We speak to Gaza filmmaker Ruwaida Amer and director Kei Pritsker, cover resistance operations in Gaza and the Red Sea, as well as new Harvard reports on racism on its campus.

A monthly digest of key developments in Palestine showcasing powerful images by photojournalists.

A liquidity crisis is affecting everyone with old notes falling apart, commissions skyrocketing, and merchants refusing electronic payments.

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

[Read Part 1 here]

 

The Messenger of Allah ﷺ said, “Beware of greed, for it was only greed that destroyed those before you. It commanded them to be miserly and they did so. It commanded them to sever their family ties and they did so. It commanded them to behave wickedly, and they did so.” – Abu Dāwūd

A Rich Man

The trade went through! Deek Saghir stared at the phone in his hand. The trade had finalized. This was not a scam or a mistake. He now had $176,000 worth of USDC in his account. He could not hold actual dollars in this wallet, as software wallets like this could only hold cryptocurrency, not fiat currency. But USDC was a type of crypto called a stablecoin. Its value was pegged to that of the U.S. dollar, and it was backed by Coinbase, its creator, with actual dollars and securities. So it was essentially the same as cash.

He really had 1.7 million dollars. He…he was rich. “I’m rich,” he whispered, and the words felt strange in his mouth, like chewing gum made out of wet cement. That word, rich, with its heavy r sound – he hardly knew how to enunciate it. He feared he might choke on it if he tried to say it more loudly.

Again, he pushed his chair back and hit the wall. Then he leaped up, like a volcano that has been dormant for fifty thousand years suddenly spewing lava and ash. He pumped his fists into the air and shouted, “I did it! I did it! I did it! I did it!” He dropped his arms and tilted his face to the ceiling, mouth open and eyes closed, and lowered his voice to a speaking tone. “I did it,” he said. “I did it I did it I did it I did it…” He might have continued like this for many minutes, like a bullfrog calling in the night, if Rania had not stopped him.

Rizq Comes From Allah

“What is going on?” His wife was at his side, gripping his arm. Her face was white. A smidge of cheesy potato clung to the corner of her mouth. “Baby, are you okay?”

Deek. “I had a really good trade, honey. A really good one.” He shook his head in happy disbelief. “This is what I’ve been working and waiting -”

His petite wife smacked him in the chest, interrupting his dialogue. “A trade? That’s what you were screaming about? You scared me! I thought you were having a heart attack or something. What on earth?”

He laughed. “Sorry. It’s just that it’s a really good one, you won’t believe – ”

She put a finger on his lips, silencing him. Her face had gone from white to flushed red with anger. “I’m happy that you had a good trade. But I’ve heard that before, and we haven’t seen a red cent of real money. So please.” She removed her finger and took a step back. “Our electricity bill hit $500 this month, because of all this.” She waved a hand at Deek’s computers and fans. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m not telling you to stop. I know this is important to you. But I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep funding this. I can’t afford it. Our family can’t afford it.”

Deek could not remember the last time he’d seen his wife so angry. She was getting angrier by the second, to the point that she was almost shaking.

“But Rania -”

She held up a hand. “And if you had a good trade, then how about saying alhamduillah, rather than this mindless shouting and muttering like a crazy person? You didn’t do anything. Whatever rizq we are granted comes from Allah. Everything that we have, everything that we are, we owe to Allah. A Muslim always acknowledges that.” With that, she turned and stalked away.

Liquidity Bot

Deek stood, still feeling the sting on his chest where Rania had smacked him. He was frustrated that she had not let him speak. But he understood. It was one of his great shames that he’d made money before and lost it all, not even keeping a little to benefit his family. And every time he lost it all, he had to draw from the joint account to get started again. Since he had no income, that money came right from Rania’s paycheck. From her perspective, this was folly. She would not believe it was real until she had cash in hand.

She was right. He should thank Allah. He went down on hands and knees in the closet and made sajdah. He was not overwhelmed with emotion, but he felt this was what he should do as a Muslim, to show his gratitude. One of those grand gestures that a person should do at such a moment.

Rising and sitting in his computer chair, he considered his next steps. Meme coins were unpredictable. There was no way he would leave all those New York Killa tokens untouched. On the other hand, if he dumped it all, it would crash the price.

He would use a liquidity bot. He’d read about these. He set up a Telegram crypto wallet using a service called Trojan, then downloaded a bot that offered a number of services, including controlled token liquidation. He followed the steps to begin the process, then sat back. Every time someone bought New York Killa, the bot would sell 25% of that amount. So if someone out there bought $60K worth, the bot would sell $15K worth of Deek’s tokens. And it would continue to do so until it had sold everything in the wallet. This would allow him to liquidate without trashing the chart.

Of course, if the token price crashed in the next few days, Deek would lose a lot of money. But if it held steady or continued to rise, this would work out well.

Conductor Eric

That still left $176K in USDC. Theoretically, he could transfer it to a centralized exchange, such as his Coinbase account, swap it for U.S. dollars, and transfer that to his bank account. Within a day, his family’s financial problems would be solved. Then Rania would understand what he had accomplished. He could buy gifts for the kids too, as well as fix the broken side gate, the leaking bathroom faucet, the dry rot in the roof overhang, the cracks in the driveway, and many other things.

But…$176K was not a fortune. It would only go so far. On the other hand, if he invested it in another crypto, he could double or triple it.

Conductor Eric

There was a brother in the community who had created his own token, called Conductor Eric, based on the concept of a good-hearted monkey who traveled the world on a magical train, helping the poor and standing up to injustice. At one point, Conductor Eric had gone as high as a $1 million market cap, but had subsequently fallen all the way to $20K. If Deek began making regular, controlled buys, the activity might catch people’s attention and could stimulate buying. In other words, he could manipulate the market on this token to drive the price up and make a profit. He’d always known that crypto whales did this, but had never had enough money to do it himself.

