Unfortunately, there are serious safety concerns that parents must be hypervigilant about, particularly in the online class setting. Hearing about more and more children becoming victims of sexual abuse from “talented Quran teachers” is a wake-up call to all parents. 

As a nitpicky Quran teacher since 2011, my convictions in finding the best Quran teacher for your children have now changed – prioritizing your child’s safety is of the utmost importance. 

Rules for Online Quran Lessons

These rules are especially important if families are working with a Quran teacher online.

–Only the parents’ contact information should be shared with the Quran teacher. Whether it’s text messages, emails, phone calls, or anything else, the Quran teacher should never be able to directly and privately contact the student. Make sure your child is joining video calls from a device that has the parent’s login information displayed in the call. If sending voice messages for review homework, ensure your child is either using your phone to do so, or forwarding messages to you that they have sent to their teacher. 

–Personal information about the child and family should not be shared. Where the child goes to school, the family’s home address, the child’s schedule of weekly activities, and other information that can help the Quran teacher find your child in person are dangerous to share. Although this may be difficult to avoid or seem obstructive to the child developing a positive relationship with their teacher, it is important to protect the safety of your child. 

–All video lessons should be conducted in a communal area and with parent supervision. The parent should be able to see the screen and overhear the entirety of the lessons. This measure is to hold the Quran teacher accountable for their speech and actions during each and every lesson. It might be very challenging to arrange a productive environment for Quran lessons with other noisy children and activity in the home. It may also seem like a waste of time not to take care of other things, such as making dinner or exercising, while the child is occupied. Having your child in an adjacent room and being on a three-way video call with the teacher, child, and parent present may be a good workaround for this. Some teachers will not allow parents to be in the room or watch lessons. If the teacher will not concede after you’ve explained your concerns for your child’s safety, find another teacher. 

–No photos or videos should be exchanged. Lessons should not be recorded by the teacher. You and your child should not be sending photos or videos to their teacher. This will be more complicated with social media in the mix, particularly if the teacher can access you or your child’s social media profiles. There may be instances where the teacher would like your child to listen to audio or watch videos for homework. In that case, these should be sent directly to you, the parent. The teacher should never record lessons with your child because you can’t ensure how those videos will be used.   

–Establish body safety and boundaries with your children. Teach your child about the importance of keeping their private areas covered at all times and to not discuss their private areas with others. In the context of video Quran classes, your child should understand that only faces and hands should be shown during the video lessons. If the Quran teacher makes a request to see more of them, the child should firmly say “no” and promptly alert the parent. If the Quran teacher ever shows more of themselves than their face and hands, the child should also promptly alert the parent. Tell your child they can also hang up the video call or leave the room immediately if they feel uncomfortable or scared.

–Discuss the online safety plan with your child. Your child should be aware of all the safety measures you are taking so they can comply with them. This includes ensuring they will not accidentally share their personal contact information with their teacher.  Transparency with your children is key to ensuring your plan works.

Communicating Your Rules with Your Kids’ Quran Teacher

The rules that you have come up with for your child’s safety don’t need to be kept secret. Go ahead and clearly communicate what your expectations are to your children’s Quran teacher. You can use the message template below to send as a text or email (You’re welcome!):

Dear xx,

As we begin our Quran learning journey with you, we want to ensure our child’s safety. We have some rules in place that we want to inform you of so you can respect the boundaries we’d like you to uphold. They are:

• You should only contact me outside of Quran classes. You will not have my child’s contact information. 

• Please do not ask about personal information about my child and family, such as which school or masjid we attend.  

• All video lessons are conducted in a communal area in our home and with adult supervision. We apologize for any background noise or distractions in advance, and please let us know if we need to make changes to have smoother lessons.

• Do not exchange photos or videos with my child during or outside of class. 
• Our family has discussed this online safety plan and body safety. My child is aware that you know the safety rules as well and will report any concerns they have directly to me.

With transparency and straightforward communication with their Quran teacher, your plan should be successful, inshaAllah! Hopefully, such a clear outline of what is acceptable for your family will deter any potential predators from preying on your child and family.

Conclusion

As Muslims, we take pride in learning how to read and memorize our Sacred Scripture in its original form–a gift hardly any other religious communities enjoy. Teaching our children how to read the Quran is an important goal for many Muslim parents and a lifeline to their faith once they become adults. However, ensuring child safety while undergoing online Quran study is of the utmost importance, arguably much more important than teaching your children how to read Quran.

As a Quran teacher myself, I’d much rather children learn how to read/memorize Arabic suboptimally than expose them to harm from a teacher who can create the next Mishary al Afasi. If a parent decides to use an online Quran teacher, it is essential that they stay engaged with their children’s lessons to ensure abuse or exploitation is not taking place.

Related:

– Safeguarding Children In Today’s World: An Islamic Perspective On Child Sexual Abuse Prevention And Protection

– [Podcast] Raising Children As Huffadh | Sh Fatima Barkatullah

The post Protecting Our Children As They Learn Quran Online: A Guide For Parents appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Here, we at MuslimMatters have compiled for you yet another edition of ‘The MM Recap’ with this ultimate Dhul Hijjah and Hajj round-up of articles straight from the MuslimMatters archives. From the educational to the inspiring, from the helpful to the reflective, we hope to provide you with an updated one-stop resource that you can keep coming back to inshaAllah.

Dhul Hijjah

– Not Everyone Goes To Hajj…But Everyone Is Called: Gaza, Gratitude, And Dhul Hijjah

Not Everyone Goes To Hajj…But Everyone Is Called: Gaza, Gratitude, And Dhul Hijjah – MuslimMatters.org

– When Allah Chooses Something: The Blessings Of Dhul Hijjah

When Allah Chooses Something: The Blessings Of Dhul Hijjah – MuslimMatters.org

– Embracing the Sacred: A Heartfelt Journey Through the First 10 Days of Dhul-Hijjah

Embracing the Sacred: A Heartfelt Journey Through the First 10 Days of Dhul-Hijjah – MuslimMatters.org

– The Bigger Picture: Understanding Loss, Sacrifice, and Purpose in Dhul Hijjah

The Bigger Picture: Understanding Loss, Sacrifice, and Purpose in Dhul Hijjah – MuslimMatters.org

– Optimizing The First 10 Of Dhul Hijjah

Optimizing The First 10 Of Dhul Hijjah – MuslimMatters.org

Hajj

– What Is Your Role In The Story Of Islam? : On Hajj, Eid, And Surat Ibrahim

What Is Your Role In The Story Of Islam? : On Hajj, Eid, And Surat Ibrahim – MuslimMatters.org

– Experiences, Lessons, And Reality Checks From Hajj 2024

Experiences, Lessons, And Reality Checks From Hajj 2024 – MuslimMatters.org

– A Less Than Perfect Hajj: Hajj Reflections

A Less Than Perfect Hajj: Hajj Reflections – MuslimMatters.org

– Audio Article: Spiritual Prep For Hajj

Audio Article: Spiritual Prep For Hajj – MuslimMatters.org

– Reflections On Hajj I Sh. Furhan Zubairi

Reflections On Hajj I Sh. Furhan Zubairi – MuslimMatters.org

 Dhul Hijjah/Hajj & Parenting

– Dhul Hijjah With Kids In The Home And Palestine On Our Minds

Dhul Hijjah With Kids In The Home And Palestine On Our Minds – MuslimMatters.org

– 3 Fun And Educational Dhul Hijjah Activities For Children

3 Fun And Educational Dhul Hijjah Activities For Children – MuslimMatters.org

– Hajar, Motherhood, And Children: Reflections on Dhul Hijjah

Hajar, Motherhood, And Children: Reflections on Dhul Hijjah – MuslimMatters.org

– From The MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Hajj And Eid Al-Adha Reads

From The MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Hajj And Eid Al-Adha Reads – MuslimMatters.org

MM Dhul Hijjah/Hajj Series & Resources

– The MM Recap: A Dhul-Hijjah And Hajj Resource [2022]

The MM Recap: A Dhul-Hijjah And Hajj Resource – MuslimMatters.org

– Reviving The Sacred Months: Dhul Hijjah (Part 1)

Reviving The Sacred Months: Dhul Hijjah (Part 1) – MuslimMatters.org

– [Dhul Hijjah Series] Calling Upon the Divine: The Art of Du’a (Part 1)

[Dhul Hijjah Series] Calling Upon the Divine: The Art of Du’a (Part 1) – MuslimMatters.org

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

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

– 15 Things You Didn’t Know About Makkah and the Ka’bah [Part 1]

15 Things You Didn’t Know About Makkah and the Ka’bah [Part 1] – MuslimMatters.org

May Allah accept the Hajj of all the hujjaj, allow us all to make the most of Dhul Hijjah, and give us the privilege of fulfilling this pillar of our deen at least once in our lifetime inshaAllah.

