning, I wrote to the SOAS administration to inquire into the process of having my degree unrolled from the university, as there is no formal process in doing so.

Since then, while the vast majority of people have expressed their support for my actions, there have also been some who questioned the efficacy of such an act. For them, burning or rescinding an accolade that I worked hard to attain (and I really did nerd out during my Master’s) was an unfathomable act. Why waste the time, effort, and money?

The first real answer is: because I told Haya I would do so. I hope that as long as I am alive, Allah will make me a man of my word, and because I had promised this, I decided that I would actually follow through. But, in the process of going further and seeking to rescind the degree, I came upon a different motivation for myself; one that desired to divest from these institutions and the stranglehold they have over what we consider to be a dignified and honoured life. That the Master’s degree means nothing to me in the midst of a genocide – that there is nothing that the accolade was able to give me that I could not have learnt from a book.

People spoke of it in terms of sacrifice, but to me, this small act of solidarity with our young sister was minimal at best. I did not go out and encourage others to do the same, and of course, they are welcome to. But this was not so much about how much change this would bring, as much as it was about divesting myself from a love of what we are taught ‘empirically’ makes us valuable. Haya, Aunty Azza, and our friends standing with them sent me their du’as, as did Palestinians – and so, all that is left is a hope that Allah accepts it – what is more valuable now? The du’as of the oppressed, or the certificate from a colonial institution invested in a racially segregated apartheid state? I haven’t come to think of it as a sacrifice, as much as it now feels liberatory.

Right now, there are hundreds of predominantly non-Muslims who have expressed their public support for the banned direct action group Palestine Action in the UK, forcing the police to arrest them. Just over a week ago, my friend, colleague, and former Guantanamo Bay detainee, Moazzam Begg, chose to be arrested alongside this group – all for the sake of sacrificing and taking risks to defend Palestine. Such actions are breaking the asphyxiation imposed on us by the global War on Terror – that arrest, charge, and conviction can no longer be seen as something to be ashamed of, but rather something that we celebrate as more and more people take risks for Palestine.

The world is changing, and with that, we must change our relationship to it. Can we encourage ourselves to sacrifice in different ways? Can we see our children expelled from their university campuses? Can we see ourselves being arrested for the sake of standing up for a cause? Can we see ourselves divesting from the very institutions that create harm in the world? If we can, then inshallah we will win – even if that means material loss in this life.

 

Related:

– Whistleblower Exposes Aid Organization’s Links With Israeli Military

– Foreign Affairs Official Resigns Over Gaza Genocide

 

The post On Burning Accolades And Sacrificing: Asim Qureshi Speaks Out About Decision To Burn His SOAS Degree appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

By Faheem A. Hussain

In the dusty corners of the internet, a cryptic yet increasingly influential movement within Muslim digital discourse has begun to stir. Known as SAIF, or Society of Alternative Islamic Futurology, it fuses Islamic traditionalism with radical techno-futurism. Born in the margins of digital space, SAIF rejects both the stagnation of the modern Muslim nation-state and the nostalgic retreat into medieval forms. Instead, it dreams—aggressively, brazenly—of an Islamic future built not through reform, but rupture. This is not traditional modernism. It’s something more raw, more unpredictable—a young vitality, still wild, unshaped, but alive.

I. The Provocation of SAIF Thinking Alongside SAIF

What, then, is SAIF?

This is not an explainer, nor a polemic. It is an attempt to think alongside SAIF—to take it seriously not as settled doctrine, but as a provocation worth wrestling with. Like all speculative movements, its coherence lies not in consensus, but in mood, tension, and the dangerous vitality of half-formed thought.

Marginal Digital Ambition

SAIF is a loud, discordant voice at the margins—digital in medium, but worldly in ambition. One that insists it has something urgent to say about the world beyond X. Recently, its champions[1] have claimed a corner of the internet, launched a website, and begun outlining its vision. That vision has stirred discomfort. Dismissed as trolls, internet seekers, even as heretics, its members draw both ridicule and fascination. People ask: Is this a cult? Why do they speak in riddles? Who even understands what they’re saying? And, of course, the ever-present complaint: Who chose that unreadable font on the website?

II. The Technologies It Mythologizes Techno‑Optimism and Cynicism

Yet, beneath the chaos, there is something compelling. SAIF articulates an unmistakably optimistic vision of technology, laced with biting cynicism. It’s a messy constellation of ideas: AI-driven futures, crypto-economies that aim to seize power from states, and a commitment to radical decentralization.

Mythologizing Decentralization

What links these technologies in SAIF’s imagination is their potential to wrest sovereignty away from the state. AI is not just automation, it’s a frontier of theological and epistemological reconfiguration. Crypto is not just finance: it’s a challenge to the state’s monopoly of the mint. Decentralization is not chaos: it’s an invitation to reimagine the ummah outside the architectures of nationhood. SAIF doesn’t merely adopt these tools; it mythologizes them, seeing in each a kind of divine hacking of modernity itself. It is a vision not of reforming the state, but of rendering it obsolete.

I won’t pretend to grasp all of it. The language is sometimes elliptical, even esoteric. But I sympathize with the impulse. There’s something undeniably attractive in this herculean, even romantic, effort to wrest control from Muslim states that seem to have abandoned their world-historical destiny. Yes, the postcolonial state was once a vital node in the fight against imperialism. But today many have become little more than praetorian guards—corrupt, visionless, self-serving. China’s model, for all its sins, at least pairs its corruption with infrastructural ambition.

So why then should we assume these tendencies, the relentless centralization of the state and the centrifugal forces of decentralization new technologies open up, cannot coexist? As Anthony Giddens, and others have pointed out,[2] modernity is marked by countervailing forces.[3] Even as some state institutions centralize power, others fragment and disperse. As the meme goes: ‘why not both?’

III. SAIF’s Political Accelerationism Accelerationism Defined

These tensions come to a head in SAIF’s most controversial impulse: Accelerationism[4]. This isn’t just a “pox on all houses.” It’s more radical, more uncompromising. SAIF appears to argue that the current liberal international order must fall entirely before something new and viable can emerge. And it is falling—before our very eyes—as China, the long-slumbering giant, begins to awaken. But SAIF pushes beyond observation; it exults in the unraveling: Let the U.S. fragment. Let the West burn its own credibility. This isn’t quietist despair; it’s strategic anticipation, even encouragement.

