Deek shops for a house, and has a strange experience in a local gym.

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

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“He who loses himself to gain the world is the poorest of all.” — Saadi Shirazi

Chats And Bad Jokes

He spent the afternoon meeting with other real estate agents. A sweet but soft-hearted mom, then a surfer type with blonde dreads puffing on a vape.

The fourth was the worst. During a meeting with a broad-shouldered, bald broker in khakis, the man asked Deek about his ethnicity. When Deek said he was Arab, the broker joked that, “Anything’s better than a mud hut in the desert, right?” Deek felt his jaw tighten. He wanted to pick up the man’s laptop and throw it against the wall. Instead, he rose, smoothing his blazer. “Go dunk your head in the river.”

He walked out before his temper snapped and he personally drowned the man in the aforementioned river.

Discouraged, he called off the home search for the day. This was the moment when, before last week, he would have gone to a diner and buried his sorrows with a tuna melt and fries along with an ice-cold soda, followed by a slice of apple pie and a scoop of ice cream, or maybe a chocolate malt.

Food And Fortune

And in fact, now that the Namer’s potion had completely dissipated from his system, his desire for junk food, especially sweets, had returned. But the cravings were not as strong as before, and he was able to resist them. And he was motivated to resist them, because he’d noticed that since he’d quit eating junk food, he had more energy, his skin was clearer, and most importantly of all, the humiliating bowel urgency he used to experience was gone.

This brought to mind how he’d soiled himself in the Porsche, and he waved a hand to dismiss the unpleasant memory.

He went to his favorite Chinese restaurant, Imperial Garden on Blackstone near Herndon, and had a plate of grilled fish with braised green beans.

He would have liked to invite Marco for dinner, but his friend was putting him in an impossible position. Marco himself couldn’t afford to eat out, and he wouldn’t let Deek pay. What option did that leave?

As he ate, he kept thinking of that poor girl, Sanaya, lying in a hospital bed in that dim room, half-starved, dying of a rare disease. And here he was, eating a good meal and thinking nothing of it.

Wait – why had he called her Sanaya? The girl’s name was Maryam! Astaghfirullah. La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah.

Appetite gone, he pushed aside the last of the food and broke open the cookie to extract the so-called fortune, which read, “Customer service is like taking a bath: you have to do it again.”

The ridiculousness of it hit Deek like laughing gas, and he burst into a fit of laughter, which halfway through turned into something else. He braced his elbow on the table and covered his face with his hand.

A hand patted his shoulder, and he looked up to see the elderly Chinese waiter, medium height and as skinny as a stalk of bamboo, with thick black hair above a high forehead. “Gonna be okay, mister.”

“What are you talking about?” Deek looked at the man through bleary eyes. “I’m laughing.”

“I know, I know. Food on the house. No charge.”

“What do you mean? I can pay.”

The waiter waggled his hand. “No charge. Everything gonna be okay.”

In the car, Deek wiped his eyes, embarrassed by the emotion that had overtaken him in public. The waiter’s words echoed, simple and absurdly comforting: Everything gonna be okay. Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t. But he was discovering that there was one place he could always retreat, one practice that he could hold on to like a lifeline – salat. He’d been praying a lot more lately, and it was becoming a refuge. Which was something he very much needed.

Help Wanted

Back at the hotel, he prayed, then sat at his computer and transferred two hundred thousand dollars to Dr. Rana’s account. Checking his email, he saw that the man had already sent him scans of medical bills totaling over a million dollars. He didn’t feel comfortable paying such huge sums online or over the phone. He decided that he would see an accountant the next day. He texted Imam Saleh, asking him if he knew a good Muslim accountant.

It occurred to him for the first time that he needed an assistant. He had a lot of money to manage, and letting it sit in cash was not good, as it would be eaten up over time by inflation, taxes, and zakat. He didn’t have time to manage his money, handle these various philanthropic ventures he was getting into, shop for a house, cook healthy meals, and all the other daily necessities of life. In fact, he might need more than one assistant. How did rich people handle this stuff?

A wave of weariness swept over him. He thought that his body, on some inner level, might still be recuperating from the various physical injuries he’d incurred. He took the time to change into pajamas, then lay on his right side on the huge bed, hugged the pillow tightly to his chest, and fell asleep.

Current Of Dreams

He awoke for Maghreb. There was a response from Imam Saleh, with the contact info for a Pakistani accountant named Zakariyya. The man had graduated from Stanford but was still building his customer base. “Might be good to get in on the ground floor with him,” Saleh wrote.

He’d just finished praying when Dr. Rana called.

“Assalamu alaykum wa rahmatullah, Janab-e-Deek Sahib. I received the money you transferred. I only wanted to say shukriya from the depth of my heart. Your generosity is beyond expectation.”

Deek winced in embarrassment. “You’re welcome, Doctor. I need to see an accountant tomorrow to figure out what method I will use to pay the larger bills, but it will get done soon inshaAllah.”

“You must call me Sajid, please, Mr. Saghir sir.”

“And you should call me Deek. Our daughters are friends.”

“No, I cannot do that, sir. You have lifted a mountain from my shoulders. My daughter, my family, we will make dua’ for you day and night, inshaAllah. Please forgive me for what happened before. I did not know what test I was under. Khuda ap ko salamat rakhe.”

The call with Dr. Rana left Deek feeling sour. He’d chatted with the man a few times in the past, but Rana had never shown him this level of respect, nor displayed any real interest in his life. Suddenly, Deek was worthy of deference bordering on reverence? Why? Because he was rich now? Because he’d given Rana money? Wasn’t he the same man he’d been before? Well – that was life, he supposed. He’d better get used to it.

He paced the suite like a caged tiger. He knew that he had to do something. There was so much going on inside him. Since the Namer’s potion had worn off, loneliness had been rising inside him like flood waters, and now threatened to break the levees that protected his ability to think and work. A tornado of thoughts raged: Rania’s anger and pain, Sanaya’s coldness toward him, the frightening experiences of the last week, Faraz’s tears, the brothers in the masjid surrounding him as if he were a great tree and they were loggers trying to cut him down and pull out his pithy heart.

He remembered his visit to the river recently, and how it had calmed him. Those deep, beautiful waters called to him again. But even he was not crazy enough to go there alone at night.

Rania wasn’t answering his texts. Marco… Deek couldn’t bring himself to call. He pictured his old friend, sitting in that tiny apartment, and felt a wall between them that hadn’t been there before—the thick, invisible wall of Deek’s money.

So he decided to sweat.

