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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Related:

– Whistleblower Exposes Aid Organization’s Links With Israeli Military

– Foreign Affairs Official Resigns Over Gaza Genocide

 

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

By Faheem A. Hussain

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

I. The Provocation of SAIF Thinking Alongside SAIF

What, then, is SAIF?

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

Marginal Digital Ambition

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

II. The Technologies It Mythologizes Techno‑Optimism and Cynicism

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

Mythologizing Decentralization

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

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

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

III. SAIF’s Political Accelerationism Accelerationism Defined

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

Strategic Anticipation vs. Conservatism

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

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

IV. Aesthetic Obscurity and Elitism Obscurity as Experiment

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

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

Elitism and the “Biomass” Critique

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

V. Modernity Without Capitulation Escape from Stale Binaries

Dr. Sherman Jackson

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

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

Islamic Secular Reframing

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

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

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

VI. The Stakes of Imagination Civilisational Urgency

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

Imagination as Our Rarest Resource

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

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

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

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

VII. Genealogies and Lineages Historical Echoes of Futurism

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

Futurist Tradition in Islam

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

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

New Futures

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

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

VIII. Final Thoughts Provocations and Collective Vision

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

Fellow Travellers in Speculation

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

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

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

Bio

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

Footnotes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Fast Drive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bleach and Lime

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

“Glass in my eye.”

“Let us see. Move your hand.”

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

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

Desperately Alone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Healed Wounds

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

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

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

“Where am I?”

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

“Am I blind?”

“No, they say you’ll be okay.”

“Can I get some water?”

“Do you mind if I turn the light on?”

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

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

“Ay Dios!” his friend exclaimed.

“What?”

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

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

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

You Saved Me

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Qué pasa?”

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

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

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

“In the hospital parking garage.”

“With the window busted out?”

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

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

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

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

“Ay Dios! I’ll be right back.”

Psychic Bond

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dew On A Flower

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

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

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

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

“You want to hear me recite the Quran.”

Deek nodded slowly. “You said it.”

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

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

The Best People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The best people in the world.”

“Pardon?”

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

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

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

“I don’t remember.”

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

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

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

B Flat

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

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

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

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

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

“So it’s not a gunshot wound?”

“There was definitely a trumpet.”

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

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

A Strange Question

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

“Sure. What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which was?”

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

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

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

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

Servants of Al-Ghani

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

[Part 18 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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

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

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

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If Not You, Then Who?

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Fiqh of Entertainment | Ismail Kamdar

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

[Read Part 1 Here]

Still Relevant

The Bosnian genocide that reached a pinnacle thirty years ago provoked widespread grief and horror both among Muslims and in the “West”. Yet little has been learned from the Bosnian tragedy, whose lessons continue to be relevant today both in Bosnia itself and in the wider world. This article will examine how the Bosnian genocide and issues around it retain relevance today.

The United States and Europe’s Sphere of Influence

The most obvious point of relevance is, of course, the fact that the United States and much of the rest of Europe still treat the former Yugoslavia as a “sphere of influence”, with regional envoys and ambassadors acting more as suzerains among squabbling vassals. In the case of Bosnia this was rendered official through the 1995 Dayton Accord, which entrenched the Serb-majority areas as a “state within a state” and insisted on a cyclically rotating leadership, based on ethnic group, that precluded any real settlement, truth, or reconciliation.

The respite that the Serb ethnonationalists received via the American war would encourage Serbia to turn on Albanians in Kosovo; when this happened, the United States flung on the mantle of rescuer and bombarded them so fiercely that they were forced to retreat. Washington then adopted the Kosovo region, which became an officially independent country in 2008 yet still retains enormous American influence, so that in recent years attempts to break away from American tutelage have met with regime change.

This means that the Yugoslavia conflict was never resolved but only “frozen”, and Serb irredentism unchecked: as recently as 2020 Washington urged a regime change against a Kosovo government seeking to break free from the American fold, and threatened the same government after it was voted back in power and confronted Serb irredentists. It is ironic that the United States’ continuing hegemony in the Balkans requires a maintenance of the same divisions whose resultant war Washington had claimed to stop in the 1990s.

Ethnonationalism and its Muslim Victims

Outside the region, there are eerie similarities between much contemporary nationalist politics and the Yugoslavia case. The way that Serb ethnonationalism, and to a lesser extent its Croat counterpart and rival, trained on an “alien” Muslim enemy was key both to the former Yugoslavia’s collapse and the Bosnian genocide.

With the officially universalist ideology of socialism in retreat, the 1980s saw a surge of nationalism throughout Yugoslavia, and this was most damagingly harnessed by Serbia premier Slobodan Milosevic. He attained a mass following largely by presenting Yugoslavia’s supposedly cosmopolitan establishment as indulgent toward ethnically-Albanian Kosovar criminality at the expense of the gallant Serbs. Yugoslavia had long feuded with Albania and this lent venom to the idea that Yugoslav Albanians were a fifth column, though in fact the crimes attributed to them were equally to be found among other groups.

In fact, of course, the Yugoslavia establishment was quite accommodating to Serb ethnonationalism, particularly under Milosevic, but the very fact of minoritarian participation meant that he could portray himself as champion of the Serbs and harness state resources toward Serb supremacism. From Kosovars to Croats and then Bosnian Muslims (Bosniaks) Serb ethnonationalism espoused by Milosevic, and taken even further by many regional ethnonationalists, found one enemy after another and provoked a backlash.

In the particular case of the Bosniaks, the Muslim factor was particularly key: they were presented as either the descendants or easily-led collaborators of Ottoman Turks, and various ideologists—even Biljana Plavsic, who briefly sat on Bosnia’s elected council—espoused racialist ideologies to argue for their inferiority. The parallels with numerous, mainly but not exclusively far-right, parties in and outside the West today are too obvious to notice.

Modern Parallels

Geert Wilders in the Netherlands made his career with sustained vilification of Muslims. Germany’s far-right competes with establishment “centrist” Friedrich Merz, who describes Arabs in animalistic terms. France has long been infamous for homogenizing autocracy against minorities in general, and Muslims most particularly under the cover of laicite.

In the same way as Milosevic fixated on Albanian “criminality”, various British far-right parties have adopted a racially selective approach to the issue of crime and sexual abuse and grooming gangs, which are to be demonstrated against only if of a certain hue and background; rabidly anti-Muslim minister Michael Gove contrived a much-hyped scandal by claiming that Islamists were trying to infiltrate British education. A large number of American politicians, especially those closest to Israel, have made careers of impunging Muslims.

Hindutva radicals

Nor is this an exclusively Western phenomenon: the attempt of India’s Hindutva trend to expunge Muslims from Indian society has ranged from total revisionism of the same sort that Serb ethnonationalists pursued against Bosniaks to everyday organized harassment to massacres, among whose key architects Narendra Modi was rewarded by becoming prime minister. Media, of both rightwing and liberal variety, is often willing to play along.

Though European states have made a habitual policy of issuing condolences every July, it appears that few have learned the lesson. This is epitomized in the glib condolences on the Bosnian genocide issued by European Union leader Ursula von der Leyen, herself an unambiguous supporter of a genocidal Israeli state whose extermination campaign against Palestinians has relied on much the same rabid anti-Muslim viciousness and often the same strategies, such as ethnic cleansing for territorial supremacy, that the Serb ethnonationalists used in Bosnia.

Western Indifference

It should be noted that, much as Israel’s anti-Muslim propaganda found a willing ear in Europe and North America, even the Bosnia of the 1990s was viewed with callous indifference if not outright hostility by major European leaders. Francois Mitterrand bluntly rejected the idea of Bosnia as a viable European state; any doubt that this was related to Islam could be cleared by the remarks of British officials who spoke of a “painful but realistic restoration of a Christian Europe”.

Despite a centuries-long heritage, Bosnia’s Muslims were viewed not only by random bigots but at the top levels of government as alien by virtue of their Islam. That so many Bosnians held onto Islam in such circumstances is a remarkable feat and a sign of Allah’s favour. Decades of secularization in the Balkans at large has led to a frequent tendency to view Bosniaks as only nominally or culturally Muslims, yet their commitment to their religion and identity under the harshest duress was remarkable.

Foreign Governments: Sympathy and Muted Support

One major difference between the 1990s and the current period was the initiative of many Muslims, both governments and private individuals, in attempting to alleviate Bosnia’s plight. A United Nations embargo, which practically left Bosnia defenceless against already-armed opponents, came under considerable criticism from Muslim countries; though several joined the United Nations peacekeepers, they were vocally critical of the mission’s passiveness.

Pakistani units led by Qasim Qureshi, Bangladeshi units by Fazlur-Rahman, and Egytian units led by Hussein Abdel-Razek manned important fronts but made no secret of their discontent, particularly at the inequity of the embargo. In fact Pakistani spymaster Javed Nasir made an attempt to break the embargo, for which the United States pressed Islamabad to sack him in spring 1993.

Gulf States Humanitarian Aid and Frictions

Hasan Cengić, Bosnian Finance Minister (1992–1995), known as the “Flying Imam” for his diplomatic fundraising flights.

It was only a year later, when Washington was able to mediate between its primary vassal Croatia and Bosnia, that it turned a blind eye to Iranian weapons, sent by Ali Fallahian and Akbar Torkan. Other governments, such as the Gulf states, sent humanitarian and financial support, particularly such Gulf states as Saudi Arabia—handled by future king Salman bin Abdul-Aziz, who had experience doing the same for Afghanistan’s anticommunist insurgency in the 1980s—and Kuwait.

The Bosnian finance minister Hasan Cengic, whose frequent journeys abroad to obtain support earned him the moniker of “Flying Imam”, particularly aimed to get support. Valuable as donations were, they were occasionally delivered through zealous advocates of the Islamic schools predominant in Arabia, who would occasionally object to what they perceived as Bosniak irreligiosity.

One tract by a foreign volunteer, using Kuwaiti official channels, to chide the Bosniaks for what allegedly incorrect religious practices provoked a sharp response from Bosniak preachers such as Dzemaluddin Latic and Enes Karic: not only were Bosniaks emerging from years of enforced secularism but their school of Islam anyway differed. These frictions were relatively rare but were later exaggerated for political reasons after the United States assumed the role of suzerain in the Balkans: they were used to portray foreign Muslims at large as intolerant fanatics unaccustomed to Bosniak tradition.

The Cost of Paranoia: Foreign Fighters and Their Betrayal

Undoubtedly the most famous aspect of foreign support were mostly Arab foreign fighters recruited to the Bosniak army. These came largely independent of state support, though Bosnia’s opponents accused Sudanese diplomat Fatih Hassanain of recruitment. The best-known figure, though he actually left Bosnia quite early on other commitments, was Hadrami recruiter Mahmoud Bahadhiq, known as Abu Abdul-Aziz Barbaros for his red beard.

Muhammad Habashi (Abul-Zubair), from Makkah, was another Arabian volunteer who set up a volunteer battalions. A Hezbollah force from Lebanon, led by Ali Fayad, also arrived in support. The Bosnian army set up units, led by Asim Koricic, Amir Kubura, Serif Patkovic, and Halil Brzina, to work with the Arabs, as did local volunteers organized by the preacher Nezim Halilovic. The most famous foreign Muslim unit was led first by a Libyan doctor, Abul-Harith, and then Jamal Abul-Maali.

Media Propaganda and Smear Campaigns

Not only did Serbian media vilify these foreign fighters to scaremonger about a Muslim invasion on the gates of Europe, but their propaganda found welcoming ears abroad. Several Israeli writers and analysts poisoned the discourse. A case in point is Yossef Bodansky, a rabidly anti-Islam “expert” for the American congress. He acted on behalf of both the Israeli and Serbian governments, and regularly scaremongered about Bosnia’s “radical” regime: over the next fifteen years he would produce similar alarmist propaganda ranging from Chechnya to Sudan. Anti-Muslim alarmists such as Steven Emerson also made their name in American security circles by scaremongering on Bosnia.

The upshot was that the American “rescuers” of Bosnia were singularly suspicious of “Islamism” in Bosnia and sought to contain it. The 1995 Dayton Accord, which institutionalized ethnic cleansing campaigns against Bosnia under an American protectorate, was accompanied by the assassination of Abul-Maali, which was widely suspected on American intelligence. Just months earlier a more radical militant who had taken refuge in Denmark, Talaat Qassem, entered the Balkans, only to be abducted at Croatia in the first “extraordinary rendition” carried out by American intelligence. Qassem had links with Ayman Zawahiri’s insurgent organization against Cairo, and an acquaintance with Anwar Shaaban, another Bosnia volunteer who disappeared at about this point. Such episodes were used in a guilt-by-association smear campaign accusing Bosnia volunteers at large as Qaeda: after 2001, this became an entire sub-genre within the counterterrorism industry.

Consequently the United States also became more paranoid against foreign Muslims in Bosnia. Many Arab fighters had married and lived law-abiding lives in Bosnia after the war, with the protection of Alija Izetbegovic’s government. After Izetbegovic died, the United States exerted increasing pressure on Sarajevo to monitor or expel the Arabs, warning that their retention might jeopardize Bosnia’s entry into the European Union. In the late 2000s the United States systematically undermined Bosnian interior minister Tarik Sadovic, complaining that he would not crack down on the Arabs.

“They Look Alien”

Abu Hamza, a Syrian volunteer during the Bosnia war.

Exploiting and exaggerating the brief religious friction between Arabs and Bosniaks from the 1990s, American diplomat Raffi Gregorian tried to portray a crackdown on Arabs as a defence of Bosniak tradition against fanatics: “They look alien,” he snapped. “They talk alien. They act alien. This is a parochial society that has its own approach to Islam, and they don’t fit in.” In the prevalent paranoia of the “war on terror” there was simple scope to remark on the irony of an American diplomat asserting who was and was not alien to Bosnia, about Arabs who had risked their lives to help the country against a genocide. The contrast with the glowing coverage of, for example, foreigners fighting in Ukraine—even those of pointedly radical, such as far-right, colours—is too stark to miss.

The truth was of course that these “aliens” had risked their lives to help Bosnia against the hostility or indifference of various foreign states, and even the helpless political inaction of most Muslim countries. With little meaningful justice for Serb genocidaires, it is hardly a surprise that in recent years Milorad Dodik, the unrepentant leader of this Bosnian-Serb unit, has aggressively resorted to the same sort of rhetoric that coloured the genocide, nor that Bosnia’s governments have generally been helpless to do much about it. The genocide remains keenly relevant in Bosnia because the rhetoric and political frameworks that incited it run rampant under the American-European aegis.

Conclusion: Lessons Still Resonate

The Bosnian genocide is also relevant abroad. For millions of foreign Muslims in the 1990s it was a shocking reminder of the depth and extremes of anti-Muslim nationalism; for minority Muslims in particular it served as a wake-up call to how far supposedly neutral institutions might go to shield the worst anti-Muslim crimes. With an even bloodier genocide taking place today that has killed, maimed, starved, and expelled Palestinians by the millions in the most sadistic ways; the strained efforts of various institutions throughout the West to deny the evidence of their eyes in favour of Israel; and the impunity with which Israel’s supporters regularly incite anti-Muslim animus from Amsterdam to Los Angeles—the lessons of the horrors experienced by Bosnia’s Muslims in the wreckage of Yugoslavia resonate with us today.

Related Posts:

History of the Bosnia War [Part 1] – Thirty Years After Srebrenica

Go Visit Bosnia

 

The post History Of The Bosnia War [Part 2] – The Continuing Relevance Of The Bosnian Genocide appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Alḥamdulillāh.

This is not a clickbait title. It is a serious question—one that haunts countless Muslim hearts around the world, especially as they witness genocide broadcast in real time, funded and shielded by the world’s most powerful empire. And now, as Israel continues to brazenly bomb Syria—again and again—without a single missile fired in return, without even the illusion of deterrence, the truth becomes undeniable: Israel never sought a just peace, and it never will. Its record is long and well-documented by countless international institutions and human rights organizations—marked by massacres, ethnic cleansing, an entrenched apartheid regime, flagrant violations of international law, and the continued occupation of Palestinian land. And America gives Israel everything it needs to do that and to dominate, destabilize, and subjugate our Muslim people—defending it at every level, from UN vetoes and massive military aid to proxy wars, diplomatic impunity, economic coercion, and total narrative control through its monstrous media apparatus.

And let me be clear at the outset: this is not an expression of hatred toward Jews, so don’t be quick to dismiss it as an anti-Semitic rant. As Muslims, we have lived alongside Jews for centuries, and—aside from the hypothetical case of Unitarian Christians who uphold Mosaic law—no religion is closer to Islam—ritually, legally, and theologically—than Judaism. We yearn for a just peace, one in which we can welcome our Jewish cousins back—from the Euphrates to the Nile—not as overlords, but as co-citizens, with dignity and justice for all.

So let us begin. But before we proceed further, let me distill the reality into two unshakable premises—both supported by overwhelming evidence and visible to anyone not numbed by propaganda or paralyzed by moral confusion. These are not abstract positions. They are the foundation upon which this entire discussion rests, and if one cannot accept them, it is unlikely that anything that follows will make sense.

1. Two Premises We Will Not Debate

Premise 1: Israel is an evil entity—not merely a misguided aggressive state. It is a settler-colonial project grounded in ethnic supremacy and systemic dehumanization. It seeks to dominate and subjugate the surrounding Muslim region—indeed, Muslims from Casablanca to Jakarta—by brute force, espionage, sabotage, and genocide.

Premise 2: America enables this. Some used to say Israel is the West’s arm in subjugating Muslim lands. Today, the stronger case may be the reverse: that America is subordinated—morally and politically—to the Zionist project. Whether one calls it a “special relationship” or strategic alliance, the fact is that America has become so entangled in Israeli interests that its institutions, diplomacy, and credibility are routinely sacrificed for Israel’s impunity.

I will leave aside the CIA’s covert operations, regime changes, and empire-building. What I want to focus on here is the primary reason why America is hated across the Muslim world—its undying, militant, and shameless support for Israeli crimes against our people over the last 77 years.

2. So, Should We Hate America?

If it is true—as the evidence overwhelmingly shows—that Israel has spent decades committing massacres, enforcing apartheid, and occupying Palestinian lands and other territories of neighboring countries, and if it is equally true that the United States protects, funds, and shields it at every level, then the question is not rhetorical:

Should we, as Muslims, hate America?

There are three common answers:

An absolute yes—fueled by righteous anger, but often collapsing into indiscriminate rage that blurs moral distinctions, alienates allies, and undermines strategic action.
An absolute no—which too often amounts to denial, normalization, or silence in the face of horror.
A muddled answer — driven by confusion, personal entanglement, or a performative pursuit of hollow intellectualism, often resulting in moral paralysis or the quiet normalization of injustice.
I reject all three. What we need instead is a fourth position: not neutrality, not moral compromise, but principled clarity. One that recognizes the full extent of America’s complicity, names it without hesitation, and yet insists on responding with justice, discipline, and purpose—not blind fury or empty slogans. This is not about softening the truth. It is about staying anchored to it—so that our resistance is not only fierce, but meaningful.

3. What Do We Mean by “Hate”?

This may be the first question we need to ask ourselves: Are we hateful people? Does Islam allow us to hate a country, a people, a civilization?

To answer that honestly, we must begin not with their slogans, but with our own tradition. Then we can examine what others preach—and whether they live by what they claim.

Don’t be fooled by propaganda that tells you to “love your enemies.” They want you to love the ones who buried your children under the rubble—as they continue to bury them. They want you to love the settlers in al-Khalīl (Hebron) who terrorize the indigenous population, your brethren, and subject them to unthinkable daily humiliation and violence. It is not enough for them to steal your home; they want your embrace as they do it.

Yes, we hate oppression and the oppressors. We love our human family—the children of our father Ādam (ʿalayhi al-salām)—but we do not love evil or those who embody it. We do not suspend moral judgment in the name of abstract universality. We hate evil and we hate those who embody evil, insofar as they embody it. But we do not hate their transcendent egos—their souls—for we still hope for their repentance, their guidance, and ultimately their salvation.

This is not emotional vindictiveness. This is al-barāʾ—the principled disavowal of injustice and those who persist in it.

4. What Is “America,” and What Shapes Its Conscience?

Some ask, “But what is America? Is it the land, the system, the elites, or the people?” It’s a fair question. We must always distinguish between parts and wholes. Just as it is crude to reduce individuals into their collectives, it is equally misleading to ignore the existence of larger structures, dominant trajectories, and the reality of a collective conscience—a national posture that emerges through patterns of behavior, policy, and public sentiment.

And the American collective conscience regarding Israel is shaped by several dark and destructive forces:

a. Apocalyptic Religious Fanaticism

Among a significant segment of evangelical Christians, the Zionist project is not about justice or history. It is about facilitating the return of Christ. They believe Jews must return to Palestine, even if it means war and bloodshed, to fulfill prophecy. Unlike Catholics, many evangelicals also carry a theological inferiority complex—believing that Jews are divinely chosen in an absolute and ongoing sense, even by bloodline. As Muslims, we do not deny that righteous among the Children of Israel were chosen by God at specific times in history. But that chosenness was always contingent upon faith and obedience—not ethnicity—and it was never a blank check for oppression.

b. Projected Guilt from European Antisemitism

Europe’s centuries of violent antisemitism—culminating in the Holocaust—have produced in Western societies a deep guilt. But instead of facing their crimes, many have outsourced the cost of that guilt to the Palestinians. Support for Israel becomes an act of catharsis, even if it means cheering on oppression.

c. Social Darwinism

Among certain secular elites, Israel is admired not in spite of its ruthlessness, but because of it. Its material success, military dominance, and strategic cunning are seen as self-justifying. Within this framework, power is its own proof, and survival its only ethic. The fact that Israel can impose its will is taken as evidence that it has the right to do so—regardless of the moral cost or human toll.

d. Mass Apathy and Propaganda

Many Americans do not know, do not care, or have been deliberately misinformed. A media apparatus that is not only corporate but deeply corrupted, cynically manipulative—shamelessly complicit in manufacturing consent for war and whitewashing Israeli crimes—works hand in hand with bought-and-paid-for politicians and a deeply compromised educational system to produce a public too apathetic to care and too distracted to ask.

e. Political Cowardice and Corruption

From Congress to the White House, fear of AIPAC and the broader Israel lobby defines American politics. Some officials are morally weak; others are fully bought. Some are bribed, and some—like Jeffrey Epstein’s known associates—are likely blackmailed. And Epstein, after all, is just the one who got caught. We don’t know how many Epsteins are still out there, nor how deep the web of compromise runs. But the result is the same: a political system that safeguards Israeli impunity at virtually any cost, even when it violates American interests, morality, or global standing.

f. Identitarian Religiosity and Islamophobia

For many in the West—religious and secular alike—support for Israel is not just about Israel. It is about opposition to Islam itself. Islam has long been cast as the civilizational “Other,” and in a world increasingly fragmented by culture wars, many view Muslims not as fellow citizens of the world, but as ideological threats. For some Christians, Islam is the antichrist religion. For many secularists, it is a relic of the past. In this framework, Israel becomes a symbolic bulwark of the West against the rise or resurgence of Islam—no matter how unjust its actions may be.

g. Imperial Realpolitik

For much of the 20th century—especially during the Cold War—Israel was seen as a vital outpost for American power: a stable, militarized ally in a volatile region, serving as both intelligence hub and deterrent against Soviet-leaning Arab states. In that era, Washington viewed Israel as a necessary tool to maintain Western dominance over oil routes, suppress regional independence movements, and counterbalance nationalist or Islamist uprisings.
But times have changed. The Cold War is over. Most Muslim-majority countries today are not anti-American by default, and many are open to meaningful partnerships based on mutual interest and respect. In fact, the economic, demographic, and geopolitical advantages of fair alliances with the Muslim world far outweigh the diminishing returns of blind support for an apartheid regime that isolates America, inflames global resentment, and tarnishes its credibility.
America has everything to gain by reassessing this obsolete arrangement—and everything to lose by clinging to it. Yet America remains blindfolded.

h. Antisemitism

You may be surprised to see this listed here, and you may have expected antisemitism to be a force aligned with the Palestinians. But we are a nation committed to justice, and we strive to see things as they are. Some antisemites are motivated by religious resentment toward Jews for rejecting Jesus and may feel closer to Muslims who honor him as one of the greatest messengers of God and his mother as a virgin and saint. Yet, most antisemitism today is rooted not in theology, but in delusions of racial or ethnic supremacy. And those who harbor such views may despise not only Jews, but even more other Semites—namely Arabs, and by extension, Muslims. It is worth remembering that many of the political forces that supported the creation of Israel were driven not by sympathy for Jews, but by a desire to relocate their so-called “Jewish Problem” to lands far away from Europe. That tragic calculus had nothing to do with justice for either people—and we are all still living with its consequences.