Strategic Anticipation vs. Conservatism

I confess, I’m more ambivalent about this. Perhaps it’s my own conservatism speaking, a conservatism I recognize and question. Yet I understand this despondency towards the shackles of the present. Even as the Neo-reactionary Nick Land[5] is endlessly quoted in SAIF circles, this giddy philosophy of accelerationism[6] is less a doctrinal commitment of SAIF than a sweeping broom of history that sees in the destruction of the present, glimmerings of the future. A future it’s determined to wrest and make in its own discordant image. This is not theory-as-program; this is theory-as-detonator.

Still, I hesitate. Acceleration burns indiscriminately. Fire burns the wheat with the chaff. And yet I see the appeal: in a world where gradualism has failed, where state-led reforms are hollow, and where the scholars, the guardians of tradition have little to say about our planetary and technological futures—one begins to understand the desire not for gentle reform, but for rupture.

IV. Aesthetic Obscurity and Elitism Obscurity as Experiment

Then comes the question of form. Critics often complain that SAIF is incomprehensible. And, to be fair, some of it is. The website, too, seems designed to reverberate rather than explain. But in some ways, maybe the obscurity isn’t needless. Perhaps SAIF, like certain modernist efforts before it, reminds us of what the philosopher Wittgenstein said of Heidegger, famous for the impenetrability of his philosophical prose, of ‘running against the very limits of language’.

That doesn’t justify every lapse into obfuscation—but it does suggest that something more experimental is underway. Perhaps the familiar languages and citations will only lead us back to the same old dead ends. Maybe it’s time to break the walls, to risk dreaming anew, even if that means embracing a fractured and strange prose. Modernists have done this before; why not again?

Elitism and the “Biomass” Critique

The charge of elitism also sticks. SAIF too often oscillates between dreams for the masses and a poorly concealed disdain for them; the biomass[7] as it uncharitably calls them. It is not just impolite; it risks repeating the dehumanizations SAIF otherwise resists. Yet, even this hostility, discomforting as it is, emerges from a raw frustration at the inertia of Muslim collective life.

V. Modernity Without Capitulation Escape from Stale Binaries

Dr. Sherman Jackson

SAIF’s provocations don’t emerge from a vacuum. They are in dialogue, sometimes obliquely, sometimes explicitly, with deeper intellectual efforts to escape the stale binaries that dominate Muslim discourse.

One of the more provocative thinkers that SAIF cites, though by no means identical to it—is the work of Shaykh Dr. Sherman Jackson. His book Islamic Secular[8] mounts a radical challenge to the key intellectual binaries that govern so much of contemporary Muslim thought; the specific relationship between the Secular and Religious, with most arguing that in Islam there is no Secular. The book, controversial and dense, doesn’t offer easy solutions. But it does do something more important: it reframes the terrain. The Islamic Secular is a book that challenges much of what is taken-for-granted in the shallow shoals of much of contemporary Muslim thinking.

Islamic Secular Reframing

That the Islamicate needs to modernise—a truth long evident to anyone who has seriously reflected on its present condition—now finds powerful articulation in a leading thinker, native and rooted in Islamic tradition, offering a rigorous and compelling argument to many who once believed they had to choose between piety and modernity.

Jackson forces us to ask whether a Muslim engagement with modernity must come at the cost of religious integrity, or whether another path exists, one in which secularisation can be understood in Islamic terms, rather than simply inherited from liberal genealogies. In doing so, he opens up new pathways of thinking: whence before, in order for Islam to modernise and go forward, it must liberalise and Westernise; now we can conceivably modernise without necessarily Westernising.

This intellectual grounding does not validate SAIF, nor does it tame it—but it does help explain why, even when it veers into the polemical or absurd, it resonates. What we’re witnessing is not just aesthetic rebellion. It’s the stirrings of a deeper civilisational anxiety: how to remain faithful without remaining frozen.

VI. The Stakes of Imagination Civilisational Urgency

So why does all this matter? Who cares about some obscure movement on the edges of social media? Because if we don’t make room for these provocations, we resign ourselves to a future shaped entirely by others.

Imagination as Our Rarest Resource

The stakes aren’t academic. They’re civilizational. In an age where the Islamic world is too often reactive, tethered to outdated scripts or imported frameworks, SAIF dares to wrest the horizon back. Not to mimic, but to myth-make. To resist the slow death of imagination. If we cannot afford to be naive, we can even less afford to be stagnant. And whatever else SAIF may be, it is not stagnant.

Imagination is the rarest resource in our intellectual economy. If we do not make space for speculative energy—wild, abrasive, half-formed—we surrender the future. The Islamic world often repeats the past or mimics the West.

When Muslims invoke a mythologized past as a salve for the present, as if nostalgia alone will birth the future; when fiqh-maximalists offer nothing beyond more law and more piety; when conformity is prized over imagination, it becomes clear how narrow our collective vision has become. When people are being killed in the name of piety, and scholars cling to ossified traditions with little to say about the actual future, SAIF’s provocations, however brash, begin to look less like noise and more like signal.

One need only walk through Singapore, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Chongqing, even Dubai—the unmistakable sense is not that the future has arrived, but that it’s already leaving us behind. While dawah brothers argue theology on YouTube, the very ground beneath us hums with change we scarcely register. Even if you don’t share SAIF’s disdain for the “biomass” or its critique of legalist orthodoxy, you can’t deny that the critique itself arises from something real. There is something here.

VII. Genealogies and Lineages Historical Echoes of Futurism

Even as we watch it bloom—and maybe eventually wither—perhaps this is what it felt like when Islamic thinkers first discovered the radical futures of the West. When Ottoman reformers grew tired of the false promises of vested interests. When Cairene intellectuals stood both fearful and intrigued before Western technologies, and now, increasingly, Chinese ones. There is something wild in this modernity, something vital. Perhaps that explains the childlike innocence—yes, a good kind of naivety—of those discovering they may be the only ones both frightened by AI’s unknowns and enamored by its possibilities. Who wonders aloud about the future of money, and what crypto might do to a state long defined not only by violence, but by the monopoly of the mint.