Fluid Fitness

He pulled on gym clothes—new ones, tags barely off—and drove a mile down the road to Fluid Fitness, a slick little place he’d noticed in passing, its windows glowing with neon and posters of polished bodies in motion. Their slogan, plastered in chrome letters across the front, read: For People Like Us.

Inside, everything was spotless white and violet, like the interior of a spaceship. The sound system was playing music he didn’t recognize, all synthesized sounds and generic autotuned singing. He walked up to the front desk and asked if he could pay for the day only. The girl at the desk looked about nineteen, all eyeliner and indifference. She looked up from her phone reluctantly and gave Deek a slow up-and-down, lips twitching with something close to pity.

“Are you a bodybuilder?”

“No. I’m just naturally big.”

“We allow walk-ins,” she said, her voice flat as drywall. “Twenty bucks for the day. But…” She tilted her head. “This for reals isn’t the right fit for you. You might prefer Gold’s. They do heavy lifting there.”

Deek leaned on the counter. “I’m not a bodybuilder. And even if I was, so what? This is a gym, right?”

“This is a holistic, inclusive self-improvement environment.” This was a memorized response, Deek was sure.

He put twenty dollars on the counter. “Do I need to sign in?”

She sighed. “Fine. But there are rules.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “No heavy lifting. No grunting. No asking people how many sets they have left. No dropping weights. No, like, dripping. If you sweat, you need to wipe down. Also—no eye contact longer than three seconds. People find that aggressive.”

“I wouldn’t dream of sweating.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “And no sarcasm.”

Deek raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“No protein shakes on the studio floor.”

“I’ll manage,” Deek said, sliding over the twenty.

Pleasure In Pain

It was a small gym, and sparsely populated. The weight rack was lined with pastel dumbbells—three, five, and ten pounds—like Easter eggs in neat rows. The heaviest were twenty, glowing neon yellow. Deek picked them up, feeling like he was curling two bananas.

A kid next to him, crop-top and man-bun, was filming himself with a ring light. “Day twenty of my biceps journey,” he whispered into the phone, curling pink five-pounders. He spotted Deek. “Bro. You’re, like, dominating the space.”

“I’m just lifting,” Deek said.

“Yeah, but your energy is alpha.” The kid winced like it was a slur.

A half hour later, he was on the shoulder press machine. Rules or no rules, he was working hard, moving from one station to the next without pause, and setting the machines on the highest weight settings. Pushing the weights felt good. The dumbbells were obstacles he could move. Concrete goals that he could achieve. His muscles were sore, but he took pleasure in the pain, for the soreness made him feel alive, and humbled him at the same time.

The Wrong Tone

As he completed a heavy bench press set, a slender, thirty-ish man with a clipboard appeared, polo shirt tucked in tight. His name tag identified him as Andrew.

“Sir?” Andrew’s smile was as thin as dental floss. “I’m the manager. You’ll have to leave. You’re setting the wrong tone.”

Deek sat up slowly, breathing hard. “The wrong tone?”

“You’re… intense,” the man said delicately. “Some of our members feel judged.”

Deek laughed. He couldn’t help it. “For lifting weights in a gym?”

“Not a gym. A holistic self-improvement environment.”

“You forgot to mention inclusive.”

The manager’s face reddened. “Yes, of course.”

Deek rested an elbow on his knee, studying the man. Andrew’s appearance was masculine, but there was definitely something effeminate about him. The way he curled his wrists, perhaps.

They really wanted to kick him out. Deek felt a rush of anger. Wanting to mess with the manager, Deek said, “My family came to America as refugees, and now you’re kicking me out of here as well?” Yet even though he’d said the words as a joke, there was truth in them, and the manager picked up on it, because his face went white.

“Oh! You are refugees?”

“From Iraq. My family fled in the middle of the night, one step ahead of the secret police. We hid in a truck with a false wall. We didn’t all – “ Deek paused, his throat tight. “We didn’t all make it.” He cleared his throat, embarrassed. What had started as a joke had turned into a confession.

Andrew put a hand to his chest. “Bless your heart.” Looking around, he clapped his hands and called out, “Gather round, everyone! Group huddle.”

“You don’t have to -” Deek began, but Andrew cut him off with a single finger to Deek’s chest.

The dozen or so patrons, all young men and women, gathered around.

“This is Deek,” Andrew said gravely. “He and his family are refugees. They went through the most awful experiences to get to this country. He might not know how things are done here, but we will make him welcome.”

The young people all nodded. One girl applauded lightly. Mortified beyond belief, Deek stood and said, “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I’ll tone it down.”

The youth making the video offered his hand for a high five and said, “Your English is awesome. Let’s do a collab sometime.”

Deek had been ready to wrap up his workout, but now felt obliged to continue. He did a handful of slow, easy sets. As he was heading out, the girl at the desk handed him a laminated card. “One month free,” she said. “I think you’re so brave.”

In the car, Deek tipped his head back and laughed out loud. Americans would never cease to amaze him. They didn’t seem to know if they wanted to save the world or burn it to the ground. Both, he supposed.

In his hotel room that night, he texted Rania one last time: “We don’t have to be enemies.”

No reply came.

Realtor And Shark

The first thing he did the next morning was to check for messages from Rania or the girls. To his dismay, there were none. He texted the girls, inviting them to lunch tomorrow, which was a Sunday. Amira replied that she was attending her friend Salima’s birthday party. Sanaya simply responded, “No thanks.”

Checking his bank accounts, he saw that Rania had returned $70K of the last $100K he had sent her. He sat back in the desk chair, hands limp in his lap. What did this mean? Was she done with him? He felt like a car that had been drained of gasoline and now sat without spark or impetus.

He moped, then ordered an omelette from room service and ate it as he surveyed the crypto market on his computer. Prices were beginning to decline, though just a little. He knew the decline would accelerate. Many investors would hold firm, thinking it was just a dip. A lot of people would get hammered into poverty.

He needed to move, to do something productive. It was all he knew how to do. Specifically, he still needed to find a house. Like a knight donning his armor, he put on one of his fine suits, stood up straight, and went out.

In the course of his travels that morning, he stepped into an open house almost by accident — a modest property he knew wasn’t right, but it was on the riverfront and worth a look.

Inside, he paused to watch a debate between two real estate agents. The showing agent was a tall, sun-weathered guy in snakeskin boots and a cowboy hat. In front of him, a petite Latina with long black hair in a ponytail, and wearing an expensive-looking gray pantsuit and low heels, was ticking off points in rapid-fire, accented English.

