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Among the greatest accomplishments of the Prophet ﷺ was not merely that he conveyed revelation faithfully, but that he nurtured a generation whose hearts were anchored to revelation. He did not simply deliver verses; he cultivated a civilization shaped by the Quran. The Prophet ﷺ nurtured, trained, and educated an amazing generation of individuals – both men and women – the likes of whom history had never seen before and will never see again. It is said that if the Prophet ﷺ had no other miracle besides his Companions, they would be enough proof for his Prophethood.

He transformed a people whose lives revolved around lineage, tribal honor, and material competition into a community whose identity revolved around the speech of Allah ﷻ. The Quran was not an accessory in Madinah or peripheral to their lives. The Quran played a central and pivotal role in every single aspect of their existence. It shaped and informed their beliefs, how they prayed, how they gave, how they forgave, how they thought, how they governed, how they dealt with hardship, and how they defined success. Divine revelation shaped their worldview, character, conduct, and behavior. 

The Many Dimensions of a Quran Centered Life 

This transformation was not incidental—it was intentional. The Prophet ﷺ, through his teachings and his lived example, established a culture of learning, reciting, memorizing, teaching, and reflecting upon the Quran. He continuously highlighted its virtues, its blessings, its rewards, and its unparalleled value.

He ﷺ said: “The best among you are those who learn the Qur’an and teach it.” This statement redefines status and greatness. In a world that measures superiority through wealth, influence, and visibility, the Prophet ﷺ anchored excellence to engagement with revelation. The most noble person in this ummah is not the most affluent, nor the most eloquent, nor the most influential—but the one most deeply connected to the Book of Allah ; learning it and transmitting it.

In another narration, he ﷺ said: “Whoever recites a letter from the Book of Allah will have a good deed, and a good deed is multiplied by ten. I’m not saying that alif-lām-mīm is one letter. Rather alif is a letter, lām is a letter, and mīm is a letter.” This reveals something profound about the generosity of Allah ﷻ. Even at the most foundational level—the articulation of individual letters—the believer is rewarded abundantly. Every sound uttered from the Quran carries eternal weight. This is divine speech, and engaging with it is never insignificant.

The Prophet ﷺ did not limit our understanding of the Quran to reward alone. He connected it to ultimate salvation. He ﷺ said: “Recite the Quran, for it will come as an intercessor for its companion on the Day of Judgment.” The Quran will not remain silent on that Day. It will advocate for the one who kept it close—who lived with it, struggled with it, and returned to it consistently. It will testify on behalf of its companion.

He ﷺ also emphasized the communal dimension of Quranic engagement: “No people gather in one of the houses of Allah, reciting the Book of Allah and teaching it to one another, except that tranquility descends upon them, mercy envelops them, the angels surround them, and Allah mentions them to those who are with Him.” This narration describes layers of divine response to a simple gathering centered on the Quran. Sakīnah descends, raḥmah envelops, Angels surround, and Allah ﷻ mentions that gathering in the highest assembly. The masjid, when animated by the Quran, becomes a space where heaven touches earth.

Through these teachings, the Prophet ﷺ created a living culture in Madinah. Some narrations mention that during the time of tahajjud, the streets of Madinah would resonate with the recitation of the Quran. Homes were illuminated not merely with lamps, but with revelation. The city itself pulsed with divine speech.

This culture was not born from obligation alone—it was born from love. The Companions understood that love for the Quran was a reflection of love for Allah ﷻ and His Messenger ﷺ. ʿAbdullāh ibn Masʿūd said: “Whoever wishes to know whether they truly love Allah and His Messenger, let them reflect: if they love the Quran, then they truly love Allah and His Messenger.” This is a deeply theological reality. The Quran is the speech of Allah ﷻ. Love for speech reflects love for the Speaker. If the heart inclines naturally toward the Quran—longing to recite it, understand it, and live by it—then that is a sign of a heart inclined toward Allah ﷻ.

For the companions, the Quran was more valuable than material wealth. When ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb saw camels loaded with gold, silver, and other material goods from Iraq, he was reminded of Allah’s Words: “Say: In the grace of Allah and in His mercy—let them rejoice. That is better than what they amass.” He explained that the true grace and mercy of Allah is the Quran—not accumulated wealth. Wealth is what people amass, while revelation is what transforms. This reframing is essential for us today. We live in a culture obsessed with accumulation—wealth, credentials, followers, achievements. Yet the Quran calls us to rejoice in something higher: divine guidance.

The Companions’ lives reflected this prioritization. Al-Awzāʿī رحمه الله mentioned that they excelled in five matters: adhering to the community, following the Sunnah, populating the masājid, reciting the Quran, and striving in the path of Allah . These were not isolated acts—they were interconnected dimensions of a Quran-centered life.

ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān said: “If our hearts were pure, they would never be satiated from the speech of our Lord.” It is reported that his muṣḥaf was worn from frequent recitation—its pages bearing witness to his devotion.