Futurist Tradition in Islam

And so while SAIF’s wild futurism may seem like an anomaly, it has a deeper lineage. In some ways, it echoes the disorienting awe of the Nahda thinkers, the reformers of the Ottoman Tanzimat, or the Afghani–Abduh lineage; men who gazed at European steam engines and printing presses and asked not only “what is this?” but “what might we become if we mastered it?” They saw science and technology not as threats, but as instruments Muslims had to reclaim to restore dignity. They, too, were accused of heresy, elitism, and incoherence.

Those individuals were not merely reformers, but speculative futurists of their age. They dreamed of a world where the ummah could rise again – not by copying Europe, but by mastering its tools and exceeding its limits. And like SAIF, they were animated by the conviction that a future could be imagined that was neither Western mimicry nor medieval retreat, but something more vital –  something that was theirs.

New Futures

And yet, in so many ways, SAIF is an atypical modernism. Many of its contributors are not anti-traditionalist. Some are deeply traditional, even arch-traditionalist. What unites them is the conviction: that Islamic civilization will rise again, and that new futures must be imagined to make that possible. This is not a traditionalism that believes old solutions will suffice for new problems. It’s a traditionalism that knows the future must be shaped, not inherited.

For SAIF, ‘wisdom’ is not the property of others – a belief that betrays a lack of confidence of the faithful, when the opposite is true. Indeed wisdom is not a closed archive, but a living challenge. The believer’s confidence must include the ability to adapt, to wield, to absorb —and from it all, transform. The believer can wield, and force our vision of the future that is rightly ours. In that confidence, SAIF is unified, even in its dissonance, all its various visions and voices.

VIII. Final Thoughts Provocations and Collective Vision

SAIF isn’t a tight ideology. It’s a series of provocations, a set of thought experiments. In that sense, it reflects the Ummah itself: overlapping visions, contradictions, tensions. But at least it’s a vision wholly turned toward the future, not with despondency or despair, but with strategic ambition.

Fellow Travellers in Speculation

For all these reasons, while it may be a small, obscure internet tendency today, the broader civilizational future of Islam may have to look something like this. In SAIF’s strange prose and electric provocations, we might just glimpse the first sparks of what must emerge, that is if Muslim civilization is ever to rise again and take its rightful place under the sun.

This, I think, is why I’m cautiously optimistic. SAIF, or something like it, is indeed necessary. Perhaps SAIF will fragment; too obscure, too abrasive, too unstable. But where else are such attempts being made? Where else is the future imagined, not as a crisis to be avoided, but as a space to be seized? We ought not to see SAIF as Islamicate thought in its final form, but as an early experiment. Some of the ingredients of a future vision are already here, scattered, unstable, perhaps, but unmistakably present. And that, for now, is enough.

So while I’m not a SAIF member or even an advocate, perhaps insofar as this is all true, I too am a fellow traveller. And perhaps in some sense we all are, and perhaps in some sense we all must be.

Bio

Faheem A. Hussain is an independent researcher exploring questions at the intersection of Islamic thought, philosophy, and modernity. He holds a BA (Hons.) in Arabic and Islamic Studies from SOAS, University of London, an MA in Philosophy from Heythrop College, and a PGCE in Religious Studies from Roehampton University. His writings—often situated between tradition and speculative reflection—can be found on Substack at faheemahussain.substack.com and occasionally on Twitter @FaheemAMHussain.

Footnotes:

[1] One of the main figures is the anonymous account of @ibnmagreb for more of his thoughts can be found here in Iqra Post Substack. A detailed interview can be found here in – INTERVIEW: IBN MAGHREB – https://qawwam.online/interview-ibn-maghreb/

[2] Zygmunt Bauman’s concept of liquid modernity offers a profound lens through which to understand the fluid and transient nature of contemporary society. In his seminal work, Liquid Modernity, Bauman explores how the shift from “solid” to “liquid” modernity has transformed various aspects of human life, including identity, relationships, and work.

Emma Palese’s article, Individual and Society in the Liquid Modernity, provides an in-depth analysis of Bauman’s theories – Individual and Society in the Liquid Modernity – https://springerplus.springeropen.com/articles/10.1186/2193-1801-2-191

[3] Anthony Giddens’ concept of modernity emphasizes the simultaneous processes of centralization and decentralization within modern institutions. In The Consequences of Modernity, Giddens discusses how modernity inherently involves globalizing tendencies that both centralize and decentralize social structures. He notes that while certain domains experience increased central control, others witness decentralization, reflecting the complex dynamics of modern societies. See The Consequences of Modernity

A shorter introduction can be found in Giddens’ essay “The Globalizing of Modernity” delves into these themes, highlighting the inherent globalizing nature of modernity and its impact on social institutions. – https://depthome.brooklyn.cuny.edu/aod/Text/Giddens.pdf?

[4] Loathe as I am ever to cite a wikipedia article; it is surprisingly good – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Accelerationism(accessed 28/05/25). But see this critical review of it ‘A U/ACC PRIMER’ – https://xenogothic.com/2019/03/04/a-u-acc-primer/ Well worth reading

[5] This is perhaps his most famous essay – ‘A Quick and Dirty Introduction to Accelerationism’ – https://web.archive.org/web/20180113012817/https://jacobitemag.com/2017/05/25/a-quick-and-dirty-introduction-to-accelerationism/

[6] A compelling history of the movement is perhaps this ‘Accelerationism: how a fringe philosophy predicted the future we live in’ – https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/may/11/accelerationism-how-a-fringe-philosophy-predicted-the-future-we-live-in

[7] See this article What’s a “Biomass”? – by Abvdullah Yousef one of the key provocateurs of the movement.

[8] This review is published by Ahmed Askary, @pashadelics, the editor-in-chief of another new and exciting Muslim publication, Kasurian, determined to grapple with Islam’s present and future.

The post The Promise of SAIF: Towards a Radical Islamic Futurism appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

We speak to Dyab Abou Jahjah about bringing killers of Gaza journalists to justice. Shahd Abusalama on Gazans trying to survive. UN perpetuates rape hoax and resistance thwarts Israeli army and more.

Dr. Thaer Ahmad explains how catastrophic malnutrition imposed by Israel impacts Palestinians’ bodies.

EU boss accepted request to welcome land theft advocate.

