Leo Terrell led the taskforce accused of spurious accusations of antisemitism to pressure universities and their Muslim staff.

Terrorized by Terrell?

The taskforce, headed by lawyer Leo Terrell, was set up by Trump in the winter of 2025 as part of a Republican campaign to root out alleged antisemitism on campuses. As MuslimMatters among other outlets documented, reckless accusations of antisemitism had been used since the late days of Trump’s Democratic predecessor Joseph Biden (2021-25) to justify major crackdowns, including violence against peaceful protesters, on American campuses in 2023-24 with the tacit or overt approval of university administrators. The fact that their victims included Jews critical of Israel cut little ice with these supposed champions against antisemitism. However, even this alarmingly callous disregard for student well-being or indeed for basic facts of the case was insufficient for bipartisan Zionist politicians, whose Republican wing launched a major attack to browbeat university administrators into further concessions.

When the Republicans came to power, Trump lost no time in bowing to this pressure and signing off on an inter-departmental taskforce against antisemitism: this targeted three top “Ivy League” universities: Brown, Columbia, and Harvard.

Whose Cancel Culture?

The campaign fitted easily with longstanding rightwing complaints about alleged university indoctrination, a complaint whose latest iteration frequently attacks “wokism” on campuses. This “wokism”, often synonymized with left-wing politics, internationalism, or concern about social injustices, has long been blamed by many rightwing activists for challenging their preferred weltenschaung and supposedly “cancelling” conservative or rightwing figures from universities.

Ironically, however, the taskforce’s driving force also borrowed from the tradition of Campus Watch, a Zionist pressure group influential in hounding out pro-Palestinian, and generally independently minded Muslim, academics and students off campuses. Founded a generation ago, early in the “War on Terror”, by the Islamophobic provocateur Daniel Pipes, a professor of questionable integrity, Campus Watch was an academic forerunner among a number of Zionist pressure groups that have abounded since in other facets of society, such as media, social groups, and business. Such pressure groups as the Anti-Defamation League and Canary Project have repeatedly launched campaigns to silence, sideline, sack, and otherwise purge from polite society any figure who spoke up for Palestine in particular and in favour of Muslim causes or Islamic principles more generally.

These sorts of networks were instrumental in whipping hysteria about alleged antisemitism when protests against Israel’s genocide of Palestine began in 2023-24. They influenced both Democratic politicians, as seen during the crackdowns during Biden’s last year of office, and their Republican counterparts. This occurred even as younger Americans in both parties and beyond have become more critical of Israel during its genocide, with Israel and Zionist thinktanks also widely seen as instigating a dead-end war with Iran in 2026.

Leading Democrat Jamie Raskin has questioned the taskforce’s integrity.

“Raskin” Careers

Van Eren resigned in May 2025, a few months after Terrell’s taskforce was founded. In a complaint disclosed to the Associated Press, her lawyers have alleged that the taskforce predetermined the results of its investigation without evidence for political purposes. This “politically mandated effort” is alleged to have been a method to extract funds and concessions from pressured universities.

Raskin, meanwhile, wrote to Harmeet Dhillon, the Assistant Attorney-General for Civil Rights to whom taskforce chief Terrell also served as Senior Counsel. After yielding a need to combat antisemitism, he added: “your ‘investigation’ into antisemitism was fake, a pre-baked frame-up operation thoroughly political in nature.”

Though it may come as little surprise to much of the American Muslim community and indeed many non-Muslims familiar with the cases, Van Erem’s complaint is also noteworthy in its square allegation that government “officials targeted some Middle East Studies faculty for the content of their work and other professors for their Muslim faith.”

This “whole project,” Raskin charged in his letter to Dhillon, “was designed to harass professors and administrators at major universities, to curtail their freedom of speech and academic freedom, and to strip targeted institutions of hundreds of millions of dollars in grants that they had already been awarded on the merits of their applications.”

The post “Pre-Baked Frame-up Operation”: allegations of antisemitism politicization in campus crackdown appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This is part two of a two-part story. Read Part 1

* * *

Cosmic Joke

The afternoon was pleasantly cool, yet sweat poured down his face. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and looked toward the curb.

The space where he had parked his Lexus was empty.

He stared.

“No…”

He looked up and down the street. Perhaps he’d parked farther away. He walked half a block in each direction.

Nothing, of course. Someone had stolen his car. What else had he expected? The cosmic joke continued. He spat on the sidewalk, then reached into his pocket for his phone, to call the cops.

His pocket was empty, of course. He laughed weakly. There was nothing else to do. He began walking home.

It took nearly two hours.

By the time he reached his neighborhood, his legs trembled with exhaustion. His mouth was dry. His shirt clung to his back. The familiar sight of his house brought no comfort. He unlocked the front door and stumbled inside. All he wanted was to lie down.

Passing through the kitchen, he saw that the mound of wet food still sat untouched in Georgie Boy’s bowl. Flies crawled over it. No sign of Georgie Boy. The beast was probably hiding somewhere, sulking because Bashir had interrupted whatever pointless journey it had imagined itself to be on.

He walked through the house mechanically, barely noticing that the living room furniture was gone. His mind had become strangely dull. He climbed the stairs to the bedroom on the second floor. Bed. Sleep. That was all he needed.

Primordial Muck

He pushed open the bedroom door and took one step inside, but his foot did not strike hardwood. Instead, it sank. Soft, cold earth swallowed his shoe to the ankle.

He gasped and pitched forward onto his hands and knees. His hands sank just as deeply. Frigid mud oozed between his fingers. He stared in disbelief. The hardwood floor was gone. The entire bedroom had become a pit of dark, wet earth that stank of decay, earthworms and primordial muck.

“No!”

He struggled to pull himself free, but the mud held him. His knees disappeared beneath the surface, and his hands sank up to the wrists.

His breathing came in quick, ragged little bursts. The imam… He squeezed his eyes shut. What had the imam told to say, to repeat? He couldn’t remember the words. His mind, which could recite the ticker symbol for every stock sold on the Nikkei index, and which could recall lightning-fast every fault anyone had ever committed, found only emptiness.

“Sherry…” His voice cracked. “Sherry!”

His chin trembled.

“Oh, Sherry…”

No one else came to his mind. His imagination brought up the face of no other family member or friend. After all, he had stopped speaking to his parents years ago, and his brother had stopped speaking to him. Friends had drifted away one by one until there were none left. At work they smiled politely to his face and mocked him behind his back.

Only Sherry had remained. She had listened to his complaints, absorbed his insults, forgiven his endless criticism, and quietly loved him anyway.

The cold mud had reached his waist. It was sucking the life out of him. He stopped struggling as a terrible calm settled over him. This was it, this was his death.

There was something a Muslim was supposed to say before dying. He had heard it all his life. He opened his mouth, but nothing came. The words had deserted him just as everything else had. Like Sherry, like Georgie Boy, the words had walked away, right out of his lungs.

He began to sob, but no sound emerged. The stink of the mud filled his nostrils, suffocating him.

He tried to draw a breath, but there was no breath. The air itself had gone. He tried to sob, but no sound came. His chest heaved, but his lungs refused to fill. There was no air. It had vanished as completely as everything else had vanished. Darkness crept inward from the edges of his vision, and for the first time in his life Bashir believed, with absolute certainty, that he was dying.

A Voice

Then he heard a voice.

“Honey?”

A warm hand rested gently on his shoulder.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Is it your heart?”

His eyes flew open.

Sherry was kneeling beside him, her face drawn with concern. For several seconds he simply stared at her, unable to speak. The hardwood floor was beneath him, smooth and solid. The bed stood beside him exactly where it had always been. Early afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains, laying bright rectangles across the quilt. He drew a long, trembling breath, and with it came the familiar scent of the soft floral perfume Sherry had worn for as long as he could remember.

Tears welled in his eyes and spilled freely down his cheeks.

“Are you really here?” he whispered.

Sherry brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead and rested the back of her hand against his skin. “Yes, I’m here.”

He could only look at her. He noticed the gentle lines that had formed at the corners of her eyes over the years, the first strands of silver beginning to weave through her dark hair, and the quiet kindness that had always lived in her expression.

The words the imam had told him to say came to his mind, and he said them out loud now.

“SubhanAllah wa bihamdihi,” he said softly.

Sherry blinked.

Bashir smiled through his tears. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You are a gift and a blessing.”

Sherry’s face went white. “You’ve never said anything like that to me before. Ever. Now I know something’s wrong. Come on. Let me help you up. I think we should go to the emergency room.”

A First

Instead of taking her hand, Bashir took both of them and gently drew her down beside him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, burying his face against her shoulder. She smelled of shampoo, and that faint floral perfume he had scarcely noticed in years. To him, it was sweeter than the finest perfume in the world.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured. “I thought you left me.”

She pulled away slightly. Her expression was harder than he was used to.

“I did,” she said. “I went to my sister’s house. I wasn’t going to come back.”

His mouth fell open. “You did? But… why?”

She pulled away further. “Do you really have to ask?”

His gaze fell. “No, I guess not. I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?”

His voice was a whisper. “For spending twenty years noticing everything that was wrong with you and nothing that was right.”

She searched his expression, trying to decide whether he was joking, delirious, or sincere. At last she smiled, the familiar smile that had greeted him so many mornings.

“Well,” she said, “that’s a first.”

“Why did you come back?” he asked.

Her expression became thoughtful, distant. “I’m not sure. Just a feeling.”

“Are you staying?”

She tapped his forehead with a perfectly manicured index finger. “That, my dear Bashir, is up to you. It always has been. Just know that the first time you call me stupid, useless or idiot, I will be gone again, and I won’t come back. I mean it.”

Bashir, remembering himself sinking into the cold, life-sucking mud, nodded quickly.

“I need a verbal response,” Sherry said, and her tone was steel. “The first time, I will be gone. Not the second, not the third. The very first time. Do you get it?”

“Yes, baby. I understand.”

From downstairs came an impatient meow, followed by another.

Sherry inclined her head. “Georgie Boy wants dinner.”

Bashir nodded. “He didn’t eat the last can I opened for him, the big idi – I mean… The big…” He searched for a kind word. “Sweetheart.”

Sherry laughed. “And after we feed him?”

“Is the kitchen table still there?”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Of course.”

He nodded, relieved. “Then you can make scrambled eggs.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “For dinner? The scrambled eggs you always complain about?”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“Right now, I would die for those scrambled eggs.” He gave one final shudder and stood. A rectangle of afternoon sunlight came through the window and turned one side of his body nearly white. Outside, a squirrel chattered. His wife took his hand, and they went downstairs.

* * *

THE END

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

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

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

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The post When The Bed Walked Away [Part 2] – Primordial Muck appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Mustache, a film written and directed by Imran J. Khan, was released on VOD (available to rent or buy) on July 31st, 2026. This delightful indie film portrays a highly specific story about a Pakistani-American Muslim boy, yet is universal enough to easily reach broad audiences. Notably, it features a star-studded team, at least in the South Asian Muslim film world (Rizwan Manji, Hasan Minhaj, Riz Ahmed), and won the Narrative Feature Competition Audience Award at the 2023 SXSW Film & TV Festival.

I give this film a five-star review. What makes this film stand out as the first of its kind is that its high production quality matches how earnest and heartfelt the film is. It has no ulterior motive–it’s not trying to convince viewers of a political or religious message as many Muslim projects in the West do. It is only trying to tell the story of a boy as fully and authentically as possible.

Summary

Mustache follows a high school freshman, Ilyas, who is a bit of an oddball. Set in Northern California in the 90s, Ilyas is making the transition from a private Islamic school to a public high school. He navigates leaving the bubble of a sheltered Islamic environment while facing the Wild Wild West of haram teenage vices. His family also faces resulting challenges, particularly his immigrant parents.

The coming-of-age film was released in 2023.

The cherry on top of all his struggles is his mortifying mustache–the thing that is awkwardly in between peach fuzz and a real mustache. Ilyas longs to shave it off, but his parents have forbidden him to do so.

Throughout the film, viewers are hanging onto the edge of their seats as they root for Ilyas to balance adhering to his Islamic morals, obeying his parents, and being true to the young man he is growing into.

The semi-autobiographical debut film explores a coming-of-age story with the themes of belonging, integrity, and discovering oneself.

Recommendations for Muslim Audiences

I highly recommend this film to adult Muslim viewers and I’d place it at 16/+, but encourage parental discretion to determine when this film would be appropriate for children to watch. (Parents’ guide below.) This film brings up very important issues that teenagers face and I believe this could be used as a way to start a healthy conversation, but if you’re concerned, it’s best to watch the film first. When I was a teenager, I would have loved to see a film like this that represented real issues…as the film says, “We have to invest in the youth.”

Parent’s Guide

• Drinking, Drugs, Smoking
  • Marijuana
  • Underage alcohol and other drug use
• Sex, Romance & Nudity
  • Romantic themes (young romance: between two Muslims and a Muslim and non-Muslim)
  • No sex or nudity but the image of an ejaculating penis is spraypainted on a wall at the high school
  • References to wet dreams
  • Minimal innuendo
• Language
  • Minimal
  • sh*tfaced
• Positive Role models
  • A spectrum of positive role models mixed with negative role models

High Production Quality

The film itself is a masterpiece on all fronts–cinematography, score, and acting–deserving of a theatrical release.

The visuals encapsulate Ilyas’ milieu so perfectly, one which Desi-American Muslims rarely see on screen and millennials like myself fondly remember. The various sets are full of details like a bottle of Rooh Afza, old clunky desktop computers, branded gel pens, and vestiges of vintage wallpaper from the 60s.

There is a specificity to the South Asian family homes that gives credit to a well-done set design. Touches from the 90s sprinkled throughout, such as clips of popular TV shows, AOL Instant Messaging (done in a brilliant way!), and burned mixtapes from Napster, are brilliant in keeping the film securely in its specific time and place.  Lastly, the soundtrack/score is sweet and quirky.

The acting is wonderful. Not a single actor had a shoddy performance which is a pleasant surprise given the limited Desi-American/American Muslim acting scene. Audiences familiar with his work expect to see a masterful performance from Rizwan Manji, but having equally as good performances from Meesha Shafi and the children central in the film (Atharva Verma, Ayana Manji) are a treat.

Moreover, minor characters are three-dimensional and busy with their own lives, which we get glimpses into often when their world intersects with the main plot. This is particularly evident in the commonplace interactions Ilyas has with his siblings and parents. No actor or character goes to waste in the course of the film.

The Story

The story aspect of Mustache leaves nothing to be desired. The plot is dynamic, fluctuating with quieter and louder moments, while building up to a satisfying crescendo at the climax of the film. The cliffhanger at the end is capable of sparking a debate worthy of Inception’s ending!

The characters, major and minor, all have their own real lives with real stakes underpinning Ilyas’ story in the film. This makes for fun overlaps in the plot, especially with thematic echoes that connect the characters in complex webs. For example, the theme of desired/undesired hair comes up with Ilyas’ hatred of his mustache, his sister using Nair to remove her mustache, and his father wearing a toupee.

With the theme of creative expression, we have Ilyas acting, his mom painting, and the lessons in acting class reappearing towards the end. The pacing is great–nothing feels like it’s moving too quickly or dragging on unnecessarily. The story is a simple one–coming-of-age, going to a new school–yet deep. The story elements keep the film enjoyable and captivating.

From the Perspective of a Muslim Viewer

As mentioned earlier, the film seems like it only has one goal: to tell viewers about Ilyas starting at a public high school and how that puts his life into a tailspin. Mustache accomplishes that simple goal wonderfully and refreshingly–without the baggage that usually accompanies Western Muslim films.

Because it is set before 9/11, the political setting of the film is a reprieve from the Islamophobia that exploded in the following decade and its long-lasting effects. It’s a nice change that reminds Muslim audiences that we’re just plain old humans sometimes even though the Muslim existence is highly politicized and political.

Mustache also does something remarkable in its approach to religion, faith, and spirituality. It doesn’t seem like it has a nefarious religious agenda from whichever end of the spectrum you consider it. No one could argue that it is pushing a preachy message of unquestioning, perfect submission to all of Islam’s rules and principles or that it is pushing a rejection of Islam and everything it asks of Muslims. The film ultimately sends a magnanimous message of grace and self-accountability as individuals explore how their faith actually takes shape in the real world.

That said, some Muslim viewers on either end of the conservative and secular spectrum might find the middle-of-the-road approach frustrating because it does not fit their own world views. The film also avoids the pitfall of solely focusing on Ilyas developing as a Muslim–he’s exploring his relationships with family and peers as well as who he is at the core of his being and how he can make sense of the world around him. Mustache somehow tackles the subject of young Muslims exploring their religious values in a heartwarming way.

