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

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

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

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

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

The Raíces Run Deep

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

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

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

What’s Old is New Again?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uplifting Latino Muslim Voices

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

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

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

 

Related:

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

– 25 Things Latino Muslims Want You To Know

 

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

At the tail end of the last millennium, before blogs and definitely before social media, there was a book published called Web Pages That Suck, a guide to badly-designed web pages aimed at people who want to design good websites. The author, Vincent Flanders, turned the concept into a website which he continued updating until 2015; the site now has clearly been abandoned, with lots of missing image markers and ads in every in-between space. Bad web pages were often full of animations and other material which distracted from the actual content, or the product someone was trying to sell. One website that really did suck was MySpace, an early social media contender, principally aimed at musicians (it allowed people to upload music for download) but used by lots of others as a networking site. It allowed users to make their pages as over-the-top as they liked and pages often had animations that made the text illegible and which took several minutes to load. It was taken over by Microsoft, which didn’t improve those matters until it was too late, and made it unfashionable in the era of the infamous bug-ridden Windows XP and processor-hogging Vista. It was crying out to be replaced and when Facebook came along, it was swiftly abandoned.

Last year a book was published by Cory Doctorow, former co-editor of Boing Boing and long-time advocate for online freedom as part of the Electronic Frontier Foundation and Open Rights Group, titled Enshittification (edited extract here; you can order the book from their bookshop). This book was a thesis about how online services that were (or appeared) good to begin with go bad as their owners try to monetise them. In the early days, the owners portray themselves as freedom-loving in contrast to their competitors (like Microsoft and MySpace) and offer exceptionally good deals to consumers by undercutting existing companies using their venture capital, but then betray their users by selling their data to commercial customers, then betray the latter by making it more and more difficult to sell their products and publications, imposing onerous fees, limiting the reach of content and punishing them if they link to their own websites. The good deals end, the prices go up, the customer service and quality go down. Ultimately, you end up with a platform offering little other than garbage, surviving only because it is difficult for people to move as all their friends are on the site, or because they have bought a lot of music, video or literature which is locked to the apps, or because the competitors have been put out of business. He contends that “ultimately, they die”, but the principal enshittified web services have survived a lot longer than the sites, which included a fair few stinkers like MySpace, that they replaced. (Amazon does provide some value; its Prime membership offers include some films and music, and its returns system is better than a lot of the competition, but the deterioration of the goods on offer is undeniable.)

I’ve been online since 1995, when public access to the net was quite new, and I’ve been blogging since 2004, so I’ve seen how the Internet has developed. Search has changed from a number of competing engines like Infoseek, Excite, Yahoo and others to just Google and the privacy-oriented DuckDuckGo, neither of which existed in 1995. Early Google, in the late 90s, was just so good that it rapidly put most of the early contenders out of business; Yahoo survived because it took over a number of other services, although some have since been sold, such as Flickr; in the drive to monetise the services, paid content comes first after a useless AI-based summary. Social networking and interaction were provided by email lists and the Usenet newsgroup system; in the early 2000s, and particularly following 9/11, blogs grew more prominent. Finally, in the late 2000s, social media and what was then called ‘microblogging’ exploded, including Twitter and Facebook. Other sites existed back then; the Twitter protocol was used by rivals StatusNet and Identi.ca, neither of which still exist, while Facebook had competitors like Bebo, which was sold to AOL in a much-derided $850 million deal that cost the latter’s CEO his job and is now defunct, although it has been relaunched and then closed down again since 2013. Google made several attempts to launch microblogging and social media apps, none of which still operate. I wrote about Google Plus when it first launched, but Google strangled it at birth by not including functionality which Facebook had, or which Facebook had removed and which users might like. It had no group functionality, apart from anything else.

The thing is, Facebook was always horrible. It both sucked as a service, and was evil. It grew because of the disadvantages of the existing social media options: it wasn’t MySpace with its slow animations and legibility-destroying backdrops, it made it easy to share personal content without having to set up a blog, and it has mostly been free of spam, which was the bane of anyone who ran a blog which allowed user comments before 2007. The downsides were that features changed all the time, with valued functionality removed (such as the discussion forums within the group system) or senselessly changed (such as merging mail with chat), as I mentioned in that article on G+. Worse, earlier versions of FB had a ‘ticker’ feature which told all your friends if you made a comment on any post or group which was not private. I used to call this feature Snitchbooking. This was a large part of what makes Facebook actually evil rather than just bad: old social media consisted of email groups and forums about specific subjects, and if you posted on one, it didn’t appear on any other. Here, all your friends were on the same platform and you couldn’t keep groups of friends separate anymore. On most of the old sites, you could use a handle or pseudonym; Facebook demands that you use your real name.