The opposite could happen as well. As he drove up the price, long-term holders might take the opportunity to dump their tokens. It was a risk.

Ah well. No guts, no glory. He set it up using another bot. It would make periodic buys, varying the amount and frequency. $50 here, $200 there, and so on, until it had spent $150K, at which point it would alert him via text message.

He was hungry, but more than that, he was exhausted. He hadn’t had a proper sleep in weeks. His eyelids felt raspy, as if there were beach sand trapped behind them, and his mouth tasted like a trash can. Rania often complained about his physical state, and she was right. Shutting down the computers, he brushed his teeth, showered, put on pajamas, and tumbled into bed, where he slept the sleep of a man shot down in the street, unaware and uncaring of all that he had left behind in the world of the living.

Higher and Lower

Something woke him at 4 am. He wasn’t sure what. There was pressure on his ribs, and his skull felt like someone had taken out his brain and replaced it with tapioca pudding. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his thoughts.

He was in his bed. The pressure on his ribs was Rania’s arm draped over him as she slept. His phone buzzed and lit up. Squinting against the glare of the screen, he saw that it was an alert from the buy bot. That was what had awakened him.

He removed Rania’s arm, grabbed the phone, and stumbled sleepily into the closet. Closing the door, he turned on the light and fired up the computers.

He discovered that two things had happened. One, his plan for Conductor Eric had worked. The token had soared to a $4.5 million market cap. His $150K was now worth $1.9 million.

Two, the Fatality bot had sold 50% of his New York Killa tokens, but New York Killa was still rising in price. In fact, it was going parabolic. The tokens he’d sold had netted $2 million, but the ones he still held were worth $4,116,822. Over four million dollars!

His net worth was now eight million dollars. Quickly, not letting himself think about it or second-guess, he sold all the Conductor Eric. He was aware that this would crash the price of the token, at least temporarily, but he didn’t care. With the extreme slippage his $1.9 million netted $1.2 million. Then he deactivated the Fatality bot and sold 80% of his remaining New York Killa tokens.

High on his win, his blood thrilling like jet fuel in his veins, he had to make another trade. He went to a crypto monitoring website called Birdeye and checked the bubble map to see what was hot. An AI token called Alpha101 was up 132% today alone. It represented a company that had invented some kind of swarming AI agent technology. Deek studied the chart. After so many years of trading crypto day and night, he could read a chart the way a kid could read a comic book. Alpha101 was at a $15 million market cap, which was a crucial level. If it continued higher it would begin to attract whales and institutional buyers. Feeling lightheaded, as if he’d inhaled helium and might burst into high-pitched laughter, he bought $2 million worth.

Hitting the BUY button, he did indeed let out a bark of muted laughter. He’d just spent two million dollars on a new and unverified crypto token. It was insanity, but it was also a heady feeling, like taking a selfie on a ledge over a sheer drop.

Money Management

He shut all the devices off, turned off the light, and sat on the living room sofa in the dark. What was happening? How was this possible? But he knew the answer: he had worked for it. He’d done the research, put in the time, tried scores of different strategies, and he was beginning to figure it out.

And Allah, of course. Allah had blessed him. Still, it bothered him what Rania had said. What had been her words? You didn’t do anything. She was saying that Allah had done it all. Taking all the credit away from Deek, who had worked like an indentured servant to make this happen.

Now he faced the problem of how to manage all this money. If he simply transferred it to his bank account, he’d face a massive tax bill. No, he needed to be smart, like corporations and rich people. He would create an offshore corporation, with a corporate account in the Caymans or the Turks and Caicos. He’d transfer all the USDC to the corporation, which would then sell it, and pay him a monthly salary. The corporation could also buy a house, a new car, and so on. Deek himself would be immune from taxes and liability, except for the salary the corporation paid him.

He didn’t know if he had to go to the islands in person to set it up. His passport had expired, so he’d have to renew it. That would take time. The bottom line was that for now, he would lay low. He would permit himself to transfer only $20K in cash to his bank account, to pay the bills that were burdening Rania. He went ahead and initiated it, moving $20K in USDC to Coinbase, swapping it for USD, and transferring it to the joint bank account.

With these plans spinning in his mind like a dozen tops on a table, he went back to bed. He could not sleep, however, and ended up tossing and turning until morning.

Numb

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he awoke to find the room full of light and the house empty. It was 11 am. Rania had gone to her job at the hospital, where she worked as a nurse. Sanaya and Amira would both be at school now.

For a moment, he stood in the living room scratching his head, then he remembered the AI token. The two-million-dollar gamble. What was it called? Alpha101. Not wanting to wait for his computer to start, he thumbed the phone and checked the wallet.

Two things had happened. One, Alpha101 had tripled since he bought it. His share was worth $6 million and change. Two, New York Killa had become a monster. It was up massively. Like Pengu and Fartcoin before it, it had hit a $1.5 billion market cap. The tokens he’d kept, which had been worth $800K, were now worth $88 million.

Numbly, he sold 90% of both the Alpha101 and New York Killa, swapping them for Solana, and letting the rest ride. With the slippage, his net worth was now $68 million dollars. He could have retained more of the value if he’d spaced out his sales, but he didn’t care.

He felt nothing. No, “I did it,” escaped his lips, nor “alhamdulilah.” He was empty, not like a cup waiting to be filled, but like one that had fallen and shattered, and now could hold nothing. Perhaps he was in shock. He needed Rania. He needed to share this with her. She would help him make sense of it.