From the Perspective of a Millennial Pakistani-American Muslim who Grew up in Southern California

The film authentically pays homage to the specific cultural and religious background of Ilyas and company to the extent that nothing feels out of place. Avoiding common film tropes, there is not a single adhaan or wedding in the film–it’s a miracle!

There are very subtle details that make this film feel like a documentary, such as the natural-sounding recitation of the Quran, the individuals following slightly different fiqh rules during prayer scenes, the incorporation of Urdu in the film and the ease with which characters flow in and out of it, the prominence of dawats (Desi dinner parties) and community banquets with diverse attendees for Muslims in America at this time, and even the 90’s hijab styling using square scarves and large chin pins.

Although I never attended Islamic school myself, my experiences in Sunday School rang true enough to the depictions in the film. Mustache is so authentic, it feels like I’m watching high-quality home videos and thus had me in all my nostalgic feels.

Final Thoughts

Mustache is a delightful, heartfelt film that is worth a watch, particularly for American Muslim millennials. It delivers an earnest, authentic story of a boy experiencing growing pains. Imran J. Khan has grabbed my attention and I eagerly await his future projects. I’m fairly certain Mustache is one of the best films I’ll watch for the next few years. I mustache you a question–will you agree after watching it yourself?

Once you watch it and if you also fall in love with this movie, I encourage hyping up this film as much as possible. Try sharing about it on your socials and go above and beyond by hosting a screening with friends and family in your local community. Supporting Mustache shows that there is a market for future projects like this. As an English teacher, I’m always game for a discussion, so here are some culturally specific discussion questions you might ponder yourself or use at your screening. Perhaps this is even a film that could be shown in third-spaces for youth groups.

Discussion Questions

1. What is the significance of the mustache throughout the film? Does it change?
2. Does this film resonate with any of your own personal experiences?
3. How were Islam and personal faith/spirituality represented throughout this film?
4. What was your favorite moment of the film?
5. Who was your favorite or least favorite character in the film and why?
6. Do you like the cliffhanger ending of the film? What do you think Ilyas ended up doing?
7. Would you recommend this film for others to watch? To who?

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The post Mustache Film Review: A Heartfelt Treat appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This i part one of a two-part story.

* * *

Things Going Missing

Bashir did not notice right away when things began to walk away.

His wife Sherry, for example. Useless woman. Yes, of course he noticed when he woke up on a Monday morning and she wasn’t there, because there was no breakfast or coffee on the table. Stupid woman had probably gone shopping and forgot to make it. Not that she ever really forgot… She was normally quite dependable. Even if her scrambled eggs were too hard, and the coffee was not strong enough. Whatever. He heated up a disgusting frozen bean burrito and downed it with a glass of the orange juice his wife loved so much. He nearly gagged on the juice. How could anyone drink this acidic orange sludge?

At work, his executive mahogany desk was gone. He’d been complaining about it for a year. It was a beautiful desk, sure, but as head of East Asian markets he deserved a bigger one. Maybe they’d finally decided to replace it. That didn’t change the big open space in his office, and the fact that he had nowhere to work.

“Bettina!” he bellowed.  When his secretary didn’t answer, he flung open his office door with a crash. Bettina was not at her desk. She hadn’t even called in sick. He didn’t have time for this. Cursing under his breath, he commandeered the desk, computer and telephone of a subordinate – a tall, blond nitwit who needed to be put in her place anyway – and, ordering two other nameless drones to carry it all into his office, put his head down and got through the day.

Georgie Boy

On the way home, he was four blocks from the house, driving his Lexus RX 350 – which,  by the way, was a piece of junk, with a gummy transmission and a slew of electronic glitches – when he saw a large gray cat walking along the side of the road. Wasn’t that Georgie Boy, his wife’s cat? He slowed, then stopped. Sherry loved this silly beast, though Bashir didn’t know why. Georgie Boy ate too much, and when they let him out at night he inevitably got into fights with other neighborhood cats. Still, his wife loved the animal even more than she loved Bashir himself – he was under no illusions about that.

He jogged to the cat. It walked steadily, eyes forward. When he called its name it glanced back, then continued. He caught up to it and grabbed it by the collar. Gray cat, white chest and paws… This was Georgie Boy. He checked the ID tag: Georgie Boy, with a little heart beside the name, and his wife’s phone number.

“Where are you going, moron?” Bashir demanded. He put Georgie Boy in the car and took him home.

His wife was still not home. He looked around for a note but found nothing. His calls went to voicemail. Had she left him? He checked the closet: her clothes were still there. He raged, shouting at her, calling her every name he could think of. He thought about calling the police, then remembered every detective show he’d ever watched. They’d tell him to wait. Three days? A week? Useless cops. They should all drink orange juice and die.

He’d better feed Georgie Boy. He opened a can of wet food and dumped it in the bowl, then called the beast. “Georgie Boy, big idiot…” The cat did not come. Maybe it was hiding under a bed. Whatever.

A Lone Pickle

Bashir opened the refrigerator and stared. There was half a bottle of ketchup, an ancient jar of mustard, and a lone pickle floating in cloudy green juice. The milk was gone. The eggs were gone. The sliced turkey, cheese, Chinese leftovers from Friday night, the frozen burritos… all gone.

He frowned. “Wonderful.”

Sherry must have cleaned out the refrigerator. About time. Then she’d forgotten to buy more. Typical.

His stomach growled. He stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen, trying to think. Everything that had happened today had a perfectly reasonable explanation. Strange that they should all happen on the same day, certainly, but coincidences happened.

Bashir returned to the kitchen, stopping short in the doorway.

The Kitchen Table

The kitchen table was gone. So were the four chairs.

For several seconds he simply stared at the empty tiled floor where the table had stood since the day they’d moved into the house. His mind searched automatically for explanations. Was he in the wrong room? Had someone moved the table? He looked in the pantry and behind the refrigerator, then around the kitchen as though a solid oak table might somehow be concealed behind the trash can.

His pulse quickened as he realized that there must be burglars in the house.

“No,” he muttered. “No, no…”

He backed against the wall, his shirt suddenly damp between his shoulder blades. Some gang of lunatics was emptying the place while he wandered around like an idiot feeding cats. They must still be here.

He thrust a hand into his pocket for his phone, but it wasn’t there. His other pocket. Nothing. He checked his jacket, then patted himself down again, more roughly this time.

“Come on…”

He closed his eyes, trying to picture the last time he’d held it. In the car? At work? On the kitchen counter? Normally he could retrace his steps without much trouble, but now there was only a maddening blank.

His heart hammered against his ribs. He forced himself to take a slow breath. “Think.”

No. This wasn’t a burglary. It couldn’t be. Burglars didn’t steal kitchen tables without making a sound. They certainly didn’t carry them away in the thirty seconds it took to check on a cat.

He laughed once, a short, humorless bark that sounded foreign even to him.

On the Bedroom Floor

Maybe he was sick. Stress. Low blood sugar. Hallucinations brought on by that revolting frozen burrito. People hallucinated all sorts of nonsense, didn’t they? He’d heard of that happening.

Sleep. That was the answer.

He nodded to himself. Sleep fixed everything. Tomorrow Sherry would come home with some ridiculous excuse. Bettina would explain herself. The company would sort out the desk. His phone would turn up wedged between the couch cushions or sitting on the bathroom counter.

Still muttering complaints, he climbed the stairs, undressed, and went to bed.

When he awoke the next morning, he was lying flat on his back on the bedroom floor. His first thought was that he’d rolled out of bed. He grunted as he pushed himself onto one elbow.

Then he looked beside him.

The bed was gone. Only four pale rectangles remained in the carpet where its legs had rested for years.

For a long time he did not move. Then, for the first time since all of this had begun, Bashir screamed.

Imam Saleh

By late afternoon, Bashir had exhausted every explanation he could think of. Against his better judgment, he drove across town to see Imam Saleh. If there was some spiritual explanation for what was happening, perhaps the imam would know it. Besides, Saleh’s wife Layla and Sherry had been friends for years. If Sherry had said anything to anyone, it would probably have been to Layla.

Imam Saleh himself answered the door. He was a tall, midnight-black man in a tan thobe and an embroidered kufi, with the kind of calm face Bashir had always found faintly irritating.

“Brother Bashir,” he said warmly. “As-salamu alaykum.”

Bashir nodded. “How’s it going?”

“I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?”

Bashir realized suddenly how hungry he was.

“I’d love some. And if you’ve got anything to eat, I’d appreciate that too.”

“Of course.”

The imam returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with two steaming glasses of tea, warm flatbread, olives, dates, and a small bowl of hummus. From the tea wafted the sweet smell of hibiscus. Bashir took a long draught of the tea, then attacked the food, speaking through the side of his mouth as he chewed.

Saleh listened patiently as Bashir described Sherry’s disappearance, the missing desk, Bettina, Georgie Boy’s strange determination to leave the house, the empty refrigerator, the vanishing kitchen table, and finally waking up on the bedroom floor after his bed had somehow disappeared during the night.

Throughout the story, the imam interrupted only to ask an occasional question.

“I thought Layla might know where Sherry is,” Bashir concluded.

The imam folded his hands in his lap. “Unfortunately, Layla is on a spiritual retreat in Turkey. No phones.”

“Turkey? Are you serious? Who makes your breakfast?”

Saleh smiled faintly. “I do.”

“Is it possible Sherry went with her?”

Saleh pursed his lips. “I doubt it. It’s not a group thing, she went alone.”

“Wonderful. It’s contagious.”

Gratitude

For a moment neither man spoke.

Then the imam asked quietly, “Do you remember my khutbah last Jum’ah?”

Bashir sighed. “Some pseudo-intellectual New Agey mumbo-jumbo about gratitude? I couldn’t get into it.”

A faint smile crossed Saleh’s face. “It was about gratitude, yes. Though I don’t believe the Prophet ﷺ would have recognized it as New Age.”

Saleh recited softly:

وَإِذْ تَأَذَّنَ رَبُّكُمْ لَئِن شَكَرْتُمْ لَأَزِيدَنَّكُمْ ۖ وَلَئِن كَفَرْتُمْ إِنَّ عَذَابِي لَشَدِيدٌ

‘If you are grateful, I will surely increase you. But if you are ungrateful, indeed My punishment is severe.’

“That’s from surat Ibrahim,” Saleh went on. “You see, the defining quality of a person’s relationship with this life is gratitude. Two men may own the same house, eat the same food, and have the same family. One thanks Allah every day and considers himself wealthy. The other notices only what is missing and lives as though he were poor.”

Bashir stared into his tea. “So you’re saying my furniture disappeared because I complain too much.”

“Do you complain too much?”

Bashir blew out a puff of air. “Yes, because the world is messed up.”

“What about you, are you messed up?”

Bashir scowled. “That’s not very nice. Aren’t you supposed to be nice?”

The imam gave a half shrug. “I’m supposed to be honest.”

A Prescription

Imam Saleh reached out and touched Bashir’s hand. “Easy, brother. I’m just saying that whatever else may be happening, it would not hurt to be grateful, and to spend some time on personal reflection. Instead of looking for flaws in everything and everyone around you, look within.”

Bashir groaned out loud. “More New Age stuff.”

Saleh continued gently. “There’s something I want you to do. Repeat, ‘SubhanAllah wa bihamdihi’ one hundred times each day. Glory to Allah, and all praise is due to Him. Think of it as a spiritual prescription.”

Bashir said nothing.

“And,” the imam added, “I would be remiss if I didn’t also encourage you to see a physician. Sudden memory problems, confusion, and unusual perceptions can have medical causes.”

Bashir closed his eyes.

What a complete idiot this man was. Bashir’s wife was missing. His bed had walked away. His kitchen table had vanished into thin air, and this sanctimonious fool wanted him to count to a hundred and see a doctor.

He opened his eyes.

The armchair opposite him was empty. The tea glass still sat on the side table, faint curls of steam rising. But Imam Saleh was gone.

Bashir frowned at the empty chair. “Imam?”

No answer. He stood slowly.

“Saleh?”

Perhaps Saleh had gone to the kitchen for more tea. Or to the bathroom. Bashir waited, listening for footsteps or the sound of a cupboard opening.

“Imam?”

His own voice sounded strangely small. He wandered into the kitchen, found it empty. The kettle still sat on the stove. The cupboards were closed. The back door was locked. Knowing that he was being intrusive, he checked the hallway, then the bedroom, the tiny study, and the bathroom. The Imam’s house was really small, he noted. The man was a broke fool.

Broke or not, there was no one there. Bashir returned to the living room. For a long time he simply stood there, turning slowly in place. At last he walked to the front door, let himself out, and closed it carefully behind him.

* * *

Read Part 2 – Primordial Muck

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

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

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

Related:

The Sikh – A Ramadan Short Story

The Albatross and the Quran: A Short Story

The post When The Bed Walked Away [Part 1] appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

By Rabiah Tul Adawiyah Mohamed Salleh

We Are All Busy

“We are all busy.”

That was the reply. I had just said something true about my own life, and the answer came back smooth and quick, like a door closing politely in my face.

It was an ordinary conversation. We were talking about workload. Teaching, meetings, students, deadlines, research, administration, the usual things that fill most of our days in academia. At some point I mentioned that I carry all of it while raising two children on my own. The responses were not cruel. They were not even wrong.

“We are all busy.”

“I am struggling too.”

“There is just too much work.”

“We are all busy.”

And yes. Everyone is busy. Everyone has something to carry. But I walked away from those conversations feeling heavier than when I came. Not because anyone intended to hurt me. Not because what they said was false. I felt heavy because I realised that although many words had been exchanged, I did not feel heard.

I learned something too. When a person shares a burden, the first thing they need is not a comparison. Not a reminder that everyone else is struggling too. Not a quick turn toward someone else’s difficulties. Sometimes all a person needs is to be heard.

The Prophet ﷺ Listened

That was when I thought of the companions of the Prophet ﷺ, and how fortunate they were. Not because their lives were easy. Their lives were not easy at all. Many of them lived through hunger, grief, fear, loss, migration, poverty, and wars we can barely imagine. But they had something we often lack. They had access to a man who listened.

We praise the Prophet ﷺ for so many things. Only a few of those are his mercy, truthfulness, patience courage and leadership. Lately, though, one quality has stayed with me above the rest. Despite everything he carried, he listened. The Messenger of Allah ﷺ received revelation. He led a nation. He settled disputes, taught, faced hostility, cared for his family, and held the weight of an entire ummah on his shoulders.

And still, people could come to him. A woman could come with a complaint about her husband. A companion could come with confusion. Someone could come with grief, or with a question. Even children could approach him. None of them were treated as an interruption.

One striking example comes at the opening of Surah Al-Mujadilah.

The Woman Heard Above the Seven Heavens

A woman named Khawlah bint Tha‘labah came to the Prophet ﷺ about her husband. Her marriage was breaking under an old, cruel custom, and she had nowhere else to take her pain. So she brought it to him, and she pleaded.

Here is the detail that stops me every time. Aisha, may Allah be pleased with her, was in the same small room. The Prophet’s home was modest, barely more than a chamber beside the mosque. Yet Aisha later said that even sitting that close, she could not catch all of Khawlah’s words. A woman whispering her private grief in a corner, her voice almost too soft for the person beside her to follow.

And then Allah revealed:

Indeed, Allah has heard the argument of the woman who pleaded with you (O Prophet) concerning her husband, and appealed to Allah. Allah has heard your exchange. Surely Allah is All-Hearing, All-Seeing. (58:1)

Let us think about this. A voice too quiet for the woman next to her was heard perfectly from above the seven heavens. Aisha understood exactly what it meant. She said, “Blessed is the One whose hearing encompasses all things.” ^[1]

This is not a small thing.

In a world crowded with great events, wars and treaties and public affairs, a single woman’s private pain was not waved away. Her voice was not deemed insignificant. Her struggle at home was not ranked beneath the matters of state. She was heard, and her words were placed in the Qur’an till the Day of Judgment.

Maybe that is what I felt was missing. I had brought my small, ordinary weight to people, and the room stayed full of their own voices. I do not say this to blame them. Rather, I say it because I recognise the same habit in myself. We have all done it. We hear the first half of a sentence and we are already preparing our reply.

The age in which we live is a tired age. Everyone is stretched. Everyone has deadlines, bills, responsibilities, and challenges they rarely mention. And because everyone is carrying so much, our conversations have slowly turned into a competition of burdens.

“I am tired.”

“I am tired too.”

And just like that, listening disappears.

The Prophet ﷺ was busier than any of us will ever be. His busyness never became a reason to dismiss a single soul. That is the part I keep returning to.