One of the most powerful demonstrations of the Quran’s transformative force is seen in the incident of al-Ifk. When Abū Bakr , wounded by betrayal, resolved to cut off support from Miṣṭaḥ, Allah ﷻ revealed: “Let them pardon and forgive. Do you not love that Allah should forgive you?” His response was immediate: “Yes, by Allah, I love that Allah should forgive me.” And he resumed his support.

This is tadabbur embodied. The Quran did not remain abstract—it entered his wounded heart and elevated it. It redirected his deeply personal pain into forgiveness. 

Asmāʾ described the companions as people whose eyes shed tears and whose skin trembled when reciting the Quran. The Quran shaped both their inner and outer states—producing awe, humility, softness, and tears. When Allah ﷻ revealed: “Who will lend to Allah a goodly loan…” Abū al-Daḥdāḥ responded not with admiration, but with action—giving away his garden in pursuit of Allah’s Promise. They understood that when Allah ﷻ speaks, He is to be responded to—not merely admired.

The Prophet ﷺ did not simply leave behind a text. He left behind a living model of how to build a Quran-centered life and society—hearts that trembled at its warnings, softened at its mercy, sacrificed at its call, forgave at its instruction, and rejoiced in its guidance. Our responsibility is to revive that culture—within ourselves, within our homes, and within our communities.

And for many of our young Muslims today, one of the most critical arenas for this revival is the university campus.

Building a Culture of Quran on Campus: Practical Steps

Reviving a Quran-centered culture does not begin with grand programs—it begins with consistent, intentional acts that shape hearts and environments. For students seeking to cultivate this culture on campus, consider the following:

1. Establish consistent Quran gatherings

Even if small, begin with a weekly circle dedicated to recitation and reflection. Consistency is more transformative than scale. The goal is not attendance—it is anchoring hearts.

2. Prioritize reflection (tadabbur), not just recitation

Create space to discuss meanings, themes, and personal takeaways. Ask: What is Allah ﷻ saying to us through these āyāt? Move from reading the Quran to being read by it.

3. Normalize Quran in shared spaces

Let the Quran be visible and audible—before meetings, after prayers, in moments of pause. Culture is built through repetition.

4. Connect the Quran to lived realities

Address stress, identity, purpose, relationships, and struggles through the lens of the Quran. Show that the Quran is not distant—it is deeply relevant.

5. Build leadership rooted in revelation

Encourage student leaders to frame decisions, priorities, and conflicts through Quranic guidance. A Quran-centered leadership produces a Quran-centered community.

6. Pair knowledge with action

Every gathering should lead to something practical—an act of charity, forgiveness, service, or personal change. The Quran was revealed to be lived.

7. Cultivate love, not just discipline

Remind one another of the virtues, rewards, and beauty of the Quran. A culture sustained by love endures far longer than one driven by obligation alone.

8. Begin with yourself

The most powerful daʿwah is personal transformation. Let your own relationship with the Quran be sincere, visible, and consistent. Hearts are moved by authenticity.

 

Reviving a Quran-centered culture is not beyond us. It begins the same way it began in Madinah—with individuals who choose to return to the Book of Allah ﷻ, consistently, sincerely, and collectively.

May Allah ﷻ make us from the people of the Quran—those who are His special people and His chosen ones. May He make the Qur’an the spring of our hearts, the light of our chests, the remover of our anxieties, and the guide of our decisions.

 

Related:

– The Art of Tadabbur: Enriching Our Relationship With The Quran

– From The Chaplain’s Desk: The Power Of Dua

 

The post From The Chaplain’s Desk: From Madinah To Our Campuses, Reviving A Quran-Centered Culture appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

* * *

Preparing for the Journey

The next day was consumed by work.

Zihan Ma wanted the farm put in order before we left, so Haaris and I labored from dawn until nearly sunset. We repaired a loose section of fence near the north pasture, hauled water, split wood, cleaned the barn and replenished the feed bins. We cut and soaked fodder for the animals, mixing it with bean mash in great steaming buckets while the donkeys brayed impatiently nearby. The weather had turned colder still, and our breath hung white in the air.

Far Away spent most of the day asleep, but by afternoon he had begun moving about the house on his own. His splinted leg forced him into an awkward hobbling gait, and several times I moved instinctively to pick him up, but he glared at me with such offense that I relented.

Bao-Bao shadowed him everywhere.

The old cat behaved as though Far Away were some wounded soldier under her authority. She followed him from room to room, occasionally stopping to lick the fur around his ears or inspect his bandages with grave seriousness. Once I caught Bao-Bao cuffing him lightly on the head after he tried to jump onto a stool and failed.

I laughed despite myself.

“You see?” Haaris said smugly. “Bao-Bao likes him.”

“I think she thinks he’s her long-lost brother or something.”