The post The MM Recap: Our Most Popular Dhul Hijjah And Hajj Articles [2026 Edition] appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

There are moments in the Islamic calendar that do more than remind us of worship. They return us to ourselves. Dhul Hijjah is one of those moments. It comes quietly, yet it carries immense spiritual weight. It asks the believer to pause, to look inward, and to confront questions that are often avoided in the busyness of life. What have I placed before Allah ? What am I unwilling to surrender? What does my worship reveal about the condition of my heart?

Dhul Hijjah is not merely a season of rituals. It is a season of exposure. It brings to the surface our attachments, distractions, ambitions, hopes, and fears. It reveals not only what we do, but what we love. In that sense, worship becomes a mirror. It reflects the hierarchy of our commitments, the direction of our desires, and the depth of our reliance.

The first ten days of Dhul Hijjah are among the most sacred days of the year:

“And [by] ten nights” [Surah Al-Fajr 89:2]

The Prophet taught that righteous deeds in these days are especially beloved to Allah :

He ﷺ said, “No good deeds done on other days are superior to those done on these (first ten days of Dhul Hijja).” Then some companions of the Prophet (ﷺ) said, “Not even Jihad?” He replied, “Not even Jihad, except that of a man who does it by putting himself and his property in danger (for Allah’s sake) and does not return with any of those things.” [Bukhari]

Yet their greatness is not found in quantity alone. It is found in the quality of return. These days invite us back with greater honesty, greater awareness, and a willingness to be changed.

Sacred Time and the Awakening of the Heart

Islam teaches that time is not empty. Certain moments carry weight. Ramadan, Laylat al Qadr, the Day of Arafah, and the days of Dhul Hijjah are not interchangeable with the rest of the year. They are openings.

These openings are not about Allah becoming nearer, but about the human being becoming more receptive. There are moments when the heart is more capable of returning, more ready to soften, more willing to listen.

Ibn Rajab al-Hanbali explained that the first ten days of Dhul Hijjah gather together the major forms of worship¹. This is not incidental. It is formative. The believer is engaged at multiple levels. The body is disciplined through fasting and prayer. Wealth is purified through charity. The tongue is refined through remembrance. The ego is confronted through sacrifice.

Sacred time does not impose pressure. It restores possibility. It interrupts the illusion that we are fixed. It reminds us that return remains open, that forgiveness remains accessible, and that the heart can be revived.

Al Nawawi and other scholars emphasized the importance of recognizing such moments². Not because Allah is distant outside of them, but because human beings often are.

Prophet Ibrahim and the Meaning of Surrender

At the center of Dhul Hijjah stands Prophet Ibrahim, peace be upon him. His life is not simply remembered. It is revisited as a model of surrender.

The Qur’an presents his response with clarity. When commanded to submit, he submits:

“When his Lord said to him, ‘Submit’, he said, ‘I have submitted [in Islam] to the Lord of the worlds.” [Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:131]

That submission is not abstract. It is lived through trials that reach into the core of human attachment. He leaves Hajar and Ismail in a barren valley (Surah Ibrahim; 14:37). He stands alone against the falsehood of his people. He prepares to sacrifice his son (Surah As-Saffat; 102–107).

Each moment confronts something fundamental. Security. Belonging. Love. Ibrahim is not tested through what is insignificant. He is tested through what is most difficult to release.

Al Tabari and Ibn Kathir emphasize that these trials were not punishments, but elevations³. Faith is not established by what we claim. It is revealed by what we are willing to surrender.

The question is not historical. It is immediate. Where is my point of surrender? What am I protecting at the expense of trust in Allah ? What am I holding onto that I have not placed beneath Him?

Sacrifice and the Reordering of Love

Eid al Adha is often understood through the act of sacrifice, yet the Qur’an redirects the focus inward. Neither the flesh nor the blood reaches Allah . What reaches Him is taqwa.

“Their meat will not reach Allah, nor will their blood, but what reaches Him is piety from you. Thus have We subjected them to you that you may glorify Allah for that [to] which He has guided you; and give good tidings to the doers of good.” [Surah Al-Hajj; 22:37]

This reframes everything. The act is not evaluated in isolation. It is understood through what it reveals.

Al Qurtubi explains that this verse dismantles the idea that worship can be reduced to form⁴. The outward act matters, but its meaning is determined by the state of the heart.

The Prophet said that no action on the Day of Sacrifice is more beloved to Allah than the shedding of blood (Ibn Majah, 3126). Yet even this act derives its value from what it represents.

At its core, sacrifice is the reordering of love. It places every attachment in its proper place. It affirms that nothing created can occupy what belongs to the Creator.

Imam al Ghazali’s reflections are instructive here⁵. Acts of worship are forms, but their reality lies in what they produce within the soul. If sacrifice does not affect the self, then something essential has been missed.

Hajj as Embodied Theology

Hajj is theology enacted. It is belief carried by the body. It is not only observed. It is lived.

“And proclaim to the people the Hajj [pilgrimage]; they will come to you on foot and on every lean camel; they will come from every distant pass – “ [Surah Al-Hajj; 22:27]

“That they may witness benefits for themselves and mention the name of Allah on known days over what He has provided for them of [sacrificial] animals. So eat of them and feed the miserable and poor.” [Surah Al-Hajj; 22:28]

Ibn al Qayyim described Hajj as a journey of the heart before it is a journey of the body⁶. This becomes clear only through experience.

In 2006, I arrived thinking I understood what Hajj required. I had studied the rituals. I knew the sequence. I believed I was prepared. What I encountered was not simply a series of acts. It was a dismantling.

Standing before the Kaabah, something shifted that I had not anticipated. There was no dramatic moment outwardly. Yet inwardly, there was a quiet collapse. The sense that I was in control of my life, that I was managing myself, began to loosen.

As I moved in tawaf, repetition stripped away distraction. The mind quieted. The heart moved in a way that resisted analysis. I was no longer thinking about what I needed to say. I was becoming aware of what I had been carrying. There was a realization that I had been holding onto myself far too tightly, and that I was never meant to.

There were tears, but they were not forced. They emerged without effort. Not as an expression I initiated, but as a response that overtook me. It was not sadness. It was recognition. A recognition of dependence that had always been true, but not fully acknowledged.

Ihram and the Stripping Away of False Identity

Ihram removes distinction. It strips away the markers that define status, profession, and identity.

The Prophet said that all are from Adam, and Adam was from dust (Tirmidhi). This is not only a statement of origin. It is a reorientation of value.

Standing in ihram among thousands, dressed the same, the usual categories dissolved. There was no title. No recognition. No separation. Only the human being before Allah .