“Your numbers are fantasy, Mister Dorian. The vacancy rate for properties in this price range is double what you claim. Do not insult me.” She snapped her fingers and waved at the house. “You take the deal now, or you’ll sit on this property another year while the weeds grow to your nose hairs.”

The cowboy sputtered, but the woman held up a hand. “Hold on.” She took out her phone, spoke in fast Spanish for a minute, then turned back to the cowboy. “We will increase our bid by three percent. You have twenty-four hours.” She began a rapid exit, heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

This was the agent Deek wanted.

He intercepted her, saying, “Excuse me.”

The woman stopped to look Deek up and down with sharp brown eyes. “I am not the showing agent. I am a buyer’s agent.” She resumed walking.

Deek ran after her. “That’s what I want! I’m a buyer.”

She stopped again and broke into a dazzling smile. “Bueno.” She extended her hand. “Marcela Gómez. Realtor, economist, shark when necessary.”

Fast And Fierce

Standing in the circular driveway, Deek told her what he wanted: privacy, land, something along the San Joaquin River, with actual river access. Something solidly built. The size of the house didn’t matter much, as he could expand it as needed.

“What you ask for is not cheap, Señor Saghir.” She rubbed her fingers together.

“I can pay.”

Marcela nodded briskly. “Leave it with me. I have cousins up and down this valley. In our country, Colombia, you have to be fast and fierce. If there’s a property to be had, they’ll, how do you say, smell it up?”

“Sniff it out.”

“Exacto. And I will get you the best price, even if I have to fight like a gehriyya to do it.”

“What’s a gehriyya?”

“You know. A fighter.”

“Oh. A guerrilla?”

“Gorilla is an animal, no?”

Deek smiled, restraining a laugh. “Don’t worry about the price. I just want a property that meets my needs, quickly.”

Marcela tilted her head. “Oh, money is not an object? Are you authorized to make that call?”

“It’s for me. I’m the buyer.”

Family Office

“Ah, bueno. Just that high net worth individuals usually leave such things to the family office.”

“What’s a family office?”

Marcela pulled back, looking him up and down. “You are only recently wealthy?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Marcela checked her phone, then looked up at Deek as if surprised he was still there. “I am a real estate agent,” she said. “Not a finance instructor. Are you serious about buying a house or no?”

“Yes, I am. But could you please explain the family office thing? Humor me.”

She sighed. “Very wealthy families do not personally manage their finances. They have a family office, which is basically their own company, run by experts who work only for them.”

Deek considered this, rubbing his chin. “You’ve seen this before?”

“Claro que sí. I have a degree in international finance, and I worked in such an office for one of the flower families. You think the sugar dynasties in Cali or the oil families in Medellín run around calling realtors and accountants one by one? You, Señor Saghir, are operating like a man with one hundred thousand dollars, not however many of the millions you have.” She waved her hand up and down to indicate Deek and his fine suit.

Deek nodded slowly. “What kind of people would run an office like that?”

“The Chief Investment Officer. An office manager, real estate director, security officer, a personal CFO to handle family matters, and so on. A lawyer, unless you hire an outside firm. Sometimes a, how do you say, filantropia director.”

“Philanthropy. Wow. That’s a lot of people. I would want people who know how to invest according to Islamic guidelines. No interest, no stocks related to gambling, alcohol, and so on.”

“Pues, I’m sure you can find such people in your countries, like Dubai. And that’s the end of the finance lesson. D – Y – O – R.” She punctuated each letter with a snap of her fingers.

He didn’t bother telling her that Dubai was not a country. They parted ways with the understanding that Marcela would call him when she found a house.

***

Come back next week for Part 26 inshaAllah

 

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

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

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

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The post Moonshot [Part 25] – Save The World Or Burn It Down appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

October is Islamic History Month in Canada, federally recognized since 2007 as an opportunity to “to celebrate, inform, educate, and share with fellow Canadians the rich Muslim heritage and contributions to society.” This year’s theme is “Pioneering Muslim Communities in Canada,” learning about and giving homage to those in our communities who first established Islam in these lands. From small islands to sprawling urban centers, every Muslim community in Canada started with at least one person who believed in Allah and created space for fellow believers to come together and build upwards.

In addition to the pioneering history of Muslims in Canada, we must consider more recent history as well: the realities of Muslims in a post-9/11 world, contending with the surveillance state, illegal detention and torture, and ongoing harassment of Muslims in Canada. Figures such as Maher Arar and Omar Khader must have their stories remembered, and lessons learned from, on just how fraught our existence as Muslims in Canada truly is. The work of people like Monia Mazigh must never be forgotten, as it is the work that so many of us will need to draw from in our own confrontations with state-led Islamophobia.

 – Journey of the Midnight Sun by Shazia Afzal

In 2010, a Winnipeg-based charity raised funds to build and ship a mosque to Inuvik, one of the most northern towns in Canada’s Arctic. A small but growing Muslim community there had been using a cramped trailer for their services, but there just wasn’t enough space. The mosque travelled over 4,000 kilometers on a journey fraught with poor weather, incomplete bridges, narrow roads, low traffic wires, and a deadline to get on the last barge heading up the Mackenzie River before the first winter freeze.

This stunning picture book makes the perfect Islamic History Month storytime choice!

– Minarets on the Horizon by Murray Hogben

This book gives us a detailed look at the Muslim presence in Canada, starting with the pioneer settlers from Syria/Lebanon and the Balkans in the early twentieth century and moving on to the more modern midcentury arrivals from South Asia and Africa. Told in their own words, the stories in this collection give us a rare insight into the lives of these pioneer Muslims.

Punjabi men in the timber mills of British Columbia; Lebanese Arab peddlers on foot or horse cart on the rural highways of Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba; men venturing north on dog sleighs to trade for fur; young women arriving to start families and soon to become family matriarchs; shopkeepers serving small provincial towns and big cities; and finally, students and professionals arriving in the postwar urban centres.

Wherever they went, they bore the brunt of xenophobia and acknowledged kindnesses, as they adapted and sought out fellow worshippers and set up community centres and mosques.

– Al-Rashid Mosque: Building Canadian Muslim Communities by Earle H. Waugh

Al Rashid Mosque, Canada’s first and one of the earliest in North America, was erected in Edmonton in the depths of the Depression of the 1930s. Over time, the story of this first mosque, which served as a magnet for more Lebanese Muslim immigrants to Edmonton, was woven into the folklore of the local community.