The Forgotten Sunnah of Listening

Perhaps one forgotten sunnah is the sunnah of listening. Not listening in order to reply. Nor listening in order to correct. Also not listening just so we can steer the talk back to our own story. Listening so that another person does not feel alone with what they carry.

The companions were blessed because the Prophet ﷺ lived among them. They saw his mercy in his words, and they saw it in the way he gave people his full attention. We do not have him with us today. But we have his example. And maybe, in an age where everyone is speaking over one another, one of the most Prophetic things we can do is simply to listen.

[1] Narration of Aisha may Allah be pleased with her, on the revelation of Surah Al-Mujadilah 58:1, cited in Tafsir Ibn Kathir at the opening of the surah.

Related:

If The Four Great Imams Sat At The Same Table Today

Listening To Angels – When I listen, his face shines with happiness and delight and then he gives me another suggestion…

The post The Woman Who Was Heard Above the Seven Heavens 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

* * *

Fire!

The fire raced up the walls of the wagon with terrifying speed, and leaped from one bolt of fabric to the next like a demon thrilling at the prospect of destruction. One moment Arslan was stumbling backward, and the next the air itself seemed to ignite. Flames ran along the canvas roof and leaped from one bundle of cloth to another. I could no longer see the door clearly through the smoke.

Weili screamed. Her hair was on fire, and I saw that a piece of burning silk had attached itself to her cheek.

I seized Weili around the waist and threw her over my shoulder. Every pain in my body vanished. My wounded leg, my fever, the weakness that had kept me confined to Hakim Yusuf’s wagon – all of it ceased to exist. I lowered my head and charged through the flames, then leaped from the wagon and landed on my feet like a leopard.

The cold hit me like a hammer, yet it was welcome. Weili was useless, screaming and batting her hands in the air. I dumped her into the snow and rolled her through it, pushing handfuls of snow onto her clothes and hair. Then I smelled something burning close to my face and realized it was me. Flames danced along my sleeve and the hem of my coat, and my scalp was hot. I threw myself down and rolled wildly through the snow until the flames went out.

I leaped to my feet. “Fire!” I screamed. “Fire! Everyone up! Fire!” My own voice tore at my raw throat. Men shouted. A horse whinnied in alarm. Shadows appeared, and footsteps crunched in the snow. Someone lit a torch a safe distance from the wagons.

“Move the wagons!” I yelled. “Get the wagons away from here! Move the animals!”

Weili caught my arm. “Arslan!”

I jerked away from her.

“Please, Darius! He’s still inside. You have to save him. I can’t live without him.”

For one terrible instant I saw red. After everything she had done, after everything he had done, she was begging me to risk my life for him. She couldn’t live without him? An opium addict who had infiltrated our caravan and put everyone’s lives in danger? I wanted to strike her. I pictured it in my mind, my hand slapping her hard across the face.

Inferno

“Damn you,” I said, and I leaped back into the Silk Store.

It had become an inferno. Heat blasted my face and drove me back, and thick black smoke filled the entire space. I dropped onto my hands and knees, inhaled a lungful of thick smoke, then went flat onto my stomach, coughing and retching.

The floor was scalding hot. I crawled inside with my face as close to the boards as I could get it, hacking and squinting through the smoke.

“Arslan!” There was no answer.

Something burning fell onto my back. I rolled across the floor to smother it, then crawled farther.

I found Arslan with my hand before I saw him. My fingers struck a boot. I followed the leg upward and found him sprawled facedown on the floor, motionless. I grabbed his shoulder and shook.

“Wake up!”

Nothing. Whether the opium had overcome him or the fall had knocked him senseless, I didn’t know. Lying on the floor seemed to have saved him from the worst of the flames. I rolled him over, hooked one arm around his chest and dragged him toward the opening, pillowing his head on my chest, almost swimming across the floor with him. He was bigger than me, and my left leg finally remembered that it was wounded. Pain shot through it so violently that my entire body shuddered and I groaned out loud.

A burning strip of canvas dropped onto my hand, and I beat it out violently. I was getting dizzy, and could not see clearly.

“La ilaha il-Allah,” I thought, having no breath to speak. “La ilaha il-Allah.”

I gritted my teeth fiercely, seized Arslan tighter, shouted, “Not now!” at the pain, and dragged him backward in what I hoped was the right direction. Hands reached through the smoke and seized us both. Someone dragged Arslan away while another man pulled me out and down. Hands rolled me in the snow, beating at my clothes. My hair had caught fire, and someone rubbed snow into it.

Containment Operation

By then the camp had exploded into activity. Men ran half-dressed through the snow. Horses reared and screamed as teamsters hurried to lead them away. Guards were converging on the Silk Store from every direction, some carrying shovels, others blankets or buckets.

The cold and snow had revived me somewhat. My leg ached and I had burns in many places, but I staggered to my feet, seized a shovel and began hurling snow onto the blazing Silk Store.

Someone had brought a barrel of water, but I knew immediately that none of it would be enough. There was nothing left to salvage. Flames roared up into the night like a beacon, and sparks flew into the air like burning hummingbirds. The Silk Store was lost.

The two wagons on either side of the Silk Store were still dangerously close. I’d seen a massive fire once in Deep Harbor, in which an entire row of houses went up in flames. The shuihui, the water associations, didn’t even try to stop the fire. Demolition teams destroyed perfectly good houses on either side of the fire.

This seemed mad to me. I grabbed a volunteer and asked what they were doing, and he explained that they had to create a firebreak, to save the rest of the city. So I participated, wielding a massive hammer and splintering walls as the fire roared like a dragon. Meanwhile, the hand-pumped shuilong engines sprayed the houses beyond the break. The entire thing was a containment operation.

So was this. “Forget this wagon!” I shouted, gesturing with the shovel. “Save the others! Make a firebreak! Get them apart!” The act of shouting felt like dragging barbed wire through my throat. I burst into a fit of coughing that bent me over until I finally vomited in the snow.

I stood back up. “Move that one!” I pointed. “You four, get those horses hitched! Push if you have to! Get it away!”

Men obeyed.

“Clear the tents! Get everyone back! Move the mules!”

“Darius!”

Captain Karim came running through the camp, wearing boots and trousers but no coat, his sword belted over his nightshirt. I saw Hakim Yusuf twenty paces behind him, pulling on his coat, his medical bag tucked into the crook of one arm, and his breath steaming into the night.

One look at Captain Karim’s posture and expression told me that he was barely containing his rage. With a glance he took in the situation: the fire, the nearest wagons being moved at my command. He looked at Weili, who sat in the snow weeping, her hair singed and a piece of burnt silk melted into one of her cheeks. Then he looked at Arslan, lying nearby, relatively unharmed, but coughing listlessly.

Finally his eyes returned to me: my clothes scorched and torn, my hair half burned away, my eyebrows gone, my hands and face blistered, and a shovel in my hand.

“The Silk Store,” I said lamely. “Weili and Arslan were inside. I got them out. The wagons on either side -”

He held up a hand. “I can see that. Any casualties?” His voice was terrifyingly calm.

I shook my head. “No, Captain.”

He turned. “Corporal Bao! Take twenty men and move every wagon at least two hundred paces from the fire. I don’t care if you have to drag them by hand. Move them!”

“Yes, Captain!”

“Veteran Guard Wu! Animals! Get every horse and mule upwind and keep them there. Make sure none panic and bolt.”

“Yes, Captain!”

“Everyone else, snow on the fire! Watch the sparks! If another wagon catches, shout immediately!”

Men scattered.

Rays of Light

My body chose that moment to quit. My lungs seized up like a fist. I coughed uncontrollably until I fell to my hands, saliva running from my mouth. I tried to breathe, but every breath triggered another violent spasm. My chest felt scraped raw from the inside. My vision went gray, and I was afraid I was dying.

Hakim Yusuf took hold of me. “Sit,” he commanded. He spoke softly into my ear. “I know it hurts. I’ll take care of you, I’m with you. Don’t be afraid.” Yusuf’s words were like rays of light that fell upon my soot-stained heart. Tears came to my eyes.

Yusuf called Memdooh over, and instructed him to gently wipe the soot from my nostrils, and rinse my mouth.

Then he began giving orders. “You two, bring clean water. Not from the fire barrels. Clean water. And six blankets.”

He went first to Weili. Still coughing, I watched through blurry eyes. One of the guards was trying to peel off the piece of silk that had melted into her cheek. Yusuf slapped the man’s hand away. He knelt, examined the burn on her cheek without touching it, then looked into her eyes and mouth. “Don’t touch your face. Leave it alone.”

Memdooh began toweling my nose and face, and gave me a cup of cold water. “Sip, rinse and spit it out,” he said. “Don’t try to talk or shout. When you gonna stop the hero role? One of these days you’ll go in a hole.”

I squinted up at him. “Don’t make me laugh,” I managed to say, then started coughing again.

Someone arrived with blankets, and Yusuf had us strip off our wet tunics and wrap two blankets apiece around ourselves.

Yusuf returned to me. “Open your mouth.”

I did, and he peered inside, then wiped a thumb across the black soot beneath my nose. “Rinse and spit again.”

Memdooh gave me the cup, and I did so. The saliva was streaked gray. Yusuf’s expression darkened. “Do not let him fall asleep,” he instructed Memdooh. “Keep him sitting up. If his breathing becomes worse, notify me immediately.”

The Silk Store chose that moment to collapse inward with a roar, throwing a fountain of sparks into the night. Men shouted and backed away, shielding their faces. The wooden frame followed, cracking and folding as the precious silks, linens, cottons and carpets inside burned together.

But the neighboring wagons were now at a safe distance. Nothing surrounded the doomed Silk Store but a wide circle of half-melted snow.

Three In a Row

Through watering eyes I saw Captain Karim standing before the crumbled, burning remains of the Silk Store, his bare arms folded across his chest. Weili sat twenty paces away. Arslan had begun to stir.

Karim pointed to Shah. “Sit them up. All three. Beside each other.”

Shah lifted me like a child and sat me next to Weili, with Arslan on the other side. I coughed long and hard, and nearly collapsed, but he held me until I could sit on my own. The two blankets should have kept me toasty warm, but I was shivering.

Weili, blankets pulled tightly around her, was still crying. Arslan sat slumped beside her, blinking stupidly and swaying as if the earth were moving beneath him. He hardly seemed aware of where he was, and had stopped coughing.

So there we were, the three of us in a row. It was like a children’s rhyme. Three little guards, sitting in the snow, one looked up and saw a crow…

Where was the crow? There should have been a crow.

What was wrong with me? I tried to clear my head. I knew exactly why I was there, just as I had known for some time that a reckoning must come. The only thing I did not know was what would be done with me.

“Captain,” Hakim Yusuf said. “I want these three in my wagon immediately.”

Karim’s gaze moved from Weili to Arslan and finally to me. “Not yet.”

“They need treatment now.”

Karim fixed an intense stare on Yusuf. “You have already treated them.”

Yusuf’s mouth was a flat line. “Partly, but they need to be inside. I need to dress their burns and remove the burned silk from the girl’s face, for heaven’s sake.”

“No. Don’t ask again.” Karim’s tone was so low, it might have come from a lion’s mouth.

“SubhanAllah! This is not acceptable. My authority supersedes yours in medical matters.”

The captain gestured to Shah. “Grab the Hakim and carry him to his wagon.”

Hakim Yusuf took a shocked step back, then – as Shah walked uncertainly toward him – held up a hand. “I will remain silent.”

Shah looked to Karim, who nodded, and Shah retreated.

I too was shocked. Respect for Hakim Yusuf was ingrained in all of us. He was our elder and father, in a way. Many of us owed him our lives. To threaten to carry him like a sack of grain was outrageous. I lost a little bit of my respect for Captain Karim in that moment. Just a bit.

The captain began pacing before us, boots crunching through the snow, one hand gripping the pommel of his sword. Behind him, the Silk Store had collapsed into a smoldering skeleton. Men continued throwing snow onto the wreckage. Smoke streamed across the night sky, and sparks rose toward the stars.

Karim stopped pacing and surveyed us. I had seen him angry before. I had seen him shout until men twice his size shrank like rolling beetles. This was different. If I had a choice between charging back into the burning Silk Store or facing Karim’s wrath, I would have chosen the fire.

Interrogation

“Someone,” Karim said quietly, “is going to tell me what happened.”

He pointed at Arslan. “You. Speak.”

Arslan stared. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His lips worked silently, and I could almost see his mind stumbling through one lie after another, searching for one that might save him.

“It was Darius,” he finally said. His voice was hoarse. “He knocked me into the lamp.”

“Why was there a lamp in the wagon?”

“I guess Darius brought it to spy on us. He’s jealous.”

“If he brought it, how could he have knocked you into it?”

Arslan made no reply, and Karim snorted. He pointed at Weili. “Speak, Guard Weili.”

Weili held the blanket tightly around herself and shook her head. “I’m in pain,” she sobbed. “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.”

Karim stared at her for a moment, then resumed pacing.

I sat between them, wet, burned and shivering. My lungs still spasmed every few breaths, and each cough was a spear in my chest. I could not understand what Karim was doing. Why was he asking them? Why not ask me? I was the Veteran Guard. Surely my word carried more weight than theirs.

Karim stopped and turned to me. “Veteran Guard Lee.”

Something in the way he said my rank made me straighten despite the pain.

“I don’t care what your feelings are. I don’t care who you love, or who loves you.” He took one step toward me. “You will tell me what happened, and you will speak truthfully, or as Allah is my witness, I will have you whipped from here to Persia.”

I stared at him, and found myself nodding slowly as realization dawned. Karim already knew. Maybe not what had happened in the wagon, but he knew enough. He knew how I felt about Weili. Perhaps he had seen me arguing with her after she left me for Arslan. All these months on the road, he’d noticed more than I had guessed. And he was warning me that whatever I felt for her had no place here.

I swallowed hard, then began. “I woke up and needed to pee. It was very dark outside. I saw a faint light coming from one of the wagons and went to investigate. When I looked into the Silk Store, I saw Arslan cooking opium over an open flame, and Weili smoking it.”

Karim held up one hand, and studied me intently. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“Sir?”

“You say you found Arslan cooking opium over an open flame, and you say it without surprise, as if you expected it.”

My eyes widened. I was cooked.

“Have you seen this before?”

I looked down and chewed on my lip.

“Veteran Guard Lee?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

Karim’s face showed surprise, then fury. He stared at me for a long moment. “I knew something was wrong when they missed the escaping wagon, but I thought they were tired. We’ve been on the road a long time, sleeping on hard ground, breathing thin air. Many of us are not at our best.” He shook his head slowly. “But you knew better. You knew it was opium, and you said nothing. And now we have lost the Silk Store as well.”

He looked over his shoulder. “Shah. Go get my bullwhip.”

Get My Whip

Shah’s face blanched. For a moment he stood frozen, as if hoping he had misunderstood. Then he hurried away.

I glanced around at the guards assembled in the snow. No one looked sleepy anymore. Their faces were hard in the firelight. Some stared at Arslan and Weili. Others stared at me.

Only a few days ago, we had lost ten men trying to protect a single wagon. Ten graves stood in a mountain meadow behind us. Men had been shot, stabbed and poisoned to prevent thieves from taking what belonged to Five Stars.

And tonight we had lost another wagon for nothing.

My gaze moved among the guards until it found Longwei. He was watching me, and there was the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

“Go on with your story,” Karim said.

I looked back at him. “I moved to extinguish the flame. Arslan tried to block my way and tripped over his own feet. He fell and knocked the lamp over. The fabrics ignited instantly. I carried Weili out and went back for Arslan.” I swallowed. I’d stopped coughing, but my throat felt like raw ground beef. “That’s it.”

Shah returned carrying the bullwhip. He held it carefully, the long leather lash coiled in his hands. Karim took it from him without a word. He uncoiled part of it and let the end fall into the snow.

“All guards, form a circle.”

The men moved at once, surrounding Weili, Arslan and me. I looked from face to face. Men I had eaten with, ridden beside and fought alongside stood shoulder to shoulder around us. No one spoke.

Unrequited Love

Karim pointed at Arslan, who had fallen asleep. “Wake him up.”

A guard fetched a bucket and threw the water full into Arslan’s face. Arslan gasped and jerked upright, sputtering. Water streamed from his scalp and beard, soaking his clothes. He stared wildly around the circle, then at the whip in Karim’s hand. Whatever remained of his opium stupor seemed to disappear.

Karim’s gaze settled first on Arslan, then Weili, then me.

“I find all three of you culpable.”

My stomach dropped.

“Arslan, you brought corruption into my camp. You endangered this caravan and the lives of those who work to guard it. Then you sat here and lied to me about what happened.”

Arslan opened his mouth.