He checked his bank account. The 20K transfer was pending, and would clear by tomorrow, inshaAllah.

A New Idea

They only had one car, and Rania had taken it, so Deek got dressed and ordered an Uber. A half hour later, he strode into Kaiser Permanente Medical Center and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

Rania was seated in front of one of the computers at the nurse’s station, updating records no doubt. She saw him and gave him a quizzical look.

“Hey, baby,” she said. “Are you okay? How did you get here?”

Deek smiled, feeling happy and relieved to see her. “Honey, something has happened. I need to talk to you about it.”

Rania’s face fell. “What? Something with the kids?”

Deek shook his head. “No, nothing like that. It’s about the crypto.”

Rania’s face went white with rage. Deek had never seen her like this and had to take a step back. “You come to my workplace,” she seethed, “to bother me with this? I told you I don’t want to hear any more about it. I don’t believe in it, I don’t care about it. It’s not real. When will you understand that? It’s all play money. But the money you lose is real money.” She threw her hands up. “I can’t talk about this now. Just…” She exhaled loudly. “We’ll talk when I get home.”

Without a word, Deek turned and walked out. He felt like he’d been slapped.

It was at that moment that a new idea began to germinate in his mind. It was one he’d never allowed himself to contemplate, even when he and Rania had argued and fought. It was this: maybe it was time for him and Rania to separate. Not because he had money now, though perhaps that was part of it. One of the things that had kept him bound to her was that he couldn’t afford to live on his own.

More importantly, though, she didn’t believe in him and respect him anymore. You didn’t do anything, she’d said to him. Deek didn’t like that at all. And she’d hit him. He would probably have a mark on his chest from where she’d slapped him.

Another idea crept like a wolf into his mind and sat on its haunches, looking at him: maybe he should not tell Rania the full extent of his crypto windfall. She didn’t believe in it anyway. Maybe he would keep it to himself for now.

***

[Part 3 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:

The Things He Would Say – [Part 1] – The Call to Hajj

A Hassan’s Tale Story: No Strings On Me

The post Moonshot: A Short Story [Part 2] – A Rich Man appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Israel destroyed a family's home within a matter of minutes.

When He loosens your tongue with a supplication, know that He wants to give you [something].

متى أطلق لسانك بالدعاء فاعلم أنه يريد أن يعطيك

– Ibn Ataillah Iskanderi1

A Reflection on Ibn Ataillah’s Wisdom

As we traverse a world ensnared by the allure of tangible comforts and transient distractions, many souls find themselves adrift, distanced from the profound act of prayer. The cacophony of modern life, with its relentless demands and superficial pursuits, often silences the sacred whispers of our hearts, drawing us away from the divine communion that lies within our reach.

Our reliance on material means erects barriers to spiritual fulfillment, blinding us to the transformative power of turning to Allah in our moments of need. Yet, it is in these very moments of yearning that the door to the Divine swings wide open, inviting us to engage in a dialogue that transcends the mundane. To forget this invitation is to overlook the essence of our existence—to neglect the profound relationship that awaits us in the stillness of our supplications.

When the whispers of supplication rise from your lips, recognize that they are not mere expressions of longing, nor are they echoes cast futilely into the void. Instead, they are the gentle summons of the Divine—a profound indication that He, who holds the treasures of the heavens and the earth, has already turned toward you in mercy and compassion.

Have you ever pondered whether your hands would rise in prayer had He not already willed to fill them with blessings? Would your heart yearn for His presence if He had not already decreed its solace? This yearning is not an accident; it is a deliberate act of Divine Love, a sign that your soul is attuned to the call of its Creator.

Du’a is not a plea cast into uncertainty; it is an answered call in its very utterance. Every invocation you make carries the weight of Divine acknowledgment, a promise that your words are heard and cherished. In this sacred act of supplication, you engage in a dialogue that transcends mere requests; you enter into a relationship, a communion with the One Who knows your innermost thoughts and desires.

The act of praying is a testament to the interconnectedness of the seeker and the Divine. It reflects a deep understanding that your needs and aspirations have already been woven into the tapestry of existence, designed by a loving Creator Who anticipates your every call. Each prayer is a thread in this intricate fabric, binding you closer to the source of all mercy and grace.

As the Prophet Muhammad [ﷺ] said:

“إن الله تعالى حيٌ كريم، يستحيي إذا رفع الرجل إليهم يديه أن يردهما صفراً خائبتين.”

“Indeed, Allah is modest and generous. He is ashamed that when a servant raises his hands to Him, He would return them empty and disappointed.” [Abu Dawood, Al-Tirmidhi]

Thus, when you find yourself in the moment of supplication, do so with the knowledge that your voice is not lost. It is a beacon, a radiant light that pierces the darkness, beckoning the Divine to respond. In this sacred exchange, trust that you are enveloped in mercy, and that every whisper of your heart has the potential to transform your reality.

As Ibn Ata’ Allah said:

“دعاء العبد سلاحه، وبه يفتح له من أبواب الرحمة.”

“The supplication of the servant is his weapon, and through it, the doors of mercy are opened for him.”

In this understanding, embrace the act of supplication with unwavering faith, knowing that your prayers are not just words—they are the keys to the treasures of Divine grace.

The Divine Invitation to Seek

Allah does not inspire your heart to call upon Him only to turn you away. Rather, the very breath of supplication is a profound indication that the gates of Divine generosity have already been unlocked, inviting you into a realm of endless possibility and grace. It is a Divine invitation, a whisper from the Creator, assuring you that your desires and hopes are not in vain.