Tom Artiom Alexandrovich was arrested in Las Vegas and is accused of attempting to lure a child but was released and left the country.

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

“When money speaks, the truth is silent.” — Yoruba proverb

A Fast Drive

The next few minutes passed in a daze. Deek’s breathing was shallow and rapid, and his skin felt clammy. Hot blood ran down the side of his face. Somehow, Marco loaded him into the passenger seat and single-handedly lifted Shujaa and dumped him in the back. His musky Yemeni cologne permeated the car’s interior. Who puts on cologne to attack someone?

History repeated itself as Deek found himself once again injured and being driven somewhere. His shirt was wet against his skin. His entire face hurt. The night was dark and suffocating, and the lights from the streetlights made him wince. He groaned and pressed a hand to his eye. Reaching for the seat lever, he reclined the seat until, with a jolt, it struck Shujaa’s legs.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Marco said. “You need the seat elevated to slow the bleeding from your head.”

But Deek could not raise the seat again, as he didn’t have the energy to sit up.

Marco – sitting on shattered glass and not caring – drove fast, making Deek rock from side to side. At one point he stopped, and Deek – feeling hazy and on the edge of blacking out – saw his friend step out of the car and pitch the gun into an inky black canal.

Shujaa recovered consciousness and began to moan, “Baba’s sendin’ me back to Yemen ‘cause o’ you, he’s sending me back. Ain’t nothin’ for me there, I’ll die there. He says I’m a loser and a failure, he don’ want me around. An’ is all your fault ‘cause you took my car. Why you got this stupid saxophone on top o’me, get it off.” He went on like that.

Sometime later – Deek couldn’t say how long – pulled up in front of Fresno Community Regional Medical Center. As strong hands helped him out of the car and onto a mobile gurney, he could smell the burning rubber of the car tires. Marco had turned that Porsche into a rocket.

Bleach and Lime

“What happened to you, sir?” a woman’s Indian-accented voice asked.

“Glass in my eye.”

“Let us see. Move your hand.”

Inside, the hospital was chilly and loud, with people calling out, machines beeping, and doors opening and closing with a hiss. The corridors smelled of bleach and lime.

The gurney moved quickly, then rose in an elevator. An injection flooded into his arm. The pain faded, and as he sank into warm quicksand, he thought of Rania’s dark eyes and gentle hands. He needed her to toss him a line and pull him out. He needed her to save him.

Desperately Alone

Deek Saghir woke up slowly, like a post-apocalyptic sun rising over a devastated world, yet shining onto a few green shoots springing up from the wasteland. His throat was dry, and his head was light, but he felt little pain. He opened his gummy eyes, then realized that he could only see out of his right eye. Reaching up a hand, he found his left eye bandaged, along with his left eyebrow and temple.

He was in a hospital room. Dim lighting, air whispering through a vent. A clear night sky outside the window, broken up by the silhouettes of two palm trees.

The delicately clear state of mind he had enjoyed for the last several days was gone. Deek’s chest was as full of emotion as a sea cave is full of water when the high tide rushes in. He felt desperately alone. He would have given his left hand at that moment for a hug from his wife.

What was this chaos that his life had become? Alone all the time, violence at every turn, thoughts of poverty and loss haunting him? Driving a wedge between himself and everyone he loved by throwing around piles of cash, as if money were a substitute for genuine caring and love. A substitute for actually being there. What was that saying, that ninety percent of success was just showing up? And wasn’t that true for family as well, that ninety percent of being a father—a good, genuine, loving father—was just showing up?

And he was not showing up. He had abandoned his daughters. How could he have done that? How had he not missed Sanaya’s quick wit, making fun of her university professors, sharing with him clips of old baseball games on YouTube—she’d played little league as a kid and been obsessed with the sport ever since—and telling him funny stories of the crazy things she witnessed at his job at the convenience store?

Or his dear Amira, always teasing him, losing to him at chess but never quitting, teaching him Spanish phrases and street slang that she learned from her Chicana friends at school, and always letting him know how much she loved him?

What was wrong with him? Tears came to his eyes. He moaned and rolled onto his right side, grabbing handfuls of his hair. The Namer’s potion had healed his terrible wounds after that first attack and cleared his mind, allowing him to fly in the sunlight above the clouds. But at what price? Yes, Deek was an emotional man, but by separating him from his emotion, the potion had divorced him from his own heart. Just as his family had been split asunder, he was like a great tree cut in half by a chainsaw.

Healed Wounds

Startled by the sound of a snore on his left, Deek rolled onto his side to see with his right eye. Marco slept in a chair against the wall, his arms hanging limp, and the back of his head resting on the wall.

“Marco.” Deek’s voice came out low and hoarse, and he tried again, wiping his tears with the sleeve of the light blanket that was draped over him. “Señor Marco Feliciano Colón Tirado.”

Marco woke with a start, wiping non-existent drool from his chin. “You scared me, I thought I was back in Catholic school. How do you feel?”

“Where am I?”

“Fresno Regional. They operated on your eye. It’s…” Marco checked his phone. “Four in the morning.”

“Am I blind?”

“No, they say you’ll be okay.”

“Can I get some water?”

“Do you mind if I turn the light on?”

“Turn it on, man. Please turn it on.” Maybe banishing the external darkness would lighten his heart as well.

Marco filled a cup of water from a pitcher on the counter against the wall. It was cool and delicious, and Deek downed it all in one glass, then met Marco’s eyes.

“Ay Dios!” his friend exclaimed.

“What?”

“I saw you after those thugs attacked you. You were all beat up, dude. Black eye, split lip, blood coming out of your mouth, and blood pouring down the side of your face. Now look!”

“What?” he was getting annoyed. How was he supposed to know what he looked like?

“Your face is mostly healed. Just very light bruises. I mean, I can’t see the bullet wound, but the rest of your face looks good.”

You Saved Me

Deek knew right away what had transpired. The Namer’s potion had used up the last of its strength healing his physical wounds, and had burned itself out in the process. That was why he was so emotional. His usual loving, desperate, bitter, envious, proud heart was reasserting itself.

Rather than feeling pleased that his wounds were healing quickly, he felt his pulse spike as guilt washed over him. Who was he to be worthy of such gifts? He was a wreck and a shame.