“That too.”

Far Away eventually settled beside the stove and fell asleep again, while Bao-Bao curled protectively beside him like a guardian spirit.

That evening, after Maghreb, I sat alone in my room looking unhappily at my belongings. I owned very little: my blanket, travel pack, dao and spear, work clothes and the softer set of clothes I wore around the house or to sleep. I had nothing suitable for Jum’ah in a masjid, or a visit to family.

I imagined myself standing among wealthy merchants and educated men dressed like a scarecrow from a muddy farm. The thought filled me with embarrassment.

A while later there came a knock at the doorframe. Zihan Ma entered carrying a folded bundle.

“I nearly forgot,” he said.

He handed the bundle to me. Inside was a new suit of clothing: dark blue trousers, a long tunic of thick but soft cloth, and a black outer vest with careful stitching along the edges. Beneath the clothing lay a pair of sturdy black shoes. The clothes were beautiful and much nicer than anything I’d ever owned.

I stared at them. “For me?”

“Who else?” Zihan Ma said mildly. “You cannot attend Jum’ah looking like a farm hand.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly. “Thank you,” I managed.

He nodded once and left without further words.

The Road North

We departed before sunrise on Jum’ah. I wore my clothing and shoes, the Muslim kufi cap Zihan Ma had given me, and the dhikr beads around my neck. I felt natty and pleased with myself, and happy to be going on this trip. A thread of worry worked its way through my gut – what would happen if we encountered my mother’s family? – but I waved my hand to dismiss these thoughts.

Still, I strapped my dao across my back. It was not only the threat of my mother’s family that worried me. Whatever Zihan Ma believed about violence, the roads were no longer safe. The memory of the six intruders had not left me. Life had repeatedly taught me an important lesson: that there were people out there who saw other human beings as nothing more than prey. I would not be caught unprepared.

The wagon creaked softly as we loaded our things. Lee Ayi packed food for the journey while Haaris secured blankets and water gourds. I strapped my dao across my back before climbing aboard. I also brought my travel pack and a few of the gold coins I’d brought with me to my aunt’s house. I had of course passed through Starling once before – for that, I’d learned, was the name of the city to the south where I’d been assaulted and where Zihan Ma’s sister lived. It had seemed chaotic and overwhelming back then. But at the time it was my first glimpse of a big city, and I was wounded and feverish. Maybe it was actually a nice place. There might be things to buy. I wanted to get something for Haaris in particular. I knew I’d been cold toward him lately, and I needed to make up for it.

Zihan Ma and Lee Ayi sat on the front seat of the wagon, and Haaris and I behind them. As I settled myself, I caught Zihan Ma looking at the dao. Not a glance, but a long, solemn stare. He said nothing, however, and that somehow felt heavier than disapproval.

The wagon rolled out through the gate and onto the main road. Frost silvered the fields. The morning air smelled of damp earth and smoke from distant cookfires.

At the crossroads the wagon turned north.

“Wait,” I said. “We’re not going to Starling?”

“No,” Lee Ayi replied from beside me. “We’re going to Deep Harbor.”

I sat up straighter. “Deep Harbor?”

“My mother lives there,” she explained. “It’s her birthday.”

My stomach tightened slightly at the mention of my grandmother. I had almost forgotten she existed.

The Vendor

We breakfasted on steamed vegetable buns and pickled cabbage as the donkeys trotted along and the wagon rumbled over the dirt road. Fog lay over the fields and the road like the breath of an ice-dragon, and I pulled my tunic tight. All the farms we passed had high walls – many of which looked newly constructed – and had either heavy gates, or guarded entrances. Some sold their farm products at roadside stands.

We passed through a small village halfway to Deep Harbor. and the air brought the scent of roasted chestnuts. Haaris pleaded for some. Relenting with exaggerated reluctance, Zihan Ma dismounted to haggle with a vendor selling a variety of roasted nuts heated in an iron pan over hot coals.

I dismounted to stretch my legs. The vendor, a thin man with a mustache, weighed the nuts on a scale, then scooped them into a paper wrapper, moving quickly with practiced hands.

The vendor cheated my uncle. I saw it with my own eyes. My father had taught me many kinds of scams and tricks, not necessarily to employ them, but to be aware. I bit my upper lip, wrestling with the question of whether to say something, but as it turned out it wasn’t necessary, for Zihan Ma stopped the vendor with an upheld hand.

“Your scale is rigged,” he said mildly. “You charge for a full measure, yet give less.”

The vendor spread his hands innocently. “Impossible, honored uncle.”

Zihan Ma reached into a coat pocket and came out with a small iron disk. “This,” he said, “is a half-jin measure.” He dropped it on the scale, and I watched as the needle on the scale settled on half a jin plus two liang.

The vendor’s face reddened, and he shot a glance at a burly man who stood nearby.

Zihan Ma followed the man’s gaze. “Your boss doesn’t know. You’re pocketing the difference.”