“Do not speak.” Karim turned to Weili. “Deng Weili, you were a willing accomplice. I expected better from you.”

She bowed her head, weeping silently.

Then he looked at me. “Darius. You knew.”

I met his eyes.

“You knew, and you said nothing. Now I know why these two could not stop the fleeing raiders. Directly or indirectly, these two are connected to the loss of two wagons full of goods. Do you have any idea how much this costs us?”

His voice rose. “If you worked as a guard for the rest of your life, it would not pay for the loss.”

Karim’s hand twitched, and the whip brushed back and forth across the snow with a mesmerizing, serpentine motion.

“The future of the Five Star Trading Company rests upon this venture. Perhaps the future of the emperor himself, for seven of these wagons belong to him personally. Our nation is at war. This caravan is vital.”

He stepped closer to me. The whip cut a line through the snow.

“Yet you allowed it to be endangered because of your juvenile feelings of unrequited love.”

The words struck like a slap. A few of the men shifted uncomfortably, but no one looked away.

“You displayed extraordinarily poor judgment. I am tempted to strip you of the rank I gave you and return you to Guard.”

He paused.

“But I will not. You paid for that promotion in blood, both yours and that of the enemy.”

For some reason, that hurt even more.

The Choice

Karim stepped back to take in all three of us.

“I offer each of you the same choice.”

He lifted the bullwhip.

“Exile, or twenty lashes.”

A murmur went through the circle and died almost immediately.

“Choose whichever you wish. But understand me clearly. There will be no discussion, no bargaining and no delay.”

His gaze passed slowly over us.

“Whichever punishment you choose will be carried out right now.” He pointed at Arslan. “You first. Choose.”

Arslan shrugged. “That’s easy. I choose exile. Just give me my mule, pack and bow.”

Weili, in her shock, stopped weeping and stared at Arslan. “You’re leaving me?”

He shrugged. “I told you from the start I’m traveling to see the world. This was always a one-way trip for me.”

Weili looked to Captain Karim. “Exile for me too, then. I’m going with Arslan.”

Arslan shook his head. “No, babe. Life on the road is hard enough. I can’t be burdened with you.”

“But I love you!”

Arslan shook his head and snorted. “Be real. This was only ever a bit of fun for both of us. Besides, you don’t love me. You love the kid.” He gestured toward me. “You think I don’t know it?”

Weili gaped at him. Her nostrils flared, then she turned to Karim. “Give me the lashes, then. I don’t care.”

Karim looked unsettled. “Are you sure you -”

“The lashes!” Weili screamed. She kicked her feet in the snow. “The lashes! Do it hard! Kill me!”

Hakim Yusuf stepped forward, but before he could speak, Karim cut him off with a slashing motion of his hand. “No, Hakim. Discipline is my area of authority.”

The captain turned to me. “Darius?”

“The lashes, of course,” I said. “And give me Weili’s twenty lashes as well. I will take her punishment.” There was no doubt in my heart that this was what I must do. Never in my worst nightmares could I imagine seeing Weili whipped. After all was said and done, I still loved her. Perhaps it was stupid and childish, just as Karim had said. Perhaps it had led to this very moment of humiliation and loss. But it was true.

I saw a fleeting look of relief pass across Karim’s face. To tie a burnt, weeping, heartbroken woman to a wagon wheel and whip her? The idea was outrageous, and he knew it.

“No!” Weili shouted. “He can’t do that! It’s my punishment, I deserve it, I want it, you can’t -”

The Decision

“Quiet,” Karim said firmly. He resumed pacing back and forth, the whip slithering along in the snow behind him. We watched him, our heads turning one way and the other like cats watching a bird, except we were the birds and he was the hunter.

He stopped before me. “Stand up.”

I struggled to my feet. It wasn’t easy, as my legs had fallen asleep in the cold snow.

“Darius,” Karim said, and his tone was almost conversational. “You put me in an impossible position. You’re the least culpable of the three, yet now I’m supposed to whip you alone and let the others off? Even I know injustice when I see it. Yet discipline must be enforced. There must be consequences. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Give me the lashes, Captain. Mine and hers.”

Karim exhaled noisily, stepped back and raised his voice. “Deng Weili will be stripped of half of her pay for the remainder of the journey. Arslan is exiled.” He gestured to Corporal Bao. “Take a few men and accompany him as he gathers his things and leaves. If he returns, shoot him on sight. Take him.”

As men led Arslan away, Weili wailed, “No! I need him!”

That was a dagger in my chest. What was it about this bald, drug-smoking liar that Weili loved so much? I couldn’t fathom it, but something flipped inside me. Some second heart that had beaten only for Weili gave up the ghost and died. I promised myself at that moment that I would never speak to Deng Weili again.

“Veteran Guard Darius Lee,” Karim went on, “will receive his own twenty lashes, plus Deng Weili’s twenty, per his request. Forty lashes in all.”

“Captain!” Hakim Yusuf shouted.

Karim held up his hand in a gesture that said, “Wait.”

“There are mitigating factors. Darius saved two lives with no thought to his own safety. Because of this, his punishment is reduced to ten lashes.”

“Wonderful,” Meilin muttered. “Exactly what the Hero of the Pass needs. He’s been shot and burned, so let’s whip him. Why not cut off his foot as well, just because?”

“I heard that, Veteran Guard Meilin,” Karim growled.

“Sorry, Captain.”

Hakim Yusuf held out his hands, pleading. “Captain, the boy is burned. He’s still coughing up smoke. His leg wound has not fully healed. Even ten lashes could kill him.”

“I said ten lashes!” Karim bellowed, his rage coming through. “Shah, tie him to a wagon wheel.”

“No need,” I said. I let the blankets drop from my shoulders, walked to the nearest wagon wheel, turned my bare back to the assembled group, and gripped the cold, hard wheel with both hands.

“Captain,” Meilin said.

He turned to face her. “Yes?” His demeanor was calm, but that one word was colder than all the snow around us.

“Give me five of his lashes. I mean it.”

He regarded her, and his visage softened. “I know you do. But no.”

The Whipping

I glanced back to see him standing ten paces behind me, the whip hanging loose at his side. For a moment he said nothing.

Then he spoke. “Veteran Guard Lee, listen carefully. You will remain on your feet until the punishment is complete. If you fall, I will have you stood up and tied to that wheel. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain.” I tightened my hands around the wheel.

I would not scream. That much I decided. With Shah at my side, I had fought raiders that outnumbered me. I had buried friends. Poisoned arrows had not killed me. I had crawled into a burning wagon and dragged a man bigger than myself through the flames. I could endure ten strokes of a whip. Kuangren had done it, and so could I.

I heard Karim step away. The murmuring among the guards ceased. For a few seconds there was only the crackle of the dying fire and the hiss of snow still being thrown onto embers. I gripped the wheel harder and stared at the wagon in front of me. This wagon was the Spice Market. Any guard would know it in their sleep, for it carried with it the aromas of star anise, cloves, Sichuan pepper, ginger, nutmeg, camphor, and most of all cassia.

The scent of cassia came to me now, and I inhaled deeply, which caused me to cough hard, like a dog trying to throw up a bone stuck in his throat. Still, the scent was sweet, and made me smile. Maybe this whipping wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I –

Karim shouted, “One!”

The whip cracked, and pain exploded across my back.

I screamed. There was no decision involved. The sound tore itself out of me, raw and high, and my body arched away from the wheel. My hands nearly came loose, and I gasped for breath. That single lash was equal to being shot in the leg with the poisoned arrow. It was a line of fire across my back. I’d escaped a burning wagon, only to be burned a different way.

“Two!”

The whip cracked again, and I screamed again. So much for my manly resolve. I was now unsure I could make it through. A feeling of dread grew inside me.

“Three!”

My knees buckled. I caught myself against the wheel and forced my legs straight. Someone among the guards murmured something. Another voice answered. I couldn’t understand the words.

“Four!”

When the fourth lash struck, I cried out and pressed my forehead against the wheel. Tears ran down my face. I heard Weili shouting, but couldn’t make out her words. Desperately I inhaled, taking in the scent of cassia.

You’re not here, I told myself. You’re a little boy, and your mother is making a cassia cupcake for your birthday. You take a bite, and it’s the best thing you ever tasted. Your mother smiles, but her smile fades as your father walks into the house.

“Five!”

I felt number five, but unlike the others, the pain was distant. Nevertheless, my fingers slipped. My fingers clutched desperately at the spokes and I somehow remained standing. I heard Hakim Yusuf’s voice, sharp and angry.

I tried to get back to that moment with my mother, but it was gone, faded like a dream after waking. The world had contracted to the cold wagon wheel beneath my hands and the cruel whip behind me.

“Six!” And a vicious crack.

My legs gave way. For a moment I hung from the wheel by my arms, my knees in the snow.

Karim had warned me. If you fall, I will have you stood up and tied to the wheel.

The thought of being tied to the wheel was unbearable. I would never live down the humiliation. Kuangren survived this, so could I! Of course Kuangren had been tied to the wheel. Still, I dragged myself upright, wrapped both arms around the wheel and held on. I could no longer hear anyone around me. My ears were filled with a roaring sound that blocked everything else out.

“Seven!”

The whip came down again. Something inside me broke loose. My hands released the wheel, and the snow rushed upward, though I never felt myself strike it. Then there was nothing.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 25 – To Save A Prince

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

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

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

Related:

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

Gravedigger: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 24] – The Whipping appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

There are several probable contributing factors to this phenomena: anti-Muslim violence has ebbed and flowed throughout the past twenty-five years, but the 2020s have seen a particular sharpening of the phenomenon. A number of usually far-right provocateurs, ranging from the world’s richest man Elon Musk to politicians as senior as the American ruler Donald Trump have repeatedly trafficked in anti-Muslim bait. Foreign governments such as India and the United Arab Emirates, and particularly an Israel that sees Islamophobic incitement as key to undermining criticism of its genocidal assault on Palestine, have also trafficked heavily in Islamophobic discourse and misinformation.

In particular political pressure has been brought to bear on Britain, which boasts a large, vocal, and largely socioeconomically deprived Muslim population. It has been repeatedly singled out for alleged Islamophilia even as its political elite across parties has strained to restrict Muslim organizations in response to often Israel-backed pressure groups. One particularly common canard has been the claim, based on an infamous grooming gang case from the mid-2010s, that accuses Muslims of trying to rape young women: though the vast majority of such gangs have been non-Muslim, the myth has taken on a life of its own. Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu-Mileikowsky, the incendiary ideologue whose genocide of Palestine comes on the back of over forty years of incitement against a freely expansive definition of “radical Islam”, for instance sneered at the “Islamic Republic of Britain”, a claim also repeatedly regurgitated by Musk in conjunction with long-discarded propaganda about Muslim criminality.

Musk, who has compared Britain to an island of guileless hobbits being overrun by foreign criminals, falsely linked rape to Muslims: this of course is part of a longstanding pattern of racist and particularly Islamophobic behavior. There is no doubt that this incitement by wealthy, powerful individuals inside and outside positions of power places Muslims at risk. The British Muslim Trust reported as many as 70 attacks on mosque in the country within a year, a rate of roughly one attack every five days.

Heirling and renowned blowhard Elon Musk has played a major role in spreading hatred against Muslims.

Summer of Hate

This article will give a summary of the attacks that the watchdog organization has recorded since the start of summer 2026:

(1) On 5 June 2026, a woman screaming profanities attacked a Somali woman in Dublin, Ireland, and tore off her hijab before slashing her face in a street in Dublin, Ireland. A passerby helped drive off the attacker, who was soon arrested, but the victim had to be treated for severe lacerations to her face.

(2) On 11 June 2026, a balaclava-clad man attacked and set fire to an imam’s home, with his family inside, at Bolton, Britain. Fortunately nobody was harmed as the man fled.

(3) On the same day, a man wielding a sledgehammer attacked his Muslim neighbour’s home in London, Britain, threatening to kill her children, before he realized that her husband was at home and fled.

(4) On 20 June 2026, a man with bared chest and carrying a large weapon went on a spree of attacks in the streets of Scottish city Edinburgh. He began the assaults near a mosque, before moving onto a petrol station and then a pizzeria. In total he injured five people before police could intercept him. After his arrest, he echoed the abovementioned far-right propaganda point by accusing Muslims of raping his countrywomen.

(5) On 28 June 2026, a man at a park in Dublin, Ireland, accused Muslims of smiling at children and attacked them, only to be beaten off. The incident was caught on camera with no appearance of untoward behaviour by the Muslims.

(6) On 30 June 2026, a man set fire to a mosque in Dublin, Ireland, and then trumpeted his crime in the street before he was arrested.

(7) On 1 July 2026, a Muslim family’s front door was smashed in in Walsall, Britain, while the children were inside.

(8) On 3 July 2026, American Muslims intercepted an armed attacker at the Jummah prayer at a mosque in New York.

(9, 10) On 7 July 2026, British Muslims tackled an attacker at a prominent mosque in London. He was arrested on accusation of inflicting grievous bodily harm to a man. Three days later a Muslim worshipper tackled another man who was threatening and abusing worshippers at the same mosque.

(11) On 9 July 2026, an effigy of a mosque was placed on a bonfire amid a number of Islamophobic slogans at the Northern Irish town of Moygashel before police removed it and arrested a man for incitement of hatred.

(12) A teenage boy was arrested for allegedly plotting to attack two mosques in London, Britain, in connection with “extreme right-wing terrorism”. He had originally been arrested under suspicion of criminal damage to a vehicle before police found a number of alleged plans for attacking mosques.

(13) On 12 July 2026, a yearly event, which hosted thousands of Muslims, by the Tablighi Jamaat organization at Barham was shut down by British police after it faced a serious threat of a terrorist attack. Twelve suspects were arrested in connection with the threat.

(14) On 13 July 2026, a Muslim worker at a mall in the American town West Valley City was stabbed over fifteen times, explicitly over his Muslim faith, before bystanders forced the attacker off. The assailant has since been indicted with a hate crime causing bodily injury: the United States Attorney’s Office of Utah reported that he “purchased a knife from a store inside the mall and went around asking mall employees if they were Muslim. When the victim responded that he was, the defendant began stabbing him.”

Moroccan-Belgian shopkeeper Driss Atouane gave his life defending a Muslim woman from abuse in Belgium.

(15) On 15 July 2026, an Islamic school in Birmingham, Britain, had to be evacuated after a bomb threat.

(16) A Moroccan man, Abderrahim Fakir, was suffocated to death by Italian policemen in a Bologna street. Footage showed him pleading for help for minutes before he expired.

(17) Islamophobic graffiti calling for the ouster of Muslims was found at a cemetery in Huddersfield, Britain.

(18) On 22 July 2026, a gang of attackers were filmed assailing a Scottish Muslim woman at Glasgow. A bystander reported that four men approached the woman, shouting insults and telling her to remove her headscarf, before one struck her over the head with a glass bottle.

(19) On 23 July 2026, a Muslim woman walking with her child was assailed by a crowd at Moncton, Canada, in front of a car parade. Footage was captured of the attack, where the crowd beat the woman while shouting a stream of racist and Islamophobic slurs. She was left hospitalized.

(20) A man attacked and struck a Muslim outside an Islamic Centre at Dublin, Ireland.

(21) A far-right mob embarked on a spree of attacks against immigrant-owned shops in Liverpool, Britain. They shouted a stream of slurs, both racist and anti-Islam. The latter included insults against Allah that have already been chanted at far-right rallies organized by pro-Israel rightwingers in other parts of Britain over the past year. Because of these insults against Allah, Who is Praised and Glorified above such self-defeating slurs, we have not linked the video.

(22) A far-right provocateur, Kellie-Jay Keen-Minshull, publicly lashed out at Muslim men praying at the well-known speaking site Speakers’ Corner in London, Britain. Describing herself as an Islamophobe but not a racist, the double-double-barrelled troublemaker’s argument with Muslims was widely circulated online by both her followers and critics.

(23) On 29 July 2026, purported well-wishers of questionable merit were filmed harassing Muslim women outside the parliament in Ottawa, Canada. “Go back to your country. You came here for a better life, not to wear those rags,” they offered in the particularly aggressive sort of advice whose tone seems only to be directed at unaccompanied women.

(24) On 30 July 2026, a Muslim man lost his life protecting a woman from an Islamophobic attack in Brussels, Belgium. Driss Atouane, a shopkeeper of Moroccan heritage, confronted a man harassing a Muslim woman on the train, but was attacked from behind and beaten to death. He displayed the sort of initiative, courage, and good intent that has become necessary for many Muslims in the west. May Allah have mercy on him.

(25) On the same day, a cyclist stopped to dispense threats and racist abuse at a Muslim couple in Sunderland, Britain.