For just a moment, he considered going back to the Namer and asking for another dose. But no, he could not live his life in an artificially imposed state of rarefied clarity. He had to exist here, on the ground, in the real world. He had to learn to express love, be a good husband and a good friend, and to power it all with his heart, rather than a drug. This was his task: to wrestle with his own bitter soul and win the battle unaided.

He realized as well that Marco did not know that Shujaa was the one who had attacked him. Marco thought the thugs had done it. He must not have seen the first part of the fight. And – Deek remembered – Marco had saved his life. He remembered it as clearly as if it were a vision rising before his eyes: Marco swinging that trumpet like Jackie Robinson at bat, then grabbing the gun and scaring the thugs away.

He dropped the empty glass on the bed between his legs, reached for his brilliant and talented friend, and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Oh! Qué pasa?”

“You saved me.” His voice was raw with emotion. He pushed Marco away to look him in the eye. “You could have been killed. What’s the matter with you?”

Marco blushed. “You’d have done the same for me.”

“Yes.” Deek sat back. “I would. Oh! Your poor trumpet! I’m so sorry, man. You have to let me pay for -” he froze. “Marco, where’s my car?”

“In the hospital parking garage.”

“With the window busted out?”

“I haven’t exactly had time to get it repaired.”

Deek groaned in dismay. “You remember the backpack I tried to give you at the restaurant?”

Marco laughed. “How could I not? It’s not every day you see that much -” Now it was Marco’s turn to pause. His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me it’s in the car?”

“Under the passenger seat. And there’s a second backpack with an equal amount under the spare tire. If it’s still there.”

“Ay Dios! I’ll be right back.”

Psychic Bond

“Wait! I need my phone. Where’s my phone?” Had it been lost in the fight? His crypto wallets – and secret phrases – lived on that phone. Losing them would be disastrous. His stomach tightened at the thought.

“It’s here with the rest of your stuff.” Marco opened a cabinet and handed over a large plastic bag. Then he dashed out of the room like an Iranian spy with Saddam Hussein’s secret police on his tail.

Deek pawed through his bloodstained clothes, found his pants, and took his phone from the pocket. The screen was cracked, but the phone turned on and worked normally. Alhamdulillah. His shoulders sagged in relief.

Notifications popped up, showing several voicemails and messages from Rania. She had begun calling yesterday afternoon, only a few minutes after the attack had occurred. This didn’t surprise Deek. He and Rania had always shared a psychic bond. He knew how that sounded, which was why he never told anyone. But Rania always knew when he was in trouble, distressed, or hurt. In fact, now that he thought about it, he realized that rather than a two-way mental bond, it was Rania with the gift. She also knew when Sanaya or Amira were in distress. She was the one with the psychic boost.

“Habibi,” the first voicemail went. Hearing her voice brought Deek actual physical pain, like a heavy weight on his chest. Tears came to his eyes. “I know something is wrong. Call me right away, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

There were other voice messages along the same vein, each more panicked than the last.

Rather than call her at this hour, Deek wrote a text: “As-salamu alaykum honey. You’re right, I was in trouble. I got attacked on the street. But all is well. Just a few cuts and bruises. I’ll check in with you tomorrow inshaAllah.”

He checked his crypto wallets. The bull run was still plowing forward. His net worth was up another ten percent. He swapped some of the meme coins for stablecoins and utility coins, and shut it down. Sleepiness was washing over him like a river overflowing its banks, but he fought it, slapping his right cheek.

Dew On A Flower

Marco returned wearing two backpacks. “I’ve been peeking around corners, worried I’d run into Rania.”

Deek laughed. “She doesn’t work here. She’s at Kaiser, across town. Now listen. Your trumpet is ruined because of me. I want you to take $20K out of the backpack. No arguments! Get yourself the best trumpet money can buy.”

Marco pursed his lips, considering, then did as Deek had told him. He fanned the money beside his face. “I could get a custom Monette with this much money. A horn with a voice like liquid metal. Darkness wrapped in velvet, then dew on a flower.”

Deek’s smile stretched from cheek to cheek. “Beautiful. And don’t forget what I said.”

“You want to hear me recite the Quran.”

Deek nodded slowly. “You said it.”

“I might have a surprise for you on that front.”

Deek tried to say, What do you mean? But the words came out slurred. His eyelids were falling and he could not stop them, any more than a deep-sea diver can lift the sea off his own shoulders.

The Best People

a forest where people lived in slender white towers hidden among the trees…

He slept fitfully, waking up often either to drink water or urinate. Dreams came like a grave robber’s hammer, smashing a path into the hidden tomb of his heart, blow by blow: Rania had disappeared, but was said to have been sighted in a forest where people lived in slender white towers hidden among the trees. Deek sped through the forest in the Porsche, but could not find his wife… He was in London. He was supposed to meet Sanaya and Amira for lunch, but he was lost, and every turn took him deeper into a gray slum where the buildings shifted and changed shape…

Somewhere in the middle, he prayed Fajr, then went back to sleep. The next time he woke, bright sunlight was streaming in through the window. The palm trees were brown and green against a blue sky.

There was no sign of Marco, but a short Filipina nurse with tired eyes and a wide nose was checking his pulse. When she saw he was awake, she smiled and left the room without a word.

A tall, dark-skinned doctor wearing black scrubs and a white coat entered the room. Her blue hijab marked her as a Muslim, and her glasses were thick enough that if you were lost in the woods you could use them to focus the sun and start a fire. Deek thought she looked Pakistani, and his guess was proven correct when she spoke in a British-Pakistani lilt.

“I’m Dr. Ali. Let’s see how you’re doing.”

“What’s my prognosis?” Deek didn’t want to look like a one-eyed pirate for the rest of his life, with people pointing at him.

“Excellent. You will have to wear that patch for three days, then a clear eye shield for a bit.” She pointed to her own temple. “We sutured the laceration.”

He breathed a smile of relief. “Alhamdulillah. Thank you so much. Are you Pakistani?”

She gave a half-shrug. “Yes, British Pakistani. Why?”

“The best people in the world.”

“Pardon?”

“You Pakistanis.” He was filled suddenly with effusive affection toward this doctor. He was as fond of her as if she were his own sister. It was not a romantic attraction. He was simply grateful.

