Tariq crafts this arthouse thriller with unique storytelling choices and a specific artistic style. Notably, it features a talented cast with highly acclaimed actors: Academy Award winner Mahershala Ali, John Cho, Giancarlo Esposito, Laith Nakli, and Abubakr Ali. This compelling film marries complex, soulful themes with impeccable acting to deliver a story that balances a pulpy plot with swaths of quiet, dense emotion. It seems to exist outside of the Islamophobic gaze with a refreshing lack of self-consciousness about its overarching religious exploration. Although I am not a particular fan of violence and action, I agree that a larger film budget would have resulted in more extensive fight scenes, which could have better showcased Latif’s atypical weapon of choice: swords/blades. That said, there was plenty of violence for my personal taste, but it was visually interesting and unexpected. While I would give this film five stars, I would only recommend it for adult audiences (its R-rating is well-deserved) and Muslim viewers who can grapple with the basic premise of this film without being offended. 

Summary

Your Mother, Your Mother, Your Mother follows Latif, a hitman who follows a moral code of his own making, heavily inspired by Islam. He is on an assassination plot away from home when he receives news of his wife’s death. The grief from her loss and his sudden inheritance of all of her familial responsibilities send him into a tailspin that emerges as a crisis of faith. The plot outwardly centers on two storylines which intersect with devastating consequences: Latif’s search for breast milk for his infant who is allergic to formula and a work assignment that drops him into the middle of a feud between a non-practicing Muslim pornography producer (Abubakr Ali) and an unhinged evangelical pastor (John Cho).  Set in Houston and presumably present-day, the characters traverse different social worlds, such as working-class family life, the African-American Muslim community, the immigrant Muslim community, and fanatical Christian cult culture. Will Latif be able to meet the basic needs of his children at their greatly differing ages? Will he be able to protect his family and those he loves when the danger he’s invited into his life via the nature of his clandestine work comes knocking?  

Don’t worry! The entirety of this review contains no spoilers. 

Recommendations for Muslim Audiences

This film is one I only suggest to adult Muslim viewers who have the stomach to handle the exploration of religious themes in an unconventional manner that some may find bordering on irreverent. While I personally found this film to be one of the most compelling representations of American-Muslim characters, which ultimately left me feeling closer to Allah , I do not think this feeling will extend to some Muslim audiences. If you’re unsure if this film is for you, I recommend you watch the official trailer and also check out the Viewer’s Guide for content warnings below. 

Viewer’s Guide

• Drinking, Drugs, Smoking

  • Smoking, once

• Sex, Romance & Nudity

  • A major character (Hadi) runs a pornography website catered towards Muslim men
    • The homepage of the website & clips of a porn video are shown with brief glimpses of women shown in undergarments and lingerie
  • Explicit references to sexual acts alongside crude innuendo
  • Sexual content discussed with and viewed by young characters
  • A visit to what was once a strip club, with somewhat distorted spray-painted images of women in provocative clothing and poses

• Language

  • Plenty

• Violence

  • A handful of violent scenes featuring guns, blades/knives/swords, and physical hand-to-hand combat

Plot

The plot tells a story that somehow works in its odd placement within the worlds of potentially-justified violence and a family’s struggle to resume everyday life. While the mercenary work in the religious underworld is wholly unrealistic to most viewers, the family’s painful journey in the wake of death is entirely relatable. As the story progresses with larger-than-life characters misbehaving in outlandish confrontations, the constant anchor that roots the plot is the family’s continuous goose hunt for breast milk all over Houston. The film is simultaneously intense and quiet, with a balance of forward movement pushing the story itself along and pauses, at times extended, to let the characters’ interiority shine. 

Although the film’s title emphasizes the high status of mothers in Islam, the mother, Khadijah, is mostly absent from the film. Perhaps this is the biggest downside of the film. Including more about her would have added more strong female characters in the film, which is largely a male-centric story. However, the brief and vague flashbacks we do get about Khadijah give us enough information to contextualize Latif and his family’s predicament. It is clear this story is really about Latif as a father learning about fatherhood with the haunting mantra “your mother, your mother, your mother” imprisoning him inside his very own pressure cooker. That said, Latif’s daughter, Fatihah, does the heavy lifting as the sole reliable female presence within the film.   

Acting

The acting is brilliant, and there is already talk of Actor-of-the-Year for Mahershala Ali. He plays a deft anti-hero character, one we want to see prevail but also feel disappointed in. He holds his own through extremely vacillating emotions in various challenging situations. John Cho and Abubakr Ali deliver some much-needed comedic relief to lighten up this dense film with their eccentric characters. The performance that stood out the most to me was actually newcomer Adia’s. Her depiction of the character Fatihah was poignant and somehow counterbalanced the male-dominated film as the only regular feminine energy throughout the work. 

Visuals and Score

Director Bassem Tariq’s unique artistic expression guided the visuals of Your Mother, Your Mother, Your Mother towards establishing the strong mood of the film. Using blown-out windows during intensely emotional scenes allows viewers to focus solely on internal character struggles, mostly of Latif. One of the most unusual choices was at times when there is a jump in the plot and the story is en route to a new setting. Some of these shots are upside-down, like a drone gradually zooming in and righting itself to a new location or showing the road slip quickly underneath a car and then panning up to a wider view. To me, these symbolized disorienting emotional free-falls along the story as Latif and company are further drained and exhausted by the demands of caring for a young infant while facing sleep disruptions and a lack of proper fueling during Ramadan fasts.   

The score of this film included interesting choices with sparse or absolutely no music and little-to-no background noise in some scenes. This is the quietest film I have ever seen, and while realizing the absolute silence in some scenes was surprising to me, it worked wonderfully when deployed. I imagined it as the stifling, suffocating feeling of being trapped in a hot, silent elevator, slowly feeling like you’re being squished to death in a void. This also contributed to the anxious mood I associated with newborn baby days in my own motherhood journey. There are entire dialogue scenes where there is no noise other than the actors’ speech, effectively building tension. There are moments when we see an extended close-up of a character and simply hear crickets, a coming train, or the buzz of a lightbulb. When the score is sparse, there is a lot of atmospheric, deep humming. Especially when watching in a theater, you’ll feel the deep pitches vibrating inside your chest. There are also some fun, quirky moments of Christian music within the film–all live and paired in interesting ways with the action on the screen. 

Muslim Representation and Thematic Elements from the Perspective of a Muslim Viewer

I found Latif’s character to be one of the most compelling representations of a Muslim struggling with his faith in a fictional story. But, for some Muslims who may be a little squeamish when it comes to Islamic representation being 100% straight-laced, some of the representation of Islam and/or Muslims may be off-putting. How can a film be about a devoutly practicing Muslim assassin; isn’t that an oxymoron? Why is the activity of a Muslim pornography production company an element that pushes the plot forward? If Muslim viewers can’t satisfactorily answer these questions for themselves as the film progresses, they may find the representation of Islam within this film confusing, disrespectful, or irreverent. In my opinion, however, the film does a great job of explaining these far-fetched questions and justifies their inclusion in the story. However, while I went to bat for Mustache to be screened in third spaces for Muslim youth, I cannot do the same here by any means. 

In fact, Imam Suhaib Webb gave a khutbah inspired by the film. He said Your Mother, Your Mother, Your Mother brought him to tears, but also addressed guidelines informed by adherence to Islamic law that Muslim artists and creators should consider following, especially when promoting their projects as Islamic or representing Muslims. He specifically objected to a scene in which a party bus full of sex workers was parked at a masjid on a Ramadan night, as well as the number of f-bombs included within the film. I do agree that I wish there had been less sexual content in the film, including visuals and speech. If the sole reason the more explicit content was included in the film was simply to get laughs from the audience, I don’t know if I would have included it in the movie if it was something I was creating. I still do have to defend the director’s integrity on this subject matter because I personally believe that other directors of films on the same subject matter would have included much more explicit content without blinking twice, given that the violence already earned this movie its R-rating.

Lastly, I wholeheartedly agree that we need to tone down the profanity in films and shows set in Muslim societies. The overuse of the f-word shows a lack of creativity and intelligent writing. To me, it’s ugly and lazy. Many projects that are created by Muslims and feature Muslims as the center of their story’s universe can fall into using salacious material for comedy and littering the work with profanities. I’m looking at you, “Man Like Mobeen,” “Bait,” and “Mo”–all shows that I have loved but wished things were a bit more reigned in. All that said, my personal opinion when it comes to creative Muslim projects is to keep all the real life in there, but do so with great intentionality and consideration. 

Positive standouts when it comes to representing Islam and Muslims in this film are the following:

• The centering of Islamic sacred scripture and even calligraphy as sacred artwork.
• The inclusion of an important incident from the Prophet Muahmmad’s life. 
• A generous imam who is willing to meet his community members where they are, but potentially needs to set stricter boundaries. 
• Depicting sacred Islamic acts (ritual prayer, death rituals, fasting, etc.) in varied contexts. 

I believe these elements will increase non-Muslim filmgoers’ knowledge of and respect for Islam and Muslims. 

Critical, nuanced representations of Islam and Muslim that hold up a mirror for Muslims to consider about our own communities include:

• Masjids in different neighborhoods and the disparities that exist between them. 
• Complicitly allowing members within the community to be in leadership roles because of their wealth, power, and influence. 
• Being gentle and kind to children as they learn Islam, contrasted nicely between Latif’s kids and Hadi’s experiences as a child. 
• Navigating crises of faith with grace, patience, and discipline.
• Allowing flawed Muslims to still be Muslim with compassion.

Finally, I found the inclusion of interfaith perspectives with the Christian cult and Mormon characters within the film profound. The film acknowledges religious and spiritual aspects of life as part of the reality of being human. It depicts ideas that align with what Islam teaches: we all need a connection to the Divine to help give our lives purpose. Some of us find it within Islam, while others don’t. There is a complex overlap between Latif and Hwan (John Cho), who serve as character foils.

From the Perspective of a Mother

Wow, did this film remind me of my struggles breastfeeding both my children and the mental health issues I experienced post-partum. Latif’s character seems like he’s going through postpartum anxiety and depression, brought on by a demanding infant to take care of after the loss of his wife. I have heard many dismiss the necessity of breast milk for baby Aziza, but my older child was allergic to formula as well. We had a similar, stressful experience which left me with no choice but to exclusively breastfeed after a seasoned pediatrician made me promise we’d stop trying formula when leaving the ER one night.

There were also little moments when Latif was so frustrated, tired, sleep-deprived, overstimulated, etc., that made me laugh as a mother. I have literally heard similar words in the same tone escape my own mouth in response to my children, just like I’m sure many mothers who perform the lion’s share of childrearing and domestic duties have. 

I also loved how Latif was on a journey discovering what it meant to be a father in a new way while upholding the idea that mothers are just better. Latif strives to match the level of care his widower provided for their family, but he’s flailing. It emphasizes the invisible labor women provide their families and the special role many mothers play as the heart and soul of the family unit. Ultimately, it really did place the ethereal mother figure three times higher in status than the father, in accordance with Islamic tradition.  

Final Thoughts

Your Mother, Your Mother, Your Mother won’t be every Muslim’s cup of tea, but it is a great film nonetheless. It’s a moving story about a father struggling with the weight of his family, grief, and faith dressed up as an action/thriller film. Muslim audiences, do your best to determine if this is a film you’d be able to appreciate. If it is, get ready for a one-of-a-kind film! Make sure to catch it in cinemas to support movies from Muslim filmmakers.

Related:

– Mustache Film Review: A Heartfelt Treat

– Farha Film Review: Palestinian Stories Will Be Heard 

The post [Film Review] Your Mother, Your Mother, Your Mother: A Complex Story Of Faith And Fatherhood appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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Shadow Fighting

After the misery of the river path, the main road felt like a gift. It was still a dirt road, and there were stretches where stones rattled our teeth. But it was broad and flat, and busy with travelers, sheep and goats, and occasional strings of camels. Most days we covered a good distance, and when a wagon broke down it was a routine problem and a quick fix.

The land around us was dry and open, with tawny grass and low scrub stretching toward bare brown hills. Every so often we passed a village surrounded by sudden patches of green fields and irrigated orchards. We settled into a rhythm. Rise before dawn for Fajr, eat, pack, move. Stop for prayer, water the animals, eat again, move. Make camp, post watches, sleep, and begin again.

As I rode, I sometimes recited the Quran to myself. Maybe I chanted one of Memdooh’s poems. Occasionally, when the landscape was wide open, I allowed myself to read the Rumi book as I rode. Other times I let my eyes wander. I had always loved animals, and enjoyed watching the ever-present hawks and eagles overhead, the curious foxes or desert dogs, and the myriad birds that covered the cultivated fields.

Once I saw a leopard perched in a tree far away, lying on a wide branch with its tail hanging down. It was a thrill. No doubt if Longwei had seen it, it would become a tale of a personal battle to the death against the beast.

Yawm Al-Ahad was my teaching day, so once a week after Maghreb I taught the recruits empty-handed fighting. There were six of them: Ardeshir from Darbi Malik, Khizr the Handsome, the two Kurdish mercenaries Shireen and Cotan, Nasra the small hijabi, and Rostam, who was so ordinary and unassuming that I always forgot he existed until I saw his face again.

Cotan sometimes gave me a hard time as a student. Not that he argued, but he tended to discount my instruction. I’d demonstrate a technique, and no matter how many times I corrected him he insisted on doing it his way. I didn’t debate. I was a child in his eyes, and no argument would change that.

Yawm Al-Ithnayn I trained archery with Kuangren. He kept a target of stuffed straw in his wagon, and we’d set it up and practice for a few hours. He taught me not to squeeze the bow in a death grip; to draw the string to precisely the same anchor point every time; to use my back, not my arm; and to hold my structure even after the shot. Still, I wasn’t yet at the point where my bow was more than a beautiful ornament.

Three nights a week I practiced martial arts on my own. It felt wonderful to get back to it. I began with the Five Animals forms, followed by improvised shadow fighting. My worries about the past and the future vanished. With no opponent to worry about, I leaped, rolled, spun, and dropped to the ground and swept imaginary feet.

Often a small crowd gathered. Some people watched me for a few nights, then found other things to do. Others came occasionally. I had the feeling that “let’s watch Darius,” was one among many evening entertainments available. I could imagine guards saying, “What do you want to do tonight? Play cards? Listen to Memdooh’s poetry? Watch Darius?” The faces merged into spots of orange and red, illuminated by the campfires. They sat, some munching on the remainder of the dried fish and pistachios, others commenting to each other.

I didn’t care. For me there was only the movement. After empty hands, I moved on to the live blade. In my hands the dao flashed like a glint of light. There was a move I’d seen the Persian soldiers practicing: a downward slash that flipped into an upward slash, followed by a sideways whipping motion of the blade. I stole it, as I did with anything that looked effective to me.

Taking Shape

On the nights when I sat alone reading, Ardeshir sometimes came to join me. I would read aloud to him in Mandarin, and he’d listen quietly, understanding perhaps a fraction of it.

The boy was filling out. He’d been desperately thin when I first met him, but his body was taking shape. His face had lost the gaunt expression and hollowness around the eyes. I had the feeling that Ardeshir looked upon me as an older brother, even though we were the same age. He’d spent his life trapped in a miserable existence in Darbi Malik, and one day I’d come along on a horse and whisked him away into a life of adventure and plentiful food. But I didn’t know what to do with his need. I barely understood my own needs. How could I be responsible for his?

I thought about the people of Darbi Malik, half starved. What were their lives like now? Would the invasion even matter to someone whose entire existence was based on finding enough rice to survive the day? Thinking about this, I cast a prayer to Allah to help those people and provide for them.

One night, as I was reading to Ardeshir, Weili appeared and sat with us. She listened to my reading for a while, then broke into tears and left. I sighed and put the book away. Ardeshir leaned forward and patted the back of my hand.

We passed villages and small towns, sometimes stopping to trade. Our merchants sold tiny amounts of the goods they’d purchased in Herat, but mostly they bought whatever they thought would bring a profit farther east. After seeing them climb trees for pistachios, I knew they would leave no stone unturned in their pursuit of profits.

We usually sent two people with an empty wagon into the villages to buy food. Sometimes Ahmed and Bao were sent, sometimes Ahmed and Chen, but most often Longwei and someone else. A lot of languages were spoken in this region. A particular village might speak Persian, Turkmen, Pashto, or Kurdish. No one else had Longwei’s facility with languages.