Edmonton’s Al Rashid Mosque has played a key role in Islam’s Canadian development. Founded by Muslims from Lebanon, it has grown into a vibrant community fully integrated into Canada’s cultural mosaic. The mosque continues to be a concrete expression of social good, a symbol of a proud Muslim Canadian identity. Al Rashid Mosque provides a welcome introduction to the ethics and values of homegrown Muslims. The book traces the mosque’s role in education and community leadership and celebrates the numerous contributions of Muslim Canadians in Edmonton and across Canada.

– How Muslims Shaped the Americas by Omar Mouallem

In How Muslims Shaped the Americas, Mouallem explores the unknown history of Islam across the Americas, traveling to thirteen unique mosques in search of an answer to how this religion has survived and thrived so far from the place of its origin. From California to Quebec, and from Brazil to Canada’s icy north, he meets the members of fascinating communities, all of whom provide different perspectives on what it means to be Muslim. Along this journey, he comes to understand that Islam has played a fascinating role in how the Americas were shaped—from industrialization to the changing winds of politics.

Despite my distaste with the author himself, this book does an excellent job of exploring both Al-Rashid Masjid and the Midnight Sun Mosque (the very same one from the picture book!), as well as pausing to pay homage to the victims and survivors of the Quebec City Mosque Massacre in Grande Mosquee de Quebec.

– Hope & Despair: My Struggle to Free My Husband, Maher Arar by Monia Mazigh

This book traces the inspiring story of Monia Mazigh’s courageous fight to free her husband, Maher Arar, from a Syrian jail. From the moment Maher Arar, a Canadian citizen, was disappeared into the bowels of Bashar al-Assad’s dungeons, Monia Mazigh worked tirelessly against the Canadian government, security intelligence agencies, and media to bring her husband home and get him justice.

She began a tireless campaign to bring public attention and government action to her husband’s plight, eventually resulting in his release and return to Canada. Arar and Mazigh’s story is a chilling reminder to all Canadian Muslims of the realities of living under systemic Islamophobia, and is an important lesson to us all on resisting and holding our government accountable.

– Systemic Islamophobia in Canada: A Research Agenda

Systemic Islamophobia in Canada presents critical perspectives on systemic Islamophobia in Canadian politics, law, and society, and maps areas for future research and inquiry. The authors consist of both scholars and professionals who encounter in the ordinary course of their work the – sometimes banal, sometimes surprising – operation of systemic Islamophobia. Centring the lived realities of Muslims primarily in Canada, but internationally as well, the contributors identify the limits of democratic accountability in the operation of our shared institutions of government

– Under Siege: Islamophobia and the 9/11 Generation by Jazmine Zine

Under Siege explores the lives of Canadian Muslim youth belonging to the 9/11 generation as they navigate these fraught times of global war and terror. While many studies address contemporary manifestations of Islamophobia and anti-Muslim racism, few have focused on the toll this takes on Muslim communities, especially among younger generations.

Covering topics such as citizenship, identity and belonging, securitization, radicalization, campus culture in an age of empire, and subaltern Muslim counterpublics and resistance, Under Siege provides a unique and comprehensive examination of the complex realities of Muslim youth in a post-9/11 world.

This Islamic History Month, Canadian Muslim communities should take the time to honour our pioneering members, teach our youth about the Islamic history of Canadian Muslims, and educate ourselves on how to navigate living in this country that remains riddled with systemic Islamophobia.

 

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From the MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Black (Muslim) History Month Reads

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The post Islamic History Month Canada: A Bookish Roundup appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Jeremy Scahill gives insight from resistance negotiators and stresses need for ongoing activism. Donya Abu Sitta in Gaza on hopes after genocide. Fighters blowing up a tank inside a new Israeli base.

Judge says Hamit Coskun has ‘right to offend’ and overturns conviction for religiously aggravated public order offence

A man who was fined for setting fire to a Qur’an outside the Turkish consulate in London has won an appeal against his conviction after a judge backed his “right to offend”.

Hamit Coskun was found guilty of a religiously aggravated public order offence in June after shouting “fuck Islam” and “Islam is religion of terrorism” while burning the holy book in February.

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Israel escalated attacks as a ceasefire edged closer, killing more than 120 Palestinians in four days.

[Author’s Note: In October of 2023, Israel launched a genocide against Gaza. On October 13, Al Jazeera mentioned in a news article that ice cream trucks were being used as makeshift morgues due to the overwhelming numbers of deceased people needing a place to be buried.]

 

     In the summer, your mother throws open the windows of your little house, the breeze playing with the thin curtains, creating flowery ghosts. The tinkling music of the ice cream truck floats in, making you perk up like the housecat seeing a bird.

     You run outside, your sister following suit, her small legs never letting her catch up unless you slow down—but you don’t, not until you are behind the truck and the dry dust burns your eyes, not until it stops and the man inside leans out to greet the gaggle of children now gathering around the truck.

     While you wait in line, an airplane flies by. You flinch, but she waves at it. She hasn’t learned what you had to, and you hope, stupidly, that she never does. 

     You hand her the ice cream before grabbing your own. You want to savour yours for as long as possible, until it’s dripping down your arm in sticky rivulets that your mother will get annoyed at, but you know your sister will devour hers and ask for yours.

 

     She’s learning to draw. 

     She wants your crayons, and your mother makes you share. You whine, but nothing changes, so you hand her some paper and tell her to keep quiet. For a few minutes, it stays so, her stubby fingers gripping the wax as she drags it across the page, fascinated by the transfer. 

     When you’re engrossed in drawing your own landscape— your grandparents’ olive trees, in the village you visit every few weeks— she hits your arm hard enough to send a stray crayon streak across the paper. When you look up to yell, she shows you a paper— two stick figures sharing ice cream. She tells you that you’re the taller one. You laugh. My skin isn’t orange.

     You keep the drawing in your closet.

 

     You have a sister. 

     She plays with the neighbourhood girls on the roof every evening, till the Maghreb adhan calls them back inside. She wraps a headscarf halfway across her head and stands behind you and your dad as you pray. Your mother tries to fix it. It doesn’t stay. 

     When you’re praying for everything you want— safety, for yourself and your parents and the olive trees and those that care for them— she says, ya Allah, please let me own an ice cream truck when I’m old. 

     You laugh, but an Ameen still follows. 

 

     You have a sister. 

     Someone picks on her for her pigtails—someone from your grade. Your dad tells you nothing except that you are her brother. It’s your job to protect her. 

     The principal calls your dad the next day— Bruised knuckles and a bloody nose. Your dad says, he was protecting her. Should he not?

     He buys you both ice cream on the way home. 

 

     You have a sister. 

