Across the country, Muslim Student Associations (MSAs) are facing a coordinated wave of harassment.

Non-student provocateurs are showing up unannounced to campus events, filming students while they pray, mocking their faith, and disrupting peaceful gatherings. In some cases, these incidents have escalated into violence and desecration of a copy of the Qur’an.

CAIR has received reports of individuals deliberately tracking MSA events online and appearing in person to provoke fear.

This is not spontaneous; it’s organized. Their tactics – cameras, confrontation, heckling – are designed to pressure Muslim students into retreating from campus life.

These agitators’ goal is to provoke and intimidate young Muslims and make them feel vulnerable in their own academic spaces.

But here’s the reality: Muslim students are not helpless; they are not alone; and they will not be intimidated.

Resilience is in our DNA.

American Muslims have endured hostility before in the form of social and political pressure, discrimination, and exclusion. History shows a consistent trend that efforts to silence us only strengthen our resolve.

As Muslim students stand up for their safety and rights with the support of MSA National and national organizations, including CAIR, universities also have an important responsibility to protect them from harassment, safeguard religious freedom, and ensure that campuses remain spaces for learning, not intimidation.

This moment requires action. That’s why CAIR issued a letter recently to over 2,000 colleges and universities across America to take concrete steps to protect Muslim students.

In addition to action, Muslims rely on our faith in these times. It teaches patience under pressure, dignity in the face of mockery, and perseverance when others attempt to undermine our confidence.

Throughout Islamic history, many Muslim leaders and scholars have faced ridicule and harassment, yet remained steadfast and principled. No example is more evident of this than the example of our beloved Prophet Muhammad ﷺ.

The trials we face today cannot compare to the hardships he ﷺ endured. In the darkest moments, he ﷺ was strengthened through divine guidance and unwavering purpose.

And Palestinians have reminded the world during every day of Israel’s genocide, that this spirit of resilience lives on in today’s generation of Muslims.

The fact is that these coordinated disruptions aren’t targeting weakness – they’re targeting strength. Detractors fear a generation of American Muslims who are confident in their identity, visible in public spaces, and active in civic life.

Muslim candidates successfully sweeping races to serve in public office have predictably unleashed a new tide of Islamophobia, and the coordinated campaign of harassment on campuses is one symptom of this wave of hate bias.

To Muslim students, these agitators fear your conviction. Your power. Your unity. They fear the past that doesn’t define your ambitions, and the future leadership you promise.

That fear says more about them than it ever will about you.

Your choices are not theirs to make.

Your education is not theirs to exploit.

And your faith is not a liability for them to pry away from you.

You have every right to gather, organize, pray, and lead. Ignorance, hate, and bigotry will not win.

Your presence – both on campus, and here in America – is not an intrusion. It is a gift, a promise, and a contribution to a brighter future for our country.

Our hardships don’t define us; how we rise through them is what shapes the core of our identity.

Don’t cancel your activities. Take precautions, be vigilant, but stay active and keep organizing.

Support and uplift one another. Build and strengthen alliances with other student groups and interfaith organizations.

Document and report incidents, notify your campus administrators, and contact your local CAIR office.

CAIR will continue to hold institutions accountable to adopt clear anti-harassment policies that address religious intimidation, provide security, enforce consequences for disruptions, and publicly affirm your rights.

This is also a call to action for the broader Muslim community:

We cannot stay on the sidelines while students face these battles. Let’s attend and support MSA activities and programs. Let’s publicly condemn harassment and amplify student voices. Let’s invest in on-campus Muslim chaplaincy programs and student leadership initiatives to mentor, fund, and empower our future generations

Let these coordinated attacks have the opposite effect of what was intended. Let them ignite a movement of confident, connected, courageous young Muslims across our country.

Muslims know that, with Allah by our side, we never stand alone. Let’s assure students that their community stands with them too.

 

Related:

– [Podcast] How to Fight Islamophobia | Monia Mazigh

– Islamophobia In American Public Schools

The post Op-Ed – When Islamophobes Try To Intimidate Us, They Underestimate Our Resolve: A Call to Stand With America’s Muslim Students appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

There are occasions when state power reveals its insecurities with embarrassing transparency. The United States’ revocation of Dr. Naledi Pandor’s visa — executed without reason, without process, and without even the courtesy of bureaucratic finesse — is one such moment. It is not a matter of administrative procedure. It is a symptom. A tremor of anxiety running through a violent Zionist project confronted by a woman whose authority is rooted not in might but in moral clarity.

Pandor, a former Minister of International Relations, a distinguished academic, and one of the most respected voices in the global struggle for Palestinian liberation, is hardly the kind of figure whose movements need to be policed. She commands no militias, stirs no insurrections, and threatens no borders. Her influence derives from something far more subversive: coherence, principle, and the audacity to insist that international law should apply universally rather than selectively.

Her central “offense,” of course, was South Africa’s decision — under her stewardship — to bring a genocide case against Israel before the International Court of Justice. It was a move that shook the architecture of impunity, interrupting a decades-long assumption that Western-backed states remain immune to the world’s highest judicial mechanisms. The ICJ case galvanized the Global South and infuriated those invested in shielding Israel from accountability. Once South Africa shattered the taboo, global dialogue shifted, and Pandor became both symbol and strategist of this recalibration.

Against this background, the visa revocation appears not as an isolated gesture but as part of a broader retaliatory pattern. From Trump’s bizarre political fantasies of a “white genocide” in South Africa, to the discourteous treatment of South Africa’s president during an official visit, to the refusal to receive its ambassador — each episode signals a punitive attitude toward a country that dared to challenge Zionist prerogatives.

Hence, the targeting of Dr. Pandor is not merely administrative mischief. It is a deliberate effort to punish a Global South diplomat who refused to genuflect before power.

The Threat Dr. Pamdor Represents

What, then, makes Pandor such a threat to Zionist power and imperial elites?

It is not merely her criticism of Israel. That alone, while provocative to some, would not have triggered such a response. The deeper threat lies in her refusal to compartmentalize global injustices, and her ability to narrate oppression as a structural, interconnected phenomenon rather than a series of discrete events.

During her recent engagements in the US, in city after city, Pandor spoke with piercing clarity about how the logic of domination in Gaza mirrors forms of dominance elsewhere. Her critique was global, mapping relationships of power that stretch from the Middle East to Africa to South Asia. This is where imperial elites feel uneasy: when the oppressed begin to see their struggles as shared, and when voices like Dr. Pandor help articulate the architecture of empire.

Her comments on Pakistan — careful and measured — highlighted the country’s political pliancy to imperial and Zionist interests. Pakistani-American audiences understood these references immediately, given the widespread repression of dissent in their homeland.

Without naming individuals, she alluded to a political figure widely admired and widely punished, whose pursuit of justice has made him intolerable to Pakistan’s power elite. The audience required no elaboration. The injustice is too stark.

Her comments struck a deep chord because they reflected a broader truth: that oppression does not respect borders, and that regimes aligned with empire frequently adopt the methods of empire. Pandor’s critique was not aimed at personalities but at structures — at the machinery of domination that sacrifices justice to the appetites of global power.

Dr. Pandor’s American hosts — Muslim communities, activists, human rights organizations — deserve credit for extending her platforms across the country, often to overflowing crowds. Their instinct to invite her, to engage with her, and to honor her moral leadership reflects a recognition of her stature in the global struggle for justice. The fact that these communities saw in her a defender of humanity and a champion of Palestine speaks well of their political sensibilities.

Zionist Panic and the Visa That Exposed It

This is what Zionist and Western supremacists cannot tolerate: clarity of analysis, breadth of moral vision, and the ability to illuminate connections across continents. A figure like Pandor cannot be allowed to circulate too freely within the public square because her presence has catalytic potential. She reframes debates. She humanizes victims. She speaks in the language of law rather than the language of propaganda. And she exposes the hypocrisy of invoking human rights selectively while violating them systematically.

By revoking her visa, fanatical Zionists attempted to place a boundary around her influence. Yet the attempt has only drawn more attention to her work and to the anxieties that drove this petty act of reprisal.

The message is unmistakable: the world’s most powerful elites are afraid of a woman whose only weapons are truth and integrity.

And that fear, ironically, magnifies her authority.

The Moment and the Movement

Dr. Pandor does not require rescuing. Her legitimacy rests on foundations far sturdier than any visa stamp. Whether she sets foot in the United States again is immaterial to her global stature. Her influence is already transnational, already expansive, already woven into the moral fabric of contemporary struggles for liberation.

But her treatment by American rulers matters for a different reason: it reveals the boundaries that Zionism attempts to impose on dissent, and the lengths to which it will go to punish those who challenge its preferred narrative. In this sense, defending Pandor is not a personal obligation; it is a political one. It is a refusal to normalize retaliation disguised as procedure.

Let us therefore take three truths forward:

First, Dr. Naledi Pandor remains one of the clearest moral compasses in global politics.

Second, her analysis of oppression — whether in Gaza or the Congo – remains indispensable.

Third, her visa revocation is not a reflection of her weakness, but of Zionist fear and panic.

The real question now is not who fears Dr. Pandor.
We know that answer.

The real question — the one that determines the future of solidarity — is: Who among us is prepared to stop fearing the Zionists that fear her?

 

Related:

– Prominent Journalist And Analyst Sami Hamdi Abducted By American State

– The Witkoff Massacre: Slaughter Of Starving Palestinians Undercuts Trump Pretensions

 

The post Who’s Afraid Of Dr. Naledi Pandor? – Zionist Panic and a Visa Revoked appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

sistIn the hospital and at home, Deek can’t shake the deep chill of the river.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28| Part 29 | Part 30

* * *

“Your Lord has not forsaken you… and the future will be better for you than the past.”

— Surah Ad-Duha, 93:3–4

“In the heart of every winter is a trembling spring.” – Khalil Gibran

Stranger Every Day

The first morning after the harrowing experience at the river, Deek lay in the hospital bed, still deeply tired, barely able to keep his eyes open. He was covered in layers of blankets, though the nurse assured him his core temperature was normal. Rania sat on the bed beside him, her head bandaged from the blow she’d taken, and the girls in chairs by the wall. Dr. Ali, the tall British-Pakistani doctor who had previously treated his gunshot wound, studied Deek critically.

“You do live a strange life, Mister Saghir,” she said.

“Stranger every day,” he agreed.

Deek knew that he should be grateful and happy that he had survived that terrible ordeal, and he was indeed grateful, yet the terror clung to him like a layer of mud he could not wash off. A part of him was still in the roiling river, fighting for his life, not knowing whether he was himself or his uncle.

“You suffered something terrible,” Rania said, rubbing his hand between hers. “Give yourself time. You’ll be back to your normal, crazy self in no time, inshaAllah.”

The constant visitors did not help. Deek didn’t know how word of his hospitalization had gotten out, but the stream of people wanting to visit him was unending. They brought flowers and gifts, asked for loans, grants or investments, or simply wished him well. Some he knew – including some of the same wealthy physicians from Masjid Umar who used to ignore him in the past – and some he did not.

Deek had no patience for this nonsense, nor for these fair-weather friends and bloodsuckers. At his request, the hospital installed a security guard outside his room, and admitted no one without his permission. They billed him for this service, of course.

Many of the visitors, though, were welcome. Dr. Rana, his wife and their daughter Maryam were at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, but Dr. Rana’s sister in law brought spicy Pakistani food, which Deek loved.

Rania was there most of the time of course, while the girls came and went.

Mac N’ Cheese

At one point the security guard informed him that a man named Tariq was there. “Short black guy in a colorful shirt,” the guard said. Deek’s mood immediately brightened. Tariq was a recent convert, an elementary school teacher who had only been Muslim for a year. The day he took his shahadah Deek gave him his own musalla that he had with him, and ever since then, whenever they saw each other they always talked. Occasionally they played chess on a table in the masjid’s yard. Tariq was a defensive player, the kind that built up ranks of connecting pawns that were like a fortress. Sometimes Deek won, sometimes Tariq.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Send him in.”

“As-salamu alaykum.” Tariq had a quiet, soft voice. Today he wore a colorful daishiki over jeans, and an embroidered green kufi. Tariq presented a casserole dish, and Rania took it from him.

“What is it?” Deek asked.

“Southern style mac n’cheese. I don’t know if ya’ll Arabs eat that, but it’s pretty good, I have to say.”

“I want to try!”

Tariq laughed. Rania fed Deek a large spoonful. It was dense and rich, with a creamy, almost custard-like texture, and a deep cheese flavor.

“Oh my goodness, subhanAllah. This is so good.” He licked his lips. “You’re not related to Queen Latifah by any chance, are you?”

“Matter of fact, my cousin’s wife is one of her personal trainers. But we ain’t related, nah. Why?”

“Brother, you can come visit anytime.”

What School?

Lubna and her husband came, though without the kids, as children were not permitted. The husband spent most of the visit out in the hallway on his cellphone, and Deek found himself missing Hammurabi, oddly enough.

There was something different about Lubna that Deek could not put his finger on. She wore a beautiful cream-colored pantsuit and a double-breasted white coat that made her look like a fashion model, and her face seemed… what? Relaxed, Deek realized. The worry and frown lines that often creased her visage were gone. She looked happy, and this happiness gave her a radiance that he had not seen shining from her since they were children. This made him very happy, and he found himself beaming as she reported the progress on the school.

“I’m missing something,” Rania interrupted. “What school?”

Lubna looked surprised. “Well… Your husband is founding an Islamic school. It’s called Renaissance Islamic Academy, and will combine traditional learning with progressive teaching methods.”

“Oh.” Rania looked back and forth between Deek and his sister. In her eyes he saw hurt, then bewilderment, then a brief flicker of disappointment she didn’t quite hide. A lot had happened during their time apart, and he hadn’t had a chance to fill her in.

“We have a property,” Deek announced. Which was true. Marcela Gómez, the feisty Colombian who was now his family office real estate director, had texted him just an hour ago. She’d found a large church complex in a great neighborhood in north Fresno. It had classrooms, a cafeteria, a football field, basketball courts… Church membership was declining and they couldn’t afford to keep the property. It was valued at $10 million but Marcela thought the owners would go as low as 7.

“Do it,” Deek texted her. “Negotiate the best price you can and start the process.” Then he texted Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani, the young financial advisor – who was now CFO of Deek’s family office – to approve the purchase.

He informed Lubna of this now.

“You bought a church for ten million dollars?” Rania exclaimed. She seemed shocked by the idea.

“No,” Deek said defensively. “For seven million. If Marcela says she can get it down to seven, she can.” He reached out and took Rania’s hand. “Our reality is different now, honey. When we get home we’ll sit down and talk.”

Rania said nothing.

“Fantastic.” Lubna shook her head in amazement. “It’s really coming together. Part of me believed it was all a fantasy. You should also know, by the way, that I interviewed your friend Marco and checked out his references, and found him to be highly qualified and generally a cool guy. I have hired him to teach science. He wants to revamp the curriculum slightly to include the contributions of Muslim scientists. I’ll be paying him well. He asked me for a small advance, by the way. I’m not too crazy about that. But I know he’s poor, so I gave it to him.”

“Marco Tirado?” Rania said incredulously. “You’re hiring Marco? Wouldn’t you want a Muslim instead? And someone… well… reliable?”

Deek gave Rania a sharp glance. Her comment reminded him of the Rania of the last few years: sharp tongued, judgmental and critical of Deek and everything around him, including his friends.

“That’s not very nice,” Deek said, “Marco’s a good man. And he is Muslim now. You should hear him recite the Quran. His voice is as beautiful as a bird on the wind.”

Rania said, “Allah Akbar,” and sat back in her chair, looking dazed.

A Terrible Story

“Lubna,” Deek said. “I want to tell you something.”

She sensed the change in his tone. “Uh-oh. What is it?”

“Pull up a chair.” When she did, he continued. “Do you know why we left Iraq?”

Lubna frowned. “I was very small obviously, but I remember Mama saying that Iraq was a poor country, and that we would have a better life in America. It surprised me, because I never thought we were poor.”

What about our uncles, Khalid and Tarek?

Lubna squinted quizzically. “Ammu Khalid died in a car accident, and Ammu Tarek moved to England to open a bakery.”

“None of that is true.”

Lubna sat up straight. “Why are you telling me this? Is this something I need to know?”

“Maybe not. But it’s about me too. If you don’t want to know, it’s okay.”

Lubna made a displeased clucking sound with her tongue – a very Arab gesture – and shook her head. Then she rubbed her face with both hands.

“SubhanAllah,” she said. “Go ahead and tell me.”