(26) A man wielding a decidedly non-native weapon of choice in a baseball bat pursued a Muslim man in Birmingham, Britain. When he attacked his quarry, the Muslim seized a stick and beat him off, before posting footage of the attacker’s undignified retreat online.

(27) On 10 August 2026, a man in the United States filmed himself aggressively directing taunts clearly intended to be more incisive than they proved at a pair of Muslim women passing by in headscarves and a veil, who ignored him. “You’re in America,” he began, displaying his awareness of their surroundings; “you shouldn’t be wearing that **** around your head. You’re so [very] weird walking in America like that.” Then, in an observation as observant of the sunny conditions as it was ignorant of the headscarves’ purpose: “There’s no sandstorms around here.” And finally, saving the oddest remark for his parting shot: “Go to Mexico like that, see what they do to you.”

(28) A Muslim woman in the Welsh capital Cardiff at Britain was assaulted by a man and woman. The pair had pursued her in their car, shouting abuse; when she responded by taking a photograph of the car, they emerged and beat her to the ground, punching her repeatedly in the face, before tearing off her headscarf. Her husband later posted the video of the assault and explained the background, which he reported had taken place in front of children.

You can follow DOAM on Twitter and Facebook as well as their Instagram page.

The post Unquiet on the Western Front: Watchdog documents hate crime spree in North America and Western Europe appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

How are Muslims handling money? This new mini-series from the MuslimMatters podcast is all about Muslims, money, and how on earth we’re managing it all (or aren’t!). From learning about credit card debt the hard way, to uncomfortable conversations with your spouse, to teaching kids financial responsibility… you won’t want to miss this series!

In this introductory episode, Siraaj, Irtiza, and Zainab share their own experiences of (not) learning how to handle finances the right way, the challenge of maintaining an Islamically-oriented way of money management, and unique challenges they’ve experienced in their lives.

Related:

Muslim’s Guide to Debt and Money Management Part 1

[Podcast] A Riba-Free Future With A Continuous Charity | Faizan Syed

[Podcast] A Riba-Free Future With A Continuous Charity | Faizan Syed

The post [Podcast] Will Your Credit Card Send You To Hell? | New Series 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

* * *

Moving Backward

The caravan moved backward as I stood helplessly watching. The world was white with snow, and the wind snatched at my clothing like a pickpocket. Horses and mules stepped backward, guards on foot walked backward without looking. Memdooh recited poetry backward. Sergeant Karim rode at the head of the column, facing forward but somehow drifting away in reverse. My feet were frozen in place, yet my left leg was huge and hot, like the trunk of a burning tree. I should blow Corporal Jian’s horn, but what was the signal for “caravan moving backward?”

“Where even is that horn?” I searched my pockets. Not finding it, I searched Belly’s saddlebags, for he stood patiently by my side.

“I have it,” Longwei replied, and I looked to the other side to see him standing there, one half of his face as purple as an eggplant, and his head and shoulders white with snow.

“Where is it then?”

“Under my belly fat.”

My leg burned from the inside out, as if the bones were a blacksmith’s heated rods.

Ode to the Dead

I woke with a gasp, my hands going to my chest for the horn, and finding nothing but a blanket covering my own bare skin. There was something on my face, and I touched it: a bandage. Breathing hard, I lifted my head and looked around. Above me, bunches of drying herbs swayed from the ceiling, casting strange shadows against the canvas walls. I lay on a bedroll on the floor of a moving covered wagon.

The small space reeked of sweat, blood, urine, vinegar, and something rotten. Men lay squeezed in shoulder to shoulder around me beneath wool blankets, their faces pale and shining with fever. Someone coughed wetly in the darkness. Someone else muttered in a language I couldn’t understand.

For a few moments, I had no idea where I was.

Then I heard Ahmed’s voice outside, reciting the Quran loudly as he rode, his voice waxing and waning with the wind, and everything came back to me at once: the mountain pass. The raid. Corporal Jian’s horn, the blue-eyed Afghan, Gulnur lying in Kuangren’s arms, the Afghans escaping with a wagon.

The pain hit me, and I groaned out loud. My leg was on fire. I struggled to sit up, to get a look at the leg, and regretted it. My head spun. Across from me, Memdooh was staring at the roof of the wagon with glassy eyes, his lips moving silently. He looked terrible. His cheeks were flushed, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

“Memdooh?”

He turned his head toward me. For a moment, his expression brightened. “Darius.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Listen to this one:

This is an ode to the dead.
You’re in our hearts, you’re in our heads.
We leave you in the care of the One,
for still you run,
but in a better place,
beneath a better sun.”

I swallowed, my pain forgotten for a moment. “It’s lovely. How many did we lose?”

But Memdooh had fallen asleep, and did not reply.

Critical Condition

I studied the faces around me. What I noticed was who was missing: Gulnur. I knew she had been badly wounded. For an instant, panic seized me. We could not lose her. She and Kuangren, and their at times happy, at times quarrelsome marriage, was one of the bright spots of this entire journey. We all lived vicariously through them.

I forced myself to think. Of course she wouldn’t be here. Hakim Yusuf wasn’t going to pack a wounded woman into a wagon full of half-naked, feverish men.

Ya Allah, I prayed silently, please let Gulnur live. Kuangren loves her.

A shadow fell over me. Hakim Yusuf knelt beside me, pressing the back of his hand against my forehead.

“Ah,” he said, “the hero awakens.”

“How many did we lose? And what about Gulnur?”

“Eight dead. Four in the battle, four by toxin. Gulnur is alive but critical.”

“My leg is killing me. It feels like a burning tree trunk.”

He nodded seriously. “That’s what I’m saying. The Afghans’ arrowheads were poisoned. Some kind of plant toxin. And some appear to have been simply tainted with animal fat or dung, to make the wounds fester. Nasty stuff.”

Dizziness washed over me, and my head fell back to the floor. “Where’s Belly?”

“Who?”

“My horse.”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

I moaned in pain. “Will I live?”

“Probably.”

I opened my mouth to protest – probably was not reassuring – but weariness and sleep fell upon me like a moonless night.

An Imaginary Fish

With the advent of spring rains, water was running in the gully behind Zihan Ma’s farm. The scent of safflower filled the air. Haaris and I sat on the bank of the stream, skipping stones across the shallow water. Far Away and Bao-Bao crouched beside us, studying the stream as if it were a slithering snake. One of my stones failed to skip and instead splashed. A drop of water hit Far Away and he flicked his tail in annoyance.

“Your throw is terrible,” Haaris declared.

“It’s not terrible. I’m practicing hitting targets.”

“What’s your target, an imaginary fish?”

Bao-Bao stood, stretched lazily, and walked straight into the stream.

“Haaris!” I shouted. “Your cat will drown!”

Haaris looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Cats can swim, Darius.”

Don’t Tell

The wagon hit a rut, and I woke with a gasp. I noticed immediately that while my leg hurt, it was not nearly as bad as before. But I still felt hot, dizzy and weak.

Then I realized that Weili was sitting beside me, and for a moment I forgot my physical pain. She wasn’t looking at me, and sat with her shoulders slightly rounded, and a shawl pulled around her shoulders. I studied the curves of her face. Her strong jaw line. The sadness that had always hidden behind her eyes now seemed deeper. I detected the faint, sweet smell of opium smoke on her clothing, and it revolted me. Others might think it was a perfume, but I knew better.

She noticed I was awake and smiled. “Hey. Half the caravan is talking about you.”

I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. Weili went to the front of the wagon and came back with a tin cup filled with cold water. I drank deeply, then said, “What are they saying?”

“Depends. Shah says you killed ten men by yourself. Memdooh says Corporal Jian gave you his horn with his dying breath. Longwei says you’re an upstart. Meilin says you’re a tactical genius. Sarge says you may have saved the entire rear third of the caravan.”

“None of that is true.”

“No?”

“And you? What do you say?”

I saw the muscles in her jaw tense, then relax, then tense again, but she said nothing. The wagon creaked around us. There were only four patients in the wagon now. The others had either died or recovered, I did not know which. Memdooh too was gone. Hakim Yusuf bent over a wounded merchant, changing the bandage on a shoulder wound.

“There’s something I need from you,” Weili said at last.

“What?”

She glanced toward Hakim Yusuf, then bent low over me and whispered in my ear. “Please don’t tell anyone what you saw. About me and Arslan. I’ll be so grateful to you.”

For a moment, I simply stared at her. Then my face flushed red. She hadn’t come here to check on my wellbeing at all. She was here to ask me to protect her secret. I remembered the Afghans fleeing toward the cave with our wagon, and Weili and Arslan trying to shoot the driver and failing, again and again. How much of the loss of the wagon was my fault? I had known that our two best archers were addicted to opium, and I’d said nothing. And people called me a hero. What a joke.

“Get out,” I said.

“Okay, but -”

“Get out, Deng Weili!” I sat up and tried to push her, but the world spun. I heaved as if I might throw up, but managed to keep it down. I fell back onto the bed roll, curled up with my knees to my elbows, and closed my eyes against the hard, cold world.

Too Weak to Walk

Sunlight streamed in through a gap in the canvas flaps. The wagon was not moving. From outside came the sounds of men talking, making repairs, and eating. Yet the sounds were subdued, as if the entire caravan was covered with a gigantic blanket.

Shah and Ahmed were sitting cross-legged, watching me. Ahmed had my travel pack and dao.

Shah’s enormous body seemed to fill the wagon. “There he is!” he boomed. “The commander awakens!”

I groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

He grinned. “Too late. Half the caravan already does.”

“You have to get up,” Ahmed said. “Sergeant Karim has called a caravan-wide meeting. All must attend.”

“He is not ready.” This was Hakim Yusuf, who sat on a stool beside his prep table. “And he needs to stay warm.”

“We’ll carry him,” Ahmed said. “Why do you think I brought the giant?”

Hakim Yusuf fetched a towel and a pail of cold water, and grumbled as he toweled me down, removing layers of sweat and grime. “Hold still, boy. You fought fifty Afghans, but a wet rag is too much?”

“I didn’t fight fifty Afghans.”

“We did, actually,” Shah said. “I still can’t believe it.”

When he was done, Ahmed helped me dress in a clean tunic, trousers and boots, then strapped my dao onto my back. My leg ached, but the real problem was that I was as weak as a baby goose. By the time I was dressed I was breathing as though I had run a mile.

They wouldn’t let me walk. Shah wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, slid one enormous arm beneath my knees and the other behind my back, and lifted me as if I weighed no more than a sack of rice.

“Put me down.”

“No.”

Ahmed laughed, and I covered my face as Shah hauled me out into the sunlight. I squinted against the brightness and peered through my fingers to take in the surroundings.

Beautiful Fool

The narrow mountain pass was gone. Instead we stood in a broad mountain meadow surrounded by towering peaks, their upper slopes white with snow. Wildflowers dotted the grass in splashes of yellow and blue, bending in the wind like worshipers making ruku’. The caravan wagons had been drawn into a great circle, forty-nine wooden giants standing wheel to wheel. Smoke rose from cookfires. Teamsters repaired broken axles and harnesses, and tended to the animals. Merchants sat beneath blankets, drinking tea in the sunlight.

Outside the circle of wagons, the horses and mules, all on long tethers, grazed contentedly on the long grass, guarded by a dozen teamsters, surprisingly. Where were the guards?

For a moment, the scene was so peaceful and lovely that I forgot everything. At that very instant, somewhere beyond the wagons, a horse let out a loud, excited neigh, then another. I recognized that voice instantly.

Ahmed shaded his eyes and looked toward the remount line. “Let him go!” he shouted to one of the teamsters. “It’s Darius’s horse!”

A moment later, Belly burst around the side of a wagon at a gallop, sending two cooks leaping out of his way. Laughter rippled through the camp as my horse raced straight toward us, black mane flying in the mountain wind.

“Slow down, you beautiful fool,” I whispered.

Belly skidded to a halt beside Shah, snorting and stamping his feet, then shoved his enormous head against my shoulder so hard that I nearly tumbled from Shah’s arms. I stroked his neck, and laughed when he nuzzled my pockets.

“I don’t have any apples.”

“I have a carrot I snagged from the cooks,” Ahmed said, and he handed it to me. “I thought Belly might make an appearance.”

I could have sworn that Belly grinned as he devoured the carrot, chewing happily. He trotted at Shah’s side as we moved farther into the camp, occasionally nudging my blanket with his nose as if to reassure himself that I was truly there.

Then I saw the graves. Ten mounds of fresh earth stood outside the circled wagons, near the western edge of the meadow. A large stone marked each one. The dirt was dark and wet, and a small flock of white birds hunted for insects in the upturned earth.

“We buried them this morning,” Shah said.

I stared. Somewhere beneath them lay Corporal Jian, and other men whose faces I had known for months, and whose voices I had heard every night around the campfires.

Ahead of us, every guard in the caravan stood assembled in the center of the field, talking quietly among themselves. As Shah carried me forward, heads turned. I saw Longwei and Meilin standing together. Her arm was in a sling, but they both seemed fine. Weili, standing next to Arslan as usual, shot me a worried look.

I felt ridiculous, being carried into this group.

“This is embarrassing,” I muttered. “You guys are killing me here.”

“Choose your words wisely,” Ahmed said.

My eyes shot to the fresh graves, and my face paled. “Sorry.”

I saw Kuangren, and called him over. He was thin and pale, and his eyes were puffy and red.

“How is she?”

“Alive but struggling.” His lower lip trembled. “This is the first time I’ve been away from her since it happened.”

I reached out to him, and, to my surprise, he took my hand and kissed it.

The conversation faded as Sergeant Karim stepped into the center of the meadow. He had removed his helmet and tucked it beneath one arm. The wind tugged at his gray hair and beard.

“Five Star guards!” he called.

Men straightened instinctively.

“Fall in!”

The familiar command echoed across the meadow. Conversations ceased. Men hurried into their places. Swords were adjusted, belts tightened, helmets straightened. Within moments, four neat rows stretched across the center of the field.

Timur

Shah lowered me onto a thick section of fallen log someone had dragged into place at the front. I nearly cried out as my left leg brushed the wood. The muscles had stiffened during my time in the wagon, and I could not bend the leg at all, so I sat with it stretched awkwardly in front of me beneath the blanket. Belly, who had not left my side, lowered his head onto my shoulder.

For a few moments, the only sounds were the wind moving through the meadow and the distant clatter of wagon repairs. Karim looked slowly across the ranks, then raised his voice.

“Brother Ahmed. Front and center.”

Ahmed stepped out of formation and walked to Karim’s side. He folded his hands on his chest, and began to speak.

“Bismillahir-Rahmanir-Rahim,” he began. “All praise belongs to Allah, Lord of the worlds. We praise Him, we seek His forgiveness, and we repent to Him.”

He paused, looking past us toward the graves.

“Three days ago, ten men stood among us. Today they stand before Allah.”

The wind carried his words across the meadow. No one turned to look at the graves. We all knew they were there.

“In an authentic hadith,” Ahmed went on, “the Messenger of Allah ﷺ said:

‘Whoever is killed defending his wealth is a shaheed. Whoever is killed defending his family is a shaheed. Whoever is killed defending his life is a shaheed. Whoever is killed defending his religion is a shaheed.’

“The men who died protecting the caravan and their fellow men are shuhadaa. We ask Allah, the Most Generous, to admit them into gardens beneath which rivers flow.”

A chorus of “Ameen,” rose from the assembly.

“There is something else,” Ahmed said. “Many of you are Muslims. Yet the men who attacked us were also Muslim. Some carried the name of Allah on their lips. That is disturbing.”

A murmur of assent passed through the ranks.

“Centuries ago, there arose a Muslim conqueror named Timur. Driven by ego, he dreamed of possessing the largest Mongol empire in history. He was famous for building masjids and employing scholars. Again, he was Muslim. Yet he marched against Muslim lands from India to Anatolia and Persia, leaving burned cities and mountains of skulls in his wake. Millions perished.

“Were the people of those lands wrong to defend themselves? No. They did what any honorable people must do. They fought because tyranny must be opposed, even when it comes dressed in turbans and robes.”

As he spoke these words, his gaze drifted across the assembled men and settled, for a long moment, on me.

“Allah Himself tells us in the Quran:

‘And if Allah had not checked one people by means of another, the earth would surely have been corrupted; but Allah is full of bounty to the worlds.’”

He swept his unwavering gaze across the assembled group.

“We stood against corruption, though it came wearing turbans and speaking the name of Allah. I would do it again.”

* * *

The meadow was silent save for the distant creaking of wagon wheels and the soft rustle of grass in the wind.