     She cries when the first bomb hits, and the second, and the third. 

     She throws up when you pull the cat out of the rubble, a bright red gash across its abdomen. It mewls pathetically, barely skin and bones, and you have to fight the urge to cry— boys don’t cry, especially not in front of their little sisters. You hold the cat close to your chest, caressing what’s left of her spotted fur, for which you’d named her Cow. 

 

     You have a sister.

     She stopped crying an hour ago, fast asleep now. Your mother drapes a white sheet on her, trying to hide her hiccups. She always hiccups when she cries. Your sister does the same. 

     The night air bites your skin, but you just climbed out of what used to be your room, and your blanket is still somewhere under all of it. You want to share your sister’s sheet, but she is much colder, and she’s hogging it up. 

     She hit her head under all the rubble, you’re sure of it. You tell your dad that he should wake her up. Shouldn’t we take her to the doctor?

     The tinkling music of the ice cream truck pierces the silence. You startle, mouth watering— an ingrained response. Baba, are we getting ice cream? Usually, your mother would not let you eat sweets before dinner, but you haven’t had dinner in days.

     The truck stops, and the ice cream man steps out, face grim and dusted with gray. Your dad gets up, wrapping the sheet tighter around your sister. They begin moving her. 

 

     You had a sister. 

     In the summers, you’d run after the ice cream truck, her far behind you, and you’d call the man inside by his name. You’d hand her the first cone so she wouldn’t complain, and you’d finish yours off first so she wouldn’t ask for it. She would pray with her scarf halfway off her head, and she’d pray to own an ice cream truck someday. 

 

     You had a sister.
     She will wake up on top of soft grass, a blanket of sunlight over her skin. She will wake to tinkling laughter and the sound of a flowing river. She will find the friends she cried over, and the cat she fed every day, feeding him even when her stomach rumbled. She won’t remember the smell of blood, the cold of nights spent under open skies, waiting for the next bomb, or pain that blossomed in a body not strong enough for it. But she will remember you. 

     And she’ll wait to share ice cream with you again.

 

Related:

– A Prayer On Wings: A Poem Of Palestinian Return

– If You Could Speak: A Poem

The post Ice Cream: A Poem On The Loss Of Childhood In Gaza appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Four people have so far been arrested as part of police investigation into attack in East Sussex, which caused ‘significant damage’

Police have made further arrests over an arson attack on a mosque in East Sussex.

The building in Phyllis Avenue, Peacehaven was badly damaged by the fire at about 9.50pm on Saturday. Nobody was injured, but police said “significant damage” was caused to the front of the building and a nearby vehicle.

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Shaista Gohir says latest government figures are probably an ‘underestimation’ as many incidents go unreported

The head of a leading UK Muslim charity has said she is “deeply worried” about the unprecedented levels of anxiety in the community as government data shows hate crimes against Muslims are up by nearly a fifth.

Shaista Gohir, the cross-bench peer and head of the Muslim Women’s Network has criticised ministers for being “silent” and called for a public government response to figures which she believes to be “an underestimation”.

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There's growing proof that Israeli intelligence played a role in the assassination.

Our roots to our land keep us upright after bloody blows.

The occupation’s latest attacks forced many south, but my family made the trip north, to our home.

Residents in Michigan city on edge as threats against their community rise, and some are reassessing their support for Trump

Amirah Sharhan recalls it being a regular fall afternoon in October 2024.

The Yemeni American, who had been living in the Dearborn and Detroit area for four years, was preparing dinner while her mother took Amirah’s seven-year-old daughter, Saida, to a nearby playground to play with her friends.

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Michael Mann panders to pro-Israel zealots.

Why Haim Bresheeth-Žabner, whose parents survived the Holocaust, says Gaza is worse. Trump’s 20-point “peace” plan. Resistance tunnels outwit Israel and US public turns on Tel Aviv.

Ankara has limited trade, but activists face trial for demanding end to oil transfers.

Fire at mosque in Peacehaven on Saturday night left front entrance damaged and a car burnt out

A suspected arson attack on a mosque in an English seaside town is being investigated by police as a hate crime.

The front entrance to the mosque in Peacehaven, East Sussex, was damaged and a car parked outside was entirely burnt out after the incident on Saturday night, which has been condemned by political figures and faith groups.

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A visit to Jum’ah prayer takes a shocking turn.

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

* * *

“We all need mercy, we all need justice, and—perhaps—we all need some measure of unmerited grace.” — Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy

Allah Will Take Care Of Me

Imam Saleh stepped up onto the crescent-shaped wooden minbar, hand-built in Turkey and donated to the masjid by the Turkish consulate in San Francisco.

The Imam’s voice was steady, warm, and familiar. Deek – aware of the eyes upon him – pulled his sleeve down to cover his expensive watch, leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and closed his eyes.

He listened with interest when the Imam said:

“Brothers and sisters, let me tell you a story from my student days in Jordan, where I had gone to study Arabic and Islam. One day at the main masjid in Amman I met a man named Yusuf, who had come from Senegal to study the Quran. He had just arrived with nothing—no money, no contacts, not even a place to sleep. I asked him, ‘Where will you go?’ He smiled and said, ‘Allah will take care of me.’”

The words echoed strangely in the hollows of Deek’s chest.

The Imam continued:

“A businessman overheard Yusuf’s story, and offered to sponsor him at the Quran school indefinitely. SubhanAllah. Over the years, I saw him sometimes. He never had an income, but he never complained. Always he said, ‘Allah will take care of me.’ One night, I was out running errands, and I felt an urge to attend Ishaa’ at that masjid where I had met Yusuf. I didn’t usually go there as it was out of my way. I couldn’t explain it, but I went. And there was Yusuf.

After salat, he remained sitting. I went to him and we had a conversation. Only after I had talked to him for ten minutes, and I asked him how his studies were going, did he tell me, “I memorized the entire Quran. But I cannot return home because I don’t have money for the ticket.” I asked him why he hadn’t told me this right away, and he said he’d had a dream that he should come to this masjid tonight and meet me, and everything would work out. So he was waiting for the matter to resolve itself, as he knew that Allah would provide.

I had very little money myself. I spoke to the Imam, and he made a phone call, and soon someone had pledged the money for Yusuf’s ticket. Yusuf returned home, and I never saw him again.

This is tawakkul—trust in Allah. This world is not sustained by wealth, but by Allah’s Mercy. Whoever clings to Him, Allah provides in ways they never imagined.”

