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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Still, I Believe

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

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

 

Related:

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

– Friday Sermon: Including Women in the Masjid

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

The face of independent schools is changing, led by more affordable Christian, Islamic and Anglican schools

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When the Australian Christian College (ACC) in north-west Sydney began receiving a surge of enrolments after the pandemic lockdowns, its principal, Brendan Corr, was not surprised.

ACC is located in Marsden Park, a major growth corridor of Sydney identified by the state government as an area where a failure to factor in the pace and scale of development has left families without access to local public schools.

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The world is allowing Israel to starve Palestinians.

Palestinian residents of Sinjil protecting their land have been beaten with clubs and murdered by Israeli settlers.

We hear from Donya Abu Sitta in Gaza, Ali Abunimah on AOC’s Iron Dome vote, Jon Elmer on signs Israel wants to end its genocidal war, and more.

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

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

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

An Unspoken Promise

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

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

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

Doing Things Differently

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Uncle Deek!” Aliyah shouted.

Look Who It Is

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lubna sighed. “Fine. Come on.”

Leave Me Out Of It

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re Dying

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

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

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

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

“No! Why would you think that?”

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

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

You Need A Place To Stay

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

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

“Are you kidding? To what?”’

“Asad.”

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

“Of course I remember.”

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

“Chickens don’t have hair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lubna snorted. “I wish you would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A million dollars.”

Renaissance Islamic Academy

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

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

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

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

His mind raced. An idea came to him.

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

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

“What job?”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s so important,” Lubna agreed.

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

Hammurabi

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mama?”

“Feed Hammo.”

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

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

A Lot More Than a Million

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

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

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

“You really have that much money?”

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

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

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

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

I Don’t Owe You

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

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

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

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

“Hmm.”

“Are you… Was there anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Treat

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

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

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

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

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

“You got what?”

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

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

“Pick you up in an hour.”

* * *

[Part 15 will be published next week inshaAllah]

 

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

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

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

 

Related:

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

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

 

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

Zarah Sultana and Jeremy Corbyn

This past week it was confirmed that Jeremy Corbyn and Zarah Sultana were launching a new party after both were expelled or suspended and then resigned from the Labour party. They have decided to solicit a name from a mailing list; their website currently calls it “Your Party”, which has led to widespread ridicule from those who thought they intended to call the actual party that, as well as from people who suspect that putting the name to a vote could lead to a silly name being selected, in the same manner as the vote to select a name for what became the RRS Sir David Attenborough, the research vessel of the British Antarctic Survey, came up with “Boaty McBoatface” (that name was used for one of its remotely-controlled submersibles). A common criticism is that, with Reform UK gaining ground at the expense of the Conservatives and looking increasingly likely to be a united right-wing opponent to the Labour party come the next election, any new left-wing party “splits the Labour vote” making a Reform victory more likely. I wonder why they never level this criticism at Starmer or Labour itself.

There are two reasons the Labour Party, especially under right-wing leadership, recurrently produces splinter groups. One is that the party is run as an elective dictatorship in which members can be expelled for public dissent. This includes refusing to support an official candidate, even when that candidate was not chosen democratically but imposed centrally, or does not reflect what many Labour members would consider to be their values, or has no history of supporting the Labour party (e.g. when they are a recent ‘convert’ from the Conservatives who “needs a home”), or there was an overtone of racism or other discrimination in the selection process. Such expulsions were regularly reported in the Welsh Labour party in the 2000s when local Labour activists hoped to promote their own candidates but were overruled in favour of people who were favoured by the leadership. This tendency has heightened since Starmer became leader: we have seen a number of MPs have their whip withdrawn for the kind of dissent that would normally only result in a minister or shadow minister having to resign, often voting for the very things that Starmer and those around him were promising when in opposition, particularly when Starmer was running for the Labour leadership, and for the things people would join the Labour party for and expect a Labour government to deliver.