Al Ghazali interprets ihram as a reminder of death and resurrection⁷. The garments resemble the shroud. The state resembles exposure.

During that Hajj, this was no longer theoretical. The identity I had constructed, the one I carried into that space, felt fragile. Yet in that fragility, there was relief. The need to maintain it weakened. What remained was simpler, and more honest.

Hajar and the Courage to Keep Moving

The story of Hajar, peace be upon her, is one of trust joined with action. Left in a barren valley, her response was not passivity.

Her movement between Safa and Marwah is preserved because it captures a condition that extends beyond her moment. Effort continues even when the outcome is unknown.

Ibn Kathir notes that Zamzam emerged from where she did not expect⁸. Relief did not follow her assumptions.

Walking between Safa and Marwah, her story took on a different weight. It was no longer distant. It was embodied. The movement itself became a form of reflection. We act, but we do not control the outcome. We strive, but we do not determine where relief appears.

Arafah and the Honesty of Standing Before Allah

The day of Arafah is the heart of Hajj. The Prophet said that Hajj is Arafah (Tirmidhi, 889). It is defined not by movement, but by standing.

It was on this day that the completion of the religion was declared. For the individual, however, it is not a moment of completion. It is a moment of exposure.

Standing there in 2006, the structure I had carried began to fall away. There was no sense of performance left. The language of supplication was no longer formal. It was immediate.

I raised my hands, and what emerged was not composed. It was honest. There was no effort to appear as I thought I should. There was only the awareness of who I was before Allah .

The tears came again, but differently. Not from reflection, but from presence. It felt as though I had finally stopped holding myself together long enough to be seen as I was.

For those not performing Hajj, fasting on the Day of Arafah expiates the sins of the previous and coming year (Sahih Muslim, 1162). Yet its deeper meaning lies in what it represents. A standing that is unguarded. A return that is unfiltered.

Taqwa as the True Offering

The central offering of Dhul Hijjah is taqwa. It is an awareness that shapes how one sees and acts.

The Qur’an reminds us that the best provision is taqwa.

“Hajj is [during] well-known months, so whoever has made Hajj obligatory upon himself therein [by entering the state of ihram], there is [to be for him] no sexual relations and no disobedience and no disputing during Hajj. And whatever good you do – Allah knows it. And take provisions, but indeed, the best provision is fear of Allah . And fear Me, O you of understanding.” [Surah Al-Baqarah;2:197]

Ibn Taymiyyah defines it as acting in obedience with awareness and refraining from disobedience with awareness⁹.

This awareness is not theoretical. It is cultivated through practice, through repetition, through moments that require restraint and honesty.

Dhul Hijjah gathers these moments together. Each act addresses a different dimension of the self, gradually reorienting it.

Conclusion

Dhul Hijjah will pass, as all seasons do. The rituals will be completed. Life will resume.

What remains is the question of what has changed.

Hajj in 2006 did not leave me with perfection. It did not resolve every tension. What it left was clearer than that. A deeper awareness of my dependence on Allah . A recognition that I am not sustained by my own effort.

Dhul Hijjah returns each year with the same invitation. Not only to act, but to examine. Not only to complete, but to be transformed.

What must I surrender so that I may draw nearer to Allah ?

Related:

– What Is Your Role In The Story Of Islam? : On Hajj, Eid, And Surat Ibrahim

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

The post The Spiritual Weight Of Dhul Hijjah And The Sincerity Of Sacrifice 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

* * *

Many Kinds of Scams

I stood staring at the two gold bracelets in my hand. Improbably, and even to my own surprise, a smile broke out on my face, and I laughed out loud. In retrospect, it was the worst thing I could have done.

“You find this funny?” my uncle demanded.

I turned to Zihan Ma, whose face was red with anger. “No, subhanAllah. It’s just ridiculous. I’ve never seen these before in my life. Someone put them in my pack.”

“Who would have done that?” Master Chen sneered. “You are the only thief here.” He turned to my aunt Jade. “This is your fault, for bringing this delinquent into your home, and then into mine. If anything else turns up missing, I hold you responsible.”

My eyes flicked from one person to another. Lee Ayi had gone pale. Haaris was frowning. The elderly servant stood behind his master, back erect, stock still. But Nai Nai’s eyes were on her husband, and there was a troubled, questioning look in her eyes.

I put it all together in an instant. My father was indeed a thief, and as I mentioned he had taught me the intricacies of many kinds of scams.

Lee Ayi was stammering an apology to her father-in-law. I stood up straight and interrupted. Inclining my head to the elderly servant, I said, “He did it.”

The servant did not respond, but his body stiffened. Master Chen’s chest puffed up and his eyes narrowed. “Just like a gutter rat,” he said, “To blame a poor, elderly servant who cannot defend himself.”

“Darius, be quiet!” Zihan Ma snapped.

“I will not be quiet. I recognize a scam when I see one. The elderly gentleman placed the bracelets in my bag when they were in his care, most likely at Master Chen’s command. Then, when we were about to leave, the gentleman whispered in Master Chen’s ear, remember? That was to tell him that the deed was done.”

Chen’s chest puffed up as his eyes narrowed. “How dare you,” he snarled. “You piece of street trash. I should have you arrested and flogged.” He turned to Zihan Ma. “You should probably unwrap those other items. Most likely he stole those as well.”

“What do you say to that?” Zihan Ma asked me.

The absurdity of this situation was no longer funny. My face and hands felt heavy, and my heart felt too large and filled with a reservoir of sadness.

“They are gifts,” I sighed. “For you, Lee Ayi and Haaris. I bought them in the marketplace.”

“A street rat buying gifts,” Chen sneered.

“I used the gold coins from my father’s enlistment and salary. I swear it in the name of Allah, and He is my witness.” I put the gold bracelets on a small table. “Whoever is telling the truth, may Allah support him and give him strength. And whoever is lying, may Allah expose him.” I put my belongings and the gifts back in my pack, and slipped the strap over my shoulders. As I did so, Zihan Ma bowed deeply to Master Chen, apologizing, and thanking him for not calling the constables.

Take Care of Far Away

I walked out. Outside the villa, in the street, I waited for my so-called family. I might have walked away, except that my dao was in the wagon, and I did not know the way back to the stable yard.

Walking back to the wagon, no one spoke. I felt as cold and rough inside as the great river that coursed uncaring through this city. Zihan Ma, the man I had almost come to think of as a second father – the man who was my rescuer and teacher – thought I was a lying thief. Or if he did not think so, he had doubts. I was fairly sure that Haaris believed me, and I had no idea what Lee Ayi thought. What a fool to think that a ruffian like myself could be accepted by respectable people. What had Chen called me? A street rat? Maybe that was what I was, and maybe that was what I should be.

When we reached the wagon, I was deeply relieved to find my dao where I had left it, wrapped and hidden beneath a blanket. I strapped it to my back. As the others mounted the wagon, I opened my pack and took the gifts out. Still wrapped, I handed Haaris his gift. “So you don’t have to whistle through leaves anymore,” I said.

As Zihan Ma took his wrapped gift, I said, “A fine needle for a fine healer.”

I handed Lee Ayi the beautiful little comb. “For your lovely hair, Auntie. Also, Lee Ayi, I have a request. Please take care of Far Away. Don’t let him wander off. Be kind to him. Promise me.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about? I always take good care of him. Who do you think feeds him when you are out in the fields?”

I nodded. “Yes, you’re right. It’s just… I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.”

“Darius,” Zihan Ma said testily. “Don’t be dramatic. Get in the wagon so we can get home before midnight.”

I drew a shaky breath and shrugged. “I’m not coming. I will say goodbye now. I thank you all for everything you did for me. Allah give you barakah.” I turned and walked away.