Stagnant Rainwater

Deek tried to picture the Senegalese man—hungry, alone in a foreign country, no home or friends, no money, certainly no fancy watch—yet serene. In his mind, another face emerged: his father, standing in the garden in his white dishdasha, saying, “Deek, this dunya will deceive you. Be a good Muslim. Be a good husband and father. That is wealth.” And then his father recited the ayah that he so often repeated: “Say, ‘Consider this: if your water were to sink ˹into the earth˺, then who could bring you flowing water?'”

Deek remembered praying with his daughters when they were little. Amira climbing onto his back while he prostrated in sujood, and Sanaya scolding her. Afterwards, he always scooped them up and kissed their foreheads, teaching them the dua’ after salat. His heart had been light back then.

He thought of Sanaya’s solemn face that morning, refusing even salam. How times have changed. Sadness filled him like stagnant rainwater from a rusty can.

When the prayer ended, Deek remained sitting, saying his dhikr. He’d seen a lot of brothers eyeing him during the khutbah, and it was embarrassing. He checked his phone. Rania’s reply read: “Allah will take care of me.” He stared at the screen. It was the message from the khutbah. Was she here? He stood, hoping to slip out quietly and look for her. But before he could depart, a cluster of brothers gathered around.

A Flood Of Questions

One was a tall Afghan man in a worn shalwar kameez, his beard streaked with gray. “Brother,” he said warmly, “you are Deek Saghir, yes? I heard you are doing very well with the crypto. Masha’Allah. Tell me, how do you buy these coins? Can I just go to the bank?”

A Latino brother, young and muscular and wearing a backward baseball cap, leaned in eagerly. He could have been a pro ball player preparing to take a swing. “Is it true that people become millionaires overnight? My cousin says he missed out on Dogecoin. Do you think it’s still possible?”

An older African-American brother wearing a bright African daishiki and a white kufi, frowned skeptically. “But what if it’s gambling? Some say it is haram, no different from the lottery. What do you say, akh?”

Their faces pressed close, voices overlapping.

“Are you a millionaire now?”

“Can you tell us your secret?”

“Can you give us a class?”

A tall, doe-eyed teenager sidled up beside him and tapped the sheath of the knife on Deek’s hip. “Why do you have this?” The boy seemed innocently curious, but Deek placed a protective hand over the knife.

“Pathetic.” This last came from a young African-American brother wearing black jeans and a Raiders shirt, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Deek didn’t know if the comment was a reference to Deek himself, or to the desperate, grasping admirers surrounding him.

Deek felt his pulse quicken. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He glanced across the prayer hall and caught sight of Faraz leaning against the wall, watching with his usual grin. Deek lifted his hand in a quick, sharp gesture: Is this your doing? Faraz only raised his eyebrows and shook his head, palms up in mock innocence.

Deek forced a smile, stammering. “Well, you see… cryptocurrency, it’s, ah… it’s not like dollars exactly. It’s, um, decentralized. You could say it’s like… like math, really. Secure math. People trade it, and the value goes up and down. Some… some people win, some lose…” His words tangled, and he felt heat rising in his face.

A Desperate Plea

One brother, a fiftyish Pakistani with a proud nose and a receding hairline, dressed like a college professor in slacks and sports coat, seized Deek’s lapel. Deek didn’t know the man’s name, but he’d spoken to him before. He was a doctor with a daughter a few years older than Sanaya. She was a pharmacy student. The man had always seemed calm and even slightly jovial.

Now, however, his eyes were bloodshot, and his normally well-coiffed hair looked uncombed.

“My daughter is sick,” the man said. “I’ve spent everything. I have no money left for her treatment.”

Deek tried to pull away, but the man held him fast. “Share what Allah has given you.” His voice rose. “Don’t be selfish!”

Imam Saleh stepped between them and physically pushed the brother away. “Doctor Rana!” he snapped. “This is not appropriate.”

Deek took a step back, caught his foot on the edge of a rug, and fell with a startled cry.

“I don’t care about appropriate!” Rana shouted. “Allah has abandoned me.”

Imam Saleh stepped toward the distraught doctor, and for a shocked second, Deek thought the Imam would hit the man. Instead, Saleh embraced the desperate father and whispered in his ear. Rana’s shoulders slumped, and he turned and walked out.

Saleh made shooing motions at the remaining brothers. “Everyone out, please. Show’s over. Respect brother Deek’s privacy.”

Deek got back to his feet, rubbing his wrist, which was sore from breaking his fall.

The men dispersed reluctantly, muttering thanks and salams. Deek exhaled and smoothed his lapels. His hands remained on his chest as if to shield himself. His breath was shaky.

Imam Saleh approached him gently. “I am very sorry. Dr. Rana is going through a difficult time. But that doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

Deek lifted one shoulder. “Not your fault. And I understand. If one of my daughters were sick and I couldn’t help her, I’d lose my mind too.”

Imam Saleh rubbed Deek’s shoulder. “You’re a kind man, mashaAllah. I’m sorry about the other brothers too. They are curious, and perhaps too eager.”

Deek’s heart was still running, but he gave a slight nod. “I understand.”

“You probably don’t want to do that seminar anymore.”

Deek swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Before leaving, Deek asked for Dr. Rana’s address. If the Imam was surprised, he didn’t show it.

Rolling In It

There was no sign of Rania outside. Faraz caught up to him in the parking lot, slapping him on the shoulder. Deek flinched, still gun-shy after his experience inside, but Faraz was an old friend, and he told himself to relax.

“Deek! Broooo! Look at you in the suit, so beautiful like a wave of the ocean. MashaAllah, mashaAllah.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “You rolling in it now, right? How much? How many millis?” He rubbed his fingers together and said, “Cha-ching, cha-ching!”

“I guessed you missed all the drama just now?”

“What, something happen? I see them crowding you. So sorry.”

Deek smiled. “No big deal. But what about you, akhi? The market is firing on all cylinders. You must have cleaned up too.”

Faraz’s face fell. “I drop it all on a meme coin. My cousin part of the project, he say the founders have a roadmap and investors. But was a scam. I lose everything. My cousin too.”

Deek was shocked. “You put everything on one meme coin?”

Faraz made an angry gesture. “Was stupid. Don’t matter, is Allah’s qadar. What happen, happen.”

Deek exhaled loudly. “That’s rough. I’d loan you some Solana but I exited crypto. I sold it all. The crash is coming.”

Faraz poked Deek in the chest. “You a oracle, smart like a Bengal tiger. I tell you what, buy me espresso machine, I be happy man.” Again his voice fell to a whisper. “Just between me and you. How much you make? I don’t tell no one.”