He Himself proclaims:

“And your Lord says, ‘Call upon Me; I will respond to you. Indeed, those who disdain My worship will enter Hell [rendered] contemptible.” [Surah Ghafir; 40:60]

This verse encapsulates the essence of Allah’s Promise—that the act of calling upon Him is met with a guarantee of response.

O seeker, understand that your prayer was heard before it ever graced your lips. Your yearning was answered long before it took form in your heart.

This is not a mere coincidence; it is the manifestation of Divine wisdom.

“Thus, when you find yourself in the throes of supplication, remember that your prayers are not lost; they are held close to the heart of the One who knows you better than you know yourself.” [PC: Imad Alassiry (unsplash)]

For it is He who plants the seed of du’a in your soul, nurturing it with His Mercy and Compassion. Just as a gardener tends to the delicate shoots of a new plant, so too does Allah cultivate your supplications, ensuring they receive the nourishment they need to flourish. Each prayer is a testament to the connection between you and the Divine; a sacred dialogue that transcends the limitations of time and space.

In this Divine exchange, your heart’s yearning is a reflection of His Will. He instills in you the desire to seek, to ask, and to knock upon the door of His mercy, knowing that every sincere plea is met with an equally sincere response. This is not a transaction but a relationship—a sacred bond that deepens with every invocation.

Thus, when you find yourself in the throes of supplication, remember that your prayers are not lost; they are held close to the heart of the One who knows you better than you know yourself. In this sacred space of connection, trust that your voice is echoed in the heavens and that every tear shed in earnestness is counted and cherished. For it is He who plants the seed of du’a in your soul, only so that He may water it with His Mercy.

A Prophetic Promise of Response

The Messenger of Allah [ﷺ] assured the broken-hearted and the weary:

مَا مِنْ مُسْلِمٍ يَدْعُو اللَّهَ بِدَعْوَةٍ لَيْسَ فِيهَا إِثْمٌ، وَلَا قَطِيعَةُ رَحِمٍ، إِلَّا أَعْطَاهُ اللَّهُ بِهَا إِحْدَى ثَلَاثٍ: إِمَّا أَنْ تُعَجَّلَ لَهُ دَعْوَتُهُ، وَإِمَّا أَنْ يَدَّخِرَهَا لَهُ فِي الْآخِرَةِ، وَإِمَّا أَنْ يَصْرِفَ عَنْهُ مِنَ السُّوءِ مِثْلَهَا.

“There is no Muslim who supplicates to Allah with a supplication that contains no sin nor severing of family ties, except that Allah grants him one of three things: either He will quickly answer his supplication, or He will store it for him in the Hereafter, or He will turn away from him an equivalent harm.” [Ahmad, Al-Tirmidhi]

This profound hadith encapsulates the infinite Mercy and Wisdom of Allah , serving as a cornerstone of faith for believers. It reassures us that our prayers are never cast into the abyss of silence; rather, they are met with Divine attention and care. Each sincere supplication, untainted by sin or malice, is enveloped in a promise of response, manifesting in ways that reflect Allah’s intricate Understanding of our deepest needs.

1. Immediate Response: The first possibility reveals the immediacy of Divine Grace. When our hearts cry out, Allah may swiftly fulfill our desires, showcasing His readiness to provide for His Creation. This encourages a profound trust in His willingness to respond, reminding us that our pleas are not mere words; they are heartfelt invitations for His Mercy to descend upon us.
2. Storing in the Hereafter: The second possibility underscores the eternal nature of Divine Justice. If our supplication remains unanswered in this life, it is preserved for us in the Hereafter—a testament to Allah’s Foresight and Compassion. This notion transforms our understanding of time and reward, affirming that our struggles and prayers in this ephemeral world lay the groundwork for everlasting blessings in the next.
3. Diverting Harm: The third promise embodies a profound aspect of Divine Wisdom: Allah may choose to avert an equivalent harm from us. This reflects a deeper understanding that our desires may not always align with our best interests. Through this divine intervention, Allah safeguards us from trials we may not recognize, illustrating His protective Embrace and omniscient Care.

Therefore, when you feel the stirrings of du’a, do not doubt. Do not hesitate. For if He has placed it upon your tongue, He has already inscribed its reply in the fabric of the unseen. Your prayer is a testament to your connection with the Divine, a bridge that draws you closer to His infinite Mercy and Compassion. Each utterance is not merely a request but an act of faith, a declaration of your trust in His Divine Plan.

In this sacred relationship, remember that your voice is heard, your pleas are cherished, and your heart’s yearnings are met with Divine Grace. Embrace the act of supplication with confidence, knowing that Allah’s Response is always perfectly timed and exquisitely tailored to your ultimate good. In doing so, you engage in a cosmic dialogue, a sacred communion that transcends the limitations of our understanding, illuminating the path toward spiritual fulfillment and Divine Intimacy.

Prayer as a Sign of Divine Nearness

O heart that trembles in the night, know this: you would not have knocked had the door not been meant to open.

You would not have wept had the response not been decreed.

For the Messenger of Allah ﷺ has said:

إِنَّ اللَّهَ حَيِيٌّ كَرِيمٌ، يَسْتَحِي إِذَا رَفَعَ الرَّجُلُ إِلَيْهِ يَدَيْهِ أَنْ يَرُدَّهُمَا صِفْرًا خَائِبَتَيْنِ

“Indeed, Allah is modest and generous. He is ashamed that when a servant raises his hands to Him, He would return them empty and disappointed.” [Abu Dawood, Al-Tirmidhi]

So call upon Him with certainty, with the unshakable faith that your voice is heard, your plea is recorded, and your answer is already on its way—perhaps not in the form you expect, but always in the way that is best for you.