I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see all three of them hurrying after me.

Haaris grabbed my sleeve. “Stop! What are you doing?” He began to cry. “You can’t leave, you’re my brother. Who will play games with me?”

His tears scalded my heart, making me feel deeply guilty; but my own hurt and anger were greater. “I can’t stay,” I explained. “Your father thinks I am a liar and a thief. How can I live in a house where people think of me that way?”

“No, he doesn’t!” Haaris protested. “Tell him, Baba.”

Everyone turned to Zihan Ma. “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “The situation is confusing.”

I took Lee Ayi’s hand and kissed it. “Remember your promise. Take care of Far Away.” Once again I turned and strode quickly away, and this time no one followed me. Haaris sobbed, and Lee Ayi called my name, but I did not stop, and soon I was gone, lost in the chaos, noise and crowds of late afternoon in Deep Harbor.

The Meaning of Brotherhood

The time passed in a blur.

I survived because Deep Harbor was a city that consumed labor endlessly. Barges arrived day and night carrying grain, timber, iron, salt fish and refugees. Crates had to be unloaded. Wagons had to be pushed through muddy streets. Messages had to be carried from warehouse to warehouse.

No one cared who I was as long as I worked hard and did not complain.

At dawn I joined laborers at the docks, standing among wiry old men, refugees and orphan boys waiting to be chosen for work. Some days I hauled crates from barges until my shoulders burned and my palms bled. Other days I carried sacks of rice through the market district or delivered bundles of cloth and letters for merchants.

The riverfront never slept.

Even late at night lanterns swung above the water as men shouted from boats and ropes creaked against wooden posts. The smell of Deep Harbor became familiar to me: mud, fish, smoke, wet wood, sewage and spices.

I still had four gold coins remaining from my father’s wages, but I kept them well hidden, always on my person, and did not spend them. With my earnings I bought a thick wool coat from a secondhand stall near the docks. It smelled faintly of mildew and another man’s sweat, but it was warm. I also bought a blanket stuffed with cheap cotton batting. During storms I rented a narrow room at the cheapest inn I could find, sleeping on a straw mat while drunk sailors argued downstairs, but most nights I stayed beneath one of the stone bridges spanning the river channels.

There were dozens of people living there already. Old beggars. Crippled veterans. Widows with children. Men who drank themselves insensible every evening. Some ignored me entirely. Others watched me with the cautious curiosity reserved for newcomers. Still others called the adhaan, formed ranks and prayed there beneath the bridges. When I saw that, I joined them, and for a few moments were not a ragtag group of discards and laborers, but a unified brotherhood, standing together under the most impoverished of circumstances. If a man needed a coat, a Muslim brother would give it. If a woman was hungry, another would share. I learned much about the meaning of brotherhood and sisterhood on those streets and beneath that bridge. It was not a concept. It was a reality that saved lives and warmed the heart on freezing nights.

Trouble

There were also those who wanted to exploit, hurt and steal.

The first trouble came only three nights after I began sleeping beneath the bridge. I was returning from the masjid after the evening halaqah when two older boys stepped out from behind a stack of wooden pallets near the river stairs. One was broad shouldered and missing several teeth. The other carried a brass pipe like a club.

“That’s a fine sword,” the taller one said, nodding toward the dao on my back. “Too fine for a little country boy.”

“It was my father’s,” I replied. “Leave it alone.”

The shorter boy smirked. “Maybe we’ll hold onto it for you.”

He reached for the hilt.

I caught his wrist and twisted sharply. He yelped and bent forward, and I struck the elbow hard with my forearm, shattering it. The boy screamed. Before the other boy could swing the pipe I kicked his knee sideways and drove my elbow into his jaw. He stumbled backward into the pallets, cursing.

The first boy was down and not getting up, but the second one untangled himself from the pallets and rushed me wildly. I sidestepped, seized the back of his coat and hurled him face first into the stone stairs.

As they rolled on the ground in pain, I walked away. I genuinely hoped they would be able to get medical care, the first one in particular, or he would lose that arm. But they would have to find someone else to help them.

The second attack was worse. One night three full-grown men cornered me in an alley beside the fish market. They smelled of wine and river mud. One grabbed my coat sleeve while another demanded my money.

I warned them once, but they only laughed.

The first man lunged for my pack. I drew my dao and cut him across the face so quickly that for a moment he did not understand he had been wounded. The second man came at me with a knife. I stepped aside and chopped downward instinctively.

His arm fell into the mud beside him.

The screaming that followed drew people from nearby alleys and doorways. By the time constables arrived the attackers had dragged the wounded man away themselves.

After that the stories spread, and people began giving me space in the streets. I heard whispers sometimes as I passed:

“The boy with the sword.”
“The farm boy.”
“The one who cut a man’s arm off.”
“The bridge boy.”
“The bridge killer.”

I hated hearing it. Yet at the same time another part of me felt grim satisfaction. Let them fear me. Fear kept people alive.

Figs and Halaqas

Every evening, no matter how tired I was, I went to the great masjid for Maghreb prayer. The warmth there steadied me.

Sometimes I helped sweep the floors afterward or carried water buckets for the old caretaker. Sometimes he gave me figs. After prayer I remained sitting among the worshippers for the Quran taleems and Islamic halaqahs. Scholars, merchants and travelers gathered in circles beneath the lantern light while teachers spoke of fiqh, hadith, tafsir and purification of the heart.

Often I did not fully understand what was being discussed, but I clung to it anyway. I no longer knew who I was supposed to become. Was I a healer? A fighter? A thief’s son? A farm apprentice? A wandering street worker and fighter? A refugee? I did not know. But I knew I was Muslim. No one could take that from me. When I bowed beside the other worshippers, shoulder to shoulder, rich and poor alike, I felt human again.

At night I lay wrapped in my blanket beneath the bridge listening to the river move through the darkness. Ships passed sometimes, their lanterns glowing faintly through the mist while water slapped softly against their hulls.

Those were the hardest hours, for that was when I thought of home. Not my father’s ruined farm. The other home.

I thought of Haaris laughing as we worked in the fields. Lee Ayi humming while she cooked. Zihan Ma bent over a patient with calm concentration. Bao Bao sprawled arrogantly in the sunlight. Far Away sleeping against my side.

More than once I rose before dawn with the idea of walking south to the farm. I imagined hiding in the darkness outside the house just to glimpse the warm lantern light through the shutters. Perhaps I would see Haaris reading. Or Lee Ayi preparing breakfast. Or Far Away sitting in the window. I wanted it so badly that my chest hurt.

But I never went. I knew what would happen if I did. Either they would welcome me back, and I would spend the rest of my life wondering whether Zihan Ma still doubted me, or worse, they would not welcome me at all.

A Familiar Face

Once, a few months since my parting from my family – for I still thought of the that way, I couldn’t help it – I was on my way to the grand masjid for Jum’ah prayer, and as I approached I saw Zihan Ma standing near the entrance to the masjid, watching as the people entered. I pulled back, and watched from behind a parked wagon. What was he doing here? A business trip maybe, selling safflowers? Buying goods for the farm? A visit to Nai Nai? Was he alone?

Tears came to my eyes and I wiped them away angrily. Stupid, Darius! I was not a little child who needed his daddy. Nor was he my father. I didn’t want to see him. There was nothing to say. He thought I was a thief; let him think as he pleased. I walked away and attended Jum’ah at one of the smaller masjids.

The months passed, and Deep Harbor slowly ceased to feel temporary.