Once I was sent in with Longwei. We had a wagon and a team of four mules, and a purse full of coins from the Five Star treasury. Longwei bargained with local merchants while I kept watch. He found for us some of the best local produce and meat, and it seemed to me that he secured good prices. There was a lot of money still left in the purse when we returned.

Later, Karim pulled me aside. “What was your impression of Longwei today?” he asked.

I gave a slight shrug. “He did well. I was impressed.”

Karim nodded. “Good to hear.”

Welcoming the Newcomers

As for communication, Karim had decided that all six of our new Persian guards would begin learning Chinese immediately. Hakim Yusuf took charge of that task. He started with the words they needed to do their jobs: horse, wagon, stop, go, left, right, danger, sword, Captain, guard.

One night I saw the recruits all sitting together, away from the other guards. They’d made a fire, and were talking quietly and munching on crab-apples and what was left of the pistachios. I remembered my own first weeks with Five Star, being an outsider, knowing no one. I decided to sit with them and try to get to know them.

I found Chen with Meilin. She was teaching him to do a backflip – it still astounded me that she could do such things – and he was picking it up quickly.

I took Chen with me as a translator, and went to join the newcomers.

“We do sit?” I asked in broken Persian.

Khizr gestured toward an empty space. I sat beside Ardeshir, with Nasra on my other side. She was the smallest of the recruits, with a round face and a dark hijab wrapped closely around her head. In the evaluations we had almost eliminated her. Her archery was poor and her swordsmanship was decent but not stellar. Then she showed us what she could do with a knife. In her hand the knife darted faster than we could follow. Ahmed argued that anyone who could handle a knife like that could transfer those skills to the sword.

Even as I watched, she was expertly coring and slicing an apple with a short dagger. When she was done she rolled the knife around the back of her hand, caught it with her pinky and ring finger, and slid it into the sheath.

Cool. I wanted to learn that.

Chen squeezed himself in between Cotan and Shireen, earning a dark glance from Cotan. The man was very protective of his sister, clearly.

Khizr tossed me an apple. Looking at him, with his lean frame, dark eyes, white teeth and shoulder-length hair, I knew objectively that he was good looking, though it meant nothing to me. Clearly it meant something to the women, though, as they smiled or giggled at everything he said.

Shireen said something I didn’t understand, and Chen translated: “Caravan work is a lot harder than being a mercenary. Mercenaries kill and get killed. You guards work like mules.”

I laughed. “No all times. But yes, caravan life hard.”

The guards laughed, and Shireen, mimicking my toddler-level Persian, said, “Hard life no problem.” She pointed around the circle. “We all hard life.”

In her case, I was sure it was true. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, but there was a hardness to her and her brother that was not compatible with comfortable living. As for her beauty, its very extremity kept me from feeling nervous. She was so far out of my league that there was nothing to be shy about. I might as well feel shy talking to a falcon or a tiger.

“We happy you here,” I added. “You all welcome.”

The Fight

“How long have you been a caravan guard?” Cotan asked.

I didn’t understand every word, but enough. “One year.”

He said something else that I didn’t understand. Seeing my blank expression, he held up his fingers and counted, then pointed to me and made a questioning gesture.

“Oh.” I nodded. “I do sixteen. Soon seventeen.”

The recruits looked surprised. Cotan laughed and shook his head, and said something I didn’t catch at all. I looked questioningly at Chen.

“He says you’re a baby. You even have short hair like a kid. Why are you teaching them fighting? He should be teaching you. But it’s okay. Make sure you stay out of his way and everything will be fine.”

The friendly smile faded from my face. “He said that?”

Looking around, I saw everyone’s eyes upon me. Khizr the Handsome was smiling faintly, while Shireen gave me a look of pity, as if her brother had just stolen my sesame sweet.

“Tell him,” I told Chen, “that if we need someone to split stones I know who to call. But on the battlefield I would kick his chunky ass to India and back.” This was a stupid thing to say and I knew it. But I had my pride. I had never in my life let anyone push me around, and I wasn’t going to start now. More importantly, I was his senior. If he did not respect me, he would not follow my commands, and that could cost lives.

Cotan’s face turned the color of fresh salmon. He stood, removed his sword and dagger and threw them down, then took off his boots. Stepping onto a flat patch of grass outside the circle, he beckoned to me, and put up his fists.

I shrugged, then stood and removed my weapons and boots. I found myself already falling into River Flow.

“Darius,” Chen said, and the words seemed to come from far away.

I turned to him.

“Don’t hurt him.”

I nodded slowly, then stepped to face Cotan.

Cotan gave me a cold grin. “Fight in air,” he said in broken Persian – maybe to mock me, or maybe so I’d understand – “not like fight real man.”

He meant my nightly practice sessions. But I was in River Flow, and the words meant nothing. As soon as I raised my hands, the big man charged and threw a straight punch at my face. He was fast, I had to give him that. When I’d fought the huge Persian guard, I’d held back, wanting to learn the rules of the contest. I did not make that mistake again. I parried the punch, and with the other hand punched Cotan hard in the liver, sinking my weight into it. He grunted and took a step back, then pivoted toward me, swinging the other hand in a wide hook. I blocked it, then delivered four rapid strikes to his nose, jaw, solar plexus and groin – a series my father had called Wing Feathers. As he staggered backward, I followed, cocked my arm, and delivered a thunderous knife-hand strike to the side of his neck.

Cotan collapsed. He was not unconscious, however. He tried to rise immediately, but his legs were rubber and he fell face first into the grass. He tried again, and fell sideways.

“Tree Viper Strikes,” I said. That was my father’s name for the strike to the neck. The fight had lasted perhaps five seconds.

Khizr came forward with a cup of water, presumably for Cotan to drink. I took it out of his hand and threw the water in Cotan’s face.

“Darius!” Chen protested. “Why did you do that?”

“Medical reasons,” I said. Though it was really just because I felt like it. My father had done it to me many times.

I stepped away and recovered my belongings. Shireen was on her feet, her jaw tight. She didn’t reach for her bow this time, though. The others were staring at me in amazement. I saw then that a dozen guards had gathered around to watch. Behind them, like a shadow, stood Captain Karim. My face flushed with embarrassment as I approached him.

“Captain,” I stammered. “You see, he said, well -”

He held up a hand. “The fight was necessary,” he said softly. “But the water wasn’t. Don’t do either of those things again.”

I Could Teach You

One evening after Maghreb, Weili approached me as I sat alone on a towel, making use of the last of the light to read a few Rumi poems.

“What’s that you have beside you?” she asked shyly.

She meant my new bow. It was never far from my hands. Of course she would be interested. Wordlessly, I handed it to her. She slipped the bow out of its case. The fading evening light glinted off its dark hardwood and bone surface.

Weili gasped. “Darius! This is so beautiful.” She stroked the bow’s curves, then, swallowing hard, handed it back to me. “I could… I could start teaching you again.”

I looked down at the damp grass. “I was going to ask Kuangren.”

“Oh!” Her tone was offhandedly light. “Of course. He’s great. What about that book? What’s that?”

I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t interested in resuming our friendship. But it wasn’t in my nature to be cruel. I looked up at her and was about to hand her the book when her expression went flat.

“Never mind.” She shook her head quickly. “I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. I’m not going to bother you anymore.” I looked at my book, and pretended not to hear the fading sound of Weili’s footsteps.

Wheels on the Same Wagon

The six Persian recruits improved rapidly in Chinese under Hakim Yusuf’s language instruction.

Shireen and her brother Cotan were fascinating. They had the same green eyes, the same strong features, the same thick brown hair, and even some of the same expressions. Cotan was larger and more heavily built, of course, but sometimes when one of them turned toward me suddenly, I saw the other in the face. They worked together just as closely. Watching them handle horses was like watching two wheels on the same wagon.

After a while, though, I began seeing Shireen with Chen more often.

At first I thought nothing of it. Chen was friendly with everyone. But soon the two of them were riding together whenever they had the opportunity. Chen of course already spoke Persian, and Shireen’s Chinese was improving rapidly. Once I saw him pointing at various parts of his horse and teaching her the names in Chinese, then laughing as she got the intonations all wrong.

Then one morning I saw a dark bruise along Shireen’s cheekbone. Her lower lip was cut as well.

“What happened?” I asked.

Chen’s jaw was tight. “She says her foot caught in the stirrup as she dismounted, and she fell.” There was a tension in the words that I did not understand, but I rode on, thinking, “Yup. I’ve done that.” A few moments later, something occurred to me.A few moments later, something occurred to me. Shireen was the best horseman I had ever seen. I remembered her astounding demonstration during the evaluations. That woman had fallen off her horse?

Khizr the Handsome was another story. Women noticed him everywhere we went. I even caught Meilin looking at him once.

Longwei noticed it too. “Really?” he growled.

Meilin looked at him innocently. “What? I check out all the new guards. I like to know who I’m traveling with.”

Longwei muttered under his breath and rode away.

Imagining the Future

On the journey west, every week had seemed to carry us into some exciting new world. Now we were heading east, going home, and time seemed to slow. At night, while standing watch beneath the stars, I imagined our return to Starling, where Five Star was headquartered. I imagined the admiring looks of the populace as we passed by, followed by celebrations, praise from the Five Star leadership, and bonuses. I imagined Shah Suliman’s approval and Karim’s respect.

I remembered the tiny apartment I’d rented when Five Star first hired me. I had paid eighteen months’ rent in advance. The apartment was still there, waiting, no doubt with everything inside it covered in dust, but still mine.

I remembered a safflower farm populated by people who cared about me… But thinking of that made me sad, and my mind shied away from it.

What future did I really want? A whole life based on guarding caravans, like Karim or Longwei? It was certainly adventurous. And what was the alternative? Working for Five Star in some other capacity? I had not forgotten Karim’s admission that I might not be safe with Five Star, nor the attempted assassination of Farhad, which he had implied may have been commissioned by his own relatives.

Thinking of all this, I realized how alone I was in the world. It was not a good feeling.

For now, I had my work, and I had my beautiful fool, Belly. Most importantly, I had my devotion to Allah, who was above us all, and who saw and heard all that passed, and did not fail to notice even the footfall of a mule. That was enough.

The traffic on the road thickened. Villages appeared more frequently, and cultivated fields lined the road. Then one morning, after nearly three weeks on the road, a city appeared ahead. We had reached Mashhad.

Mashhad

Even from a distance we could see the great golden dome that marked Mashhad’s shrine of Imam Reza. Pilgrims traveled the road in both directions, some alone, others in groups. We did not enter the city. Five Star caravans rarely entered cities, with Herat being a notable exception. Karim directed the wagons to a suitable place some distance from the walls, where we made camp. Then he selected a handful of guards to accompany several of the merchants into the city.

Their instructions were simple: buy supplies, learn what they could about the roads ahead, and come back before dark.

They returned with flour, rice, vegetables, fodder and other provisions. I sighed, missing the rich and delicious fish I’d enjoyed for a while.

They also returned with bad news. This entire region of Khorasan was unsettled. Armies were moving through the countryside, roads that were safe one week were dangerous the next, and no one seemed certain whose authority would exist a month from now.

Karim listened to all of it, then announced, “We leave after Fajr.”

That was the end of our visit to Mashhad.

No Time Like the Present

We were on the road before sunrise had fully broken across the land. The golden dome disappeared behind us. After Maghreb, we stopped to make camp in a largely deserted valley with a small creek that ran down the middle. Once the animals had been watered and the evening meal was cooking, Karim called the guards together.

“Form up!”

We assembled into standing ranks. As a Veteran Guard, I stood in the front row. I wondered what was wrong now. More bad news from Herat? Another theft?

“I’ve been meaning to do this since we left Herat,” Karim said. “But there never seemed to be a good time.” He performed a few wrist stretches on himself as he studied us. This was something I had seen him do before, and which I recognized as sword training exercises to build wrist strength. I wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

He went on: “The proper functioning of this caravan requires a clear hierarchy of authority. We have lost good men on this journey. Corporal Jian, Allah have mercy on him, was killed in Afghanistan. May Allah accept his sacrifice and grant him a good station in Jannah.”

“Ameen,” several voices murmured.

“And Corporal Hu remained behind in Herat.”

There were blank looks.

Karim sighed. “The Ghost.”

“Ohhh,” we murmured, nodding our heads.

“Furthermore,” Karim continued, “I’ve decided that I need a right-hand man. Someone who can help me with the most pressing tasks, carry my authority when I’m occupied elsewhere, and coordinate the corporals when necessary.”

He turned toward Bao. “Corporal Bao. Step forward.”

Bao did.

“From this day forward, you are Staff Sergeant Bao.”

The Beating Heart

For perhaps the first time since I had known him, Bao appeared genuinely surprised. Then he bowed from the waist. “Thank you, Captain.”

The men applauded and called congratulations. Karim allowed it for a few moments before raising his hand. “Corporal Hakim Yusuf,” Karim called.

Many of the men looked around, as obviously confused as I had been. “He’s not here,” someone said. “I’ll get him,” someone volunteered and ran off.

A few moments later Yusuf came striding up quickly, medical bag in hand. “Is someone hurt?”

“No. Step forward.” Karim took Yusuf’s free hand, and I was surprised at the tenderness of the gesture.

“This man,” Karim said, “is the beating heart and living conscience of this caravan. Many of us owe him our lives. He is skilled, wise and uncompromising. Corporal Yusuf, you are hereby promoted to Sergeant. One rank below Staff Sergeant Bao.”

Karim looked out at the men. “Make no mistake. This rank is not honorary. If Bao and I are killed, Sergeant Yusuf is in charge.”

The assembly was quiet. There was no applause like there had been for Bao. It seemed the men were unsure how to respond.

“This means a lot to me, Captain,” Yusuf said. “Ultimately, however, a man or woman’s greatest power is power over the self. And our greatest hope is in Allah the Most High.” With that, Yusuf touched his head and his heart, and departed.

Who?

Karim smiled. “As I said. The living conscience. Now. We require two new corporals.”

My attention sharpened. I had a strong feeling that Ahmed would be one, and I hoped that Longwei would be the other. He’d been overlooked in the last promotions, and later had spewed forth his bitter tirade in which, among other things, he called me a puppy with sharp teeth. Not that I objected to that characterization. I had seen some very fierce young farm dogs. But anyway, if not Longwei, then it should be Meilin. Or maybe even Kuangren, who had performed admirably during the raid, and who – since his marriage – had become one of the gentlest and most decent men in our company.

“Veteran Guard Ahmed.” Ahmed stepped forward, and I found myself grinning. I knew it! MashaAllah. There could not have been a better choice.

“You are a natural leader, our Imam, a skilled linguist, and a good fighter. Your character test for the recruits was a stroke of genius. This was an easy decision. You are promoted to Corporal.”

I applauded wildly, and others joined in. Ahmed smiled broadly and touched his head then his heart. He too had picked up that gesture in Persia.

Karim called another name. “Veteran Guard Lee Darius.”

I looked around, confused. Who?

Shah pushed me from behind and I stumbled forward to the sound of laughter.

“Lee Darius,” Karim said. “Do your legs work? Step up.”

I walked forward, not understanding what was happening.

“You possess abilities beyond your age. You are a highly skilled fighter. More importantly, at moments of danger and stress, rather than panicking, you take command. You already wear a corporal’s horn around your neck. Might as well make it official. You are promoted to Corporal.”

I stared. “Me?”

Karim’s mouth twitched. “I could give it to Belly if you’d prefer.”

“Well, I mean, Belly certainly is -”

“Stand up straight!” Karim snapped, “and accept your promotion.”

I straightened. “Yes, Captain. Thank you.”

“Don’t make me regret it, and don’t pee in strange places.”

The other guards broke into loud laughter as I returned to my spot, red-faced.

Karim announced the remaining promotions, filling the gaps that death, injury and circumstance had opened during our journey. Shah was promoted to Veteran Guard. Memdooh was promoted to Senior Guard, as were Chen and Weili. Her promotion surprised me but made me happy.

“Veteran Guard Longwei,” Karim said, and I saw Longwei stand up straight, his gaze intense. “Due to your extensive knowledge and assistance with local languages and populaces, you are awarded a special citation for service, and a bonus.”

People applauded, but when I looked at Longwei, his face looked set in stone, and his mouth was a flat line. He’d expected more than this.