5. But There Is More to America Than That

Yes, the system is corrupt. But no, it is not absolute.

a. Individuals of Conscience Still Speak Out

There are journalists, activists, clergy, and ordinary citizens who continue to speak the truth—not out of political opportunism, but from a place of moral conviction. Some are secular humanists, animated by the belief in the equal worth of all human life. Others are Christians who draw on the ethical core of their tradition— not on identitarian religion, apocalyptic fantasies, or the theology of empire, but the example of the prophets. Many have paid dearly. Rachel Corrie gave her life standing in front of an Israeli bulldozer to protect a Palestinian family’s home. Aaron Bushnell died in flames outside the Israeli Embassy to protest a genocide the world dares not name. Norman Finkelstein, the son of Holocaust survivors, was effectively pushed out of academia—denied tenure and marginalized—because he defended Palestinian rights with unflinching integrity and dared to challenge the sacred myths of power—they are proof that conscience still breathes, even within a system built to suppress it.

b. Fragile but Functional Institutions

America still offers, for now, limited space for dissent. The judiciary remains independent to a great extent—often capable of resisting political interference and upholding constitutional rights. But freedom of speech, while constitutionally protected, is not always consistently or equally granted—especially when it comes to criticism of Israel or advocacy for Palestinian rights. Social, professional, and institutional pressures often suppress certain voices long before the courts ever intervene. And even the judiciary is ultimately constrained by laws crafted by a legislature increasingly compromised by lobbyists, ideological capture, and foreign influence. If these trends continue, even the remaining institutional safeguards may not hold.

c. Real Patriots Still Exist

There are Americans who love their country not because it is powerful, but because they believe in what it claims to be. They see blind support for Israel—especially when it undermines American values or endangers its true interests—as a betrayal of the country’s founding principles. For them, dissent is not treason; it is a responsibility. They want an America that is respected, not merely feared; admired, not resented. And they understand that such an America cannot coexist with the defense of apartheid, military occupation, and the open shielding of war crimes.

6. To Muslims Abroad: Don’t Be Naïve—And Don’t Be Divided

This message may not reach you. But if it does—and you still do not see Israel as your existential enemy—then you are either comatose, or you have been bought. And if you still believe that America can serve as a fair broker between you and Israel, then you are dangerously mistaken—for it is not brokering peace, but managing your submission.

To the leaders, diplomats, and strategists among you:

No one is asking you to fight America. But you must:

• Refuse to be controlled by it.
• Use your diplomatic and economic leverage to pressure it.
• Stop allowing it to divide, intimidate, or co-opt you.
• You may hate one another, but if you had any sense of responsibility or strategic awareness, you would unite against the one power that stands in the way of your collective rise. That power is Israel—sustained, protected, and emboldened by America. I can’t help but laugh when I hear that you had a “meeting with your American counterparts.” Counterparts? In what sense? Your unity and cooperation are not luxuries. They are not merely religious mandates or strategic preferences—they are necessities. They are a condition for your survival in a world of superpowers.
• A unipolar world is harmful to all—even to the unipole itself. Allah says: ﴿وَلَوْلَا دَفْعُ اللَّهِ النَّاسَ بَعْضَهُم بِبَعْضٍ لَفَسَدَتِ الْأَرْضُ﴾ — “Were it not that Allah checks some people by means of others, the earth would be corrupted” (al-Baqarah 2:251). Build alliances with the Global South, including states like Russia, despite its past and present flaws—and others seeking emancipation from a collapsing world order—one that grows more openly hypocritical by the day, and may soon drop its mask entirely to reveal the face of Renaud de Châtillon. Pete Hegseth’s face, frankly, is not far off.

To the people:

You are looking at America from a distance. No one can blame you for focusing on the collective impact—the violence, the instability, the devastation you feel in your daily lives. And how could I possibly tell the parents of children buried beneath rubble not to hate the entity that supplied the weapons and shielded the killers?

I only ask this: take a closer look at the picture every now and then—examine its details. When you do, you’ll see that America is not a monolith. The reality inside is more layered and more conflicted than it appears from a distance. And I know that most of you already do.

I also ask that you:

Demand that your leaders act with dignity and strategic clarity—but also understand their constraints. Even China cannot reclaim what it sees as its own island, Taiwan, for fear of confronting the American military machine. Do not expect your governments to do what even superpowers hesitate to do.

Instead, work for righteous governance—without plunging your lands into chaos. There is a place for armed struggle, such as in the case of Syria under mass butchery, but most of the time, civil and principled struggle for reform is safer, more enduring, and more consistent with our religious values. Your enemies want to see you divided, disillusioned, and self-destructive. Do not give them that satisfaction.

And most importantly: be introspective. Your enemies did not make you weak—they only exploited the weakness you left unaddressed. They have benefited from your divisions, your corruption, your disorganization. Be angry with America. But be angrier with yourselves.

7. On Asymmetric Warfare and Moral and Strategic Limits

If the West stands firmly behind Israel, does that mean Muslims must suspend resistance until they are strong enough to defeat the entire Western bloc militarily? No—it doesn’t work like that. The West will not support Israel forever. It will stop when the cost becomes unbearable—politically, economically, and morally.

But until then, Muslims around the world ask: What should we do? Does asymmetric warfare have a legitimate role in resisting Israeli hegemony and oppression?

Sometimes asymmetric warfare is the only option—but necessity does not excuse lawlessness, and desperation cannot replace guidance. In Islam, warfare must be governed by Sharīʿah, not by emotion or expediency. Also, asymmetric resistance is sometimes necessary, but often insufficient—and it can never replace long-term strategy aimed at decisive, just, and lasting victory. It may delay defeat, but it rarely delivers final success unless it is part of a broader vision rooted in divine guidance, moral discipline, and strategic clarity. Here are some guiding thoughts:

We do not mirror our enemies’ crimes.
Islam forbids us from targeting women, children, and medics—even if our enemies do so without remorse. Moral clarity is not a luxury; it is a command. Yes, those on the weaker side often lack the luxury of precision. And yes, it is unimaginably difficult to maintain moral discipline while your children are buried under rubble by an occupier defending apartheid. But الدنيا سجن المؤمن—“this world is the prison of the believer”—and the Sharīʿah, when rightly understood, does not place us at an insurmountable disadvantage. It binds us to justice, not helplessness.

Asymmetric warfare is costly to the weaker party.
In Islam, leaders are not permitted to recklessly endanger their troops or populations. Sharīʿah requires that the expected benefit of armed resistance must clearly outweigh the potential harm. This decision must not rest with religious scholars alone. Their role is to outline the moral and legal parameters. But the actual assessment of benefit and harm must be made by those with expertise in warfare, politics, intelligence, and public welfare. Moral legitimacy depends not only on intent, but on responsibility and sound judgment.

The decision to take Muslims to war belongs to legitimate leadership
Islam does not grant individuals the right to unilaterally initiate warfare—whether symmetrical or asymmetrical. Acting without authority (iftiʾāt ʿalā al-sulṭān) is a violation of the Sharīʿah and a betrayal of communal trust. No individual has the mandate to drag an entire people into war based on personal judgment or zeal. On this, there is—and should be—no disagreement, not only among scholars, but among all sane and responsible people.

Public opinion matters—now and always.
The war for global perception is not trivial. The Prophet ﷺ took great care to consider how actions would be interpreted, and how they might affect the long-term credibility of the message. He once said, “So that people do not say…” (لا يتحدث الناس) when refraining from an action that could be misunderstood. Caring about how we are seen is not weakness—it is wisdom. This is even truer when we cannot defeat our enemies militarily and must rely on moral clarity, global awareness, and public support to sustain our struggle.

Build power—don’t merely react.
Allah says:
﴿وَأَعِدُّوا لَهُم مَّا اسْتَطَعْتُم﴾

“And prepare against them whatever you are able…” (al-Anfāl 8:60)
This is not just a call to arms—it is a call to capacity. Asymmetric warfare may resist occupation, but it rarely delivers decisive or enduring victory. Even in Vietnam and Afghanistan, America was not forced into military surrender—but it was outlasted, outmaneuvered, and compelled to retreat, unable to impose its political will despite overwhelming force. But Palestine is different. Israel will not leave. And America will not leave Israel—unless the cost becomes too high to sustain.

The Prophet ﷺ said three times:

‏”ألا إنَّ القوَّةَ الرَّميُ ألا إنَّ القوَّةَ الرَّميُ ألا إنَّ القوَّةَ الرَّميُ”

“Indeed, strength lies in shooting.” (Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim)
Today, “shooting” means delivering the most accurate and devastating strike—faster and farther than your enemy. This requires not only weapons, but excellence in science, engineering, and systems. But military power is not built in isolation. A B-2 bomber isn’t built on physics alone—it depends on an entire society cultivating long-term investment, human development, discipline, creativity, and trust.

And even that is not enough.
A society that achieves technological mastery but neglects justice and righteousness will not be honored by God. The Prophet ﷺ said:

“كيف يقدس الله أمة لا يؤخذ لضعيفهم من شديدهم؟!”

“How can Allah sanctify a nation in which the rights of the weak are not taken from the strong?”

And even justice is not the final goal. If our efforts are not for Allah, then even our achievements are weightless. Allah says:

﴿وَقَدِمْنَا إِلَىٰ مَا عَمِلُوا مِنْ عَمَلٍ فَجَعَلْنَاهُ هَبَاءً مَّنثُورًا﴾

“And We will turn to whatever deeds they had done, and make them as scattered dust.” (al-Furqān 25:23)

So let our short-term strategy and long-term vision move in harmony—toward a revival that is powerful, principled, and anchored in God. Asymmetric warfare may be a phase in our struggle, but it must not become our identity. It is a response, not a strategy; a tool, not a philosophy.

8. To Muslims in America: You Live Inside the Picture

You do not have the luxury of distance. You see this system up close. And if you allow your anger to collapse into total despair, you will never help change it. You live inside the picture. And while it’s necessary to step back at times to see the whole, your proximity also binds you to the details: to the institutions, the individuals, the mechanisms, and the nuances. You must learn to engage both the part and the whole—to see the system for what it is, and to act within it wisely and effectively.

You must:

• Channel your rage into purposeful action.
• Build institutions.
• Leverage the system’s contradictions, and use its remaining efficiencies to advance justice wherever possible.
• Work with allies of conscience.
• Speak truth to power—wisely.

Yes—hate the corrupt elements of the system and its protagonists, and stay angry at the entrenched forces that profit from your despair and feed off injustice—those who manipulate power, suppress truth, and normalize cruelty:

• The corrupt political class that sells its conscience to lobbies and careers.
• The legacy media that manufactures consent for war and buries the truth under distraction.
• The religious fanatics who long for Armageddon and sanctify genocide in the name of prophecy.
• The racists and supremacists who refuse to see your children as human, your pain as real, or your lives as worthy.

But do not reduce all of America to these forces. Let your anger sharpen your vision—not blind it. Do not allow rage to erase the virtues that still exist within this system, or the individuals of conscience who, in some cases, have done more than you or me in defense of truth and justice.

If your hatred becomes blind, you’ll be unable to act with clarity or purpose. And if you are so overcome that you can no longer function here emotionally or spiritually, no one can blame you for seeking peace elsewhere. That may well be the wisest choice for your well-being and the well-being of your family.

But for those who remain: Don’t be domesticated. Don’t be defeated. Don’t be consumed.

Final Thoughts

In Gaza, I witnessed firsthand how non-Muslim American doctors were embraced by the people—even after it became known that they were American. The doctors were surprised. I was not. This is who we are. This is what Islam teaches.

Stay angry. But stay just.
Be sharp. But be kind.
Be strategic. But be principled.

And never forget: this is not merely a struggle for land. It is a struggle for the future of truth and justice—for the dignity of all humanity.

وصلى الله على محمد والحمد لله رب العالمين

Related:

Over 85 Muslim Scholars, Leaders And Institutions Say Muslim Nations Can Take “Concrete Action” To End Gaza Genocide

The post The Terrorist Entity of Israel Is Our Existential Enemy — Should We Hate America? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

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

“Never say that those martyred in the cause of Allah are dead—in fact, they are alive! But you do not perceive it.”
– Quran 2:154

The Doors of Grace

Zaid Karim Al-Husayni walked in the door of his apartment and smiled, luxuriating in the aroma of Iraqi food that filled the place. He was bone tired, not so much physically, but emotionally. His heart was like an old rug, beaten to knock the dust off, only to find that the stains were permanent.

The apartment, at least, was a haven. Safaa had decorated it in the style of a traditional Arabic home. A low daybed beneath the window was piled with embroidered cushions in rose and cream, and a brass tray held Safaa’s silver teapot and two tiny glasses. Above, an ornate filigree lantern hung from the ceiling, casting warm light onto a mosaic-tiled floor of terracotta and cobalt.

Safaa had done a phenomenal job. Zaid felt so at peace here.

“As-salamu alaykum,” he called out. “Bismillah, ya Allah iftah lee abwaba rahmatik.” O Allah, open for me the doors of your mercy.

The girls ran to greet him, and he dropped to one knee to embrace them. Anna was growing like a weed, and seemed taller every time he came home. She preferred plain clothes, like jeans and oversized t-shirts, and would not wear anything colorful or frilly. Hajar, on the other hand, looked like a wrapped dollop of sunshine in a ruffled yellow dress, and with a yellow ribbon in her hair.

“Guess what, Baba,” Anna said. She had begun calling him Baba unbidden about a year ago, and he never stopped her. She knew very well who her biological parents were, and she retained her given name – Anna Anwar. But for all genuine purposes, Zaid and Safaa were her parents now. Legally as well, since they had formally adopted her.

“Hajar says she wants to marry Ishaaq. I said she should find a boy with more qualities.”

“He has lots of qualities!” Hajar protested.

“Oh, really?” Zaid smiled. Ishaaq was a Yemeni boy in Hajar’s class. Zaid had always thought the two of them didn’t get along. “Like what?”

“Like he can draw a perfect circle, and he knows all the jokes.”

“Those qualities seem good.”

Hajar smiled. “You want to play Life with us?”

Zaid stood up, threw out his arms like an opera conductor and sang, “The game of Life, the gaaaaaame of Life, you will learn about life when you play the game of Life!”

Hajar threw back her head and laughed, while Anna said, “What is that, a commercial from the 1800’s?”

“You girls go play your game,” Safaa said. “Baba and I have to talk about grown up stuff.”

“Yucky,” Hajar commented, and the girls scampered off.

The Envelope

Safaa leaned in for a kiss. He pulled her close, embraced her and closed his eyes, reveling in her scent. He tightened his arms, squeezing her, and she gave a delighted laugh. When he released her she took his hand and said, “Come. I have something to show you.”

She led him to the bedroom, sat him on the bed and took an envelope out of a dresser drawer. “Deek Saghir stopped by. He dropped this off.”

Zaid took the envelope. It was heavy and full to bursting. He knew right away what was in it. On the front there was a note: For a true hero. The least I could do.

Zaid’s mouth turned down, and a sour feeling rose in his gut. “Did you count it?”

“It’s one hundred thousand dollars.” She raised her eyebrows and grinned as if to say, Isn’t this an exciting development!

“I told him he only owed me $1,500. I’ll return the rest.”

Safaa sighed. “This again, baby? Why are you so determined to turn away money?”

Zaid’s mouth opened, then closed. He couldn’t tell her the details of what he’d done to rescue Deek. He couldn’t tell her that this was blood money. One hundred thousand? That was thirty three thousand per life taken. The cost of a new car. Was that what a human life was worth now, a car? If a man’s life was worth a mid-sized sedan then what about a child’s life? A scooter? The envelope felt like a brick of lead in his hands. He dropped it onto the bedspread.

Safaa studied him. She knew him well, and even though she didn’t know the details of what he’d done, she must have read some of it in his face. She took his hand gently.

“After you rescued Anna, I told you that you didn’t need me at all, that it was all of us who needed you, do you remember?”

“Sure.”

“Maybe that was true then. But now, baby, all we need is each other. You, me, Hajar and Anna. We don’t need this money. If you want to return it, I won’t object. But listen, sweetheart. This isn’t dirty money. It’s gratitude. You saved Deek in some kind of way, I know that. Every dollar in that envelope is a debt we all owe you, and you deserve every cent. I know you carry weight in your heart, but let me carry this one for you. I’ll take the money and spend it for our family, and I will carry the burden. I’m so proud of you—always.”

Zaid wanted to reply, but the words were caught in his chest like a butterfly in a net. He nodded.

Rather than embrace him, Safaa pushed him onto his back, straddled his torso and began to rain mock punches on his head. “Who’s the tough guy now, huh?”

Zaid laughed and called out for the girls. They came running, and he said, “Mama is beating me up, help!” With squeals of delight, the girls grabbed pillows and began to hit Safaa. The envelope fell off the bed and rolled under a nightstand. In that moment, Zaid forgot Deek, who was like a living Janus coin. He forgot Badger, and the teenage girl he’d returned home, and Bandar, and even Panama, and luxuriated in the joy of a moment like a precious pearl in a long string of gems. Allah had always been good to him, and always would be.

“I surrender!” Safaa pleaded. “Help, Zaid!”

He gave a mock villain’s laugh, and grabbed a pillow.

Letters and Books

He was still laughing when the cordless phone on the nightstand made a sound like a bird’s warble. He answered with a smile, but it faded as his father said, “As-salamu alaykum Zaid.” There was a softness to his tone that surprised Zaid, but worried him.

They’d spoken only once or twice since Zaid’s return from Panama. It wasn’t that Zaid blamed him for Mom’s behavior. Just that they had little to say to each other. After a lifetime of seeking attention from an emotionally absent father, a lifetime of hoping and wishing for a dad who would play with him, attend his school events, talk to him, notice him, Zaid had finally given up.

Although… His father had written to him regularly when he was in prison. They were not emotional, “I love you and stand by you,” kind of letters. That wasn’t his father’s style. More like, “I’m working on a major engineering project, your mother has been diagnosed with high blood pressure, Uncle Tarek sold the store…” That kind of thing. Yet even these dry notes were more than many had done, and – Zaid knew – were an expression of love.

On top of that, his father had sent books. Every month, Zaid received a new book, and even though Zaid never requested any particular book, his father always seemed to send something appropriate. Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago, about the desperation of the Russian political prison system. A collection of Palestinian poetry of resistance. The incredibly detailed Life of Muhammad by A Guillaume. A sci-fi novel about a bodyguard pursued across multiple worlds by an alien race. The Autobiography of Malcolm X, and Muhammad Asad’s Road to Mecca. And so on.

Zaid couldn’t keep more than five books in his cell by regulation, so he would read the books and then donate them to the prison library.

He still sometimes thought of that library, and what new prisoners must think coming into the pen and finding – instead of the usual collection of Louis L’Amour westerns – an eclectic collection of sci-fi books, Arab poetry, and Islamic treatises.

His father, absent though he may have been, had earned himself a lot of goodwill in Zaid’s heart with those letters and books.

Bad News

“Wa alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah. It’s good to hear from you, Dad.” Saying this, Zaid realized that he sincerely meant it.

His father cleared his throat. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I have bad news, however.”

Panic rose like a geyser in Zaid’s chest. “Is it Mom?”

Safaa said something to the girls, and they trotted out. She closed the bedroom door, then returned to sit very close to Zaid, taking his hand.

“No,” his father said. “Baby Munir died last night. He went into a seizure and his heart stopped.”

The world narrowed. The breath he was about to take stalled. He heard something like an intake of air from the other side—maybe a sympathetic reflex, maybe nothing—and then his father continued, “Faiza called me this morning. She’s handling it. There will be a small memorial in Amman. I don’t know yet what the arrangements are. You can do whatever you think is appropriate.” His words were precise, like measurements on a blueprint—accurate and clear, with an almost imperceptible hint of concern.

Zaid didn’t speak for a long moment. There were more tears inside him than water in the Mediterranean, that warm and fruitful sea that kissed the shores of Gaza, but from which the Gazans were not allowed to fish.

The tears did not come, however. There would be a time for that.

“How is Aunt Faiza?” he asked finally, and the question came out smaller than the grief that had already rolled through him, and now lay like foam upon the surface of his inner sea.

“She’s keeping it together,” his father said. “She asked after you. Said you were the one who always talked to her when she needed to not fall apart.”

“Are we…” Zaid wasn’t sure what to ask. “Are we doing anything?”

“I cannot go to Amman right now, if that’s what you mean. You may do as you desire. Do what’s right.”

The “do what’s right” landed like a hand on his neck. Zaid had spent so much of his life trying to figure out what that phrase meant when it came from his father—was it obedience? Was it presence? Was it performance? He had no translator for grief that arrived wrapped in the same language that had once been a whip.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and it came out brittle. His father made a small sound that could have been either acknowledgment or impatience.

“Take care of Safaa and the girls.”

“You take care as well,” Zaid managed, then realized that his father had already hung up.

Money’s Purpose

“What is it?” Safaa asked quietly.

“Baby Munir died.” The words were hollowed out by a lifetime of grief for his homeland and his relatives who had suffered and died. The old, complicated catalog of feelings—guilt, frustration, love, helplessness—rolled through him, heavy as the envelope that had tumbled under the nightstand and now lay somewhere out of sight.

The envelope! The money. His mind spun. The $100,000 had felt too heavy earlier, the numbers like a ledger of lives—how many had been paid for, how many had slipped away. Now the same stack of money was a bridge. Deek’s mess of debt and salvation folded back on itself: the man he’d pulled from the jaws of death had, without asking, given him the means to keep another small part of his own family from vanishing without acknowledgment.

Even as he thought this, his mind recognized the coldness of the mental arithmetic, and he recoiled. What was wrong with him? This wasn’t a trade: saving Deek’s life in exchange for a consolation prize for Faiza. Who was he to measure Allah’s grace, or to act as if he had a part in managing the balance? Astaghfirullah.

“Ya Allah,” he whispered, “Forgive me for counting what only You can weigh.” He let the impulse settle into something purer: he would send Aunt Faiza the money not to settle a debt or to manipulate the mizan – the heavenly scale that weighed all people’s deeds – but as an act of love. Nothing more..

Safaa put her arms around him, whispering Islamic prayers and words of comfort.

“I’m going to send Aunt Faiza thirty thousand dollars to cover the funeral costs, and to help with her living situation, inshaAllah.”

Safaa rubbed his back. “Of course, habibi. Whatever you want.”

“Allah have mercy on Deek Saghir,” Zaid said. “May Allah grant him good in the dunya and the aakhirah.”

“Ameen.”

Jamilah Al-Husayni

“I need to call Jamilah.” His cousin Jamilah Al-Husayni had a special fondness for Baby Munir. She deserved to know what had transpired.