The city did not soften, but I learned its rhythms. I learned which dock foremen cheated laborers and which paid honestly. I learned where to buy hot buns cheaply before dawn, and which alleys to avoid after dark. The tides of the river and the moods of the waterfront became familiar to me. Refugees continued to pour into the city. Soldiers marched through the streets regularly. Sometimes funeral processions passed with no mourners except exhausted wives and silent children.

I survived. Aside from my dao, I now also carried a dagger on my left hip, and in my pocket I kept a small cylinder of brass that I could use to strike someone in the face if I just wanted to hurt them without wounding them. I wore sturdy boots, and tied my long hair back – I had not cut it in ages – in a ponytail. Everyone on the street knew me, and no one bothered me.

The Tournament Notice

One afternoon, while delivering a crate of dried tea bricks to a warehouse near the eastern market, I noticed a crowd gathered around a large wooden platform draped in red banners. Musicians played flutes and drums while young men demonstrated spear forms and wrestling techniques before cheering spectators.

A notice hung beside the stage announcing a martial tournament to be held three days later.

Open sparring!
Archery!
Weapons demonstrations!

The competition was sponsored by the Five Stars Trading Company. The winners, the notice said, would be given prize money, and the opportunity to interview for jobs as caravan guards.

Five Stars Trading Company belonged to the Shah family. My mother’s family. I stood reading the notice for a long time. Finally I approached a man sitting at a table with a registry book. He was thin, and wore a shirt with a high white collar, and round spectacles with bamboo frames. His thin gray mustache looked painted on.

“I want to sign up,” I said. “Weapons demonstration.”

Without looking up, he said, “School and sifu?”

“What do you mean?”

Now he gave me an annoyed look. “What martial arts school do you attend? Who is your sifu?”

“I don’t attend any school. I work at the docks and other places.”

The man tut-tutted. “Get lost. This is a competition for real wushu artists, not ruffians.”

My shoulders stiffened. “Do you have a supervisor here?”

The man glared at me incredulously. His moustache somehow curled upward, looking like an odd smile, and this made me want to laugh.

“Boss!” the clerk called out.

A tall man in an expensive suit broke away from watching the demonstrations, and came to the table. He was in his late twenties perhaps, pampered and soft looking, but with a hardness to his eyes that reminded me of the thousand year old stones from which the bridges were made. Those bridges had survived war, famine and revolution.

“This dock worker punk,” the clerk said, “doesn’t have a school or sifu.”

“Hello,” the man said. “My name is Shah Suliman. I am sorry, but we have rules.”

I knew this man. Lee Ayi had told me about my relatives on my mother’s side. My uncle – my mother’s older brother – was Shah Amir. This man was his son. He was my cousin.

The thought of lying never entered my mind. Wasn’t that what Master Chen had accused me of? Wasn’t I a Muslim now? Whatever else I was, I must hold fast to that.

“I am Darius Lee,” I said firmly. “Son of Yong Lee and Shah Nur, daughter of Shah Zheng. I have no school, but I am trained in martial arts. My sifu was my father. Register my name, please. Either open sparring, weapons, or both.”

Shah Suliman’s face went white. He rocked back as if buffeted by an invisible wind. He swallowed, and his face registered shock, then wonder, then calculation.

“What do you want?” he said at last.

“I told you. To participate in the tournament.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, if I win, I want one of those caravan jobs.”

Suliman snorted. He looked me up and down, taking in my dao and dagger. Understanding dawned on his face. “Are you the one they call the bridge killer? The one who chopped off a man’s arm?”

“Yes. But I haven’t killed anyone. People exaggerate.”

“The Yong family had their own martial arts style. What is it?”

“Five Animals.”

He nodded slowly. “Sign him up.” Then he gave me a withering look. “Not that I believe a word you say. I’m giving you an opportunity to embarrass yourself.” With that, he turned his back and went back to watching the performers.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 13 – Five Star

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

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

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

Related:

Kill the Courier |Part 1 – Hiding in Plain Sight

Moonshot: A Novel of Marriage, Love and Cryptocurrency

The post Far Away [Part 13] – Brotherhood Under A Bridge appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Dhul Hijjah has felt different for my family and me since everything we went through. There was a time when the word sacrifice felt distant to me: a story we told our children before Eid, a lesson wrapped in history about Prophet Ibrahim, his obedience, his trust. We understood it. But we hadn’t lived it. Not in the way that changes you.

After living through the Gaza war, the meaning of words shifts. Sacrifice is no longer something symbolic. It is no longer a concept you reflect on from a safe distance. It becomes something you recognize in the quiet details of life—what was lost, what was taken, what had to be rebuilt from nothing.

We have seen what it means for homes to fall, for entire lives to unravel in moments. We have seen people lose parts of themselves and still hold onto Alhamdulillah. We have said goodbye to people we never imagined we would lose. And even now, after time has passed and we have moved forward, those moments do not really leave you. They settle somewhere deep, reshaping the way you see everything.

Sometimes Allah does not ask you to sacrifice one thing. Sometimes, He allows you to experience what it means to lose much more—and to still remain.

I remember sitting with my children—my daughters, 16 and 14, trying in their own way to make sense of things beyond their years, and my 8-year-old son, still holding onto a kind of softness that asks questions without hesitation. We were not speaking about Eid that day. We were speaking about loss.

“What does Allah want from us?” one of them asked.

It was not a theoretical question. It was not something you answer with memorized words. And I found myself pausing, not because I did not believe—but because some questions deserve to be held before they are answered.

Because when you have lived through something that changes you, you do not rush to simple explanations.

And yet, Dhul Hijjah still came. As it always does. Quietly. Gently. As if to remind us:

“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear.”
[Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:286]

What you have lost is seen.
What you have endured is known.
And what you are still carrying…matters.

We found ourselves returning to the story of Ibrahim , but this time it did not feel like a distant story. It felt close. Personal. Real.

It was no longer just about a father who was asked to sacrifice his son. It was about trust when nothing makes sense. About surrender when your heart is heavy. About saying yes to Allah —not because it is easy, but because you believe there is meaning beyond what you can see.

“And when they had both submitted and he laid him down upon his forehead…”
[Surah As-Saffat, 37:103]

My son once asked me, “Did Ibrahim feel scared?”

And the answer came more honestly than before: yes. Of course he did.

Because faith is not the absence of fear.
It is choosing Allah even when fear exists.

This Eid, when we speak about Udhiyah, I no longer think about the act alone. I think about what has already been given—the comfort that once existed, the sense of safety that felt permanent, the life that was carefully built and then quietly taken apart.

And I remember Allah’s Words:

“Their meat will not reach Allah, nor will their blood, but what reaches Him is piety from you.”
[Surah Al-Hajj, 22:37]

It brings a different kind of understanding; that what matters is not the outward form of sacrifice, but the state of the heart within it.

Not everyone will go to Hajj. But everyone is called to something.

To patience:
                                               “Indeed, Allah is with the patient.”
                                                           [Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:153]

To trust.

To letting go of what we thought we needed.

To holding onto Allah when everything else feels uncertain.

The Prophet ﷺ said: “How amazing is the affair of the believer. Verily, all of his affairs are good for him…” [Muslim]

There was a time when this hadith felt comforting. Now, it feels grounding.

Because understanding it is different when you have lived through both ease and hardship and found that Allah was present in both. Not always through immediate relief, but through the strength to keep going, the people He placed in our path, the prayers that carried us, and the quiet mercy that appeared in moments we least expected it.

There were moments when my children asked me, “Is Allah still with us?” or “Why is this happening to us?” And each time, I would tell them that yes, Allah is always with us — in moments of ease and in moments of hardship. We may not always understand the wisdom behind what we go through, but we trust that Allah sees us, carries us through it, and teaches our hearts through these experiences in ways we may only understand later.