When the captain was finished, he looked over the entire company. “One more thing. Every guard will receive a bonus for the successful completion of our trading mission in Persia.”

That brought a cheer.

“All of you celebrate tonight. You’ve earned it.” His expression changed. “Unfortunately, life rarely offers moments of either pure joy or pure sadness. Life is a cloud on a sunny day, or a ray of light on a gloomy one. I have sad news.”

The men quieted.

“The intelligence we acquired in Mashhad included news of Herat. The city has fallen to the invaders. The citadel was breached.”

My hand went instinctively to the ring beneath my tunic. “What about Farhad?” I asked.

Karim looked at me. “No one knows. Some say Prince Farhad was beheaded. Others say he escaped before the citadel fell. Until we hear something reliable, these are all just stories. Nor do we know anything of Corporal Hu.”

Seeing the confused looks, he snapped, “The Ghost!”

“Ohhhh,” we said.

Nobody spoke. Karim allowed the silence to remain for a few moments, then said, “Dismissed.”

I looked around, and my eyes found Longwei’s. I held his gaze, not with challenge but with compassion, until he looked away.

Love From a Distance

Some distance north of Mashhad we stopped at a village to rest and to buy supplies. Locals gathered around the caravan, as they always did, and I couldn’t help noticing a group of young women standing at a distance, all watching Khizr brush his horse. One whispered something, and they giggled.

A respectable, middle-aged merchant approached Khizr and spoke to him earnestly. As he did so, Khizr looked increasingly uncomfortable.

I sidled up next to Chen. “What’s going on?”

Chen grinned. “The merchant wants Khizr to marry his daughter.”

“Just like that? What did Khizr say?”

“He says thanks but he has his hands full.”

We moved on.

After the promotions, Longwei became distant. He performed his duties, but there were fewer campfire tall tales. He and Meilin were not as close as before, though I noticed that his eyes often lingered on her. The way he watched her reminded me of the way I used to watch Weili after she took up with Arslan. Except in this case Meilin had not left Longwei. He was the one who was keeping himself away. It was strange. I didn’t think I would ever understand love.

Mashhad was now far behind us. We traveled northeast through dry plains and rolling brown hills, sometimes going an entire day without seeing any but our own faces. We crossed into the country of the Turkmen, where the settlements grew farther apart and great herds grazed on the open steppe. Eventually we passed by Merv, an ancient city surrounded by irrigated fields and gardens in the otherwise dry land. We stopped long enough to trade and resupply, and moved on.

Speaking of love, just past Merv the thing with Khizr happened again. This time it was an elderly farmer, and the daughter he was trying to marry off was at least thirty years old, though honestly quite beautiful. Khizr, looking exasperated, shook his head. A rapid conversation ensued.

“Now what?” I asked Ahmed.

“He’s pleading with Khizr to marry her. He says she is a hard worker, an excellent cook, can ride a horse and manage a plow.”

When Khizr turned the villager down, the man pointed at me.

“What?” I asked. “What is he saying?”

Ahmed was trying not to laugh. “He says how about you marry her instead?”

Now everyone was laughing.

“Tell him I’m sixteen!”

Karim strode up. “Khizr!”

Khizr looked up. “Captain?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. I went through this with Kuangren all the way across Central Asia. I am not doing it again.”

Kuangren, sitting on a log nearby and eating roasted chickpeas with his wife, looked offended. “Why am I involved in this?”

Karim remained focused on Khizr. “Stop flirting with the local women.”

Khizr raised both palms helplessly. “I didn’t do anything. I’m just me. Women throw themselves at me. My uncle used to say that I was cursed by a jinn. Besides, I have two wives back home.”

Kuangren looked up at this. “Two? Really? What’s that like?”

“Shut up, my love,” Gulnur said.

“Yes, dear.”

Meilin’s Tale

Later, on the road, Meilin rode up beside me. “You shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “You wear a corporal’s horn. Plus, you’ve really filled out lately. You’re taller, and your shoulders are wider. You look older than your age.”

I frowned. “No, I’m the same.”

“Haven’t you had to adjust your uniform twice?”

“That’s just because…”

“Because what?”

“Because mind your business. What about you, anyway? When are you going to marry Longwei?”

“Longwei?” She raised her eyebrows. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“He’s crazy about you. He watches you all the time.”

Meilin frowned. “Does he? I mean, Longwei is sweet. I enjoy his company. But no. He’s twice my age. He’s like an uncle. Anyway I’m done with all that.”

“With what?”

“Marriage. I’ve been through that. I was married before you were born.”

That stopped me. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Riding alongside each other, she looked at me sideways. “I don’t want everyone knowing this.”

I nodded earnestly. “Of course.”

“My parents gave me away to an opera company when I was small. I grew up performing. Acrobatics, tumbling, theater style wushu, singing, acting. When I was eleven years old the elderly man who owned the troupe married me. I wasn’t asked, it was simply done.”

“Oh my goodness!” I stared at Meilin in shock. “That must have been horrible.”

“It was difficult, yes. But that’s the reality sometimes for girls. And he treated me well enough. But when I reached seventeen years old, and had not given him a child, he concluded I was barren. He divorced me and kicked me out of the troupe.”

She went on to tell me how she’d had to fight for survival on the streets of Deep Harbor. Her performance fighting skills became real self-defense skills. She got a job as a cook at a cheap noodle shop, until one day she applied for a job as a guard with a small caravan company, not Five Star, and was accepted. By the time she tried out for Five Star she was already an experienced guard.

“So that’s why you fight like that,” I commented.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re performing for an audience.”

She gave me an offended look. “I fight beautifully.”

“Yes, you do.”

We rode quietly for a moment. Then Meilin said, “That Khizr, on the other hand. He could make me reconsider the whole marriage thing.”

I stared at her. “Really? You don’t even know him.”

She laughed. “I’m joking. You heard what he said. He has two wives back home.” She considered this for a moment. “But he is nice to look at. Those bright eyes, white teeth, perfect skin, and those hands with the perfectly shaped fingers and – “

“Ugh! Stop! No more!” I urged Belly forward, leaving Meilin and her laughter behind.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 33 – The Dzungurs

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:

Breakfast With The Khans [Act One] – A Play

Searching For Signs of Spring: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 32] – Meilin’s Tale appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

“What’s a good book for Muslim women?” is a question I get asked a lot – and I finally have an answer!

Shaykha Sarah Ahmed‘s book “A Light of Her Own: Muslim Womanhood as a Path to Allah” is a book for Muslim women who are ready to stop navigating their faith on the margins and step into the center of it. Drawing on classical Islamic scholarship, Quranic wisdom, and the realities of women’s lives, Aalimah Sarah makes a compelling and deeply personal case: that the experiences unique to Muslim womanhood — the cycles, the roles, the relationships, the seasons — are not obstacles to closeness with Allah, but are the path forward.

Shaykha Sarah talks to Zainab bint Younus about her own journey into scholarship, connecting with Muslim women on their journeys through life and spirituality, and how the book came to be – and why. This podcast isn’t just another boring talk about “the ideal Muslimah”; it is an honest examination of our community’s track record of (mis)educating Muslim women, and forging a new way grounded in a holistic understanding of mind, body, and soul… while grounded in the Qur’an and Sunnah.

And don’t just get the book for yourself – get a copy of the Reader’s Companion Guide and start a book club with other Muslim women!

Related:

[Podcast] Faith, Motherhood, and the Call to Gaza | Dr. Samaiya Mushtaq

[Podcast] Guardians of the Tradition: Muslim Women & Islamic Education | Anse Tamara Gray

The post [Podcast] A Light of Her Own: Muslim Womanhood, Seasons of Life, & Female Scholarship appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

However, School Counseling, when rooted in the Qur’an and Sunnah, becomes more than a profession. It becomes a form of worship, a fulfillment of trust, and a reflection of prophetic character in the modern educational environment. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ embodied qualities that heal hearts, elevate communities, and restore dignity. These qualities translate seamlessly into the daily work of a school counselor, forming a prophetic framework for supporting children, families, and staff. 

 1. The first quality is Prophetic Presence. The Prophet ﷺ carried a calmness that steadied those around him. Allah ﷻ says,

“Indeed, in the Messenger of Allah (saw) you have an excellent example.” [Surah Al-Ahzab; 33:21]

His presence regulated emotions, softened tension, and brought clarity to confusion. For a counselor, presence is not passive; it is an active, stabilizing force that helps children feel anchored even in moments of distress.

2. Equally essential to School Counseling is Prophetic Listening. The Prophet ﷺ listened with his full attention, turning his entire face toward whoever spoke. He never dismissed a person’s feelings, even when their words were imperfect. The Qur’an praises those who respond to harshness with peace, and the Prophet ﷺ taught that reconciling hearts is among the best deeds.

“And the servants of the Most Merciful are those who walk upon the earth easily, and when the ignorant address them [harshly], they say [words of] peace,” [Surah Al Furqan; 25:63]

In counseling, listening becomes a form of mercy — a way of honoring the emotional reality of a child who may not yet have the vocabulary to express their pain.

3. The Prophet ﷺ also modeled Prophetic Dignity, protecting people from humiliation even when correcting them. The Qur’an commands believers not to ridicule or insult one another (49:11), and the Prophet ﷺ emphasized that a true Muslim is one from whose tongue and hand others are safe.

“O you who have believed, let not a people ridicule [another] people; perhaps they may be better than them; nor let women ridicule [other] women; perhaps they may be better than them. And do not insult one another and do not call each other by [offensive] nicknames. Wretched is the name of disobedience after [one’s] faith. And whoever does not repent – then it is those who are the wrongdoers.” [Surah Al Hujurat; 49:11]

A counselor upholds dignity by correcting privately, advocating respectfully, and ensuring that every child feels seen without being shamed.

4. From dignity flows Prophetic Mercy. Allah ﷻ says,

“So by mercy from Allah, [O Muhammad], you were lenient with them. And if you had been rude [in speech] and harsh in heart, they would have disbanded from about you. So pardon them and ask forgiveness for them and consult them in the matter. And when you have decided, then rely upon Allah. Indeed, Allah loves those who rely [upon Him]. [Surah ‘Ali-Imran; 3:159].

Mercy guided the Prophet’s discipline, his teaching, and his leadership. He reminded us that those who show no mercy to children are not aligned with his example. In counseling, mercy is not permissiveness — it is correction without cruelty, guidance without harshness, and boundaries delivered with compassion.

5. A counselor must also embody Prophetic Hope. The Qur’an forbids despair, and the Prophet ﷺ lifted people from their lowest moments, restoring their belief in their own potential.

“Say, “O My servants who have transgressed against themselves [by sinning], do not despair of the mercy of Allah. Indeed, Allah forgives all sins. Indeed, it is He who is the Forgiving, the Merciful.” [Surah Az-Zumar. 39:53]

He taught that believers do not make others lose hope. Children often come to counselors carrying fear, shame, or confusion; prophetic hope helps them see a future beyond their present struggle.

6. Justice is central to prophetic character, forming the foundation of Prophetic Fairness. The Qur’an commands believers to stand firmly for justice even against themselves.

“O you who have believed, be persistently standing firm in justice, witnesses for Allah, even if it be against yourselves or parents and relatives. Whether one is rich or poor, Allah is more worthy of both. So follow not [personal] inclination, lest you not be just. And if you distort [your testimony] or refuse [to give it], then indeed Allah is ever, with what you do, Acquainted.” [Surah An-Nisa; 4:135]

The Prophet ﷺ treated the strong and weak equally, refusing favoritism. In a school setting, fairness builds trust — students know that the counselor’s decisions are principled, not personal.

7. Safety is another prophetic trait: Prophetic Safety. The Prophet ﷺ was a refuge; people ran toward him, not away. Allah ﷻ describes him as a mercy to all creation.

“And We have not sent you, [O Muhammad], except as a mercy to the worlds.” [Surah Al-Anbiya; 21:107]

Children felt safe approaching him, and adults confided in him without fear. A counselor’s office becomes a sanctuary when students know they can enter without judgment, ridicule, or dismissal.

8. Alongside safety stands Prophetic Gentleness. The Prophet ﷺ said that gentleness beautifies everything it touches. Allah ﷻ loves gentleness, and the Prophet ﷺ embodied it even in moments of correction. Gentleness de‑escalates conflict, softens hardened emotions, and opens pathways for growth. For counselors, gentleness is not weakness — it is strategic compassion.

9. The Prophet ﷺ also possessed Prophetic Vision, seeing potential in people long before they saw it in themselves. The Qur’an reminds believers not to lose hope in Allah’s Mercy [Surah Yusuf; 12:87], and the Prophet ﷺ described people as mines of gold and silver. Counselors carry this same vision when they look at a struggling child and see not the problem, but the possibility.

10. Finally, prophetic character is defined by Prophetic Consistency. Allah ﷻ commands steadfastness [Surah Hud; 11:112], and the Prophet ﷺ taught that the most beloved deeds are those done consistently. Children trust consistency more than charisma. A counselor’s reliability — showing up with the same calmness, fairness, and mercy day after day — becomes a source of healing.

Together, these ten prophetic qualities form a complete framework for school counseling grounded in Qur’an and Sunnah. They transform counseling from a set of tasks into a spiritual practice, a reflection of divine guidance, and a continuation of prophetic ethics in a modern setting. When counselors embody prophetic presence, listening, dignity, mercy, hope, fairness, safety, gentleness, vision, and consistency, they become sources of stability and compassion for every child who walks through their doors.

This is counseling as worship.

This is service as amanah.

This is a prophetic character in practice.

Related:

– The Theologies Of The Mental Health Industry, Counsellors, And Psychotherapists

– The Urgent Need For Muslim Chaplaincy On Campus: An Investment In Spiritual Futures

The post School Counseling Grounded In The Qur’an And Sunnah: A Framework Of 10 Prophetic Traits appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

What particularly struck me was how familiar some of these ideas felt. In a time when self-love, positive thinking, gratitude, and optimism are widely discussed but not always easily practised, Murphy’s book reads almost like a practical manual: what to think about before sleeping, what to repeat upon waking, how to cultivate gratitude, and how to approach one’s difficulties with hope rather than despair.

Yet, as a student of Islamic Studies, I could not read the book without thinking about Islam. Many of Murphy’s observations resonated with Islamic teachings, although Islam places them within a very different theological framework. For me, this did not make Murphy’s work redundant; rather, it became an opportunity to think about what Islam says about the inner self, intention, hope, gratitude, prayer, and human agency. Perhaps it instilled in me the idea that Muslims need not approach non-Islamic works with either unquestioning acceptance or complete rejection. We can read widely, appreciate beneficial insights, question assumptions that conflict with our beliefs, and confidently leave behind what does not align with Islam. 

Murphy’s Emphasis on Subconscious 

In Murphy’s account, the subconscious is presented as possessing a transformative power through which deeply held beliefs can shape one’s circumstances. From an Islamic perspective, however, human intention and psychological disposition do not constitute an independent creative force. The Qur’anic conception of divine power places ultimate causality and control with Allah , while human beings remain responsible for intention and action. This distinction is important because otherwise a psychological account of the relationship between thought and behaviour can slide into a metaphysical claim about the power of the human mind that is difficult to reconcile with notions of qadr, niyyah and tawḥīd. Murphy gives the subconscious considerable causal power over one’s experiences, circumstances and outcomes. In his formulation, belief becomes a mechanism through which the subconscious produces results.  Islam certainly gives human beings agency through intention, choice, action, responsibility, and striving. But Islamic theology does not make the human mind an autonomous source of reality.