Deek looked at his old friend, remembering how they’d started together in crypto, both nearly broke, trading ideas and strategies over coffee and sweets. And not just any coffee, for Faraz was a coffee connoisseur. Deek remembered the first time Faraz had invited him to the masjid kitchen to chat about crypto. The man busied himself over an old coffee maker while Deek munched on some leftover birthday cake someone had left in the fridge. Deek, expecting the stale coffee that might be served in a dilapidated mosque kitchen, was stunned when Faraz served a gorgeous brew that was clean and light yet complex, with hints of berries, toffee, and sweet herbs.

Seeing Deek’s amazed expression, Faraz grinned. “Ethiopian. The birthplace of coffee.”

After that, their little crypto get-togethers became hedonistic soirees featuring whatever gourmet coffee Faraz had sourced that week, along with the Petit Ecolier cookies that Deek adored, and of course, long debates about the merits of one crypto over another.

Now, standing in front of Deek in the parking lot, Faraz gestured with his chin and said, “Is okay, you can tell me. How much?”

“Half a billion dollars.”

Faraz’s mouth fell open. Tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced Deek, then stepped back, patted Deek on the chest, and walked away.

Watching him go, Deek tasted sadness like acid in his mouth. Faraz had a wife and three kids. His job at the center didn’t pay much. What did he have left now? Why had Deek gotten rich, while Faraz went bust? It could just as easily have happened the other way around.

He could not help Faraz by simply giving him money. He had learned that much. It would humiliate the man. But maybe there was a way he could help both of them. He thought about it for some time, then made a phone call.

A Trust From Allah

The car was parked in the shade of one of the walnut trees in the masjid’s front yard. Deek sat in the car and rolled down the windows. Part of him wanted to pull his limbs and head into a shell and hide from everyone. Just manage his money and forget the world. But that would mean a lifetime of dreams in which he was haunted by the increasingly strident figments of Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah and Queen Latifah.

He had not forgotten his satori, his realization that he was meant to be a conduit for this money. This wealth was not for him to hoard. In fact, it was not his at all, but was a trust from Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’aala. Nor did he have the right to decide who was worthy and who was not. He was not a judge, nor was his own heart pristine. In fact, he could be a flat-out jerk sometimes. Lubna could certainly testify to that.

He went into a discount clothing store a block away and bought a plain black t-shirt. In the car, he removed the suit jacket, dress shirt, and German watch, and slipped on the t-shirt. He still wore the suit pants, but he mostly looked like a regular guy.

Dr. Rana lived in an upper-middle-class home in Clovis. Deek noticed right away that though the two-story house was quite large, the lawn and garden were overgrown and turning brown. He rang the doorbell and wiped nervous sweat from his upper lip.

The door cracked open, and Dr. Rana stood in the frame. His jaw was tight, his back straight as if he expected confrontation. His eyes, red from sleepless nights, held no warmth.

“Mister Saghir,” the disintegrating doctor said, clipped and formal. “I imagine you have come for an apology.”

Deek raised his hands slightly, palms out. “Not at all. I came to help.”

The stiffness in Rana’s shoulders gave way in an instant. His face twisted, and with a sudden, almost desperate motion, he stepped forward and embraced Deek. His body trembled. “Astaghfirullah,” Rana whispered. “Forgive me.”

Deek patted the man’s back, feeling his spine through his thin shirt. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Rana gestured him inside. “Please, come.”

Undimmable Grace

The house was dim, curtains drawn. The air carried the faint smells of lentils and disinfectant. Something had left grooves in the carpet. Rana led him to the dining table, muttering, “Sit, sit.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two cups of lukewarm tea, placing one carefully before Deek.

Only then did Rana sit, folding his hands tightly. His voice came soft and halting. “It is AL amyloidosis. We began chemotherapy months ago, but the response has been poor. Her kidneys are failing. The only chance now is a stem cell transplant. But Fresno cannot provide it. UCSF has a long waitlist, Stanford requires an impossible deposit, and the Mayo Clinic…” He shrugged helplessly. “Mayo is the best. But insurance will not cover it. Out of network, they say.”

Deek’s throat constricted. “If nothing is done?”

Rana swallowed hard. “She may have a year. Two, if Allah wills.”

The words hung like ash between them. Then Rana straightened slightly, as if gathering himself. “Would you like to meet her? She is resting, but… let me see if she is able.”

He rose and went down the hall. Deek heard a soft murmur of fatherly tones, the creak of a bed being adjusted. After a pause, Rana returned and nodded, eyes glistening. “She is awake enough. Please.”

He led Deek into the back bedroom. Curtains filtered the light to a dull glow. Against the wall stood a hospital bed, the girl propped on pillows, oxygen tubing running beneath her nose, IV line in her arm. Her face was thin and pale, her hair tucked back beneath a scarf. Her sunken eyes looked up when they entered. So young. A few years older than Sanaya, though the illness made her look aged.

Despite the pallor of illness, there was an undimmable grace about her, a dignity that shone even through the haze of fatigue.

Deek’s breath caught.

“This is my daughter Maryam,” Rana said softly. His hand lingered on the bedrail.

Deek stepped closer, feeling as if he were back on the planet Rust. An alien in a strange world, unfamiliar with the customs, having no words to speak. After a moment, he managed to say, “As-salamu alaykum, Maryam. It’s very nice to meet you. I’ll be making dua’ for your recovery, inshaAllah.”

Her lips curved faintly. Her voice was weak but clear. “Wa alaykum as-salam. I know your daughter… Sanaya. We met… at masjid events. She’s whip-smart. When Shaykh Saleh… asks a question… he sometimes says, ‘Anyone except Sanaya.’ Because he knows… she already knows the answer.”

The words struck Deek like an arrow, and for a moment he could only nod, his throat tight. “That means a lot. JazakiAllahu khayr.”

Rana placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Rest now, Beti.” She closed her eyes, the faintest smile lingering as they left the room.

Back in the living room, Rana lowered himself heavily into a chair. His hands rubbed together compulsively, his voice hesitant. “I did not introduce you to her to burden you, brother Deek. You’ve already been kind. I only wanted you to understand why—”

Deek raised a hand, firm. “Doctor. Don’t say anything else. I will pay for everything. The treatment, the travel, the lodging, and the bills you owe already. All of it. Don’t argue, don’t refuse. Your daughter’s life is not up for negotiation.”

Rana blinked, as if the words did not register at first. “It could… it could be a lot of money.”