I realized then that faith is not only taught during times of comfort and stability. Sometimes it is taught in the way we hold onto one another during uncertainty, in the way we continue praying through fear, and also in the way we keep returning to Allah even when life feels unbearably heavy.

Our home is not perfect. There are still moments where memories return quietly. There are still traces of what was lived, even as life moves forward in a new place, a new routine, a new beginning.

But there is also something else now.

A kind of steadiness.
A kind of faith that is no longer theoretical.

My daughters do not just hear about sabr—they have experienced it.
My son does not just say Alhamdulillah—he is learning what it means.

And I no longer see Dhul Hijjah as just ten blessed days. I see it as a continuation—a reminder that what we go through is not separate from our faith, but part of how it is shaped.

Because maybe Hajj was never only about a place.

Maybe it was always about the heart.

About reaching a point where you can say:

Ya Allah… I may not understand everything. But I trust You.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“There are no days in which righteous deeds are more beloved to Allah than these ten days.” [Bukhari]

And perhaps the greatest of those deeds are not always visible.

Perhaps they are found in quiet endurance.
In rebuilding….In continuing.
In holding onto faith, even after everything.

And maybe… just maybe…this, too, is a form of answering the call.

Related:

– When Allah Chooses Something: The Blessings Of Dhul Hijjah

– The Bigger Picture: Understanding Loss, Sacrifice, and Purpose in Dhul Hijjah

The post Not Everyone Goes To Hajj…But Everyone Is Called: Gaza, Gratitude, And Dhul Hijjah 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

* * *

Self-Controlled

The colorfully dressed doorman opened the gates before we even reached them.

The Chen residence did not resemble any home I had ever seen. Calling it a house seemed absurd. It was a walled compound of white stone and dark wood, with curved roofs layered one behind another like overlapping wings. Red lanterns hung beneath the eaves despite the daylight, and narrow streams of water crossed the inner courtyards beneath little carved bridges. Bamboo rustled softly in the winter breeze.

I slowed, taking it all in. It was like something I might have conjured in a dream.

Haaris, walking beside me, whispered proudly, “Big, right?”

Indeed. “What does Master Chen do for a living?”I whispered.

“He owns a foundry that makes weapons.” replied softly.

Servants moved everywhere, silent and efficient. One swept fallen leaves from the stone paths with a long reed broom. Another carried folded linens across the courtyard. Two men unloaded crates from a wagon near a side gate while a woman directed them sharply.

Something unsettled me immediately. After a few moments, I realized that no one here was comfortable. No one laughed or joked as Haaris and I did when we worked. Everyone was carefully self-controlled, as if they thought they were being watched at every moment.

I felt the absence of my dao acutely. Not that I thought I would need it here. But ever since I’d left it wrapped in cloth beneath the wagon seat in the stable yard, I’d been worried about it. What if someone stole it? It was a gift from my father – the only thing I had from him.

Before we entered the inner residence, an elderly servant approached and bowed stiffly, saying, “I will take your coats and travel packs, honored guests.”

We all handed over our bundles, including my travel pack containing the gifts I had bought in the marketplace. The old servant stacked everything carefully into a lacquered cart beside the entrance, then wheeled the cart away through a side doorway.

A servant girl in pale green robes then led us through a covered walkway into the main receiving hall.

The room was enormous. Dark beams crossed the high ceiling overhead. Silk wall hangings embroidered with Quranic calligraphy hung between painted landscape screens. One scroll depicted mountains rising above misty forests, with tiny travelers crossing a bridge far below. Another showed a river crowded with merchant barges beneath wheeling birds.

Tall porcelain vases stood in carved wooden alcoves, painted in deep blue with scenes of scholars, horses and flowering trees. A bronze incense burner shaped like a crane released thin trails of scented smoke into the air, giving the place a sweet and musky scent. Low tables of carved rosewood stood beside cushioned chairs lacquered black and gold.

Strangely, while I admired the beauty of this place, I was not intimidated. My clothes were new and clean. I had nothing to be ashamed of. And I had seen my father put wealthy merchants on their knees in the highway at the point of a sword before robbing them. They wore fine clothes, but they wept and begged like anyone else. A few wet themselves. I think my father had enjoyed humiliating them. As for me, I had merely felt embarrassed for them.

Furthermore, Zihan Ma had taught me that one of the meanings of laa ilaha il-Allah was that all men were equal before Allah, regardless of caste, color or clothing. Only their – what was the word? Taqwa. Only their taqwa differentiated them.

As a result, I never thought that the wealthy were better than me. Nor was I better than them. People were people. They were either honest or dishonest, kind or cruel. They were street thugs like the men who had tried to rob me – or indeed like my father, who I had no illusions about – or honorable men like Zihan Ma. I had never met the emperor of our land, nor would I, but I knew he was either a good man or a bad one, no matter what trappings of wealth surrounded him, and I knew he could not be a better man than my uncle.

Come Closer

At the far end of the hall sat an elderly woman in layered robes of soft blue silk. A pale gray scarf covered her hair. Beside her sat a thin older man with narrow shoulders and sharp features. His beard was trimmed short and precise. He wore a white robe of fine linen with silver embroidery, and jade rings gleamed on his fingers as he sipped from a porcelain tea cup.

Zihan Ma bowed respectfully toward the older man. “Master Chen.”

“Ma.” The man inclined his head slightly.

His eyes shifted toward me.

“This,” Lee Ayi said carefully, “is Darius Lee.”

I bowed deeply. “As-salamu alaykum Nai Nai and Master Chen.”

His eyes narrowed. “Were you taught to greet the women first?”

Before I could answer, Nai Nai smiled gently and said, “Come closer so I may see you.”

Haaris and I both went to her. Haaris hugged her, then I did. Her hands were warm and soft as she touched my face lightly, studying me with moist eyes. “You have your father’s eyes,” she murmured.

Master Chen snorted quietly into his tea. “An unfortunate inheritance.”

The room fell silent.

Lee Ayi crossed the room quickly and knelt beside her mother, taking both her hands. The warmth between them was immediate and genuine.

“We brought gifts for your birthday,” Lee Ayi said. She opened her bundle and carefully removed a folded silk shawl embroidered with tiny silver flowers. I had seen her making it over the last few weeks, but had not known it was for her mother.

Nai Nai touched the fabric reverently. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Haaris eagerly produced a folded note written in his uneven handwriting. “Mine too!”

Nai Nai laughed softly and accepted it at once. “A letter?”

“A birthday note,” Haaris said proudly. “Baba helped me shape some characters.”

She opened it immediately, smiling as she read.

Then everyone looked at me.

I suddenly felt awkward. My own letter, though heartfelt, seemed childish now compared to the grandeur of this house. Still, I handed it to her. Nai Nai unfolded it slowly and read it in silence. I had written:

I am very happy to meet you, Nai Nai. My father had good qualities and bad, but I am sure that whatever good he possessed came from you. Whatever has befallen me in life, it brought me here to meet you. That is a barakah. I wish you a happy birthday and many to come.

When she finished, she pressed the paper briefly against her chest. “Thank you, Darius,” she said softly. “I will treasure it.” Her sincerity was real, and it moved me.

“Could you not even buy a gift for your grandmother?” Chen sneered. “A paltry letter? That’s fine for Haaris, but you are a young man.”

Nai Nai lowered her hands slowly. “Husband…”

“I merely speak the truth.” His gaze remained fixed on me. “Yong Lee was a troublesome boy long before drink rotted what remained of his judgment. No doubt this child is the same.”

I lifted my chin and met his gaze. I spoke calmly. “My father was more than that.”

Chen set down his tea cup abruptly, the tea spilling onto the porcelain dish beneath it.

Lee Ayi spoke softly. “Master Chen, Darius has traveled far. Let us welcome him peacefully.”