Suffering and Manifestation: Inadequacy of Murphy’s Model 

Murphy’s thoughts are inadequate to explain certain circumstances such as suffering. For example, what happens when a person suffers despite sincerely believing, praying, and visualising a positive outcome? Murphy’s framework thus risks making the individual’s internal state the explanation for the external result. Islam, on the other hand, provides a different framework for suffering. A difficulty is not necessarily evidence of deficient thinking or defective belief. It can be understood through concepts such as trial (ibtilāʾ), patience (ṣabr), divine wisdom, decree (qadr), and reward. Murphy tends toward explaining circumstances through the workings of the subconscious, whereas Islam allows suffering to remain meaningful even when it cannot be explained as the consequence of one’s thoughts or beliefs. As Prophet Muhammad ﷺ says:

Strange are the ways of a believer for there is good in every affair of his and this is not the case with anyone else except in the case of a believer for if he has an occasion to feel delight, he thanks (God), thus there is a good for him in it, and if he gets into trouble and shows resignation (and endures it patiently), there is a good for him in it. [Sahih Muslim 2999]

Murphy also frequently interprets religious concepts psychologically. His approach effectively asks: How does this religious belief operate within the human mind? Islam, however, does not reduce religion to its psychological usefulness. For example, prayer in Islam certainly has psychological consequences like peace, hope, patience, and resilience, but its purpose is not exhausted by those effects. ʿIbādah is worship and relationship with Allah , rather than merely a technique for achieving psychological or material outcomes. Murphy’s psychological interpretation can illuminate one dimension of religious practice, but an Islamic reading would resist reducing worship to its psychological function.

The Balance Within

One of the things I appreciated most while reading Murphy was his insistence that we cannot neglect the world within us. We spend so much of our lives fulfilling responsibilities and caring for others that we can easily forget to care for the self that is carrying all of it. The emphasis on balance resonated deeply with me as a Muslim. Islam does not ask us to choose between our spiritual, emotional, physical, and social responsibilities. Rather, it calls us towards a life in which our responsibilities towards Allah , towards others, and towards ourselves are held together. Qur’an repeatedly draws our attention to mīzān (balance, measure and proportion). Allah says,

“As for the sky, He raised it ˹high˺, and set the balance ˹of justice˺

so that you do not defraud the scales.” [Surah Ar-Rahman; 55:7-8]

Perhaps this is why Murphy’s focus on the inner self felt so relevant to me. Just as we nourish the body, Islam encourages us to nourish the soul; just as we care for our relationships with people, we are called to cultivate our relationship with Allah ; and just as we fulfil our responsibilities towards others, we should not neglect ourselves. The challenge is to keep these dimensions in proportion. An outwardly successful life can still leave a person spiritually empty, while an intense focus on one’s inner world can become detached from one’s responsibilities towards family, society and God. Islam’s conception of balance brings these dimensions together rather than treating them as competing parts of life.

Having Good Thoughts

One of Murphy’s recurring themes is the importance of cultivating constructive thoughts rather than allowing fear, negativity and resentment to dominate one’s inner life. This distinction becomes particularly important in Murphy’s understanding of the subconscious. Islam recognises the influence of thoughts, intentions and attitudes on a person’s actions, but it does not teach that the human mind possesses an independent power to create reality. A Muslim may hope for an outcome, work towards it and ask Allah for it, but the outcome remains ultimately within Allah’s Power and Wisdom. Positive thinking, therefore, cannot become a form of believing that thought itself guarantees reality. There is an interesting Islamic parallel in ḥusn al-ẓann(having a good opinion or favourable expectation).

This applies not only to how we think about ourselves and other people, but most importantly to how we think about Allah . The Qur’an repeatedly warns against despairing of His Mercy. After speaking to those who have wronged themselves through sin, Allah says:

“Say, ˹O Prophet, that Allah says˺ “O My servants who have exceeded the limits against their souls! Do not lose hope in Allah’s mercy, for Allah certainly forgives all sins. He is indeed the All-Forgiving, Most Merciful.” [Surah Az-Zumar; 39:53]

This is an important distinction. Islamic optimism is not the insistence that everything will necessarily turn out according to our wishes. Rather, it is confidence in Allah’s Mercy and Wisdom even when the outcome is not what we hoped for. That distinction matters. Positive thinking can easily become the belief that our thoughts themselves determine reality. Islamic hope does not grant the human mind such independent power. We think well of Allah , ask Him, strive, and then accept that the outcome ultimately belongs to Him.

Guilt, Repentance, and Beginning Again

Murphy also discusses the destructive effects of continually dwelling on past mistakes. His emphasis on releasing oneself from destructive guilt reminded me of the Qur’anic understanding of tawbah.

The Qur’an does not ask a person to pretend that wrongdoing never happened. It asks the person to acknowledge it, seek forgiveness, and return to Allah . When Musa recognised his mistake, he said,

“He pleaded, “My Lord! I have definitely wronged my soul, so forgive me.” So He forgave him, ˹for˺ He is indeed the All-Forgiving, Most Merciful. [Surah Al-Qasas; 28:16]

Similarly, Adam and his wife respond to their error not by defending themselves or remaining paralysed by guilt, but by acknowledging their wrongdoing and asking Allah for mercy (Surah Al-‘Araf; 7:23). The supplication of Yunus , after he recognised his situation, likewise demonstrates the posture of turning back to Allah (Surah Al-Anbiya; 21:87). This is where I would slightly qualify Murphy’s idea of “forgiving oneself.” Islam does not erase moral responsibility in the name of self-love. Instead, it offers something more demanding and, perhaps, more hopeful: repent, repair where possible, seek forgiveness, and do not allow your past to become a reason to despair of Allah’s Mercy.

Gratitude Changes How We See What We Have

Murphy repeatedly emphasises gratitude as a practice capable of transforming one’s outlook. Shukr (gratitude) in Islam, however, is more than a psychological exercise (Surah Ibrahim; 14:7). Allah describes Ibrahim —a forefather of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, one of Allah’s greatest prophets, and a man tested through immense sacrifice—as ‘grateful’. Despite the trials he endured, it was his gratitude that Allah chose to highlight. This reminds us that shukr is not merely feeling good about our circumstances; it is recognising the One from whom every blessing comes. We can never fully count, let alone thank Allah for, all that He has given us. Yet, like Ibrahim , we are called to recognise His Blessings and strive to live as grateful servants.

Indeed, Abraham was a model of excellence: devoted to Allah, ˹perfectly˺ upright—not a polytheist ˹utterly˺ grateful for Allah’s favours. ˹So˺ He chose him and guided him to the Straight Path. [Surah An-Nahl; 16:120-21]

It is about recognising blessings as gifts from Allah and responding to them appropriately. This changes the meaning of gratitude. I can be grateful even when everything has not gone according to plan, because gratitude does not depend upon having a perfect life. 

But Whom Are We Praying To?

Perhaps the most significant difference between Murphy’s framework and Islam emerges in his discussion of prayer. Murphy encourages readers to pray, visualise desired outcomes, repeat affirmations and impress particular ideas upon the subconscious mind. His “prayer” depends substantially upon the interaction between conscious thought and the subconscious, with the desired outcome being impressed upon the latter. Islam also teaches believers to ask, hope, and pray—but the object of prayer is not an impersonal force within ourselves. It is Allah . The Qur’an says:

“…I respond to the invocation of the supplicant when he calls upon Me…” [Surah Al Baqarah; 2:186]

The difference may appear subtle, but it is fundamental. In Islam, duʿāʾ is not simply a technique for programming the mind to produce a desired reality. It is an act of worship and dependence upon Allah . The believer asks Allah , has confidence in Him, and simultaneously recognises that the answer may come in a form or at a time different from what was imagined. This also means that prayer does not replace effort. The Qur’an speaks of the human being having what they strive for (Surah An-Najm; 53:39).

Murphy presents prayer largely as a process of impressing an idea upon the subconscious. He explicitly argues that the answer to prayer results when the subconscious responds to the mental picture or thought held in the mind. In Islam, duʿāʾ is fundamentally an act of turning toward and asking Allah , not simply a psychological technique for programming oneself. The believer may have hope, positive expectation, and certainty in Allah , but the outcome remains dependent upon Allah’s Will.

Good Intention

There is one concept I found especially significant when reading Murphy through an Islamic lens: niyyah, intention. Murphy speaks extensively about thoughts and the subconscious, but Islamic ethics asks another question: What is the intention behind what I think and do? Two people may perform the same outward action while its spiritual meaning is completely different because their intentions differ. This is why the famous Prophetic teaching that actions are judged by intentions occupies such an important place in Islamic ethical thought.

Islam therefore does not simply ask us to have positive thoughts. It asks us to cultivate an inner orientation that gives our actions their moral and spiritual meaning. A good thought is valuable, but a good intention directs that thought towards a good action; prayer is meaningful because it is directed towards Allah ; gratitude matters because it recognises the Giver; and hope matters because it is ultimately hope in Allah . Murphy asks us to pay attention to the world within us. Islam does too, but it continually reminds us that the journey inward is not meant to end with the self. It should lead us beyond the self, towards Allah . And perhaps that is the most important difference between merely believing in the power within and recognising the One from Whom all power ultimately comes.

Conclusion 

Murphy’s work made me understand that reading non-Islamic literature critically does not require us to approach it with either suspicion or uncritical admiration. It requires us to engage with ideas thoughtfully, recognise what is beneficial, examine what conflicts with our beliefs, and have the confidence to accept the former while leaving the latter. Perhaps this is one of the most valuable habits we can cultivate as Muslim readers: to read widely, think critically, and remain rooted in the worldview of Islam.

I did not find his book as an alternative to Islam, but rather a different vocabulary for reflecting on ideas that Islam has long emphasised: nurturing the inner self, cultivating gratitude, holding onto hope, seeking forgiveness, and being conscious of our intentions. Yet Islam takes these ideas beyond the self. Our thoughts matter, but so do our intentions; hope matters, but so does tawakkul; gratitude matters because it recognises the Giver; and prayer matters because it turns the servant towards Allah . Murphy invites us to look within, but Islam reminds us that the journey inward should ultimately lead beyond the self to Allah . 

Related:

– A New Way To Read Fiction: Critical Islamic Mindful Reading

– Thinking About Thinking: Can Islamic Nurture Be Critical And Reflective?

The post A Case For Critical Reading As Muslims: Reading ‘The Power of Your Subconscious Mind’ Through An Islamic Lens appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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* * *

Double Time

Karim blew his horn, giving long, repeated blasts that sent people scrambling out of the street ahead of us.

The caravan was moving at double time, as fast as fifty-three wagons could move without becoming a disaster of its own. Drivers shouted and urged the horses forward. The horses and mules snorted and strained against their harnesses. Wheels hammered over the uneven street. A woman snatched a child out of our path. A man carrying two baskets dropped them as he leaped aside, and one of the wagon wheels rolled straight over them. We were not a caravan but a force of nature, a storm on wheels, and everyone moved out of our way. I did not think that was necessarily a kind or good thing, but it was what it was.

I twisted in the saddle and looked back for Ahmed and Weili. Nothing.

“Come on,” I muttered.

People were pouring south with us now, some carrying bundles, some dragging children by the hand. Others ran east or west through the side streets, while a few actually pushed north, toward whatever families or possessions they could not bring themselves to abandon. No one seemed to know exactly what was happening.

Karim blew the horn again, and the sound echoed off the walls of the buildings around us.

Two young men ran alongside one of our wagons and jumped onto the back. The merchant who owned that wagon shouted at them, but they ignored him and clung to the wooden frame.

Seeing these, several other men and even a few families began running toward the wagon. If something was not done we would be overrun.

“No boarders!” I shouted to the other guards.

I kicked Belly forward and came alongside. One of the young men looked at me, frightened but defiant. I caught him by the back of his tunic and yanked him loose. He hit the street, rolled twice, and stood, shouting curses at me. Seeing this, the second man let go on his own and landed on his feet, running.

Memdooh rode up. “Darius! What are you doing? Don’t be cruel!”

“Our task is to protect the caravan and the merchandise. Do your job!”

Ahead, the Kurdish woman Shireen – she of the Parthian Shot – rode beside Karim, her thick braid bouncing against her back as she pointed down a street and called directions. Karim immediately waved the lead wagons that way. The entire caravan took the corner fast and tight, nearly crashing into an expensive-looking villa with yellow walls and enclosed balconies.

The houses began to thin. The road widened, and almost startlingly, we burst out of the city and into open country. It seemed that Shireen knew her way around. Right now that made her worth as much as any swordsman in the caravan.

I looked back. Still nothing. I reached for the ring beneath my tunic, and rubbed the ruby with my thumb. Behind us, drums were still beating, smoke rose from the city, and thousands of shouts and cries merged into a sound like a wounded dragon’s roar. I prayed that Farhad would survive. I felt that I owed him, though I could not say why, since I had saved his life. But I had arrived in Herat a mere caravan guard, and was leaving… well, still a mere caravan guard, but with a prince’s ring around my neck. I didn’t know what that meant, if anything.

Wheat and Barley

I had expected the land beyond Herat to be barren, but irrigation channels cut through green fields of wheat and barley. There were vineyards too, the vines growing in long ordered rows, and orchards beyond them. Farmers had stopped their work to watch our caravan thunder past. A few families were already traveling south with carts or heavily laden mules, but it was nothing like the crush inside the city.

Then the road crested a low rise, and I stared. A broad river ran before us, east to west, the surface of the water reflecting the sky and adding something of its own, so that it shone grayish-blue like a finely polished sword. For some reason, the river surprised me. Since waking from my opium sleep, I had formed the idea that Persia was a vast desert. I had seen canals and fountains, so I should have known better. But those seemed like things men had made, forcing water through a dry land. This was different. The river was broad and alive, and the water called to me.

Karim sounded a halt. Alhamdulillah! The caravan slowed in a great clattering confusion of wagons and horses.

“Water the horses!” Karim called. “Drivers, check your wagons! Wheels, axles, harnesses, everything. Merchants, check your cargo. We move again as soon as we’re ready.”

I dismounted and led Belly to the river. He was breathing hard, and sweat stained his black coat. I let him drink, watching to make sure he didn’t gulp too much at once, then loosened his tack and wiped the sweat from his neck and flanks.

When I was finished, I crouched beside the river and splashed water over my face. It was wonderfully cool. I scooped up another double handful and poured it down the front of my tunic, then slipped a hand underneath and spread the water across my chest. I closed my eyes for a moment. That felt good.

Proved Your Choice

“You did well back there. You proved your choice.”

I turned. Karim stood behind me.

“With the boarders?”

He nodded. “Could have been a problem. You did what had to be done.”

I looked north again. “Captain, where did Ahmed and Weili go? They’re not going to fight the Afghans, are they?”

Karim exhaled loudly. “Definitely not. We had stragglers. Two of the guards never made it back from the suq. They went to find them.”

“But Weili is -”

He cut me off. “Weili is as tough as saddle leather and can shoot the head off a snake. She made a mistake in Afghanistan, but that doesn’t define her.”

I nodded, liking the sounds of those words. I stood. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Is it important?”

“Not really.”

He laughed. “What’s your question?”

“Yesterday, during the evaluations, Zabit, the merchant, started shouting that someone stole his gold. People said it must have been the Persian guards. You took Zabit aside and quieted him down. What did you tell him? Do you know who took the gold?”

“You’re kind of nosey, do you know that, Lee Darius? No, I have no idea who took it. Maybe it really was one of the Persians. Regardless, the money was stolen from a wagon under my protection. Also, the last thing I wanted was to create a sectarian and diplomatic incident.”

Karim stopped and watched me, but I’d already figured it out. “You reimbursed him. You bought him off to shut his mouth.”

“Right.” He knocked gently on my forehead. “Now I have a question for you. How did Ardeshir end up in Chen’s care? I told you to take care of him.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it. “I -”

“You’re not an officer. You don’t delegate. If I give you a job, you do it.”

“Yes sir. Sorry.”

He poked me in the chest. “Rest for a few minutes. Stretch your limbs.”

A Muddy Path

Within twenty minutes we were moving again, heading west on a path that followed the river. Calling it a road was generous. In some places it was barely wide enough for a wagon, and the going was slow. Karim seemed more concerned with keeping the wagons intact than putting distance behind us. Which was fine with me.

“How will Ahmed and Weili know we turned west?” I asked Meilin, who was riding beside me.

She pointed backward with her thumb. “Look for yourself.”

I looked. Our caravan had churned the earth into a broad confusion of wheel ruts, hoofprints, crushed vegetation and dung. A blind man could follow our trail. Unfortunately, said blind man could probably travel faster than us as well. The path was badly rutted, and in the low places the ground turned to mud. Before we had gone very far, one of the wagons sank nearly to its axle. The driver shouted for help, and half a dozen of us dismounted. We put our shoulders against the back while the horses strained in their harnesses.

“Push!”

We pushed. Mud sucked at the wheels. Nothing. We collected armfuls of branches and small stones and laid them down before the wheels to provide traction. When we pushed again the wagon lurched free, spraying mud over my trousers and boots. Memdooh laughed at me until I peeled a chunk of mud off my trousers and flicked at him.