Deek proceeded to relate the whole story: Tarek’s political activities, the arguments in the house, Tarek’s arrest, and the rescue, where young Deek himself helped to pull his father and a wounded Ammu Tarek out of the river. As he told the story he saw his wife leaning forward, listening intently. He had never narrated these events to her.

“The dissident movement smuggled Ammu Tarek out of Iraq to Turkey. He spent a year there, and made his way to England. We fled Iraq in the back of a panel truck with a false wall. You were allowed to take only one suitcase with you. You cried because you had to leave most of your dolls behind. I held you and told you that you’d find better dolls in America.”

Lubna sat back. She had tears in her eyes, and her hands were shaking slightly. Rania had come to sit beside Deek during the story, and massaged his shoulder with one hand.

“I remember that trip in the truck,” Lubna breathed. “I thought it was a bad dream I’d had.” She looked at Deek sharply. “And Ammu Khalid? You said that was not true either.”

“He committed suicide. He didn’t leave a note, but I heard Baba and Mama talking about it one time. Baba believed Khalid had been involved in political killings, and that the experience forced him to confront his own history. Mama thought it was probably the guilt over killing his fellow soldiers.”

Lubna stood up and walked to the far wall of the small hospital room. “This is all horrible. Why did you tell me this?”

“Those events traumatized me. I became withdrawn and moody. I blamed Baba, because there was no one else to blame. Tarek stood up for what he believed in, and Khalid at least was a strong man of action, but who was Baba? A quiet Quran teacher with no convictions. I know it’s ridiculous. But it’s why I changed. I became unkind to you too, and I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t seem to help it.”

Lubna nodded slowly. “I remember that you changed after we came to America. I used to think that America made you bad. I’m sorry you went through that.”

“I’m not asking for sympathy. It’s your forgiveness that I need. I told you these things so you would understand that I never hated you. You’re my little sister. I always loved you. I was just messed up by the weight of the past.”

Lubna came to the bedside and patted Deek’s hand. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

After she left, Deek spoke to Rania. “She wasn’t happy that I told her that story. Notice she didn’t say that she forgives me?”

Rania massaged his shoulder. “Give her time. It’s a lot to take in. And on anyone and everyone’s behalf, I forgive you.”

Allah Saved You

Zaid Karim and Safaa came to visit. Unlike the strangers and halfway acquaintances who only wanted to take, Zaid always made life easier. He and his assistant, Jalal, had retrieved Deek’s and Sanaya’s cars from the riverside, and had arranged a tow to take Rania’s mini-SUV to the shop. Zaid apologized that he had not been able to help when Rania called.

“Your dua was help enough,” Rania said. “For when Allah wishes a thing, he only says to it, “Be!” and it is.”

Zaid, tanned and with his beard growing out, told them about his trip to Jordan, Baby Munir’s funeral, and his visit to the Palestinian refugee camp. “Imam Saleh gave me $100,000 to donate to the camp, and he didn’t say so, but I know that money came from you, Deek. So you are helping people without even knowing it, mashaAllah.” He came close to Deek and spoke in a low voice. There was no one in the room at that moment except for Zaid, Deek, Rania and Safaa. “This is why Allah saved you twice, brother. He has a mission for you, and don’t you ever forget it. Don’t get comfortable, don’t get lazy. Ask Allah what He wants you to do, and do it.”

Deek swallowed and nodded. Zaid was right, of course. He should have been dead at least twice, or five times if you wanted to count the encounter at the riverside when he was young, the very risky escape from Iraq, and the gunshot graze to the head he’d received recently, which Zaid did not know about.

He gripped Zaid’s arm and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Not Over

Two days after Deek’s brush with death, Dr. Ali entered his room.

“Do you want to give me the information I asked for?”

She meant the identity and contact information of the Namer, Deek knew. He smiled and gave a slight shake of the head. A secret was only a secret if you didn’t tell anyone.

The doctor harrumphed. “In any case, your tests are good. I wanted to make sure there was no water remaining in your lungs, or you could become very ill. But you’re all clear. You can go home.”

Rania drove Deek’s Kia. It was a warm morning, but it had rained briefly, and a rainbow hung in the sky like a giant welcome home sign. The girls chattered in the backseat about mutual friends and their doings. Amira in particular seemed giddy with happiness, and often laughed. Rania was reserved, keeping her eyes on the road.

“I’m sorry,” Deek said quietly. “I shouldn’t have left home. You just pushed me too far. And by the way, I didn’t care for your comments about Marco. He’s been a good friend to me, and he saved my life recently.”

Rania shot him a hard glance. “So did I, remember? Anyway I apologize for my comment. But you’re right that you shouldn’t have left, and certainly not for so long. It’s been a bad time for me, and you weren’t there to help. And you’ve made a lot of major moves without me. You bought a house and a church!”

“I’ve been calling you and texting you, but you don’t answer. You shut me out completely. I had to go ahead and make choices on my own. But habibti, when I was drowning in the river, all I wanted was an opportunity to make things right with you. Allah granted me that.”

Rania glanced at him. “How do I know this won’t happen again?”

Deek smiled. “We made it through twenty years before this blowup. Let’s agree not to do it again for another twenty years.”

Rania snorted. “Not funny.” A few minutes later, she added, “This isn’t over. We have a lot more to talk about, and a lot more work to do. I need to know that you’re with me for real, for good.”

Deek nodded. “I know. And I am.”

Weariness overcame him, and he fell asleep. He dreamed that he had a highly intelligent pet monkey that could talk, and was also very good at predicting the weather. An all around genius, like Marco. They had such fun together, playing chess blindfolded and throwing peanuts at passers-by. But the government kidnapped the monkey, taking him away in a bus with dark windows. Deek followed the bus on his motorcycle, looking for an opportunity to rescue the monkey. A truck passed between them, and when it was gone, the bus had vanished. He was angry and sad.

Rania touched his shoulder. “We’re home, habibi.”

Deek rubbed his eyes sullenly. “It’s not nice to steal anyone’s monkey.”

The girls laughed, but Rania only patted his cheek and said, “You’re right. It’s not nice.”

Welcome Home

 

Exiting the car, they all stopped in their tracks. In the front yard, floating calmly above the grass, was a crescent moon. Not a lawn decoration. Not an inflatable. A hovering crescent moon — silver, smooth, and suspended four feet above the ground with no wires or platform visible. In front of it stood a small handwritten sign that read:

WELCOME HOME SAGHIR FAMILY

(It won’t explode).

Sanaya and Amira ran forward, Rania close behind them.

“Careful,” she warned, though her voice carried more awe than caution.

The girls circled the sculpture, inspecting it from every angle. Amira crouched low, squinting beneath it.

“There’s nothing under it,” she exclaimed. “It’s actually floating.”

Sanaya pointed. “Wait… look here.” Along the inner arc, a faint thread of something transparent ran upward to a slim rod staked into the ground behind a bush. “This is a tensegrity structure!”

“A what?” Rania asked.

“It’s a physics thing,” Sanaya said, voice rising with excitement. “Floating structures that stay up because tension forces cancel gravity in just the right places. You have to calculate every vector perfectly or it collapses.”

Amira tugged gently on the thin lower wire. “This one’s not holding it up… it’s holding it down.”

Sanaya nodded. “Yeah. It’s balanced. Suspended by tension. Whoever built this did serious math.”

Deek stared at the glimmering crescent, its shadow faint on the wet morning grass. Balanced perfectly, precise to the millimeter, playful yet genius-level engineering.

He let out a soft laugh.

Rania raised an eyebrow. “You know who did this?”

“Of course,” Deek said. “Only one person we know would greet me with a floating moon, use enough physics to launch a satellite, and make it look effortless.”

The girls turned to him.

“Well?” Amira asked. “Who?”

Deek smiled. “The only man who thinks love should be explained with equations. This is what he spent his advance on.”

“Marco,” Rania said.

“Indeed.”

“Well. It’s beautiful. But he stole my thunder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come.”

Rania took his arm and gently tugged. Deek resisted for a moment, eyes still on the floating crescent moon. “Can we keep it?” he asked, aware that he sounded like a child begging to adopt a pet.

“Of course. But ask Marco to move it to the backyard, so no one steals it. Speaking of which, come on.”

Deek’s Office

This time. Deek let himself be led toward the side gate. To his surprise, Deek saw that the side gate and fence were gone, and the ground bore tracks of heavy vehicles.

He stopped. “What is this? What happened?”

The girls giggled.

“You’ll see.” Rania tugged on this arm, leading him to the backyard.

When Rania stopped and pointed, he followed her gaze—and stared.

A wide rectangle of earth had been cleared and leveled, the grass and brush stripped away down to clean, fresh soil. Wooden cement forms framed the outline of what would become the foundation, neat and sharp-edged. Bright metal rebar lay inside in a tight grid, bound and ready for the concrete pour. Orange construction flags fluttered in the breeze, marking the corners like a surveyor’s promise.

But what struck him hardest wasn’t the work that had been done. It was the sign.

Just a plank of wood mounted on two posts and hammered into the soil at the near corner. The lettering painted on in Rania’s elegant, looping handwriting:

DEEK’S OFFICE

Bismillah.

His breath hitched in surprise, and his knees nearly gave out. “You’re building me an office?”

Rania slipped an arm around his waist. “Quite a nice one. I didn’t know how long it would take you to come home,” she said softly. “But I knew you’d need a place of your own to land when you did. Now come inside, there’s something else.”

Inside the house, he saw that the living room had been transformed. The sofas, love seat, coffee table and end tables were gone. Instead, the room was dominated by a gorgeous L-shaped wooden desk that would have been at home in a CEO’s office. A large black office chair stood behind it, with two blonde chairs in front of the desk, facing it. On the desk stood a framed photo of the entire family together. Deek recognized it from a trip they’d taken to San Francisco a few years back.

Behind the desk, a huge hutch dominated the wall, with spaces for books and computer equipment. On one wall hung one of Rania’s quilts, and on the other wall was a large, Mondrianesque painting, consisting of blue, red, yellow and black squares.

Deek’s mouth hung open. “This is amazing,” he said. “It’s a beautiful office. But where will guests sit?”

“I don’t care about guests,” Rania replied. “I only care about you.”

A Monumental Force

That night, Deek and Rania prayed Ishaa together. The girls had gone to a youth lecture at Masjid Madinah. When they were done with the salat, Deek turned to face Rania and sat cross legged, saying his dhikr. After a few minutes, Rania crawled to him and sat facing him, knees to knees. She reached for one of his hands and held it between hers.

“Habibi,” she said. “Why did you go in the river?”

Deek’s eyes moved from side to side. He didn’t want to talk about this. “I was checking out the new property. I wanted to see the riverside access.”

Rania shook her head. “That doesn’t explain why you would physically step into the river at night, alone. Sanaya said she thought she heard shouting. It’s why she turned the car around.”

“Does it matter?”

She nodded solemnly. “Very much.”

Deek’s hand, still held between his wife’s, was sweating. He wanted to pull it away but did not. “I was angry and lonely. Everyone abandoned me. Sometimes I think of a river as a purifying force. I imagine that it will wash out all the ugliness and pain.”

“But that’s not your history,” Rania pointed out. “I heard the story you told Lubna. Rivers to you are not purification, but death. Or perhaps the purification of death. When you feel rage toward someone, you talk about drowning them in the river. I think you had another reason for going into the river.”

Now Deek did withdraw his hand. His jaw clenched. “What are you saying?”

He fidgeted as Rania watched him silently for a long time. Then, to his surprise, she said, “I was impressed at the hospital. Astounded, even.”

“What do you mean?”

“You helped a lot of people in ways I didn’t know about. You saved Maryam Rana’s life, you’re starting a school with Lubna as principal, you got Marco a good job, you’re helping Palestinian refugees, you gave money to Masjid Madinah, and probably others I don’t know about. And you didn’t tell me about any of it, because it’s not about fame or praise for you. You are a monumental force for good in this world. People adore you. You are a hero to them. And I realized that people don’t really fundamentally change. You have always been a force for good. People have always loved you. You have always been a hero. I knew that, but I forgot it for a while.”

“And the one who loves you most,” Rania went on, “aside from Allah, who is Al-Wadud – is me. And then your daughters. We adore you too. You are a hero to us too.”

Deek’s face turned hot and he felt tears behind his eyes. He didn’t know what to say, but he realized that the chill he had felt ever since the near-drowning was lessening. He’d thought that upon returning, he would feel like an outsider in his own home, but Rania had done and said everything possible to make sure that wasn’t the case. She’d done more than he could have imagined.

Rania rose onto her knees, leaned forward and gripped his thobe in two hands, bringing her face close to his. He found himself looking into her eyes, as dark as the depths of the river, yet at the same time as bright as the sun breaking fiercely through the clouds on a winter afternoon.

“Listen to me,” she said intensely. “You are not nine years old anymore, dragging your father and uncle out of the Euphrates. You are not alone, abandoned or forgotten. Leave your ghosts behind. Wake up to the world in front of you. Death will come for you at the time appointed, not a moment sooner or later. Until then embrace every moment of your life as if it is the last bite of food you’ll ever eat. And don’t you ever do anything like that again. Promise me.”

Hypnotized by his wife’s mile-deep eyes and pressing tone, Deek nodded slowly. “I promise.”

Rania gripped even tighter, and came so close that her nose touched his. “Because if you ever do something like that again, I will drown you in the river myself.” She kissed him hard, leaning all her weight on him. He fell back onto the musalla, laughing, then pulled her to him.

“Forget the river,” he said. “I’m already drowning in your love.”

***

Author’s Note: I thought this would get the last chapter, but there’s actually one more. So come back next week for Part 32  – the REALLY FINAL chapter of Moonshot! In which a decision is made about where to live, Rania makes a career move, Deek’s surprise for Faraz is revealed, and Deek hosts a party for his friends.

 

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

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

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

Related:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

The post Moonshot [Part 31] – Stranger By The Day appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

From October 1, 2025, to November 12, 2025, the United States government was “shut down” due to legislative disputes over the contents of a spending bill. This shutdown meant that thousands of non-essential federal employees were furloughed, and thousands more were required to work without knowing when their next paycheck would come.

Government shutdowns, while uncommon, have occurred numerous times in the past.1 However, not only was this most recent 43-day shutdown the longest in American history, but it was also the first time the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) was suspended over a lack of allotted funding. SNAP benefits provide monthly food assistance to roughly 42 million Americans, or 12% of the population; 70% of SNAP recipients are children, seniors, and people with disabilities.2 What people expected, and feared, became true once the shutdown dragged into November: people would not be receiving their SNAP benefits, it was unclear when (or if) they would receive them again, and they were now left scrambling to find food assistance elsewhere. Some states pledged to cover people’s SNAP benefits for the month of November, but this was only meant to be a temporary, partial fix.

With the end of the government shutdown, SNAP benefits have been restored, and SNAP will be funded through the end of the fiscal year in September 2026.3 While the immediate crisis has subsided, a greater, longer-term crisis still looms. Food continues to grow more expensive, while wages remain stagnant. The One Big Beautiful Bill Act that was signed into law in July 2025 will cut the SNAP budget by 20% over the next ten years, in addition to placing stricter work requirements on recipients.4 A vicious cycle is thus created where more people will end up needing help affording food, while access to help is made increasingly difficult for fewer benefits. Compounding this crisis, and one of the primary reasons for the shutdown, is the astronomical cost of healthcare in this country that regularly forces people to choose between seeking medical care and paying for other basic living expenses. 

I do not want to mince words or downplay this plight: I believe this is a moral failing of our government leaders. In a nation as wealthy and full of resources as the United States, there is no acceptable justification for why food insecurity is so widespread. Our government spends billions of our tax dollars each year on military operations around the world that cause, at minimum, societal and economic destabilization, and, at worst, genocide. Corporations and the richest Americans get tax breaks, while millions more must scrape by on their minimum wage paycheck or meager social security/disability payments. The scale of injustice being seen here is massive and dire, and it should disturb anyone who is paying attention and has a conscience.