“Peacefully?” Master Chen replied. “Was Yong peaceful? I seem to recall gambling, fighting, drinking and theft following him from one province to the next like stray dogs.”

Haaris shifted uncomfortably beside me.

Zihan Ma’s expression remained calm, but I noticed his jaw tighten slightly.

Lee Ayi had told me to remain silent, but I would not keep my mouth shut while my father was reviled. I would never forget him coming home from prison, finding me half-starved, and weeping as he embraced me. That moment was engraved on my heart.

“My father,” I said, perhaps a little too loudly, “joined the army to fight the invaders. He died in defense of his country. What could be more honorable?”

Servants entered carrying tea for the rest of us, along with trays of candied fruits and little sesame pastries arranged in perfect rows.

Master Chen took a pastry, and Haaris followed suit. I thought Chen might insult or berate me, but instead he spoke softly: “There is a saying. When the roots are crooked, the branches grow twisted.”

Nai Nai touched her husband’s hand with one finger. “I beg you. Let us have no more of this.” It was the voice of someone pleading for a small mercy she was not certain would be granted.

Master Chen finally looked away from me and sipped his tea.

The Accusation

“We must pray Asr,” Zihan Ma said. “It is getting late.”

One by one we performed wudu’ in a large bathing room with a skylight and a live bamboo tree in a pot. Master Chen then led us to a dedicated prayer room. There he led us in salat. He could not kneel, so he sat in a chair as he prayed. When lifting his head from ruku’, he said, “Sami Allah lamaw zhamidu.” The salam at the end was similarly garbled.  No one corrected him, of course.

After prayer we returned to the sitting room. Now Haaris and I did indeed remain silent as the adults spoke of the war, refugees, the farm, and other things. Master Chen’s armaments business was booming. There was no warmth in these conversations. In the time that it took to drink a single cup of tea, Zihan Ma rose.

“It was wonderful to see you both,” he said. “We must leave. We have a long trip ahead and we do not want to be on the road late at night. It’s not safe.”

“You must stay,” Nai Nai protested. “We have plenty of room. Please, for my sake.”

“We cannot,” Zihan Ma replied firmly. “The cows must be milked in the morning, and the gate opened for the farm hands.”

I knew this was not strictly true. The foreman had the key to the gate, and the men could milk the cows, feed the chickens and let the donkeys out. But I too wanted to be away from this oppressive place, and I was worried about Far Away. I wanted to hear his protesting meow when I picked him up and nuzzled him. I even missed Bao Bao, for her kindness toward Far Away had warmed me to her.

Master Chen gave a derisive laugh. “Cows.”

I wanted to say, “Didn’t you put milk in your tea?” But I held my tongue. I did not like this man at all.

The elderly servant wheeled the cart back in, and we picked up our packs and bags. Good byes were said, and final embraces given. Nai Nai hugged me with her thin arms, and I gave her a half-hearted embrace in return. She was my grandmother, and I would like to say that I loved her, but I did not know her.

A female servant opened the door for us and bowed. As we were about to leave, the elderly male servant leaned in toward Master Chen and whispered something in his ear.

“Wait,” Master Chen said. “I am told that certain items have gone missing. A pair of gold bracelets.”

Zihan Ma frowned. “That’s unfortunate. May Allah return them to you. As I said, we must be going.”

“You misunderstand,” Master Chen said sharply. He pointed at me with one rigid arm. “The boy has stolen them. He was seen taking them.”

For a moment I thought I had misheard him.

Zihan Ma said, “That is impossible. He was with us the entire time.”

“He was gone a long time when he went to make wudu. Let him open his pack.”

Zihan Ma’s jaw tightened. “This is unacceptable. Darius is my apprentice, and works hard on the farm. He’s a good boy. You have no cause to suspect him.”

“His father was a thief,” Chen said flatly. He turned to me. “Isn’t that true?” His eyes held a cunning gleam, and I felt the first stirrings of unease in my stomach. Something strange was going on here.

“Yes,” I said honestly. “Though he changed in the last year of his life.”

“And you?” Chen asked, a thin smile on his lips. “Did you steal?”

I considered. I would not dishonor Zihan Ma by lying. My reply was truthful: “When my father was in prison, and I was alone on the farm, I stole food from neighboring farms to survive. A few potatoes here, a cabbage there. Only that.”

At that, Zihan Ma shot me a troubled glance. He had not known that about me.

“You see?” Chen declared triumphantly. “Once a thief, always a thief.”

Zihan Ma began to protest, but I waved him off. “It’s okay, Uncle,” I said. “I have no objection to opening my pack.”

I set the pack down on the floor, untied the strings, and opened the top flap. Inside were the few items I had brought from home: a towel, a spare shirt, and the sabha Zihan Ma had given me. On top sat the three cloth-wrapped gifts I had bought in the marketplace.

Chen’s eyes narrowed. “Take everything out.”

The room had gone utterly silent.

I frowned slightly but obeyed. First I removed the wrapped gifts and set them carefully beside the pack. Then the towel. Then the shirt and the sabha.

Something metallic glimmered at the very bottom of the pack.

For a moment my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.

Then I reached down slowly and picked them up.

Two gold bracelets rested in my palm.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 13 – The Long, Dark Road

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:

As Light As Birdsong: A Ramadan Story

Kill The Courier – Hiding In Plain Sight

The post Far Away [Part 12] – Accused appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

“Auntie Aisha Answers: The Tween Muslim’s Ultimate Guide to Growing Up” by Shaykha Aisha Hussain Rasheed is an absolutely fantastic resource unlike any other books out there on the Muslim market. 

This book is for tweens and teens, written in a genuinely age-appropriate way, and covers a wide range of topics that are so necessary for young Muslims to be exposed to (that they often aren’t). From information about puberty (the physical and emotional bits), to understanding diversity and disabilities, to a spiritual understanding of healthy boundaries and what that looks like both religiously and in friendships/ relationships, to big emotions like anxiety and grief… Auntie Aisha really does give amazing answers! 

This book is also not just for girls; the content applies equally to both genders, and also covers male issues with regards to puberty and more.

Shaykha Aisha’s expertise as both a scholar and someone who understands the right way to bring up sensitive issues with kids really shines through this book. 

Buy your copy here: https://bookshop.rabata.org/products/auntie-aisha-answers-the-muslim-tween-s-ultimate-guide-to-growing-up 

Muslimah Mukallaf: A Muslimah’s Guide to Puberty, Faith, & Personal Care by Jenna bint Hakeem

I’m always on the lookout for solid resources for kids that discuss puberty and related matters from an Islamic perspective, in an age-appropriate way. When the author Jenna bint Hakeem offered me a copy of her book “Muslimah Mukallaf: A Muslimah’s Guide to Puberty, Faith, & Personal Care,” I was intrigued… but also skeptical at first (I feel a type of way about most self-published books!). 

I’m happy to say that this book far exceeded my expectations. The author does a fantastic job doing everything from discussing the biological and Islamic aspects of puberty, how to properly take care of one’s hygiene (down to a detailed shower routine!), understanding emotional changes and managing them, and even tackling heavy topics like sexual abuse, porn, mental health, and more. There’s even an entire section on skincare and haircare!

I really appreciated that she also spent time talking about spirituality in an age-appropriate way, connecting it to the journey of growing up as a young Muslimah. I was impressed that she mentioned the fiqhi opinion of touching the mus’haf while menstruating (albeit this is a minority opinion) and also reminds readers to be respectful of elders who have the other opinion.

A couple of caveats: I wish she’d clarified in an intro about what fiqhi approach she is using. There were also a couple tiny things that could have been included or elaborated on. I would like to see a proper publisher reprint this with necessary improvements around typesetting and an editor.