It went on like that. In places reeds and bushes had grown across the path so thickly that we had to stop and hack them back. Still, the river stayed beside us, sometimes close enough that I could see sunlight glittering on the water. It reminded me of my time living beside the river in Deep Harbor. I found it comforting.

Muslimoon?

We came upon a village beside the river.

It was a poor place, though not like Darbi Malik. The houses were small and simple. Fishing nets hung from poles to dry, and narrow boats had been pulled onto the muddy bank. I saw fish hanging from wooden racks, and children with round, healthy faces running barefoot between the houses.

The entire village came outside to watch us.

“Allahu Akbar!” they called. “As-salamu alaikum!”

I waved my hand. “Wa alaykum as-salamu wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.”

Some of the villagers were thrilled by this, and cheered as if I were a talking bear. Children ran beside the wagons until their mothers called them back. One man shouted, “Muslimoon? Muslimoon?”

“Beleh!” a guard shouted back Yes.

That brought another chorus of Allahu Akbar.

Our arrival in any village became an opportunity for trade. The villagers brought out whatever fish they had to sell, some fresh and others salted or dried. Karim bought all of the dried fish for the caravan stores. With fifty-three wagons on the road, we consumed an astonishing amount of food. We could carry rice, flour and other provisions with us, but they would never last all the way to China.

In one village, an old man stepped onto the road. His clothing was patched, his beard white. He held out one hand and said something I could not understand, but whose meaning was obvious.

Memdooh dropped a silver coin into the old man’s palm. It was not gold, but neither was it a small amount of money.

The man stared at it. Then he began pouring out blessings in Persian.

Memdooh touched his head then his heart – a gesture some of us had picked up from the Persians – and rode on. I watched Memdooh. I knew he had given away all the money he won gambling. The money he’d given the old man was his own money, his own saved wages. SubhanAllah. I barely recognized the angry young man who had thrust his purse at the imam and said, “Take it. I don’t even care anymore.”

He saw me looking. “What? Do I have mud on my face or something?”

“Or something.” I smiled and rode on.

We paused for Maghreb, then rode on. It was a constant struggle, and I began to wonder how long we could go on like this.

Ahmed and Weili were on my mind. I decided to find Karim and suggest that we stop and wait for them. When I caught up with him, he was already having an argument with one of our new Persian recruits. A man named Rostam: early thirties, a good horseman and competent swordsman. I remembered him well from the evaluations. He was not exceptional at any one thing, but steady across every test. Rostam was speaking rapidly and pointing first at the river, then toward the west.

“What are they arguing about?” I asked Chen.

“The recruit says we’re going the wrong way.”

I looked west. “Wrong way where?”

“He says China is east. We’re going west. He thinks the captain’s knowledge of geography may be lacking.”

That sounded like a diplomatic way of saying, you don’t know what you’re doing.

“What did the captain say?”

Chen grinned. “He said the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. He knows the stars. Everything else he can figure out.”

I chuckled at that. One thing I would never call Karim was lost.

We stopped for Ishaa and called a halt, setting up camp beside the river. The cooks prepared a fish feast, and I had to admit that it was delicious, and so unlike our usual fare.

Now that we were on the road again I wanted to get back to my nightly martial arts practice. So much had happened – the Afghanistan raid, the burning of the Silk Store, my whipping, the opium and the assassination attempt on Farhad – that it had been weeks since I’d had time to train. I felt the absence of it like a missing limb.

But it was impossible. This rough daily slog through mud and bracken was so exhausting, that all any of us could do at the end of the day was eat and sleep. There were no card games, wrestling, poetry, archery contests or anything else. Even with my exhaustion, however, I slept poorly.

Rumi and Fishing Poles

The next morning, after Fajr and breakfast, I expected the order to move out. Instead, Karim announced that we would remain where we were for a while. He didn’t say why.

I spent some time with Belly, napped a bit, sat with my back to a weeping willow and breathed in the fresh air. Every now and then I glanced back along the path we’d come, expecting to see Ahmed and Weili.

On a flat stretch of grass in the distance, Shireen was teaching Ardeshir to ride a horse. I had heard that we were going to train him in shifts. Three times a week I would train him in martial arts. Others would teach him swordsmanship and archery.

Chen broke a long branch from one of the trees beside the river and sat down with his knife.

“What are you doing?” Memdooh asked.

“Making a fishing pole.” That attracted immediate attention.

Chen trimmed away the twigs and began working on the branch, explaining what he was doing as he went. Soon a circle had formed, with men and women all sitting on the ground carving fishing poles.

I took the Rumi book out of my pack and began to read.

Come, O drop, surrender yourself without regret,
and for the price of a drop receive the Sea.
Come, O drop, grant yourself this honor:
rest in the Sea’s hand, safe from destruction.
Who has ever been granted such fortune?
The Sea itself has come seeking a drop.
Allah, Allah! Sell and buy at once:
give one drop, and take a sea filled with pearls.

By the time I finished, I had forgotten to breathe. What was it about this man’s poetry that struck my heart thus? I felt myself fading away, becoming insignificant before Allah’s grandeur. I continued reading, until a shout broke my concentration.

“I got one! Look! It’s huge!”

I looked up to see a dozen guards sitting on the riverbank, fishing. One had just caught a gorgeous golden-scaled carp, and was holding it up proudly. I noticed that other guards too already had beautiful fish glistening on the grass beside them. That seemed fun. I would just read a few more poems first…

Following Your Lead

I didn’t remember falling asleep. The next thing I knew, a deep voice said, “That can’t be comfortable.” I opened my eyes to see Shah sitting cross-legged in front of me.

“You’re blocking my sun,” I said. “In fact you’re blocking everyone’s sun.”

He laughed. “Want to know something interesting? You’re not the only one Farhad asked to join his personal guard. There were two others.”

“Really?” I sat up straight, fascinated by this bit of news. “Who else?”

“The Ghost.”

I stared at Shah, then looked around. “The Ghost? But he…” I let my gaze travel up and down the caravan. The Ghost was a veteran guard who kept to himself. He ate alone and rode alone. He had a way of appearing silently behind a junior guard just to drop a correction like tend to your horse, clean those boots, tighten up the girth, oil your weapon or it will rust, and so on. He was precise, efficient, and good at everything, though I wouldn’t say that he excelled at any one thing. And somehow, when he wasn’t standing behind you, he was practically invisible. I’d never had a single actual conversation with him.

“I don’t see him,” I said at last.

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?”

I laughed. “So where is he?”

“In the citadel. He accepted the offer.”

My mouth fell open. “You’re kidding. La ilaha il-Allah. He’s back there fighting?” I looked back in the direction of the city, though it was far out of sight. I was astounded that a Chinese guard like me was still there, defending Farhad’s life and position. Somehow it made me feel better about my own decision. We, Five Star collectively, had not entirely abandoned Farhad.

“Who was the other person? Did they stay behind too?”

“The other person was me.”

I stared. “Wow! What did you say? I mean, obviously you said no, but why?”

Shah’s expression became serious. “Back in Afghanistan, during the raid, you took charge. You made difficult calls in the heat of the moment, and they were the right calls. You didn’t lead from behind. You and I took point and plunged straight into the attacking force. And we survived. I followed your lead then, and I’m following your lead now.”

Overcome with emotion, I swallowed. I took a deep breath, then extended my hand. He took it and we shook.

“Did you at least get a ring out of it?” I asked.

Shah tipped back his head and laughed so loud that his laughter sounded like hoofbeats. Wait. Those were hoofbeats! I jumped to my feet. Two horses were coming along the river path, each horse carrying two riders.

Ahmed and Weili were back with the two missing guards. All four looked exhausted. Their clothing was dusty and torn, and one of the stragglers had an arm wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. Weili’s hair was disordered, and Ahmed looked ready to collapse.

Ahmed looked past me at Chen, Memdooh and the others sitting along the riverbank with their makeshift poles.

“Who would have thought I’d find a Chinese fishing village in Persia?”

Men laughed, and everyone crowded around them at once.

Karim pushed through. “Give them room! Veteran Guard Ahmed, what happened?”

Waving off help, Ahmed climbed stiffly down from his horse. “We found them. Eventually. They were coming back from the suq when looters tore through, and they had to hide. Later, after we found them, a gang of men decided they wanted our horses.”

“They didn’t get them,” Weili added grimly.

Karim looked over all four of them, lingering for a moment on the wounded man. “What news of the citadel?”

Ahmed looked back toward the east.

“Farhad is holding.”

Mud and Golden Carp

For the next four days, we followed the river west, sometimes so close that the wagon wheels rolled within a few paces of the water, sometimes wandering away from it where the ground was firmer. The path did not improve. We pushed wagons until our legs trembled, chopped back bushes and reeds, filled holes with stones and branches, and once spent nearly an hour getting a wagon across a stretch where part of the path had washed away.

All along, locals passed by us on foot, or riding donkeys or mules, and watched with great bemusement, no doubt wondering how a huge caravan from a far-away country had ended up on their little riverside path. They greeted us, asked questions that I did not understand, and went on their way.

Whenever we stopped, however, fishing poles appeared. Chen had started something. Every day another guard made one, and soon there were men up and down the riverbank, sitting beneath the trees with their lines in the water.

Eating fish every day was such a luxury that I wondered if the ring around my neck had truly made me a prince. For months our daily diet had consisted of meals drawn from the staples we carried with us: rice, millet, flour, dried noodles, beans and lentils, supplemented with dried fruit and nuts, whatever vegetables we could buy along the way, and occasional slim helpings of beef, chicken or lamb. It was filling enough, and I had never complained.

But after three days of fresh river fish, fried, roasted, stewed and grilled over the coals, I began to think I could happily live beside a river forever.

I Caught One

Naturally, I made a fishing pole too. The first few times I tried it, I caught nothing. I kept looking up and down at everyone else, wondering if the fish did not like my smell? Finally Chen took a look, and told me to put a live bug on the hook. Almost right away, something tugged on the line.

“I’ve got one!”

The line jerked hard, and I leaped to my feet, shouting, “I caught one! I caught one!”

In my excitement I dropped the pole. It bounced once on the bank and began sliding toward the water.

“No!”

I dove after it, landed on my stomach and caught the end just before it disappeared. Everyone around me was laughing, which I ignored because there was still a fish on the hook. I scrambled up, hauled on the line and dragged a beautiful golden carp onto the bank.

I stood over it, wet to the elbows and covered with dirt, beaming as though I had captured a sea dragon. That evening the cooks prepared my fish for me, and it was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten.

Money in the Trees

Wild pistachio and almond trees grew among the poplars and willows along the river. Near villages we often saw local women out gathering the nuts, sometimes with children helping them, and I left those trees alone. They belonged to people who lived there. Farther along, where there were no houses or villages in sight, we guards descended on the trees.

Belly liked pistachios. Whenever I found them, I gave him his share. He crunched them happily and immediately nosed at me for more. I picked so many nuts for him I started to wonder which of us was the beast of burden, and which the master.

As for the merchants, they attacked the trees with greater enthusiasm than we guards had ever attacked an enemy. They climbed into the branches with sacks tied around their waists, picked everything they could reach, and poured their harvest into crates and barrels. Silk merchants were up there. Glassware merchants. Men who already had fortunes packed into their wagons.

Meilin stood beneath one tree with her hands on her hips, staring up at a merchant whose wagons were loaded with Syrian metalware.

“What are you doing up there, risking life and limb? You already have a fortune’s worth of metalware.”

The merchant stopped picking long enough to look down at her.

“Do you have any idea how much these pistachios are worth in China? You think I’m going to leave money sitting up here in these trees?”

When one of the merchants fell out of a tree and broke his arm, however, Hakim Yusuf had had enough.

“Down from there!” he shouted. “You are fat middle-aged men, not monkeys.”

“We don’t have to listen to you,” one merchant called back.

Word of this reached Karim, who came striding into the pistachio grove. “Down!” he bellowed. “Before I make you dump all the nuts you’ve collected into the river. An order from Corporal Yusuf is an order from me. You will respect his authority.”

I blinked. I had been traveling with Yusuf for months. He had treated me and taught me. Yet somehow it had never occurred to me that he had rank.

The merchants climbed reluctantly out of the trees.

I looked at the captain thoughtfully, remembering the moment when he’d ordered Shah to haul the doctor away to prevent him from interfering with the whippings. Karim was a good man, but not a perfect one. I supposed I could live with that.

Respect

Later, I found Yusuf as he was in his medical wagon, arranging medicines and supplies. I saw a whole shelf of items I didn’t recognize. Some were roots or leaves, and others were prepared medicines in vials.

“What’s all that?”

He glanced at me. “Medications I purchased in Herat. Rhubarb root as a purgative. Licorice for coughs and throat irritation.” He pointed to the vials as he named them. “Myrrh, camphor, zedoary, opium.”

That last one made me grimace. “I’m sorry I never came to work for you.”

He screwed the stopper on a vial tighter. “It’s never too late.”

“How come you never told me you were a corporal?”

He gave me a contemplative look. “Did you respect your uncle? Zihan Ma?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Why did you respect him?”

I chewed on my lip. “He was smart. Capable. He helped people. And he was good to me. He took me in, he cared for me.”

“So, not because he said, ‘I’m your uncle and therefore you must respect me.’”

I looked out of the wagon entrance at a pair of teamsters inspecting their mules’ hooves for stones. I found myself remembering the day I’d seen Zihan Ma in Deep Harbor, after I’d parted ways from the family. He’d been there looking for me, but I’d hidden from him. I’d seen many types of men in my life. Brutal, greedy, kind, rich, desperate. Men who claimed authority due to nobility, wealth, status, or rank. Zihan Ma had shown me what a noble man truly looked like.

Now, sitting here with Yusuf, it was as if the doctor was saying to me, “See that tall wooden thing with branches and leaves? That’s a tree.” And I was the idiot who had always known that, but never fully understood it.

I stood, saluted Corporal Yusuf, and departed.

Short Tempers

The plentiful food was a much-needed barakah, but the work was exhausting, and by the fourth day, everyone was sore, tired and short-tempered. People began snapping at each other. A driver cursed a guard for not pushing hard enough. Someone accused someone else of taking his place beside a cooking fire. The arguments were stupid, and everyone knew it, but that didn’t matter.

Late in the afternoon, a fistfight broke out. Several of us dragged the men apart, both still shouting and trying to get at each other.

Karim didn’t shout. He didn’t ask what had happened. He simply looked from one exhausted, furious man to the other, then at the rest of us.

A short while later, his horn sounded.

“Make camp!” he called. “We’re stopping early tonight.” No one argued.

Once we had rested and eaten, Karim called all the guards to an assembly. He stood in front of us, tall and straight, with his bullwhip tucked into his belt. That was not a usual thing.

“I know you’re tired,” he said. “This is hard work. But think about what we’ve already done. We crossed mountains so high we could barely breathe. We crossed deserts. We fought off raiders. We made it all the way to Persia, made a powerful friend, and had a successful trading mission. Then we got out of a city with an army coming down on it.”

He pointed toward the mud. “And now this is going to defeat us?”

A few men laughed.

“The mud won’t last forever. Somewhere ahead there’s a proper road, and when we get to it, we’ll be on our way home. Until then, stop quarreling. Do your jobs. Help each other. Remember the words of Allah: ‘And hold fast to the rope of Allah together, and do not be divided among yourselves.’ Be professionals. We’ve been through worse than this. The next time I see men fighting there will be consequences.”

He did not have to touch the whip. The implication was clear.

“Stay strong,” he said finally. “Good things will come. I’m proud to have ridden this far with you. Dismissed.”

He strode away. His words were like sunshine breaking through the clouds. I saw the men’s chins raised higher, their faces less tense. I knew the captain had gotten through to them.

The Road Ahead

By midday the next day, the narrow river path finally joined a broad, well-traveled road. The change was so sudden and welcome that a cheer went up. I joined in. Even Belly gave a loud, happy bray, though I suspected he was only joining the noise and had no idea what we were celebrating.

Captain Karim consulted with Shireen, then blew his horn and called the guards together.

“This is the main road to Mashhad,” he said, pointing along the road toward the northwest. “And yes, I know China is in the other direction.”

Everyone laughed.