Related to this is the sheer, abject cowardice typically displayed by Labour leaderships, whether in power or in opposition. This, too, is heightened under Starmer. Labour leaders have a record of being tough on the powerless while quick to jump to appease the powerful. There was no better example than when the Tory press manufactured the “foreign criminals” scandal in 2007, complaining that foreign nationals convicted of crimes were not automatically deported, as they believed they should have been, resulting in scores of people being rearrested who had served their time years ago for such things as getting in a fight in a pub. When faced with an angry US president after 9/11, Blair sent British troops into two separate wars at great cost to us. The same has been seen under Starmer, albeit less dramatically than under Blair: removing Labour candidates for being too forthrightly pro-Palestinian, for fear of accusations of ‘antisemitism’ from Zionists and the right-wing media, and then summarily expelling Jeremy Corbyn for defending his record and (rightly) calling the ‘crisis’ an exaggeration. As prime minister, Starmer has become the anti-Obama: his motto seems to be “no we can’t”, justifying his cowardice with Tory-style appeals to morality. The mean Tory restrictions on state benefits which many of us thought would be swept away in the first year of a Labour government have not been; Starmer now tells us his party is there for “working people” while expecting disabled people to pay the price for balancing the budget his way, while Labour MPs who challenge him have been thrown out. He also rolls out the red carpet for Donald Trump, a president who has, among other things, enabled gangs of thugs to launch a reign of terror against the country’s Latino population, with numerous legal immigrants and even citizens arrested, imprisoned in camps and deported to countries they have no connections to. 

A couple of years ago, in response to the Uxbridge ULEZ controversy that cost the party a by-election result in Uxbridge (Boris Johnson’s former constituency Labour thought it could win), I saw it observed on Twitter that “one striking thing about Starmer (and his legal/managerial ilk more generally) is that he is constitutionally incapable of conducting a political argument. when criticised from the left, he shuts it down bureaucratically. when criticised from the right, he instantly capitulates”. A graphic I have seen shared on Twitter a number of times puts it more succinctly: Labour are “weak with the strong, strong with the weak”. Labour constitutionally requires a kind of discipline of its members that suggests that it is involved in building a certain kind of society, expecting them to forego freedom of speech (by always publicly supporting the chosen candidate, for example), yet fails to realise that expecting such discipline of people in pursuit of social or political justice in support of a party that perpetually disappoints, or openly regards them as a liability, or treats them with contempt, is not going to work (this is a major reason why I have spent most of my life outside the party: I will not pay to give up my freedom of speech so that men like Luke Akehurst can get jobs that others could do better, representing communities). When a candidate who is deselected for thinly-veiled racist reasons runs independently, Labour members — the same ones who chide us for not having patience with or faith in Starmer’s leadership, as if he was a prophet rather than a politician — accuse her of being selfish, of passing up an opportunity to unseat a long-standing right-wing Tory for personal ambition; they never point the finger of blame at the party machine.

The party should be seriously discussing removing Starmer. He had one job and that has been done. It is not at all certain whether he will be able to repeat that achievement given the changing political climate and is unwilling to do what it takes. He is weak in the face of right-wing pressure. He has no charisma whatever. He thinks like a boss and blames everyone else if his demands are a cause of conflict. He does not listen; like many of his class, he thinks that is what other people are supposed to do when he speaks. Opinion polls are showing that Labour is losing ground to Reform, and was even before the Corbyn/Sultana group emerged. He has neither the wit, nor the imagination, nor the courage to deal with any of the crises affecting the country and the party now: the migrant boats issue, the roving gangs of hooligans exploiting it, the anger around his complicity in the Gaza genocide (and that of several of his team), his failure to address issues around education and welfare other than with further cuts. If there is no change at the top fairly soon, the party faces oblivion and the country faces being dragged into the same abyss as the United States. The party cannot blame Corbyn; they must fix this mess themselves.

A writer walked to a Gaza Humanitarian Foundation aid site in Rafah only to be shot at and forced to return home empty-handed. 

Normalization would reward Israel for genocide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We hear that. And we feel it too.

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

They can — and should — host candidate forums.

They can — and should — organize voter registration drives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But for our people.