Back in 2008 when Facebook was in its infancy and blogs were still popular, I spoke at a Muslim community event called “Wired Warriors” in London and put my view forward that there was going to be a “blog crunch”: that the blogosphere was heavily dependent on corporate off-cuts and long-shot business models, such things as offering the principal service for free while charging for support that a lot of users would not need, and that this situation would not last very long as blog hosts would need to pay bills. In the event, some blogging sites have not succumbed to this; WordPress still offers a functional free version of their hosted blogging platform and Blogger is still going, though TypePad has closed, LiveJournal was sold to a Russian company and Movable Type, a popular choice to run a blog in the 2000s with free and cheap personal plans, is now an expensive corporate product. However, a number of blogs disappeared in the move to social media and microblogging, as did a number of privately-hosted forums, and it’s those sites that have fallen victim to the crunch I predicted back in 2008: Twitter got markedly less useful as first Jack Dorsey and then Elon Musk sought to monetise it, restricting then blocking third-party clients and making ‘curated’ feeds the standard, while Facebook has undergone hyperenshittification — a shitty site getting even shittier — with friend and chosen-content feeds very difficult to find and the home feed being filled with promoted, often auto-generated slop, clickbait and churnalism. Meanwhile, Twitter (now branded X) has a default feed increasingly filled with racist and politically extremist content, driving a number of long-standing users to decamp to new, but underused, competitors such as BlueSky and Mastodon. On both sites, it has become difficult to promote blog articles, while many of the forums and email lists that previously allowed their promotion have closed.

Cory Doctorow gives some ideas as to how to de-enshittify the online world; these include unionising tech workers and strengthening anti-trust (competition regulation) laws so that one company cannot force competitors out of the market with subsidised undercutting or monopolise the supply chain. Sadly, the political climate right now is very much against any such legislative changes in many countries. Another legislative trend that makes resisting enshittification more difficult is the wave of online safety laws, requiring web service operators to impose age verification or police their services to ensure children are not exposed to ‘adult’ content. The motive is quite understandable, but it is precisely the large, established, enshittified service operators which have the resources to access this kind of technology, not those seeking to re-establish private forums or indeed new, open social media platforms, and this has led to some sites run on a shoestring to close, or to block users identifiable as being in the UK, Australia or other countries where such laws exist. One important way of reclaiming the online space is for a fund to be built up to buy out Twitter, either by an offer to its current owner or in the event of a distress sale. This would secure Twitter as a community resource and restore it to what it was before so much of its functionality was stripped away.

Is there a way back to what we had before social media swept it all away? Do we want those days back? Blogging was a lot more fun when people responded and there were lively discussions in the comment sections, but I also remember dealing with floods of spam and with Islamophobic comments; I don’t think I’ve had a single blog comment in a few years and I haven’t seen a lot of my old regulars for years now. For a while the discussion moved onto Facebook and Twitter and then it stopped altogether. Maybe people don’t read blogs anymore, but there are things you can’t say in a Twitter thread and we don’t want our writings to be stored on a social media site that might just choose to exclude us from it. When bloggers started shutting their sites down and moving onto Facebook around 2007, I had a sense that it wouldn’t end well and my fears were largely confirmed.

Israel’s 200,000 tonnes of explosives will continue to harm Gaza’s next generation.

Two conversations on the shifting politics around Palestine, the collapse of official narratives and why independent media matter more than ever.

Victoria Sharp worked for Robert Maxwell and her twin brother sits on charity board with Trevor Chinn.

Israeli weapons firm Rafael flaunts its cooperation with Germany.

By Ibrahim Moiz

Tributes And A Legacy of Defiance

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

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

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

Outrage, Love, and Community Grief

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

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

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

Rap Brown

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

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

Under Surveillance and Pressure

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

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

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

Cold War and Confinement

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

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

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

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

Escalation, Resistance, and the Road to Arrest

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

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

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

Revolution by the Book

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

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

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

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

Building a Model Community and a Revolutionary Ethic

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

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

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

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

Confinement in the age of “War on Terror”

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

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

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

A Passing That Echoes Through History

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

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

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

إِنَّا لِلَّٰهِ وَإِنَّا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعُونَ

Related:

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

What Does the Civil Rights Movement Mean For Muslims?

 

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

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

Arriving, Gathering, and the First Sparks of Debate

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

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

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

Victories, Representation, and Shifting Political Winds

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

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

Family Drama, Familiar Lines

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

Midterms, Mobilization, and What Comes Next

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

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

That is the real tradition.

Related:

Recognizing The Indigenous Crisis This Thanksgiving

Muslims, the Turkey, & the Thanksgiving Day Question

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

Sarah Hurwitz acknowledges sounding obscene to younger Jews concerned with the Gaza genocide.

In Dearborn, provocateurs have held anti-Islam rallies, attempted to burn the Qur’an and rile residents for clickbait

White nationalist and rightwing agitators recently descended on Dearborn, Michigan, to hold an anti-Islam rally at which they attempted to burn a Qur’an and manufacture controversy over the city’s large Arab American population. But the protest has been dismissed by local leaders as a cheap publicity stunt aimed at generating money and clicks for far-right influencers.