“We’re not going back the way we came. We’ve had enough of Afghanistan. From Mashhad we’ll continue north and east into Central Asia. It’s longer than the way we came, but an established route.”

He went on to list the places we would pass through. Merv, Bukhara, Samarkand, Khujand, Ferghana, Osh, and after that I couldn’t remember the names. Some were familiar, others not.

“Listen carefully. Our wagons are carrying one of the largest and most valuable loads of cargo Five Star has ever brought out of Persia. If we bring this caravan in safely, it will be a great boon for the company.”

He paused and looked around at us.

“Five Star has always rewarded the men and women who bring it success.”

That brought smiles.

“Stay alert, but don’t be tense. You already know the routine. Most of the people we meet are ordinary people going about their lives. Be respectful and friendly. Remember that you represent Five Star. Be new Kuangren, not old Kuangren.”

The joke was old, but the men laughed. I glanced at Kuangren and he was shaking his head, but with a smile on his face.

Karim’s expression hardened.

“I joke, but it’s a serious subject. In your interactions with each other and with the locals, you are Five Star guards, not hooligans.”

Karim looked around. “Questions? Comments?”

Bao folded his hands behind his back. Bao said, “The Buddha taught, ‘Walking upon this path you will make an end of suffering.’”

There was silence.

Meilin tilted her head. “I would be satisfied with making a safe end of this journey.”

Karim pointed at Bao, then at Meilin.

“Correct and correct.” He turned away, and the meeting was over. A few minutes later we were rolling again, this time over a broad, firm road.

I settled into Belly’s saddle, but as we moved forward I found myself turning my head to look back. Herat could not be seen from here. As for Persia, it had not been anything like I expected. I had seen blue domes cut from pieces of the sky; buildings so finely decorated they were like poetry grown from the ground; and markets filled with goods from places I never knew existed. In one masjid, I had stood in salat among so many worshippers that I could not see either end of the prayer rows. But I had seen other things too. I had witnessed inequality, starvation and the death of a little girl. I had met a prince who wanted to change those things, and had left him at his hour of greatest need. Yet in doing so, I committed no sin.

Persia could be beautiful and troubled. I could be loyal and disloyal at the same time. It was a strange world.

* * *

Read Part 32 – Meilin’s Tale

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:

Breakfast With The Khans [Act One] – A Play

Searching For Signs of Spring: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 31] – Following Your Lead appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

I. The Hardness of a Place

There is a particular hardness to Bergen County — a quiet, polished hardness that settles into people’s bones without them noticing. It’s the kind of place where everyone is rushing, performing, surviving, and somehow still falling behind. And in that atmosphere, even the most sincere hearts begin to move differently.

I’ve lived here long enough to see how the environment shapes the community — not just Muslims, but everyone. The pressure to succeed. The obsession with image. The unspoken competition. The loneliness disguised as busyness. It all creates a spiritual static that drowns out the softer parts of the soul.

Bergen County is a place where people learn to armor themselves early. Not because they are unkind, but because the pace of life here leaves very little room for softness. Everything is expensive — the homes, the schools, the expectations, the silence. Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath.

And when people live in a constant state of pressure, they start moving in survival patterns. They become efficient instead of present. Polished instead of sincere. Busy instead of connected. It’s not that they don’t want depth — it’s that they don’t have the space to remember what depth feels like.

I’ve watched it happen quietly, almost tenderly: people who once had warm hearts becoming guarded; people who once prayed with softness now praying with exhaustion; people who once longed for community now settling for proximity. This isn’t a Muslim problem. It’s a Bergen County problem. It’s what happens when Dunya becomes the air everyone breathes — not out of greed, but out of survival.

II. The Masjid as a Mirror

When I walk into the masjid here, I don’t see a spiritual sanctuary — I see a reflection of Bergen County itself. The same rush. The same tension. The same quiet competition humming beneath the surface. People come in with their armor still on, their shoulders still tight, their minds still running.

It’s not that they don’t love Allah. It’s not that they don’t want closeness. It’s that the environment outside follows them inside. The dunya doesn’t stay at the door — it slips in with them, sits beside them, and whispers in their ear even as they pray.

I’ve watched people pray with perfect posture but trembling hearts. I’ve watched people greet each other with the right words but empty eyes. I’ve watched people show up physically while being spiritually miles away. And I don’t blame them. This place teaches you to survive first, feel later.

Sometimes I think the masjid here is less a house of worship and more a holding space — a place where people come to catch their breath before returning to the race outside. A place where faith becomes another task to complete, another box to check, another performance to maintain.

And yet… beneath all of that, I sense something tender. A longing. A quiet ache. A desire for softness that people don’t know how to express anymore. The masjid is full of people who are spiritually thirsty but too tired to admit it.

III. The Loneliness Beneath the Surface

Sometimes I think the hardest part of living here isn’t the busyness or the pressure — it’s the loneliness that hides underneath it all. A loneliness that doesn’t look like loneliness. It looks like full calendars, crowded masajid, packed events, and yet… no real connection.

I’ve walked into rooms filled with people and felt more alone than I do in an empty house. Not because anyone was unkind, but because everyone seemed to be somewhere else — in their thoughts, in their worries, in their performance of being “fine.” It’s a strange thing to stand among believers and feel spiritually homeless.

There were moments I tried to reach out, to find softness, to find sincerity, but the conversations felt like rehearsed lines. People talked about careers, schools, houses, accomplishments — everything except the state of their hearts. And I would leave feeling like I had spoken a language no one else understood.

It took me a long time to realize that my loneliness wasn’t a personal failure. It was a symptom of the environment. A place where people are stretched thin, spiritually dehydrated, emotionally unavailable — not because they don’t care, but because they don’t have the space to.

And yet, even knowing that, the ache remains. The ache of wanting community but finding crowds. The ache of wanting sincerity but finding performance. The ache of wanting companionship but finding people too tired to offer more than small talk.

There is a particular kind of grief that comes from being surrounded by your own faith community and still feeling unseen. It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s a quiet, steady ache — the kind that settles into your chest and stays there.

The Muslim Social Club in Hackensack (Photo: Yelp).

IV. What Community Could Feel Like

Sometimes I imagine what community could feel like if people here finally exhaled. If they let the armor slip. If they remembered that faith is not a performance, but a place to rest. I imagine a community where people greet each other with presence, not politeness. Where conversations don’t orbit around dunya metrics, but around the state of the heart.

I imagine a masjid where no one feels the need to pretend. Where the overwhelmed believer can sit in the back and still feel held. Where the one who is struggling is not treated like a spiritual failure, but like someone in need of gentleness. Where people show up for each other not out of obligation, but out of sincerity.

I imagine gatherings where people speak honestly — about their doubts, their loneliness, their hopes, their exhaustion. Where vulnerability isn’t seen as weakness, but as a doorway to connection. Where people remember that the Prophet ﷺ built community through compassion, not competition.

I imagine a place where warmth is not seasonal. Where softness is not rare. Where companionship is not something you have to earn by being impressive. A place where you can simply be — tired, hopeful, searching — and still be welcomed.

Maybe what I’m longing for isn’t complicated. Maybe it’s just a community that feels human again. A community that remembers that faith is supposed to soften us, not harden us. A community where people don’t just pray beside each other, but actually see each other.

V. A Soft Closing

Maybe this is what Allah has been teaching me all along: that even in places where I feel unseen, He sees me. Even in communities where I feel misplaced, He knows exactly where I am. Even in atmospheres that harden people, He can still soften hearts.

I used to think belonging was something other people had and I somehow missed. But now I’m starting to understand that belonging is not a location — it’s a condition of the soul. It’s something Allah places in your chest when the time is right, with the people who are right, in the environment that allows you to breathe.

And maybe Bergen County will never be that place for me. Maybe it was never meant to be. Maybe it was only meant to teach me what sincerity feels like by showing me what it looks like when it’s missing. Maybe it was meant to sharpen my longing for real companionship, real community, real softness.

I don’t know where I will end up, or who I will meet, or what kind of spiritual home Allah will write for me. But I do know this: the ache I carry is not a punishment. It’s a compass. It’s pointing me toward something gentler, something truer, something that feels like home.

And until I find it, I will keep tending to my heart the way this place never could — with warmth, with honesty, with softness, and with the quiet certainty that Allah never leaves the searching soul empty‑handed.

Related:

– Cultivating Mental Well-Being in the Muslim Community [Part I]: Debunking Myths, Steps Toward Seeking Support

– Don’t Take For Granted Your Community Imam I Sh. Furhan Zubairi

The post When A Place Teaches You What Softness Is Not appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

October is Islamic History Month in Canada! Islamic History Month is more than just a token formality: it’s an opportunity to do real da’wah, both within the Muslim community and outside of it. Hassam Munir talks about expanding our understanding of Islamic history, preserving our own Canadian Muslim histories, and how to set up your own Islamic History Month event this October!

Hassam Munir is an Islamic history researcher and public educator. He is pursuing an MA in History at the University of Toronto. He is also a research fellow at the Yaqeen Institute for Islamic Research.

Related:

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The Little Mosque of Hope | Building a Sanctuary in the Arctic

The post [Podcast] Wait, Muslims Have Been Here HOW Long?! | Hassam Munir appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

* * *

A Slap To The Mouth

My own evaluations presented a problem. I had learned a few Persian words since entering the Guarded Domains, enough to say things like stop, again, come, go, left and right. And from watching the soldiers drilling, I learned the numbers one through ten. But it was not enough to teach martial arts. Most of the time I demonstrated what I wanted, positioned people with my hands, or simply performed a movement and motioned for them to copy it.

At first I tested basic movement, balance, striking and grappling. I paired the candidates against one another, then worked with each of them myself. I wasn’t interested only in what they knew, but what they could learn.

Ardeshir’s turn interested me most, because I felt personally responsible for him. He had almost no technique, but he watched me with fierce concentration. Once, I swept his foot and dropped him hard. The next time I tried the same sweep, he moved his foot before I could take it. I nodded, pleased, and made a notation.

One thick-chested man was paired with Shireen for a grappling contest. No strikes allowed. He was far stronger than her, but she caught him with a clever trip and put him on his back. A few candidates laughed. The man sprang up, his face darkening. I motioned for them to continue. He charged, and she threw him again.

He came up furious and punched her in the mouth. A major violation of the rules. I flushed with anger. I could not stand seeing a man bully a woman.

In a rapid motion, Shireen hefted her bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver, but I beat her to the punch as I darted forward, seized the man by the hair, swept his leg, and dropped him onto his back. Then I slapped his mouth.

I stood back. Apparently not having learned his lesson, the brute rose and charged me. I sidestepped and tripped him, sending him sprawling face first onto the tiles. Roaring with anger, the man rose and drew his sword.

I hadn’t expected that. But I drew my dao.

Ahmed came striding forward and shouted a command. He spoke rapidly to the man in Persian, gestured to all the Five Star guards on the compound, and pointed at the gate. The man spat, sheathed his sword and strode away.

Ahmed rounded on me. “SubhanAllah, are you out of your mind? You’re supposed to test these people, not challenge them to duels to the death. Get a hold of yourself or I’ll report you to the  captain.”

I wanted to protest, but he was right. I gave a quick, resentful nod, and went on with the evaluations.

By midday my voice had become hoarse from shouting commands, my tunic was soaked through, and I was beginning to understand why Captain Karim always sounded irritated.

Bao’s station was brutal. One of the younger candidates reached his limit. His legs had been trembling for several minutes, but he refused to stop. Finally he dropped to his knees, covered his face with both hands and began to weep. Bao crouched beside him and spoke quietly. After a while the young man wiped his face, drank some water, got back up and continued the drill. Later, when I asked Bao if he had eliminated him, the corporal looked surprised.

“Why?”

“He broke down.”

“Everyone breaks down sometimes. He got back up, that’s what matters.”

True enough, but I knew the youth would eventually be eliminated. He might be a sweet young man, but this was a hard line of work, and there was no place for crying at moments of crisis. Later, yes. Once the fire was out you could find yourself a quiet spot and pray, dance, cry, recite poetry, or simply sleep. But not when it was still burning.

The Rock Splitter and the Parthian Shot

Kuangren’s archery tests began with stationary targets, but soon he increased the distance and added complications. Candidates shot from one knee, while running, and eventually from horseback. The Kurdish woman, Shireen, was very good. As I watched, she did something I had never seen before. She mounted a horse, rode away from the target rather than toward it, then – controlling the horse only with her knees – twisted one hundred eighty degrees from the waist and fired, hitting the target. The spectators broke into applause.

“Have you ever seen that before?” I asked Ahmed.

“In illustrations. It’s called the Parthian Shot. It was invented here in Persia long ago.”

Meilin’s sword test also drew spectators. She had the candidates demonstrate cuts, thrusts, defenses and footwork with wooden swords before pairing them against one another. Eventually each had to face her. She pressured them, but gently. One man swaggered into his turn smiling, no doubt wondering what this chubby Chinese woman could possibly do to him.

He wasn’t smiling afterward.

As for Shireen’s brother Cotan, he grew frustrated in his sword duels. He kept overshooting, and telegraphing his movements. When he was done, he must have seen something in Meilin’s face, and realized she was going to cut him from the list.

He threw down the wooden sword, approached Meilin and drew his own live sword. It was single-edged and curved, with the blade becoming broader and more heavily weighted toward the tip. It looked more like a bludgeon than a sword.

Alarmed, I started forward. But Cotan turned his sword around and presented it to Meilin, who took it. Cotan spoke rapidly in Persian.

“He says,” Ahmed translated, “that your wooden swords are like miswak sticks. This is a real sword.”

Meilin hefted it. “This is too heavy for hand-to-hand combat.”

Cotan said something, took his sword back, and walked toward the horses.

Ahmed grinned. “He says to get a head-sized stone from the garden, and when he comes charging, throw it at him.”

My mouth fell open. “Is he crazy or what?”

Memdooh ran to the garden and returned breathing hard, with a large stone in his skinny arms. “Take it,” he said to Bao.

Cotan mounted a large black charger, rode to the opposite end of the courtyard, then kicked the horse and came speeding toward us, that monster of a sword in one hand. “Throw!” he shouted.

Bao heaved the heavy stone at Cotan’s head. I covered my eyes with one hand and peeked through my fingers, afraid I was about to see this guy get his face smashed. Instead Cotan screamed what sounded like, “Khween oo mee-rin!” and swung the sword with all his might. The edge of the blade met the stone, and with a loud ringing sound, the stone split in two, the half-pieces flying in different directions.

Again the crowd broke into applause.

As for Ahmed’s character evaluations, he appeared to be doing nothing. Every time I looked over, he was sitting in the shade talking to someone. I eventually discovered that the conversations were part of the test. He gave each candidate money and sent them to buy the same inexpensive item from a Five Star merchant, who deliberately returned too much change. Two candidates kept the extra money, and Ahmed crossed them off his list.

Second, he arranged for a laborer to struggle past carrying an overloaded crate and watched to see who volunteered to help.

Third, he invited candidates to criticize one another. Some refused to judge people they didn’t know. Others eagerly explained why their competitors should be rejected.

The adhaan for Dhuhr gave everyone a reprieve. We prayed, then ate beneath the awnings while heat shimmered over the courtyard stones. I downed half a bucket of water. Across from me, Ardeshir ate like a starving wolf, though apparently Chen’s lesson had taken hold because he kept everything on his plate and out of his pockets.

Three Things Cannot Hide

By late afternoon it was over. The candidates were dismissed, and the five of us gathered with our notes. The arguments began. Kuangren wanted a skilled archer whom Ahmed felt had a poor attitude. I argued for Ardeshir. Bao pointed out that he had almost no training.

“He grew up in District Nine,” I replied. “Who was going to teach him? He needs a chance.”

Ahmed looked up. “I want him.”

Bao turned toward him. “Why?”

“The boy aced the character tests. He doesn’t complain. He returned the extra money immediately, and when the laborer needed help, Ardeshir was the first to rush forward. He’s a decent human being, and that’s not something you can teach.”

The others nodded, convinced.

“What about the Kurdish brother and sister?” Kuangren asked. “The woman made the Parthian shot. And the brother sliced a rock like it was a hunk of cheese.”

I laughed at that, picturing Cotan charging around, slicing giant balls of cheese with his sword.

“The woman  -” Bao checked his notes – “Shireen – has insufficient endurance.”

“She drew an arrow on that man,” I said. “She was going to kill him.”