The vendor formed prayer hands and bowed deeply to Zihan Ma. “Please do not say anything, honored uncle. I beg you. I have a family…” He went on like this.

Ignoring him, Zihan Ma called out to the boss and informed him of what was happening.

The boss crossed his arms and set his jaw. “Why should I believe you? Maybe you’re the cheater. This man has worked for me for two years.”

“Believe as you wish,” Zihan Ma said calmly. “It’s your loss.”

He was about to turn to leave, accepting the loss of a few copper coins. I could not accept that. It wasn’t the loss of the coins, but that someone might question the honor of this great man, the best man I had ever known. I pointed to the mustachioed vendor.

“Right front pocket,” I said. “He used a magnet to rig the scale.”

Looking skeptical, the boss slipped a hand into his employee’s pocket and found the magnet I knew was there.

As the boss seized the vendor and began to shout at him, Zihan Ma turned away. A little further down the road, he bought a bag of carrots. Back on the wagon, Lee Ayi, Haaris and I ate our chestnuts in silence as Zihan Ma fed the carrots to the donkeys.

The nuts were salty and rich. I kept licking my fingers for the salt. The vendor might have been a thief, but he cooked good nuts. The scene that had transpired with the vendor did not bother me. I had seen and been through much worse. But Zihan Ma was quiet, and seemed troubled.

Dishonesty

Donkeys fed, we continued on our way. After a while, Zihan Ma looked back at me and asked, “How did you know about the magnet?”

I gave a slight shrug. “My father taught me to ignore people’s words and watch their hands.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s good advice. What did you think of the chestnut vendor?”

Something told me that I was on unsteady ground. Zihan Ma rarely asked casual questions. I weighed my words. “Cheating is wrong.”

“I agree,” my uncle said. “Dishonesty troubles me greatly.”

“Yeah,” Haaris said. “That guy was a crook.”

“Dishonesty among family,” Zihan Ma went on, “is the worst of all, for the closer the relationship, the worse the hurt.”

My uncle glanced back at me, where I sat on the back bench with Haaris. Looking forward again, he said, “If two people practiced martial arts every Friday on my farm, I would likely hear of it. Farmworkers speak. Especially when they are curious.”

Neither Lee Ayi nor I answered. My throat was tight as I swallowed.

“And,” Zihann Ma went on, “if I found part of the far field trampled repeatedly, with familiar footprints in the soil, and if I saw a boy returning late at night carrying a dao…” He shrugged lightly. “I might make certain guesses.”

“Forgive me,” Lee Ayi blurted out. She dropped to her knees in the wagon and pressed her forehead to Zihan Ma’s knees as he drove. Her arms hugged his legs. “Husband, I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

Haaris’s face showed alarm. “What happened? What is it?”

Zihan Ma looked genuinely distressed. “Jade, sit in your place. This is not seemly.”

“No,” she said miserably. “I deceived you.”

He gently took her one arm and lifted her back to her seat.

“You are my wife, not my servant,” he said softly. “Enough.”

I wanted to apologize too. The words gathered in my chest, but would not come out. Because the truth was ugly and tangled: I was sorry for deceiving him, but not for training.

At last I lowered my eyes and said quietly, “I will do better.”

Zihan Ma turned his head to study me for a long moment, and I could not tell if he was satisfied or saddened.

“What are you guys talking about?” Haaris demanded again.

When nobody spoke, I answered him. “Your mom and I were practicing martial arts.”

He sat back with a puzzled frown. “Oh. That’s all?” After a moment, he added, “My mom knows martial arts?”

“All of us Lees do, apparently.” Though my words were dry, something inside me felt heavy. I had been called a liar without the word ever being spoken aloud, and worse still, it was true.

Yet what else could I have done? The dao, the training, the movement of my body through forms and strikes – these things felt less like choices and more like a current carrying me somewhere I could neither understand nor resist.

Sadaqah

For the rest of the drive, my thoughts were jumbled. I didn’t know how to feel. On the one hand, I was scared that Zihan Ma’s opinion of me was souring. I didn’t know what that might mean for my future. On the other hand, I was relieved that the truth was out. At least I didn’t have to pretend anymore.

As we approached the city, I encountered a world I had not seen before. Refugees crowded the roadsides. Some lived beneath crude shelters made of sticks and cloth. Others huddled beneath wagons or slept in ditches wrapped in blankets so thin they scarcely deserved the name. Children watched the road with hollow eyes.

“I had no idea it was this bad,” Lee Ayi said.

“It’s worse in Starling ,” Zihan Ma muttered. “The refugees are coming from the south in great waves.”

Barefoot people trudged along the road with their packs on their backs. Women carried crying babies. An old man with one arm stood beside the road holding out a bowl without speaking. At one point we passed a woman crouched beside a tiny cookfire, boiling common weeds in a small blackened pot while two little girls sat beside her silently, too tired even to cry.