Jamilah lived and worked in a rehab clinic on the Northern California coast.

Jamilah lived and worked in a rehab clinic on the Northern California coast. She returned every four or five months to visit her mother and brother in Madera, but no one knew her phone number and precise address except Zaid—‘for security,’ she’d insisted, because the patient she cared for needed privacy.

“You’re a private eye,” she’d once told him with a wink. “You know how to keep secrets. That’s why you’re the only one with my phone number. I expect discretion.”

Zaid had taken this act of trust seriously. Her number was saved in his contacts as simply “C” for cousin. As he pressed the call button, the room was quiet—only the soft rustle of the girls playing somewhere down the hall, the ordinary sound of life trying to push past the weight in the air.

Her voice came through, a little breathless. There was a whipping sound like a strong wind. “Zaid? Hold on, I’m sitting on the patio and the wind is coming off the ocean. Let me go inside.”

Zaid heard a door slide open and closed, and the background noise quieted. “It’s been too long. Where are you now?”

“In Fresno,” he said. “Home. Safaa is with me, you’re on speaker.”

“Safaa!” Jamilah exclaimed. “I miss you so much. We need to get together. How are the girls?”

Safaa’s tone was subdued, knowing what was coming. “They’re great, alhamdulillah. Anna calls us Baba and Mama now. Hajar wants to marry a boy named Ishaaq because he draws perfect circles.”

Jamilah laughed. “My cousin Shamsi has a checklist too, but that’s not on it.”

“I need to tell you something,” Zaid said. “It’s not good news.”

There was a pause, and when Jamilah spoke again her voice was subdued. “I think I know. Baby Munir returned to Allah, didn’t he?”

“Yes. Who told you?”

“No one. And I wasn’t actually sure.”

“He died last night. Allah have mercy on him,” Zaid said. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon.”

Without missing a beat, Jamilah recited an ayah from the Quran in Arabic, then translated:

“Never say that those martyred in the cause of Allah are dead—in fact, they are alive! But you do not perceive it.”

The ayah hit Zaid like a cold ocean wave, shocking him. SubhanAllah! His father had said that Munir had “died,” and Zaid had parroted the statement to Safaa and Jamilah. But no! We never speak of the shuhadaa that way. I know better. But sometimes I forget.

“You’re right,” he said. “Jamilah?”

The line went quiet, save for a faint hum that rose and fell. Had the line been disconnected? “Hello? Jamilah?” The sound continued. Safaa touched his arm and mouthed, “She’s crying.” Zaid closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and waited.

The Dream

Almost a full minute later, Jamilah spoke, and her voice was surprisingly strong. “The heart grieves, and the eyes weep, but we know the promise of Allah is true.”

Zaid mouthed the word, “Wow,” to Safaa. Who was this woman he was talking to? Jamilah had changed so much in the last few years. The younger Jamilah had been impulsive, angry, and sometimes arrogant, but this Jamilah was pious and wise beyond her years. His cousin kept a lot of secrets, but Zaid was sure that something profound must have happened to remake her in this way.“I knew something had happened,” Jamilah went on, “or was about to. I dreamed of baby Munir last night.”

Zaid didn’t expect the small hitch in his chest, the way his breath caught. “What did you see?”

“Falastin,” she said, and the word came out like a prayer. “Palestine. * (see author’s footnote). Not demolished homes and kids shot by snipers. Not murdered journalists, kidnapped children, bulldozed farms. No bombs falling. No. I saw a new Palestine being built in Jannah, block by block, street by street, town by town.

There is a new Falastin being built in Jannah, and it is glorious. Streets paved in gold bricks catch the sun and hold it like a promise. All the millions of Palestinians who hold keys to demolished or stolen houses? Those houses are being perfectly rebuilt with stones from the hills of Palestine. Everywhere there are arched doorways and domed roofs decorated with carved plaster swirls and rosettes. Courtyards with bubbling fountains, colorful tiles, and marble floors, and every home is finished with inlaid jewels and mother-of-pearl.

Families sit in their courtyards eating platters of grilled fish, musakhan, maqluba, bread, hummus, and olives. Children play football in the street, and these kids are strong and smiling, with eyes like bright stars.

There are vast orchards of tall olive trees, heavy with fruit. Cows and sheep graze the grass-covered hillsides. Fishermen return with great hauls of sea bream and sardines. Artisans make cheese, linen, and olive oil, just for the joy of it.

No one is hungry, no one is frightened or grieving. Laughter, love, and dhikr fill the air, and the sun shines as gently as a kiss. All those who believed and did righteous deeds have gardens beneath which rivers flow, just as the Quran promises.

I was there. It is real. I stood there, on those streets. The air smelled like sea salt, fresh bread, za’tar, and jasmine. Everywhere I heard the sound of people reciting the Quran. The adhaan sounded from a shining silver masjid, and the sound was so sweet it made me weep. People streamed to the masjid from every direction, men in white thobes and kefiyyehs, women in traditional red and black dresses with tatreez embroidery. They strolled to the masjids happily, swinging their children, and praising Allah.”

“That’s incredible,” Zaid said. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.” Beside him, Safaa wept quietly, covering her mouth. He put an arm around her and held her tight.

Jamilah went on, and Zaid heard a tremor in her voice now. “Munir was there. I recognized him right away. He looked a lot like you, Zaid, when you were young. He wasn’t a baby, but a boy of ten years old, healthy and laughing. Thick brown hair and a big smile. He was doing a freestyle rap praising Allah, and other kids were standing around him, smiling and listening. He glanced my way and grinned, like he knew who I was.

And guys, those Palestinians… All the shuhadaa were there, and all who have been imprisoned and tortured, but they were whole people. They carried no weight, they weren’t healed because they were never broken. Because we Palestinians do not break.”

Still Me

Zaid didn’t answer immediately. The sound of his own breathing filled the silence, thick and raw. He felt something behind his eyes, warm and wet. He swallowed it down. “Tell Faiza,” he said. “Tell her what you saw. Let her know he’s somewhere better. That she’s not alone in carrying him.”

“I will,” Jamilah said. “I’ll call her tonight, inshaAllah.”

Zaid exhaled. “You’ve changed so much,” he said quietly. “Remember when I ran into you in San Francisco, and you were sitting on that armchair on the sidewalk, wearing your cycling outfit? Sometimes I miss the crazy Jamilah of the past, but I think the new Jamilah is a lot happier.”

He heard the sound of Jamilah’s smile. “There are places that try to break you, and places that build you back up. “I’m in a place that builds people back up. You’re right, I’ve changed. I was foolish and arrogant back then. I’m still me, Zaid. Just… Some of the edges have been softened. Things are clearer. Safaa, you’re so quiet. Are you still there?”

Safaa wiped her nose on Zaid’s sleeve, then said, “You’re a special person, Jamilah.”

“And you, Safaa, are the rock that my cousin leans on, and the light that shows the way.”

Safaa smiled and brushed tears from her cheeks.

“Should we do something for Faiza?” Jamilah wanted to know.

“I’ve got it covered,” Zaid said. “I’m sending her a good amount of money. Courtesy of a brother named Deek Saghir.”

“In that case,” Jamilah said, “Allah barik feek, ya Deek Saghir. Allah bless you, whoever you are.”

After the call, Zaid remained sitting, thinking about Jamilah’s dream. Allah had given her a true dream, which was one of the signs of imaan. He felt it acting as a salve inside him, softening the ragged edges of his wounds. He clung to it as a talisman, believing in it fully.

The dream did not erase the suffering of the Palestinians. The evil being committed against his people was unfathomable. But after all he’d been through, Zaid had come to grasp a certain truth: the dunya did not make sense without the aakhirah. In the dunya, people sometimes got away with their crimes, and innocents died without recompense.

By changing the time scale, by adding a dimension to human existence, and by factoring in a Day of perfect judgment when every stone and tree would be a witness, the aakhirah changed everything.

* * *

Footnote: this dream of Falastin in Jannah was dreamed by one of the residents of Gaza a few months ago. It was narrated to me by someone who heard it from that person. It was specifically a dream of a new Gaza being built in Jannah. I fully believe it to be true. In this story I changed it to Palestine more generally.

[Part 17 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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:

Gravedigger: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

The post Moonshot [Part 16] – A Palestine In Paradise appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Over 85 Muslim scholars, imams, community leaders, and institutions today released a joint statement expressing their view that the governments of Muslim-majority countries, including Arab Muslim nations located near Palestine, can take “immediate and concrete action” to secure an end to the Israeli occupation’s escalating genocide in Gaza.

Signatories to the statement argue that these Muslim-majority nations have the unique opportunity, legal authority, and moral basis to take various steps, such as:

1. Ending any economic, diplomatic, intelligence, and military relationships with the Israeli government, including the so-called Abraham Accords.

2. Announcing consideration of an embargo on global oil and gas sales that directly or indirectly contribute support to the Israeli government’s genocide.

3. Banning the use of their country’s airspace and the use of any military bases within their country to support the Israeli government in any way.

4. Opening their side of Gaza entry points like the Rafah crossing and facilitating the travel of aid trucks, medics, journalists, demonstrators and others who wish to approach the crossing and demand entry.

5. Organizing a unified diplomatic mission to a Gaza crossing with senior government officials personally leading an aid convoy and refusing to leave until Israel allows unlimited aid to enter freely by land routes.

The full statement reads:

In the name of Allah, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful. All praise and thanks belong to Allah, the Lord of the Worlds. May peace and prayers be upon Prophet Muhammad, his family, and his companions.

Al-Nu’man ibn Bashir reported that the Messenger of Allah, may peace and blessings be upon him, said, “The parable of the believers in their affection, mercy, and compassion for each other is that of a body. When any limb aches, the whole body reacts with sleeplessness and fever.”

We, the undersigned Islamic scholars, religious leaders, and institutions, write today to share our view that the political leaders of the world’s Muslim-majority nations should take greater, concrete action to stop the ongoing genocide of our brothers and sisters in Gaza.

We wake up every morning to see new images of men, women and children in Gaza whose rib cages protrude through their skin because of starvation, whose heads have been hollowed out because of Israeli snipers, or whose bodies have been charred like charcoal because of a bombing.

We also see the Israeli occupation stealing more swathes of land across Palestine and threatening to expel surviving Palestinians from Gaza. We see mercenaries opening fire on crowds of starving Palestinians seeking food.

We see that, even under increasing international outcry, an insufficient trickle of aid enters Gaza while the death toll from both starvation and Israel’s indiscriminate attacks rises daily.

Despite the efforts of various human rights groups, brave journalists, nations like South Africa, and millions of protestors around the world, the Israeli occupation is now reaching the final stages of its campaign of extermination and expulsion.

The common regional response to Israel’s crimes—a foreign ministry issuing a statement of condemnation that calls on unnamed members of the international community to stop the genocide—has not stopped the genocide. Neither have calls for the deadlocked, ineffective and unrepresentative UN Security Council to take action.

Business as usual in international affairs is simply not working.

We believe that the governments of the Muslim-majority nations of the world should not wait for the “international community” to grow a conscience. This is especially true of Arab Muslim nations surrounding Palestine.

We believe that these governments have the unique opportunity, legal authority, and moral basis to take greater, immediate and concrete action to pressure the Israeli occupation to end this carnage.

Although a genocide should matter to every single human being regardless of their faith, this genocide against a predominantly Muslim population carried out by an openly racist, anti-Muslim government should especially matter to the ummah of Prophet Muhammad . So should the fate of Palestine, including Masjid Al Aqsa.

Although we recognize the geographic, financial and military limitations that some governments in the Arab Muslim world face, it appears to us that these governments have many unused tools at their disposal.

Some of these governments control the most important parts of global oil production. Some of them host military bases used to resupply and support Israel. Others control airspace that is critical to the Israeli government and its ability to rearm. One controls a border crossing with Gaza. These nations have leverage. They just haven’t used it.

We therefore today express our view that the governments of Muslim-majority nations should go beyond harsh statements and diplomatic entreaties. Specifically, we believe that these governments could help end the genocide by:

1. Ending any economic, diplomatic, intelligence, and military relationships with the Israeli government, including the so-called Abraham Accords.
2. Announcing consideration of an embargo on global oil and gas sales that directly or indirectly contribute support to the Israeli government’s genocide.
3. Banning the use of their country’s airspace and the use of any military bases in their country to support the Israeli government in any way.
4. Opening their side of Gaza entry points like the Rafah crossing and facilitating the travel of aid trucks, medics, journalists, demonstrators and others who wish to approach the crossing and demand entry.
5. Organizing a unified diplomatic mission to a Gaza crossing with senior government officials personally leading an aid convoy and refusing to leave until Israel allows unlimited aid to enter freely by land routes.

Over the past two years, people around the world have bravely protested to demand an end to the Israeli occupation’s genocide in Gaza. These protesters—many of them not Muslim, Palestinian or Arab—risked their jobs, reputations, and safety to stand up for our brothers and sisters in Palestine.

Now the governments of the Muslim world have an opportunity to reflect the wishes of their citizens by taking brave, unified action to help our brothers and sisters in Gaza.

We believe that if they take the aforementioned steps and use other appropriate tools at their disposal in an attempt to stop the genocide, the entire Muslim world and people of good faith around the world will rally around them.

We close with a prayer.

May Allah grant the highest rank of Paradise to our brothers and sisters who have been martyred in Gaza, heal those injured, and comfort those who have lost loved ones.

May Allah forgive the ummah for failing to do more to help our brothers and sisters in Gaza.

May Allah guide the political leaders of the Muslim world to take effective action for our brothers and sisters in Gaza and uphold justice for all.

May Allah inspire all of us to strive for justice with sincere intentions, wise decisions, effective strategies and successful outcomes.

May peace and blessings be upon Prophet Muhammad , his family, and his companions.
Ameen.

CURRENT SIGNATORIES
Individuals

• Imam Mohamed Abdel Salam,  Puyallup Islamic Community Center (PICC)
• Dr. Ismahan Abdullahi
• Imam Sedin Agic
• Aftab Alam, President, The March 15th Forum
• Shaykh Ibrahim Ali
• Hafiz Ikhlas Ansari
• Nihad Awad, National Executive Director, Council on American-Islamic Relations
• Sheikh Abdullah Ateeque
• Shoaeb Basha, Executive Director, American Muslim Health Professional
• Dr. Hatem Bazian, President of Northern California Islamic Council
• Noorgul Dada, Chairman, Noor Islamic Cultural Center
• Imam Mohamed Dahir
• Dr. Abdelhafid Djemil
• Imam Seyed Ali Ghazvini
•  Imam Khalid Griggs, Executive Director, ICNA Council for Social Justice
• Dr. Ayman Hammous, Executive Director, Muslim American Society
• Dr. Suleiman Hani
• Dr. Altaf Husain
• Imam Ahmadullah Kamal, IQRA Cultural Center
• Muhi Khwaja, American Muslim Community Foundation
• Yasser Louati, Comité Justice & Libertés (Committee for Justice and Liberties)
• Edward Ahmed Mitchell, Deputy Director, Council on American-Islamic Relations
• Shaykh Suhail Mulla
• Imam Saeed Purcell
• Dr. Yasir Qadhi
• Imam Mohamed Mukhtar Sayid
• Emad Sabbah, President and Co-Founder, Ethaar
• Imam Ali Siddiqui, Former Chairman, Peace with Justice Center, LaVerne, CA
• Chaplain Ahmed Shedeed, President, Islamic Center Of Jersey City
• Dr. Omar Suleiman
• Dr. Hebatullah Taha, President of the Board, CAIR Los Angeles
• Imam Suhaib Webb
• Hena Zuberi, Editor-in-Chief, MuslimMatters

Organizations

• • Ahlulbayt Islamic Center of Columbus
  • American Islamic Cultural Center
  • American Muslim Health Professionals (AMHP)
  • American Muslims for Palestine (AMP)
  • Arizona Muslim Alliance
  • Australian Muslim Advocacy Network (AMAN)
  • Center for Education and Research Nahla
  • Center for Religious Tolerance (Masjid Usman) San Diego
  • Comité Justice & Libertés (Committee for Justice and Liberties)
  • Council of Sacramento Valley Islamic Organizations (COSVIO)
  • Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR)
  • Dar al-Hijrah Islamic Center
  • Ethaar
  • Greenview Madani Center
  • Hamzah Islamic Center
  • Hershey Islamic Center
  • Husaynia Islamic Society of Seattle
  • Islamic Center Of Jersey City
  • ICNA Council for Social Justice
  • Imam Council of Metropolitan St. Louis
  • Islamic Council of Victoria
  • Islamic Association of North America (IANA)
  • Islamic Center of Pennsylvania
  • Islamic Center of Irving
  • Islamic Center of Morgantown
  • Islamic Center of San Diego
  • Islamic Circle of North America (ICNA)
  • Islamic Community Center of Atlanta
  • The Islamic Society of Central Delaware
  • Islamic Society of Chester County
  • Islamic Society of North America (ISNA)
  • Islamophobia Studies Center
  • Islamic Center Masjid Al-Sabereen
  • IQRA Cultural Center
  • Kurdish Community Islamic Center
  • Muslim Alliance in North America (MANA)
  • The March 15th Forum
  • Muslim American Society (MAS)
  • Muslim Community of Nassau County
  • MAS Sacramento Region
  • Muslim Anti-Racism Collaborative (MuslimARC)
  • Muslim Community Of Folsom
  • Muslim Girl
  • Muslim Legal Fund of America (MLFA)
  • Muslim Students Association (MSA National)
  • North American Imams Federation (NAIF)
  • Noor Islamic Cultural Center
  • Prince George’s County Muslim Council
  • Rihla Community Services
  • Sacramento Area League of Associated Muslims (SALAM)
  • Shia Muslim Council of Southern California
  • Tri-City Islamic Center
  • US Council of Muslim Organizations
  • We Love Our Neighbors
  • World Council of Muslims for Interfaith Relations

If you are an Muslim institution, scholar, imam, or organizational leader, and you would like to sign the statement, you can do so here.

The post Over 85 Muslim Scholars, Leaders and Institutions Say Muslim Nations Can Take “Concrete Action” to End Gaza Genocide appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

[Content warnings: violence, rape, antisemitism, Islamophobia]

 

In Following the Equator: A Journey Around the World, Mark Twain wrote, “Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t.”

For Arnesa Buljušmić-Kustura, a survivor and scholar of the Bosnian genocide, writing about the aftermath of a well-documented war was—and is—no easy task. She describes Letters from Diaspora: Stories of War and Its Aftermath on its back jacket as “a fictionalized portrayal of immigrants living in Diaspora based on the real stories Bosnian people have shared with her throughout her years of living in the United States.” 

This sentence provides the audience with all they need to know—while the stories are fictionalized, they are not falsified.

Falsification is a modification designed to intentionally misinform readers. Fictionalization is reimagination, specifically to provide others with a fresh perspective.

In fictionalizing, an author may change a name, rephrase a sentence, or alter the structure of a testimony—but the essence of the story is preserved. In Letters from Diaspora, Buljušmić-Kustura has done just that—compile and combine survivors’ stories she’d heard with her ear and transform them into stories with heart.

“Fifty years after the world said ‘Never Again’ to the horrors of the Holocaust, genocide took place on European soil,” says the organization Remembering Srebrenica. Despite years of multicultural and multiethnic coexistence, rising racism and Islamophobia led to neighbors killing neighbors. Serbs and Croats pitted themselves against Bosniaks, who were primarily Muslim. 8,000 believers were senselessly murdered, and their remains are still being dug up to this day.  

“While it has been [30] years since the war and genocide, the Bosnian population remains unhealed and too traumatized to speak publicly of the horrors they lived through,” the author’s note prefaced (Buljušmić-Kustura, 12). This statement echoes again in multiple letters. Rabija, whose first letter serves as an introduction to the silence surrounding the Bosnian genocide as a whole said, “We are afraid and yet we speak very little about the fear that we feel. I often wonder if my Bosnian friends do not speak about our past for fear it will repeat itself again.” (Buljušmić-Kustura, 21-22)

It’s understandable why a survivor may not want to be noticed so publicly and to live their lives recounting horrific incidents to audience after audience. Some may also not want to relive those terrible memories over and over again. Others feel significant pressure to put their identifying information out into the world, where it lives forever on ink and paper. To combat this, assigning a pseudonym to a survivor’s story can be liberating. The anonymity grants dignity; a rawness that might not otherwise be shared with others. Should a reader come across a survivor in real life, the reader would have no idea—and the survivor may prefer that, to continue navigating through their lives free of interrogation, no matter how innocent. Protection is as much of a priority for the dissemination of survivors’ accounts as is publication. By weaving some stories with others and assigning new names to each one, Buljušmić-Kustura directed this masterfully. Indeed, with some of the details given, it takes an expert to handle with care. 

“I saw them burn.” This is just one harrowing part of Jasmina’s letter. “I saw his body on the footsteps of the home I believed would hold our children one day. Is [thirty] years enough time to get over that? How can I get over that?” (Buljušmić-Kustura, 26)

Fictionalization is also helpful in cases of protecting a survivor’s physical safety. Genocide deniers and members of hate groups routinely threaten the safety of survivors, directly and indirectly. Neo-Nazis, for example, once fought to march to assert their First Amendment rights to freedom of expression and protest in Skokie, IL. Skokie, in 1977, was home to hundreds of Holocaust survivors, and those citizens were rightfully opposed to a thirty-minute show by those Neo-Nazis to wear swastikas (Goldberger). The ACLU accepted the case, and after a lengthy legal battle, the neo-Nazis were told to demonstrate in Chicago instead. A few years later, the wider community responded to that demonstration by building the Illinois Holocaust Museum in Skokie.

It’s a similar situation of safety for Bosnian-Americans, especially those who choose to return to their cities of origin. Hana shared in her letter, “[W]hen I returned to my hometown, two of the men that forcibly took my body were in the line next to me. They were free. They were happy even. […] Is that the kind of injustice I must live with? To know that the men that held me captive for a year, that abused me every day for a year, are able to go on and have happy lives?” (Buljušmić-Kustura, 42)

“I saw them burn.” [PC: Tim Mossholder (unsplash)]

A confrontation is a risk for survivors of any tragedy. In multi-layered chaos like prolonged war and becoming an international refugee, many cannot feasibly track their tormentors down. Even if they do, as Selma did, they often see the system fail them:

“I interned at The Hague. I saw the faces of those responsible for the deaths of my loved ones and one by one they gave them sentences that were too lenient, in my opinion. In some cases, they did not even give any sentences. I saw the faces of genocide and yet I could do very little to give them the punishment they deserved.” (Buljušmić-Kustura, 50)

The last reason, flexibility, may seem to center around the writer, but it can still revolve around the survivor. Writers are charged with telling a story. To do so requires not-so-simple decisions of craft. Detailed responses from interviews may have to be cut out due to word counts and page limits. When speaking to multiple survivors, some of the accounts are repeated, for no fault of their own—but unfortunately, audiences often complain of too much similarity between them. There’s a pressure to only highlight the unique parts of every survivor’s story; otherwise, they might not be read.

Buljušmić-Kustura did this masterfully in diversifying each letter, even the ones about loss. Safet mourned how Islamophobia and racism severed the ties between him and his Christian Serb friend (Buljušmić-Kustura, 30-34).

It’s the details like this that give the audience empathy and each account memorability. Sabahudin perhaps said in his interview that his mother, father, brothers, and neighbors were brutally slain. But a certain pain evokes within us when the author poetically ends one part of his testimony with “All of their blood creating one large puddle.” (Buljušmić-Kustura, 58) 

Our stomachs coil. Our eyes water. It’s as if Letters was sent to our personal mailbox, and we’re communicating with a long-lost friend. A human being, like us.