As I spend time reflecting on this as a Muslim, I remember the many times in the Qur’an where Allah has urged the believers to feed those who are hungry. The two passages that have always stood out to me most regarding our duties to give come from Surah al-Balad and Surah al-Ma’un:

“If only they had attempted the challenging path! And what will make you realize what the challenging path is? It is to free a slave, or to give food in times of famine to an orphaned relative or to a poor person in distress, and–above all–to be one of those who have faith and urge each other to perseverance and urge each other to compassion. These are the people of the right.” [Surah al-Balad, 90; 10-18]

“Have you seen the one who denies the (final) Judgment? That is the one who repulses the orphan, and does not encourage the feeding of the poor. So woe to those (hypocrites) who pray yet are unmindful of their prayers; those who (only) show off, and refuse to give (even the simplest) aid.” [Surah al-Ma’un, 107; 1-7]

The message Allah shows us here is very clear: giving food to needy people is morally good, even in times of difficulty, and denying food to needy people is morally wrong. The verses of al-Ma’un in particular illustrate the hypocrisy of those who may follow the “letter of the law” (through outward acts of piety like salah) but disregard the “spirit of the law” by ignoring Allah’s Command to care for those who are vulnerable. Throughout the Qur’an, Allah frequently pairs “belief” together with “righteous deeds,” illustrating that our deen requires both from us in order to have sound faith. With these imperatives, it is our Islamic duty to address these issues to the best of our ability.

There is an oft-cited hadith from Sahih Muslim where our Prophet ﷺ says,

“Whoever among you sees an evil action, let him change it with his hand [by taking action]; if he cannot, then with his tongue [by speaking out]; and if he cannot, then with his heart [by at least hating it and believing that it is wrong], and that is the weakest of faith.”

This is frequently used as a rallying call to action amongst Muslims, especially in situations where people may feel that there is little that they personally can do due to a lack of power or physical distance (for example, the genocides in Gaza and Sudan). In the case of the American hunger crisis, however, we are in a position to counter these evil actions (purposeful, artificial shortages of food resources) with our hands, tongues, and hearts. 

 – With our hands: The most direct way we can help our neighbors who are hungry is, unsurprisingly, to provide them with food or money for food. There are many ways this can be done, and some ways may be more beneficial to certain people than others. For example, in my local Buy Nothing group on Facebook, people regularly request and offer groceries and meals. Because this group has a large user base, requests for food are generally met quickly and abundantly.

“The most direct way we can help our neighbors who are hungry is, unsurprisingly, to provide them with food or money for food.” [PC: Nico Smit (unsplash)]

Local mutual aid groups are also a direct, effective way to give assistance. We can donate shelf-stable foods to food pantries, either official ones or informal grassroots ones like Little Free Pantries or community refrigerators. Food banks are able to purchase food in bulk at much lower prices than at retail stores, so monetary donations can be stretched further. Some people may not have the time or ability to cook, so for them, prepared meals or ready-to-eat foods will be the most helpful. Others may not have a car or reliable transportation, so we can offer rides to food pantries or the grocery store. Even people facing food insecurity themselves can help others, perhaps by offering to cook for those who can’t, or by passing along foods that they won’t use to others who will, so it won’t go to waste. If your masjid or Islamic school doesn’t have a food pantry or offer financial assistance to hungry community members through zakat or sadaqah funds, work with them to make this a reality.  

Alhamdulillah, Muslims have already been demonstrating a commitment to serve our neighbors. At the small Islamic school my daughter attends, one parent’s suggestion to provide food assistance to students and their families led to a fundraising campaign that has collected $1,300 for groceries. In a now viral TikTok series, a woman named Nikalie Monroe filmed herself cold-calling dozens of houses of worship requesting baby formula. She did not need the formula, but she wanted to conduct a “social experiment” to see how receptive religious institutions would be to people directly asking for assistance. Most of the churches she contacted either denied the request or directed her to different organizations, but a few places, including The Islamic Center of Charlotte in Charlotte, North Carolina, offered to help her get formula with no questions asked. Touched by this masjid’s generosity and quick response, donations have been pouring in, which the masjid says it will use to fund a food drive. These are beautiful examples of Allah’s Words being put into action, and illustrate how one kind act can birth even more goodness. Allah says in Surah al-Baqarah: “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 to whoever He wills. For Allah is All-Bountiful, All-Knowing.” [2;261]

 – With our tongues: This is where our recent experience with Palestine/Sudan activism will be useful. Get involved with advocacy groups that work towards policies that fight hunger and systemically address poverty and the massive income inequality in the United States. This can be on a national, state, or local level. For example, you could start or join a campaign for your local school district to provide universal free breakfast and lunch for its students, so no child will ever have to worry about skipping meals at school or having lunch debt.

Write and deliver a khutbah or bayan/khatirah about what the Qur’an and sunnah say about helping our hungry neighbors. If you’re a parent, talk with your children about hunger and how widespread it is, as well as what Allah has asked us to do to address it.

 – With our hearts: Du’a and taqwa are our greatest tools. Make heartfelt du’a asking Ar-Razzaq, the Provider, to bless us all with His Rizq (provisions). Ask Allah to help us in helping others, and that we may be agents for what is right. Remember how Allah has warned us against oppressing others, and ask Him to keep us from being among the wrongdoers and those who cause harm.

Pray that the hearts of those in power are opened and guided to the Truth, and that they use their power to enjoin goodness and justice for people, especially those who are vulnerable and marginalized. 

We may not be able to solve problems like hunger alone, but inshaAllah each step we take to help our neighbors means one less person goes to bed hungry. May Allah bless and help those who are struggling in body, mind, and spirit, and guide us to always do what is pleasing to Him. Ameen!

 

Related:

– When The Powerful Eat Full And The Poor Go Hungry

– The Architecture of Withholding: When Charity Becomes Control

1    “Funding Gaps and Shutdowns in the Federal Government”. https://history.house.gov/Institution/Shutdown/Government-Shutdowns/2    “Explainer: Understanding the SNAP program–and what cuts to these benefits may mean”. https://www.hks.harvard.edu/faculty-research/policy-topics/social-policy/explainer-understanding-snap-program-and-what-cuts3    Desilver, Drew. “What the data says about food stamps in the U.S.” https://www.pewresearch.org/short-reads/2025/11/14/what-the-data-says-about-food-stamps-in-the-us/4    Explainer: Understanding the SNAP program–and what cuts to these benefits may mean”. https://www.hks.harvard.edu/faculty-research/policy-topics/social-policy/explainer-understanding-snap-program-and-what-cuts

The post The Hunger Crisis: Reflections Of An American Muslim appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Latino Muslims have often been spoken about, but rarely heard on their own terms. Their stories are too frequently marginalized, misrepresented, or ignored altogether. This is why narrative ownership matters. Without it, the richness of Latino Muslim identity risks being flattened into stereotypes or erased from broader religious and cultural histories.

As someone who has spent more than two decades researching, writing, and advocating for the visibility of Latino Muslims, I have witnessed both the challenges and the power of reclaiming our narratives. The struggle to be recognized as authorities in telling our own stories is ongoing, particularly in spaces that remain patriarchal and dominated by outsiders. Yet it is precisely because of this marginalization that it becomes all the more urgent to affirm the voices and contributions of Latino Muslims in the United States and beyond.

My exploration of Latino Muslim identity began during my undergraduate years at the University of Maryland, where I majored in modern languages and linguistics, specializing in Spanish and education. Having embraced Islam only five years earlier, I was still learning to navigate the intersection of cultural heritage and faith. Through coursework, I became fascinated by how Islam had shaped Spanish and Portuguese culture, and, by extension, the Americas. Linguistic, culinary, and traditional threads revealed connections between my ancestry and my faith, highlighting how deeply entwined Islam has long been with Latino identity. These discoveries reinforced the importance of telling stories that illuminate our history, assert our belonging, and resist erasure.

“Our goal was simple: to make knowledge about Islam accessible to our families and to other Spanish-speaking families. At that time, resources about Islam in Spanish or within a Latino context were scarce.” (PC: Stepping Stone Charity)

This academic curiosity soon evolved into a personal mission as I began volunteering at my local mosque to assist Spanish-speaking visitors and newcomers to the faith. After marrying my husband, another Latino convert whose family hails from Ecuador, we founded the PrimeXample Company in 2005, and it later evolved into Hablamos Islam. Our goal was simple: to make knowledge about Islam accessible to our families and to other Spanish-speaking families. At that time, resources about Islam in Spanish or within a Latino context were scarce. We began translating articles, fatwas, and educational materials, building a website, and offering our services as interpreters and translators at local mosques and community events. Our work was born out of the necessity for resources to explain our decision to embrace Islam in a way that resonated with our families’ cultural backgrounds and values. However, as we expanded, we discovered a broader community of Latino Muslims who shared our experiences and aspirations. Our work transformed from serving our own families to supporting a growing network of Spanish-speaking Muslims nationwide and even beyond US borders.

The Raíces Run Deep

When we moved to New Jersey, my husband and I became active in the North Hudson Islamic Education Center (NHIEC), where we helped their outreach committee and organized events for the predominantly Latino community in Union City. In a city where over 80% of the population is Latino, Spanish was the language of daily life. Take, for example, my husband’s grandmother; she migrated from Ecuador to New Jersey in the mid-to-late 1970s and did not speak a word of English despite living in Union City for decades. His parents learned broken English, but Spanish remains their dominant language.  Even in the mosque, the Friday sermon was simultaneously translated to Spanish on headsets for those who could not understand the usual Arabic. The outreach committee planned open houses and street parties, held regular classes for new converts, translated materials, and created spaces where Latino Muslims could connect, learn, and share their stories. However, the gathering they are most widely known for is the annual Hispanic Muslim Day, held every Fall, typically around Hispanic Heritage Month. A young Puerto Rican convert, Daniel Hernández (now Imam Daniel Hernández), conceived the idea for this celebration with the former Imam of NHIEC, Mohammad Alhayek. This year (2025) was the event’s 23rd anniversary.

Through our outreach work, we learned that Latino Muslims had been building communities long before us. From the inner-city Bani Saqr movement in Newark, New Jersey, and the Spanish-speaking mosque in New York, Alianza Islamica, to the Latino American Dawa Association (LADO), we connected with individuals and organizations dedicated to supporting Latino Muslims. In the days before social media, we networked through Yahoo groups, AOL chats, and email threads, forging bonds that transcended geography. We often reminisce about how we were connected even before social media. There is an untold history that is deeply personal, rooted in the desire to reconcile our heritage with our faith and to make sense of our identities in a society that failed so many times to recognize our existence beyond our conversion stories.

Despite our longstanding presence and contributions, Latino Muslims have often been sidelined in mainstream narratives. Too frequently, nuestras historias – our history and our stories – are told by outsiders like non-Muslim academics, journalists, or other opportunists, who lack the lived experience to truly understand our journeys. I have witnessed, time and again, how the phenomenon of Latino Muslim conversion is reduced to a headline, a curiosity, or a trend, rather than a testament to the resilience and diversity of our communities. The latest tendency seems to be checking off Latino Muslim characters on a diversity list to fulfill equity requirements without offering an authentic voice. I have personally received messages from people outside our community, who have never even met a Latino Muslim, yet want to add such a character to their books or illustrations simply because it is now considered “the thing to do.” Often, this is at the suggestion of an editor or professor eager to feature this so-called “new, up-and-coming” group, even though we are not new at all but have been an integral part of the dawah in the United States since the earliest documented conversions.

What’s Old is New Again?

This observation led me to dedicate my master’s thesis to researching Gen X and early millennial (Xennial) Latino Muslim converts and their contributions to American Muslim communities as I pursued graduate studies at Chicago Theological Seminary. I wanted to shift the focus from conversion to continuity, to examine what happens after the shahada, when the initial excitement passes and a lifetime of living Islam begins. As part of my research, I conducted in-depth interviews with Latino Muslims who have practiced Islam for twenty to thirty years. These individuals have raised families in the faith, established organizations, translated Islamic knowledge into Spanish, and built the institutions that others are now benefiting from. Their stories prove what the literature has missed for decades: that Latino Muslims are not the “new kids on the block” or the latest slot on the diversity checkbox.

“The work of Latino Muslims is not motivated by a desire for recognition, and so many of us are content to stay under the radar. But there is power in preserving history in our own words.” [PC: Social Cut (unsplash)]

Incidentally, marginalization of Latino Muslims, as well as other minority groups like African American and Native American Muslims, is not just external. It is compounded when individuals, sometimes even those with Muslim names, usurp our stories for personal gain. I recently encountered a book, cleverly titled “Latin Islámica,” which purported to explore the history of Latino Muslims. I ordered it on Amazon despite my better judgment, and upon receiving it, I was disappointed to discover that it was little more than a hastily assembled, AI-generated text, no more than sixty pages long, masquerading as scholarship, devoid of depth, authenticity, or respect for the lived experiences of Latino Muslims.

As someone who has spent years writing, translating, and advocating for my community, I find the trend of thoughtless reporting on Latino Muslims deeply insulting.

Our stories are not commodities to be packaged and sold for profit. They are the lifeblood of our communities, shaped by struggle, sacrifice, and unwavering faith. To see them reduced to superficial summaries or exploited for fame is a painful reminder of the ongoing battle for narrative ownership.

Additionally, Latino Muslims are not a monolith; our journeys to Islam are as diverse as our backgrounds. Even terms like Hispanic and Latino do not fully encompass our diversity. Some of us are converts, others were born into the faith, and many have family histories that span continents and generations. We are from several Caribbean islands and from every nation in North, Central, and South America. We are professionals, educators, community organizers, and scholars. Our contributions to our families, communities, and the broader Muslim ummah are vast and varied.

Historically, Latin America has embraced immigrants from every Muslim-majority country, including our brothers and sisters from Palestine, who could not find refuge in the US. They have been able to settle there, establish successful businesses, and reach some of the highest political positions. Yet, despite our shared history, our stories are overlooked, misunderstood, and/or misrepresented. The mainstream narrative tends to focus on the novelty of Latino Muslim conversion, ignoring the rich histories and ongoing work of those who have been Muslim for decades, or even generations. It fails to recognize how we have navigated cultural, linguistic, and religious boundaries to build vibrant, resilient communities.

Uplifting Latino Muslim Voices

The work of Latino Muslims is not motivated by a desire for recognition, and so many of us are content to stay under the radar. But there is power in preserving history in our own words. If we do not take ownership of nuestra historia, others will do it for us. The time has come for Latino Muslims to reclaim our heritage and assert our rightful place in the tapestry of American Islam. To do so means writing, speaking, and sharing our truth so that future generations, searching for guidance, inspiration, and reassurance, can benefit from it. We must also hold accountable those who seek to appropriate or misrepresent our experiences. Outsiders can research, conduct studies, perform surveys, and even sit at our tables, but they will never fully understand what it is like to live in our shoes, to walk our path, and to experience Islam as we do. It is even more frustrating when someone creates an AI-generated text, slaps a Latino title on it, and claims to have researched Latino Muslims. That is just pure laziness and a disrespect to all of us.

I have been raising my voice since at least 2005. And as time passes and I grow older, perhaps becoming less patient, my voice will become louder and more direct, because it is imperative to recognize those who have been working tirelessly to bring visibility to the Latino Muslim community in the US. I do not claim this work as mine. Many others deserve recognition, including Benjamin Perez, Khadija Rivera, Ibrahim González (may Allah have mercy on them), Juan Galvan, the creators of Banu Saqr, and the founders of Alianza Islámica. Dr. Juan Suquillo, Sheikh Isa Garcia, the Dawah committee at the North Hudson Islamic Education Center, the people at Islam in Spanish, and my contemporaries at the Ojala Foundation, LADO, LALMA, Latina Muslim Foundation, ILMM, and so many more have all contributed to our community’s growth and visibility. We must also remember the countless Latino Muslims who converted in the 1920s and 30s, and those who came before them.

We have to be respectful and mindful of our history. Just because we live in the age of social media and AI does not mean we are the first to do this or that, nor does it make us experts on others’ lived experiences. Our stories are not marketing tools or diversity props. They are sacred narratives shaped by struggle, faith, and resilience, and they deserve to be handled with integrity. As Latino Muslims, we will continue to speak for ourselves and preserve our own history, but we cannot do this work alone. I call on the wider Muslim community to uplift authentic voices, to seek out and cite the work of those who live these realities, and to support initiatives that support and empower our Latino brothers and sisters. Most of all, we must ensure our stories are told accurately and respectfully.

 

Related:

– The Fast and the ¡Fiesta!: How Latino Muslims Celebrate Ramadan

– 25 Things Latino Muslims Want You To Know

 

The post Owning Our Stories: The Importance Of Latino Muslim Narratives appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

By Ibrahim Moiz

Tributes And A Legacy of Defiance

Imam Jamil in his youth, known then as H. Rap Brown

The death in a high-security prison of veteran civil rights activist and community imam Jamil “Rap Brown” Amin has brought forth a tide of grief and tributes from throughout the United States and beyond. A pioneering and influential figure in the 1960s civil rights movement, imam Jamil’s life ended in a quarter-century of imprisonment under hotly contested charges and repeated refusals of appeal that could not staunch his influence as a groundbreaking activist and community leader within and beyond the Muslim and black communities.