Ahmed raised his hands and began an eloquent dua for the dead. We raised our hands with his, murmuring Ameen. When the supplication ended, Ahmed returned to his place in the ranks.

Belly spotted a patch of long grass and wandered away to graze. I stared at the mountains, nodding slowly. Ahmed’s words had struck home. I thought I understood now.

Captain of Guards

Karim tucked his helmet beneath one arm and surveyed the assembled guards. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper than they had only a week before.

“Before we continue,” he said, “I want to thank every man and woman who stood and fought in that mountain pass. Many of you have ridden beside me for years, since the days when I was Sergeant Karim. Many of you still call me sergeant, and I do not mind. I take it as a term of affection. But for the benefit of our younger recruits, let me remind you that I am, in fact, a Captain of Guards in the service of Five Star. As such, I possess the authority to promote, demote, enforce discipline, and grant rewards.”

I had not known this, and was embarrassed that I’d been calling him Sarge this whole time, even if he didn’t mind it.

Shah was called forward. He blinked in surprise, then stepped forward. His gait was surprisingly graceful for such a large man.

“With only Darius Lee at your side,” Karim said, “you plunged directly into an advancing group of at least fifty raiders and shattered the spine of their attack. For bravery and loyalty, I hereby promote you to Senior Guard.”

The meadow erupted in applause. Shah bowed awkwardly and returned to his place.

I was surprised that Shah was not already more highly ranked. He must have been new to the company. The lowest rank, I knew, was Guard, which was me. Above that was Senior Guard – Shah’s new rank – then Veteran Guard – like Longwei – then Corporal, Sergeant, Master Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain, and other more senior ranks held by company officers and members of my mother’s family back home.

Karim promoted several others whose names I scarcely heard. The fever had returned, and it settled behind my eyes like smoldering coals. The mountains beyond the meadow shimmered strangely in the sunlight, and the yellow flowers seemed brighter than before, almost painfully so. I thought they might be made of fresh butter. I licked my lips.

Meilin, her arm in a sling, was promoted to Veteran Guard.

Longwei stood very straight, his hands clasped behind his back. There was a hopeful look in his eyes that I had never seen before. A promotion would make him a Corporal – the first true command rank. For a moment, I was certain Karim would call his name.

He did not. The captain fell silent.

Longwei’s smile faltered. Watching his aging face, I saw disappointment. Not anger. Just the weary disappointment of a man who had expected something and received nothing. I felt bad for him.

Weili’s name was not called either, I noted. Nor mine. Which was fine.

Front and Center

The log I sat on seemed to roll beneath me and I shot my hands out for balance. I blinked hard and found myself staring at Corporal Jian. He stood at the edge of the field behind Karim, horn around his neck and an arrow still in his chest. He studied me intently, as if trying to discern the true grit of the boy who had taken his horn.

Sergeant Karim’s – no, Captain Karim’s – voice boomed across the meadow.

“Darius Lee. Front and center.”

Lost in my fever dream, I did not move. Shah seized my arm and tugged. I tried to stand and collapsed. He caught me before I could fall. “Easy, commander.”

“Stop calling me that.”

No one laughed as Shah supported me with one arm as he helped me to stand beside Karim. My injured leg hung uselessly. Every face in the caravan seemed to be watching.

Karim stepped toward me holding Corporal Jian’s horn. “On the battlefield, age is irrelevant. Only performance matters. When Corporal Jian fell, many distinguished themselves. But one person rallied the men, and brought order to chaos.”

He paused, looking directly into my eyes.

“Darius Lee, you killed nine of the enemy that day. That is astonishing. But it is not for that reason that I promote you. Rather, your courage and judgment saved lives. Never forget that.”

He lifted the leather cord and slipped the horn over my head. It settled against my chest, surprisingly heavy.

“I promote you to Veteran Guard.”

The applause washed over me like a wave. Somewhere nearby, Belly raised his head from the grass and said, “Make sure the job comes with free apples, Boss.”

I swayed where I stood. The meadow was losing its shape. The mountains looked soft around the edges, like giant sesame buns. I wondered how they tasted. My skin felt cold, yet sweat trickled down my back beneath the blanket. Far Away slept in a mini sling that hung around my neck. How nice that he was here.

“Veteran Guard Darius Lee, would you care to say a few words?”

I looked out at the rows of guards, at the graves beyond them, and at the endless mountains beyond. The graves were open. The dead had walked away. I wished them safe travels.

My throat was dry. I swallowed, petted Far Away, and began to speak.

“Memdooh made up a poem. It goes like this:

This is an ode to the dead.
You’re in our hearts, you’re in our heads.
We leave you in the care of the One,
for still you run,
but in a better place,
beneath a better sun.

I think he should be promoted to veteran poet.”

I was serious about this, and was surprised when men laughed. Once again I saw Corporal Jian standing off to the side. He nodded his head at me, pleased, and I felt relieved.

“Corporal Jian was dead when I found him,” I said. “I closed his eyes. His hand was reaching for the horn, trying to do…” I shivered. “His duty… Even with an arrow in his chest.” My eyes drifted to Jian’s ghost. “He’s here with us. His eyes are bright. I think… He’s proud of everyone.”

Men nodded solemnly at this, not realizing that I could literally see him.

“There was a blue-eyed young Afghan. I didn’t want to kill him, but he would not stop. He was no Timur, but… I had no choice. We had no choice.”

I lifted a trembling arm and pointed. “Memdooh is a hero. He was wounded, but he stood and fired, even though he was scared. What a lion.”

I looked for Longwei, found him. “Longwei didn’t like my orders but he did well. He and Meilin killed the commander…”

My eyes searched out Weili and found her. She clasped her hands together and silently mouthed the word, “Please.” I almost said out loud, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” but instead I merely winked.

“A man tried to pull me down,” I continued, “And Belly gave him a Belly bite…” I laughed at that, remembering, and men laughed with me. “What a good horse,” I mumbled. “The best horse.” Then dizziness and exhaustion overtook me, and I fell into Shah’s powerful arms.

Holding Back

A few hours later, in the medical wagon, Captain Karim came to see me. I lay on my bedroll on the floor. Hakim Yusuf had fed and watered me, cooled my forehead and given me foul tasting medicine, and I was somewhat recovered.

“It was meant for you to blow Corporal Jian’s horn,” Karim said, sitting cross-legged beside me. “Some things are destined. I would have promoted you to corporal, but I have to consider the morale of the men.”

“What about Longwei?”

He nodded. “He’s a good fighter and an experienced guard. He knows the terrain, languages and local customs. A valuable man to have. But command is not right for him.” He produced a small leather purse, put it in my hand, and curled my fingers around it. “A bonus for you. We give out bonuses privately. No need to invite envy, or tempt otherwise honest men.”

I loosened the drawstring and looked in the purse. It was filled with gold coins. “SubhanAllah! This is a fortune.”

“Not really. You saved me far more.” He tapped my chest with one finger. “I’ll tell you something though. It sounds strange to say this, but you’re holding back. Your feet are in two different worlds.”

I remembered Meilin telling me something similar after our duel.

“Is that a bad thing?”

Karim looked up at the roof of the wagon, thinking. “I don’t know.”

With a pat on my shoulder, he departed.

A Night Like Deep River

That night, I woke with a desperate need to urinate.

For a moment I lay still, staring up at the canvas roof of Hakim Yusuf’s wagon, listening to the sounds of sleeping men. Someone nearby snored softly. One of the patients coughed in his sleep and turned over. Hakim Yusuf himself lay on his cot in the corner, wrapped in blankets and breathing heavily.

The bucket sat beside my bedroll.

I glared at it. I was sick of buckets. I tested my leg: it was stiff, and still sore, but far improved. I’d go do my business outside.

Very carefully, trying not to wake anyone, I pushed aside my blanket and sat up. My head still swam, though not as badly as before. My leg ached fiercely, but the fire had diminished to a dull, throbbing pain. I reached for my trousers and boots, wincing as I dressed. Then, by force of habit, I strapped my dao to my back, and finally took a little tin cup of water to wash up afterward.

Outside, the night air struck me like a slap. The mountain meadow was gone. So were the towering white peaks. The caravan had moved on while I drifted in and out of fever dreams. We now camped among rolling, windswept hills. Snow covered the ground in patches, shining silver beneath a half moon. The wind hissed through the grass and carried with it the smell of horses and manure.

The camp was silent.

Somehow this place, and this night, reminded me of Deep River. Not in appearance, but in its impersonal frigidity. Deep River, for all its business, had felt barren at times. And the wind here was like the water of the river itself, freezing and unceasing.

The wagons stood in a circle, black shapes against the snow. Here and there, small tents had been pitched between them. The horses and mules slept standing, their backs covered with heavy wool blankets. Only the night guards remained awake, pacing the perimeter with spears and lanterns.

I raised a hand to one of them. He nodded in return, then resumed his patrol.

A stand of dark trees stood perhaps fifty paces from the camp. Relieved to be outside at last, I limped in that direction.

A Flicker of Light

I had not gone ten steps when something caught my eye.

A flicker of orange light, so faint that for a moment I thought it was just a patch of snow reflecting the moonlight. I stopped and searched. There it was again. The light came from one of the wagons.

That was impossible. Open flame inside a wagon was absolutely forbidden. Fire was one of the caravan’s greatest fears. One spark in the wrong place could destroy fifty wagons, hundreds of animals, and everyone sleeping beside them.

My stomach tightened.

I knew that wagon: it was the Silk Store, as we called it. Bolts of cloth filled its interior from floor to ceiling: silk, hemp, linen, rolls of compressed cotton, and embroidered carpets wrapped in oilcloth. I recognized it by the wheels. The Silk Store had shattered a wheel in Samarkand, and the smiths had fashioned two new matching wheels from walnut wood. They were darker and smoother than any of the other wheels. I heard they provided excellent stability and shock resistance as well.

I approached quietly, limping and gritting my teeth from the pain. The merchants responsible for the Silk Store had pitched two small tents nearby, and from inside came the unmistakable sounds of snoring.

I lifted the canvas flap at the wagon’s entrance.

My jaw dropped.

Permission to Burn

What in the name of Allah… Weili and Arslan were squeezed into a tiny space between carpets, bolts of fabric and tight rolls of compressed cotton. She sat slumped against one wall, her eyes half closed, an opium pipe dangling from her fingers. Beside her, Arslan crouched over a tiny oil lamp whose flame was turned almost completely down, no larger than a candle wick. Above the flame, he held a small metal spoon blackened with soot. A dark lump of opium hissed and bubbled inside it. Smoke curled lazily toward the roof.

For several seconds, I simply stared.

“Are you insane?” I hissed, climbing into the wagon. “Put out the flame. You can’t be in here.”

Weili blinked up at me, confused. “Darius?”

Arslan grinned stupidly. “We’re being careful.”

I looked around at the mountain of cloth surrounding us.

“Careful?” I whispered fiercely. “You’re cooking opium in a wagon full of flammable fabrics.”

Weili rubbed her eyes. “The flame is tiny. Nobody will notice.”

“That’s not the point. And I noticed.”

Arslan shrugged. “That’s because you sniffed out Weili like a fox after a rabbit.”

Resolution coalesced in my chest like a block of ice. I’d let this corruption continue for far too long. I was a Veteran Guard now. Enough was enough.

“No more of this, Weili. I can’t cover for you anymore, I can’t allow this.” I stepped past them and reached for the lamp to extinguish it.

Arslan lurched to his feet, intending to block my way, but in his drugged stupor he stumbled. His foot caught on a rolled carpet and he fell. His outflung arm struck the lamp, and it overturned and shattered, spilling burning oil across a bundle of compressed cotton.

The cotton ignited instantly, flaring up and burning brightly. For one frozen heartbeat, all three of us stared at the flames. Then the wagon exploded into chaos.

Fire leaped from one bolt of fabric to the next. It raced up the walls, and ignited the canvas cover of the wagon. It was as if the entire wagon had only been waiting for permission to burn. Flames surrounded us. My jacket was on fire, and smoke filled my lungs. Arslan cursed, while Weili screamed.

Around us, the wagon turned into a whirlwind of flame.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 24 – The Whipping

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

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

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

Related:

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

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 23] – Delirium appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

“Why are Muslim women becoming feminists?” is the (not so) new “why are Muslim youth becoming radicalized?” sentiment… not amongst non-Muslims fearing the paths of angry young Muslims questioning Western socio-political hegemony, but amongst Muslims who are convinced that Muslim women are plunging our community into destruction by questioning the norms of our cultures and even of our faith. What does it really mean for Muslims to buy into the framework of feminism?

In order to answer the question of why Muslim women have been turning to feminism, we must be willing to have a long and very uncomfortable set of conversations among ourselves. There is no single or simple answer, there is a great deal of community accountability and reckoning required, and there is no neat, tidy way to solve the myriad of problems that we will see evinced throughout this discussion. If anyone truly cares about the wellbeing of Muslim women – and Muslim men, for that matter – we must be willing to overcome the set of (faulty) defenses that we have constructed against all perceived attacks on our community, which has a tendency of conflating the Deen itself with the practices of the people, even when the latter is in wild contradiction of the former.

However, it’s not just about why Muslim women are turning to feminism. Many will ask why such a question is relevant in the first place. Why does it matter that Muslim women are ascribing themselves to feminism? After all, isn’t Islam a feminist religion? Doesn’t Islam uphold women’s rights? Why wouldn’t Muslim women be focused on women’s rights?

These complex questions, and equally complex answers, will be discussed in this paper, but be warned: this is not some pithy piece that will “put feminists in their place” or “smash the patriarchy once and for all.” This is more than just your average Muslim refutation piece. This series is meant to be a glimpse into our history, our ongoing realities, and painful truths that we must finally face before we can seek effective solutions and implement solutions that will mitigate the damage inflicted on our Ummah for centuries.

The (Still) Salafi (Formerly) Feminist Tells All

Who am I to speak on this topic at all to begin with? Once upon a time, I was known as The Salafi Feminist, a (rhetorically) fire-breathing menace on the Internet. What many don’t know is that I didn’t start off that way – the Salafi Feminist emerged as a consequence of a very real, very painful journey. My fury came from a place of experiencing dhulm not in isolation, but as part of a societal framework framed as “Islamic” beliefs and expectations. Nor was I alone. When I shared my experiences, droves of women from around the world shared similar stories, and often even much worse. What we all shared in common was that those whom we trusted, those held up as leaders, those who claimed to represent the Islamic ideal, all failed us… and often outright refused to acknowledge what we had endured.

My journey began when I was first reeling from the immense personal distress of being in a toxic marriage characterized as “Islamic,” and then confronted by a communal refusal amongst Muslims to even acknowledge all the ways that our faith is weaponized against women. The more I tried to point to the Deen as a solution to the very real problems that we have as a community, the more Muslims were hostile to even recognizing those problems, and resorted to labelling me (and other Muslim women trying to do the same) as “feminists.”

Ironically, this pushed me directly towards engaging with feminist discourse, which was problematic in many ways. In hindsight, there were many perspectives and ideas that I shared that I now regret; indeed, I apologize for any misguidance that may have occurred as a result. Despite having some familiarity with the Islamic sciences, I was not well grounded enough to be able to identify some of feminist philosophy’s fundamental flaws and the ways it would impact my way of thinking. Often without realizing it, I found myself absorbing ideas that were not in keeping with our faith; even as I was cognizant of certain fundamental principles of Islam, I found myself subconsciously absorbing attitudes and perspectives that did not align with those principles. It has taken years of personal error, spiritual growth, and increased learning to step away from the vortex and understand more deeply how wrong things can go when one is attached to the wrong framework.

My experience as a conservative Muslim woman who gravitated toward feminism in response to oppression in the name of “traditional Islam” has reinforced the urgent need for the Ummah to seriously engage with the recurring harms Muslim women identify in our thought and practice. Had Muslim leadership and communities meaningfully addressed the dhulm perpetuated in our spaces, many women (including myself) would never have been spurred towards other methods of dealing with our community’s problems.

After years of reflection, research, lived experience, and spiritual growth, I am more convinced than ever that the ultimate solutions to the Ummah’s internal and external struggles—personal and spiritual alike—lie within Islam itself. External ideologies can never offer the holistic answers we require. However, I also believe – just as emphatically – that unless the Ummah engages Muslim women’s concerns with seriousness, nuance, and accountability for our collective failures, we will continue to see Muslim women turning to the philosophies of feminism in search of justice and dignity. My work as a believing woman pursuing justice and dismantling the many layers of poison in our Ummah has only just begun. My rage has certainly not subsided; it has only been refined.

What Is Feminism?