 

Related:

– Beyond Badr: Transforming Muslim Political Vision

– Politics In Islam: Muslims Are Called To Pursue Justice

 

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

Infants are being starved to death by Israel’s blockade.

Cowardice, confusion and fear of Israel’s many friends defines the BBC’s coverage of Gaza genocide.

Most people believe Muslim values are incompatible with British ones, a new poll has found. It makes for bleak reading

According to YouGov, more than half of people do not believe Islam to be compatible with British values. I’m often dispirited by these polls, as much by the timbre of the questions as by the responses (how many times do we need to ask one another whether we can afford to avert a climate catastrophe, for instance?) But I can’t remember the last time I was stunned.

This latest poll found that 41% of the British public believe that Muslim immigrants have had a negative impact on the UK. Nearly half (49%) think that Muslim women are pressured into wearing the hijab. And almost a third (31%) think that Islam promotes violence. Farhad Ahmad, a spokesperson for the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community, which commissioned the poll, was surprised that I was so surprised. Things had been really bad for ages, he said, directing me to not dissimilar numbers in 2016 and 2019.

Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist

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Connections between sex trafficker and spy agencies have been long teased. But few are covering them.

Israel did not stop killing us during a weeks-long internet outage in Gaza.

Jean Quatremer denies Gaza genocide.

Israel stands in the way of our simplest wishes.

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

This is where Muslim chaplaincy could make all the difference.

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

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

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

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

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

The Landscape: Muslim Students on Campus

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

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

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

Impacts of Participation in Campus Religious Life

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

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

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

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

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

The Role of a Chaplain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s what you can do:

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

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

 

Related:

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

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

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

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

By providing the technology, Dell belongs next to Google, Amazon, Intel and Microsoft as a corporate profiteer of occupation, apartheid and mass murder.

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

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

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

***

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

Honey On Sunlight

Abdul Basit Abdul Samad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re low fat.”

“And high sugar.”

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

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

This Time Was Different

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you going to build?”

“An office for your father.”

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

“Of course he is.”

“You talked to him?”

“No, but I -”

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

Drove Him Away

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom!” Amira leaped to her feet.

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

“Why did you have to transfer?”

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

Every Penny

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

“Whatever.”

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

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

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

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

Amira pumped a fist in the air. “Go Baba! That car is bad-ass.”

“Watch your language. What does a person’s bottom have to do with anything?”

The girls laughed uproariously. Sanaya wiped a little yogurt from her chin.

“It’s how people talk, Mom,” Amira explained.

“It’s not how we talk. We choose our language consciously. Everything we do and say is in the service of Allahu Subhanahu wa Ta’aala.”

“Yes, yes.” Sanaya lifted an eyebrow. “So can I get me a slice of that crypto score?”

“Don’t worry,” Rania reassured. “Your father always does what’s right.”

Earth Will Die

Earth was going to die. A terrible catastrophe was coming. Deek saw it in a vision, clearer than the faces of his children. The entire world would ignite in a conflagration that would burn even the seas and rivers. The vision struck him like a sledgehammer.

That evening, Deek gathered Rania, Sanaya, and Amira around the kitchen table. “I’ve seen it,” he began, voice low. “I know Earth will die.”

Rania’s jaw clenched. “A dream, Deek?” she said, arms folded. “What proof do you have?” The lamp’s warm glow revealed the worry etched on his wife’s face and the tightening in Sanaya’s shoulders.

Sanaya’s foot tapped the tile floral. Amira looked down at her phone. “How would we live on some alien planet?” Rania pressed on.

“I have spoken with Karkol,” Deek explained. “The Thunka who deals with my company.”

The Thunka were a race of red-skinned giants from the planet Rust. They ran an interstellar cargo service between Earth and other planets, and Deek happened to know one of them, a purchasing agent named Karkol who Deek had occasionally hired to procure alien antiques.

“Karkol has agreed,” Deek went on, “to transport us to Rust. I know it will be difficult. The atmosphere is breathable, but light. It will take time to adjust. And the gravity is heavier than ours. But you know there are dozens of humans living on Rust. Diplomats, merchants, pilgrims.”