Tributes have poured in for an aged activist long seen within his communities as a political prisoner falsely accused of crime and vindictively imprisoned despite a terminal illness. “Unsurprisingly,” remarked activist Zoharah Simmons, “the carceral system was unwilling to show any mercy for Brother Jamil…refusing a compassionate release! They made sure he would spend his last days under federal lock and key. But the State didn’t have the last word. Brother Jamil was bloody but unbowed.”

Outrage, Love, and Community Grief

Kalonji Changa mourned the imam, who “was not only my spiritual leader, he was one of my movement leaders, so I take his death personal. They allowed him to go blind and suffer the ravages of cancer while denying him the basic, life-saving medical care owed to any human being, let alone a political prisoner!”

The imam Omar Suleiman wrote, “For years we fought to free him. Today he is free. From prison to paradise God willing. He never lost his dignity, his voice never shook. His innocence was proven, but the system didn’t care. We cared. We loved. And InshaAllah, we will continue to move forward with his legacy.”

Who was this community leader that has attracted such fierce loyalty and affectionate solidarity? We will proceed to recount the remarkable life of Jamil Hubert Abdullah Amin Brown, who played a notable but largely overlooked role in the history of the United States, its civil rights and minority rights, decolonial struggle, and Western Islam.

Rap Brown

Nicknamed “Rap Brown” for the razor-sharp wit that he frequently used to cutting effect in firestarting condemnations of the American status quo, Jamil Abdullah Amin was born as Hubert Gerold Brown at Baton Rouge in 1943, growing up in Louisiana during the “Jim Crow” heyday. He and his elder brother Ed Brown were involved in activism for the rights of the widely downtrodden black community, reading widely and plunging into student politics.

Brown joined the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, which began sit-ins and protests against racial segregation and discrimination in southern universities. In summer 1963 he witnessed its protests at the Maryland town Cambridge, led by Gloria Richardson, and was convinced that black activists needed to retain the right to fight back against violent intimidation.

Under Surveillance and Pressure

Though Richardson reached an accord to end Cambridge’s official discrimination with attorney-general Robert Kennedy, the brother of American president John Kennedy, civil-rights activism would repeatedly find itself in the cross-hairs of both racial prejudices as well as Cold War paranoia.

Even conciliatory variations of minority activism, such as the trend led by the preacher Martin Luther King, were routinely vilified as communist subversion not only by reactionary bigots but by many politicians and by officials as senior as Edgar Hoover, the sinister doyen of American security who directed his Federal Bureau of Investigation to use what can only be described as secret-police tactics against civil rights leaders. Unapologetically outspoken activists such as “Rap Brown” were a prime target of Hoover’s “Counterintelligence Program”, often called Cointelpro.

This drew a correspondingly sharp response from activists such as Brown; though he had been involved in legal civil-rights actions, such as the registration of black voters, he increasingly reserved the right to respond to violent provocation. Activists such as Brown, Malcolm Little, and Stokely Carmichael were also influenced by the decolonization of Africa and coordinated with liberation movements in African, Muslim, and decolonized, often leftist, countries, whose struggle they saw as linked to their own: in a reflection of this influence, the trio would change their names to, respectively, Jamil Abdullah Amin, Malik Shabazz “X”, and Kwame Ture.

Cold War and Confinement

After Malcolm’s murder, Ture, who led the Nonviolent Committee with Jamil as a major lieutenant, set up the Black Panthers movement, whose grassroots organization and “shadow governmental” structure immediately attracted subversion by Hoover’s agency. Jamil, who succeeded Ture as leader of the Nonviolent Committee, changed its name to “Student National Coordinating Committee” because, he quipped, “violence is as American as cherry pie.”

Indeed, the 1960s were a violent period, with assassinations claiming the lives of not only Malcolm but the Kennedy brothers and King. In this context and against significant intimidation, Jamil saw little need to adopt nonviolence as an inflexible principle. “Black folks built America, and if America don’t come around, we’re going to burn America down.”

This attracted caricatures of firebrand trouble-making; in fact, Jamil proved a thoughtful, disciplined organizer who would nonetheless hold his ground under fire with an often blisteringly sharp tongue. Though open to negotiations, he refused terms set by what he saw as a plainly unjust status quo.

In spring 1965 he joined a delegation that met Kennedy’s successor in the presidency, Lyndon Johnson, and was alarmed at the level of deference shown in what was effectively a negotiation. When Johnson complained that the activists’ nightly demonstrations had disturbed his children’s sleep, Jamil gave his condolences for the inconvenience but added that “Black people in the South had been unable to sleep in peace and security for a hundred years.”

Escalation, Resistance, and the Road to Arrest

Johnson did introduce civil-rights protections, but only at the cost of a militaristic foreign policy whose cauldron was the Vietnam war. For Jamil, who linked the struggle for civil rights to international solidarity against colonial supremacism, this was an unacceptable compromise.

In typically cutting parlance he called Johnson the“the greatest outlaw going” for his militarism abroad: “He fights an illegal war with our brothers and our sons. He sends them to fight against other colored people who are also fighting for their freedom.” This matched the views of the Black Panthers, who attempted to merge organizations and promoted Jamil to their honorary “justice minister”.

Jamil’s call, influenced by decolonial struggles abroad, for urban insurgency against oppression put him on thin ice, and the security establishment soon swooped. In summer 1967 he revisited Cambridge, which had dishonored its end of the 1963 agreement; he was promptly arrested in hotly disputed circumstances for supposedly inciting a riot; police chief Brice Kinnamon claimed to have staunched a “well-planned communist attempt to overthrow the government”, and governor Spiro Agnew alienated most black voters with his insistence that Jamil had been responsible. The case attracted widespread attention and was interrupted when the courthouse was bombed; Jamil went underground for eighteen months before he was sentenced to a five-year imprisonment.

Revolution by the Book

During his five-year imprisonment, Jamil converted to Islam. When he emerged, still only in his mid-thirties, and moved to Atlanta he led a life that belied the propaganda that had depicted him as a reckless troublemaker. In fact, he focused on quiet community building, beginning at the mosque and spreading out through the community, both Muslims and otherwise.

In one of his last interviews, delivered from prison, he quoted the Muslim caliph Umar Farouq ibn Khattab’s statement that Islam depended on community, which depended on leadership, which depended on allegiance and commitment to the roles and guidelines outlined by Allah. Thus a community, the incarcerated and ailing imam took pains to emphasize, depended on commitment to the path set by the Creator.

Jamil lived by his words, and set by personal example a thriving community of black Muslims grew in west Atlanta; Masood Abdul-Haqq, who moved there in autumn 1992, saw “the West End Muslim scene [unfold] like some sort of Black Muslim Utopia. A soulful adhan was the soundtrack to Black children of all ages in kufis and khimars playing with each other on either side of the street. The intersecting streets near the masjid gave way to a large covered basketball court, on which the game in progress had come to a halt due to the number of players who chose to answer the melodic call to prayer.

Overlooking this scene from the bench in front of his convenience store, like a shepherd admiring his flock, was a denim overall and crocheted kufi-clad Imam Jamil. Before I heard him utter a single word, it was obvious to me that I was in the presence of a transcendent leader.”

Building a Model Community and a Revolutionary Ethic

Khalil Abdur-Rashid, who grew up in the same community, noted that Jamil “would retain his devotion to changing the prevailing system and worked to teach his community to cultivate an alternative way of living that is not indicative of token social justice programs. He taught the importance of the five pillars of Islam and revolutionary ‘technologies of the self’ that, when actualized at the communal level, transform the society into a better one.”

Remarkably in a period where neoliberal economics and a burgeoning drug epidemic had ravaged much of the urban United States, the imam took pains to combat such social evils, which he linked to spiritual and material impoverishment. Man was not, he would emphasize, an animal consigned to give in to its appetites, and to surrender to such social evils was both personal and communal harm.

Though privately regretting certain “unseemly” language in earlier work, Jamil never compromised on his belief in communal liberation and emphasized the role of spiritual and personal development in his later writings, tying together personal and political progress for the community in his Revolution by the Book.

He visited these themes again at the funeral of his longstanding comrade Kwame Ture, and influenced his elder brother and longstanding influence Ed to embrace Islam as well. Though he maintained a low profile, he played a major role in leading what was by all accounts a dynamic and profound society; Atlanta mayor John Johnson gave the imam with an honorary police badge as a token of appreciation for his social work.

Confinement in the age of “War on Terror”

Yet with the end of the Cold War and the replacement of communism as a major irritant with “radical Islam”, Jamil once more found himself in the crosshairs of state paranoia. As a well-known Muslim who had collided with the state a quarter-century earlier, he was sporadically questioned whenever an incident of “Muslim terrorism” came up during the 1990s. In spring 1999 he was pulled up for allegedly imprisoning a policeman, simply because he had kept the badge given him by the mayor.

The following spring, two policemen tried to bring him in, did not find him at home, and after leaving were shot, one fatally. The survivor accused Jamil, even though his description of the suspect was wildly different and another individual later confessed. In any case, the accusation was enough to bring Jamil into custody. Capitalizing in large part on the anti-Islamic paranoia that took hold after 2001, the prosecution managed to convict him in spring 2002 and he was put in a high-security prison.

We need not recount at length the story of Jamil’s trial beyond the curiosity that key pieces of evidence were pointedly ignored, as was the confession of another man, and that the authorities, eventually as high as the Supreme Court, refused appeals and even clemency in light of the elderly prisoner’s failing health. The case bore similarities with his imprisonment in the late 1960s: contrived charges that ran rougshod over contrary evidence, coupled with paranoia relating to the alleged threat of the day: communism in the 1960s, “radical Islam” now.

A Passing That Echoes Through History

It is small wonder that supporters considered Jamil a political prisoner deliberately left to perish in a high-security confinement absurd for a sick, dying old man. Changa, who had been introduced to both Islam and revolutionary activism by the imam, was unequivocal: “This was a cold, calculated, STATE-SPONSORED EXECUTION designed in the high offices of the colonial apparatus!” He referred to it as “the assassination of an aging prisoner, carried out not with a noose, but with a waiting list and a bureaucratic denial slip!”, and “the refinement of the colonial terror—using the prison hospital as the final torture chamber for those deemed too dangerous to live in freedom, and too old to survive neglect!”

But he ended on a calmer note: “Imam Jamil al-Amin was a prisoner of conscience until his very last breath. Now, by the mercy of Allah, he is truly free of their chains…Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. To Allah we belong, and to Him we shall return.”

Editors note: MuslimMatters offers our condolences to the Amin family and those who loved Imam Jamil Al-Amin, to his followers in the Dar movement. We learn from his life and commitment to Al Haq. We encourage people to attend his Janazah bi Gha’ib that is being held in several locations.

إِنَّا لِلَّٰهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ

Related:

Book Review of Revolution by the Book by Imam Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin (Formerly known As H Rap Brown)

What Does the Civil Rights Movement Mean For Muslims?

 

The post A Remarkable Life Unbowed: Jamil “Rap Brown” Amin appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

By Robert S. McCaw, Director of Government Affairs Department, Council on American-Islamic Relations

Arriving, Gathering, and the First Sparks of Debate

Like the rest of the nation, many Muslims celebrate Thanksgiving. Walk into any Muslim home on Thursday and you will see a familiar scene. A salaam and a hug at the door. Shoes off without even thinking about it. Kids racing between cousins they have not seen since Eid. A loud chorus of “Bismillah” before anyone touches the turkey. And even though everyone says they will avoid politics at the table, anyone who has ever attended a Muslim Thanksgiving knows that this promise will not survive the first twenty minutes.

The first debate will start right away. Someone will ask whether Thanksgiving is a harmless non secular family tradition or a broken promise wrapped in myth. Others will say it is a reminder of colonialism and the violence that built this country. Someone will draw a straight line from that history to modern examples of European and Western colonial projects, with Israel cited as a living case study of land theft and domination.

At the same table others will note that the American Muslim community is incredibly diverse. Many Muslims are reverts. Many come from mixed families. This author has celebrated Thanksgiving in years past with Christian and Jewish relatives. Sometimes Thanksgiving simply means bringing the Muslim branch of the family tree to a relative’s home where someone was kind enough to buy a halal or kosher turkey. And yes, Muslims can eat kosher too.

Victories, Representation, and Shifting Political Winds

After that opening round, everyone will pivot to the cheerful political news. Someone will ask, “Did you hear about Mamdani winning and that meeting at the White House with Trump?” Another uncle will jump in with a full plate, “Speaking of which, did you hear about the local Muslim who just won their race?” Then the whole table will start comparing stories about the more than forty Muslims elected across the country in 2025, backed by exit polls showing Muslim voters turning out in force.

The tone will eventually shift. Adults will talk about the rising hateful rhetoric coming out of Congress and from governors in places like Texas and Florida. Everyone knows why this is happening. As Israel’s genocide of innocent Palestinians drives global outrage and as public opinion shifts, the distraction playbook is obvious. The same people cheering the killing of Muslims are now pretending Muslims are the threat. Around the table the shared response will be steady. We will persist.

Family Drama, Familiar Lines

Then it will be time for family politics. Someone will whisper, “So is he or she finally getting married” and the cousin in question will immediately escape to the basement to play video games with the younger cousins until dessert appears. An auntie will insist it is time for someone to settle down. Someone else will insist they are too busy focusing on school or career. Everyone knows their lines.

Midterms, Mobilization, and What Comes Next

By the end of the night the conversation will shift to the midterms. The table will become an unofficial strategy session. Who is vulnerable. Which districts could flip. Where Muslim voters can make a difference. How Gaza will shape the national political climate. And who is actually going to volunteer for phone banking once the primaries begin.

This is Muslim Thanksgiving in 2025. Faith. Food. Family. Arguments about history. Arguments about the future. And political conversations everyone pretends they are not having but absolutely will. After the final Alhamdulillah and the last slice of pie, families will leave with one reminder. Even in a year filled with grief and injustice, our communities are still showing up, still building strength, and still refusing to be silent.

That is the real tradition.

Related:

Recognizing The Indigenous Crisis This Thanksgiving

Muslims, the Turkey, & the Thanksgiving Day Question

The post Op-Ed: What Muslims Will Really Be Talking About Over the Halal Turkey This Thanksgiving appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

For the last two years, the world witnessed horrific tragedies in Gaza. Painful images and stories emerged as innocent people were displaced, bombed, maimed, raped, starved, and killed. Many of those affected were women and children, and although a formal ceasefire was recently established, there are still frequent reports of bombs continuing to drop.

For the besieged Palestinians and much of the world, the ceasefire was a small sigh of momentary relief, a temporary respite from the daily destruction. And yet, the difficulties have not ceased; by all accounts, they are still continuing as we ask how the Palestinian people can even begin to rebuild all that they have lost. 

Here at home, a sense of helplessness sometimes haunts us as we watch such unspeakable suffering. But we are not helpless, and there are simple but powerful things we can do right here in our communities to show our support.

On November 29th, the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People will be globally observed. This day, established in 1977 by the United Nations General Assembly, commemorates the adoption of the United Nations Partition Plan (UN Resolution 181) on November 29, 1947, to advocate for the establishment of a two-state solution and for the Palestinians’ right to return to their homes. We can show our solidarity and support for our brothers and sisters on this day and even during the entire month of November. Here are some suggestions of what we can do:

1. Fly a Palestinian flag at every home and/or organization to show support for Gaza and Palestine. Another option is to wear a Palestinian flag pin on your lapel, jacket, hijab, bag, etc. 
2. Organizations and allies of the Palestinian people can screen documentaries/films on the oppression and systematic genocide that occurred, and in some cases, is still occurring in Gaza and in Palestine (a suggested list is included). Have multiple showings if possible.
3. Host talks and discussions on the situation in Gaza.
4. Wear Palestinian pins, bracelets, colors, and or the kaffiyeh during the month of November in support and remembrance of the Palestinian people and their fight for survival.
5. Take consistent and regular action, letting your elected officials know that you expect them to uphold justice for the Palestinian people (through phone calls, letters, emails, visits, etc.).
6. On Nov 29th, encourage fasting and extra prayers in solidarity with the Palestinian people (prayer is one of the most powerful things we can do).
7. Continue activism (in any form that works for you [eg, fasting, prayers, contacting elected officials, supporting the BDS movement, hosting talks, wearing Palestinian colors/kaffiyeh, etc.]) to protest the ongoing occupation and brutal genocide. Continue until the Palestinian people are free.