“I never met a Pakistani,” he went on, “who wasn’t honest and intelligent. In every smile, in every deed, they bear the Ummah’s hope in word and creed.” This was something he’d heard at a poetry recital at Masjid Madinah, and had stuck in his head.

She pulled her head back and grinned in amazement. “Why Mr. Saghir! Who is that by?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well. Your wife must love hearing such poetry.” She pointed to Deek’s wedding ring. “Speaking of which. Your friend wouldn’t give us your family’s contact info, and we could not open your phone. Do you want us to call your wife?”

“Not just yet. I don’t want her to see me like this.”

She tut-tutted. “You should know better. Husbands and wives see each other in every condition. Up or down, happy or sad. But now that you mention it…” She reached out and grasped Deek’s chin, turning his head one way and the other. “There’s hardly anything to see. You look tired, but aside from that, the speed of your recovery beggars belief. Only once before have I witnessed this kind of thing. I’m going to take this bandage off.” She peeled the bandage from the side of his head, then took a pair of glasses from her coat pocket and leaned in, studying the bullet wound.

B Flat

“This is… I don’t know what to say. The wound is completely scabbed over. You don’t even need a bandage anymore.” She tossed the bandage in the biohazard bin. “I must ask. How did you get this wound?”

Again, he felt that flash of guilt and irritation. So what if his wounds were healing quickly? It wasn’t his fault. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“It appears to be a gunshot wound, but because it’s superficial, I can’t be sure. If it is, I am obligated to report it to the police.”

Police involvement was the last thing Deek wanted. He had not committed a crime, but he didn’t want to open a can of worms as the police investigated the gangsters, Shujaa, Bandar, and who knew what else

“A gunshot wound? My goodness! I remember being beaten with fists. And someone swung a trumpet as well.” Putting his college drama class skills to good use, for once.

“So it’s not a gunshot wound?”

“There was definitely a trumpet.”

To his surprise, Dr. Ali laughed. “As you wish, Mr. Saghir. I’m not a bobby. We’ll call it a trumpet wound. I’d say about a B flat. Because, you know, you be flat on your back.”

This terrible joke coming from a doctor with a British Pakistani accent sent Deek into a fit of giggles. It took him fully ten seconds to shut it down.

A Strange Question

The doctor’s face grew serious. “May I ask a strange question?”

“Sure. What?”

“Have you consumed any sort of holistic medicine? A liquid? Maybe… A dark blue liquid?”

She was describing the Namer’s potion. He studied her face, but her expression was unreadable. The people in the Namer’s neighborhood all knew her, but Deek had the distinct feeling that talking about her to strangers would be wrong.

He changed the subject. “Can you tell me about the young man who was brought in with me? Shujaa?”

“Is that his name? We have him as a John Doe. He was severely concussed and lost a lot of blood. He is in an induced coma. Do you have contact information for him?”

Again, Deek was not sure of the right thing. Shujaa had been moaning that his father wanted to send him back to Yemen. But it was not Deek’s place to interfere. He gave the doctor Shujaa’s full name and Bandar’s name, which she wrote down.

This would be the moment to reveal the fact that Shujaa was the one who attacked him. The police would be called, and Shujaa – if he recovered – would go to jail. But Deek said nothing. He pitied the foolish young man. Shujaa had suffered enough.

“Do you mind,” Dr. Ali said, “if we revisit the previous topic?”

“Which was?”

She glanced around, then spoke in a whisper. “The Namer. I would like to meet her.”

There. She’d said it. There was no doubt now what she was after. “I’ll pass on the request. That’s all I can do.”

The doctor shrugged. “Well, you can be discharged at any time, Mr. Saghir. Come back in three days to swap your eye patch for a clear shield. Do pass on my request.” She turned and left.

As impressed as Dr. Ali had been by Deek’s poetry recitation, she had been even more amazed and disturbed by his rapid recovery. He wondered what she wanted with the Namer. To learn from her? Or something more sinister? He snorted at the foolishness of his own thoughts.

Servants of Al-Ghani

Rising stiffly from the bed, he changed back into his dirty, bloodstained suit, which smelled like a street gutter, then realized he did not have the car key.

He texted Marco: “Do you have the car?”

As he was washing his face and pouring a cup of water, the reply came: “I took it to get detailed and have the window repaired. They’ll call you when it’s ready. You need a ride? I could borrow a car.”

“No, it’s fine.” He would take a rideshare.

He had intended to see Rania last night, after dropping off Marco, but he needed rest. A dark tide was creeping in at the edges of his mind. The Prophet Musa, peace be upon him, had crossed the sea, and now the water was crashing back in on itself, and Deek stood in the center like an idiot.

Who did he think he was, running around with a ton of money, thinking that everyone he loved and cared about would genuflect before him in gratitude? When in reality they were all servants of Al-Malik, Ar-Razzaq, Al-Ghani. Allah was the King and Master of all. He was The Provider from Whom all sustenance was derived, and He was The Most Rich, whose wealth never diminished, even if He were to grant the wishes of every human and jinn who had ever lived. Deek himself was no one, nothing. He was a supplicant, a beggar.

As Deek walked out of the hospital, exhausted and carrying almost half a million dollars in cash, he realized he was out of ideas. He did not know what his life meant, what the money represented, or what he should do beyond the next meal, or the next desperate sleep.

* * *

[Part 18 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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.

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The post Moonshot [Part 17] – When Money Speaks appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Still from a video of Cycling Mikey’s bike being struck by the black Fiat.

Last week some videos went around showing a road safety activist (some call him a vigilante) named Michael van Erp, AKA Cycling Mikey, trying to stop a Fiat 500 going the wrong way up a partly closed road in west London and getting his bike knocked over and his property strewn over the street. The footage attracted the attention of some right-wing newspapers, some social media lawyers and some social media driving instructors, some of whom have criticised Mikey’s behaviour in the past and been blocked. Much of the commentary has been gleeful, as if Mikey “finally got his comeuppance”, and includes suggestions that Mikey broke the law by pushing his bike out to obstruct the Fiat, or “threw his bike into the road”, and ignores the multiple offences committed by the driver of the Fiat, which should not depend on Mikey reporting it. A YouTuber called Big Jobber, who has worked in the insurance industry, gives a fairly balanced explanation of the whole incident here.