There are tender moments, too. We feel as though Ivana is chatting with us, sharing how she was a Christian at the start of the war and became a Muslim after it ended, despite the vile propaganda around her. (Buljušmić-Kustura, 60-66) Alma predicted that after another exhausting American party, she would return to her own home and think of how weddings were done in Bosnia. “I won’t dance, but I’ll close my eyes and I’ll send my mind back in time to the days I used to dance all night, until my feet bled.” (Buljušmić-Kustura, 72)

So let us uphold a real survivor’s dignity, safety, and story through fictionalizing. In doing so, we put the “art” in articulating—to share a story well-told and well-remembered.

 

Related:

– History of the Bosnia War [Part 1] – Thirty Years After Srebrenica

– Rising To The Moment: What Muslim American Activists Of Today Can Learn From Successful Community Movements During The Bosnian Genocide

The post The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But The Truth?: A Case For Fictionalizing Testimonies Of Atrocities appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

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

“(When) wealth is hoarded—its owner neither enjoys it during this life nor receives any recompense for it in the Hereafter.” — Ibn al‑Qayyim, Madarij al‑Salikin (Ten Useless Matters)

Ashlan Gardens

Still sitting in his Porsche, Deek called Marco, who answered with, “How did the Moon Walk Motel work out for you?”

“I got ki-” He’d been about to say, I got kidnapped, until he remembered he must not talk about that.

“You got what?”

“I, uh, got killed by that sagging mattress. Are you free? I want to take you to The Purple Heifer for dinner. My treat.”

“Purple Heifer! Did an uncle die and leave you a fortune? Heck yeah, I’m free.”

“Pick you up in an hour.”

Before the Purple Heifer, Deek had another stop to make. He stuffed $100,000 into a Marco Polo envelope, sealed it, and jotted a note on the envelope:

For a true hero. The least I could do.

He didn’t know exactly where Zaid Karim’s office was, and wasn’t about to drive around the East Belmont ghetto carrying a fortune in cash. Instead, he headed for Zaid’s apartment, which was on Ashlan Avenue near the national guard base. Deek and his family had been there for dinner a few times, and he was confident he could find it.

He ended up wandering around the Ashlan Gardens apartment complex for ten minutes until he found an upstairs apartment with a sticker on the door that said, “Laa ilaha il-Allah” in Arabic.

Coriander and Lime

When Safaa answered the door wearing sweat pants, an embroidered Arab shirt, and a loose orange scarf, Deek was momentarily nonplussed. He always forgot how much she looked like Rania. Safaa was taller than Rania and more slender, but their oval-shaped faces and large dark eyes were nearly identical, as were their rich brown complexions.

Thinking of Rania, he was suddenly hit with a pang of longing. What was she doing at this moment? Did she miss him? Was she lonely?

“Deek!” Safaa shook her head at him, smiling. “Why are you giving my cousin a hard time, huh? You even made Zaid go looking for you.”

The scent of Iraqi cooking emanated from the apartment. Deek could identify the distinct smell of caramelizing onions and garlic, the lemony-floral lift of coriander, and the sour-bitter tang of sun-dried lime. Safaa and Rania’s mothers were sisters, and the two of them had no doubt learned to cook all the same dishes. Deek could probably guess exactly what Safaa was cooking, based on the scent.

In the background, he heard the two girls arguing about what ingredients to put on a banana split.

“If you make it all chocolate,” Anna was saying reasonably, “it’s not a banana split. A banana split is supposed to have vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate.”

“You’re not the banana split police,” Hajar countered.

“Zaid’s not here,” Safaa added. “He and Jalal found that missing girl. They’re taking her home.”

Deek had no idea what Safaa was talking about. Zaid had rescued yet another missing girl? Unbelievable! The guy was a hero from a fairy tale.

“Are you going to adopt that one too?”

Safaa laughed. “No, silly. She’s nineteen!”

“Oh, uhh…” Deek held out the envelope. “This is for Zaid.”

Deek held a fervent hope that neither Zaid nor Safaa would be offended by this payment. Zaid had implied that Deek’s money was dirty money. That was unfair. He’d worked hard for this wealth, and he wanted to do something for the man who had put his life on the line for him. How else could he show his gratitude? He wasn’t a sage who could change a person’s life with a word. He wasn’t physically powerful, nor was he the kind of charismatic friend whose companionship everyone yearned for. But Allah had blessed him with wealth. This was what he had to give.

Safaa accepted the envelope, then read the note. “That’s so sweet! Zaid will love it.” She hefted the envelope, lifting it up and down. “Deek… this feels like cash. Is this money?”

Talking to Safaa was so weird. Even her mannerisms resembled Rania’s. Knowing that his own wife, at such a moment, would find something to chastise him for, and fearing that Safaa might do the same, he decided to beat a quick retreat.

“I have to go,” he blurted. “Thanks for everything!” And he was gone.

The Purple Heifer

Deek picked up Marco in front of the SRO. His friend stood amid the riffraff of the neighborhood, holding a trumpet case and looking as carefree as a bird on the breeze.

At about 5’8”, Marco was shorter than Deek, but aside from that, he could have been an actor or model. Even at the age of forty-five, his golden bronze skin – courtesy of his Puerto Rican heritage – was smooth. His black hair was thick, and naturally fell into waves that caressed his ears. He wore old hi-top sneakers, jeans with holes in the knees, and a clean but faded Miami Heat t-shirt. Deek knew that these worn-out clothes were not a deliberate fashion choice but simply the result of poverty, yet Marco managed to make it all look casually stylish.

Marco stuffed his trumpet case behind the passenger seat and climbed in. His hands roamed over the dashboard as he exclaimed, “Dude! What the heck is going on?”

Deek grinned. “I’ll tell you in a bit. Why did you bring the trumpet case?”

“Purple Heifer has a live piano player. I thought I might join in for a number.”

“They’ll let you do that?”

“I’m well known in the Fresno jazz scene.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Marco gave him a wry look. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

The Purple Heifer Steakhouse at the corner of Shaw and Cedar had been a Fresno fixture for decades. It was known for its flame-grilled steaks, wild-caught shrimp, crab cakes, lobster tails, exotic burgers, and more. It wasn’t the most expensive restaurant in town, but to guys like Marco and Deek (or the guy Deek had been last week), it might as well be a millionaire’s resort.

Approaching the restaurant, Deek could smell the cooking beef from half a block away. The popular eatery was huge and dimly lit, which was one of the reasons Deek had chosen it. He asked for a corner booth. The piano player, a sixtyish man in a black suit and top hat, was playing a lively yet smooth song that might have been Brazilian jazz. The restaurant was busy, with a lot of conversations happening at once, but the music managed to float above it all, and Deek found himself tapping his foot to the beat. He was excited for what was about to happen, and couldn’t wait to see his friend’s reaction.

A Gift

Once they’d ordered, Deek set a backpack on the table.

“This is for you.”

Marco poked the backpack with a finger. “Books? I have plenty of books in storage. No space in my room.”

“Not books.”

“Better not be a practical joke like one of those expanding snakes, I’m serious.” Feeling the backpack tentatively, he unzipped it and peered inside, then, miffed, gave Deek a lopsided frown. “So it is a joke! What is this, Monopoly money?”

“It’s as real as the Porsche.” Deek lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s two hundred thousand dollars. It’s yours, as a gift from me for your friendship.”

Marco wobbled in the chair as if he might fall. Deek half rose, reaching for his friend. Why did people keep reacting like this to the sight of money?

Marco gripped the edge of the table with one hand and waved Deek off with the other. “I’m okay,” he said, and the words sounded squeezed. “Where did this come from?”

Briefly, Deek explained what had happened in the last week, though not delineating the full extent of his wealth.

Three Reasons

Marco reached into the backpack and felt around, touching the money. Then he closed the backpack and sat back. Sweat had broken out over his forehead. Finally, he pushed the backpack across the table to Deek, rumpling the tablecloth and nearly knocking over Deek’s water glass.

Marco’s lips were tight. “I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?” Deek’s voice came out louder than he intended, and he lowered it to an intense whisper. “You’re living in an SRO. I want to help you.”

“Three reasons,” Marco spoke slowly but firmly. “One, my friendship is given freely. It requires no payment or gift.”

Deek tried to reply, but Marco held up a hand. “Two, it’s a little insulting, as if you don’t believe that I can create my own better future. Three, make no mistake, there’s a part of me that would be happy to take this cash. But how long would it last? Two or three years? I might buy a car, which brings further expenses, and rent an apartment, buy nice clothes, pay off my student debt, and voila – the money’s gone. Then what? I come to you asking for more? At which point you begin to doubt my sincerity. No, our friendship must be a steady, controlled reaction, not an exothermic burst that blazes with heat, then dies.”

“I would never – “

Again, Marco held up a hand. “Look, Deek. With the money you have now, people are going to swarm around you. They will want to sell you things, borrow from you, make business deals, solicit donations, learn your crypto methods, or pretend to be your friends in order to freeload. You will begin to doubt everyone’s intentions. I won’t be one of those. You will always know I am your true friend, because I will always pay my own way.”

People Help The People

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to squeeze in a song before the food comes.”

As Marco spoke to the piano player, Deek gripped his water glass so tightly that it cracked. He was fed up with people acting like he was the devil trying to corrupt them with a gift of wealth. If Marco were hungry, would he refuse a meal? If he were sick, would he turn away a blood transfusion? Why did people behave so bizarrely when it came to money?

Marco had his trumpet out. The piano player began a slow song, and Marco soon joined in. The song was moderately paced but sad, like a man pleading for forgiveness from a lover he had never meant to harm. At first, the despondency of the song deepened Deek’s bitterness, but Marco’s trumpet rose and fell like a bird riding the currents between land and sea. Deek’s breathing eased, and he sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. The restaurant became hushed as conversations were stilled. When the song was over, applause broke like a crashing wave.

Marco tried to leave, but the audience called for an encore. For the second song, they played a mid-tempo jazzy number, and Marco sang. Deek had heard Marco sing little snatches of tunes before, but never a full-throated number like this. His voice was low and strong, like the running of a river swollen with spring rain. He belted out a song about a man in love with a woman on an October night, and wanting to dance with her beneath the moon.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” Deek enthused afterward.

“As I said, there’s a lot you don’t know.”

“I would really love to hear you recite the Quran in Arabic one day. It would be amazing to hear it in your voice.”

Marco nodded. “Could happen. I like a challenge.”

The food came, and they ate, but the atmosphere was subdued. Deek sawed away at his steak and potatoes, and Marco picked at a shrimp platter. Later, Deek could not have said what they talked about, or if the food was tasty. When the check came, Marco tried to pay his share. Deek held the check away from him and returned it to the server with a hundred-dollar bill.

“What was that first song?” Marco asked. “The one that was sad at first, then swept up like a tidal wave.”

“People help the people.”

“That’s ironic.”

Marco gave a slight smile – the first Deek had seen since the money reveal.

Shadow In The Lot

It was dark when they exited the restaurant. The parking lot was half full, and a movement in the corner of the lot caught Deek’s eye. That part of the lot was empty except for a small, battered car parked beside a cinderblock wall. A man ducked into the car and closed the door. From this distance, Deek could not be sure, but the man had looked vaguely like Shujaa, the Yemeni youth who had sold him the Porsche.

“Did you see anyone over there?” he whispered, pointing.

Marco leaned forward, squinting into the shadows. “By that car? No.”

Deek’s eyes bored into the darkness. He could walk over there… but it was very dark. The man could have been anyone. He shook it off. “Let’s go.”

When he dropped Marco off at the SRO, his friend punched him gently in the shoulder and said, “I’m happy for you, brother. I will always be here for you.” Marco dropped two twenty-dollar bills onto the dashboard. “For my dinner.”

Before Deek could protest, his talented and handsome friend shut the car door and walked away quickly. Deek considered chasing after him, but there was no way he could leave this car -and all the cash inside it- unattended in this neighborhood.

In fact, looking around at the neighborhood, Deek felt suddenly nervous. A group of young men, pants riding low on their hips, stood in the recessed doorway of a building across the street. Their attention seemed unnaturally focused on Deek and his Porsche. Only a few steps away from the Porsche, a white woman with the lean body and aged, sore-spotted face of a meth addict took a long swig from a wine bottle, then threw the empty bottle into the street, where it shattered with the finality of the very last broken promise. A man in a filthy tweed coat, his bare chest exposed, probed a trash can, looking for the treasure of a recyclable can.

Two girls in black clothing and boots, their hair shorn on one side only, faces bearing so many piercings they could have opened a jewelry shop, strolled through the chaotic scene with no sign of fear.

Starfish

Quickly, Deek locked the doors, then stuffed the backpack full of money deep under the passenger seat. He was about to put the car in drive and take off when his eyes settled on a thin, blond-haired boy who could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old, curled up with a puppy in a recessed doorway. The boy wore old jeans and a gray sweatshirt that was several sizes too large. He was not asleep, but lay looking out at the street. Peering more closely, Deek saw that the boy had a small pocket knife in one hand. His other arm curled protectively around the puppy.

He suddenly felt ashamed. Here he was, walking around with hundreds of thousands of dollars, while there were kids on the street with nothing to eat and no safe place to sleep. But this was the way of the world, wasn’t it? Luxury perched on the back of poverty. And it wasn’t him who had made it like this.

But maybe he could be part of the solution.

He remembered a story he’d heard once about a boy on the beach. Thousands of starfish have washed up onto the beach, where they will die. The boy picks them up one by one and throws them back into the sea, saving their lives. An old man comes along and says, “You can’t save all these thousands. What you’re doing doesn’t matter.” The boy throws another starfish into the sea and says, “It matters to that one.”

People help the people. That was the only way to make sense of this crazy world. He slid his hand into his pocket, intending to take $1,000 out of his wallet to give to the boy. Discreetly, of course.

Ambush

His driver’s side window shattered. He shouted in shock and surprise. Shards of glass rained upon him, and instantly he felt a blinding pain in his left eye. He cried out and put a hand to his eye. With his other eye, he saw a brown arm snake inside the car and unlock the door, and the next thing he knew, he was yanked out of the car.

He fell onto the filthy sidewalk, landing on something wet that crunched beneath him. Leftover soda in a cup, he hoped. He tried to stand and fight in spite of the terrible pain in his eye, but a foot drove into his stomach, forcing the air out of him and making him grunt in pain. He vomited semi-digested steak and potatoes onto the sidewalk. As he was retching, a fist crashed into his cheekbone, then another into his mouth, and another and another, hitting his nose, jaw, ear, and skull. He tasted blood in his mouth, hot and metallic. But apparently that last shot hurt the attacker’s hand, because the man cursed in Arabic.

Deek recognized the voice. It was Shujaa. It had been him after all, back at the restaurant! He should have trusted his gut.

Rage rose inside him like a high tide on a rough sea. “Not again!” he thought. “I will not let this happen again.”

Deek was many things, good and bad, but he was not a coward. The Iraq of his childhood had been a place of hardship and violence. He’d seen bodies in the streets and had witnessed the aftermath of battles and bombings, yet had gone to school, to the store, and played football in the street. The words “surrender” and “give up” did not exist in his vocabulary. His entire personality was based on persistence and determination. When he was kidnapped last week, the only thing that stopped him from fighting back was that his wrists and feet were bound. Otherwise, he would have struggled and fought to the point of death.

As Shujaa pulled back his foot to kick, Deek rolled into the young man’s legs and wrapped them with his arms. Shujaa shouted in surprise and fell. Deek heard a cracking sound as the young man hit the ground, and Shujaa’s body went completely still, half on the sidewalk and half in the street. One arm lay in the dirty gutter, and the knuckles of both hands were bloody.

Come And Try

Pushing off the sidewalk, Deek rose to his knees. Shujaa lay at his feet, unmoving, a small rivulet of blood trickling from the back of his skull. Perhaps he was dead, Deek did not know.

With his good eye, Deek saw that the group of young toughs from across the street had approached. They stood only a few meters away. A twenty-ish and muscular man with a shaved head, dressed in blue basketball wear and a bulky blue coat in spite of the warm weather, stepped forward.

“Y’all put on a show,” the man said. “But we gon’ take that car now.”

Deek held a hand to his agonizing left eye, as if he could isolate and capture the sliver of glass cutting his eye open. His lips were split, and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. His stomach felt like it had been taken out, trampled by a horse, and put back in. His right hip throbbed with pain. Yet not for a moment did he consider stepping aside and letting these gangsters take his car. Casually, he undid the clasp on the knife sheath and drew the long, wicked blade.

Holding the knife down at his right side, but clearly visible, he said, “Come and try then.” He would cut them all down, just like Zaid Karim would do.

Another of the young men, thinner and younger, also dressed in shades of blue and purple, and with braided hair to his shoulders, reached into his coat and drew an automatic pistol. He tilted the weapon sideways and pointed the barrel at Deek’s head. “Ain’t no try. Hasta luego, fool.”
The man was going to kill him. Deek’s eyes widened, and his breathing slowed. How could it end like this? Shot to death over a stupid car?

So be it. La ilaha il-Allah. He raised the knife and took a step forward.

The barrel of the gun flashed, there was a loud bang, and something struck Deek in the face. He stumbled backward yet did not fall. The gangster had shot him. The man had shot him in the face, yet somehow he was still alive.

Trumpet

He had no vision in his left eye, so it caught him completely by surprise when Marco stepped in front of him from the left and swung his trumpet as hard as he could. It struck the side of the gunman’s head with a loud gong, and the gangster fell like a brick, the gun skittering away. The other thugs shouted, but Marco threw the trumpet at them, darted forward to grab the gun, and began firing shots into the air.
The gangsters scattered, comically holding up their pants as they ran.

Marco tucked the gun into his waistband, snatched up the trumpet – which was now dented and bent – and hurried to Deek.

“Get in the car, bro. We have to get out of here. Put your knife away.”

“He shot me.”

Marco gripped Deek’s head and studied the left side of his face. “It’s a graze. Right along your left eyebrow. You’re very lucky.”

Swaying on his feet, Deek peered across the street. Where was the boy? The homeless blond kid? People help the people. He was going to throw a starfish into the sea. It would matter to this one. But the boy was gone, frightened away by the violence of the street. Poor kid.

Once again, the world was telling Deek that his money was no good. But money was what he had to offer, so he and the world would have to come to a compromise. Either that, or they would fight a ten-round heavyweight match, and only one would stay standing at the end. And right now, at this moment, Deek was still standing.

The street was dark and dirty. Someone had lit a tire on fire in an empty lot down the street, maybe to stay warm. Sirens were approaching. The thugs could return at any moment, maybe better armed this time. Shujaa was still bleeding and unconscious on the ground. Deek gestured to him: “Him too. We can’t leave him.”

* * *

[Part 16 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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

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

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

 

Related:

Hot Air: An Eid Story [Part 1]

As Light As Birdsong: A Ramadan Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 15] – People Help The People appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

There’s still a month left of summer, and summer vacation is one of the best times to pick up those books you’ve been meaning to get around to, or to pick up some new titles that you didn’t have time for before! Here’s the latest MM roundup of summer reads for all ages.

Non-Fiction Becoming Baba: Fatherhood, Faith, and Finding Meaning in America by Aymann Ismail

As a millennial Muslim woman, I am very familiar with the memoir-like narratives of my peers, but rarely do I see reflective pieces by Muslim men… so when I received an ARC of this book, I was excited. I want to know more about Muslim men’s experiences with faith & fatherhood & being Muslim in a non-Muslim land.

Alas, I did not find what I was looking for in this book. Perhaps it was my own expectations of what personal growth looks like, especially if faith is involved. Don’t get me wrong – Aymann is not a terrible writer – and I can understand that growing up Muslim in America is a challenging experience that’s different for everyone. I just… expected something different.

Instead, what I got was a very 2000s-esque take (think Taqwacores cut scene of making du’a after smoking weed with some Muslim female friends in college), resentment over religious parents (he does show them appreciation and grace, but I still found his takes frustrating), a lot of rambling about preserving Arab identity…

That’s not to say that the entire book was a write-off. There were certainly thoughtful sections where the author reflected on his parents’ reasons for being as they were, considering his own growth as a father and what that means to him, and the book does end on a mildly redemptive note (for both Aymann and his father). The entire book could have used a lot more critical editing and development, but even with all my critiques, I think it’s a good starting point for Muslim men to have conversations around their roles as Muslim fathers – and for Muslim women like myself to get a glimpse of what that looks like.

Bigger Than Divorce by Makeda Yasenlul

“Bigger Than Divorce” by Makeda Yasenlul is a pretty unique book in the Muslamic genre, being the only book I’ve come across so far that talks about divorce (or rather, living the aftermath of divorce) to a Muslim female audience.

What I really like about this book is how pragmatic it is. This is not about wallowing in angst – and as someone who has spent a significant portion of her life riddled with angst, I can tell you that there are limits to enabling the wallowing.

This pragmatic approach – which acknowledges the hard emotions of divorce, but doesn’t just sit in it – is refreshing because it’s all about moving forward in a healthy way. I appreciated the grounding in spiritual wellbeing, beginning with considering one’s purpose in life as a slave of Allah, and using our relationship with our Creator as the foundation of building the next chapter of our life post-divorce.

For the most part, this book is for folks who have gone through “average” divorces, not for those leaving traumatic or abusive relationships. However, I do think there’s value in this book for most people who have experienced divorce, as the advice and suggestions are applicable to many.

As the first Muslamic book that I’ve read on divorce, I’m glad this book exists (and I don’t hate it or find it trite!). Here’s hoping that we’ll have more great books on the topic in the future inshaAllah!

Fiction Where the Jasmine Blooms by Zeina Sliman [Adult Fiction]

Following two Palestinian cousins, Yasmine – living in Canada – and Reem – living in a refugee camp in Lebanon, this story covers multiple themes (sometimes to its own detriment). From Palestinian grief to an abusive marriage, from missing family members and mysterious letters (and also a K-drama actor Muslim convert), this book never quite figures itself out. (Also, the blurb calls this a “political historical thriller and a Muslim feminist love story.” It is neither.)

The writing is not bad at all, and in fact at times is quite powerful – especially reflections on family, grief, and Palestinian history. The writing style reminds me a lot of Arab/ Muslim novels from the early 2000s, except that it is utterly unapologetically Muslim rather than riddled with internalized Islamophobia. I loved that there was no pandering to the Western/ nonMuslim gaze, and no holding back on critiquing Israel and its imperialist stooges.

This debut novel holds a lot of promise for the author’s future works, and is definitely worth checking out despite my editorial critiques!

Salutation Road by Salma Ibrahim [Adult Fiction]

Sirad is a London-raised Somali girl, and she seizes opportunity to board the secret bus to cross over into a Somalia where her parents had never left, where her father never abandoned her family, and where a different version of herself lives… just as restless as Sirad herself. Even when she returns to London, Sirad never truly seems to know herself or what she’s meant to do. When she has the chance to meet Ubah – her alternate self – again, Sirad must make a decision that will impact her sense of self forever.

Featuring traveling across time and space, this is a unique new novel in the Muslamic sci-fi/ surrealist genre.

Hand Me Down Your Revolution: An Anthology of Stories, Poems, and Memoirs by Muslim Youth [Adult/ YA]

Muslim Youth Musings is a fantastic literary organization for aspiring Muslim writers mashaAllah – and they’ve just published their first anthology!

From the magical realism of Mariam Siddiqui’s “Where the Crimson Roses Bloom” to the amusing “Jamal’s Kufi,” the deeply moving “A Love Letter to Muslim Kids in Public Schools” by Jaweerya Muhammad and Maryam Vakani’s gorgeous prose (I especially loved “Rituals for the Grieving” and “Mother Wound”), there’s a little something for everyone.