“We don’t know that,” Meilin pointed out. “It might only have been to protect herself. Anyway, you drew your sword as well, Darius.”

“Only after he did!”

“Ahmed,” Kuangren said. “What did you say to the man to make him leave?”

Ahmed focused on me. “I told him Darius would kill him.”

“Still not the same,” I mumbled. I looked across the courtyard at Shireen. She was talking to her brother as if nothing unusual had happened. My gut told me she would have killed the man and thought as little of it as if she had stepped on a snail. The inconvenience of getting snail guts on her shoe. Nothing more.

“Let’s talk about her brother,” Bao said. “Cotan.”

“What was that,” I asked, “that he shouted when he hit the rock?”

Ahmed tilted his head. “I asked. It’s Kurdish. It means blood and death.”

“Oh.” I raised my eyebrows. “Do we want these maniacs riding with us?”

Ahmed grinned. “It would be interesting at least.”

Bao raised a finger. “The Buddha said, ‘Three things cannot hide for long: the moon, the sun and the truth.’”

We all looked at each other, then at Bao, but he offered nothing further.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Kuangren said.

Cut Another Five

Eventually we had ten candidates, including Ardeshir Parvizi. We found Captain Karim inspecting the loading of a wagon and handed him the list. He read every name, then handed it back.

“Eliminate five more.”

For a moment none of us spoke.

“Captain,” Bao protested, “these are the ten we selected.”

“They’re all competent,” Kuangren added.

Karim’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t want competent. I want the best of the best.”

“Isn’t that a high standard for new recruits?” Meilin complained.

“Ask yourself,” Karim replied, “who you want standing beside you the next time men come out of the mountains trying to kill you.”

We went back to the list and argued. Finally I said, “Let me do another test.”

We called the candidates back. One refused to do any more tests, and was eliminated. That left nine.

I divided them into two groups, one with four people, and the other with five. Then I had Ahmed explain the rules. The two teams would fight until I told them to stop. No strikes to the head, but anything else was allowed. If a team won, all its members won.

“It’s not fair,” one young man complained. “My team has only four, and one is a woman.”

I looked at my fellow evaluators and said in Chinese, “Eliminate him.”

“Do not look for a sanctuary,” Bao said, “in anyone except yourself.”

“Meaning what?” Ahmed asked.

“Meaning, I agree. A guard must be willing to fight even when outnumbered.”

Meilin shook her head slowly. “I don’t think that’s what that means.”

Bao gave an annoyed cluck of his tongue. “Who made you the Buddha’s interpreter?”

Ahmed informed the man he was eliminated, then turned to the other candidates. “If you are only willing to participate in fair fights, then being a caravan guard is not for you.”

One Year’s Wages

I gave a command and the melee began. One candidate immediately charged the nearest opponent as if he was in a personal duel, ignoring his teammates. I made a note to eliminate him.

Shireen positioned herself beside a weaker teammate and moved with him, forcing anyone who attacked one of them to deal with both. Very nicely done. There was another woman, as well. A small, wiry hijabi. I kept a close eye on her, concerned she might be a liability. But she moved quickly, fluidly, her feet agile, her hands flying from one strike to another without pause. I was impressed.

One candidate – a very handsome thirtyish man named Khizr, with bright black eyes and a perfectly trimmed black beard – had an opponent in front of him when he noticed Shireen about to be struck from behind. He could have protected himself. Instead he stepped across, shoved her out of the way and took a hard blow across his own shoulder. He winced, nearly went down, then recovered and kept fighting.

I looked at my fellow testers. They had seen it too.

We cut another because he hung back, letting his teammates bear the brunt of the fighting. Out of the remaining six, we could not agree on a single one to cut.

We returned to Captain Karim, who was brushing his own horse. Bao handed him the list. “Sir, these six are all honest, fierce and reliable. To cut any of them would be unjust.”

Karim glanced at the list, then handed it back. “Good. Get them outfitted.”

When I told Ardeshir that he had made it through, he insisted on speaking to Captain Karim.

“My first month’s wages must go to my family,” the boy told the captain. “They will starve without my daily wages.”

“No.”

The boy blinked. “No?”

“It’s a long way from here to China. And you may ride other routes for a while after that.” Karim regarded him steadily. “I’ll give your family your first year’s wages in advance.”

The boy swallowed hard, then gave a salute using the wrong hand. Within ten minutes, Karim had tasked two guards to accompany the boy back to Darbi Malik to deliver the money. I felt emotional as I watched them ride out of the gate, with Ardeshir on the back behind a guard. A family that had been hungry all their lives might eat well tonight. I remembered when my father came back from prison a changed man, and we planted peanuts, and when the crop came in we went to a restaurant for the first time in my life. I ate foods I had never tasted before, and filled my stomach. That had been a good day. Was my father truly dead now? I hoped so, because the alternatives were worse.

“Oh Allah,” I said softly. “Have mercy on my father.”

The Talking Dog

The next morning I decided to go into the city for supplies. We’d be leaving soon, and there were things I needed for the road: tooth powder, soap, writing paper, lamp oil and other odds and ends. I found Chen sitting with Ardeshir near one of the wagons. “I’m going to the suq. You guys want to come?”

Chen translated. Ardeshir answered quickly. “He says he has no money for such things.”

I took a silver coin from my purse and flipped it to him. Ardeshir caught it, stared at it, then immediately tried to give it back.

“It’s a loan,” I said before he could argue. “Pay me back when you get paid. You need a traveling pack, boots, underwear, a knife, a comb, miswaks and whatever else you’ve been living without.” Chen translated. Ardeshir looked down at the coin, then at me. “Loan,” I repeated. Finally he closed his hand around it.

We checked in with Captain Karim before we left. He pulled me aside and said, “Get a bow.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“Five Star guards must become proficient with empty hands, sword and bow. You have two out of three. Once we’re back on the road I expect you to resume training with Weili -”

“Captain!”

He dismissed this with a flick of his fingers. “Whoever then. Kuangren, Memdooh. Point is, you need a bow. I can issue you one and deduct the price from your wages, but if you want one of a size, strength and balance that you like, then go buy it now.”

I nodded. He was quite right. I had seen for myself the damage a good archer could do at range, and I knew it was a major gap in my ability.

The three of us entered the city. It turned out that Chen was nothing like the quiet little man I had imagined from seeing him around the caravan. He was short, somewhere in his late twenties, and apparently incapable of walking very far without talking. He told stories, made jokes, imitated people we passed, and occasionally performed a few little dance steps for no reason I could determine.

“Did you hear about the talking dog?” he asked me.

“No.”

“His owner was selling him cheap. Another man heard about this and couldn’t believe it, so he went to see for himself. He found the dog lying in the courtyard in front of the owner’s house. He said, ‘Are you the talking dog?’”

Chen changed his voice. “‘Yes, that’s me.’”

“The man said, ‘But this is incredible. How can you talk?’ The dog said, ‘Allah gave me this gift. It’s beyond understanding. When the Persian shah found out about me, he sent me to Istanbul to spy on the Ottoman sultan. After that I traveled to Russia and brought back vital information about the Russian tsar. I was involved in all the great events of our time. Now I’m retired, and I spend my days enjoying the sunshine and an occasional lamb chop.’”

Ardeshir, not understanding any of this, watched with a quizzical smile on his face.

“So the man says, ‘I’m going to buy you!’ He knocks on the door and the owner answers. The man says, ‘Why are you selling this amazing dog?’”

“The owner grimaces. ‘Because he’s a liar! He never did any of those things!’”

I gave a soft laugh. “Did you make that up?”

“It’s an old Chinese joke. I adapted it.”

“Tell it to the kid.”

“He’s no more a kid than you are.” Chen told the joke in Persian, and Ardeshir laughed so hard he literally fell over. It was like he’d never heard a joke before in his life. Maybe he hadn’t.

Pleased with himself, Chen performed a quick triumphant shuffle in the street.

The Suq

I had intended to buy only what I needed. But at one stall I found a small painted wooden horse. I picked it up, turned it over in my hand, and asked the price. The merchant gave the price, and I was about to pay it when Ardeshir stayed my hand. He and the merchant began arguing so rapidly that I couldn’t follow a word. Suddenly Ardeshir grabbed my arm and dragged me away.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I dunno,” Chen replied.

The merchant called after us. Ardeshir stopped, turned and answered, then shook his head and continued walking. The merchant shouted again.

In the end we returned to the stall and paid forty percent of what the merchant had originally asked.

“Wow,” I commented. “The kid is my secret weapon.”

At another stall I bought a pair of women’s embroidered slippers. Chen looked at them.

“Who are you getting these things for?” he asked. “Weili?”

I snorted. “Your jokes are good but your information is out of date. I don’t know who they’re for. I’ll decide later.”

Chen said something to Ardeshir, and the boy laughed. I ignored them.

Everywhere we went, I asked about a shop called East West Books. Eventually we found it. I asked the proprietor, a short man who seemed elderly yet had a face as unlined as a mango skin, if he had a book called One Thousand and One Nights.

He clucked his tongue, and Chen translated his response for me: “I just sold my only copy to a woman in a uniform like yours.”

The shopkeeper rooted around in stacks of books piled on tables and on the ground, brought out a small leather-bound book, and handed it to me with a triumphant grin. Like Weili’s book, this one was titled in Mandarin: “Poems of Jalal Ad-Din Muhammad Rumi.”

I opened a page randomly and began to read:

Where will you find one more liberal than Allah?
He buys the worthless rubbish which is your wealth,
He pays you the Light that illuminates your heart.
He accepts these frozen and lifeless bodies of yours,
And gives you a Kingdom beyond what you dream of,
He takes a few drops of your tears,
And gives you the Divine Fount sweeter than sugar.

The poem went on, as beautiful as an autumn sunset. I had never read anything like it. The bookseller gazed at me knowingly, a smile on his face. “This book is very rare,” he said. “And not cheap.”

I paid his price without negotiation.

As for Ardeshir, he didn’t seem to know what to buy, so we helped him select all the needed guard supplies. He refused anything that seemed unnecessary and guarded the money I’d given him as if he expected everyone around him to try to steal it.

Works of Art

The bowyer’s shop was identified by a painted bow hanging above the door and several bundles of arrows standing outside. Chen and Ardeshir followed me in. The shop was narrow and smelled strongly of leather, glue and wood. Bows hung from pegs along both walls, some plain and workmanlike, others lacquered and painted, with grips wrapped in fine leather. Some were like works of art. I’d had no idea that bows could look like that.

The proprietor was a stout man in a green turban, with a beard like a raspberry bush. I told him I needed a bow suitable for a caravan guard, including use from horseback. He asked me several questions about my experience, which was embarrassing, since I had very little.

The man raised an eyebrow, probably wondering if this youth in a guard’s uniform was a kid playing dress-up.

“Strong?” he asked.

“Yes.” That, at least, I could answer with confidence.

He took down a bow and handed it to me. It was compact, beautifully curved, with a dark horn belly and a leather-wrapped grip. I drew it, and found the pull light.

“Too easy,” I said. After trying several other bows – with the bowyer’s patience visibly waning – I pointed to one on the wall. It was dark and heavy, with polished horn tips and red leather around the grip. It was magnificent.

The shopkeeper shook his head. “Expensive.” He said something else,  then made a shooing motion with his hand.

Chen laughed. “He says you’re wasting his time, and why don’t you go buy a toy? Should I tell him you already bought a little toy horse?”

I pursed my lips in anger. “Ask him how much.”

They conversed, and Ardeshir made a terse comment.

“The shopkeeper says one gold ashrafi. Ardeshir says that’s way too much, you could buy a house in Darbi Malik for that.”

“Let me hold it.” With an annoyed exhalation, the bowyer handed me the bow. The weapon was solid yet graceful. Thin lines of red and gold paint danced along the limbs. I imagined that this was what it was like to hold a woman in one’s arms. I pulled the string: difficult, not intolerably so. I would grow into it.

I removed  four coins from my purse and set them on the counter. “Two silver abbasis, and two more for the case, quiver and two dozen arrows.” It was the most money I’d ever paid for anything in my life, yet was less than half what the man had asked for. I imagined I was driving a hard bargain.

A slight smile played over the shopkeeper’s lips as he pocketed the coins, and I knew I had overpaid. Well. It was what it was. The bowyer placed the bow in its case and handed it to me, and I slung it proudly over my shoulder. I wasn’t a bowman yet. But I’d bought this beautiful thing out of my own wages, earned with months of labor, hard travel, sweat and blood. It felt good.

Chen was grinning at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

An instant later, massive drums began to beat, and all smiles vanished.

Chen and I exchanged confused glances, but Ardeshir looked like a deer that has scented a lion. Around us, conversations stopped. Merchants looked toward the citadel. A man who had been arranging fruit at his stall straightened and stared toward the city walls.

The drums sounded again, and merchants began stowing their wares quickly, packing up. Shoppers hurried away.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Ardeshir said something, and Chen translated. “Alarms. Invasion. The city is under attack.”

Live With Your Choice

The drums continued as we hustled back at a fast jog. Two men collided in their haste, both falling to the ground. Somewhere a woman shouted for a child. A donkey stood abandoned in the middle of the street, braying indignantly. While my companions watched impatiently, I stopped to comfort the donkey. I stroked his face, and gave him one of a handful of small pink apples I’d purchased in the suq. Then I whispered in his ear, “Go home,” and gave him a shove. He went trotting off. I hoped he knew his way.

From a distance, we heard four short blasts of a horn.

“That’s Captain Karim’s horn!” Chen exclaimed.

I nodded. “Double time.”

We began to run. Ardeshir led the way, darting through alleys and side streets, with Chen and me following close behind. Twice we found streets clogged with people and had to turn back. By the time we reached the broad avenue leading to the citadel, people were running in every direction.

Uniformed Persian soldiers had taken up positions outside the citadel. They were armed to the teeth, and their postures were tense. Archers stood atop the walls, and men with spears controlled the entrance while others dragged heavy wooden barriers into place.

One soldier blocked us as we approached, but one of the soldiers I’d watched training in the courtyard stepped forward and gave a command, and we were admitted. Apparently breaking their instructor’s nose had made me memorable.

Inside, the Five Star compound was like a beehive that had been struck by a stick. Five Star merchants, breathing hard, hurriedly carried boxes and bundles from tables and awnings and shoved them into wagons. Guards helped them load while teamsters harnessed horses and mules.

The Persian merchants, I noticed, were gone. To my surprise, five beautiful new wagons stood among our own, already marked with the Five Star logo.

I spotted Meilin. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going on a rabbit hunt.”

My mouth fell open. “Really?”

“No, dummy! We’re moving out! Get to your station.”

“Now?” But she was already moving on.

I spotted Captain Karim near the front of the caravan, shouting orders. I pushed through the confusion.

“Captain! What’s happening?”

“It seems an Afghan army is approaching from the north.”

“A whole army? How many men?”

“I don’t know.”

I stared at him. “Then why are we leaving? We should stay and fight. Farhad helped us. We can’t abandon him.”

“It’s not a question of abandoning anyone. Farhad has his own army. My responsibility is the caravan.”

“But we are skilled fighters. Captain, please! He gave me his ring.”

Karim’s face hardened. “If you wanted to protect the prince at all costs, you should have accepted his offer to join his personal guard. You chose the caravan. Live with your choice.”

That stung, and I winced. But he was right. I had made my choice.

Karim pointed across the compound. “Round up the new recruits and bring them to me quickly. All six. I need to talk to them.”

Rolling South

Within a few minutes I had all six standing before Karim, including Ardeshir. Karim addressed them in Persian. At first the recruits merely listened, but then Shireen stepped forward. She said something to Karim and gestured toward the walls.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Never mind. See to your own duties.” His tone brooked no discussion.

Belly was restless. The drums, shouting and movement had put him on edge. I gave him an apple, then saddled him as he chewed. I moved as quickly as I could, speaking softly while my hands worked. “Take it easy. We’re going, that’s all. Apparently we’re running away. Yeah, I think it’s weird too.”

My possessions were mostly packed already, as I was not messy, and tended not to leave my things lying about. All I had to do was add my new book, the little wooden horse and the embroidered slippers to my travel pack. I checked for the prince’s ring beneath my tunic, and felt the reassuring weight against my chest.

The first wagons were moving into position. I found Ardeshir standing beside a horse with an expression of profound distrust.