But there is little doubt the Michigan city has become a repeated target for the publicity-hungry far-right because it holds the US’s highest percentage of Arab American residents. Similar provocateurs have marched with a pig’s head on a pole at an Arab American fair. Meanwhile, Christian evangelists regularly attempt to convert Muslim children at parks or outside schools.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Related:

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

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

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

Peter Oborne’s new book is a minutely detailed account of an England betrayed at its moral heart.

Nigel Farage and Tommy Robinson are increasingly espousing Christian ‘values’, and a wealthy US legal group is becoming influential – this could have dire consequences

Earlier this year, not long after Tommy Robinson embraced evangelical Christianity while in prison, the then Conservative MP Danny Kruger spoke in parliament about the need for a restoration of Britain through the “recovery of a Christian politics”. Less than two months later, Kruger joined Reform, and shortly after that, James Orr, a vociferously conservative theologian who has been described as JD Vance’s “English philosopher king”, was appointed as one of Reform’s senior advisers. The party’s leader, Nigel Farage, now frequently invokes the need for a return to “Judeo-Christian” values.

The British right is increasingly invoking the Christian tradition: the question is what it hopes to gain from doing so.

Lamorna Ash is the author of Don’t Forget We’re Here Forever (Bloomsbury Publishing, £22). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.

Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here.

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Still largely viewed as a peaceful philosophy, across much of south-east Asia, the religion has been weaponised to serve nationalist goals

In the summer of 2023, I arrived in Dharamshala, an Indian town celebrated as the home of the Dalai Lama, the Tibetan spiritual leader. The place hadn’t changed much since my last visit almost two decades ago. The roads were still a patchwork of uneven asphalt and dirt, and Tibetan monks in maroon robes filled the streets. Despite the relentless hum of traffic, Dharamshala had a rare stillness. The hills seemed to absorb the noise. Prayer flags flickered in the breeze, each rustle a reminder of something enduring.

But beneath the surface, the Buddhism practised across Asia has shifted. While still widely followed as a peaceful, nonviolent philosophy, it has been weaponised, in some quarters, in the service of nationalism, and in support of governments embracing a global trend toward majoritarianism and autocracy.

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President signs executive order for Rubio and Bessent to submit report on chapters in Lebanon, Egypt and Jordan

Donald Trump on Monday began the process of designating certain Muslim Brotherhood chapters as foreign terrorist organizations and specially designated global terrorists, a move that would bring sanctions against one of the Arab world’s oldest and most influential Islamist movements.

Trump signed an executive order directing Secretary of State Marco Rubio and treasury secretary Scott Bessent to submit a report on whether to designate any Muslim Brotherhood chapters, such as those in Lebanon, Egypt and Jordan, according to a White House fact sheet. It orders the secretaries to move forward with any designations within 45 days of the report.

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

By Shaik Zakeer Hussain

Misnaming as a Tool of Power

Zohran Mamdani

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

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

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

A History of Refusal: Ali and Malcolm X

Muhammad Ali

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

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

The Social and Psychological Weight of Misnaming

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

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

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

Beyond Symbolic Victories

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

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

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

About the Author

Shaik Zakeer Hussain

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

He can be reached on X at: Zaknetic

Related:

Reclaiming Malcolm X’s Legacy

God’s Plan and Muhammad Ali – Imam Zaid Shakir

 

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

Nationals senator Matt Canavan says One Nation leader ‘debased’ parliament while independent Fatima Payman says she is ‘disrespecting Muslim Australians’

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Pauline Hanson has worn a burqa in the Senate, repeating a widely condemned stunt as she sought to ban the Muslim face covering on national security grounds – despite being unable to name a single safety incident linked to the burqa.

The special envoy for Islamophobia warned the stunt could “deepen existing safety risks for Australian Muslim women who choose to wear the headscarf, the hijab, or the full face and body covering, the burqa”.

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

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

* * *

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

Leaking Light and Heat

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

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

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

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

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

Lion of Love

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

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

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

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

Lost Lake

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

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

“Why are we stopping here?” Sanaya asked.

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

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

Driving Blind

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

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

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

Hanging

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

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

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

A Risky Plan

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to rescue him!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then get him out!”

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

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

“No!” Sanaya screamed. “Go back!”

Crash

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

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

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

Cold and Shock

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

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

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

“Mom,” Sanaya gasped. “Your face!”

“The air bag.”

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

No Pain

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

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

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

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

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

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

River of Memory

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

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

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

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

Then the front door slammed.

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

The argument began even before the table was set.

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

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

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

“Someone has to tell the truth!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rania in the Dark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She set her jaw and kicked harder.

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

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

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

Kidnapped

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Khalid’s jaw worked, but no words came.

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

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

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

Ambush

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

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

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

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

Baba nodded once, though his hands trembled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rescue

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

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

“Baba!”

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

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

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

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

“Deek! Get back!”

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

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

Escape

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

“Into the jeep!” he barked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

River of Echoes

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

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

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

Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Did You Say?

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

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

Something shifted.

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

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

She froze. “Deek?”

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

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

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

“Sanaya, put the blanket on your father!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rania didn’t look away from him.

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

***

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

 

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

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

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

Related:

Asha and the Washerwoman’s Baby: A Short Story

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

 

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

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