“How would we live?” Rania demanded. “It’s out of the question.”

Sanaya and Amira did not want to leave their comfortable lives and friends. In the end Deek’s family all refused to leave. Their refusal drove a steel spike through his chest. They didn’t understand the urgency. Why wouldn’t they believe him? He had always been honest with them.

Ozone and Oil

There was a little time yet before the catastrophe, he sensed this. He would go on his own, in advance. He would build a home, learn the language, and prepare a welcome for his family.

When he left, Rania turned away. He hugged his daughters. Amira hid her face in her hands.

On the Thunkan ship, everything dwarfed him: the height of the ceiling, the width of the corridors, and his own bed, which he needed a ladder to climb into. The giants were five times his size and he stayed out of their way, except when he needed to follow one through a door, since the 30 foot high circular doors would not open for him, as his weight was not sufficient to trigger the floor sensors.

He was lightheaded due to lack of oxygen, but he would acclimate as his body created more red blood cells. The air smelled of ozone and oil. All around, crates loomed four deep. The shipping labels were in Thunkan, he could not read them, but he knew they were destined for many different worlds.

Translating

I need to contact Earth,” he told one giant. The great creature led him to a panel computer. Deek spoke into it.

“Call my wife. Rania Al-Rashid in Fresno, California.”

A disc swirled on the screen, then a word appeared: TRANSLATING. A moment later the computer spoke in a metallic rasp:

“PROVIDE TRACKING NUMBER FOR WALL LIGHTS FROM FRESNO CALIFORNIA.”

Frustration flared. Deek waved his arms. “I need to call my wife!”

“FRUITS FOR YOUR LIFE.”

It was hopeless.

Buildings Like Cliffs

On the planet Rust, he staggered through the city, its buildings towering like cliffs, every door and window yawning wide.

Ochre dust swirled through the city’s broad avenues. Masks—dust-coated and ritual-bright—covered every face, including his. Immense red-skinned trees, trunks wider than buildings, reached toward a salmon sky. The call to prayer sounded from burnished bronze temples that rose like cathedral spires, and giants flowed from all directions to worship. They were not all red-skinned, as he saw now. Some were green, and others brown.

He entered a cafeteria the size of a stadium. Food was considered a Thunkan right, and was free. Tables grown from living stone bore steaming blue fruits and braided pastries. Hunger and hope warred in his chest. He sampled a fruit—and spat out its bitter flesh. Glyphs curved across a holo-menu, but he could not decipher the symbols.

A Sponsor

At his lowest moment, a green-skinned giantess in a finely cut gray suit approached with a tray of food. In spite of her obviously feminine contours and jewelry, her voice rumbled like an avalanche as in passable English she explained the foodstuffs. She was a university professor, specializing in alien languages. Her name was Anako.

Anako informed Deek that he must find a sponsor within one month, or he would be sent back to Earth. She herself could sponsor him, and get him a job teaching English at the university. With that income, he could build a house suited to his size.

Deek sighed in relief. Everything would be okay. He and his family could survive here. Anako took him to a computer terminal that specialized in alien communications, and he called his family.

“You’re asking too much, habibi,” Rania said. “You should return home. The scientists say they can repair the problem.”

Deek’s heart leapt to his throat. “What problem?”

“The ozone layer is degrading.”

“You must come to Thunka immediately!”

But Rania would not have it. Crushed, he returned to his temporary dormitory home and lay on his bunk.

Bound To Perish

Anako found him with the news. Chemical pollutants in Earth’s atmosphere had ignited the ozone layer, burning it away and allowing solar and interstellar radiation to flood in. Everything on the surface of the planet was dead.

In a daze, Deek wandered the city. It was night time, and a warm breeze rippled his shirt. Looking up, he saw myriad lights of freighters landing and taking off. In a city park, a sea of violet grass waved in the wind.

He found Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah sitting with her back against a tree as wide as a house, rocking back and forth as she recited the Quran. He fell to his knees, averting his eyes from her pious visage.