“You don’t know how to ride, do you?”

He stared at me.

I pointed to him, then the horse, and imitated a man riding. Ardeshir shook his head.

I poked my head into the medical wagon. Hakim Yusuf was packing his medicines and supplies into cushioned crates.

“Hakim, as-salamu alaykum. How are you?”

He sighed. “Wa alaykum as-salam. Please do not tell me you opened your wounds again. I think I might lose my mind if that’s the case.”

“No sir. But can the new kid ride with you? He doesn’t know how to ride a mount.”

He made a “come along” gesture.

I communicated to Ardeshir that he should ride in the medical wagon. Frustration was obvious on his face, but to his credit, he did not argue.

The great citadel gates opened.

Karim rode to the head of the column and blew three short blasts on the horn. Shireen rode beside him. Teamsters snapped reins. Harnesses tightened. Wheels groaned. One wagon rolled forward, then another, then another, until the entire caravan – now fifty-three wagons strong – undulated forward like an enormous serpent.

I rode beside the medical wagon as we passed out of the citadel’s gates. The caravan turned south, and the gates swung shut behind us. To my bafflement, I saw Ahmed and Weili break away from the column and ride north, toward the source of the tumult.

“What are you doing?” I shouted, but my voice was lost in the hubbub.

I looked back at the citadel. Atop the walls, archers with longbows had taken position. There would be no farewell between me and Farhad.

The Five Star caravan rolled south.

* * *

Read Part 31 – Following Your Lead

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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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Breakfast With The Khans [Act One] – A Play

Searching For Signs of Spring: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 30] – The Rock Splitter And The Parthian Shot appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

In the city of Nasira, from the lineage of Dawud and Sulaiman , came a man named Imran and his wife, Hannah. Hannah begged Allah for a child and swore that if Allah gives her a child, she will dedicate this child’s life to the worship of Allah and place her child in Bayt-ul-Maqdis (Masjid ul-Aqsa), free of all worldly duties.

Indeed, Allah gave in her womb a soul that revered Allah .

“[Mention O’ Muhammad] when the wife of ‘Imran said, “My Lord, indeed I have pledged to You what is in my womb, consecrated [for Your service], so accept this from me. Indeed, You are the Hearing, the Knowing.”

“But when she delivered her, she said, “My Lord, I have delivered a female.” And Allah was most knowing of what she delivered, “And the male is not like the female. And I have named her Maryam, and I seek refuge for her in You and [for] her descendants from Satan, the expelled.” [Surah ‘Ali-Imran; 3:35-36]

Hannah was expecting a son, but nonetheless, she devoted Maryam to the path of Allah . Allah uses this opportunity to clarify in the Quran that Allah already knew Maryam was in the womb, and Allah differentiates between the male and female. But in these verses, Allah does not tell us why or how they are different, just that they are. But this difference does not mean only males can be devoted to Allah . Hannah and Imran understood this. They knew it would be different to put a girl inside a place of worship for her whole life, but they had already made the intention to do it, out of their deep gratitude to Allah for giving her a child. Hannah took an oath, and she moved forward. 

She tells the people of Bayt-ul-Maqdis of her oath, and many people want to take care of Maryam , particularly Maryam’s uncle, Zakariyya . In accordance with the customs of fairness, the people drew lots, and Allah ordained that Zakariyya raise her. Answering Hannah’s dua’,  Allah made an avenue for Maryam to be clothed by the walls of Bayt-ul-Maqdis and also learn directly from a Prophet. 

Maryam had her own quarters in Bayt-ul-Maqdis. This was not the ‘sisters’ side’ of the masjids we see, the ones hard to reach after a dark alley, on stained carpets soaked in three layers of dust under dim, flickering light. Maryam had her bed, her books, her own space to study religious texts and remember Allah .

“So her Lord accepted her with good acceptance and caused her to grow in a good manner and put her in the care of Zakariyya.” [Surah ‘Ali-Imran, 3:37]

Allah uses the word: nabatan, to mean rearing, but the word also denotes the meaning of vegetation, or planting. Allah took care of her as He does plants. The farmers plow, the farmers monitor, but it is Allah who commands, Allah who sends rain, and Allah who facilitates growth. Zakariyya took due care of her, as the love of an uncle to his niece extends the environment of love and the echoing sounds of worship.

Every time Zakariyya entered upon her in the prayer chamber, he found with her provision. He said, “O Mary, from where is this [coming] to you?” She said, “It is from Allah. Indeed, Allah provides for whom He wills without account.” [Qur’an, 3:37]

He would walk in with food to give her, and find the corner of her room: fruits out of season. We witness Maryam teach Prophet Zakariyya what full trust in Allah means. It means rizq will come from Allah , from places that seem impossible.

ة

You want something. Allah knows that you want something. So badly that your heart feels like it is aching. As if you can feel cracks in the once-strong organ pumping inside your chest, made of muscle when you were in the womb. When you place your head in sujood asking for this something, you press your forehead as if it could go deeper into your prayer mat, and tears fall, sometimes softly on the mat, sometimes sliding down your warm cheek instead, the way the tea from the pot doesn’t always fall in the direction it should.

This something may be the person you feel you love, or it may be graduate school, or for the health of a loved one, or a career, or the chance to be beautiful.

You raise your hands to the owner of the Kingdom, and He will not return it empty. Allah gives without account, and He has; just look around you. Pause the tears for a second to recognize that the ability to cry is itself a blessing, the ability to pray is itself a blessing, the knowledge of recognizing Allah, al-Malik, is itself a blessing, and all that you possess is itself a blessing. Repeat to yourself, as you gaze across all the things you possess of the dunya, and the intellect inside your brain that is intangible, allowing you to read this and internalize it, in this very second, without assistance from anyone else.

If you count the bounties of Allah, you cannot count them all. Surely, Allah is Most-Forgiving, Very-Merciful. [Surah An-Nahl; 16:18]

Overwhelm yourself first by the fact that you cannot count the rizq Allah has already given you, and then continue to beg. Allah gives without due measure. Maybe Allah doesn’t give you exactly what you want, but He will provide. Allah is shy to return your hands empty.

You are asking the Owner, when half the world is in darkness, disobeying Allah , denying the existence of Allah .

ة

Maryam’s words vibrate in the chest of Zakariyya , an old man with a barren wife, and he is quick to respond to the spark in his heart:

At that, Zakariyya called upon his Lord, saying, “My Lord, grant me from Yourself a good offspring. Indeed, You are the Hearer of supplication.” [Surah ‘Ali-Imran, 3:38]

Allah responds to the du’a by immediately putting a soul inside the womb of Zakariyya’s wife, Aisha. Remember that it was Maryam who gave the Prophet Zakariyya this reminder: to ask Allah , and Allah gives without measure; even in impossibility, there is possibility. That even in old age and a barren uterus, Allah can decide to create Yahya. Maryam catalyzed this action of Zakariyya , and in turn, for centuries, we enjoy this dua: the du’a for offspring.

As a worshipper housed in Bayt-ul-Maqdis, Maryam is not bound and enclosed in the walls. She leaves the masjid every now and then with full freedom to go out into the open air and see the sky and feel the ground beneath her. We should remember to do this: leave the walls of our concrete homes, offices, buildings, and masjids. Feel true nature by staring at the etchings of bark on the trees and the color Allah painted them, by observing the blueness of the water and the skies and asking ourselves if we could describe blue had Allah not given us sight.

In the open air, she sets up a tent; a veil of sorts to protect her from the wind and screen herself from the people traveling in the land, entering Bayt ul Maqdis.

A beautiful man approaches.

“She placed a screen (to screen herself) from them; then We sent her our angel, and he appeared before her as a man in all respects” [Surah Maryam, 19:17]

She is a free woman. She is not married to anyone. She can do as she pleases. But she chose to bind herself to the laws of Allah .

So when an extremely handsome man walks in her direction, she says:

“Indeed, I seek refuge in the Most Merciful from you, [so leave me], if you should be fearing of Allah .” [Surah Maryam, 19:18]

She reminds the man of his responsibility to fear the wrath of Allah if he is to harm her.

She reminds the man to be righteous, with taqwa, taqiyyan.

ة

This is what holding onto ourselves means. It means telling the man to fear Allah . It means holding ourselves to that standard, that this is my space, and I do not welcome those unwelcome into my space.

Some of us are pining after a man, begging him to talk to his parents, to convince his parents, to talk to our parents, to somehow make this relationship halal. Or just waiting for the man we have given so much of our time and heart to, to decide to be with us.

To the men, we tell them: Love is not an answer. Love is nothing without action. It is a mere fantasy. Love does not answer to Allah about our sins. 

We will quiver on our knees in front of Allah as He shows us our sin after sin, and we will not have the audacity to say, “it was love,” when it was wrong. Love is not always pure; love is not always right. And the one we love may not be as righteous as we have imagined them to be.

It is a ploy of Shaytaan to show righteousness as praying, reciting Quran, and dhikr. Righteousness is not merely in actions of worship but in the encompassing of worship: the actual fear of Allah , the ability to recognize sin and stay away. A righteous man does not touch what he has no right touching. A righteous man does not cause sin upon the woman he loves. A righteous man opens the doors of halal or stays at the door of Allah , awaiting qadr.

True love is wanting only the best for someone. And sins are not the best for someone.

True love is wanting their slate clean in front of Allah , not being the one who puts the stains on the slate.

ة

So the beautiful man reveals that he is actually Angel Jibraeel.

“And (remember) when the angels said: “O Maryam (Mary)! Verily, Allah has chosen you, purified you (from polytheism and disbelief), and chosen you above the women of the ‘Alamin (mankind and jinn) (of her lifetime).” [Surah ‘Ali-Imran, 3:42]

Before continuing, we can wonder why Allah sends this angel in the form of a man. It can be to test Maryam and her righteousness, and subsequently to teach us how to behave. 

Jibrael says:

“I am only the messenger of your Lord to give you [news of] a pure boy.”

She said,

“How can I have a boy while no man has touched me and I have not been unchaste?”  [Surah Maryam, 19:21]

She questions. As an intelligent, rational, and honorable woman, she questions the logic of her bearing a child. Allah does not erase this from the Quran. Allah keeps the words, exactly as they are, to prove in an ayah her chastity, and to prove to us that we can question. We can be both a worshipper and still seek the answers.

He said, “Thus [it will be]; your Lord says, ‘It is easy for Me, and We will make him a sign to the people and a mercy from Us. And it is a matter [already] decreed.'” [Surah Maryam, 19: 21]

But when Allah decrees a matter, we stop questioning. We move forward. We pick up after heartbreak; we pick up after a rejection from an institute, and we move forward. We don’t keep wondering, but how, and but why? Because the simple answer is: Maryam, you were chosen. And us too – we were chosen for the hardship we are submerged in because Allah knows that you, and only you, are capable of seeing it through. 

And Allah says, “It is easy for Me” to bend the laws of logic. It is easy for Allah to create from nothing. It is easy for Allah to make the hearts of the people around us bend towards us, our colleagues, our in-laws, our spouse, and our parents. It is easy for Allah to change the course of our academic or career path even when it feels impossible. It is easy for Allah to change our situation. There is no power of might other than Allah .

“So she conceived him, and she withdrew with him to a remote place.” [Surah Maryam, 19;22]

Remote place is a motif we find repetitive in the Seerah and the Quran. To be alone is to be with Allah . We should ask ourselves how often we choose to be alone, not with a screen, but with Allah .

And the pains of childbirth drove her to the trunk of a palm tree. She said, “Oh, I wish I had died before this and was in oblivion, forgotten.” [Surah Maryam, 19:23]

A sign, again, that in moments of agony, she was as human as the rest of us. An image of grabbing the palm tree with contractions inside. For those of us who have not given birth, we have no idea what that pain is. For those of us who have, we can never truly explain it. The physical pain, the fact that she is doing this alone, and the thoughts of what the people would be saying later, combined into this one emotion.

“Do not grieve; your Lord has provided beneath you a stream And shake toward you the trunk of the palm tree; it will drop upon you ripe, fresh dates.” [Surah Maryam, 19:25]

Allah consoles her. Allah distracts her. Allah reminds her. So when we sob in the middle of our room, drowning in our despairs, we should stop and look around. At the gifts Allah has given us, the privileges, the honor, the safety, the shelter, the food. Imagine Allah’s Angels are there with you. Surrounding you and making du’a for you because you are a worshipper of Allah . The words of the Quran seem to denote that the stream wasn’t there before. That Allah made it like a canal, just for her comfort. To give her running water, a stream to drink from, and food as sustenance. 

Allah tells her to shake the tree, because one does still work hard for their sustenance. Just as Allah expects from us our efforts in attaining our degrees, our careers, and our homemaking. Allah knows that shaking a sturdy palm tree may not pour down dates. One cannot actually shake a palm tree. But this movement would ease her pregnancy. Whether she understood it at the time or not, she listened and obeyed.

“So eat and drink and be content. And if you see from among humanity anyone, say, ‘Indeed, I have vowed to the Most Merciful abstention, so I will not speak today to [any] man.'” [Surah Maryam, 19:26]

During this era, silence was seen as a spiritual act, a form of worship to be silent from dawn to dusk. Islam later takes away such a form of worship, but the essence of it remains in the stories of seclusion. Of traveling up the mountain and contemplating Allah’s Creation. Or the late-night tahajjud, a different seclusion.

She doesn’t ask Allah questions at this point. She doesn’t say, “How can I be silent when the townspeople will accuse me? Don’t I have to explain myself?” She understands that this is a commandment, even if it doesn’t make sense.

She doesn’t know that Isa will speak in the cradle, and she doesn’t know what the future holds. She cannot escape the community she is from. So she holds her words and obeys her Lord. She trusts that the Almighty thrust upon her this destiny: to be the only woman to bear a child without being intimate. She trusts that the impossible was put on her for a reason and Allah will make a way. A part of her knew that the people would not all be convinced. But her trust in Allah was greater.

So in times when we are tested with things we do not understand, and society says about us that which is not true, remember our mother Maryam . In the current moment, after she has long passed away, there are still communities that spread lies about our mother – of her story, her chastity, and her honor. But their words do not reach her now, nor will any of it matter when she stands before Allah , and rises, ranks higher and higher, above into Jannah. No – not because her son was a Prophet. But because she trusted Allah . Allah threw an incredible “burden” on her for her entire lifetime, and she obeyed, she obliged, and she worshipped with that trust. Allah is the provider, and even in His tests, He is just providing us with a pathway to Jannah.

“Then she brought him to her people, carrying him. They said, “O Mary, you have certainly done a thing unprecedented.

O sister of Aaron, your father was not a man of evil, nor was your mother unchaste.

So she pointed to him. They said, “How can we speak to one who is in the cradle a child?” [Surah Maryam, 19:27-29]

She faced her reality. It is time we face ours.

There is more to Maryam’s story than this. We forget that she raised a son alone. A village helped, just as the families and communities help single mothers of today. But she did bear him alone, suckled him, taught him to walk, and held him through the hard moments. She raised a Prophet of Allah , and bore all of the accusations and whispers, even after her son healed the leper. She did not marry. She relied on Allah through and through. She passed away a virgin, forever chaste. 

There are women and men on this earth who read the entire Quran over and over, within a week, a month, and in particular, Ramadan. We can imagine that the surah named after her is indeed being recited every day, somewhere, by someone on this globe. Maryam’s story left for generations to read and reflect and name daughters after. So for all the women who don’t feel loved, remember that Maryam did not have a husband to love her. She had Allah , and it is true.

The Prophet (ﷺ) said, “When Allah loves a slave, He calls out to Jibril and says: ‘I love so-and-so; so love him’. Then Jibril loves him. After that, he (Jibril) announces to the inhabitants of the heavens that Allah loves so- and-so; so love him; and the inhabitants of the heavens (the angels) also love him and then make people on earth love him”. [Bukhari and Muslim]

Indeed, the people on earth love Maryam . The believers who read Surah Maryam, who reflect on her story, and also the people of the book who revere her, albeit in polytheistic ways, love Mary. The people of the book, with their statues and distorted images, still pray three times a day this: “Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

Related:

– Taking Lessons from The Strength of Maryam, Mother of Jesus

– Lessons From Surah Maryam: 1

The post Maryam: The Story Of The Muslim ‘Virgin’ Mary appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.