The Echo of His Mercy

When Allah , ignites your tongue with the fire of supplication, perceive this not merely as your own initiative, but as a sacred invitation from the Divine to partake in the bounty of His Mercy. Each supplication is akin to a seed, delicately sown in the fertile soil of your heart; some may bloom in this ephemeral world, while others will blossom in the eternal gardens of the Hereafter, yet none are ever lost to the winds of time.

Pray, O seeker, with unwavering conviction, for you are not unheard. Lift your hands in earnest entreaty, for He is too generous to return them empty. Each cry of your heart, each whisper of your soul, resonates in the boundless expanse of the Divine, met with a promise—a promise that transcends our understanding and expectations.

When your heart quivers with longing, recognize this tremor as the gentle summons of the Divine:

 “Come to Me, and I shall bestow upon you more than you ever dared to imagine.”2

Your yearning is not an echo cast into the void; it is a manifestation of the love and mercy that Allah   has intricately woven into the fabric of your existence. In the profound words of Rumi:

“Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn’t matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.”

This is a clarion call to return, a reminder that regardless of your trials and tribulations, the gates of mercy remain perpetually ajar. Embrace this invitation to commune with the Divine, for every moment spent in supplication is a step toward the realization of your heart’s most profound desires.

In this sacred journey, trust that your prayers are not mere utterances; they are bridges to the Infinite, pathways to tranquility, and channels of divine grace. Allah is awaiting your return—so come, and let your heart speak its truth with unrestrained fervor. In doing so, you shall unveil the treasures that await those who dare to seek.

 

Related:

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

– Before You Seek Answers, Seek Him First: A Muslim Chaplain’s Ramadan Reflection

1    Ibn ʿAtāʾ Allāh al-Iskandarī (d. 709 AH / 1309 CE) was a master of the Shādhilī Sufi path, a jurist of the Mālikī school, and a spiritual heir to Abū al-ʿAbbās al-Mursī. Rooted in Alexandria, he authored the al-Ḥikam al-ʿAṭāʾiyya, a timeless treasury of Sufi wisdom.2    Khalid Hameed Shaida, Amir Khusro: The Nightingale of India – Selected Persian Odes Kindle Edition, CreateSpace, 2012, p. 56

The post Beyond Longing – Dua: A Deliberate Act Of Divine Love appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The not-for-profit, which has been recording anti-Muslim hate crime for 13 years, now faces an uncertain future

For 13 years, Tell Mama has been the government-funded not-for-profit tasked with recording anti-Muslim hate crime and helping victims get justice.

For its pains, staff faced death threats from the far right, a risk so serious it necessitated an office change at the height of the hate. There have been critics too within Britain’s Muslim community, who, according to the Tell Mama leadership, were intolerant of the organisation’s tolerance.

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My friend Mahmoud was charging his family’s phones at a charging station when an Israeli attack fatally injured him.

Impact of Israeli bomb on Gaza City home throws children onto neighboring roof, tearing 5-year-old girl in half.

Colonel who invented "eight burned babies" hoax committed extensive war crimes in Gaza as part of effort to expel Palestinian population.

Protesters contest ethnic cleansing proponent at numerous events.

A major driver training organisation in the UK, which is part of a major driver recruitment agency, today claimed that the UK’s haulage industry risks falling into the same crisis of recruitment seen during the height of the pandemic five years ago unless it “tackles a looming retirement crisis”, with 55% of today’s professional drivers aged between 50 and 65 and little interest in the occupation from school leavers. John Keelan-Edwards of Driver Hire Training mentioned the lack of overseas drivers that we ‘enjoyed’ during the post-2004 years and also the lack of diversity in the profession. He suggested temporary sign-on bonuses but said that the biggest necessity was persuading school leavers of “the fulfilling and varied careers they could have” as lorry drivers. There is no mention, at least in this little article, of the reason why people do not want to be truck drivers anymore, and are leaving the industry, which is the poor treatment and facilities we are expected to tolerate. Tomasz Orsyński wrote an article in July 2021 detailing twenty reasons for the shortage, which includes some of the points I make here, and nothing has changed.

In the late 2010s and early 2020s, I was doing mostly “class 1”, or articulated/semi truck work. This was for a mixture of mostly air and palletised freight companies and the Royal Mail. In 2021 I let my air freight clearance lapse, because I did not want to work for any of the operators around Heathrow anymore. The work was tedious, often involving sitting for hours at the cargo sheds around the airport. Facilities were extremely poor: the ‘Horseshoe’ had one toilet facility for all the male drivers consisting of one urinal, one actual toilet and two sinks. At bonded warehouses (which store air freight which has already been security cleared), the law states that a visiting driver has a right to use a toilet and should be escorted if need be, but they would sometimes refuse if it wasn’t convenient for them (at one point I was told to defecate in a bush if I was desperate). One of said companies (a subcontractor to several major airlines) sent me on a trip to Manchester, and staff at their depots kept me waiting for hours at more than one of the ports of call resulting in my exceeding my 15-hour working day on two occasions, and then refused to pay me for the full day as it would make the violation too obvious. (They told me I should have rung them at one of the places concerned; they should have known I was doing the Manchester run, and got the freight out quickly as it was time critical.)