“It’s all gone,” he said numbly.

In answer, Rabiah recited in Arabic from Surat Ar-Rahman:

Every being on Earth is bound to perish.
Only your Lord Himself, full of Majesty and Honor, will remain.
Then which of your Lord’s favours will you both deny?

Deek pressed his face into the grass. “Why did this happen?”

“Great doubt,” Rabiah said, “will eventually lead to great awakening.”

Deek stumbled away, mumbling, “Everything is gone.”

“Deek!” Rabiah called after him.

“Gone.”

———- “Mister Saghir!” ———-

Deep Yellow Sunlight

With a gasp, Deek jerked awake. He was in the back seat of November Evans’s car, which sat idling at a red light. They were on the outskirts of Fresno. Fields and roads were illuminated with that deep yellow hue that only occurs in the hour before sunset. Deek blinked, heartbeat thundering, and pressed his palms to his eyes.

“You were dreaming. I was about to come back there and shake you awake.”

On the radio, a man’s voice crooned:

She’s gone like last week’s moon
Gone like a forgotten tune.

November’s slender fingers brushed the volume knob as she turned the music off. “Are you alright?” Her voice was gentle.

“I guess.” In his mind he was still stuck on Rust, smelling the sour grass as the warm wind whipped at his clothing. The lights of ships above. Shaykha Rabiah saying, “Great doubt will eventually lead to great awakening.”

Why had Rania been so stubborn? Why wouldn’t she and the girls come with him?

And maybe more importantly, why had he left them behind? Why hadn’t he remained on Earth to die with them? That would have been more honorable.

A Heavy Dreamer

With shaking hands, he texted his daughters and asked them to meet him at the hotel restaurant tomorrow for lunch.

Then he texted Lubna to let her know he’d be dropping by in an hour or so. Lubna didn’t like surprise visits, at least not from Deek.

He would also visit Rania tonight, but he did not text her. He wanted to surprise her.

“You’re a heavy dreamer,” November commented.

“Not always. Things on my mind right now.”

“I apologize,” the driver said, “if I overstepped in our conversation about your family.”

Deek waved this off. “I’m having trouble adjusting.”

“You’ll find clarity. You have a good heart.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s part of my job to assess character.”

“I was thinking of changing my name,” Deek said out of the blue, “to Asad. It means lion.”

November Evans rolled the towncar right up to the Marco Polo’s front door. She turned to study him. “I don’t see it,” she remarked, “but sometimes we grow into our names.”

I Like You Too Much

Not knowing what else to say, Deek exited then stepped up to the open driver’s window. “You want to work for me?”

November winked at him with one pretty brown eye. “Negative. I like you too much for that.”

Deek regarded her. Part of his mind was still on the planet Rust, standing beneath trees the size of buildings, feeling the hot wind pull at his shirt.

“Lift as you climb,” he said.

November nodded solemnly. “Lift as you climb. Take care of yourself, Mr. Saghir.” With that, she drove away.

Deek’s phone buzzed with a reply from Lubna: “No visits today. I’m not in the mood.”

Deek’s mouth formed a firm line. He knew, and Allah knew, that he had not been a good brother to Lubna. He thought about the San Francisco woman’s cardboard sign: “Tried Everything.” That was true for Deek himself, and Lubna, and Marco, and even Zaid Karim. All of them struggling alone, like castaways on remote planets, each thinking they were alone in their particular world. But they all lived on the same planet. They were all part of each other’s world. And Deek wasn’t leaving anyone behind this time.

Not even taking the time to go up to his hotel room, he walked to his car, started it, and headed for Lubna’s house. What he intended to do would be tricky. She, like Deek, was proud. Plus, she didn’t like him much, and didn’t trust him. Which was his fault, and was something he must rectify at all costs.

[Part 14 will be published next week inshaAllah]

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

* * *

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

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

 

Related:

Kill the Courier |Part 1 – Hiding in Plain Sight

No, My Son | A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 13] – The Planet Rust appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.