“Stop please,” I said suddenly.

Zihan Ma pulled gently on the reins.

I climbed down from the wagon and retrieved one of the wrapped food bundles Lee Ayi had prepared for the journey. The woman looked up at me uncertainly as I approached.

“For you,” I said awkwardly, offering the food.

One of the little girls stared at the bundle with enormous eyes. The sight of her struck me unexpectedly hard. I remembered another little girl, offering me a sweet treat on a stick while I was wounded and alone in the streets of Starling. I remembered her kindness, small as it had been, and how much it had mattered. Now it was my turn.

The woman accepted the food with trembling hands. “May the ancestors reward you,” she whispered.

Though I did not believe as she did, I said, “Thank you. May Allah make it easy.”

When I climbed back into the wagon, Lee Ayi rubbed my shoulder affectionately.

Zihan Ma smiled faintly. “The Messenger of Allah ﷺ taught that every bone in the body must give charity each day. Today Darius has given his sadaqah before the rest of us. He has set a good example.”

With some of the heaviness inside me lightened, I lowered my eyes awkwardly while Haaris grinned at me proudly.

Deep Harbor

As the sun arrived at its zenith, Deep Harbor appeared.

I had never seen a city so large. Gray walls rose high above the surrounding land, their watchtowers crowned with curved roofs. Beyond them I glimpsed tiled buildings packed together like scales upon a fish. But what struck me most was the river. It was enormous.

I had seen streams, ponds and irrigation channels all my life, but this moving expanse of water seemed like a living thing. Barges floated upon it carrying cargo beneath tall square sails. Smaller boats darted between them like water insects. Hundreds of birds wheeled overhead crying harshly. The air smelled of wet wood, fish, mud, smoke and river water.

I stared openly.

Haaris laughed. “You’ve never seen a real river before.”

“No,” I admitted.

The roads thickened with traffic as we approached the city: merchants, ox carts, laborers, mounted officials, wandering monks, and refugees pressed together in uneasy currents. I noticed that many people carried weapons, from spears to daggers, and a few swords.

The city gates stood open, guarded by weary soldiers carrying spears and wearing armor.

Inside was noise. Vendors shouted from crowded stalls. Metal clanged. Wheels rattled over stone. Steam and smoke drifted through the narrow streets carrying the smells of frying oil, fish, dung, incense and humanity packed too tightly together.

I turned constantly, trying to absorb everything at once.

“There,” Haaris said proudly, pointing ahead.

The masjid stood in the distance among the crowded streets like a place from another world, its twin minarets reaching for the sky.

Before we entered the masjid district, Zihan Ma pulled the wagon into a riverside stable yard thick with the smells of hay, manure and mud. Stable hands shouted, and a bell rang from a nearby ship where dozens of men unloaded crates onto a wooden pier. In the stable, many horses and donkeys were housed, some calmly eating, and others – not used to the city – were nervous, with ears swiveling. Our donkeys were a bit anxious, but Haaris stroked their faces and whispered in their ears, and they calmed down.

“You will not be able to enter the masjid with the dao,” my uncle whispered to me. Conceal it in the wagon, under your blanket.

I chewed my upper lip, thinking. The idea of leaving my weapon unguarded was abhorrent. But what choice did I have? I did as Zihan Ma said, and he paid the stable keeper, and we proceeded on foot to the masjid.

I craned my neck, trying to take it all in. The towering structure was easily the largest I had ever seen. Its architecture resembled the surrounding Chinese buildings, with sweeping tiled roofs and carved beams, yet Arabic calligraphy adorned the entrance in flowing black strokes, and the minarets seemed to pierce the sky. Hui men streamed through guarded gates wearing robes, caps and turbans, speaking in a dozen accents and dialects, while women in hijab entered from a separate gate.

A Resolution at Jum’ah

Lee Ayi bade us all goodbye and entered through the women’s gate.

The adhan began. I had heard Zihan Ma call the adhan many times at the farm, and had learned to call it myself. But this was different. The voice rose high above the noise of the city, echoing against walls and rooftops until it seemed to fill the entire district.

I followed Zihan Ma and Haaris through the courtyard and into the prayer hall. The room was immense. Sunlight filtered through latticed windows onto thick carpets over polished wooden floors. Hundreds of men sat cross-legged, rich and poor alike. I saw merchants in fine silk beside laborers with patched sleeves. Old men leaning on canes. Young boys scarcely older than Haaris.

The khutbah was about the meaning of success in Islam. The Imam said that we insisted on measuring success in material terms, but in Islam that was meaningless. Rather, success was defined as nearness to Allah, sincerity with all people, righteousness in public, and compassion in the home.