Specifically, the driver of the Fiat, who had a child in their car, drove through a road that was clearly closed in the direction they were travelling in (the exit side had been closed because of roadworks; the entry side remained open, and there were numerous “road ahead closed” warning signs along the road at every junction, including at least one that was a viable diversion), then drove at a pedestrian who was in the process of entering the road ahead, causing damage to his property, then drove off without stopping; the latter is called “failing to stop after an accident”. This was witnessed by a number of bystanders, some of whom indicated that they recognised Mikey and some of whom also recorded their own footage. There will be other camera footage (shot by the local authority and the police) showing that the Fiat was in the area; if the social media footage is not good enough, that surely will be. Some of the commentators have suggested that Mikey’s actions constitute contributory negligence that will count against him if he has to claim on his insurance, but the Fiat driver’s actions were indefensible and plain criminal.

I have not much time for Cycling Mikey in the main; he is best known for riding around looking for people doing things they shouldn’t, such as using their mobile phone at the wheel, and publishing it online and sending the footage to the police. I have sometimes questioned how he has so much time to do this. I wrote about this in a previous entry on ‘snitching’ a couple of years ago, though I didn’t mention him by name then; most of the people he catches are stationary, not in motion and he was the classic example of the self-righteous snitch. But there’s also a world of difference between an inconsequential breach of the law and using your vehicle to barge someone out of the way — as a weapon — because you don’t have the patience to do what you should have done in the first place and find another route. The only crimes in this video were committed by the Fiat driver, and there were many of them.

When the Taliban swept back into power in August 2021, they did more than reclaim Kabul—they began a radical experiment in governance. At its helm sits an elusive figure, Supreme Leader Hibatullah Akhundzada, whose influence is felt more through edicts than appearances. From the corridors of power to the dusty streets of provincial towns, a new political order is being constructed—one rooted in religious legitimacy rather than technocratic expertise, national pride over international approval, and strict social norms over liberal freedoms. The result is a nation marked by contradiction: a government praised for restoring basic security even as it restricts girls from classrooms; a leadership hailed for rooting out corruption yet hindered by a lack of professional capacity; and a movement unified in appearance but quietly divided over the realities of state-building. On the ground, a complex picture emerges of a populace enjoying newfound security yet stifled by social constraints, and growing cracks between the ideals of the Islamic Emirate and the realities of running a fractured nation still reeling from decades of foreign occupation and civil strife.

Often referred to by his religious title Amir al-Mu’minin—a term historically used to denote the ruler of the Afghani people—Hibatullah Akhundzada was appointed Supreme Leader by the Taliban Leadership Council in 2016 and assumed ultimate authority over the Afghan state on 15 August 2021, following the Taliban’s spectacular victory over U.S.-backed forces after two decades of war. Since then, Akhundzada has seldom appeared in public and never addresses the press or the international community directly, helping curate a near-mythical status in Afghanistan. The Supreme Leader sits above any bureaucratised governmental positions, freeing him from the formality of government, and allowing his role to remain organic and uncompromising. Whilst he is rarely seen or heard, his edicts from above, conveyed through decrees and intermediaries, are profoundly felt by the people he rules over, and his numerous decrees have transformed the country’s system of governance.

When I found the opportunity to ask government officials and provincial governors about their enigmatic leader, I sensed both reverence for his position and deference to his authority, partly from a deeply rooted culture of obedience but also–after decades of war and instability–there is an appreciation of the need to close ranks in what is a period of vulnerability. Among his many executive powers, Akhundzada is responsible for governmental appointments at all levels, from the prime minister and other members of the cabinet to judges and provincial and local leaders.

The officials I spoke to working in the municipality of Kabul confirmed as much. The deputy mayor jovially explained how he had absolutely no relevant experience or expertise for his current role but was appointed by virtue of his achievements as a mujahid on the battlefield, his knowledge of Islam and his reputation for honesty and integrity. This, one senior scholar of the Taliban explained, is the defining feature of their system of governance: “This is the first time since the time of the Sahabah that the ulema control of all branches of government,” he proclaimed, arguing that their leadership has proven more effective than the so-called specialists who previously held these positions.

One such individual was Mohammed Khalid of the Mayoral Office, who appeared visibly delighted to have the opportunity to present the accomplishments of his administration. Speaking from the Mayoral complex—once occupied by U.S. forces—he eagerly outlined their initiatives aimed at tackling corruption and improving operational efficiency. Among the successes he highlighted were the cleaning and expansion of a canal in Kabul, the development of water distribution systems, and the planting of two million trees—all achieved with limited resources and at a fraction of the expected cost.

Khalid also described bold internal reforms, including the dismantling of several projects tainted by nepotism and the dismissal of 1,860 government employees whose primary activity appeared to be the misappropriation of public funds. The meeting concluded with a quiet acknowledgement that, despite the administration’s earnest efforts, further progress would require the support of skilled specialists, and ingenuity alone was not enough to elevate Afghanistan to the next stage in its development. “Tell the world the truth about what you see,” Khalid told me. “If there are mistakes, be open about it”. My visit to the Kabul Municipality reflected my broader impression of the departments and officials I encountered: warm, welcoming, and dedicated, yet constrained by international isolation—an issue that is, to some extent, of their own making.

The Taliban’s presence is now firmly established throughout the country. Even a short drive through Kabul involves passing multiple checkpoints manned by smiling, youthful, Kalashnikov-clad guards. Yet, their presence rarely feels oppressive or intrusive. Many locals attest to a transformation in the overall security situation. Before 2021, people were hesitant to even use their mobile phones in crowded public areas. To my amazement, I passed open-air currency exchangers handling bundles of cash, some even pushing wheelbarrows full, seemingly without a care in the world. The streets are unexpectedly clean and orderly, with a sense of calm and tranquillity that locals, having endured two decades of violence and instability, are vocally appreciative of, even while harbouring grievances with other aspects of the Taliban’s rule.

At the forefront of recurring grievances during my stay was the issue of girls’ education. Whether speaking to a street vendor in Kabul, a former Taliban fighter, or current ministers, the longer I remained, the more frequently I encountered frustration over the Taliban’s current ban on girls attending secondary school and beyond. Schools for Quran and Islamic studies are still open to girls of all ages, but secular education remains out of reach. One particularly striking conversation was with a civil engineer and long-time supporter of the Taliban, who expressed deep frustration over the lack of a clear plan for female education—he has daughters of his own and is desperate for them to have access to schooling.