The following list of films, documentaries, and videos all showcase powerful stories of the Palestinian people. Their voices carry through loud and clear, asking us to hear what they are trying to share. Many of these films have won multiple awards and accolades:

1. • Gaza: Journalists Under Fire (www.bravenewfilms.org)
   • The Voice of Hind Rajab (official trailer on YouTube)*
   • Put Your Soul on Your Hand and Walk (official trailer on YouTube. In theaters Nov 5)
   • Starving Gaza (Al Jazeera)
   • This is Gaza: Witnessing the Israel-Hamas war (YouTube, Channel4.com)
   • It’s Bisan from Gaza, and I’m still Alive (YouTube)
   • The Night Won’t End: Biden’s War on Gaza (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Israel’s Reel Extremism (www.Zeteo.com, YouTube)
   • In Reel Life: Hidden War
   • 3000 Nights (Netflix)
   • Resistance, Why? (YouTube, Vimeo.com)
   • Ma’loul Celebrates its Destruction (Justwatch.com)
   • 5 Broken Cameras (Apple TV) 
   • The Wanted 18 (Amazon Prime, Justwatch.com)
   • Aida Returns
   • Farha (Netflix)
   • Ghost Hunting
   • Naila and the Uprising
   • Little Palestine, Diary of a Siege
   • Eleven Days in May (Al Jazeera)
   • Al-Nakba: The Palestinian Catastrophe (YouTube, Al Jazeera) 
   • The War in June 1967 (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • The War in October: What Happened in 1973? (YouTube, Al Jazeera)
   • The Price of Oslo (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Jerusalem: Dividing Al-Aqsa (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Palestine 1920: The Other Side of the Palestinian Story (Al Jazeera)
   • Gaza, Sinai, and the Wall (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Israel’s Automated Occupation: Hebron (Al Jazeera, YouTube
   • Weaponising Water in Palestine (Al Jazeera, YouTube)
   • Rebel Architecture: The Architecture of Violence (Al Jazeera)
   • No Other Land (2025 Academy Award Winner! On Amazon, Apple TV, etc.)

This is only a partial list. There are many other films also documenting the plight of the Palestinian people. Please support these brave filmmakers as they share their stories. Together, we can show our solidarity with Palestine. This genocide is one that the whole world is watching in real time, and it is incumbent upon all of us to uphold justice in the face of such atrocities. There is much truth in the old adage “Together we stand, divided we fall”. Let us stand firm and united for Palestine. 

[*The film received a record-breaking 24-minute standing ovation after its world premiere at the Venice Film Festival and won the Grand Jury Prize. Release date TBA. No USA distributor as of the date of this printing.]

 

Related:

– Watch, Learn, And Speak Out: Films And Documentaries About Palestine Made Available Online For Free

– From Algeria to Palestine: Commemorating Eighty Years Of Resistance And International Solidarity

The post November 29 Is The International Day Of Solidarity With The Palestinian People – What Will You Do? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

From Muhammad Ali to Malcolm X to Zohran Mamdani, the deliberate distortion of Muslim names reveals how Islamophobia and power intersect to deny identity and belonging.

By Shaik Zakeer Hussain

Misnaming as a Tool of Power

Zohran Mamdani

Zohran Mamdani’s historic victory in the New York City mayoral election has been hailed as a triumph against staggering odds, a beacon of hope for marginalised communities across the United States. Winning this high-profile race amid fierce opposition, including attempts by wealthy billionaires to undermine his campaign, Mamdani’s success represents more than an electoral win; it is a challenge to entrenched political powers resistant to change.

Yet, throughout his campaign and into his leadership, Mamdani’s Muslim identity and very name became targets of calculated mockery and discrediting.

Powerful figures such as Andrew Cuomo and Elon Musk repeatedly mispronounced or deliberately distorted Mamdani’s name, not out of ignorance but as an act of strategic dismissal. Cuomo, at times, mispronounced Mamdani’s name to undermine his legitimacy, while Musk went further by mocking him on social media. On 4 November, Musk tweeted: “Remember to vote tomorrow in New York! Bear in mind that a vote for Curtis is really a vote for Mumdumi or whatever his name is,” publicly ridiculing the Democratic nominee’s name while endorsing Cuomo.

A History of Refusal: Ali and Malcolm X

Muhammad Ali

Mamdani is far from the first to face such dehumanising tactics. Decades ago, Muhammad Ali, born Cassius Clay, famously changed his name after converting to Islam, a profound declaration of religious and cultural identity. Yet, for years, many refused to call him Muhammad Ali, clinging to his “slave name” as a means of control and erasure. Ali confronted this head-on, demanding, “Say my name!” and turned the act of name recognition into a powerful assertion of dignity and resistance.

Similarly, Malcolm X’s journey was deeply shaped by Islamophobia entwined with racism. By replacing his “slave name” with an “X” to symbolise the loss of his African heritage, Malcolm directly challenged systemic racism and the social order. This provoked relentless refusal and mockery from those unwilling to grant him full recognition. The experiences of both Ali and Malcolm X reveal how misnaming and name refusal function as tools to reinforce power hierarchies by denying agency and respect to those who challenge dominant cultural narratives.

The Social and Psychological Weight of Misnaming

A common thread runs through these practices: the refusal or mockery of names enforces social power by denying identity and belonging. It exerts control over who is accepted within the social fabric. Sociologists and psychologists describe this as a form of social exclusion and symbolic violence, where names, integral to personal and collective identity, are rejected to marginalise individuals. Misnaming erodes belonging, damages self-esteem, and signals disrespect, fostering alienation and psychological harm.

Leading scholars such as Derald Wing Sue, an expert on microaggressions, have articulated this phenomenon clearly. Sue explains, “Misnaming and mispronouncing intentionally or habitually can be a form of microaggression, an act that communicates dismissiveness or a lack of respect, reinforcing social hierarchies that marginalise certain groups.”

This underscores that misnaming is not merely a matter of pronunciation but an expression of social power, enabling dominant groups to assert control through symbolic acts of disrespect that erode a person’s sense of identity and belonging.
Islamophobia is not incidental but central to the repeated targeting of Muslim identities, shaping how figures like Ali, Malcolm X, and Mamdani are perceived and attacked.

Beyond Symbolic Victories

So, does Mamdani’s victory signal a meaningful shift in this pattern? His success inspires hope and demonstrates the potential for political transformation, but it does not immediately dismantle the deeply ingrained Islamophobia and exclusionary behaviours that persist. Islamophobia remains a pervasive social current that electoral achievements alone cannot eliminate. Ali, despite becoming a cultural icon, never escaped attacks on his religious identity, illustrating that recognition in one sphere does not guarantee acceptance in all.

This ongoing pattern highlights how systemic power structures selectively embrace individuals for what benefits or entertains the dominant culture, while continuing to marginalise aspects of their identity that challenge prevailing norms or threaten existing hierarchies. Muhammad Ali’s religious convictions and  political stances faced sustained targeting despite his fame. In Mamdani’s case, his political identity challenges entrenched power dynamics, provoking similar resistance, particularly from those invested in maintaining the status quo.

From Muhammad Ali to Malcolm X, and now Zohran Mamdani, the lesson is clear: cultural acceptance and political success do not automatically translate into full social inclusion or an end to identity-based discrimination.

About the Author

Shaik Zakeer Hussain

Shaik Zakeer Hussain is a journalist based in Bangalore, India. He is the founder and editor of Barakah Insider.

He can be reached on X at: Zaknetic

Related:

Reclaiming Malcolm X’s Legacy

God’s Plan and Muhammad Ali – Imam Zaid Shakir

 

The post “Say My Name”: Why Muslim Names Remain Battlegrounds — From Muhammad Ali to Zohran Mamdani appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Carried along by the river, on the edge of death, Deek relives a terrible moment from his past – even as rescuers search for him desperately.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28| Part 29

* * *

“So I swam, striving for the shore, and the great wave carried me on.”
— Homer, The Odyssey

Leaking Light and Heat

Deek was as helpless as a leaf, pushed along by the frigid, fast-paced current. He was on the verge of drowning, but had not yet given up. At times, he sank beneath the surface, but always he kicked up again, pawing at the water, craning his head to suck in a lungful of life-saving air. He’d swallowed a lot of water already, and the brackish taste was thick in his throat.

At times, he didn’t know why he kept fighting. Why not surrender to the hungry, sucking river, and let himself be taken away to a place where, whatever his life might be, it would not consist of lonely hotel rooms and lost friendships? He could not feel his extremities. He felt as if his hands and feet had been severed, and his life’s energy was flowing out of the stumps, flowing into the river’s black current.

At other moments, he remembered what Rania had said to him that night in the car, parked outside the hospital:

“If my love for you on our wedding day was hot and passionate, then it is a still burning flame, as powerful as ever. I’m trying to hold on to you, but it’s like holding on to an electric eel. You have to do your part as well.”

She was right, he was an eel, because didn’t eels live in the water? And here he was, dying in water just as he’d been born from it. She was right as well that he had not done his part. If he survived this, he would do his part and more; he would.

Lion of Love

He could not die letting his beloved wife think that he did not love her and want her. He could not die without apologizing to her for his intransigence, stubbornness, and lack of gratitude. So he kept his mouth shut like a spaceship’s air lock, lips pressed tightly together in spite of the burning in his lungs, because he knew that if he were to open it and take that icy water into his lungs, he would be finished. His life belonged to Allah, and Allah would take it or spare it as He willed, but in the meantime, Deek would fight like a cornered lion. In his waking dream, Rabiah al-Adawiyyah had called him Lion of Love, and so he would be.

He’d once seen a video of a lion in Africa being hunted by a man with a rifle and his team. They pursued the lion into the bush, fanning out and beating the bushes. There came a point, however, when the lion had had enough, and decided to make a final stand. He came charging out of the bush, running straight for the hunter, ignoring the beaters and support crew. SubhanAllah! The lion knew exactly who his enemy was. The hunter dropped to one knee, aimed, and shot the lion in the head when it was almost atop him, and the lion tumbled to the side.

Deek despised that hunter, but he lauded the lion for his immense courage and fierce will to live. The lion was all who suffered under the leaden weight of oppression, yet refused to surrender. The lion was the indigenous peoples of the world, the Tibetans, Uighurs, Palestinians, Rohingya… It was Deek himself, and he would not die until he could see Rania one last time.

The river spun him in circles. His wet clothes threatened to drag him into the depths. He struck a man-sized chunk of floating wood, and a sharp edge cut his shoulder. He tried grabbing onto it, but it bobbed away on the current.

Lost Lake

Sanaya struggled through the thick undergrowth along the bank, trying to keep up with Amira. She could hear her younger sister up ahead, calling out for Baba again and again. Every few seconds, her eyes shot to the river and she scanned it, looking for any sign of her father. The water was terrifying. Sanaya had never learned to swim. She had a rich friend, a Muslim girl named Halima, who lived in a mansion with an indoor pool. Halima occasionally threw girls-only pool parties. Sanaya would splash around in the shallow end, but even that made her anxious.

Suddenly, the heavy underbrush disappeared, and she found herself standing on a stretch of evenly cut grass. There were trees and picnic tables. She recognized this place. It was Lost Lake Park. A misnomer, since it was not a lake at all, but a riverside park. Some of the Muslims would hold Eid picnics here. Amira stood on one of the tables, screaming Baba’s name at the top of her lungs.

“Why are we stopping here?” Sanaya asked.

Amira looked down at her. There were tears in the younger girl’s eyes. “I don’t know. I just feel like we should.”

Teeth clenched, Sanaya tried calling her mother again. The call went to voicemail. Then again – same result.

Driving Blind

Rania drove madly up the mountain, now and then glancing at the GPS on her dash-mounted phone. Her back hurt badly, and every turn of the dark, winding road seemed to make it worse. On one curve, the car fishtailed and would have gone over the cliff, except that the rear of the car slammed into a pine tree that grew right on the edge. Rania’s head rocked to the side and hit the window. Needles and pinecones rained down on the car. She moaned, dazed. Her head ached badly, and her vision was hazy. She knew she was concussed.

Her phone had popped out of the mount. She found it on the floor. The screen was cracked, and it was dead. No matter – she had an image of the map in her mind. She pressed the gas to resume the mad dash, but the car had died. She turned the key again and pressed the pedal, and the engine turned over, making a noise like a frog chanting, “raka raka raka,” yet did not start. Pausing for a long breath, she tried to calm herself. She whispered, “Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem,” then turned the key, and the car started! She was off like a shot, tires squealing in protest.

“Hold on, Deek,” she said out loud. “Wherever you are, I will find you.” Her vision was still gray around the edges, and it was suffocatingly dark out here. She had no map and drove blind, only halfway sure she was going the right way. But when a sudden turn appeared on the left, heading steeply downhill, she hit the brakes and took it. It was not the route that she remembered from the map, but somehow it felt right. It was an old, thinly paved road with cracks and extrusions where tree roots had pushed up the pavement. The car bounced and shook, and Rania feared it might come apart.

Hanging

Deek could not fight the river. His spirit was willing, but his body was a drained husk. He whispered a prayer in his mind, asking Allah to forgive him, and to welcome him home. Just as he stopped kicking his feet and let his arms fall limply to his side, he seemed to hear his name being called. It was impossible, of course. No one would know to look for him here, and he wouldn’t be able to hear them anyway, out here in the middle of the river.

Yet he heard it, and in response, he thrust his arm up out of the water. Impossibly, his hand struck something, and he willed his frozen fingers to clamp shut. With his last molecule of strength, he pulled himself up.

He had grasped a slender, low-hanging tree branch that hung far out over the river. He wrapped his other arm over it, catching the branch in the crook of his elbow. Looking around wearily, almost hopelessly, he saw nothing, for the night was as dark as despair. He knew he didn’t have the strength to hold on for more than a few seconds, so with one hand he undid his belt, pulled it free, and used it to lash his arm to the tree branch. He pulled the belt tight and notched it. With this, exhaustion overcame him, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

A Risky Plan

“There!” Amira jumped up and down on the table, pointing. “It’s Baba, there, there, there!”

Sanaya peered but could see nothing. A dark shape hung over the river on the other side, maybe ten feet from the far shore. “I think that’s a tree branch.”

“I know that. He’s hanging from the tree branch!”

Amira leaped down, pulled off her shoes and socks, then began to take off her jacket.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to rescue him!”

Sanaya seized her sister’s arm. “You don’t know how to swim. Neither of us do. Even if that’s him out there, you’ll only drown yourself.”

Amira struggled, trying to pull her arm away. “Let me go!” Sanaya bear-hugged her, and the two of them fell into the grass, struggling.

Amira went limp. “Fine! You win. What’s your plan, then?”

Sanaya stood and called emergency services, updating them. She got off the phone to see Amira hanging on a long tree branch, jumping up and down to break it off. With a loud crack, it snapped, and Amira screamed as the branch fell atop her.

“What’s this, then?” Sanaya demanded as Amira stood, rubbing a fresh bruise on her forehead.

“You hold one end, I’ll hold the other and wade out into the river.”

Sanaya considered. It was a ridiculous plan, but Amira was right; they had to do something. But she wasn’t going to let Amira enter the water. “You hold one end, and I will wade out.”

Sanaya shucked her father’s heavy jacket, but kept her shoes on. She gasped when the icy water swirled around her legs. “It’s freezing!”

“Then get him out!”

Holding on to the end of the branch, with Amira at the edge of the shore, Sanaya was still far from the center of the river, let alone the far side where her father hung. The water was up to her hips. Letting go of the branch for a moment, she braced herself against the current, removed her hijab, spun it into a rope, and tied one end to the end of the branch. Gripping the other end gave her about another three feet, and she waded out a bit more, hoping the cloth would not tear.

It was hopeless. The water was up to her belly button now, and pulled at her strongly. She was terrified. Her teeth chattered, and her heart pounded in her chest like a ship’s cannon. Suddenly, there was a bit of give to the hijab, and she waved her arms, floundering. Looking back, panicked, she saw that Amira had waded out into the water. She was trying to help Sanaya reach Baba, but it was impossible; he was too far away.

“No!” Sanaya screamed. “Go back!”

Crash

Rounding a sharp, downhill curve, the road opened up into a straight stretch, and Rania saw a long stretch of parkland stretched out along the river. She knew this place. She’d been here for a few Eid picnics. Lost Park, or something like that.