It was interesting, but maybe over my head. And I was distracted by the spectacle. When the prayer began, a thousand people stood shoulder to shoulder, and a hush fell over the assembly. I understood in that moment what it meant to belong to something greater than myself. I resolved in that moment that I would try to be the man Zihan Ma wanted me to be. I would put away the sword and take up the acupuncture needles, the sewing thread, and the herbs. I would strive to be the best healer I could be, under his tutelage. It was a great opportunity to be more than I had been raised to be, more than my father had been. I would be a fool not to take it.

When the prayer ended, the worshippers flowed gradually back into the streets of Deep Harbor. The noise of the city returned all at once, as if someone had lifted a curtain. Vendors shouted, gulls wheeled overhead, and somewhere nearby a man hammered metal with steady ringing sounds.

Gifts

The streets near the river were crowded almost beyond belief. We passed spice merchants, tea houses, fishmongers, butchers and wandering peddlers carrying entire shops suspended from shoulder poles. Barges drifted along the river beside us while laborers shouted and unloaded crates by hand.

“Listen carefully,” Lee Ayi said as we walked. “My mother’s name is Safiya Bai. You will address her as Nai Nai.”

I nodded.

“My stepfather is Su Chen. You should call him Master Chen.”

Something in her tone made me glance sideways at her.

“He is… particular,” she said carefully.

“That means he’s mean,” Haaris translated helpfully.

“Haaris.”

“What? It’s true.”

Lee Ayi sighed. “Master Chen values manners very highly. Be polite. Speak little. Don’t argue with him.”

“I don’t argue with people.”

Haaris snorted so loudly that a passing merchant looked over. “You are arguing about arguing.”.

“I am not.”

“Also you argued with me yesterday about whether crows can understand insults.”

“You were being silly.”

Haaris burst into laughter while even Lee Ayi smiled faintly.

We stopped beside a food stall where an old Hui man was pulling noodles by hand. He stretched and folded the dough so quickly I could hardly keep track of his hands. The noodles were dropped into boiling broth along with sliced lamb, greens and oil bright with chili.

We bought four steaming bowls and stood eating beside the man’s stall while gulls cried overhead. It was the best noodle soup I had ever tasted.

Nearby another vendor sold skewers coated in sesame and honey. Haaris wanted three. Zihan Ma allowed him one, and one for me.

As we continued through the marketplace, I found myself studying the stalls carefully. There were things here I had never imagined: tiny carved animals made of jade, lacquered boxes, clocks worked by water, silver rings, embroidered slippers, fishing lures with feathered hooks, paper lanterns painted like flowers.

At one stall I stopped short.

The merchant sold knives.

Not fighting knives. Folding knives, utility blades, skinning knives and carving tools. One particular knife caught my eye. It was compact and sturdy, with a polished wooden handle and a locking brass ring.

It was perfect for Haaris. I imagined buying it for him as a gift, and the delight on his face. Then I imagined Zihan Ma’s disapproving expression, and moved on.

A few stalls later I found an old man selling whistles carved in the shapes of birds. Some were painted brightly, others plain polished wood. When blown, they produced trilling calls remarkably similar to real birdsong. I remembered Haaris trying to learn to whistle through a blade of grass.

I picked up a swallow-shaped whistle carved from dark cedar. “I’ll take this one,” I said. The merchant wrapped it carefully in cloth.

It was the first time in my life I had ever bought a gift for someone. I was surprised by the warm, happy feeling in my chest. I found that I was smiling as I imagined how excited Haaris would be. I loved this feeling, and decided that I would buy gifts for the others as well. Maybe… maybe Zihan Ma would not be angry at me anymore if I got him something nice. My smile slipped for a moment as these sad thoughts intruded, but I continued shopping.

Farther along I found something for myself: a soft leather money belt worn beneath the clothing, with a hidden inner compartment stitched cleverly into the lining. I examined the stitching carefully before buying it. No one looking at it would guess it concealed anything valuable. That alone made me trust it.

At another stall I found a beautiful medical needle set housed in a slim bamboo case alongside fine silk thread. The needles were more delicate than the ones we used at the farm.

“This is excellent steel,” the merchant insisted. “Made in the western provinces.”

I bought it for Zihan Ma and dropped it into my travel pack.

“What’s that?” Haaris asked, craning his neck.

“You’ll see.”

“Come, Darius,” Zihan Ma said. “It’s time to go.”

“One minute!” Hastily I began studying the nearby stalls. My gaze landed on a table covered in combs, pins and ornaments. Some were wooden, and others were fashioned from shell or polished bone. One comb caught my attention. It was simple but elegant, carved from dark wood with tiny inlaid flowers of mother-of-pearl near the handle. I picked it up.

Lee Ayi’s hair was almost always tied back hurriedly for work. I realized suddenly that I had never seen her own anything decorative at all.

“That one,” I said.

The vendor smiled knowingly.

I smiled to myself, thinking of how much fun it would be to give these gifts to my new family. I would surprise them when we returned home. It would be exciting!