Even senior figures within the current administration admit that the education ban has become a major obstacle to Afghanistan’s reintegration into the global economy, acknowledging that the two primary barriers to international recognition are the restrictions on girls’ education and ongoing security concerns. Notably, there are reports of some high-ranking Taliban members sending their own daughters to study in countries like Pakistan or Qatar—an indication of the internal divisions that exist beneath the movement’s outward display of unity. At the same time, the Taliban have appealed to members of the Afghan diaspora, particularly the intelligentsia, to return and help rebuild the country. But many have declined, unwilling to compromise their daughters’ education in exchange for appeals to national pride.

I spoke directly with one of the Taliban’s most respected scholars on the issue, who offered a passionate defence of their policy. He insisted that the Taliban is not inherently opposed to girls’ education, but views the current restrictions as a temporary measure aimed at shielding Afghan society from what he described as the corrosive influence of Westernisation. In his view, girls’ education has been used as a vehicle to undermine Islamic values and reshape women’s roles in ways that conflict with their moral framework. He was eager to point out that thousands of girls’ schools still operate across the country, where secular subjects are taught, and he assured me that education for girls would resume once the system had been comprehensively restructured in line with their principles. However, the core concern remains: no timeline has been provided—a fact that offers little comfort to those hoping for a swift return to normalcy.

This points to a broader issue within the new system of governance: a lingering uncertainty rooted in the absence of communication with the Afghan public. One senior minister candidly acknowledged this, telling me, “We are good in a practical sense, but we are not so good at communicating our message.” It’s a fair assessment that aligned with what I observed—whether in the absence of public explanations for the strict social edicts issued by the newly formed Department of Calling to the Good and Forbidding the Evil, or in the failure to articulate a clear political vision for the country’s future.

When I asked a senior official from the Interior Ministry about a timeline for the long-promised constitution—and whether it would be ratified by the people—he answered only the first part, saying a committee is currently working on its composition alongside the Supreme Court and the Supreme Leader. Notably, he gave no indication of a timeline. Perhaps more troubling is the lack of clarity around the question of leadership succession. In systems where power is concentrated in a supreme leader, authority is rarely relinquished except through death. The Taliban have given no indication of how a future transfer of power would take place. This ambiguity fosters further uncertainty, undermining efforts to build stability, reassure the population, and attract much-needed foreign investment to a country still reeling from decades of war.

This complex transition from insurgency to statecraft was perhaps best illustrated during a journey into the mountains of Paghman. As we set off for a hike through the breathtaking mountain passes, we were joined by Abu Khalid, a former mujahid turned government official. With a Kalashnikov slung casually over his shoulder, he climbed into the 4×4 and greeted me with a warm, affectionate smile. Having fought through two decades of war, Abu Khalid carried with him an endless trove of stories—tales of battles against U.S. forces delivered with vivid detail and tireless enthusiasm. Gazing out of the window, a glint in his eye and a faintly melancholic smile on his face, he spoke of his fallen comrades: “They were the lucky ones. They achieved martyrdom. Now we carry the heavy burden of running the state.” In that moment, I saw a man proud of their victory, yet quietly yearning for a simpler time—when the path was clearer, and the mission less burdened by the complexities of governance.

Afghanistan is often referred to as the graveyard of empires, and en route to Panjshir province to meet its governor, we encountered a stark visual reminder of that legacy — a vast expanse of decimated Soviet tanks stretching into the mountainous horizon. As we clambered over the rusting remnants of a once-feared empire, I was struck by how, for many, the Taliban have come to symbolise unwavering resistance to imperial domination — first against the Soviets in the 1980s, and more recently against the Western coalition over the past two decades. In their shift from insurgency to governance, their refusal to compromise on core principles or bow to international pressure regarding their vision for society has earned them admiration across parts of the Global South, where the spectre of Western imperialism is ever present. “It is important for us to maintain the mentality of Jihad in the people — the U.S. has done a lot of damage to the mindset of the people,” one senior official told me, highlighting the continued emphasis on preserving their ethos of religious struggle in a post-conflict era.

Afghanistan today stands at a fragile crossroads. Under the Taliban’s rule, the country has emerged from the chaos of occupation and civil war into a fragile order, one defined more by security than by inclusion. Despite the many contradictions at the heart of the Taliban’s rule, what I encountered across Kabul and beyond was a nation cautiously recalibrating after decades of war. Beneath the rigid ideology and the lingering opacity of leadership, there exists a cadre of officials determined to deliver change—often with limited resources but abundant resolve. From municipal reforms to local security improvements, there are signs, however modest, of a government attempting to build from the ruins of occupation and civil strife. The challenges are undeniable: restrictions on education, the absence of clear constitutional direction, and the lack of specialist expertise remain pressing concerns. Yet within the movement itself, and among its rank and file, there are voices calling for pragmatism and reform. If those voices grow louder—and are heeded—the Islamic Emirate could gradually shift from insular authority to engaged governance, rooted not only in religious conviction but in the trust and participation of its people. If the Taliban can evolve from rigid rulers to responsive stewards, Afghanistan may yet chart a path forward—one that honors its principles while finally breaking the cycle of isolation and instability.

Related:

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The post Afghanistan’s Experiment: Progress and Peril Under Taliban Rule appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Christian Peacemaker Team activist brought a courageous voice and presence to West Bank efforts.

More than 230 Palestinians in Gaza, including 106 children, have starved to death.

Isn’t fantasy football just for fun? How could it possibly be haram?

Omar Usman tackles the topic of sports gambling amongst Muslim men, how it has become unexpectedly common and acceptable, and the serious repercussions of gambling at a societal level. If you enjoy watching (and betting on) sports, or know someone who does, this khutbah is necessary to listen to and share with your friends!

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The post [Audio] How Sports Gambling is Destroying Muslim Men | Omar Usman appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A bombing takes seconds. It leaves a lifetime of pain.

Hunger strips people of their dignity in painful ways.

Hussein Odeh seeks urgent medical care for his wounded wife.

Abu Ahmed has gone to the GHF aid sites daily and witnessed the killings and chaos.