Odd Girl Out by Tasneem Abdur-Rashid [YA]

“Odd Girl Out” by Tasneem Abdur-Rashid is a great Muslamic take on quintessential YA: a teenager going through big life changes, dealing with the drama… and in this case, also facing Islamophobia.

Maaryah Rashid’s life is uprooted by her parents’ divorce, in more ways than one. She has to leave behind her glamorous life in Dubai to live in the middle of nowhere, Essex; she’s the only hijabi at her school and the target of a nasty Islamophobic bully… AND her mom is so busy falling apart after the divorce that she doesn’t seem to notice Maaryah’s own grief, loneliness, and struggles.

I love that there are repeated references to salah, hijab as an act of worship, and what being Muslim means in the West. On the flip side, there’s also flirting and physical contact between Maaryah and boys, without it explicitly called out as haram/ wrong.

As with most Muslamic YA that touches on various teenager-y things (boys, parties, various haraamness), I recommend this for 15+ (and for parents to be having discussions with their children about how to navigate all these issues from an Islamically ethical perspective).

Kid Lit Amina Banana and the Formula for Winning by Shifa Saltagi Safadi [Early Chapter Book]

The Amina Banana series is an early chapter book series following Amina, a young Syrian girl who has recently moved to America. She tries to overcome different challenges by coming up with secret formulas – in book one, for friendship, and in book two, for winning the spelling bee.

What I love about these books is how they tackle universal themes: struggling academically, getting along with friends and not-friends at school – with a deep understanding of newcomer-specific challenges… and most importantly, infusing Islam throughout. Du’a is heavily emphasized in this book, and I love how organically the lessons are woven in! The illustrations by Aaliya Jaleel really bring a lovely touch throughout. [Purchase here using the code “MBR” for 15% off!]

Eliyas Explains What Prophet Muhammad Was Like by Zanib Mian [Early Reader]

I don’t think I can ever stop telling people how incredible Zanib Mian’s books are, Allahumma baarik laha – especially the Eliyas Explains series. In this most recent installment, Eliyas learns all about RasulAllah (sallAllahu alayhi wa sallam) from his parents and uncle – and how to apply the Prophet’s character to his own everyday life.

As with every Eliyas Explains book, this one is perfect for kids who have otherwise short attention spans. It’s an easy to read early chapter book, there are different fonts and little illustrations to engage young readers’ attention, and there’s always plenty of funny little bits alongside the Islamic information and wholesome storytelling that makes the story remain engaging. [Purchase here using the code “MBR” for 15% off!]

The City of Jasmine by Nadine Presley [Picture Book]

“The City of Jasmine” by Nadine Presley, illustrated by Heather Brockman Lee, reminded me how much I love stories of others’ homelands.

I’m not from Syria, but Nadine’s gorgeous descriptions of the Umayyad masjid, Qal’at Dimashq, the Barada river, marketplaces and bookstores and kitchens and courtyards, all made me fall in love with the blessed lands of Shaam. Each page is a work of art – the illustrations are beyond stunning, and I flipped back to certain spreads multiple times just to enjoy them better! [Purchase here using the code “MBR” for 15% off!]

The Boldest White by Ibtihaj Muhammad/ SK Ali [Picture Book]

“The Boldest White” by Ibtihaj Muhammad and SK Ali is the third book in this iconic series illustrated by Hatem Aly!

I loved that the story started with and incorporated so much Islamic representation throughout, with a focus on salah. While the core of this story lies in Faizah learning to gain courage through her fencing lessons, it is interwoven with love for Islam, salah, and the Ummah.

While Eid is mentioned, we don’t really know which Eid it is, and I do wish the opportunity had been seized to highlight Eid al-Adha and make it a more meaningful part of the story. In all honesty, I felt like the actual storytelling was a little weaker and somewhat disjointed in this book compared to the others, but it is still beautiful and worth getting to complete the collection. [Purchase here using the code “MBR” for 15% off!]

Related:

From The MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Palestinian Literature For All Ages

From The MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Your Go-To Summer Reading List

The post From the MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Summer Reads for All Ages appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

We read about purification the Holy Qur’an:

 

“And they ask you about menstruation. Say, “It is harm, so keep away from wives during menstruation. And do not approach them until they are pure. And when they have purified themselves, then come to them from where Allah has ordained for you. Indeed, Allah loves those who are constantly repentant and loves those who purify themselves.“ [Surah Al-Baqarah;2:222]

Given that the context of the verse is about women’s menstruation, the first thing included in the idea of purification, or taharah, is purification of the body from physical and ritual impurities. Scholars further include in it all the other types of purification, the consummate summary of which has been given to us by Ibn Qudamah, who wrote:

‘Know that purification has four levels: Firstly, to purify the body from ritual impurities, physical impurities, and excretions. Secondly, to purify the limbs from sins and disobedience. Thirdly, to purify the heart from its odious traits and deplorable vices. Fourthly, to purify the innermost being from all else save Allah , exalted is He; this being the ultimate goal.’1

The verse tells us a fundamental principle, which is that Allah loves — and that in itself is a profound thing — those who frequently turn to Him in sincere contrition and repentance, and those who actively purify themselves and who are purified. Thus, after purifying one’s basic beliefs concerning Allah and the meaning of life and the purpose of existence, by declaring the two shahadahs, the whole process of reshaping ourselves starts. And where does it begin, practically in our tradition? It begins with the fiqh rules regarding the purity of water, and then to use this water to cleanse and purify our limbs according to the shari‘ah. Then, at least outwardly, we are in a purified state to bow and pray. That is where it all begins. This is where the reshaping truly starts: with outward purification.

Is that all there is to purification, just the issues of fiqh al-taharah; of bodily hygiene? Absolutely not! For as we saw in Ibn Qudamah’s schematic, there’s much more to it. For beyond this level of taharah, there is restraining the limbs from what is unlawful (haram). This involves keeping our tongue, eyes, and ears pure by averting our hearing or gaze, or caging our tongue, from what Allah has forbidden; doing so seeking His good pleasure or rida.

The third degree moves us from the outward to the inward: the diseases and impurities of the heart. It is where we roll up our sleeves to spiritual combat the pride, vanity, hypocrisy, and/or insincerity within us, for instance. But so much of the time, the heart gets so rusted that we become desensitised to the heart’s vices. Unlike physical impurities, whose presence can be seen or smelt, this inner filth can’t be sensed by a person. We often require someone with a purer soul to point out to us that we are giving off a bad spiritual odour. Otherwise, we are usually none the wiser. It is this obligatory, inner purification of the heart that begins to make all the difference.

As for the fourth degree, which, for the likes of us, is almost unimaginable, it is keeping the heart focused on Allah and mindful of His Presence in our lives. Any distraction at this profound degree is a veil, almost like a sin, and hence a kind of impurity. Religion is about awakening to Allah . It is about vigilance and remembrance of Allah . Heedlessness is an impurity that must be cleansed. This is the fourth degree: to empty the heart of whatever distracts it from Allah .

A cardinal trait in our spiritual wayfaring, or suluk, says Ibn al-Qayyim, is that of reigning in our desires; our tendency to step out of the light and into the shadows. He said:

‘The wayfaring of one seeking Allah and the Afterlife will not be sound except with restraints: Restraining one’s heart to seek and want only Him, training it to turn away from all but Him. Restraining the tongue from whatever will not be of benefit to it, training it to constantly remember Allah and all that increases it in faith and knowledge of Him. And restraining the limbs from sins and doubtful acts, training them to fulfil the obligations and recommendations. He must not part with such restraints till He meets his Lord.’2

With that being so, the journey to Allah practically begins from the outside in. It is with the fiqh rules of outward, bodily, and ritual purification (taharah), along with a few other day-to-day shari‘ah duties, that true inward, spiritual purification (tazkiyah) is activated and gradually realised.

***

[This article was first published here]

 

Related:

– IOK Ramadan: The Importance of Spiritual Purification | Keys To The Divine Compass [Ep30]

– Practical Tips for Purification of the Heart

 

1    Ahmad b. Qudamah, Mukhtasar Minhaj al-Qasidin (Beirut: al-Maktab al-Islami, 2000), 30.2    Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyyah, al-Fawa’id (Makkah: Dar ‘Alam al-Fawa’id, 2009), 74.

The post Purification Of The Self: A Journey That Begins From The Outside-In appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

[Dedication: For every woman who stood at the threshold of a sacred space and wondered if she was truly welcome. For the unheard, the unseen, the unwavering.]

They built it with marble and calligraphy, arched domes echoing the names of God. But somewhere between the minbar and the boardroom, the sacred was traded for the familiar.

The masjid, once a refuge for the broken, now feels like a lounge for the well-connected. Decisions made behind closed doors, while the women outside whisper their needs into the wind.

They say it’s about tradition. But tradition never silenced Maryam when she cried out in labor beneath the palm. It never turned away Khadijah’s wisdom, or Ali’s courage to speak truth to power.

No—this is not tradition. This is dunya dressed in thawbs and titles, where family ties outweigh community cries, and silence is the currency of comfort.

I wrote to them. Not to accuse, but to ask: Is there room for me here? They answered with nothing. And that nothing said everything.

Still, I believe in the masjid. Not the building, but the promise. The one etched in every sajdah, in every tear that falls unseen.

So I will keep knocking. Not because I need their permission— but because I refuse to let them turn God’s house into a gated estate.

They speak of unity from the pulpit, but practice division in the shadows. Their circles are tight, their ears closed to unfamiliar names, their hearts armored in comfort.

I’ve seen the way they greet their own— smiles wide, hands extended, as if Jannah were passed through bloodlines. And I’ve seen the way they glance past others, like we are footnotes in a story they’ve already written.

But I am not a footnote. I am the daughter of Hajar, the sister of Sumayyah, the echo of every woman who stood when the world told her to sit.

You may not answer my email. You may not open your doors. But I will not unwrite my truth to make you more comfortable.

Because the masjid does not belong to you. It belongs to the One who hears the whispers of the unseen, who counts every tear that falls when no one else is watching.

So I will keep walking— not toward your approval, but toward the light that never needed your permission to shine.

They say sabr, but only to the silenced. They say adab, but only to the unheard. They weaponize patience like a leash, hoping we’ll stay quiet, grateful just to be near the door. But I was not made to shrink for the comfort of men who confuse control with leadership.

They build platforms, but only for those who echo their comfort. They host panels on justice, while ignoring the injustice in their own prayer halls. They speak of the Prophet ﷺ, but forget how he stood for the orphan, the widow, the stranger— not just the familiar faces in the front row.

And still, they wonder why the hearts of women grow quiet, why the youth slip out the back door, why the call to prayer no longer feels like a call home.

And Still, I Believe

Because faith was never theirs to gatekeep. It lives in the breath of the unseen, in the footsteps of the overlooked, in the hands of those who build even when no one thanks them.

I will not wait for their invitation. I will write my own welcome, etch it in the sky with every prayer, and walk boldly into the sacred as if I belong— because I always did.

 

Related:

– Podcast: Revisiting Women-Only Tarawih | Ustadha Umm Sara

– Friday Sermon: Including Women in the Masjid

The post When The Masjid Mirrors The Marketplace: An Ode To Inclusion In Faith appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

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

“Verily, Allah does not look at your appearance or your wealth, but He looks at your hearts and your deeds.” — Prophet Muḥammad ﷺ (Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim)

An Unspoken Promise

Driving his Corvette, Deek bought two backpacks at a sports store. Remembering Zaid’s habit of always carrying a knife – or two – he decided to emulate him. After the kidnapping, he never wanted to be caught unaware or unarmed again. So he purchased a gorgeous fixed-blade hunting knife with a hardwood handle and an 8-inch engraved Damascus steel blade that swept up to a point. It came with an attractive leather sheath decorated with sunrise motifs.

This type of knife, the clerk explained, could not legally be concealed. It must be worn openly. Outside the store, Deek ran his belt through the sheath’s loop. The knife hung heavy on his hip, as deadly as a rattlesnake. It was an unspoken promise and threat, saying words that Deek would not have to utter out loud.

Deek had never been a fearful, nervous type – he’d grown up in a country torn by sectarian violence, where nevertheless he had gone to school, run errands, and played football in the street. Yet with the knife on his hip, he stood taller. He had to resist the impulse to rest his hand on it, like a gunslinger of old.

Doing Things Differently

On the rare occasions he visited Lubna, he usually brought chocolate bars for the kids, partly because they loved it, and partly to annoy Lubna, as he knew she didn’t approve of giving the kids candy. This time, he wanted to do things differently. So he stopped at a fresh juice store called Aseer, owned by a Palestinian brother. He purchased seven blended juices, one each for Lubna, her husband Amer, and their five kids.

Standing in the juice shop, he was very aware of the knife on his hip, and felt that everyone must be staring at him. But although he did notice the occasional glance, no one seemed to care much.

Back in the car, he transferred $200,000 into each backpack, leaving one million in the Halliburton case. The last $100K he stuffed into an envelope that went in his own pocket.

On the drive to Lubna’s house, he caught himself stroking the leather knife sheath on his hip, and forced himself to stop. This merciless, single-minded piece of steel had a magnetic pull. Such things were meant to be used, or why make them? But Deek did not actually want to use it. Maybe he should have gotten pepper spray instead.

Lubna lived in a modest three-bedroom house in a marginal neighborhood of southwest Fresno; the kind of neighborhood that was fine during the day, but where people locked their doors firmly at night. She had followed in Deek’s footsteps and become a school teacher, while her husband Amer was an auto mechanic. Deek knew that they struggled to make ends meet. It had taken a toll on their marriage, and they had actually divorced once, then remarried for the sake of the kids.

He rang the doorbell, still wearing his gray suit, red shoes, and red dress shirt, and with the knife hanging on his hip. He regretted not taking the time to change. Lubna would see his outfit as extravagant or foolish. He carried the Halliburton briefcase in one hand and a cardboard carton with the juices in the other. He’d hidden the two backpacks beneath the spare tire in the trunk of the car.

It was five thirty in the afternoon. Lubna should be home, but Amer might still be at the auto shop.

Immediately, he heard the sounds of running feet, and at least one child calling out, “I’ll get it!” The door swung open, and there stood four kids ranging from ages 5 to 13. The only one missing was the baby, Basim, who was a year and a half old. As soon as they saw him, the children cheered.

“It’s Uncle Deek!” Aliyah shouted.

Look Who It Is

Lubna showed up with the baby on one hip. She was 5’5” and wiry, with curly black hair that fell to her shoulders. Her proud nose, straight shoulders, and soulful black eyes were much like his own, but where Deek was bulky, Lubna was slender, bordering on skinny.

“Well, look who it is. Your wife has been calling twice a day looking for you. What kind of stunt did you pull this time?”

Deek was still in the ultra-clear frame of mind granted to him by the Namer’s potion. His emotions were there, but they were two-dimensional, like a child’s stick figure drawing. Normally he would have responded negatively to Lubna’s jibe, but this time he gazed at her calmly, noticing her air of strength that was belied only by the dark circles beneath her eyes. A few small age spots had appeared along the line of her left cheekbone. He had never before imagined Lubna getting old. He felt a gentle wave of understanding wash over him, that the core idea of family was shared experience. You came from the same place, grew up together, aged together, and were buried together.

For half a breath, he wanted to cry, but found nothing there. He wondered if this was how normal, healthy people experienced the world. He didn’t think so.

“I brought fresh juice.” Deek held the carton out. “Can I come in?”

Lubna met his gaze, then took in his appearance. “What’s with the getup? You look like a cross between an Italian film star and Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier.”

“That’s a compliment. Crockett opposed Andrew Jackson’s Indian Removal Act. He believed in respecting the rights of the indigenous people.”

“So you haven’t completely forgotten everything from your teaching days. Crocket died at the Alamo, you know.”

Deek gave a half-shrug. “Well then, you all may go to Hell, and I will go to Texas.”

Lubna almost smiled – Deek saw the corners of her mouth twitch – before she looked away and said, “This isn’t a good time for a visit. I told you that. I just got home from work an hour ago, dinner is on the stove, and the kids haven’t done their homework.”

“It’s an inconvenient time, I see that now. I’ll try not to stay too long. Please.”

Lubna sighed. “Fine. Come on.”

Leave Me Out Of It

Deek sat at the breakfast nook in a corner of the kitchen, bouncing Basim on his knee while Lubna prepared dinner. The kitchen was filled with the odors of the Iraqi foods that Lubna had learned to prepare at their mother’s side: masgouf (grilled fish), kibbeh (rice and potato balls filled with minced beef), and margat bamya (okra stew).

The kids had happily taken their juices and gone off to play. Deek had brought a strawberry-banana juice for Amer, but since the man wasn’t home, he sipped it himself. It was ice cold and delicious.

“Obviously you and Rania are having a fight,” Lubna commented. “I wish you would leave me out of it.” She’d set her own juice – straight up mango puree, which Deek knew she loved – on the kitchen counter.

Deek cleared his throat. “Lubna. I wasn’t kind to you when we were growing up. I don’t think I’ve ever been kind to you. I’m deeply sorry. You were a good kid, happy and talented in many ways. And now you’re a good mother. You deserved a better brother than me.”

These were truths that Deek had always known in his heart, but had never possessed the clarity or courage to speak out loud. Now, however, under the influence of the Namer’s potion, he could express these things without being overwhelmed by guilt and shame.

Lubna stopped stirring the pot of okra stew, and turned to face him fully. She looked unbalanced, as if Deek had just tried to hit her.

You’re Dying

“What’s the matter with you? Why are you saying this?”

“Because it’s true. I remember so many times when we were young when I put you down. I insulted your appearance, your voice, your cheerful attitude, the closeness you had with Baba and Mama, and none of it had anything to do with you. It was all my own jealousy and insecurity. I wished I could be like you, and I was jealous of the way you were able to love our parents sincerely and be loved in return. The reality is that I admire you and I love you. You’re very important to me. I can never apologize enough for not showing you that.”

“I have to sit down.” Lubna dropped the wooden spatula into the pot of okra and turned off the stove. Then she backed up until she reached the wall, and slid down to sit on the floor.

She looked up suddenly, sharply. “You’re dying. You’re sick? You have cancer?”

“No! Why would you think that?”

Basim burped, and Deek put the boy on his shoulder, patting his back. Were you supposed to do that to an 18-month-old baby? The boy smelled like baby powder. He squirmed, and Deek set him down on the floor, where he sat cross-legged, playing with his toes.

“You left your wife,” Lubna said. “Now you show up here wearing that ridiculous outfit and saying these things you’ve never said in your life. You have never told me you loved me before, ever. Not once. What am I supposed to think?”

You Need A Place To Stay

Basim used Deek’s pant leg to pull himself to a standing position, then walked unsteadily toward his mother. She held out her hands, making encouraging noises.

“I was thinking of changing my name,” Deek said.

“Are you kidding? To what?”’

“Asad.”

Lubna pursed her lips. “Look. I get that maybe you feel like ‘rooster’ is not a dignified name. But Mama named you Deek for a reason. Don’t you remember our rooster in Iraq, when we were kids?”

“Of course I remember.”

“He was huge,” Lubna went on. “And so beautiful, with a big chest and blond hair.”

“Chickens don’t have hair.”

“You know what I mean. Remember when a big stray dog came after the chickens once, and Deek attacked him without fear? He used to wake us up for Fajr prayer right on time, like a muaddhin. He even protected the cow’s calf when a raven attacked it. Mama loved that bird.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s talk about something else. Families should support each other, don’t you think? I mean, hypothetically, if Baba had been a successful businessman and made a lot of money, he would have shared it with Ammo Ali and Tant Reem, don’t you think?

Lubna’s nostrils flared. “Baba gave us everything we needed.”

Deek made a placating motion. “I know. I’m talking about anyone. If one family member becomes rich, don’t you think it’s normal to share that with the rest of the family? There’s a saying in the South: Lift when you climb. It means -”

“I know what it means. I get it now. You need a place to stay. Rania kicked you out. So you’re trying to guilt me into taking you in.”

“No, I’m not expressing myself well. Let me just get to the point.”

Lubna snorted. “I wish you would.”

Basim had reached Lubna and sat happily in her lap. Deek walked over to his sister, snagging her juice along the way, and sat beside her. The white tiled floor was cool and very clean. He was careful not to look directly into her eyes, as she generally did not like that. He handed her the juice. “Drink it.”

Lubna sipped the juice absent mindedly, then said, “Mm. It’s good. Mango.”

“Here’s the thing. You know I’ve been trading cryptos for five years.”

Lubna rolled her eyes. “Of course. Your white whale. Your obsession. I can’t stand to talk about that anymore, I’ve told you so many times – “

“In the last week,” Deek interrupted, “it’s gone well for me. Very, very well. I made a lot of money. Alhamdulillah.”

“Okay, so… you came here to boast?” She sipped the juice again.

“No, Lubna. I’m trying to say that I care about you, and I’m sorry for all the harm I’ve caused, and I want to share my good fortune with you.” He pushed the briefcase across the floor to her. “This is for you.”

Lubna released the snaps on the briefcase and opened it. She stared at the stacks of banded currency. “What is this?”

“A million dollars.”

Renaissance Islamic Academy

His sister looked at him with wide, amazed eyes. Then, slowly, her face began to darken. “Unbelievable,” she said. “This is unbelievable.”

Seeing the rage building in Lubna’s eyes, Deek felt his stomach drop. This was not going as planned.

“So,” Lubna said, biting off the words and spitting them out. “After half a lifetime of bullying me, you come here with a million dollars – a million dollars! – and say you love me, and you think you can buy my forgiveness and love? Like I’m some kind of high-priced escort, and you can pay me to say the words you want to hear…”

She went on like that. Deek immediately realized his mistake. Lubna was almost as proud, stubborn, emotional, and honor-bound as Deek himself. He should not have brought the money, not yet. Today should have been only about his declaration of regret and love.

His mind raced. An idea came to him.

“You misunderstand. It’s not free money. I want to hire you for a job.”

Lubna stopped talking. Breathing hard, she jiggled and shushed Basim, whose face had twisted up like he was about to cry. She put her finger in the juice and stuck it in Basim’s mouth. He immediately stopped fussing and smiled happily, reaching for the juice cup.

“What job?”

“I want to start a full-time Islamic school. I’ve thought about this a lot.”

This was actually true in a way, as it was a fantasy or mental exercise Deek had bounced around in his mind from time to time, knowing he would never have the resources to make it happen.

“We need an Islamic school that teaches not only math and science, but also Islamic art, poetry, and even the Prophetic sports. Also, we need Arabic teachers who are qualified to teach Arabic as a second language, using modern methods of language instruction, not just rote memorization like in the Arab world.”

He glanced surreptitiously at his sister and saw that she was nodding in agreement. Encouraged, he went on:

“And we need Islamic instruction that teaches kids why they are Muslim, and prepares them for challenges to their faith from ideologies like atheism, consumerism, and nihilism, and readies them as well to deal with hatred and Islamophobia.”

“That’s so important,” Lubna agreed.

Deek flashed a smile. “I also want to offer scholarships, so that we have Muslim children from all ethnic and economic backgrounds, not just a bunch of rich Arabs and Pakistanis. I want this to be a Renaissance school, with a broader scope than the one my daughters attended. In fact, I want to call it Renaissance Islamic Academy.”

Hammurabi

“That actually makes sense,” Lubna muttered. “I’ve had some of the same thoughts. Are you sure you don’t just want revenge against Dr. Ajeeb? I know how much you hate him.”

Lubna knew him well indeed, but Deek realized with a start that he hadn’t even thought about Dr. Ajeeb in days. Just last week, he’d wanted to drown the man in the river, but the chain-smoking principal of his children’s former school had now become irrelevant.

Hammurabi padded into the kitchen on silent feet. The old white cat was small and lean, with patchy fur and an eye missing from a long-ago fight. He’d never liked Deek, and had always hissed at him. This time, however, he pushed his head against Deek’s arm and meowed. Deek scratched the little guy’s head and rubbed his cheeks. The cat circled around him, meowing and rubbing against him.