We moved away from the river, and the homes around us improved, becoming large, with high walls and ornate gates. We stopped in front of a grand home – a palace to my eyes – with a colorfully dressed guard at the gate.

Lee Ayi regarded me solemnly. “This is Master Chen’s house. Remember what I told you. Do not speak unless spoken to.”

Something in her tone put me on edge, and I felt my warm, cozy feeling disappear.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 12 – Accused

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

 

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

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

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The post Far Away [Part 11] – Deep Harbor appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The arrest of the suspect in the Golders Green and Great Dover Street stabbings.

Last week three men were stabbed in London by the same individual, a man born in Somalia though now a British citizen who had previously been imprisoned for stabbing a police officer and his dog and had recently been released from a south London psychiatric unit. The first man stabbed was attacked at Great Dover Street on the south-eastern edge of central London and was also of Somali origin. The other two were Jewish men, attacked at Golders Green, an area of north London which is actually mixed but is also a centre of the Jewish community. After this, he was arrested by a group of officers who used a Taser and kicked him repeatedly in the head. The second two stabbings were proclaimed a terrorist incident by the Metropolitan Police; the terrorism threat level was raised from substantial to severe, the second highest of five levels (low, moderate, substantial, severe and critical; since 2006 it has never been lower than substantial). The incident prompted a lecture from the Prime Minister and much hand-wringing in the mainstream print and broadcast media: calls to “stand with the Jewish community”, people claiming antisemitism was now a matter of national security, and that the marches against the Gaza genocide which have been taking place every two or three weeks in central London since the start of the Gaza genocide should be curtailed, or that what the protesters are allowed to say be policed a lot more because it “makes Jews feel intimidated” and contributes to antisemitism. Meanwhile, Twitter (now X) saw tweets from broadcasters such as Sky News referring to the incident as a double stabbing when in fact the man had been charged with three counts of attempted murder.

Melanie Phillips posted a tweet moaning that “the really terrible thing is that the lies told about Israel day in, day out have poisoned British discourse so badly that people don’t want to hear about the Holocaust or Jewish suffering ever again”. That tweet embedded a video in which Rabbi Doron Birnbaum said he had received the news of the stabbings while accompanying a group from a London Jewish school to Poland, suggesting that one day someone might lead Jewish schoolchildren around London as he had just done in Krakow, pointing to inscriptions on walls and saying “a Jew lived here”. The real reason people are weary of protestations of Jewish victimhood is that we have had a bellyful of it since 2015: one spurious or exaggerated claim of ‘antisemitism’ after another, many of them from people with columns in national newspapers or seats in Parliament. After a two-and-a-half year genocide, amply documented by the victims and in some cases the perpetrators in both mainstream and social media, the idea that a few stabbings and arson attacks in London are the first killings of a new Holocaust or a harbinger of pogroms looks fanciful. Phillips’s tweets was shared by “La Scapigliata” (Maja Bowen), a Serbian bigot most notorious for her doctrinaire stance on transgender issues and waving her medical degree to prove that her stance must be right, who then complained about the “lies told about Serbia and Repblic Srpska (sic), day in, day out” etc. The people who inhabit Republika Srpska ran concentration camps for Bosnian Muslims in the early 90s, in some of which women and girls were gang-raped by men who had been their neighbours months earlier. They massacred the men and boys of Srebrenica after the town fell, an acknowledged act of genocide. Some of their atrocities, like the Sarajevo bread queue massacre, have been echoed (or copied) in acts by the Israelis during the genocide in Gaza. Anyone over 40 remembers this; nobody except the very old remembers anything that happened during World War II, which ended 81 years ago.

The word ‘terrorist’ is being widely misused, including officially, detached from what most people understand by it. Those of us who lived through any part of the Troubles in Northern Ireland know what terrorism looks like and what it involves: principally, bombs and bullets, used to stage mass-casualty events. The same effect can be achieved through vehicular impact and the sabotaging of equipment or computer networks (though these two activities are not always terrorism). One man with a knife, acting without instruction from anyone, cannot commit a terrorist attack. A political motive, or a presumed one, is not enough. The state, within hours of last Thursday’s stabbings, rushed to apply the label of ‘terrorism’ and raised the “terror alert level” before knowing anything about the perpetrator, including his history of mental illness and his criminal record, let alone another stabbing he carried out hours earlier, purely because the victims were Jewish, a measure not taken after attacks by white racists on members of other minorities. A racist attack is not a terrorist attack; a terrorist attack is a mass-casualty attack (or one intended as such) on members of the public. It does not cause mere disruption but loss of life or injury.