She barrelled into the parking lot too fast, and jammed her foot on the brake pedal, but it was too late. The car hit the curb and bounced. Rania lost control of the wheel, and before she could react, the car slammed into a tree. Rania flinched, turning aside just as the air bag deployed, bashing one side of her face.

Struggling out from behind the air bag, Rania ran toward the river. She saw the scene at a glance: her daughters were in the water! She dashed into the freezing water, seized Amira around the waist, and began dragging her back to the shore.

Cold and Shock

Sanaya had given up on this plan. Fear made her movements jerky as she struggled back toward the shore, even as Amira was wading in deeper. She was startled by a tremendous crashing sound, and saw that a car had crashed into a tree a short way away in the park. Its front end was smashed in, one headlight still shining. Wait… was that Mom’s car?

Astonished, she watched as Mom struggled out of the car and then sprinted toward them. When Mom began to drag Amira out, Sanaya held tightly to the hijab as it went tight. Amira was pulled out of the water, and she followed. Alhamdulillah, she thought. Alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah.

Back on the shore, she lay panting and shaking with cold and shock. Amira was on her feet, talking and pointing.

“Mom,” Sanaya gasped. “Your face!”

“The air bag.”

As her mother began to remove her clothing, Sanaya realized what she meant to do. She sat up. “Mom! What about your back? Can you swim?”

No Pain

“I’ll be fine”, she said. “I can swim better than you can imagine. Listen to me. You two stay out of the water! I will bring your father back, by the will of Allah. Sanaya, get out of those wet clothes. There’s an emergency blanket in the back of the car; use that.”

As she said these words, she stripped to her underwear, knowing that wet clothing would drag her down. Then she dashed into the water. It was very cold. She’d spent countless afternoons swimming in the Tigris, but that river was much warmer than this one.

She hit the water running. The river’s cold was a living thing, slamming into her chest, stealing her breath for a heartbeat. Her skin recoiled, but her mind did not. She had no space inside her for hesitation or fear. Once the water was up to her waist, she dove in, her body knifing through the surface, and began stroking strongly toward Deek.

She realized for the first time that her back was as free of pain as when she was a child. For weeks, pain had been her constant shadow–every step, every twist, every attempt to work or sleep. Now there was nothing. Her head still throbbed fiercely from the car crash. Her vision pulsed with gray at the edges. But her spine felt straight and strong.

As she hit the center of the river, the current threatened to snatch her away. Rather than waste energy trying to fight it, she let it wash her downstream as she continued to cut across the river. Once she’d cleared the center, she reoriented on Deek. Four breaststrokes, then a breath. She cupped her hands to pull at the water more effectively and kicked hard the whole time.

She saw now that Deek had lashed himself to the branch and hung, either unconscious or dead. Even as she watched, however, the notch on the belt slipped free, and her husband slipped underwater and disappeared. He was gone.

River of Memory

As Deek’s body drifted in the icy river, slipping deeper and deeper down into the blackness, his last thought was of the day they rescued his uncle.

The memory rose out of the darkness like a lantern rising from the sea.

He was nine years old again, sitting cross-legged on the cool tile floor of their Baghdad apartment, a battered wooden checkers board between him and Lubna. She was only four, pudgy-cheeked and bossy. She slapped one of her black pieces onto a red square and said, “Shaikh mat,” though it was the wrong game entirely. Deek tried not to smile.

Their grandmother moved about the kitchen humming an old love song from her youth, something about jasmine and moonlight. The smell of frying eggplant and tomatoes filled the house. Outside, the neighborhood kids were playing football in the alley, their shouts drifting through the open balcony door. It was evening, a warm spring night, and everything was ordinary.

Then the front door slammed.

Ammu Khalid, the eldest brother in the family, stomped in, still in his police uniform, his face tight and angry. He tossed his cap on the couch so hard it bounced to the floor. Behind him came Ammu Tarek, his father’s younger brother, nineteen years old, slender, bright-eyed, wearing the same denim jacket he always wore when he went “out for a walk”—which everyone knew meant plastering pro-democracy, anti-government flyers on electrical poles after midnight. Their father, Uthman, followed quietly, closing the door gently as if trying to balance out the force of his brothers.

The argument began even before the table was set.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Khalid snapped, pulling off his boots and rubbing his temples. “And not only yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Tarek shot back. “Loving your country is not wrong.”

“Loving your country is not the same as making yourself a martyr.”

“Someone has to tell the truth!”

“And what about the rest of us?” Khalid snapped. “What about my job?”

“Your job,” Tarek sneered. “Working for Saddam the Butcher. Abu Ghraib is full of ghosts because of him.”

“Keep your voice down! I know all this.”

Grandmother shushed them sharply, setting plates of food on the low dining cloth, but the shush only slowed them for a heartbeat. Soon they were yelling again, Tarek accusing Khalid of cowardice, Khalid accusing Tarek of recklessness.

Baba sat at the edge of the cloth, folding bread into neat triangles. He did not look at either brother, only murmured, “Come, come, enough. Sit and eat. No good ever comes from shouting.”

But they didn’t stop. The fight felt larger than them—like the entire country had cracked down the middle, and the fissure ran straight through the Saghir family.

Deek didn’t understand most of it. In school, he was taught that Saddam was the protector of Iraq, the hero of the Iran War. Posters of the President hung in every classroom. But he’d heard whispers, too—men lowering their voices when certain names were spoken, neighbors who vanished without explanation.

To Deek, all of that felt distant and confusing. What he understood was checkers, drawing, and his father’s gentle voice reciting Quran. And Lubna sticking her tongue out whenever she lost.

He moved a piece on the board. “Your turn,” he whispered.

Lubna didn’t move. She was staring at the adults, her lower lip trembling with confusion and fear.

He leaned close and whispered, “It’s okay. They always fight.”

But that night felt different. Even as a child, he sensed it.

Ammu Tarek stormed out after dinner. Uthman sighed, rubbing his beard. Khalid sat with his face in his hands, his untouched food growing cold.

Rania in the Dark

Rania angled her trajectory to compensate for the current. Her legs kicked hard, arms pulling in long, practiced strokes. The old muscle memory came back as if it had been waiting just beneath her skin. The Tigris had taught her this when she was a girl, spending entire summer afternoons in the water while her cousins shrieked and splashed nearby.

“Deek!” she shouted, but the word broke apart on water.

She saw him then, a dark shape rolling in the current, being dragged inexorably toward a bend in the river. He bobbed once, then vanished.

“No,” she gasped, and drove herself forward, kicking harder. She stopped fighting the current and let it carry her toward her husband. When she reached the spot where she estimated Deek should be, she whispered, “Bismillah,” and dove.

The river was inky black. She could see absolutely nothing. She spread her arms out wide, moving them about. Lungs burning, she surfaced, took a breath, dove again, then repeated the process a third time.

Her fingers brushed cloth. She reached, missed, reached again.

This time her hand slid across his shoulder, then under his arm. She clamped her arm tight on his, and pushed for the surface, kicking for all her life. Breaking the surface, she took great, heaving breaths, then adjusted her position relative to Deek, hooking her forearm across his chest from behind to keep his face above water, just as she’d once seen a lifeguard do in Mosul. His head lolled back against her shoulder, his face gray and slack, eyes closed. She did not know if he was breathing or not, and could not check.

“I’ve got you,” she panted, though he could not hear her. “Wallahi, I’ve got you. You are not getting away this time.”

She rolled onto her side, his weight against her, and began to kick with everything she had, using her free arm to scull and pull. The current fought her for every inch, snatching at them both like greedy fingers.

She set her jaw and kicked harder.

Her vision narrowed to a tunnel: a patch of darker shadow that was the far bank, the dim blur of trees, the pull in her shoulder, the weight of her husband’s body. She could hear Amira screaming, Sanaya shouting something, their voices thin across the rushing water.

She did not answer. All her breath was for swimming.

“Just a little more, Deek,” she told him, though his body did not respond. “Do you remember what I told you? I love you because you never give up. You’re my great Iraqi prince.” She gasped these words using breath she could not spare. But Deek needed to hear it.

Kidnapped

Nine-year-old Deek was awakened deep in the night by pounding fists on the door and the roar of motors outside. He sat up, heart hammering. Lubna cried out in the dark.

Their grandmother ran past the bedroom door yelling, “Wake up! Wake up!”

Uniformed men burst into the house with flashlights and boots. They dragged Ammu Tarek out of bed, tied his hands, hooded him, and shoved him into a transport truck. Their grandmother screamed until her voice cracked. Their father did not move, did not speak—his face was carved from stone.

When the police trucks finally roared away, grandmother fumbled for the phone with shaking hands. She called Khalid.

He arrived before dawn, pale and grim. There was no argument this time, no shouting. Only orders.

“Pack. All of you. One suitcase each. Hurry.”

“What will they do to him?” grandmother demanded.

Khalid’s jaw worked, but no words came.

Then he turned to Baba. “Uthman… I need you. Come with me.”

Deek felt his breath catch. Fear surged through him like electricity. He couldn’t lose his father. He couldn’t.

So he did the only thing he could do. While Khalid and Uthman loaded into the covered jeep, Deek crept out, slipped behind them, and curled up on the floor behind the back seat, pulling a dirty blanket over himself. The engine vibrated through his bones as they drove.

Ambush

They left the city and entered an area of heavy forest by the Euphrates. Khalid unlocked a chained gate with a key that glinted in the headlights. He drove off the road, between trees, until the jeep was swallowed by darkness.

Then came the sound of metal: a rifle being checked and loaded.

Deek peeked from beneath the canvas. Khalid handed their father a pistol.

“I know you’ve never used one,” he said hoarsely. “But tonight you might have to.”

Baba nodded once, though his hands trembled.

Deek followed them on bare feet, shivering in the cold, hiding behind shrubs. His teeth chattered loudly enough that he feared they would hear him.

Just after dawn, a police truck rumbled down the road and through the gate.

Three policemen got out. They opened the back and hauled five hooded men onto the dirt. Even from a distance, Deek recognized the way one of the prisoners stood—a wide stance, the familiar denim jacket, the rangy frame. It was Ammu Tarek.

Deek’s breath hitched. He bit his knuckle to stop the cry rising in his throat.

The policemen forced the prisoners to their knees by the riverbank. Rifles lifted.

At that instant, Khalid stood, shouting something wordless and furious, and opened fire. Baba stood beside him, hands shaking but steady enough as he fired the pistol. Two policemen fell, and one fled into the trees. But not before he fired a wild burst at the prisoners.

Deek saw it in slow motion: One prisoner dropping forward with a ruined skull. Another tumbling backward into the water, and Tarek toppling into the river like a sack of sand.

The other two prisoners tore off their hoods and ran into the forest.

“Get Tarek!” Khalid yelled. Then he ran after the last policeman.

Rescue

Baba sprinted to the river, dove in without hesitation. The water was a heaving brown rush, cold and fast. Deek watched his father surface gasping, dive again, surface, dive again. Each time he came up, his face was more frantic.

Little Deek couldn’t stay hidden. Terror propelled him. He ran down the bank, stumbled into the water.

“Baba!”

His feet sank into cold mud. The water was frigid, pulling at his legs like living hands. The current smelled of silt and diesel, and something metallic.

He couldn’t swim well. But he went anyway.

His father surfaced, choking, dragging Tarek’s limp body by the collar. The current yanked Baba sideways, threatening to twist him under.

Then he saw his son, and his face went white.

“Deek! Get back!”

But Deek didn’t. He splashed toward him, arm outstretched, crying, “Baba!”

Baba reached him, grabbed his wrist, and together—fighting the current, slipping in the mud—they dragged Tarek to the bank. Uthman collapsed beside his brother, applying pressure to the wound in his back as blood pooled darkly beneath them.

Escape

Ammu Khalid returned, muddy and panting, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Into the jeep!” he barked.

They laid Tarek across the back seat. Baba climbed in beside him, pressing the wound with both hands. Deek pressed himself into the corner, soaked and freezing, watching his father’s hands turn red.

Khalid drove like a man possessed, through back alleys and farm roads, until they reached a modest home on the edge of town. A dissident leader—a nurse by trade—opened the door, looking terrified. Once he saw Tarek, however, he ushered them inside.

They left him there, not knowing whether he would live or die.

They returned home only long enough to collect their other family members.

That night, hidden behind a false wall in the back of a panel truck, Deek listened to his sister sobbing, to his grandmother whispering prayers, to his mother’s silence. He did not understand everything, but he understood one thing: they were leaving Iraq forever.

Weeks later, they learned that Ammu Tarek had survived and had been smuggled to Turkey. And that Ammu Khalid was dead. The adults told the children it was a car accident.

Years later, Baba told Deek the truth, that Khalid had committed suicide. For a long time, Deek believed that Khalid must have done it out of shame that he betrayed his leader and his colleagues. Or perhaps he knew he might be suspected as the culprit and did not want to be tortured.

It was only in recent years, when the memory came to Deek one day as he was bathing, did it occur to him that Khalid had known where the prisoners would be taken. Which meant that he himself had executed men in just this way. Maybe the shame and guilt of his own deeds finally overcame him. Only Allah knew.

River of Echoes

Now, reliving all of this in his dying moments, Deek’s reality blurred, and he began to think that he was Ammu Tarek. He had been bound, hooded and shot, and thrown in the river, and now here he was, drowning. The cold stole the air from his lungs. The hood clung to his face. Water filled his ears. The river tumbled him end over end.

Hands seized him from behind. Strong hands, gripping his arm, dragging him upward. Then earth beneath him. He was being dragged. Voices shouting, “Deek!” and “Baba!” This confused him. Who was he, really? Was he in Iraq, or somewhere else?

It didn’t matter. He felt himself being drawn away again, but not through water this time. Rather, he was being pulled away from his own body, from the world, from this confusing and lonely existence. He could not decide if this was good or bad.

Dead

As Rania neared the shore, towing Deek behind her, the girls ran into the water and pulled her and Deek out. Rania’s breath heaved in her chest, and her arms and legs felt like spaghetti noodles, devoid of all strength. She let the girls do the bulk of the work as the three of them worked together to have Deek up the bank and onto the grass, where they laid him out on his back.

Quickly, professionally, Rania checked Deek’s vitals. Her hands trembled, but she had done this thousands of times. Deek’s eyes were open, and his body was very cold. He had no pulse, and was not breathing. He was dead.

“No,” she whispered. “You are not dead.” She knew that very cold water could preserve brain function for a long time. She would revive him by the will of Allah.

Rania tilted his head back, swept his mouth clean with her fingers, sealed her lips over his, and gave him five long rescue breaths—slow, steady, forcing the air in, watching his chest for any lift. On the third breath, a small bubble of foam escaped his lips. She wiped it and continued, switching to chest compressions. The girls were weeping beside her, Sanaya hugging Amira tightly, sharing the silvery emergency blanket with her sister.

“Back up,” she told the girls, breathless but firm. “Don’t distract me.” This moment was everything. She placed her hands on his sternum and began pushing. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…

Her elbows locked. Her shoulders burned. Deek’s body gave no response at all.

“Mom!” Amira cried behind her. “Listen—sirens!”

Rania ignored her. Her world consisted of her hands against her husband’s cold chest.

“Come back to me,” she said through clenched teeth. “A burning flame, remember? That’s what you and I have, that’s what we are. A burning flame of love. You never give up, you’re crazy like that. It’s not in your nature to give up. Deek. IT’S NOT IN YOUR NATURE.”

Thirty compressions. She leaned down, gave him two more breaths. More water dribbled from the corner of his mouth, but still no chest movement of his own.

She did another cycle. And another. Her arms were shaking uncontrollably. Her vision pulsed with pain from the concussion. She was about to call Sanaya to come and take over. Rania could coach her, tell her what to do. She could hear the sirens now, loud.

What Did You Say?

“Amira,” she said. “Stop crying and come talk to your father.”

To her credit, Amira did not ask what she should say. She stifled her sobs and dropped to her knees, leaning close to her father’s ear. “Baba, we’re right here. Please, Baba, we need you. You always told me, you and me together until the end of the line, remember? Keep your promise.”

Something shifted.

Rania couldn’t put her finger on it, only that suddenly the world was enveloped in silence. She pressed down hard with the last possible compression she would be able to do—

—and Deek’s entire body jerked beneath her hands.

She froze. “Deek?”

A second later, he convulsed and coughed—a weak, strangled sound that tore itself from somewhere deep inside him. A gush of river water spilled from his mouth, splattering onto his chin and shirt. Then he rolled onto his side in a spasmodic reflex, heaving violently as he vomited water and mud.

“Allahu Akbar!” Rania cried. “That’s it, habibi, let it out.”