“Aliyah!” Lubna bellowed, causing Deek to nearly drop his juice cup.

The girl came running, juice cup in hand. At 13, she was Lubna’s eldest. She took after her mother, with a short, wiry frame, and curly brown hair. She was a bright, polite child, and Deek had always liked her.

“Yes, Mama?”

“Feed Hammo.”

“Okay, Mama.” The girl took a bag of cat food from a cabinet, then froze, staring wide-eyed at the briefcase on the floor. “Is that real money?”

“Never mind that.” Lubna pushed the briefcase closed with her foot. Aliyah poured food into a bowl and fed the hungry cat, though her eyes kept darting to the briefcase. When she was done, she ran off to play with her siblings as Hammo munched noisily, turning his head to see the food with his one eye before taking a bite.

A Lot More Than a Million

“I don’t care about Ajeeb,” Deek continued. “He got fired a few years ago anyway.”

Lubna gave the baby a little more mango juice, then sipped some herself. “I guess that’s good. But anyway, I already have a teaching job, and I’m not about to give it up for some half-baked plan cooked up by you alone, with a million dollars in a briefcase.”

“I have a lot more than a million dollars. I have enough to buy or build a facility, hire staff, and create an endowment that would obviate the need for constant fundraisers. And I’m not hiring you to be a teacher. I want you to be the principal. I would be the executive director, but I would be hands-off. You would run everything. Your salary will be $200,000 per year, with an $800,000 signing bonus. That” – he pointed to the briefcase – “is your first year’s salary and bonus.”

“You really have that much money?”

“I have over fifty million dollars.” Which again was technically true, though his actual net worth was closer to one hundred twenty million, at last count.

Lubna’s mouth fell open. She started to speak, then stopped.

“This is the first time,” Deek commented, “I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words. It’s a good look on you.” He immediately regretted the words. That was the old, bullying Deek talking, not the new Deek.

“Sorry,” he added. “Just a dumb joke. I’m at your service.”

I Don’t Owe You

Lubna’s eyes were tired, and her mouth had turned down at the corners. It wasn’t anger this time, but exhaustion, or so it seemed to Deek. She gave the baby more mango juice, and he uttered a happy, “Ababadado!”

With a grunt of effort, Lubna stood and went to the kitchen window, which looked out onto the backyard. With her back to him, she put her forehead to the glass and rocked the baby on her hip. It occurred to Deek that she was done with him. She didn’t want to talk to him anymore. He stood to leave. He supposed he should take the briefcase, but he paused, unsure.

“It’s weird,” Lubna said, still with her back turned, “how Hammo likes you now.”

Deek cleared his throat. “They say animals can sense sincerity.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you… Was there anything else?”

Lubna turned to face him. Her breath had left a patch of condensation on the window.

“I accept your offer.” His sister’s face was as hard as the foundation of the house in which they stood. “We’ll talk about the details later. For now I want to be alone. I appreciate what you said, but I feel like I’m being manipulated somehow. And just to be clear, this doesn’t put me in your debt. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t owe you anything. You should leave now.”

“You’re absolutely right. But I meant what I said. I’m sorry for how I treated you, and I love you.” He walked away. Just as he stepped out through the door, he heard the sound of Lubna weeping quietly.

In the car, driving away, he told himself that he hadn’t lied. Yes, he’d given her a way to accept the money with honor. But starting a school was a great project, and Lubna was an excellent choice to run it. He also noted that she hadn’t doubted him when he told her how much money he had. That meant a lot to him.

It occurred to him that being the founder of such a school would grant him prestige in the community. At one time this thought would have excited him, but now it did not move him, and he dismissed it as unworthy. He thought about his experience on the planet Rust. When he’d learned that Earth had been destroyed, all he’d cared about had been his family.

And the truth was that the Earth really would be destroyed. Every being on Earth is bound to perish, Shaykha Rabiah had recited. Only your Lord Himself, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain. Then which of your Lord’s favours will you both deny?

My Treat

He got in the car, drove a few blocks, then pulled over and sat. In his lifetime, Lubna had been angry at him more times than he could count, but today she’d acted as if, in trying to give her money, he had stabbed her in the heart. She’d done all but cry out, “Et tu, Deek?”

Lubna was a difficult personality, which was the problem. She was too much like Deek. They reflected each other’s worst personality traits. Who wanted to look into a mirror that showed you at your worst?

It would be different with Marco. Deek planned to give his indigent friend $200,000. Marco had grown up poor and still struggled to earn enough money to eat. This would change his entire life’s trajectory. Deek couldn’t wait to see the look on Marco’s face when he opened the backpack and saw all that cash.

He called Marco, who answered with, “How did the Moon Walk Motel work out for you?”

“I got ki-” He’d been about to say, I got kidnapped, until he remembered he must not talk about that.

“You got what?”

“I, uh, got killed by that sagging mattress. Are you free? I want to take you to The Purple Heifer for dinner. My treat.”

“Purple Heifer! Did an uncle die and leave you a fortune? Heck yeah, I’m free.”

“Pick you up in an hour.”

* * *

[Part 15 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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

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

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

 

Related:

Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: The Cabbie and the Muslim Woman

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

 

The post Moonshot [Part 14] – Money And Love appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

For many in the American Muslim community, recent news about a major change in politics felt like a spark of hope in a time of despair.

“The IRS now says pastors can endorse candidates,” headlines across the country read.

Some mosques took this news to mean that they could now allow imams and khatibs to speak freely from the minbar about politicians, endorse candidates who reflect the American Muslim community’s values, and hold accountable those politicians who support genocide, occupation, and Islamophobia.

The sense of urgency to take bolder political stands at our houses of worship is understandable and deeply felt, especially in the wake of the Israeli apartheid government’s ongoing campaign of extermination and expulsion in Gaza.

However, our two organizations—the nation’s largest Muslim civil rights and advocacy group, CAIR, and the political advocacy group CAIR Action—are strongly advising mosques not to permit speakers to endorse political candidates, in order to protect their tax-exempt status. Here’s why.

As part of settlement discussions in an ongoing lawsuit, National Religious Broadcasters v. Long, the Internal Revenue Service has asked a federal court to enforce a new interpretation of the Johnson Amendment that could permit pastors and other speakers at houses of worship to endorse candidates.

For nearly 70 years, the Johnson Amendment has kept tax-exempt religious institutions and charitable nonprofits from engaging in partisan candidate endorsements. Some faith leaders — particularly in evangelical Christian circles — have long bristled at the restriction.

But for many of us, it has served as a guardrail that keeps our sacred spaces from being transformed into partisan campaign organizations that can influence elections without oversight, abuse their tax-exempt status, and flood politics with even more dark money funneled through charitable donations.

To be clear, the court has not yet made a decision about the Trump administration’s request to require the IRS to reinterpret the Johnson Amendment by permitting speakers at houses of worship to endorse candidates. It is unclear whether or when the court will ultimately enforce the government’s interpretation and whether, how, or when the IRS would do so.

For now, the Johnson Amendment remains the law of the land. Until Congress revises the law, a court clearly reinterprets the law, or many houses of worship begin permitting speakers to endorse candidates with clear approval from the IRS, the safest thing for mosques to do is to continue on as if nothing has changed about the law, which prohibits 501(c)(3) institutions from officially endorsing or opposing candidates.

Until further notice, mosques should still not permit speakers to endorse candidates.  

Let’s be honest: this comes at a frustrating time.

Many mosques have felt powerless over the last 21 months. We’ve watched with anguish as tens of thousands of Palestinians were slaughtered in Gaza with U.S. weapons and political cover. Many feel that voting isn’t enough. That writing op-eds, holding vigils, and organizing protests are not enough. Some wonder: if our spiritual leaders can’t even say who we should vote for, what good is our voice at all?

We hear that. And we feel it too.

But here’s the truth: mosques can still do a tremendous amount.

They can — and should — host candidate forums.

They can — and should — organize voter registration drives.

They can serve as polling places, conduct civic education sessions, invite representatives from all sides to discuss the issues, and host forums on topics such as Palestine, civil rights, immigration, and surveillance.

Imams and khateebs can still speak out forcefully on policy, on justice, and on values. They just can’t say: “Vote for Candidate X.”

This doesn’t mean we disengage — it means we organize smarter, speak louder, and mobilize together.

Through CAIR, CAIR Action, and our partners across the country, Muslim communities have already led historic voter turnout efforts, educated our youth on legislative advocacy, pushed back on surveillance, and fought to stop war funding. We do all of this without the risk of violating IRS rules — and we do it with integrity.

In fact, it is our independence that gives us power.

The Quran commands us to “stand firmly for justice” [Surah An-Nisa; 4:135].  It also teaches wisdom, patience, and strategy. In this election season, let’s use every legal tool available to us — organize, educate, mobilize, and vote. Let’s hold every candidate accountable to the values of justice, dignity, and peace. And let us protect the spiritual integrity of our sacred institutions from being used as tools of political partisanship.

Let us act with power, with clarity, and with purpose. Not for a candidate. Not for a party.

But for our people.

 

Related:

– Beyond Badr: Transforming Muslim Political Vision

– Politics In Islam: Muslims Are Called To Pursue Justice

 

The post For Now, Making Endorsements At Mosques Is Still Off-Limits, But Using Our Civic Voice Is Not – A Message From CAIR appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

For many Muslim students, college is not just a time of academic rigor; it’s a crucible of conflicting ideologies, challenges to faith tradition, and unprecedented personal tests. And when things fall apart – when Islamophobia hits campus, when spiritual doubts creep in, when burnout begins – it often feels like there’s no safety net.

This is where Muslim chaplaincy could make all the difference.

Too often, teenage students are forced to shoulder immense emotional and spiritual labor for themselves and their communities. The demands of leadership roles in on-campus Muslim Student Associations (MSAs) can quickly escalate far past what they were initially meant to be. What would it look like if Muslim students had someone trained, trusted, and spiritually grounded to turn to? How beneficial might it be if students had someone beyond their own peers to take advice from? Someone embedded in the institution who could guide them not just in times of crisis, but through the quiet work of faith formation?

Such an individual is a reality for far too few Muslim students in the United States. However, the presence of a Muslim chaplain in this role could revolutionize the experiences of hundreds of thousands of Muslim undergraduates across the nation, helping build a generation of highly educated students who effectively integrate their faith identity into their day-to-day lives.

This model of care and mentorship is not foreign to our tradition. Our beloved Prophet Muhammad was not just a leader and lawmaker – he was a murabbī, a healer of hearts and soother of souls. Countless stories from the sīrah detail his compassion for the needy, ill, and impoverished. As the Qur’an says:

“There has certainly been for you in the Messenger of Allah an excellent example for anyone whose hope is in Allah and the Last Day and [who] remembers Allah often.” [Surah Al-Ahzab: 33;21]

Emulating the Prophet goes beyond just observing rituals of prayer and worship; it means fostering communities rooted in mercy, emotional health, and spiritual resilience. At its essence, chaplaincy carries forward this Sunnah of emotional and spiritual caregiving.

The Landscape: Muslim Students on Campus

The presence of Muslim students as an organized body on US campuses is a recent development. Although Muslim student organizations were founded as early as the 1940s, the modern MSA system began at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign in 1963. Muslim chaplaincy did not exist until 30 years later when the first part-time Muslim chaplain was hired at Wellesley College. Six years later, at Georgetown, the first full-time Muslim chaplain was introduced1.

“The growth of the Muslim student population – and their increasing visibility on campus – has outpaced institutional support available to them.” [PC: Kawah Kaos Dakwah (unsplash)]

This progression mirrors the increasing Muslim population in the United States, from approximately 100,000 American Muslims in 1960 to nearly 4 million today. However, the growth of the Muslim student population – and their increasing visibility on campus – has outpaced institutional support available to them. Many student bodies still struggle to maintain a dedicated prayer space, have access to ḥalāl food options in dining halls, and receive accommodation for religious events such as Eid. MSAs consistently advocate for the rights of Muslim students, but the inherently transient nature of university student bodies and their relative isolation from larger communities often leads to a lack of continuity or sustained change. Ultimately, while MSAs have and continue to serve as spiritual hubs, event organizers, and advocacy spaces, they were never designed to bear the full weight of students’ religious and emotional needs. What began as grassroots community-building has, over time, become an essential but overstretched safety net.

Impacts of Participation in Campus Religious Life

Though research is limited regarding Muslim university students specifically, numerous studies confirm that spiritual care and chaplaincy play a significant role in maintaining student mental health and overall well-being across Christian and interfaith communities during college years. Faith community support, in particular when directly led via chaplaincy, is integral in proactively addressing distress points for college students.

A comprehensive study by Saliba (2024) underscores the multifaceted contributions of university chaplains to mental health within the context of suicide prevention. Chaplains surveyed across international communities were reported to engage in various preventive practices, such as referring students to mental health professionals, offering community life services, providing support during exam periods, and discussing images of God or other religious figures. These activities not only address spiritual distress but also foster a sense of belonging and support among students, which are crucial factors in mitigating suicidal thoughts and behaviors2.

Beyond addressing student distress from a spiritual perspective, participating in an active, chaplain-led faith community may indirectly alleviate academic distress as well. A 2021 study undertaken at Baylor University found that Christian students who attended on-campus church services at least once per week had higher GPAs, reported improved mental focus and academic resilience, and were less likely to engage in academic dishonesty than those who did not3. A study conducted by UCLA of over 100,000 incoming freshmen at institutions across the country found that students with high religious engagement had significantly higher rates of being able to find meaning in hardship and feeling at peace, indicating a greater ability to deal with hurdles in both their academic and personal lives4. Though data is ultimately limited on the direct influences of chaplains on student wellness, it stands to reason that chaplaincy involvement generally leads to a stronger and more active on-campus faith community, which is indicated to increase student wellness across multiple sectors of life.

However, while such involvement may be a reality for Christian communities on campuses, Muslim representation is sadly lacking. As universities have expanded religious life offices to serve Christian, Jewish, and interfaith populations, Muslim students were often left without a parallel advocate or advisor. While the aforementioned chaplaincy roles established at Wellesley and Georgetown in the 1990s and early 2000s marked a turning point—not only as acknowledgments of Muslim student presence, but as acts of institutional responsibility—significant work remains to be done.

Research conducted by a chaplaincy consulting firm confirmed the presence of approximately 150 Muslim chaplains across the over 4000 colleges in America, meaning less than 4% of US college communities have access to a chaplain5. This creates a vacuum in moments where spiritual care is most needed.

The Role of a Chaplain

Such an absence of spiritual care and leadership can leave a significant void in the lives of college students as they navigate critical stages of identity development and moral alignment. Having an adequately trained and engaged spiritual leader is integral for guiding Muslim students towards healthy, deen-centered lifestyles.

“Muslim chaplaincy stands out as a vital resource that bridges faith and modern campus life.” [PC: Nathan Dumlao (unsplash)]

A Muslim chaplain is not an imam in the traditional sense, nor are they simply a counselor. Rather, they occupy a multifaceted role spanning pastoral care and counseling, religious mentorship, advocacy, interfaith engagement, and more. Based on their background, a chaplain may provide one-on-one mentorship and support, lead prayers and faith seminars, give academic advice, coordinate with institutional leadership to ensure Muslim student needs are met, or advocate externally for their student body. It is important that they have a solid grounding in Islamic tradition, as well as adequate training in contemporary elements of chaplaincy such as mental health work, to allow them to respond meaningfully to the diverse needs of their students.

The nebulous boundaries defining a chaplain’s responsibilities can be both empowering and challenging. While they may have the freedom to interpret their role as they see fit, they may also become overwhelmed with burdens that are outside of their field of expertise. As Muslim chaplaincy becomes more widespread in higher education, it is crucial to establish shared guidelines about the scope and nature of their role. This includes articulating expectations for prior training, ensuring access to ongoing training and support from older chaplains, and fostering collaborative relationships across university leadership. Doing so not only helps chaplains thrive in their roles, but also ensures that Muslim students receive the holistic, faith-sensitive support they deserve during one of the most formative periods of their lives.

Conclusion: A Call to Invest in Our Students’ Spiritual Future

In an era when students face increasing pressures around identity, purpose, and belonging, the presence of a Muslim chaplain can offer much-needed spiritual grounding, guidance, and advocacy. As institutions of higher education continue to diversify and expand their understanding of student wellness, Muslim chaplaincy stands out as a vital resource that bridges faith and modern campus life. 

But to fully realize the potential of this role, we can’t rely on universities alone. It will take the entire Muslim community – students, alumni, donors, community leaders, and everyday Muslims – to help build the scaffolding around chaplaincy positions and ensure Muslim students are not left spiritually adrift.

Here’s what you can do:

• Support institutions that train Muslim chaplains, such as The Islamic Seminary of America, the Association of Muslim Chaplains, and Boston Islamic Seminary. These programs ensure that chaplains are both Islamically grounded and professionally equipped for pastoral care.
• Reach out to your alma mater. Ask whether they have a Muslim chaplain on staff. If not, advocate for one. Share resources and help them understand the unique challenges Muslim students face.
• Encourage your local masjid or community center to connect with nearby campuses. Even part-time chaplaincy support—one day a week—can provide a lifeline.
• Give if you’re able. Many chaplaincy positions begin as donor-funded roles. A single scholarship, endowment, or fundraising effort can change hundreds of lives.
• Keep Muslim chaplains in your du‘ā. Their work is often quiet, emotionally demanding, and under-recognized. Pray for their strength, sincerity, and impact.

By investing in the development and sustainability of Muslim chaplaincy, we can help colleges and universities cultivate more inclusive, spiritually attentive environments. Let’s ensure that our students don’t walk their journeys alone. Let’s build a future where faith and education grow hand in hand.

 

Related:

– [Podcast] Hospitals And Healing: Islamic Chaplaincy | Ch. Sondos Kholaki

– From The Chaplain’s Desk – Reap The Rewards Of Being Mindful Of Allah

1    Husain, A. (2013, March 4). MSA national: For 50 years, ‘Students’ has been its middle name. HuffPost. https://www.huffpost.com/entry/msa-national-for-50-years_b_1940707 HuffPost. https://www.huffpost.com/entry/msa-national-for-50-years_b_19407072    Saliba, S. M. (2024). The contributions of university chaplains, as spiritual care professionals, to suicide prevention: Results from a European expert panel. Journal of Spirituality in Mental Health, 27(2), 222-249. https://doi.org/10.1080/19349637.2024.2341079 3    Dougherty, K. D., Glanzer, P. L., Robinson, J. A., Ratchford, J. L., & Schnitker, S. A. (2021). Baylor faith and character study: Methods and preliminary findings. Christian Higher Education, 21(3), 168-190. https://doi.org/10.1080/15363759.2021.19295644    Astin, A. W., Astin, H. S., & Lindholm, J. A. (n.d.). Overall Findings. Spirituality in Higher Education. https://www.spirituality.ucla.edu/findings/5    Mantas, N. Z. (2023, April 7). How one Muslim chaplain created a Ramadan handbook for campuses. Interfaith America. https://www.interfaithamerica.org/article/muslim-chaplain-ramadan/

The post The Urgent Need For Muslim Chaplaincy On Campus: An Investment In Spiritual Futures appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

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

Author’s Note: I consider dreams to be signs from Allah, and as such I never invent dreams for my stories. When I need to know what a character is dreaming, I think of that character before I sleep. I put myself in his mindset, and become him. In the morning, when I wake, I write down my dreams immediately. That’s what happened here. I dreamed this for Deek – with the Thunkan giants, Karkol, the planet Rust, and all.

***

“Lift as you climb.” – African-American proverb

Honey On Sunlight

Abdul Basit Abdul Samad

Rania sat at the kitchen table staring at her laptop screen, studying the city of Fresno’s residential permit guide, as at the same time she listened to the perennial sound of ‘Abdul Basit ‘Abd us-Samad reciting the Quran. The late Egyptian reciter’s voice was like honey on sunlight at times, and at other times was a pelican flying just over the surface of the sea, then a peregrine falcon diving into the water. Suddenly it went deep, and was a subterranean river pouring over a never-seen waterfall. Allahu Akbar, may Allah have mercy on him.

The document she was studying helped homeowners understand what they must do before building a structure on their property. It detailed the required documents, a submittal checklist, review timeline estimates and the city’s fee schedule for things like plan-checks, permits and resubmittals.

Beside her on a table were three empty blueberry yogurt cups, and she had just scooped a large spoonful from a fourth cup into her mouth when the door opened.

“As-salamu alaykum Mom,” Sanaya called out.

“I’m in the kitchen!” Hand to her mouth, swallowing the yogurt.

The girls joined her, dumping their miscellaneous belongings onto the table. Amira checked her phone, looking glum. She missed her Baba, Rania knew. Amira and Deek had always been best friends.

“I thought you were on the keto diet,” Sanaya commented. “You know those yogurts have a lot of sugar.”

“They’re low fat.”

“And high sugar.”

Rania sighed and pushed the yogurt away. Sanaya was right. If she ever wanted to lose the extra weight on her hips and upper arms, she had to get serious about quitting sugar. And she did want to lose weight. Deek always told her she was beautiful, and their love life was healthy, but part of her wondered if her weight gain was one of the reasons he had left. She’d actually cut out all true junk foods in the last several days, and had already lost a few pounds. Deek would like that. The thought made her smile.

She needed to get serious about exercise. When she was young, her go-to sport was swimming. Her own mother had grown up swimming in the Tigris river, and had taught Rania from a young age. Rania was on the school swim team until she turned 12 and began wearing hijab. The problem now was that she didn’t have a private place to swim. She supposed she could make herself a burkini and swim at the community pool. She was quite talented with a sewing machine. Or she could start jogging in the neighborhood.

This Time Was Different

In the past, when she and Deek had fought, she had never worried that he might leave her. But this time was different. She knew that in these last few months she’d been nasty to him at times. She’d been under so much stress with the bills, and it had changed her. She wasn’t proud of it. And now Deek was rich.

It wasn’t that she thought Deek would take his money and find a younger, more beautiful woman. He wasn’t like that. But maybe the money gave him options that he didn’t have before. And maybe some of those options were more attractive than a life with Rania.

She hated herself for thinking these things. For all her faults, she had been good to Deek, and loved him, and cared for him, and supported him while he struggled. She was a good wife. She didn’t “deserve” for Deek to leave her, and she shouldn’t blame herself. But she couldn’t help it.

Sanaya snatched up the discarded yogurt and began to eat it.

Fa inna ma’ al-’usra yusraa, Abdul Basit recited:

So, surely with hardship comes ease.
Surely with hardship comes ease!
So once you have fulfilled ˹your duty˺, strive ˹in devotion˺,
turning to your Lord ˹alone˺ with hope.

“This is Abdul Basit, isn’t it?” Sanaya asked. “He’s so good.”

Rania paused the recitation. “Yes, mashaAllah. A great man. Do you know when he used to travel in the Muslim world, presidents would meet him on the tarmac? May Allah elevate him in Jannah.”

Sanaya craned her neck to peek at the screen. “What are you working on?”

“I’m studying the city’s requirements for building an addition to the house. I have a meeting with an architect tomorrow morning, I want to be ready.”

“What are you going to build?”

“An office for your father.”

Amira looked up hopefully. “Is Baba coming home?”

“Of course he is.”

“You talked to him?”

“No, but I -”

Amira tossed her phone onto the table with a clatter, then pulled off her blue amira hijab and threw it randomly onto a kitchen counter. She shook her head, letting her long, wavy brown hair flow to her back.

Drove Him Away

“Come on Miri,” Rania said, using the girl’s nickname. “Don’t be like that.”