“It wouldn’t matter if it were millions. Consider it paid for.” He handed Rana one of his new business cards. “Email me the info on anyone you owe money to, whether medical providers or anyone else. And send me your bank account information, I’ll deposit some money for your immediate needs.”

Rana sagged back into the chair, covering his face with both hands. When he lowered them, his eyes were wet but steady.

“You are a great man.”

“No.” Deek shook his head. “I’m really not. I just want to know who I am when I look in the mirror.”

“What do you mean?”

Deek smiled. “Nothing, just… trying to figure things out. Mercy is what sustains the world, right? Isn’t that what the Imam said today? I need your mercy on me, Doctor Rana.”

Rana looked astounded. “My mercy on you?”

Deek nodded. “Yes. I think so. I need your dua’, and your friendship. Take care of your daughter, Doctor.”

***

Come back next week for Part 25 inshaAllah

 

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

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

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

Related:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 24] – What Sustains The World appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A suspected arson attack on a mosque in an English seaside town is being investigated by police as a hate crime. The front entrance to the mosque in Peacehaven, East Sussex, was damaged and a car parked outside was entirely burned out after the incident on Saturday night, which has been condemned by political figures and faith groups

• Suspected arson attack at East Sussex mosque investigated as hate crime

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Shaker, wanted over his connection to deadly shootout between militants and army, had been hiding out in Palestinian refugee camp

A Lebanese pop star turned wanted Islamist militant handed himself over to the country’s military intelligence service 12 years after going on the run.

Fadel Shaker had been on the run since the bloody street clashes between Sunni Muslim militants and the Lebanese army in June 2013 in the coastal city of Sidon. He was tried in absentia and sentenced to 22 years in prison in 2020 for providing support to a “terrorist group”.

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Last Thursday it was reported that a man had stabbed two people to death outside a synagogue in Manchester. Today the man’s name was revealed to be Jihad al-Shamie, a name widely ridiculed by people who have never heard of Jihad being used as a first name (I have, many times), but it was also revealed that he in fact stabbed not two but one person before he was shot dead by police as he appeared to be wearing a bomb around his waist; the second fatality and a third injury were in fact caused by police gunfire. There is also a pro-Palestinian, anti-genocide demonstration also planned for tomorrow, as there has been most weekends since the genocide began in October 2023; a number of politicians have demanded it be called off. Starmer also made some ludicrous remarks in a speech on Thursday, claiming that “antisemitism is a hatred that is rising once again, and we must defeat it once again”, and that Britain not only provides refuge, but a home.

That last claim comes as the Labour government, in an attempt to outflank the Deform UK party, has proposed to double the length of time it takes to secure Indefinite Leave to Remain (Deform have talked about abolishing it altogether, which will mean no means for foreign nationals to live in the UK permanently other than by taking British citizenship) from five years to ten. The first claim will be news to anyone who has witnessed the rising tide of hatred towards both Muslims and asylum seekers in the UK over the past year; hotels housing asylum seekers, including children, have been subject to ‘protests’ by racist goons that often turn violent, while racist tropes increasingly dominate the public space, especially on social media and the Deformist new media, finding ways to blame Muslims in general for grooming gangs in particular. I’ll believe antisemitism is the hate that is rising when I hear a harsh word about Jews or Israel from Nigel Farage, Stephen Yaxley-Lennon (who is expected to visit Israel as a guest of the minister of diaspora affairs Amichai Chikli later this month, barring another run-in with the law) or Matthew Goodwin, or when a synagogue is actually besieged by a mob because of a crime someone presumed to be Jewish committed.

Both politicians and media have been demanding that anti-genocide protests planned for this weekend be called off so as to “respect the grief of the Jewish community” (they legally can’t force them to be for that reason). “This is a moment of mourning. It is not a time to stoke tension and cause further pain. It is a time to stand together” tweeted Starmer; Shabana Mahmood, the home secretary, called the protests “un-British and wrong” and told us to “take a step back and allow [the Jewish community] to grieve”. The protests are not aimed at the Jewish community; they are invariably routed away from synagogues and when people wanted to demonstrate near the BBC’s Broadcasting House one Saturday, it was banned because there is a synagogue a few streets away. They are aimed at the state of Israel and its backers in the British government, which include Starmer. It’s interesting how a demonstration in London against a genocide being perpetrated against Palestinians by the state of Israel is deemed to be hurtful to British Jews, or to interfere with their grief at a single Jew being killed by a low-life (who was not even Palestinian) in Manchester. We have a Palestinian community here too; many of them are grieving relatives lost in the genocide — to say nothing of hundreds of thousands of Muslims who have seen their brothers and sisters slaughtered in huge numbers, while not being chased from place to place while starving, for the sake of Israel’s final solution. Yet the establishment still demand that the precious feelings of British Jews govern what we can and cannot say about Israel and Palestine, and how Israel treats Palestinians.

The media have also repeated some of the slurs: that pro-Palestinian demonstrations are full of antisemitism, or that they make Jews feel threatened, or that they are fronts for Hamas or at least riddled with Hamas supporters, or supporters of other ‘terrorist’ groups such as Palestine Action. These days ‘terrorist’ means whatever the government says it means; as with PA, they do not have to do anything that resembles actual terrorism, which means targeting the general public with violence to force political change, but the limit of “support for Hamas” at some demonstrations consists of things like pictures of gliders on people’s clothing, or one or two incidents of “reckless speech”; there has been no large-scale demonstration of support for Hamas itself. As for antisemitism, the Palestine solidarity movement has always bent over backwards to avoid language that implicates Jews in general, or even mentions them; it mentions Israel and Zionism, and specific atrocities. The propaganda is long on accusations and short on evidence, and is aimed at people who have never been on one, and do not know anyone involved.

So, you’re grieving. Boo hoo, so are we. There’s a genocide going on. People are dying in huge numbers. There’s still an occupation going on in the West Bank, Palestinian natives being forced off their land because Israeli settlers covet it, or some other reason, and still being threatened by settlers and soldiers as they go about their daily lives. Mainstream Jewish organisations in the UK, including the Chabad Lubavitch organisation that runs the synagogue targeted last week, loudly support much of this (if not explicitly, then through genocide denial, victim blaming and repeating other Israeli propaganda) and use ‘antisemitism’ smears against those who expose and oppose it. Unlike when terrorist acts are committed by Muslim organisations or when violent acts are committed by individual Muslims, there is no pressure on the Jewish community to condemn or distance itself from the perpetrators; any attempt at such pressure is met with antisemitism smears. So, excuse us for not minding your feelings while we march against the genocide you support. You stop killing, we stop marching.