Deek gagged again, spit, coughed, then sucked in a ragged, shuddering breath that sounded like wind gusting into a cave. Rania put a hand on his chest and her ear against his mouth. His breathing was irregular—fast, then slow, then stopping for a moment before restarting. His body shivered uncontrollably, muscles spasming under his soaked clothes.

“Sanaya, put the blanket on your father!”

Sanaya draped the emergency blanket over Deek, and Rania pulled her daughters in tightly around him. They huddled together, their bodies forming a cocoon of warmth around his trembling frame. Amira recited Surat Al-Fatiha, while Sanaya said a long dua for protection in times of danger – one that Rania herself did not know.

“Mom,” Amira whispered, crying and laughing at the same time. “He’s breathing.”

“Yes,” Rania said, smoothing Deek’s wet hair back from his forehead. “But he’s not out of danger. Keep holding him. Keep him warm.”

Red and blue lights flashed. Tires screeched in the parking lot. Rania jumped up and pulled her clothes and hijab back on, then returned to Deek’s side.

Her husband sputtered again, a shallow cough, then looked from Rania to his daughters with eyes filled with sadness and confusion. He whispered something low and ragged.

“What did you say?” Rania came close to his mouth. “Say that again.”

“I said,” Deek replied in a voice as rough as sandpaper, “Where am I?”

Rania’s eyes widened with fear. Had Deek suffered brain damage from the lack of oxygen? That was a very real risk.

“You’re in Fresno,” she replied. “On the banks of the San Joaquin River. Can you tell me your name?”

He smiled faintly, even as tremors ran through his body. “I am Deek Saghir, and you are Rania Al-Hassan, my beloved wife. And I’m sorry for everything. I want to come home now.”

Rania didn’t look away from him.

“Deek, you fool,” she said. “You have one heck of a sense of timing.” She took one of his hands, clasped it tightly. “You’re home, habibi. You’re home.”

***

Come back next week for Part 31 inshaAllah – the FINAL chapter of Moonshot!

 

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

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

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

Related:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

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The post Moonshot [Part 30] – Two Rivers, Two Lives appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

If you are a Muslim man reading this after having intentionally clicked on the article link, may Allah reward you. Even if you don’t have a wife, you definitely have a mother, and maybe even a sister or daughter. I promise you, this will be relevant. 

As a husband, part of being your wife’s qawwam (protector/maintainer) is being actively involved in helping her meet her spiritual, emotional, and physical health needs. This applies to fathers as well. If your own father did this, then alhamdulilah, you are so privileged to have such a Prophetic example. If not, then it’s up to you to break that cycle by educating yourself on what kind of support your wife needs during her midlife years and helping her through it.

Shifts in Midlife

There are funny social media reels about husbands being told their perimenopausal wives now detest the way they smell/breathe/sleep/chew. Beneath that humour is the very real issue that, as hormones shift during perimenopause, even the most solid of marriages can be tested. 

For example, a wife who has been happily homeschooling her three young children may now be far too exhausted by her hormonal changes and much more prone to anger. Midlife is a time for a mother to start looking inwards on how to nourish herself better, after nurturing her own children. Perimenopausal symptoms can start in some women as early as their mid-thirties, while most women start feeling symptoms of declining estrogen and progesterone in their forties until they reach menopause.

I actually asked my husband for tips on how to write this article, and he has plenty of gems to share. 

 – Make sure she eats well

With the gradual decline of bone density and muscle mass starting in her late thirties/early forties, protein is now absolutely necessary to help strengthen her bones and muscles. Stock up on protein, and – even better – prepare a protein-rich dish for her. It doesn’t have to be fancy, but knowing that she doesn’t need to hunt for more protein will help to ease some of her mental load.

Plant-based protein shakes are also helpful. Yogurt smoothies with nuts and fruit are another tasty and easily-prepared option. Offering her a slice of her favourite bread with high-protein peanut butter and jam can make a huge difference in her mood. 

 – Exercise together

Exercising together is a lot more conducive than nagging her to exercise. Ask me how I know. It helps to have a partner to go on walks with, and it’s even better to have a partner to spot you while you both lift heavy. In addition to building muscle and bone mass, exercise works wonders for improving mental health, blood circulation, and mobility.

“At the very least give your wife the gift of time to exercise regularly.” [PC: Elena Kloppenburg (unsplash)]

For those who are financially able, consider investing in a personal trainer to support your wife in her fitness journey, and/or gift her with a ladies-only gym membership. 

For those who aren’t, you can still support her by giving her the gift of time to exercise regularly. Consistency is difficult to maintain even in the best of times, so supporting your busy wife means committing to looking after your children or arranging for childcare, to give your wife the time and space to exercise. Renewing this beautiful intention to support your wife’s exercise journey is also a means of pleasing Allah .

 – Facilitate her good sleep

If your wife is struggling to sleep, then please know that this is part of perimenopause. If she is also neurodivergent, then getting sleep during perimenopause will be even trickier than usual! The irony is that nightly long stretches of uninterrupted sleep are exactly what will help to regulate your wife’s hormones, but falling asleep can be harder than ever. 

Ask her how you can help support her nighttime sleep routine. Mothers often sleep late at night because they crave that silence and uninterrupted time to themselves. To counter this, brainstorm ways to give her time to herself during the day. After a rough night, do her a favour and give her the chance to sleep in. 

Whenever possible, take charge of the morning school drop-off routine so she can rest a little while longer. Give her the opportunity to nap during the day by looking after your children, or arranging for a trusted babysitter or family member to do that.

 – Be understanding of her libido changes

Marital intimacy comes in stages – the excitement and discovery of the newlywed stage, the exhaustion after newborns, and the fluctuating state of perimenopause. Vaginal dryness can be a reality for many perimenopausal women, and this can definitely impact her decreasing libido. It’s important to investigate different types of lubrication that can help, as well as the possibility of dietary changes or supplements. Foreplay is even more important in this stage of marital intimacy. 

Jabir bin ‘Abdullah narrates saying, “The Messenger of Allah (may Allah bless him and give him peace) forbade intercourse before foreplay.” [Khatib, Tarikh Baghdad: the chain was deemed sound by Dhahabi]

Figure out a way to schedule regular marital intimacy instead of leaving it to chance. It’s natural for perimenopausal wives to feel anxious about intimacy, but avoidance only makes it worse. 

Supporting your wife throughout the day will endear you to her, making her much more receptive to marital intimacy at night. Keep in mind that, on top of hormonal changes that make your wife feel uncomfortable, her body shape has probably changed over the years, too. Telling her that you still find her beautiful  and attractive will help allay any anxieties she may feel. She is the mother of your children, and her body has gone through a tremendous change with every child she brings earthside. 

 – Keep lines of communication open

Every marriage has its own stresses, but coupled with perimenopause, it’s more important than ever to remember that you’re both on the same team. Make daily bids for connection by turning towards each other, rather than turning away. There are simple things you can both do to show your love and concern, e.g., preparing a favourite drink/snack, affectionate touches, and using terms of endearment. You can think of this as filling up each other’s love tank, so you can both function well together as a team, as opposed to sputtering on empty.

In addition to small daily gestures of kindness, make an effort to schedule at least weekly date nights and/or coffee dates together. It makes all the difference to have intentional conversations about meeting each other’s needs – especially during difficult stretches. It’s important for husbands to also express what kind of support they would like too. Plan for success to help both of you thrive. Supporting your wife does not mean obliterating your own needs – that will only create resentment.

 – Hormone Replacement Therapy 

By the time a woman has reached menopause, even the most supportive husband cannot replace the role of hormone replacement therapy (HRT). I’m at least ten years away from menopause, if not less, but I’m already reading about the benefits of HRT. All of the most common perimenopausal struggles listed above can be alleviated by the right dose of HRT.

In the words of Dr Vonda Wright, an orthopedic surgeon and expert on women’s aging and longevity:

“Estrogen, when started within 10 years of your last menstrual cycle, doesn’t just help with hot flashes or night sweats. It significantly reduces your risk of the top killers of women in midlife and beyond: heart disease and osteoporotic fractures. In fact, studies show it can reduce the risk of heart disease by 40–50%. That’s not a small perk—that’s a game-changer.”1

Conclusion

By the time you have reached this point in your marriage, alhamdulilah, you have already graduated through the newlywed and newborn babies stage. Now is the time to continue to nurture your wife through her midlife years by ensuring she has enough protein to eat, exercises, and sleeps well. Understanding her shifting libido will help to keep your marital intimacy going, as well as supporting her decision to explore hormonal replacement therapy. It’s important for husbands and wives to keep having regular conversations around how you can both meet each other’s needs, as a team, with Allah’s Pleasure in mind.

InshaAllah, the love and care you give your wife during this critical stage will reap tremendous reward in both this life as well as the next. 

 

Related:

– The Muslim Woman And Menopause: Navigating The ‘Invisible’ Transition With Faith And Grace

– A Primer On Intimacy And Fulfillment Of A Wife’s Desires Based On The Writings Of Scholars Of The Past

 

1    https://www.drvondawright.com/blog/what-if-we-told-you-estrogen-could-help-you-live-longer

The post Perimenopause For Husbands: What To Expect And How To Support Your Wife appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

By Amina Abdullah A Warning I Didn’t Understand

This all started on a regular back-to-school trip to Target. I asked my mom if we could get some Korean skincare. Instead of answering me, she reminded me to never watch KPop Demon Hunters even if my friends are. She mentioned that our local imam had warned parents to keep their kids away from this show; apparently, he knew it was quite popular, and did not think the content was appropriate for children.

While I thought it was odd that my skincare request somehow made her think of that movie, I did what I do best: I nodded, but I honestly did not understand why she was being so serious. I thought it was just a cartoon and could not be that bad.

A few weeks later, I was at a small party with some of my mom’s Muslim friends. It was fun at first, but after a while my friends and I got bored and went inside to watch TV. Someone picked a movie, and suddenly KPop Demon Hunters was on the screen.

Right before I sat down, my younger sisters, who are now 5 and 8, told me very clearly that watching it was a bad idea. They said, “You should not watch that.” I thought they were just being dramatic and trying to act older than they are. But later on they came to watch too.

At the end of the movie that’s when we realized their advice was right.

What I Saw and Why It Mattered

Very quickly we realized this movie was not what I expected at all. Some of the characters wore clothing that did not feel appropriate. The songs, especially “How It’s Done” and “Your Idol,” had lyrics that did not seem right for kids to hear. There were also mixed-gender scenes that felt uncomfortable, and it just did not feel like something I should be watching.

What surprised me the most was that all the other girls acted like everything was perfectly normal. They had watched the movie so many times that nothing seemed strange to them anymore. That made me think. When you keep watching something again and again, you start to think it is fine, even when it is not.

Just because something is animated does not mean it is harmless. And just because everyone else thinks it is okay does not mean it actually is.

So in conclusion, KPop Demon Hunters is not a movie Muslim kids should watch. Not even once. It is better to listen to the people who care about you, even when you think you know better.

***

Amina Abdullah is a 5th grader from California’s SF Bay Area. When she’s not at school, she’s a part-time Hifz student, badminton player, and older sister.

Related:

Why I Walked Out Of The Film, Bilal

‘Little Mosque on the Prairie’ Ends | The First Muslim Sitcom in Review

The post K-Pop Demon Hunters: Certainly Not for Kids appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

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

Related:

Podcast: Refugee Representation In Muslim Literature

Podcast: A Glimpse Into Muslim Bookstagram

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

 

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

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

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

The Post-9/11 Muhammad: A Pacifist Mascot

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

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

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

The Vanishing Question

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

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

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

The Uncomfortable Answer

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

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

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

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

The Liberal Muslim Dilemma

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

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

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

The Politics of Selective Piety

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

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

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

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

The Real Taboo

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

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

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

Conclusion: The Prophet They Dare Not Name

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

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

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

 

Related:

– Beyond Badr: Transforming Muslim Political Vision

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

Grave Marker

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get Up to Get Down

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

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

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

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

The world dissolved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Making Calls

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

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

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

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

The Sound of Palestine

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

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

The qanun

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

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

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

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

“Assalamu alaykum Rania, what’s up?”

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

“Lost? What do you mean—”

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

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

The line went dead.

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

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

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

Holding On

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

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

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

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

***

Come back next week for Part 30 inshaAllah

 

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

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

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

Related:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

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

I remembered why I hate watching the news and why I am so uncomfortable when my daughter is near me when I watch it. She was sitting at the dining room table, deep in thought about how she could break up the number ten in three different ways. I was washing dishes with the news playing softly on my phone. College campuses filled the frame — students chanting across green lawns hemmed in by police in riot gear. It felt surreal, as if I were watching a war zone unfold on an Ivy League campus.

My daughter hears the shouting: “Free, free Palestine!” I try to mute the video, but it’s too late. Since our trip to Palestine last year, she has developed a kind of radar — anytime the word Palestine is mentioned within earshot, she rushes over to see what it’s about. She is drawn to her roots, pulled by something deep and familiar. She comes running to me, eyes wide with recognition and hope.

“Mama,” she says, “I want to go.”

In our home, justice isn’t something we just talk about — it is something we practice. We’ve discussed boycotts, what it means to use your voice with purpose, and how standing up to oppression is an act of faith. With all the protests these past months, she has joined them more than once, her small hands keeping rhythm with the drums as voices around her rose in unison.

But before she can finish her sentence, footage flashes across the screen of students being thrown to the ground and arrested. Confusion crosses her face. Her eyes search mine for an explanation. I froze. I realized in that moment something irreversible was happening — something I had hoped wouldn’t happen for a very long time.

My daughter was growing up in front of my eyes. These few seconds would shape her being faster than years of childhood ever could. For the first time, she was seeing just how unfair and unjust the world she lives in can be.

I tried to explain that some people don’t want others talking about the genocide happening in Gaza. Her brows furrowed. “But Mama, people are dying,” she said softly. “That’s never okay.”

That moment will stay with me forever: the first time my daughter experienced moral dissonance. It was a concept I had read about so many times, but I never felt the full weight of it until now. That painful awareness in her eyes that the values she has been taught to hold sacred do not always govern the world around her. For children, moments like this aren’t abstract. They aren’t “complicated.” They are simple and formative. They build the architecture of their belief systems.

Developmental psychologists like Lawrence Kohlberg tell us that as children grow, they move from obedience to conscience. They grow from doing what is expected to understanding why something is right or wrong. When that understanding collides with the punishments or silences of the adult world, they enter a moral freefall. Their conscience and consequence no longer align.

“Children are not born with distrust. They are taught it. They learn it by omission, by silence, by the lessons we are too afraid to name.” [PC: Melbin Jacob (unsplash]

For Muslim children today, this freefall feels endless, but still, they continue to fight the tide pushing them down. They scrape with all their might to hold on to any moral grounding that might stop their fall. 

What pushed them into this freefall? Realizing that their world punishes empathy toward Palestinians because it challenges the narratives of power. They realize that mourning the murdered is seen as defiance because the world refuses to acknowledge the oppressed.

Muslim children are taught that courage means standing for justice, but then they watch college students handcuffed for doing exactly that. They are told that honesty matters, but they see adults stay silent to keep their jobs. They see compassion rewarded only when it is convenient, and condemned when it challenges power.

This isn’t confusion. It’s something far deeper — it’s a spiritual and moral collapse. A wound that forms when their moral world shatters. Those in power have betrayed the very values they claim to uphold, and it has fractured our children’s moral foundation. In schools, we call it cognitive dissonance. In childhood, it simply feels like heartbreak.

Then we turn around and pretend to preach Social/Emotional Learning (SEL). We tell them to practice empathy. We tell them they must be self-aware. We teach them to make responsible decisions rooted in ethics. Yet the world they live in violates every one of these principles in plain sight. “Responsible decision-making” in our world has little to do with ethics. It’s about bottom lines, hidden agendas, and five-year plans that ignore human impact unless it aligns with profit or power.

How are we supposed to teach empathy when compassion for certain lives is punished? How can we model social awareness when silence is praised as professionalism? How can we ask for “responsible decision-making” when we, the adults, excuse violence because it’s “complicated,” —  which really means I don’t want to look closely enough to see the human cost?

For Muslim youth watching Gaza unfold, these lessons ring hollow. They are being asked to regulate emotions that adults are too afraid to name. They are being asked to build relationships in a world that others their faith. They are being asked to make “ethical choices” in a moral landscape that keeps shifting beneath their feet.