Skegness: anti-immigrant protester destroys a rainbow umbrella

Twice since the last general election, we have seen mob attacks on Muslim and immigrant communities in this country. The first was because of a triple murder wrongly believed on the basis of rumour to have been a Pakistani; the second was because of a report of a rape that turned out to be false. There have been a Muslim woman deliberately hit by a car and two Sikh women, believed to be Muslims, raped. Social media has been full of the most insane slurs on Muslims and Islam that I have seen at any time, even exceeding the worst of the pro-war mid-2000s blogosphere, much of it being boosted by accounts belonging to certain feminists or serving or former police officers. By contrast, there has been no mob attack on Jews any time since the genocide began and nobody raped; campaigners for Palestinians’ rights are careful to mention Israel and Zionists or Zionism rather than Jews in general. The only violence anyone in the campaign defends is the sabotage of military hardware being manufactured here that is known will be used on civilians. Yet, the dominant pro-Israel voices in the mainstream media refer to our peaceful protests as “hate marches” and accuse us of fomenting antisemitism or even terrorism, while using words like ‘protesters’ in reference to the mobs which roam around looking for immigrants or their homes to attack (as I write, they are fomenting another ‘protest’ in Skegness).

Nobody needs to have gone on any protest to know what Israel has been doing. We do not know if the Golders Green knifeman or any of the people who have carried out the small numbers of attacks on Jews this year — their total number is considerably fewer than those who descended on Epsom to avenge a rape that never happened — attended a single protest. They just have to have seen any of the vast number of videos that come out of the West Bank, Gaza and now Lebanon. The fact that attacks on Jews and Jewish properties in London only started happening on a regular basis in March this year, just as Israel and the US attacked Iran, suggests that most of the recent spate is not the work of ordinary Muslims or Palestinian sympathisers outraged at Israel’s massacres but of Iranian-backed groups and that the Palestine solidarity campaign and its protests are innocent of any involvement or contribution. However, anyone who must ask why everyone is not “standing with the Jewish community” has to look at the attitude that community has displayed since the genocide began. True, ordinary British Jews are not the state of Israel but many of its official bodies act as de facto press offices for it.

A large contingent of the Jewish community, including a number of mainstream Jewish community groups, Synagogue chains and senior leaders, in the western world actively supports Israel. This does not just mean believing in principle that there should be a state of Israel, much as believing women should have the right to vote does not make you a feminist in 2026. It means amplifying its propaganda, repeating false claims about anything from the 1948 Nakba to the 2023 attacks on Israel and beyond, sowing and then reinforcing false doubts about Israeli abuses in both Gaza and the West Bank and blaming victims. It means organised letter writing to the media, complaining of ‘bias’ whenever a newspaper or broadcaster fails to echo Israel’s version of events. It means trying to drive Muslim professionals out of their jobs by complaints to regulators such as the GMC. It means making demands that reminders that Palestinians exist, such as children’s artwork, be removed because it “goes against neutrality” or “makes Jews feel unsafe” or some other concocted reason. It means making false complaints about ‘antisemitism’ while straining the definition of that through the needle’s eye; this includes any mention or acknowledgment the existence of Jewish or pro-Israeli lobbies, or Jewish influence on the mainstream media or political parties. It means demanding the censorship and silencing of opposition to Israel and its oppressions. It means crying antisemitism when Jews are linked to Israel while maintaining actual links, not only to Israel itself but its armed forces, settlers and extremist organisations.

If you are one of the people doing any of this, don’t blame those who marched peacefully against Israel’s depredations on the natives of Gaza, the West Bank and Lebanon for the lack of sympathy from people other than your friends in high places when you play the victim. We have simply heard these protestations far too many times already.

Mum taught us to stay kind and honest, even when things were hard. Now I feel her presence in choices that don’t feel easy, but feel right

• Making sense of it is a column about spirituality and how it can be used to navigate everyday life

Mum was kind and gentle in a way that felt so natural. She raised all five of us pretty much on her own after Dad passed away. Those were not easy years, and there were many moments when life could have pushed us in the wrong direction, but she never let that happen. She taught us to stay kind and honest, even when things were hard.

Her father named her Ţalā, which means gold in Farsi. But she was even more precious than that.

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Charities bringing Jewish and Muslim people together say work to overcome division more important than ever

‘I feel punch drunk,” says Laura Marks, the co-founder of Nisa-Nashim, a Jewish-Muslim women’s network, referring to the alleged attempted murder of two Jewish men in north London this week: “Every day it feels like there is something else. It’s relentless.”

Nisa-Nashim was set up as a charity eight years ago to bring Jewish and Muslim women together through social events. The idea was to nurture relationships in UK communities that could help overcome the distrust, division and religious stereotyping exacerbated by Israel-Palestine tensions in the Middle East.

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Israeli court extends administrative detention for Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya.

Survivors describe rape, genital mutilation and forced humiliation carried out with impunity and shielded by authorities.

Mainstream media focus attention on Hasan Piker rather than ongoing Israeli military killings targeting Palestinians.

Dubravka Šuica wants Palestinian Authority to play by Trump’s rules.

Universities have been forced to disclose investments.