“Mom, you know I love you,” Sanaya said in the tone of someone imparting a solemn secret. “But you did drive him away. You need to go see him.”

Rania threw her hands up. “I don’t even know where he is. I’ve been leaving messages but he doesn’t answer. But it’s okay, it’s not the first time we’ve had a fight. We always work it out, inshaAllah. I love your father and he loves me. And what do you mean I drove him away?”

“I was there, Mom, remember? In the driveway when Baba brought home the new car? I heard what you said.”

Amira perked up like a lion scenting a deer. “What did she say?”

“She said Baba was an anchor around her neck, and that she was seeing someone else.”

“Mom!” Amira leaped to her feet.

Rania gave Sanaya a baleful stare. “Yes, I said that about the anchor, but I was under a lot of stress and I didn’t mean it. And I have NOT been seeing someone else. I was having lunch occasionally with Dr. Townsend at the hospital. I’ve stopped doing that. I even transferred departments so as not to be around him.”

“Why did you have to transfer?”

“Because he won’t leave me alone. He thinks there’s something between us, and there isn’t. I love your father and no one else. I would never, ever cheat on him, I swear it.”

Every Penny

Amira sat back down. “Why do guys do that?”

“Do what?”

“They never take the hint. Even when you say no they keep coming like hungry dogs.”

Hearing this out of her 16 year old daughter’s mouth was worrisome, but Rania didn’t have time to deal with it right then. She filed it away, to be addressed later.

“We believe you, mom,” Sanaya said. “Right, Miri?”

“Whatever.”

“How are you going to pay for the new office? How much will it cost?”

“Your father gave me a hundred thousand dollars. It will cost every penny of it, and maybe a little more. But that’s okay, because your father deserves it.”

“So… We’re rich now? Baba succeeded with the crypto thing?”

Rania nodded slowly. “Yes. It would appear so. He bought that little Porsche with crypto. Didn’t even pay cash for it.”

Amira pumped a fist in the air. “Go Baba! That car is bad-ass.”

“Watch your language. What does a person’s bottom have to do with anything?”

The girls laughed uproariously. Sanaya wiped a little yogurt from her chin.

“It’s how people talk, Mom,” Amira explained.

“It’s not how we talk. We choose our language consciously. Everything we do and say is in the service of Allahu Subhanahu wa Ta’aala.”

“Yes, yes.” Sanaya lifted an eyebrow. “So can I get me a slice of that crypto score?”

“Don’t worry,” Rania reassured. “Your father always does what’s right.”

Earth Will Die

Earth was going to die. A terrible catastrophe was coming. Deek saw it in a vision, clearer than the faces of his children. The entire world would ignite in a conflagration that would burn even the seas and rivers. The vision struck him like a sledgehammer.

That evening, Deek gathered Rania, Sanaya, and Amira around the kitchen table. “I’ve seen it,” he began, voice low. “I know Earth will die.”

Rania’s jaw clenched. “A dream, Deek?” she said, arms folded. “What proof do you have?” The lamp’s warm glow revealed the worry etched on his wife’s face and the tightening in Sanaya’s shoulders.

Sanaya’s foot tapped the tile floral. Amira looked down at her phone. “How would we live on some alien planet?” Rania pressed on.

“I have spoken with Karkol,” Deek explained. “The Thunka who deals with my company.”

The Thunka were a race of red-skinned giants from the planet Rust. They ran an interstellar cargo service between Earth and other planets, and Deek happened to know one of them, a purchasing agent named Karkol who Deek had occasionally hired to procure alien antiques.

“Karkol has agreed,” Deek went on, “to transport us to Rust. I know it will be difficult. The atmosphere is breathable, but light. It will take time to adjust. And the gravity is heavier than ours. But you know there are dozens of humans living on Rust. Diplomats, merchants, pilgrims.”

“How would we live?” Rania demanded. “It’s out of the question.”

Sanaya and Amira did not want to leave their comfortable lives and friends. In the end Deek’s family all refused to leave. Their refusal drove a steel spike through his chest. They didn’t understand the urgency. Why wouldn’t they believe him? He had always been honest with them.

Ozone and Oil

There was a little time yet before the catastrophe, he sensed this. He would go on his own, in advance. He would build a home, learn the language, and prepare a welcome for his family.

When he left, Rania turned away. He hugged his daughters. Amira hid her face in her hands.

On the Thunkan ship, everything dwarfed him: the height of the ceiling, the width of the corridors, and his own bed, which he needed a ladder to climb into. The giants were five times his size and he stayed out of their way, except when he needed to follow one through a door, since the 30 foot high circular doors would not open for him, as his weight was not sufficient to trigger the floor sensors.

He was lightheaded due to lack of oxygen, but he would acclimate as his body created more red blood cells. The air smelled of ozone and oil. All around, crates loomed four deep. The shipping labels were in Thunkan, he could not read them, but he knew they were destined for many different worlds.

Translating

I need to contact Earth,” he told one giant. The great creature led him to a panel computer. Deek spoke into it.

“Call my wife. Rania Al-Rashid in Fresno, California.”

A disc swirled on the screen, then a word appeared: TRANSLATING. A moment later the computer spoke in a metallic rasp:

“PROVIDE TRACKING NUMBER FOR WALL LIGHTS FROM FRESNO CALIFORNIA.”

Frustration flared. Deek waved his arms. “I need to call my wife!”

“FRUITS FOR YOUR LIFE.”

It was hopeless.

Buildings Like Cliffs

On the planet Rust, he staggered through the city, its buildings towering like cliffs, every door and window yawning wide.

Ochre dust swirled through the city’s broad avenues. Masks—dust-coated and ritual-bright—covered every face, including his. Immense red-skinned trees, trunks wider than buildings, reached toward a salmon sky. The call to prayer sounded from burnished bronze temples that rose like cathedral spires, and giants flowed from all directions to worship. They were not all red-skinned, as he saw now. Some were green, and others brown.

He entered a cafeteria the size of a stadium. Food was considered a Thunkan right, and was free. Tables grown from living stone bore steaming blue fruits and braided pastries. Hunger and hope warred in his chest. He sampled a fruit—and spat out its bitter flesh. Glyphs curved across a holo-menu, but he could not decipher the symbols.

A Sponsor

At his lowest moment, a green-skinned giantess in a finely cut gray suit approached with a tray of food. In spite of her obviously feminine contours and jewelry, her voice rumbled like an avalanche as in passable English she explained the foodstuffs. She was a university professor, specializing in alien languages. Her name was Anako.

Anako informed Deek that he must find a sponsor within one month, or he would be sent back to Earth. She herself could sponsor him, and get him a job teaching English at the university. With that income, he could build a house suited to his size.

Deek sighed in relief. Everything would be okay. He and his family could survive here. Anako took him to a computer terminal that specialized in alien communications, and he called his family.

“You’re asking too much, habibi,” Rania said. “You should return home. The scientists say they can repair the problem.”

Deek’s heart leapt to his throat. “What problem?”

“The ozone layer is degrading.”

“You must come to Thunka immediately!”

But Rania would not have it. Crushed, he returned to his temporary dormitory home and lay on his bunk.

Bound To Perish

Anako found him with the news. Chemical pollutants in Earth’s atmosphere had ignited the ozone layer, burning it away and allowing solar and interstellar radiation to flood in. Everything on the surface of the planet was dead.

In a daze, Deek wandered the city. It was night time, and a warm breeze rippled his shirt. Looking up, he saw myriad lights of freighters landing and taking off. In a city park, a sea of violet grass waved in the wind.

He found Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah sitting with her back against a tree as wide as a house, rocking back and forth as she recited the Quran. He fell to his knees, averting his eyes from her pious visage.

“It’s all gone,” he said numbly.

In answer, Rabiah recited in Arabic from Surat Ar-Rahman:

Every being on Earth is bound to perish.
Only your Lord Himself, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain.
Then which of your Lord’s favours will you both deny?

Deek pressed his face into the grass. “Why did this happen?”

“Great doubt,” Rabiah said, “will eventually lead to great awakening.”

Deek stumbled away, mumbling, “Everything is gone.”

“Deek!” Rabiah called after him.

“Gone.”

———- “Mister Saghir!” ———-

Deep Yellow Sunlight

With a gasp, Deek jerked awake. He was in the back seat of November Evans’s car, which sat idling at a red light. They were on the outskirts of Fresno. Fields and roads were illuminated with that deep yellow hue that only occurs in the hour before sunset. Deek blinked, heartbeat thundering, and pressed his palms to his eyes.

“You were dreaming. I was about to come back there and shake you awake.”

On the radio, a man’s voice crooned:

She’s gone like last week’s moon
Gone like a forgotten tune.

November’s slender fingers brushed the volume knob as she turned the music off. “Are you alright?” Her voice was gentle.

“I guess.” In his mind he was still stuck on Rust, smelling the sour grass as the warm wind whipped at his clothing. The lights of ships above. Shaykha Rabiah saying, “Great doubt will eventually lead to great awakening.”

Why had Rania been so stubborn? Why wouldn’t she and the girls come with him?

And maybe more importantly, why had he left them behind? Why hadn’t he remained on Earth to die with them? That would have been more honorable.

A Heavy Dreamer

With shaking hands, he texted his daughters and asked them to meet him at the hotel restaurant tomorrow for lunch.

Then he texted Lubna to let her know he’d be dropping by in an hour or so. Lubna didn’t like surprise visits, at least not from Deek.

He would also visit Rania tonight, but he did not text her. He wanted to surprise her.

“You’re a heavy dreamer,” November commented.

“Not always. Things on my mind right now.”

“I apologize,” the driver said, “if I overstepped in our conversation about your family.”

Deek waved this off. “I’m having trouble adjusting.”

“You’ll find clarity. You have a good heart.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s part of my job to assess character.”

“I was thinking of changing my name,” Deek said out of the blue, “to Asad. It means lion.”

November Evans rolled the towncar right up to the Marco Polo’s front door. She turned to study him. “I don’t see it,” she remarked, “but sometimes we grow into our names.”

I Like You Too Much

Not knowing what else to say, Deek exited then stepped up to the open driver’s window. “You want to work for me?”

November winked at him with one pretty brown eye. “Negative. I like you too much for that.”

Deek regarded her. Part of his mind was still on the planet Rust, standing beneath trees the size of buildings, feeling the hot wind pull at his shirt.

“Lift as you climb,” he said.

November nodded solemnly. “Lift as you climb. Take care of yourself, Mr. Saghir.” With that, she drove away.

Deek’s phone buzzed with a reply from Lubna: “No visits today. I’m not in the mood.”

Deek’s mouth formed a firm line. He knew, and Allah knew, that he had not been a good brother to Lubna. He thought about the San Francisco woman’s cardboard sign: “Tried Everything.” That was true for Deek himself, and Lubna, and Marco, and even Zaid Karim. All of them struggling alone, like castaways on remote planets, each thinking they were alone in their particular world. But they all lived on the same planet. They were all part of each other’s world. And Deek wasn’t leaving anyone behind this time.

Not even taking the time to go up to his hotel room, he walked to his car, started it, and headed for Lubna’s house. What he intended to do would be tricky. She, like Deek, was proud. Plus, she didn’t like him much, and didn’t trust him. Which was his fault, and was something he must rectify at all costs.

[Part 14 will be published next week inshaAllah]

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

* * *

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

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

 

Related:

Kill the Courier |Part 1 – Hiding in Plain Sight

No, My Son | A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 13] – The Planet Rust appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

By Ibrahim Moiz
15 July 2025

Bism Allah Al-Rahman Al-Rahim

A Terrible Anniversary

Srebrenica, Bosnia

This month marks thirty years since one of the most vicious massacres of recent history, of eight thousand Muslim men and boys at the eastern Bosnian border town Srebrenica in July 1995. The Srebrenica massacre was simply the most climactic massacre in a genocidal campaign by Serb ethnonationalists, which helped break up the former Yugoslavia in the 1990s a most viciously directed its violence at Bosnia.

Though there has been much coverage of the Bosnian genocide, with Muslims worldwide shaken to solidarity, the war’s general trajectory and the escalation to genocide are little-understood by many foreign Muslims even as their implications continue to reverberate beyond Bosnia.

This first article in our series will examine the background and political-military history of the Bosnian war, before we move on to its dynamics in the context of Muslim solidarity, anti-Muslim propaganda and pseudo-nativism, and international institutional feebleness.

I. Ethnonationalism and Islam in Yugoslavia The Balkan Tinderbox

Map of Bosnia and Herzegovina showing major frontlines and regions during the 1992–1995 war (Public domain, U.S. CIA)

Since the nineteenth century, it has been a cliche to call the Balkans a tinderbox of local parochialism and competition by neighbouring powers. An early site of nationalisms, such as Serbian and Albanian, that in turn were exploited by foreign rivals of the Ottoman sultanate or Austro-Hungarian empire, it is often noted that Bosnia’s capital Sarajevo witnessed the assassination, by a Serb ethnonationalist against the Austro-Hungarian heir-apparent, that kicked off the First World War. The region suffered many wars in the first half of the twentieth century, and though under Broz Tito it became a stronghold of the Non-Aligned Movement, his celebrated balancing act between different ethnic groups was improvisational and occasionally repressive, if less than the Soviet Union or neighbouring Albania.

Yugoslavia’s partial federalism, with a certain regional autonomy, contained but institutionalized differences. Both at the capital Belgrade and in the various regions, ruling bodies and state institutions–such as the military, local militia, and security–were balanced among communists of different ethnic groups. Serbs comprised the largest, most far-flung group, and were often suspicious of ethnic Albanians in Kosovo, both because of Kosovo’s importance to Serbia’s identity and because of rivalry with neighbouring Albania.

By the 1980s, with the communist edifice in decline and replaced increasingly by ethnic nationalism, ideologues such as Dobrica Cosic were presenting Serbs as natural but long-aggrieved defenders of the region. Such discourse often entered not only ethnic but also religious bigotry, with the largely Catholic Croats and largely Muslim Albanians and Bosniaks a target. Though partly reactive ethnonationalism also surged among Albanians and Croats, it was Serb ethnonationalists who presented themselves as defenders of Yugoslavia’s unity even as they increasingly engineered state institutions to their exclusive favour.

Slobodan Milosevic And Ethnonationalism

Nobody exploited this ethnonationalism to greater effect than Slobodan Milosevic, boss of the Serbian region, who shot to prominence in the late 1980s in a manner that will be familiar today: turning corruption into an ethnic issue, manufacturing hysteria against minorities, and playacting as a champion of his kin against a supposedly oppressive state apparatus–an apparatus that was, in fact, exceedingly indulgent of and increasingly politicized in his favour.

Rival nationalism was stoked with particular success by Franjo Tudjman, a former general, in Croatia. While the West widely applauded nationalist alternatives to communism in these last days of the Cold War, in fact nationalists in the Balkans were largely former communist apparatchiks, most of whom came to lead their region in Yugoslavia.

Alija Izetbegovic And Fikret Abdic

Alija Izetbegović, Bosniak leader and first President of independent Bosnia and Herzegovina

A major exception was the Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim) ideologist Alija Izetbegovic, the only regional leader from outside the Yugoslavia elite; he had been put on a show trial in 1983 for a supposed plan to create an Islamic state. In fact he had simply written on basic Islamic political principles, none of which entailed forcing the religion; he saw moral persuasion as the best route to Islamic revivalism, religious and cultural rather than politics as ideal for Islamic revivalism in a largely secularized society. Though critics suspicious of “Islamic fundamentalism” would labor to equivocate him with nationalists because of his Islamic convictions, those same convictions abhorred nationalism and he aimed to preserve, not force, Islam–a far cry from the clumsy, exclusivist amalgamations of Serbian nationalism with Eastern Orthodoxy or Croatian nationalism with the Catholic faith by recently transformed former establishmentarians such as Slobodan Milosevic and Tudjman.

A very different, but initially popular, type of Bosniak leader was Fikret Abdic, a tycoon whose northwest Bihac region had a rare amount of inter-ethnic harmony that ensured his popularity even after he was embroiled in a corruption scandal. He actually secured more votes than Izetbegovic in the 1990 regional election, and was made a member of a coalition Bosnian council.

II. The Breakup of Yugoslavia Summer 1991

Albania, whose communist regime succumbed to protests, was a warning sign, especially because Kosovar Albanians led by Ibrahim Rugova fled there to found an exile opposition. It was clear that Yugoslavia would either reform, rupture, or both: Croatia, led by Tudjman, and Slovenia favoured rupture; both Bosnia, where Izetbegovic had recently come to power, and Serbia ironically opposed secession, for opposite reasons: Izetbegovic favoured a federalist Yugoslavia with reforms, especially since ethnic secession would hit Bosnia hardest; Milosevic marketed himself as the champion of Yugoslav unity, portraying any reform as treasonous; by the year’s end a series of palace intrigues had collapsed the government and put him in charge of not only Serbia but the collapsing Yugoslavia state.

The fact that a reunified Germany, in particular, was encouraging Slovenia and Croatia to declare independence also rallied Yugoslav state institutions like the army behind Milosevic, who portrayed Serbs as the guardians of the state. In summer 1991 both Slovenia and Croatia broke away; Slovenia had very few Serbs, so after a brief military campaign it was let go. Essentially this led to a precedent where a Yugoslavia-versus-separatists stance was replaced with an ethnic war.

Serb-Croat War

Typical communist-era architecture in Belgrade, the former capital of Yugoslavia.

Croatia was a different matter, its sizable Serb periphery led by Milan Babic calling to join Serbia. This would only be connected via Bosnia, whose most influential Serb ethnonationalist – Radovan Karadzic – assumed a similar posture. A vicious war soon broke out between Serbs, joined by the Yugoslavia army, and Croats on Bosnia’s border.

Croat-Serb polarization affected both Belgrade–where a bloodless coup replaced the Croat figurehead ruler of Yugoslavia, Stjepan Mesic, with the Serb Milosevic–and Bosnia, where rival ethnic enclaves were set up, Mate Boban leading a Croat enclave that favoured Croatia and Karadzic taking the opposite stand.

Institutions, including Izetbegovic’s ruling council in Sarajevo had been carefully split between Bosnia’s Bosniaks, Croats, and Serbs: Bosniak security chief Alija Delimustafic and Serb militia commander Dragan Vukosavljevic backed Belgrade against Croatia. The Yugoslav army’s commanders from the war against Croatia–notably Milutin Kukanjac and Ratko Mladic–also armed Serb militias, setting up Karadzic’s headquarters in the mountains outside Sarajevo, and the war occasionally spilled over against Croat villages in Bosnia. Izetbegovic did form a militia, led by Sefer Halilovic, that was loosely linked to his Akcije party, but its role was strictly defensive.

Croatian Independence

By 1992 Tudjman had won recognition of Croatian independence, effectively confirming Yugoslavia’s death. In spring 1992 a referendum secured Bosnia’s independence and left Milosevic in charge of the rest, now called Serbia. Croatia was strongly supported by the West, Serbia by Russia; Bosnia had neither.

The United Nations had rushed a force of peacekeepers to the scene, but its Canadian commander Lewis Mackenzie remained openly hostile to Bosnia. The United Nations then reached a typically untimely bandaid solution in the form of an arms embargo: this came after Serbia had already armed Karadzic’s militants to the teeth and retained a major army force led by Kukanjac in the country. It left Bosnia, easily the weakest of the newly independent states, with very little defense.

III. Encirclement and Attack Spring 1992: Serbs Converge on Bosnia

Sarajevo residents fetching water under sniper fire, winter 1992–1993. (Photo: Christian Maréchal)

In spring 1992 not only Serb ethnonationalists but the Serbian army converged on Bosnia. There were three major prongs: in the centre, Kukanjac and Karadzic laid siege to Sarajevo; in the west, Mladic thundered south from the Croatian battlefield through the Kupres and Neretva river valleys; and in the east, Dragoljub Ojdanic crossed the eastern border and swept south through Zvornik, hoping to cross southern Bosnia and meet up with Mladic in the southwest. Only in isolated cases–Zepa, where Avdo Palic ambushed the Serbian army, and Gorazde and Srebrenica, where Zaim Imamovic and Naser Oric held out under siege for three years–were they interrupted.

Ethnic Cleansing and Atrocity Campaigns

The Serbian army employed Serb ethnonationalists from throughout the old Yugoslavia, such as Arkan Raznjatovic, Mirko Jovic, and Vojeslav Seselj: they openly spoke of Islam as an alien and inferior presence, often describing Bosniaks as alien Turks, and armed to the teeth they regularly rounded up non-Serbs, Bosniak and Croat, and massacred them. For Serb ethnonationalists massacres were intended to eliminate or at least expel non-Serb populaces in order to claim their land as part of the Serb homeland; rape was a frequent phenomenon intended to break the spirit of their victims’ communities.

Political Defections and Siege Dynamics

Sefer Halilović, Bosnian army commander

Any illusions the Bosnian government maintained of keeping the peace soon evaporated. The Serb members of the Bosnian government, academics Nikola Koljevic and Biljana Plavsic defected to join Karadzic, as would their replacement Nenad Kecmanovic, and constable Vukosavljevic led a slew of similar defections by Serb officers. While Izetbegovic negotiated abroad, two Bosniak government leaders–his tycoon rival Abdic, also on the ruling council, and interior minister Delimustafic–also attempted a coup on the same day that the Serbian besiegers launched a major attack; Izetbegovic, rushing back from Lisbon, was captured at the airport by Serbian soldiers.

Fortunately for Sarajevo, Izetbegovic’s deputy Ejup Ganic as well as military commanders Hasan Efendic and Halilovic kept their wits about and captured Serbian army commander Kukanjac. He was only released in exchange for Izetbegovic, but Halilovic promptly captured him again. The aggressive Halilovic, now Bosnian army commander, was at the centre of considerable misgivings between the Bosnian leaders. Particularly controversial, though certainly necessary at the time, was his reliance on Sarajevo’s unsavoury mobsters to help man the front until the army built up; not till late summer 1992 was an army corps, led by Mustafa Hajrullahovic, ready.

IV. A Common Enemy: Bosnia against the Ethnonationalists Bosniak–Croat Military Cooperation

Mostar in Southwest Bosnia, a major battleground during the war.

Caught unawares and unready by the Serbian offensive, Bosnia had relied heavily on the more experienced Croat militia against their common Serbian rival. Croat nationalism had a more mixed view of Muslims at this stage than did Serb nationalism; indeed the Croatian army included a large number of Albanians from Kosovo. Within Bosnia, the Bosniak mayors of the cosmopolitan towns Tuzla and Mostar, respectively Selim Beslagic and Ismet Hadziosmanic, cooperated closely with Croat commanders Zeljko Knez and the Muslim Jasmin Jaganac. Another friendly Croat commander, Blaz Kraljevic, had helped take Trebinje from the Serb forces, and soon Izetbegovic and Tudjman were aiming to formalize their cooperation.

Boban–Karadzic Conspiracy and Betrayal

Yet behind the scenes the respective Croat and Serb ethnonationalist leaders, Boban and Karadzic, decided that it was best to split Bosnia, whose defence was easily the weakest and whose Muslim population both despised, between them: an early hint of this conspiracy came with the murder of Kraljevic, and it exploded to the fore in autumn 1992. The plotters’ takeover of Bosanski Brod hamstrung the government’s attempt to retake Zvornik from Serb militants. In an ironic twist, the government’s commander here, Knez, was an ethnic Croat, while the Bosanski garrison was led by Armin Pohara, a Bosniak actor with links to different sides of the conflict who appears to have been confused by circumstances beyond his control.

Escalation to the Bosniak–Croat War

Such local nuances did not prevent the Croat ethnonationalists from plundering or expelling Muslims from other towns they captured, including Jajce, Prozor, and Travnik. While Croat militants were never as uniform in hostility to Muslims as Serb militants, by 1993 a general war between Bosniaks and Croats was underway; Croats who cooperated with Muslims were increasingly sidelined.