No wonder our kids are exhausted, anxious, and depressed. They live in a world that preaches empathy but rewards apathy. They live in a world that teaches inclusion but normalizes exclusion. The world keeps telling them, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Then we wonder why they don’t trust the systems that are meant to guide them. We wonder why they question everything. We don’t have a generation of children who “just listen” anymore because the world no longer makes sense.

The faith we once placed in authority no longer exists. We grew up believing the adults around us wanted to keep us safe. Our children are watching those same adults look away as their tax dollars kill tens of thousands of people who look and speak just like them. They are witnessing a moral dissonance so loud it drowns out every promise we make to them. Somewhere deep inside, their instincts whisper: trust no one.

Children are not born with distrust. They are taught it. They learn it by omission, by silence, by the lessons we are too afraid to name. When young people repeatedly witness injustice without repair, they internalize one of two messages: either morality is performative or they must carry the moral weight that adults have dropped.

And so they do.

They carry it.

They carry it in their sleeplessness and in their anger. They carry it in their posts, their protests, and their art. They begin to see everything as a cause because the world has shown them that indifference kills. Their restlessness is not rebellion…it is grief with nowhere to go.

Erik Erikson reminds us that adolescence is the stage of identity — of testing who they are against what the world says they should be. Albert Bandura’s social learning theory reminds us that children model what they see. So what happens when they are testing their limits in a world that models hypocrisy? When every adult in the room looks away instead of calling it out?

They learn that silence is safer than truth.
They learn that empathy must be rationed.
They learn that belonging requires erasure.

If we, as educators, want to heal this fracture, we have to start by being honest about it. We cannot ask students to “self-regulate” emotions we refuse to validate. We cannot praise “perspective-taking” while silencing their own perspectives with “It’s too complicated.” We cannot teach courage as a virtue while punishing its expression.

SEL without moral clarity becomes compliance training.
Character education without justice becomes performance.

When I think back to that night with my daughter, I realize she wasn’t just asking about Gaza. She was asking about justice itself — whether the world still has a conscience. I don’t want her heart to harden before it fully blooms. I want her to keep believing that justice, humanity, and truth still matter. I want her to keep believing that speaking for the oppressed is not a crime but a command.

As the chant for “cease-fire” echoes across the world today, people begin to find slivers of hope, but then the news breaks again: more assassinations, more bombings, more death. In that moment, I can’t help but wonder how deep this wound will go for our children.

They are living in a constant state of contradiction — hearing one thing on mainstream news while knowing, in their bones, another truth entirely. It’s a unique kind of dissonance. It is the dissonance that comes from watching the attempt to erase an entire society in real time: thousands killed, thousands more entombed beneath rubble, hundreds still breathing through dust and despair.

Yet, our children are still hearing people call this genocide “complicated.”

This is the work before us as educators and as parents: to rebuild moral trust. We need to show our children that the values we recite are not decorative words but living principles. We need to prove to them, through our actions, that integrity still exists somewhere between silence and survival.

We may not be able to undo the harm they have witnessed, but we can choose not to deepen it.
We can teach with moral courage.
We can speak with gentleness and understanding.
We can model what it means to be human in a world that keeps forgetting — because our children are watching, and one day, they will rise to rebuild what our silence allowed to crumble.

 

Related:

– Real Time Scholasticide: The War On Education In Gaza

– Ice Cream: A Poem On The Loss Of Childhood In Gaza

The post The Pedagogy Of Silence: What Muslim Children Are Learning About Truth appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

My daughters are obsessed (my son is unimpressed).

 If you are a parent of elementary school girls, you have most likely witnessed the social contagion that is K-Pop Demon Hunters. And while the name of the movie alone earned an automatic “no” the first few times my daughters begged me to let them watch it, I finally gave in. But, I made sure to sit and watch it with them—ready to pull the plug the second anything age-inappropriate popped up.

Yet, to my surprise, not only was I quickly pulled into the story but, by the end of it, I was an enthusiastic advocate of the movie. What excited me the most was that I realized the movie was full of themes that could easily be related to elements of the Islamic spiritual path, and that, in fact, I could use the film to teach my daughters about the greater jihad—the battle against one’s own self. So, here I will elaborate on some of the spiritual themes of K-pop Demon Hunters that you can bring up with your kids as they sing and play the songs on repeat.

First, a few important disclaimers:

One, this article contains a lot of spoilers. So don’t read it if you haven’t seen it–unless of course, you don’t mind.

Two, while the movie contains some Islamic themes, there are a few elements that some Muslim parents might find objectionable. One, of course, is that the movie revolves around pop-singers—so there is a lot of music throughout. Additionally, the characters at times wear clothing that would be considered immodest by Islamic standards. And there are a few parts where the characters develop crushes and romantic feelings toward other characters. If these are deal breakers, I would say just don’t watch the movie. Or at the very least, watch the movie ahead of time, make note of where those parts occur, and skip over them as needed.

However, if you are willing to overlook these elements, there are some great connections to make to the Muslim path.

Of Shayateen and Nafs al Ammara

First, let’s frame the basic story. In the world of the film, demons have always haunted the world, stealing souls and channeling them back to their king, Gwi-Ma. The trio that is Huntrix belongs to an ancient lineage of demon hunters who, along with being warriors, use songs of hope and courage that ignite their people’s souls,  bring them together, and create a shield that protects the world from darkness, the Honmoon.

Obviously, the idea of a demonic realm is easy enough to connect with the Islamic worldview. The world is full of shayateen who lay in wait, using every opportunity available to lead us astray from Allah’s path. Gwi-Ma represents Iblis, while his demon army symbolizes the many human and jinn shayateen who work to lead us astray. It is tradition that protects us from this. Our tradition also strives to preserve lineage–the various Islamic sciences and the various Sufi Tariqas that are protected by chains of transmission that lead all the way back to the Prophet Muhammad . We also use sacred sound to sanctify the world around us. Whether through recitation of the Quran or through dhikr, we employ our vocal chords to bring noor into the world. The angels hear our adhkar and fill the ether around us and expel the satanic forces of Iblis’s army.

Then there’s Rumi (whose Korean name means “sparkling beauty,” but is conveniently a homonym of the most famous Sufi poet in the world). As the Honmoon seems close to being sealed up for good, Rumi rushes to release Huntrix’s greatest single, “Golden.” The song is a celebration of arriving at self-realization with the refrain, “I’m done hiding. Now I’m shining like I’m born to be.” And yet it is on this line that Rumi’s voice strains. You see, Rumi has a secret: she is half-demon. She struggles to hide her demon patterns. Hoping that she can conceal them just long enough to seal the Honmoon for good, which will then rid her of the patterns.

We see a parallel to this in the Islamic concept of the Nafs al Ammara, the darkest—and most illusory—aspects of ourselves. This, our appetitive soul, manifests as patterns of behavior in our day-to-day—tendencies toward selfishness, arrogance, and avarice.

Self-Appraisal and the Case Against Extremism

Then enter the Saja Boys–a group of demons disguised as a boy band that threatens to steal Huntrix’s fans so that their souls can be given to Gwi-Ma. In other words, the lesser jihad against the legions of shayateen wages on in the world around us. It is an “externalization of the destitution of the inner state of the soul of that of humanity,”1, which manifests in the global atrocities and ecological crises we witness daily. Even as we face our own internal issues.

In fact, this even gives rise to new issues as the girls become infatuated with them—each lusting after a boy that meets their particular taste—and they lash out with their own form of religious extremism. The “Take Down” track they compose as a response is a representation of religious fanaticism—denouncing the demons, vowing to kill them all off, claiming there is no potential salvation for any of them. It is a counter-example to the Prophet Muhammad’s warning, “Beware of extremism in religion. Those who came before you were ruined by extremism in religion.”

In secret, Rumi is meeting with Jinu, the head Saja Boy, developing some empathy for the demon, and seeing herself in his story. She begins to see that underneath, he is not as bad as the mistakes he has made.  In this, Rumi is starting to come to terms with her own demonic aspects. She can empathize with Jinu. In this way, he becomes a sort of mirror for her ( an analogy often applied for companions on the spiritual path—that we help each other to our own faults). Then, at her bottom, after Jinu double-crosses her and exposes her to her bandmates, Rumi decides that if she is going to save the world, it has to begin with recognizing her demonic patterns, not hiding them and pretending they don’t exist, and harmonizing these two aspects of herself. This could be likened to the nafs al-lawwama—self-accusing soul, with its characteristics of disapproval, reflection, contraction, and self-appraisal. It denotes the active conscience stricken by guilt and self-reproach whenever God’s commands are violated and the lower self wins a skirmish with the rational mind.

Idol Worship and Spiritual Warfare

Rumi’s spiritual journey culminates at the Saja Boys’ final concert. They open their set with the song, “I’ll be your idol,” a song that, with lyrics like, “keeping you obsessed…I can be your sanctuary” and “I can be the star you rely on…Your obsession feeds our connection…give me all of your attention,” could not be a better fit with Islamic admonitions of idol worship—both external idols and the inner idols of our own desires, and the ways obsession with pop culture can take the place of an idol in our lives.

When Rumi arrives to sing her final song, she is only able to sing a song strong enough to defeat the dark forces of the world when she acknowledges her own demonic patterns, her nafs ammara, and harmonizes them with the higher aspects of herself—the purity of her fitra. And yet, in acknowledging them, she is able to keep them from taking her over. In this, she has achieved the nafs al mutma’ina, the satisfied soul.

In the Islamic tradition, spiritual mastery is not achieved by eliminating the nafs al ammara, but rather by surrendering it to the higher self. In other words, the nafs al mutama’ina is one that can direct its nafs ammara towards actions that serve it in the spiritual warfare against the demonic aspects of the dunya—our worldly life. For one whose soul is at peace, the lower aspects are still there but are in perfect balance.

Rumi uses her balanced soul to break the demons’ hold on their fans and to defeat Gwi-Ma’s army for good.

Navigating Pop Culture Through An Islamic Lens

In the end, this is just a movie. It is for entertainment and, of course, is no substitute for the formal study of the deen. At the same time, as Muslim parents, we are constantly trying to help our children navigate their relationship with pop culture. Our kids are constantly being introduced to new creative media through their friends (yes, even in Islamic schools), through billboards, commercials, and elsewhere. And while we often respond by trying to control what they come in contact with, it often feels like a lost cause–things just slip through. This doesn’t mean we have to adopt an “anything goes” approach, but perhaps we can also find opportunities to connect the morals and lessons conveyed through the entertainment we consume to our own Islamic values. In doing so, we can model for our kids how to consume entertainment while maintaining taqwa.

For example, with K-Pop Demon Hunters, when we sit down and watch it with them, we can vocalize the elements that are at odds with our value system (for example commenting, “I wish this character was wearing more modest clothing,” or, “Uh oh, I don’t think it’s appropriate for her to go and meet a boy on her own.”) However, we can also tap into their enthusiasm and make connections to our religious values (for example, “Wow, that really teaches us that idols aren’t always just statues, but can be anything we devote all our attention to and rely on.”) 

In this way, we can teach our kids how to engage with entertainment with the tools to discern which messages resonate with Islamic values and which ones don’t, whether or not we are there to shield them from it. 

 In a world flooded with sound and spectacle, that kind of vision is the real superpower. 

 

Related:

– Don’t Look Up – A Faith-Centred Parable Of Our Times

– Muslim Kids Reading Fantasy Novels – Yea Or Nay?

1    Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Man and Nature: the Spiritual Crisis of Modern Man (Boston: Unwin Paperbacks, 1990), 3.

The post Until The Dark Meets The Light: A Muslim Interpretation Of K-Pop Demon Hunters appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Unlike obligatory actions which must be carried out at specific times or particular situations — outward acts such as the five daily prayers in their allotted times and Ramadan fasts; or inward acts of the heart like patience amidst trials or ordeals or remorseful repentance after sinning — there is no one-hat-fits-all-sizes for optional acts.

There is no one optional act that is the best in all situations, or for all people. Rather, as Ibn Taymiyyah wrote: “As to what you asked about concerning the best of acts after the obligations, this varies in accordance with people’s differing abilities and what is suitable for their time. Therefore, it is not possible to furnish a comprehensive, detailed answer for each individual.”1

This implies that we must each gain the spiritual intelligence to appreciate what deeds are of most benefit for us to do, given our abilities or particular circumstances. In other words, after fulfilling the fara’id and shunning the haram, our suluk should be tailored to our own specific strengths and abilities in respect to the best way to draw close to Allah and grow beloved to Him.

The path, in this sense, is a vast landscape, accommodating our individual needs or nature. We can, of course, try to self-diagnose. Or we can be wise and be prudent, and seek counsel from spiritually-rooted shaykhs and shaykhas of suluk. It’s about travelling intelligently.

II.

When it comes to optional acts of worship, we should focus on the acts we have the capacity for, are likely to be regular at, can perform well, and will best sharpen our sense of God-consciousness. This is the way to deepen faith and divine love. As for other optional acts, we try to have some share of them too, but not at the expense of ones that Allah has gifted us clear openings for.

Ibn Mas‘ud replied, when he was asked why he did not fast optional fasts more frequently: ‘When I fast, it weakens my capacity to recite the Qur’an; for reciting the Qur’an is more beloved to me than fasting.’2

III.

Not to belabour the point of spiritual intelligence, Imam Ibn Taymiyyah was asked about how faith can be increased and perfected, and if one must take to asceticism (zuhd) or to knowledge to attain this? His reply is insightful; he said:

‘People differ in this aspect. From them are those who find knowledge easier than asceticism. For some, asceticism is easier. Yet for others, worship is easier than both. So what is legislated for each person is to do what they are capable of from the good; as Allah, exalted is He, says:

“So fear Allah as much as you are able and listen and obey and spend [in the way of Allah ]; it is better for yourselves. And whoever is protected from the stinginess of his soul – it is those who will be the successful.” [Surah At-Taghabun; 64:16]

…It may be that a person does a deed of lesser merit and acquires more from it than from doing a deed of superior merit. So what is better is that he seeks what will benefit him more. That, for him, is best. He must not seek to do that which is most meritorious in an absolute sense if he is incapable, or if he finds it hard. Just like someone who reads the Qur’an, meditates over it, and benefits from its recitation, yet finds [optional] prayer difficult and does not benefit from it. Or he benefits from making dhikr more than he benefits from reciting the Qur’an. So whatever action is more beneficial and more pleasing to Allah is the best for him, than an act he cannot do properly but only deficiently and so loses out on the benefit.’3

Of course, if we are not careful, all of this critical consideration can be hijacked by the ego, so that we are deluded into false judgments about what is spiritually best for us. The ego must be removed from the driver’s seat. So while past scholars are still indispensable for learning spiritual guidance, there’s nothing like living shaykhs who are able to impart actualised, qualified tazkiyah instruction to seekers in these delirious times.

[This article was first published here]

 

Related:

– IOK Ramadan 2025: Good Deeds Erase Bad Deeds | Shaykha Ayesha Hussain

–The Forgotten Sunnahs: Ihsan, Itqaan, And Self-Reliance

1    Majmu‘ al-Fatawa (Riyadh: Dar ‘Alam al-Kutub, 1991, 10:660.2    Al-Tabarani, al-Mu‘jam al-Kabir, no.8868; Ibn Abi Shaybah, al-Musannaf, no.8909.3    Majmu‘ al-Fatawa, 7:651-2

The post Fard, Check. What Next? : The Best Deed After the Obligations appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

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

Understanding the Emotional Landscape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impact on the Marital Relationship

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

Intimacy and Libido

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Role Shifts

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

Parenting Through the Transition

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

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

The Prophet ﷺ said:

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

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

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

Community, Sisterhood, and Spiritual Identity

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Prophet ﷺ also said:

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

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

Practical Strategies for Muslim Women

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

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

When to Seek Help

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

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

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

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

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

 

Related:

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

– The Fiqh Of Vaginal Discharge: Pure or Impure?

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

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

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

* * *

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

Shark Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Foundation

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

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

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

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

Yet he couldn’t look away.

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

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

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

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

“Dad?”

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

“I don’t think Mom will want that.”

“Will you come see it?”

“What, now?”

“Uh-huh.”

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

Spooky

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

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

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

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

“Don’t do that, it’s gross.”

“Ask if I care.”

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Beautiful Thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said that?”

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

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

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

Dark River

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going Back

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

“Did you hear something?”

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

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

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

“We should go back.”

Amira rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

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

“What are you doing?” Amira gasped.

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

Man Against Nature

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In The River

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

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

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

“Maybe he -”

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

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

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

***

Come back next week for Part 29 inshaAllah

 

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

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

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

Related:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

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