There is no single definition of feminism. And there’s the rub – to engage with the discussion of feminism in the first place, one must be willing to acknowledge and engage with the messiness of it all. You cannot simply claim that something is “feminism,” come up with a clever comeback, and then declare victory over “feminism.” Whether in academia, social media, or the real world, there are multiple “feminisms” that are being discussed, developed, and deconstructed. There are the many waves of Western feminism; Black feminism; POC feminism; “womanism”¹, Christian and Jewish feminism; socialist/ Marxist feminism; “Muslim feminism” (which itself has multiple layers to it) and even “Islamist feminism (or womanism)” (Badran, 2009, pg. 242-245; Hidayatullah, 2014, pg 37-45).

Dictionaries will give you varying definitions (“the belief that women should be allowed the same rights, power, and opportunities as men and be treated in the same way” from the Cambridge Dictionary; “belief in and advocacy of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes” from Merriam-Webster – emphasis mine). Loosely and colloquially, many understand feminism as believing in the complete equality of men and women and seeking to replicate that equality at all levels of life and society. Even this is not entirely accurate, as many fiercely discuss and debate the importance of differentiating between “total equality” vs “equity.”

With all this in mind, references to “feminism” in this paper will refer to secular value based movements, not just any conversations around women’s rights. Where relevant, I will specify between different types of feminist movements.

It is important to note that secular feminism has its own unique history in the West, rooted in centuries of ingrained Church-perpetuated beliefs around the inherent inferiority of women, from blaming Eve for Adam’s fall from heaven to witch-hunts and more. I will not fall into the trite habit of boasting about how Islam gave women rights 1400+ years before women in the West received the right to vote. While it is an accurate statement, it does not reflect the realities of Muslim women’s experiences in Muslim societies throughout those 1400+ years. Others have elaborated on the rights Islam gave women elsewhere, and in more scholarly detail I ever could. Our concern, however, is with modern realities, not long-ago eras of Islam’s greatest ideals realized and then lost.

The label of “feminism” has a fraught history in non-Western countries, specifically the Muslim world, where it was used as a tool of colonization even as the suffrage movement was being clamped down in Western countries (Ahmed, 1992, pg. 152-153). Whether under Lord Cromer in Egypt in the late 1880s, or the French in Algeria in the same time period (Rahnama, 2023, pg. 120-153), ‘feminism’ was little more than an imperial tool weaponized for colonial purposes against Muslim populations. Nor was this a historic phenomenon; feminism continues to be used to justify violent Western imperialism against Muslim lands (Ezaydi, 2026, pg 173-197), from the original “War on Terror” invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq to the ongoing genocide in Palestine and, currently, the destruction of Iran.

However, this is not to dismiss any and all efforts in the name of women’s rights as a solely colonial enterprise. Even as the West introduced the very category of women’s rights to political and social discourse, there were those who objected to colonization while recognizing that women were, indeed, experiencing significant oppression in our own societies (Mubarak, 2022, pg. 57-61). Women’s rights movements in Muslim countries, often referred to as “feminism,” had their own unique discussions, priorities, and activisms that did not always equate to Western secular feminist agendas (Badran, 2009, pg 1-6; Badran, 1995, pg 223-250). At times, women’s rights movements started in the same place before diverging, as with the formidable Islamist revival figure, Zaynab al-Ghazali, who split from Huda Sha’rawi’s feminist group in 1936 (Badran, 2009, pg. 24-27). Many Islamic activists, including Zaynab al-Ghazali, sought to reject both colonization and the oppression of women, all under an Islamic framework.

Unfortunately, many of us – especially in the West – are disconnected from our Islamic heritage, both ancient and contemporary. In women like Zaynab al-Ghazali and Shaykha Dr. Heba Raouf Ezzat we have examples of how to address the complex issues of anti-Islamic agendas alongside engaging in serious critique of unIslamic attitudes and practices found in Muslim societies (McLarney, 2015, pg. 219-253). Yet – for whatever reasons – their works have neither been widely translated nor made part of the dominant discourse, whether academic or Islamic. Indeed, it is deeply concerning that many who spend hundreds of thousands of hours pontificating on the topic of Islam and women in lectures, webinars, and courses somehow omit their work entirely. As a result, Muslims in the West today conflate any kind of “women’s rights” discussions with feminism even when it is not grounded in secular discourse. Traditionally trained, orthodox shaykhaat (female Islamic scholars) are constantly accused of feminism when they advocate for women’s Shari’ah rights or challenge unIslamic attitudes and behaviours towards women that is claimed to be “Islamic”; even male scholars who advocate for women are accused of being corrupted by feminism, called “white knights,” and attacked for challenging the status quo.

We must be intelligent enough to recognize that, given our geopolitical, social, and linguistic contexts, it is impossible for us to avoid engaging with certain discourses or using certain types of terminology (e.g. patriarchy; misogyny; androcentrism) when we discuss gendered matters. These words are a part of the English language, with clear definitions, even if colloquial usage influences the emotional impact of these words; just as we use terms like “racism,” “ethnocentrism,” and more when we discuss racism as a general concept as well as within Muslim communities. To claim that these words have no basis in our Islamic tradition is to render us mute on more than race and gender issues; it is an idiotic claim that would invalidate half our Islamic intellectual tradition, which contended with far more serious issues of philosophy and creed. Unless we all revert to speaking the fus’ha Arabic of the Messenger’s era and refuse to acknowledge our existence in the modern timeline, we must get over these emotional arguments and deal with the realities we live in – including speaking English and living in Western contexts.

However, this does not mean that we should not develop our own frameworks and vocabularies – we absolutely should, and at least some figures dedicated to meaningful work in the field have undertaken these efforts (McLarney, 2015). This also does not mean that we should not be extremely cautious in terms of the language we used, being aware of the way in which certain terminology is weaponized, and the foundational assumptions underlying that language. Engaging in these discussions to begin with must come with careful analyses of the terminology used, the philosophies behind them, and our theological positionality as Muslims who must contend with these epistemologies. As Talal Asad (2018) notes, the language of secularism (and thus, feminism) is not neutral; it is embedded in power, history, and practice. We cannot be blind to this reality and the ways in which it impacts us at every level.

Colloquial use of terminology that originated in academia usually moves beyond their dictionary definitions and becomes heavily laden with cultural meanings that remove nuance, conflate cause-and-effect, and adopt problematic assumptions that are not properly interrogated. We see much of this especially in online discourse, which takes phrases such as “toxic masculinity” (originally meant to critique some societal beliefs around how men are perceived as masculine) and turns them into caricature accusations against all traits associated with men. This must be kept in mind when having conversations around Islam and feminism, as it is necessary for us to consider the contexts in which we are speaking, and to whom; the average online Muslim won’t be able to parse the difference between academic verbiage and casual usage when the words used are the same. The way one person uses the word “patriarchy” as a neutral descriptor vs another who uses it as a sweeping condemnation make a massive difference in how thoughts and ideas are communicated and internalized. Preachers, activists, academics, and influencers spend far too much time talking past each other than engaging with other meaningfully precisely because of this mismatch of understanding and usage of vocabulary.

We must also be intelligent enough to distinguish between those actively calling to the secular values and definitions of feminism, those who just want to improve women’s rights but only know how to do so using popular feminist vocabulary, and those who are actively engaged with Islamic tradition to uphold Islamic values around women’s rights. If we are not willing to do this much, then we prove ourselves to be insincere in dealing with the very serious issues that plague our Ummah today.

As we proceed, we must keep the following in mind: when injustice becomes a norm, resistance is inevitable. In a Western context, this means that feminism itself was inevitable, as a response to the oppression that besieged women at every level. From being viewed as property to finally being able to own property, from the right to access equal education to protections against discrimination, and more, one must acknowledge that the suffragist movement in Western countries resulted in real, tangible, positive results that benefit women – Muslim as well as non-Muslim – today. How far feminism has gone beyond resisting oppression and pursuing justice to go to another extreme is something else to be considered.

In Muslim contexts, we must realize that engaging with the lived realities and the discourse of feminism, shared via media and technology, was and is also inevitable. What is not inevitable is a future wherein all Muslims seeking solutions to gendered injustice turn to secular feminism – but only if we as a community are committed to putting in the work to oppose this injustice from within our own traditions.

What’s So Bad About Feminism?

This is the part where many people expect either long, convoluted discussions about Marxist and neoliberal constructions of societal hierarchy and power structures… or reductive memes about “feminists are happy to make coffee for their bosses but not their husbands!” I am here to do neither.

So what is so bad about feminism? Put simply: it is a framework that does not begin with the belief in a Creator who is the All-Knowing, the All-Wise, the Most Just Lawmaker. Feminism in its many mutations, and especially its most widespread and contemporary iterations, is mired in a worldview devoid of knowledge and belief in Allah and His Guidance. Discussions around morality and sexuality, gender and hierarchy, are permuted through a lens structured solely upon human-made ideas of good and evil. Feminism, along with every other philosophy that exists, is the result of humans trying to make meaning of the world without a foundation of Divine Guidance. It is especially important to note that in the Western context, secularism (and thus feminism) is inextricably tied to the history and consequences of the Enlightenment – a movement emerging from volatile Christian violence and that eventually resulted in cutting off the concept of “God” from public life, and consequently from private morality. Thus, a deliberate choice has been made to eradicate the role of God from the most fundamental aspects of human life, with unsurprising ramifications.

It is not surprising that so many women who have experienced or witnessed injustice and oppression at the hands of men think that men are inherently the problem, or that any social structure wherein men have authority is inherently harmful to women. After all, this is what their experience has taught them. From a secular perspective, religion has only ever been weaponized against women, to women’s profound detriment. Male-led societies have rarely resulted in the uplifting of women, but in their suppression and humiliation. This is the soil from which emerges a feminist hermeneutics of suspicion: a perspective that is predicated upon the assumption that all or most religious and cultural structures are created by and for male interests.² One could argue that for those without Islam, this is a logical conclusion to come to. For those without Islam, there is no God who determines good and evil or promises judgment; no Divinely ordained set of ethics by which to live, to judge, to hold oneself or others accountable; no spiritual framework which women can turn to with confidence that their very existence is respected, honoured, and valued. In a secular worldview, there is no faith in a Hereafter wherein justice will be meted out. Justice itself is a concept entirely at the whims of the dominant powers that be, malleable and ever-changing with the latest political, social, or intellectual trend.

Islam, however, gives us a different foundation upon which to build our faith and our worldview. As Muslims, we believe completely in the Qur’an as the first source of Divine Guidance and Legislation; we believe in the role of the Sunnah as the second primary source of spiritual direction and practical rulings. We also have an understanding of the rich, varied corpus of traditional Islamic scholarship – a tradition that doesn’t exist as a fossilized entity to be followed blindly, but which continues to develop to this day. We also have a healthy recognition that our scholarship is not infallible; at the same time, through our Islamic tradition, we understand that rulings and structures have deeper meaning and wisdom. Legal authority or hierarchy does not automatically equate ontological superiority. Every question that is associated with feminism, from questioning female worth to discussions around sexual behaviour, from gender roles to finances, is ultimately answered within the framework of believing that Allah revealed a Divine structure for us to exist within. Most comfortingly, we understand as believers that where justice is not implemented in this world, it most certainly will be upheld in the Hereafter by the Most Just, on the Day when none can escape His Justice.

In summary, we must always remember that no matter the philosophy or ideology in question, anything that is not firmly grounded upon the Qur’an and Sunnah – and most importantly, upon taqwa of Allah – is not something that we can rely upon. While there may be some kernels of truth to be found, or some elements of accuracy in their ideas, they will always be fundamentally flawed. It is through Islam alone that one will ever find a truly comprehensive concept of justice.

The Trauma to Feminism Pipeline

It is a caricature that Muslim feminists are spoiled young women studying liberal arts at a liberal university on their fathers’ dime. To start with this assumption is already a sign of refusing to engage with the reality of Muslim women’s experiences. We have no statistics from within the Muslim community to tell us exactly how many Muslim women began identifying as feminist after going to university. It is also true that there are many women who have not experienced trauma who identify with the term ‘feminist,’ for various reasons. We do have considerable anecdotal evidence from Islamic scholars (both male and female) deeply engaged in grassroots da’wah work, who testify to the trend of Muslim women ascribing to the term “feminist” after enduring or witnessing significant traumatic experiences.

These traumas are very real: witnessing or experiencing abuse at the hands of men evoking their status as qawwamoon; forced marriages; FGM³ being touted as a part of Islam⁴; being raised with the beliefs that women are inherently inferior to men in Islam^{5 6}, that women do not enter Jannah except through the permission of a man, that Allah hates women, that women’s education is haraam⁷, and so on⁸. Fataawah, Islamic books, and masjid lectures abound labeling women as weak, emotional, incapable of rational thought or action, and constructing ideas of “wifely obedience” that go beyond the pale and into the realm of accepting abuse silently. When these are touted as the Islamic stance on women’s existence, how are Muslim women supposed to think well of Allah?

It is also common to find that people have ingrained assumptions about Islamic values and rulings based on faulty premises; for example, that hijab was mandated by men to control female sexuality, rather than that hijab is a command from Allah that is part of a larger vision of sexual ethics for all believers. Other ideas, such as teaching that women’s sole purpose in life is to become wives and mothers, do little to bring Muslim women closer to Islam.

Many girls grow up with a warped understanding of Islam itself, often because of their parents’ and communities’ lack of tarbiya. There is almost always a gross ignorance of Islam, Islamic values, ethics, frameworks, and rulings. The conflation of culture (whether South Asian, Arab, or otherwise) with Islam has been a massive source of confusion, pain, and injustice for Muslim women around the world. These traumas become a motivating force to push Muslim women away from Islam.

It is only understandable that girls and women who are not raised to believe in their inherent worth as believers in the sight of Allah, who are excluded from worshipping Allah in His Houses, whose understanding of their existence revolves around sentiments of disgust and anger, will inevitably question these premises. It also understandable that, when penalized for asking questions in the first place (as happens to many women who sincerely go to scholars with their questions), these women will seek answers from outside of our tradition in an attempt to reconcile their fitri understanding that the Most Just Creator could never condone such vile injustices.

Indeed, an oft-ignored element of the phenomenon of Muslim women identifying with the label of feminism is that the Muslim community as a whole has demonstrated a consistent refusal to meaningfully deal with these issues from the ground up, on a regular basis. Many Muslim women who ask questions or challenge our community’s status quo are immediately vilified as “feminists” trying to undermine Islam even when they explicitly say they’re not feminists and don’t identify with feminism (a common challenge faced even by traditionally trained women Islamic scholars!). When faced with such antagonism from other Muslims, many of these women actively choose to identify as feminists, since their attempts to engage from within using a solely Islamic-based terminology yielded no change or benefit. Using the language of feminism gives them the opportunity to tap into wider discussions, address certain phenomena with more specific vocabulary, and utilize existing research and social work that has been done regarding women’s issues.

If Muslims are sincere about addressing the problems of feminism within our community, then it must happen proactively, not reactively. That is to say, it is not effective or meaningful to spend thousands of hours debating “feminism as deviance”; what will prevent a mass exodus of Muslim women from looking outwards for solutions will be to aggressively deal with our community’s problems from a firmly grounded perspective in the Qur’an and Sunnah. AlHamdulillah, we are beginning to see this work being done in various capacities, but the reality is that much more work is needed in this regard – especially in light of the red pill ideology permeating many spaces and doubling down on justifying the harms done to Muslim women in the name of Islam.

There is a stark necessity to acknowledging that feminism isn’t the biggest, baddest thing to happen to the Ummah: wholesale dhulm (oppression) is. When we treat the lives of women as less than an immediate priority, when we repeatedly turn a blind eye to abusers while enjoining the abused to be patient (or to take responsibility for their own abuse!), when we demonstrate husn adh-dhann for “scholars” who commit abhorrent crimes while demonizing the victims, when we defend vile celebrity rapists who briefly use the cover of Islam while attacking believing women and calling them hypocrites and apostates – we demonstrate that we do not care about the spiritual or physical wellbeing of Muslim women. In all these cases, it isn’t feminism pulling women away from Islam… it is Muslims who are doing so.

Victims of Modernity

That’s not to say that every Muslim woman who finds herself turning towards feminism is a victim of abuse or gross cultural practices. Sometimes she’s a victim of modernity – no different from the many Muslim men wandering about who are also suffering from this affliction (though their diseases remain either undetected or simply considered not as serious).⁹

Man or woman, the quality of the average Western Muslim’s Islamic upbringing leaves much to be desired. When we already contend with statistics that show that only about 42% of American Muslims even pray five times a day, can we really have high hopes that the majority of young Muslims are being raised with a robust, holistic knowledge of Islam itself? How many Muslims, male or female, have been taught to understand Islam as a systematic, structured way of life? How many young Muslims have even a rudimentary awareness of the development of the Islamic sciences, let alone how rulings around hijab or other gendered matters came to be? To expect that Muslim women should somehow know the finer details of these scholarly discussions while their male counterparts do not, and to accuse such women of disrespecting our tradition when they simply do not know, is a double standard that only does our Ummah damage to uphold.