In spring 1993 Boban’s deputy Dario Kordic and Tihomir Blaskovic, particularly brutal commanders, blazed through the Lasva valley, massacring and expelling Muslims; having jointly fought the Serb rebels at Mostar, Croat commanders Slobodan Praljak and Milivoj Petkovic turned on their Muslim counterparts Arif Pasalic and Sulejman Budakovic.

Despite talks between Boban and Alija Izetbegovic, Blaskovic rejected any reconciliation and even replaced the tolerant Croat commandant in Fojnica, Stjepan Tuke, with a vicious lieutenant Ivica Rajic, who advanced to Vares and massacred Muslims.

Not till summer 1993 did Bosniaks respond with anything like the same ruthlessness. A Bosnian attack led by Enver Hadzihasanovic captured Fojnica and Bugojno, and in contrast to previous or future practice expelled the towns’ Croats. This was quickly seized upon by foreign outlets as proof that the Bosniaks were “no angels”–as if that was a prerequisite to avoid genocide. The fact was that even at their worst Bosniak soldiers did not resort to ethnic cleansing, systemic massacres, or cultural destruction: there was no equivalence with Croat or Serb ethnonationalist atrocities.

V. International Institutions: Hurting not Helping The Vance–Owen Peace Plan

Ethnonationalism was further incentivized by a gormless international response: in early 1993 United Nations envoy Cyrus Vance, whose earlier mediations in the Balkans had hardly been helpful, joined with United Nations envoy David Owen to argue for the splinter of Bosnia into ethnic cantonments. Portrayed as statesmanlike nuance, this in effect only encouraged Serb and Croat ethnonationalists to carve up Bosnia between them.

UN Peacekeeper Failures

Such pompously harmful edicts underscored a general tendency in international institutions like the United Nations: recognizing the Western support for Croatia and the weakness of Bosnia, they opted for the laziest and easiest presumption that Bosnia should be sacrificed for the “greater good” rather than moralize Serbia. Like his Canadian predecessor Mackenzie, United Nations commander Philippe Morillon of France inclined toward Serbian commander Mladic, whose swaggering confidence endeared him to fellow officers.

Western Prejudice and Muslim Solidarity

While Western states had been glad to advocate for Croatia against Serbia, they were quite willing to sacrifice Bosnia and dress this up as a necessary sop to Russia: at the highest levels France and, with only slightly less distasteful enthusiasm, Britain evinced their distaste for a Muslim state in Europe.

Hasan Cengić, Bosnian Finance Minister (1992–1995), known as the “Flying Imam” for his diplomatic fundraising flights.

Washington was not as prejudiced against Bosnia, but inclined to side foremost with Croatia and definitely suspicious of Sarajevo’s links to Muslims abroad in an age where “Islamic fundamentalism” was beginning to emerge as a post-Cold War enemy of choice. Croatian leader Tudjman, so recently hobnobbing with Izetbegovic, now expounded on the “alien” nature of Muslims in Europe, echoing Serb propaganda. In a region torn apart by ethnonationalism, the one government that transcended it, Sarajevo, was portrayed as a wildcard for its Islamic links, epitomized in the energetic activity of finance minister Hasan Cengic, whose frequent trips for support earned him the nickname “flying imam”.

Such links were of course a natural response to Bosnia’s plight, and a number of state and private Muslim actors did chip in. From pro-American regimes Saudi Arabia’s future king Salman bin Abdul-Aziz and Kuwait’s emir Jabir bin Ahmed sent support. Hussein Abdel-Razek from Egypt, Fazlur-Rahman from Bangladesh, and Qasim Qureshi from Pakistan led United Nations units and tried to bypass institutional apathy. But U.S. policymakers fretted over support from Sudan’s Hassanayn, Iran’s Akbar Torkān, and Pakistan’s spymaster Javed Nasir—whom Washington forced out as “fundamentalist.”

Propaganda, Media Bias, and High-Profile Abductions

Non-state actors were viewed with even more suspicion: these included civilian aid administrators, such as Muhammad Sharhan of Kuwait; a Hadrami Islamist called Mahmoud Bahaziq, often called “Abu Abdul-Aziz Barbaros” in disproportionate media focus; and foreign volunteer battalions led by the North Africans Doctor Abul-Harith and Jamal Abul-Maali, the Arabian Muhammad Habshi (Abul-Zubair), and even Ali Fayad, who led a unit from the Lebanese Hezbollah.

The Bosnians’ enemies latched onto this solidarity as proof of a villainous Muslim plot to infiltrate Europe; several Israeli propagandists, such as Yossef Bodansky, seconded themselves to Serbia to lobby against Bosnia as part of general Israeli support for Serbia. In fact, despite such innuendo, Muslim volunteers were guilty of little more than a culture shock; late in the war Abul-Maali would execute fifty captured Serb fighters, but this paled compared to the systemic and repeated crimes against civilians by Bosnia’s enemies.

Nonetheless, institutional biases toward Muslims, not only foreigners, often prevailed: this was epitomized by the coverage of Srebrenica’s tough sheriff Naser Oric. In early 1993 he led a breakout and raided Serb villages in order to feed the starving town; Serb nationalists immediately portrayed this as an assault on Serbs and an unimaginable war crime, an angle that was widely spread abroad.

Foreign coverage preferred United Nations commander Morillon, who–mobbed by desperate Srebrenica families as he visited the besieged enclave–solemnly promised never to abandon them. Despite a glowing foreign reception for this theatre, Morillon would manifestly fail to keep his promise and would in fact go on to obfuscate in Serbia’s favour. Perhaps nothing epitomized international failure as obviously as the abduction of Bosnian vice-prime minister Hakija Turajlic by Serb separatists in Sarajevo; seized under the noses of indifferent United Nations “peacekeepers”, he was quickly murdered in an indictment of international institutions.

VI. American Mediation and its Limits Reorganizing Sarajevo’s Defense

General Atif Dudaković, Commander of the 5th Corps, Army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina

In summer 1993 Sarajevo’s defense was overhauled: the irascible Halilovic, whose uncompromising opposition to Croat militants and support for the Sarajevo cartels had earned him a black mark, was unceremoniously sacked in favour of a more discreet Rasim Delic.

Halilovic’s rivals Fikret Muslimovic and Enver Mujezinov cracked down on the mobsters–one of whom, Caco Topalovic, was killed: instead of such unsavoury militias, the army took a more organized approach in the city’s defence.

New Corps Commanders in the Field

Mehmed Alagić, Bosnian Army Corps Commander at Travnik.

Similarly the Akcije government began to establish control, both emphasizing the Islamic nature of their struggle and trying to restore confidence abroad. In the field they promoted commanders who were not only experienced but also reliable: for example, Tuzla’s new corps commander Sead Delic was more reliable than his wilful predecessors Knez and Hazim Sadic.

Salko Gusic was sent to shore up the sensitive Konjic front; Vahid Karavelic at Sarajevo, Mehmed Alagic at Travnik, Sakib Mahmuljin at Zenica, and Atif Dudakovic at Bihac were experienced and loyal to the regime.

The 1994 Washington Accord

Externally, American commitment to Croatia had precluded support to Bosnia, but their priority had been Serbia and now they sought to end the 1993 Bosniak-Croat war. One promising sign was the replacement of the Croat separatist Mate Boban with Kresimir Zubak, who negotiated under the auspices of American leader Bill Clinton with Bosnian prime minister Haris Silajdzic. This culminated in the spring 1994 Washington Accord, joined by Izetbegovic and Tudjman, that effectively ended the 1993 Bosniak-Croat war and redirected them against Serbia.

The coalition kicked off when Croat forces helped Alagic and Kadir Jusic break the Serb siege of Maglaj. Another siege, led by Serb commander Dragisa Masal against Gorazde commander Zaim Imamovic, was only narrowly averted when United Nations commander Michael Rose unprecedentedly launched airstrikes — Masal and his boss Ratko Mladic vented their spleen at this narrow loss by, respectively, massacring Muslims and seizing United Nations soldiers. The Serb commander at Ozren, Novak Djucic, had more success in repulsing a three-pronged assault led by Sadic, Jusic, and Refik Lendo.

Fikret Abdić’s Mutiny and the Bihać Siege

A Bosnian-Croatian detente also complicated life for Fikret Abdic; having failed to oust Izetbegovic in 1992, this tycoon had in autumn 1993 conspired with Boban to turn over Bihac, on the Croatia-Bosnia border. Abdic had wealth and influence in this region, so when he incited a mutiny against Bosnian commander Ramiz Drekovic it had put the Bosnian regime at a quandary. He enjoyed portraying the Akcije regime as fanatics and won the trust of such credulous diplomats as Owen by confirming their prejudices.

But with Boban and Croatian protection gone, Abdic’s prospects looked uncertain. He thus jumped at an opportunity when Bosnian soldiers offered another mutiny, and quickly ordered his supporters to join them. To their horror, they walked into a trap laid by the formidable new commander Atif Dudakovic, who quickly apprehended them and marched on Abdic’s stronghold Velika Kladusa. Mladic responded with a two-pronged assault, but it backfired and the Serbian commander only narrowly evaded capture. Abdic now allied himself in open with Serbia; two Serb separatist corps, led by Momir Talic and Radivoje Tomanovic, pushed Dudakovic back to Bihac and put him under siege.

VII. An Enabled Massacre Shift in UN/US Priorities

The undisguised motivation of the American and United Nations intervention in 1994 had been to pressure Serbia, rather than help Bosnia per se; indeed their commander Rose, who had helped save Gorazde only months earlier, balked when the Bosnian army tried to break the siege of Sarajevo. Independent Bosnian action was anathema, and when the Bosnian army tried to recover strategic heights in spring 1995 the United Nations turned firmly against them.

Failed Bosnian Summer Offensive and the Fall of Srebrenica

Radovan Karadzic and Ratko Mladic, masterminds of Bosnian genocide.

In turn, the Bosnian army made a major, and rash, attempt to break the Sarajevo siege in summer 1995, when Sead sent forces from Tuzla to help Karavelic’s offensive. Not only was this repulsed with heavy casualties, but it left eastern Bosnia dangerously undermanned.

Ratko Mladic seized advantage of this, and concentrated his far larger army on the long-besieged Srebrenica enclave. Its dashing commander Naser Oric, widely vilified abroad, had recently been recalled to Sarajevo; instead a small garrison was left under the command of the ailing Ramiz Becirovic. Two years earlier the United Nations had pledged to help Srebrenica, but their only unit, a Dutch force led by Thom Karremans, put up no resistance; instead Mladic, who always disguised his brutality toward civilians with roguish humour toward foreign soldiers, regaled him with alcohol.

With relish, Mladic flaunted his power over the captured Bosniaks, and had as many as eight thousand butchered in cold blood, many lured to the slaughterhouse by their coerced families. Bosnia had seen many massacres over the past few years, the vast majority at the hands of Serb ethnonationalists, but this marked the crescendo of a full decade of hate-mongering, ethnic supremacism, and ultimately genocide under the banner of Serb ethnonationalism.

VIII. Blitz and Betrayal The Split Accord and Joint Counter-Offensive

Military action surrounding Sarajevo, Bosnia in June 1995

The only way forward from such unrepentant genocidal brutality is down, and so it happened. Serbia overreached by assigning its army in the west, led by Mile Mrksic, to finish off the campaign in western Bosnia opposite the Croatian army. To mend any remaining splits, the Bosnian and Croatian leaders signed the Split Accord–so named for the Croatian corps’ headquarters on the western coast–and, assisted by Dudakovic’s Bihac corps, blitzed the Serbian army and its vassals in Bosnia and Croatia– Karadzic, Milan Martic, and Bosniak quisling Abdic.

Recapture of Bosnian Territories

In autumn 1995 Croatian corps commander Ante Gotovina joined his Bosnian counterparts Dudakovic, Alagic, Mahmuljin, and even the foreign Muslims led by Abul-Maali in recapturing Bosnian towns such as Jajce, Petrovic, Donji Vakuf, and Vozuca; Zaim Imamovic, who had braved years under siege in Gorazde, was martyred on the campaign’s last day. Among the Serb opposition they routed was the infamous Arkan Raznjatovic, recently dispatched by Milosevic from Serbia in a vain attempt to reconcile the squabbling Mladic and Karadzic.

The Dayton Accord

Yet this avalanche of good news screeched to a halt when the United States, under bullish mediator Richard Holbrooke, called a ceasefire and hammered out the most flawed of compromises in the Dayton Accord. Not dissimilar to the 1993 proposals of Owen and Vance, it created an ethnic enclave for Serbs in Bosnia, essentially rewarding Karadzic’s three years of ethnic cleansing and ensuring an island of Serb ethnonationalism remained in Bosnia. It also slapped a foreign commission for Bosnia, led first by former Swedish prime minister Carl Bildt, that would act as a sort of viceroy; the Americans, naturally, would enjoy a veto on great matters.

Izetbegovic’s Reluctance and Silajdzic’s Break

The Accord should put paid to any delusions that the United States had entered Bosnia as a friend to its people, and at first Izetbegovic was too appalled to sign. But he lacked the cards to do anything about it–he could just about face off Serbia, but a United States at the peak of its power, backed by Europe, including the important Croatia, was beyond his capability after three years of horrendous war. The Akcije regime was exhausted and struggling; in summer 1995, prime minister Silajdzic had broken away.

Assassinations and Disappearances

Already as Commissioner Bildt arrived to take up his seat, signs of the more sinister side of American power had appeared; several Arab officers, including Abul-Maali, were murdered. The first known case of disappearance had also occurred, when an Egyptian ideologue called Talaat Qassemi, who had some informal links with some Arab fighters, was abducted in Croatia.

Growing Suspicion of Muslim Volunteers

The United States might not have been as unhelpful as several European states, but though it was less indiscriminate its mounting antipathy to “Islamic fundamentalism” was a rare point of agreement with Milosevic. Though Izetbegovic would do his best to shield them, foreign Muslim volunteers would come under an increasing American and European cloud over the years.

Milosevic’s Kosovo Pivot and a Forgotten Lesson

As for Milosevic, the results of the Dayton Accord were satisfactory enough for him that he turned on his original target of choice, the (similarly largely Muslim) Albanians of Kosovo. It was here that he would overstep, giving Washington a pretext to finish him. But it was a shame that it took thousands of Bosnian lives to hammer home the lesson that bigotry, ethnic cleansing, and genocide should not be rewarded. Unfortunately, the lesson is once more forgotten today.

Check back for part 2: Continued relevance of the Bosnia war in today’s climate of hate.

Related Posts:

Rising To The Moment: What Muslim American Activists Of Today Can Learn From Successful Community Movements During The Bosnian Genocide

Oped: The Treachery Of Spreading Bosnia Genocide Denial In The Muslim Community

 

The post History of the Bosnia War [Part 1] – Thirty Years After Srebrenica appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Introduction

Black Muslims in the United States are often referred to as “indigenous Muslims” (Love, 2017) who embody unique intersections of racial, religious, and national identities (Ahmed & Muhammad, 2019). This term highlights a long-standing and often overlooked presence of Black Muslims in the U.S., whose roots in American Islam predate many immigrant Muslim communities. Black Muslims have consistently shaped the religious, cultural, and political landscape of American Islam. Despite this historical significance, Black Muslims remain vastly underrepresented in educational research, particularly in higher education literature, where their student experiences are rarely examined. 

Although Black Muslims represent one of the largest racial groups practicing Islam in the U.S. (Schmidt, 2004), little is known about their educational realities, challenges, and resistance. Much of the existing research on Muslim students tends to focus on South Asian and Arab populations, often failing to account for how anti-Blackness operates alongside Islamophobia to shape educational experiences in distinct and compounding ways. As a result, the needs, identities, and insights of Black Muslim students are frequently overlooked in institutional responses to inclusion.

This article draws on existing literature to explore how systemic anti-Blackness and Islamophobia shape the lives of Black Muslim students, while simultaneously highlighting how they resist these forces through religious identity, cultural affirmation, and educational aspiration. In doing so, this work aims to challenge the erasure of Black Muslim voices in academic research and to contribute to a broader understanding of how race and religion intersect within the educational experiences of minoritized students. Centering Black Muslim students is not only necessary to address an ongoing gap in the literature, but also critical for building more just and inclusive educational environments where their histories and identities are affirmed.

Historical and Sociopolitical Context

To understand the present-day experiences of Black Muslim students, it is essential to first consider the historical and sociopolitical foundations of their identities. The positioning of Black Muslims in the United States must be understood through the legacy of white supremacy and racial exclusion. Auston (2017) argues that the practice of Islam in the United States has long been shaped by racial hierarchies rooted in anti-Black racism. For Black American Muslims, Islam has historically served as a vehicle for resisting structural violence, segregation, and racial inequality. 

The emergence of the Nation of Islam (NOI) during the Jim Crow era is a prime example. As Akom (2003) details, the NOI developed in response to racist policies and environments that excluded Black communities. Within such contexts, Islam became both a spiritual and sociopolitical force shaped by resistance. In an ethnographic study with high school students affiliated with the NOI, Akom (2003) found that these students developed a “Black achievement ideology,” allowing them to excel academically while resisting school norms that clashed with their religious and racial values. Their resistance manifested through peer support, cultural pride, and redefining success on their own terms. Although the NOI’s theological framework differs from Sunni or Shi’a traditions, its significance lies in how it historically enabled Black students to maintain their identities within oppressive educational systems.

“Black Muslim students navigate educational spaces that are often hostile to both their racial and religious identities.” [PC: Wadi Lissa (unsplash)]

Despite the richness of Black Muslim contributions to American Islam and social justice movements, their experiences within education remain largely overlooked. Ahmed and Muhammad (2019) and Rahman (2021) both note that very few studies have focused on Black Muslim students, particularly at the collegiate level. This underrepresentation stems from an anti-Black perspective that fails to take seriously the contributions and experiences of Black Muslims (Rahman, 2021). 

Cole et al. (2020) emphasize the importance of understanding students’ multiple identities, especially those shaped by intersecting systems of race and religion. As such, analyzing Black Muslim student experiences requires an intersectional approach that can capture the compounding effects of multiple forms of oppression. For Black Muslim students, their marginalization is compounded by an entanglement of anti-Blackness and Islamophobia that demands an intersectional lens. Their marginalization is not only compounded by racism and Islamophobia, but also by the lack of recognition and support for their unique religious practices and cultural expressions within academic spaces (Auston, 2017).

Intersectionality and Compounding Marginalization

This intersectional framework helps us better understand how Black Muslim students navigate educational institutions that are often ill-equipped to support either aspect of their identity. Black Muslim students navigate educational spaces that are often hostile to both their racial and religious identities. Auston (2017) underscores how the dual stigma of being Black and non-Christian in a predominantly white, Christian-majority society places Black Muslims at a unique disadvantage. She mentions how “current manifestations of Black Muslim engagement with the unique intersectional impacts of marginalization arising out of the combination of being Black and non-Christian…is cumulative. To a large extent, Black American Islam has always been about the struggle for racial equality and religious freedom, shaped by the intersectional concerns necessitated by the fight on multiple fronts against state power, anti-Blackness, and entrenched White supremacy” (p. 20). Unlike their South Asian or Arab counterparts, whose experiences with Islamophobia may be racialized differently, Black Muslims face a historically entrenched anti-Black racism that predates and shapes their religious marginalization.

Ahmed and Muhammad (2019) further demonstrate how Black Muslim youth actively challenge these overlapping oppressions through spiritual grounding, community involvement, and cultural affirmation. These youth are not passive recipients of discrimination, but rather active agents who resist and reframe their realities.

Resistance and Black Muslim Brilliance

This active resistance forms the basis of what Rahman (2021) terms “Black Muslim brilliance,” a framework that reframes student agency and excellence through cultural and religious affirmation. A central theme across the limited but growing scholarship on Black Muslim youth is their strategic resistance to systemic marginalization. Rahman (2021) explores how Black Muslim students often opt out of U.S. educational systems entirely in favor of international or faith-based educational spaces. Drawing from an ethnographic study across Senegal and several U.S. cities, Rahman (2021) found that youth sought environments where Islamophobia and anti-Blackness were less pervasive. These spaces allowed students to nurture their spiritual and intellectual growth in affirming ways.

Rahman (2021) articulates the concept of “Black Muslim brilliance,” describing how these youth harness education as a tool for both personal empowerment and community uplift. She mentions how educational opportunities provided in faith-based settings often instill within students a commitment to addressing the social issues that impact Black communities. This brilliance is not defined solely by academics, but by a comprehensive growth grounded in justice, communal responsibility, and a strong sense of identity.

Similarly, Akom’s (2003) study of NOI students shows how alternative frameworks of success rooted in Black pride, religious commitment, and cultural resistance can produce academically successful students who do not conform to dominant educational norms. These examples suggest that Black Muslim youth are not struggling due to a lack of ability or aspiration, but rather due to structural barriers that deny the legitimacy of their identities.

To fully grasp the complexity of Black Muslim student experiences, it is important to distinguish them from those of other Muslim groups in the U.S. While Islamophobia impacts all visibly Muslim groups in the U.S., the experiences of Black Muslims are distinct due to the historic and ongoing realities of anti-Blackness. Auston (2017) argues that Black Muslim identities are forged in struggle, whether that is against slavery, segregation, mass incarceration, or religious exclusion. The convergence of racialized Islamophobia with entrenched anti-Black racism renders their experiences different from those of other Muslim groups. Recognizing this distinction is crucial in creating institutional responses that address the specific needs of Black Muslim students.

Conclusion

Black Muslim students occupy a liminal space at the intersection of race and religion, where both anti-Blackness and Islamophobia shape their educational experiences. They navigate an educational landscape that often fails to recognize and validate their intersecting identities. The historical and sociopolitical context of anti-Blackness and Islamophobia is crucial in understanding how Black Muslim students experience marginalization, but it is equally important to highlight their transformative responses to these challenges. 

Black Muslim students’ educational journeys are deeply shaped by their struggles against both racism and religious exclusion. However, their agency offers us crucial insights into how education can and should be transformed to truly affirm the identities and aspirations of all students. From resistance strategies in school to international educational pursuits, Black Muslims continually seek and create spaces that affirm their identities and values. To address the systemic inequities they face, both educational institutions and scholars must recognize their unique experiences and challenges and take meaningful action to create an inclusive, supportive, and just educational landscape. Educational institutions and scholars must begin to take seriously the voices and needs of Black Muslim students as central figures in the ongoing struggle for equity, belonging, and justice in education.

***

References

Ahmed, S. & Muhammad, H. (2019). Black American Muslim youth: Navigating environments, engaging new pathways. In Political Muslims: Understanding Resistance in a Global Context, 23-51.

Akom, A. A. (2003). Reexamining resistance as oppositional behavior: the Nation of Islam and the creation of a black achievement ideology. Sociology of Education, 76, 305-325.

Auston, D. (2017). Prayer, protest, and police brutality: Black Muslim spiritual resistance in the Ferguson era. Transforming Anthropology, 25(1), 11-22.

Cole, D., Hypolite, L., & Atashi, A. (2020). Black Muslims. In Islamophobia in Higher Education: Combating Discrimination and Creating Understanding. Sterling, VA: Stylus Publishing.

Love, E. (2017). Islamophobia and Racism in America. NYU Press.

Rahman, S. (2021). Black Muslim brilliance: Confronting antiblackness and Islamophobia through transnational educational migration. Curriculum Inquiry, 51(1), 57-74.

Schmidt, G. (2004). Islam in Urban America: Sunni Muslims in Chicago. Temple University Press.

 

Related:

– The Black Muslim Experience In K-12 Education

– Top 10 Books On Black Muslim History

 

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