I did three or four separate stints at the Royal Mail between 2017 and 2023 (I had previously worked for them at Vauxhall, since demolished to make way for the new American embassy and luxury developments at Nine Elms) but that was driving small trucks on local routes, not big trucks on ‘trunk’ routes). On the first of these I got a lecture from the transport manager at Woking for stopping mid-journey to use a toilet, having found the toilets at their Coventry depot inadequate (meaning: few in number, dirty, smelly and crowded). My most recent encounter with them ended after an encounter with a rude “health and safety” jobsworth at their new national hub outside Daventry, who barked at me to put my yellow jacket on when walking ten paces from the door of the building to the door of my truck cab in broad daylight on a 30ºC (or more) summer day. I then had to explain myself to another jobsworth at the local depot in Greenford, west London, and that ended with him telling me not to come in for any more shifts. This local depot had an infestation of rats, one of which I saw in the room where the staff vending machines and water fountain were located; I was informed that said rats had been disturbed by the nearby works on the new high-speed railway. Royal Mail insists on long-sleeved jackets, unlike almost any other logistics company (a lot of construction companies insist on high-visibility trousers as well); these are tolerable at night and in colder weather, but being made of woven plastic are extremely uncomfortable when it is hot, something the organisation has not taken into account at all. The same Daventry depot, despite being newly built, had several toilets out of commission that day (it has fewer toilets than the old National Distribution Centre round the corner), but had time to employ a lackey to drive around in a big car looking for petty “health and safety” breaches to nag people about.

In my experience, the bigger the company, the longer the list of rules and the worse environment it will be to work at. The biggest offenders are the international logistics companies with three letters for names. In the month or so after leaving Royal Mail in 2023, I had a two-week stint at a printworks in west London, which was not perfect by any means (moving pallets stacked high with heavy printed material is hard work) and the cab stank of the previous driver’s food, with crisp dust you could taste in the air (another common problem), but I mostly delivered to and from small printing companies and was required to wear a yellow jacket only once, on the last delivery to a depot of one of those three-letter companies. The jackets have their place, but have spread far beyond that; they are seen (or posed) as an essential guarantee of safety, when in reality they seem to be a substitute for common sense. As truck drivers, we deal with hazards all the time, and most of them are not clad in fluorescent jackets. The way to avoid accidents is for the driver to look where he or she is going and for others not to do stupid things like walk in front of a moving vehicle or behind it when reversing.

As Tomasz Orsyński put it, drivers are treated like thieves; I would say the rules at many sites presume we are thieves, idiots or both. He mentions the practice of expecting drivers to hand in their keys and sit in a waiting room, or even a cage, while being loaded or unloaded; this is often in addition to the truck being physically immobilised to stop it being driven off the bay. When a vehicle is being “live loaded”, i.e. loaded through the back while the trailer is connected to a tractor unit, or it is a single truck, one of these measures is perfectly sensible, but immobilising the truck makes all the others unnecessary. Some depots do not allow the driver to disconnect the truck so as to remain in the vehicle, and others demand we hand over the keys and wait in their waiting room (with no guarantee of how long) even when the truck is not coupled. It appears that somewhere along the line, a group of managers has sat in a room and brainstormed everything that could go wrong, or has ever been known to, and everything they could do to prevent them, then done all of them when only one or two would be sufficient. The measures are imposed from the top down, not in consultation with drivers who typically are not unionised at all. The result is that drivers are told: these are the customers and what the customer wants, the customer gets, and if you don’t like it, tough.

So, you can go round schools telling the kids that truck driving is some sort of enjoyable, varied career where they can get to see the country and meet people, but the truth is that large parts of it have been taken over by a few small companies where the senior management are remote from the workforce; they are impersonal and have a long list of demeaning, often pointless rules. The family firms where the boss started out as a driver in his dad’s firm are mostly long gone. There will be a lot of waiting around, a lot of repetition and a lot of physical work and facilities will be poor. A lot of schoolchildren will be used to that, of course, but might have been looking forward to being treated like an adult, something that is getting rarer and rarer in this industry. If they want to recruit or retain drivers, they will need to look at how they treat the ones they have, because people will not tolerate being treated like dirt indefinitely.

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Our family home in the so-called Netzarim Corridor was used by Israeli snipers and then destroyed.

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Severin Carrell is the Guardian’s Scotland editor.

Keir Starmer is not expected to campaign in the Hamilton byelection, a critical contest for Scottish Labour which takes place in early June, Anas Sarwar has confirmed.

I wouldn’t expect Keir to be campaigning in the byelection. That’s not to say he won’t, but I’m not expecting Kier to campaign in the byelection.

I’ll be on the stump campaigning for a Labour win. I’m the candidate for first minister next year. I’m the one that wants to remove the SNP from government.

Next year, we’ve got to demonstrate to people that for all Nigel Farage might want to come here with his easy answers and create a bit of a circus, the reality is a vote for Reform only helps the SNP. If you want to get rid of the SNP, only Scottish Labour can beat them.

Continue reading...

Claims that Brussels has been inactive miss the point.

Bridget Rochios says that women in Gaza are unable to receive any prenatal care at all.

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

“Desire for status and prominence is one of the diseases of the heart.” – Al-Ghazali

“It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.” – Seneca (Roman Stoic)

Moonshots and Degen Trades

Deek had two computers and three monitors running at once as he checked his cryptocurrency investments, tracking a different trade on each monitor. His office, if you could call it that, was crammed into the walk-in closet of the master bedroom of his home, which made for a isolating and stifling work experience. He had two fans going, which still barely managed to keep him and the two computers from overheating.

He wiped his face with his t-shirt sleeve, and snagged a potato chip out of a family-sized bag. He owned over sixty different cryptocurrencies, most with a total value less than $100, but only actively tracked two or three at a time. Some were moonshots, which were extreme longshot trades that could potentially make him rich, or could decline to zero. A hundred bucks here, two hundred there. Others were long-term positions, meaning he would hold them until this bull run hit its peak, at which point he would convert them to stable coins and hold for the next cycle.

Still others were major short-term trades into which he dropped between one thousand and three thousand dollars. These were meant to be held for less than an hour, or even just fifteen minutes. They were degen trades, for that was what traders like him were called – degenerates. Extreme risk takers. And that was fine with him, he could live with the label.