Coupled with the lack of thorough Islamic upbringing is the absorption of modern secular liberal values, whether through the education system, entertainment and media, or simply the society that Western Muslims are raised in. This, too, is part of a larger, overarching concern that exceeds the scope of this paper, yet is required to be considered more deeply: should Muslims really be content with settling in nonMuslim lands and raising our children in cultural and intellectual environments that we are not preparing them to contend with appropriately? Muslim parents bear a great burden around the tarbiya that they provide – or do not provide – to their children, and this has endless repercussions on the state of the Muslim Ummah at large.

A common issue specifically around discussions of feminism and Islam is the projecting of modern secular liberal values upon Islam itself, with little to no understanding that secular values – feminist or otherwise – are built upon a socio-theological and historical context that is utterly different from Islam and devoid of the presence of Allah. There is rarely an awareness of how feminism was used as a colonial tool to dismantle Muslim societies as part of the effort to portray the West as inherently superior and rational, while Islam was belittled as being a backwards, oppressive faith.

Statements like “Islam is a feminist religion!” and “Prophet Muhammad was the first feminist!”¹⁰ are predicated upon understandings of “justice,” “freedom,” and rights discourse that are distinctly divergent from the understandings of those same words within the Islamic spiritual-legal tradition. Questions of authority, marriage, sexual consent, abortion, and all the other trigger topics are then picked apart and understood through an intellectual paradigm that is utterly discordant with an Islamic worldview.

Perhaps most insidiously, this absorption of Western frameworks results in a type of internalized Islamophobia. There is a reduction of Islam to a private spirituality and of “Muslim-ness” as a cultural identity, rather than a holistic, publicly lived worldview and lifestyle that includes the public, the private, the domestic, the political, the social, the cultural, the ritual, and more. A sense of Western exceptionalism arises, one in which there is an assumption of Western secular values as a universal truth and superior moral system over Islamic truth, despite the constant state of flux of Western secular values.¹¹

In these circles, it is not uncommon to find an Othering of religious Muslims as backwards and misogynist; sometimes the racism comes out blatantly by using terms such as “Taliban” or “Wahhabi” as slurs against Muslims seen as too conservative. The concept of Islam as the ultimate, timeless Truth revealed by the All-Knowing and Most Just Lawmaker is replaced by the blind, implicit belief that contemporary Western mores are the sole arbiter of what is right, what is moral, and what is just. From here on out, it is all too easy to slip from into perennialism, and from there into atheism itself.

Not the Intersectionality We’re Looking For

A consequence of being steeped in secular liberal discourse is that from well-meaning discussions around human rights and oppression, a sharp left turn is taken into the weeds of social justice warrior¹² rhetoric. While it is understandable that Muslims seek allyship amongst others who will support our rights (especially in the age of ongoing illegal detainments, Zionist targeting, and endlessly increasing Islamophobia from the right wing and centrist left alike), we have sadly taken to unsavory bedfellows.

Moving beyond understanding the concept of intersectionality as it applies to certain valid spheres,¹³ there is an embrace of intersectionality with all elements – most notably the LGBTQ movement and its push to not just normalize homosexuality, but to celebrate it. The intersectionality of LGBTQ issues with wider rights discourse meant that Muslims looking for support for our civil rights were compromised by the expectation to change our own moral stances. It wasn’t enough for us to simply acknowledge that yes, LGBTQ people are entitled to the same legal rights and protections that everyone is supposed to have in a secular society. We were expected to move into the realm of explicit support for their causes, too; that our morality was now to mirror their ideas of morality (or lack thereof). To defy this was to be labeled bigoted, hateful, and essentially confirming racist stereotypes of Muslims as backwards, savage, and a threat to enlightened Western civilization.

As a community, we witnessed the snowball effect of this intersectionality. A blurring of sensibilities and the desensitization of our Islamic moral beliefs around sexuality have led to egregious public displays of utterly unacceptable nonsense. The examples are endless: from Ilhan Omar, a hijabi woman, dancing at Pride Marches to claims that “Islam has always had a place for homosexuality and gender fluidity!”; Scott Kugle’s laughable attempt at re-interpreting the Qur’an to allow for homosexuality; organizations like HEART aggressively attacking Muslims who uphold the Islamic prohibitions against homosexuality; blaming the political right for traditional Islamic stances against a range of issues from abortion to homosexuality, and more. At a theological level, the complicating of and rejection of “patriarchal heteronormativity” has resulted in explicit blasphemy: Rashida Tlaib publicly declaring that “my Allah is a She,” echoing the likes of Amina Wadud and others (who clearly missed the memo about Allah’s chosen way to reference Himself in the Qur’an¹⁴). Ominously, the LGBTQ cause has been weaponized by Western development and humanitarian aid organizations as an imperialist tool against Muslims.

The Qur’an and Sunnah are rendered sacrifices on the altar of intersectionality. An Islamic worldview is perceived as not just moot, but shameful. Contemporary ethics are projected onto Islam; Islam no longer defines the foundation of morality, but is expected to meet the standards of Western society on any given day, regardless of how quickly the wind blows in another direction. For those of us who still believe deeply in social justice work (as we should, in keeping with Islamic ethos), it is imperative that we do this work while firmly grounded in Islamic principles. Imam Dawud Walid’s book, “Towards Sacred Activism,” provides a solid foundation of how to navigate social justice activism without falling into the precarious pitfalls of inadvertently supporting belief systems that profoundly contradict the very foundations of our faith.

Social Media Muslim Girl Bosses, Dawah Bros, and Monetizing Ragebait

There is another place where we see the frameworks and language of feminism used to create a Frankenstein’s monster of discourse around Islam and women’s rights: the Internet. Social media, particularly on platforms such as YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok, have become a breeding ground for anyone and everyone to grab a mic and start pontificating on what they think Islam says about Islam, women, and every other topic under the sun. While Dawah Bro Inc. is perhaps most easily identified as an ugly subculture of the Muslamic Internet, they are just one side of the toxic social media coin. The other side of the coin is what can perhaps be labeled as Muslim Girl Boss : flooding social media feeds with sound bytes claiming that “Islam says wives don’t have to do anything!” or “Khadijah (ra) was a CEO!” or “talking about hijab is spiritual blackmail!” or “hadith are a flawed, man-made construct of the patriarchy!”

This particular genre of social media influencers consists of individuals who have no traditional background in Islamic studies, yet feel confident enough with their secular educational backgrounds to speak on Islamic matters. This is particularly dangerous, as secular educational training – even in “Islamic studies” – is a wildly different worldview than that of genuine Islamic knowledge. Even those who claim to reference fiqh tend to have little or no understanding of usool al-fiqh, the differences between madhaahib and their internal structures, and the greater holistic legal and ethical considerations of the Shari’ah.

The result is that – whether Ted Talk or podcast, YouTube short or viral TikTok video – the sweeping claims being made are both wildly incorrect and cringe-inducing. Unfortunately, they also snag hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of views; generate endless comments; are stitched by other content creators; and contribute to a Frankenfiqh discourse in Muslim online spaces that has no concern for the depth and nuance of true Islamic scholarship. Not coincidentally, these takes also reflect a very particular set of worldviews: one based on secularism, individualism, capitalism, and pop feminism.

Just as Dawah Bro Inc. thrives on creating toxic perspectives around gender roles and relationships, where women are caricatured as greedy, vindictive, and deceitful towards innocent men, Muslim Girl Boss creates its own warped reality. Women who do not share aspirations of shattering corporate glass ceilings are demeaned as brainwashed baby breeders; relationships built on mutual reciprocity, albeit presenting in “traditional” ways such as husbands as breadwinners and wives attending to the domestic sphere, are recreated as inherently dangerous to women.

The weaponization of pop-therapy vernacular (not to be confused with valid therapeutic interventions!) is used to convince women that normal marital miscommunications and disagreements are equivalent to abuse. Emotional validation is given priority over all else, including personal accountability. Fiqh of marriage is dismissed wholesale as misogyny from classical scholars, to be rejected in favour of contemporary secular relationship norms (despite the erratic and fickle nature of the latter). Rather than fostering healthy discussions around gender roles and interactions in society, those immersed in pop-feminist spaces create an environment of suspicion and hostility towards those perceived as supporting a patriarchal structure within the Muslim community.

Even the use of terminology such as “patriarchy” and “misogyny” is devoid of nuance, often swapped interchangeably for one another without pausing to consider the implications. More dangerously, those who have some passing familiarity with Islamic vocabulary wield technical Islamic jargon in a manner that strips the phrases of their legal context, leaving viewers with wildly incorrect conclusions that are attributed to the Shari’ah. Many Muslim women walk away from this content feeling as though they cannot trust traditional Islamic scholarship, while also feeling justified in believing that Islam does, in fact, conform to modern 21st century Western ideals. Endless videos fill the algorithm with warnings that Islamic scholarship is a behemoth of misogyny to be rejected, that Islam itself is little different from Christianity or Judaism, that the structures of the Islamic sciences are a house of cards to be swept away.

These social media personalities do a lot more than just undermine the role of traditional Islamic scholarship; they also construct a culture of pseudo-intellectualism (characterized, ironically, by significant ignorance) and heightened antagonism between Muslim men and women. Rather than shedding light on Islamic law’s nuanced approach to all matters – including gender roles, responsibilities, and rights – they flatten the discourse into one of patriarchy vs feminism, of male oppression vs female victimhood. In their professed quest to enlighten the public about all things Islam and women, they muddy the waters of intellectual integrity, nuanced knowledge, and Ummatic allyship in the cause of justice for men and women alike.

These online dumpster fires don’t just stay online – they leak into the real world, causing young Muslim men to gravitate towards false machismo under the guise of Islamic masculinity and quoting Andrew Tate, while Muslim women grasp for responses to this poison. Unfortunately, many of those responses contain just as much poison, especially the increasingly common rejection of ahadith as a source of Islamic authority, based on accusations of misogyny and corruption. This rejection of hadith and the Sunnah, under the guise of women’s empowerment, signals something extremely dangerous: a rejection of Islam as a holistic faith, one which was sent to us by an All-Wise, All-Knowing Creator, and an attitude where personal discomfort or lack of understanding of Islamic texts is elevated over the concept of sami’na wa ata’naa (we hear and we obey).

Rather than seeking to explore deeper scholarly explanations of contentiously-viewed ahadith, rather than seeking female scholarship to provide insight and empathy while upholding the Islamic tradition, it has become a common response to claim that one’s own intellect (or five-minute Google/ ChatGPT search) is superior enough to trump a spiritual and scholarly tradition that spans over 1400 years. This reaction doesn’t actually help Muslim women overcome oppression in our communities or even reconcile personal spiritual challenges – all it does is create a doorway that leads to rejecting the fundamental premise of our faith, which is complete and utter belief in Allah’s Perfect Guidance and Justice.

In turn, rather than championing the cause of Muslim women, we end up with endless social media back-and-forths accusing influencers of apostasy (egged on by those same influencers). The Ummah’s real issues are drowned out in favour of jobless behaviour, attention-seeking, narcissism, and making money off the short-sightedness and emotional reactions of thousands of online followers whose every like, comment, and reaction video makes money for those whose last thought is their own spiritual wellbeing (let alone that of their audiences).  Thanks to an algorithm which actively elevates conflict and antagonism, Muslim men and women have been manipulated into (or actively played a part in manipulating others to) view each other with suspicion even as they try to get married (to one another!), struggle to find alignment in religious values (despite sharing the same deen), and clash even in masjid spaces as polarizing views are weaponized on the minbar and divide the community¹⁵. There is little sense of believing men and believing women as allies of one another, seeking Allah’s Pleasure and to establish justice in the Ummah and around the world.

The phenomenon of these influencers reflects two very dangerous patterns of behaviour: the first is the sheer arrogance of speaking on matters of Islam without actual Islamic knowledge gained from traditional study; and the second is a culture of presumption that anyone can speak on religious matters, regardless of their training (or lack thereof). Bluntly speaking, this is a type of spiritual disease; one which comes with widespread, dangerous social consequences alongside the negative impact on their own spiritual states. By putting themselves in the position of speaking on such matters as Islamic law and ethics, these influencers are presenting themselves as experts – rather than directing their audiences towards those who truly are qualified to do so, including numerous female scholars with genuine traditional training and qualifications in the Islamic sciences.

It is imperative that as a collective, Muslims who have genuine concerns around women’s rights and issues concerning women do not turn to social media shills as figures of authority or influence. We must not enable their ignorance and their hubris; we must not mistake their grifts for grassroots work; we must not reward their attention seeking with our hits, views, and stitches. Instead, we must reorient ourselves to the actual methodology of seeking knowledge. Pursuing real-work change must take place from within our own tradition, not from a shaky framework cobbled together from colonialism, secularism, capitalism, individualism, feminism, and the millions of others -isms bogging down our intellectual processes and fogging our cultural filters.

From the Streets to the Ivory Towers

Most Muslims are “average” Muslims, and you don’t have to be a university graduate to be impacted by the factors that we discussed in the previous sections. Lack of Islamic knowledge, absorbing ideas around Western secular superiority, and being chronically online are all issues to be found amongst the everyday Muslim. Feminism is just one growth of the ugly morass that is the Western sociopolitical hegemony that has, alas, infected the entire world.

But for those who have gone past social media soundbytes and found themselves immersed in deeper explorations of feminism and Islam, what needs to be known about that beast colloquially known as Muslim feminism? How have the discussions in the ivory towers of academia trickled their way onto our streets, and how are Muslim women impacted when we pick up books penned addressing the topic of Islam and women? While there are endless articles, webinars, and YouTube lectures pontificating on feminism and its impacts on Muslims, there is very little actual understanding in the Muslim community of what and how feminism in a Muslim context emerged, developed, and continues to influence others – and what isn’t feminism no matter how much one tries to make it so.

As someone who used the label of ‘feminist’ for many years, I am the first to note that most people embroiling themselves in these discussions don’t know what they’re talking about. The vast majority of people who use the term feminist have not studied feminism, are not even aware of its long (often sordid) history, or the confusion of thought trends ascribed to feminism, and even more rarely have read works by Muslim feminist authors. Over the years, however, I have taken the time to actually read works by notable Muslim feminist academics and developed a much deeper understanding of the fundamental theological flaws behind “Muslim feminism.” It is only by engaging with these works, rather than relying on flimsy stereotypes, caricatures, and outdated ideas of what “feminist” discourse entails, that we can most effectively address the very real, very dangerous beliefs undergirding the entire structure.

Many women find themselves picking up copies of Amina Wadud or Fatima Mernissi’s books at some point or another – sometimes as required readings in a university religions class, and sometimes out of desperation, in search for anything to more seriously address their questions around Islam and women (especially if they were already berated by imams for daring to ask those questions in the first place!). Unfortunately, this reading is usually done without a solid understanding of aqeedah, tafseer, the development of fiqh, or Islamic scholarship in general. Without a grounding in the Islamic sciences, such readers are left unable to identify just how deeply problematic, and wildly incorrect, these authors’ foundational premises and ultimate conclusions are.

The next part of this article will examine the ideological structures underpinning the field of Muslim feminism in academia, key figures and their contributions to the field, and the necessity of effective responses to these ideas.

References

Ahmed, L. (1992). Women and gender in Islam. Yale University Press.

Asad, T. (2003). Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity. Stanford University Press.

Asad, T. (2018). Secular Translations: Nation-state, Modern Self, and Calculative Reason. Columbia University Press.

Badran, M. (1995). Feminists, Islam, and Nation: Gender and the Making of Modern Egypt. Princeton University Press.

Badran, M. (2009). Feminism in Islam: Secular and Religious Convergences. Oneworld Publications.

Ezaydi, S. (2026). The Othered Woman: How White Feminism Harms Muslim Women. Pluto Press.

Hidayatullah, A. A. (2014). Feminist Edges of the Qur’an. Oxford University Press.

McLarney, E. A. (2015). Soft Force: Women in Egypt’s Islamic Awakening. Princeton University Press.

Mubarak, H. (2022). Rebellious Wives, Neglectful Husbands: Controversies in Modern Qur’anic Commentaries. Oxford University Press.

Rahnama, S. (2025). The Future Is Feminist: Women and Social Change in Interwar Algeria. Cornell University Press.

Related:

ShaykhaTalk: Female Scholarship Or Feminism?

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