In fact he loved it, he was proud of it. He went where other traders were afraid to go, took the risks they would not take, and that’s why he would be rich one day when others were crawling in the dust praying for airdrops, like dogs waiting for digital scraps to fall into their mouths.

Not him. He would make his own future, inshaAllah. He always remembered to ask Allah, and trust in Allah, for though Allah had denied him success thus far, he knew he could never achieve it without the will and permission of his Creator.

Prove Them All Wrong

He’d been doing this for five years and he knew full well that no one believed in him. Most people couldn’t tell a crypto from a corncob, but even so, in the beginning, a few people had found what he was doing interesting, and had encouraged him. His wife, for one. His friend Marco. Zaid Karim, that dynamic young private detective who was his wife’s cousin’s husband. And… Well, that was about it.

As for everyone else – the mosque community, his wife’s friends, and his own two sisters – he knew how they spoke about him, what they thought of him. He was a deadbeat husband, staying at home pursuing a fool’s errand while his wife supported the family. His two children had to attend community college because he couldn’t pay for a state university. He was a slob and a wreck, and had let himself go. He was running the family into the ground, and would bankrupt the household in the end. He was almost sixty years old, and had accomplished nothing of note in this life.

All those superior doctors and engineers at the masjid, with their hundred thousand dollar donations to the Islamic center, their Mercedes SUVs and big houses in north Clovis. One brother even came to Jum’ah in a white Lamborghini, which Deek found disgusting considering all the Muslims around the world who were starving and suffering.

These people all looked down on him, they thought he was a nobody. They discounted him. He could attend an event at the center, walk in and out, without anyone talking to him. As if he were invisible. He was a joke to them. But he would show them who Deek Saghir really was, and what he was capable of.

For the last five years he’d poured everything he had into crypto. He ate crypto for breakfast, he sweated it through his pores, he breathed it in at night when he slept. He studied and traded every day, and every day he learned something new.

He could break down for any listener the difference between proof-of-work and proof-of-stake, he could explain DeFi, layer 1’s, layer 2’s, Solana meme coins vs Ethereum meme coins, why XRP was doomed to fail, why Solana would succeed while Cardano and Avalanche would not, which was the best software or hardware wallet, tokenization of real-world assets using NFTs, and even lesser known crypto technologies like ZK rollups and oracles.

In five years he’d made small fortunes three times, and three times had lost them all. The biggest of these fortunes had been two hundred thousand dollars. The first time it happened, the first time he lost it all, as he saw it crashing in real time, he’d been on his knees, begging Allah, sobbing and saying, “Why are you doing this to me, Allah? Why? What have I done?”

Go The Distance

But Zaid Karim, whose wife Safaa was Deek’s wife’s cousin, and who Deek admired tremendously, had told him, “Allah does not hate you, Deek. He wants good for you. He gave you that sharp intellect and steel-trap memory. Life is waves, it’s peaks and troughs. Prove you can persist, show that you can go the distance, and you will succeed, inshaAllah.”

So Deek had dusted himself off, telling himself, “Go the distance… Go the distance.” And the second fortune had come more easily, and the third – the big one – more easily still, though he’d lost them as well. But he had not despaired. He knew now that he could do it, and do it again, and so he would.

Crypto was his life, and if he did not succeed it would be his death, emotionally at least. But he would succeed. He would prove them all wrong! And it would happen soon, he could sense it. He was a hungry dog who can smell food nearby. His day was coming. He only had to keep going.

His wife Rania peeked around the corner. “Dinner’s ready, baby.”

She was a gorgeous Iraqi-American woman, petite and darker skinned than most Iraqis, which Deek found exotic and lovely. Her hair was cut into a pixie bob and dyed red. Deek preferred the natural black color, but she was lovely nonetheless. She’d put on weight in the twenty years they’d been married, but Deek didn’t mind. It made her more of a real woman.

And of course Deek himself had put on weight too. Quite a lot of it, actually, to the point where it was embarrassing to take his shirt off. He felt uncomfortable in his own body. His torso felt heavy and unwieldy, and his knees rickety. He could barely tie his own shoes. He felt like a stranger in his body. He no longer exercised, or painted, or even read books. He rarely prayed. All he did anymore was obsess over crypto. He used to play racquetball but hadn’t done it in years. And he ate too much junk food, sitting here in front of the monitors.

Lonely

“I made roasted chicken,” Rania added. “With gorgonzola potatoes and green beans. Your favorite.”

Deek’s mouth began watering, but… “I can’t,” he said regretfully. He glanced from the computer screen to his wife’s face, then back at the screen. “I’m waiting on a token that’s about to bond. I have $2.5K riding on it, I literally can’t take my eyes off it.”

Rania remained looking at him, only her head in the closet. “Baby…”

Deek gritted his teeth, steeling himself for the inevitable criticism disguised as loving advice: You’ve taken this crypto thing as far as it can go, I’m the only one bringing in money, we’re behind on the bills, the kids never see you, you’re not taking care of yourself, why don’t you register as a substitute teacher, you could try graphic design, or even apply for a state job. It’s time to live in the real world – and on and on.

But Rania didn’t say any of those things. She only said, “I’m lonely.”

Deek felt like he’d been stabbed in the chest. He wanted to cry for shame for letting his wife down, not only tonight but for the last twenty years. But he could not abandon this trade, it was critical.

“What about the kids?” he asked.

“Amira is studying at her friend’s house, and Sanaya is working a late shift at the store.”

It embarrassed Deek that Sanaya, who was 19 and a sophomore at city college, had to work full time to have enough money to pay for her own expenses, like car insurance, gas, clothing and even textbooks. He loved his two girls like the trees loved the sun. But he had never been financially successful, even before he started trading crypto. When the girls had been young they had wanted to go to Disneyland and Great America, but he hadn’t had the money to take them. One year they’d wanted to go to ISNA to see their Islamic studies teacher speak. Another year they’d wanted to take ice skating classes. And so on. And every time the answer had been no, he couldn’t afford it.

Now they rarely asked for anything anymore. In fact they hardly spoke to him at all.

“I’m sorry honey,” he said. “I have to watch this trade.”

Rania sighed, and it was a heavy sound, like an anchor tumbling down into the deepest ocean trench in the world. She left to eat alone.

Rug Pull

Deek turned back to the monitor just in time to see that the biggest trade he’d been monitoring, a $2,500 purchase of a meme coin called Hippo Fairy Dust, had just been rug pulled. The chart showed a steady green climb to about $75K market cap, then a vertical red plunge to nothing. The owner of the token, or one of the primary investors, had pulled the liquidity, panicking the remaining buyers and causing an instantaneous crash.

Instantly Deek hit the sell button, hoping to salvage whatever he could. A notice came up: SLIPPAGE EXCEEDED. Dammit! The trade had failed because the price was falling too fast. He increased the slippage to 25%, ignoring the warning that popped up, and hit SELL again. The trade went through… He received $90 He’d just lost $2,410, which was over 50% of his entire crypto net worth.

His hands balled into fists as he suppressed a scream. It wasn’t fair. He’d checked this token for any vulnerability. No one owned more than 3.5% of the token, and a portion of the liquidity was locked. It was supposed to be rug-proof. But he knew full well that experienced scammers could find ways around these things.

He pushed his chair back from the computer and ran into the wall behind him. His heart felt like a jagged chunk of dry ice. If someone struck him with a hammer his body would shatter and fall into pieces. He felt a pressure in his chest, and thought he might be having a heart attack. The pressure and pain increased, rising toward his throat, and he realized it was an acid attack.

He rushed to the bathroom, making sure to close the door so Rania wouldn’t hear, and vomited half-digested potato chips into the sink. The pressure in his chest abated but did not disappear, so he stuck two fingers down his throat and vomited again, then again once more. At that, the pain was gone.

Patience Is At The First Blow

He returned to his computer station and sat. There was a part of him that wanted to curse and demand answers from Allah, but a bigger part of him knew that there was still a chance for success, and for that he needed Allah. He had to stay on Allah’s good side.

Imam Saleh had said something during a khutbah that had always stuck with him. He’d said, “Patience is at the first blow. That first moment when you’re hit with terrible and even devastating news, that is the moment of the test. That is the moment when you say, ‘Qaddar Allahu ma-sha’ fa’al. This is Allah’s decree and He does what He wills.’ Or, ‘Laa hawla wa laa quwwata illa billah. There is no striving and no strength except in Allah.’”

So that was what Deek did. He dropped his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his curly hair, and said, “Qaddar Allahu ma-sha’ fa’al. Laa hawla wa laa quwwata illa billah. Alhamdulillah for everything.”

He lifted his head and for a long time sat like a lizard watching for an insect to eat. His eyes moved blankly from one monitor to the next, his mind empty. Something would come to him. Some idea would bubble up out of his brain like a subterranean creature rising to the surface. He reached into the potato chip bag and popped a few chips into his mouth. There was no thought of giving up. That concept did not exist in his world. Crypto was his last gasp, his life’s moonshot.

A Mistake or A Scam?

A thought occurred. He had not checked his SolFlare wallet lately. His primary wallet was Phantom, but he’d also created a few others, not wanting to keep all his funds in one place. He’d downloaded and tried the SolFlare wallet for the first time recently, but found it unwieldy, and had stopped using it. Nevertheless there was some money in it, including a few moonshots he’d put money into a few weeks ago.

Unlike the Phantom wallet, which he used on his computer as a Chrome extension, the SolFlare wallet was on his phone. He dug the phone out of his pocket, and used his thumbprint to open the wallet.

The total dollar value balance of the wallet showed at the top.

$1,769,251.02

One point seven million dollars.

Deek stared, uncomprehending. He gaped at the number with wide eyes, then glanced around the closet at the hanging clothes and white stucco ceiling, as if confirming that he was awake and not dreaming. He looked back at the wallet. His chest felt heavy, and he realized that he had stopped breathing. He took a deep breath, and let it out. His lower lip began to tremble and his eyes grew wet.

Was it possible that this was a mistake? Or a joke? Or a scam? Yes, it must be a scam, that was the answer. He’d seen scams like this before.

Nearly the entire $1.7 million was due to a meme token called New York Zilla. He’d purchased $300 worth of it two weeks ago on a crypto launchpad called Pump fun. The token had just launched, and he’d been one of the first buyers. Because of this, his $300 had gotten him a full 10% of the supply. Now, according to SolFlare, the token had risen to a total market cap of over $17 million.

He must try to sell the token. That would be the proof, one way or another. But how much should he sell? If he tried to sell it all, it would crash the price of the token and he would receive considerably less than the listed value.

He would sell 10% of his holdings, which would be only 1% of the total supply. Not enough to start a panic. He laughed softly at his own foolishness. This was a scam. The token would turn out to be frozen, or there would be no liquidity, so he would be unable to sell. Something incredible like this could not happen to him. Good things did not gravitate to him. He was a failure and would always be so. This was definitely a scam.

With a mouth as dry as Mojave desert dust, licking his cracked lips, he set up a trade of 10% of his holdings, and hit the sell button.

Part 2 will be published next week inshaAllah

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

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

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

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The post Moonshot: A Short Story [Part 1] appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.