As always, parents should read before giving to their kids, and be open to discussing differences of opinion and sensitive topics.

Buy yours here: https://bookshop.org/p/books/muslimah-mukallaf-jenna-bint-hakeem 

“The Muslim Girl’s Pocket Guide to Growing Up” by Yasmin El-Husari

This book is exactly what it says it is: a pocket-sized booklet that reassures Muslim girls that everything they’re going through is totally normal! From acne to greasy hair (and hijabs!), periods and vaginal discharge, a brief primer on how and when to do ghusl, and even how to do a bra fitting, this little book packs in a lot of information. 

It is quite concise, so there’s not tons of detail in terms of fiqh, and unfortunately no sourcing provided or mention of which madhab/ fiqh opinions the author is sharing regarding maximum/ minimum days of menses. 

However, this book really is fantastic and laid out in a simple, easy-to-understand, age-appropriate way for girls 9 and up.

Buy yours here: https://www.amazon.ca/Muslim-Girls-Pocket-Guide-Growing 

My First Period by Nur Khairunnisa Iskandar

My mom and I teach a girls puberty workshop, but we’re always on the lookout for good books on the subject – and we finally stumbled on one of the best ones so far! 

This book does make it clear that it’s based on the Shafi’i madh’hab, so fiqh details are oriented accordingly. There are also random bits that are more culturally contextual e.g. a page on how common abandoning babies is in Malaysia (which I did NOT expect).

I’m very impressed with how much content this book covers, from the process of puberty to self-care to how babies are made to the (basic) fiqh of haydh. I’d say this book covers about 85-90% of what we cover in our workshop. I did have a couple mild quibbles (like calling female ejaculation ‘semen’) but by and large this is really well written, age appropriate, and visually great to navigate for younger readers.

I have no idea where international readers can purchase this from, but it is available for sale in Malaysia! Buy here: https://mphonline.com/products/my-first-period

What books do you recommend on this topic? And more importantly, what books on puberty are there for Muslim boys?

Related:

Muslimah’s Guide to Puberty: How to talk to your daughter about Adolescence

My Dear Muslim Son

The post From The MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Puberty Books For Girls appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

He transformed a people whose lives revolved around lineage, tribal honor, and material competition into a community whose identity revolved around the speech of Allah ﷻ. The Quran was not an accessory in Madinah or peripheral to their lives. The Quran played a central and pivotal role in every single aspect of their existence. It shaped and informed their beliefs, how they prayed, how they gave, how they forgave, how they thought, how they governed, how they dealt with hardship, and how they defined success. Divine revelation shaped their worldview, character, conduct, and behavior. 

The Many Dimensions of a Quran Centered Life 

This transformation was not incidental—it was intentional. The Prophet ﷺ, through his teachings and his lived example, established a culture of learning, reciting, memorizing, teaching, and reflecting upon the Quran. He continuously highlighted its virtues, its blessings, its rewards, and its unparalleled value.

He ﷺ said: “The best among you are those who learn the Qur’an and teach it.” This statement redefines status and greatness. In a world that measures superiority through wealth, influence, and visibility, the Prophet ﷺ anchored excellence to engagement with revelation. The most noble person in this ummah is not the most affluent, nor the most eloquent, nor the most influential—but the one most deeply connected to the Book of Allah ; learning it and transmitting it.

In another narration, he ﷺ said: “Whoever recites a letter from the Book of Allah will have a good deed, and a good deed is multiplied by ten. I’m not saying that alif-lām-mīm is one letter. Rather alif is a letter, lām is a letter, and mīm is a letter.” This reveals something profound about the generosity of Allah ﷻ. Even at the most foundational level—the articulation of individual letters—the believer is rewarded abundantly. Every sound uttered from the Quran carries eternal weight. This is divine speech, and engaging with it is never insignificant.

The Prophet ﷺ did not limit our understanding of the Quran to reward alone. He connected it to ultimate salvation. He ﷺ said: “Recite the Quran, for it will come as an intercessor for its companion on the Day of Judgment.” The Quran will not remain silent on that Day. It will advocate for the one who kept it close—who lived with it, struggled with it, and returned to it consistently. It will testify on behalf of its companion.

He ﷺ also emphasized the communal dimension of Quranic engagement: “No people gather in one of the houses of Allah, reciting the Book of Allah and teaching it to one another, except that tranquility descends upon them, mercy envelops them, the angels surround them, and Allah mentions them to those who are with Him.” This narration describes layers of divine response to a simple gathering centered on the Quran. Sakīnah descends, raḥmah envelops, Angels surround, and Allah ﷻ mentions that gathering in the highest assembly. The masjid, when animated by the Quran, becomes a space where heaven touches earth.

Through these teachings, the Prophet ﷺ created a living culture in Madinah. Some narrations mention that during the time of tahajjud, the streets of Madinah would resonate with the recitation of the Quran. Homes were illuminated not merely with lamps, but with revelation. The city itself pulsed with divine speech.

This culture was not born from obligation alone—it was born from love. The Companions understood that love for the Quran was a reflection of love for Allah ﷻ and His Messenger ﷺ. ʿAbdullāh ibn Masʿūd said: “Whoever wishes to know whether they truly love Allah and His Messenger, let them reflect: if they love the Quran, then they truly love Allah and His Messenger.” This is a deeply theological reality. The Quran is the speech of Allah ﷻ. Love for speech reflects love for the Speaker. If the heart inclines naturally toward the Quran—longing to recite it, understand it, and live by it—then that is a sign of a heart inclined toward Allah ﷻ.

For the companions, the Quran was more valuable than material wealth. When ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb saw camels loaded with gold, silver, and other material goods from Iraq, he was reminded of Allah’s Words: “Say: In the grace of Allah and in His mercy—let them rejoice. That is better than what they amass.” He explained that the true grace and mercy of Allah is the Quran—not accumulated wealth. Wealth is what people amass, while revelation is what transforms. This reframing is essential for us today. We live in a culture obsessed with accumulation—wealth, credentials, followers, achievements. Yet the Quran calls us to rejoice in something higher: divine guidance.

The Companions’ lives reflected this prioritization. Al-Awzāʿī رحمه الله mentioned that they excelled in five matters: adhering to the community, following the Sunnah, populating the masājid, reciting the Quran, and striving in the path of Allah . These were not isolated acts—they were interconnected dimensions of a Quran-centered life.

ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān said: “If our hearts were pure, they would never be satiated from the speech of our Lord.” It is reported that his muṣḥaf was worn from frequent recitation—its pages bearing witness to his devotion.

One of the most powerful demonstrations of the Quran’s transformative force is seen in the incident of al-Ifk. When Abū Bakr , wounded by betrayal, resolved to cut off support from Miṣṭaḥ, Allah ﷻ revealed: “Let them pardon and forgive. Do you not love that Allah should forgive you?” His response was immediate: “Yes, by Allah, I love that Allah should forgive me.” And he resumed his support.

This is tadabbur embodied. The Quran did not remain abstract—it entered his wounded heart and elevated it. It redirected his deeply personal pain into forgiveness. 

Asmāʾ described the companions as people whose eyes shed tears and whose skin trembled when reciting the Quran. The Quran shaped both their inner and outer states—producing awe, humility, softness, and tears. When Allah ﷻ revealed: “Who will lend to Allah a goodly loan…” Abū al-Daḥdāḥ responded not with admiration, but with action—giving away his garden in pursuit of Allah’s Promise. They understood that when Allah ﷻ speaks, He is to be responded to—not merely admired.

The Prophet ﷺ did not simply leave behind a text. He left behind a living model of how to build a Quran-centered life and society—hearts that trembled at its warnings, softened at its mercy, sacrificed at its call, forgave at its instruction, and rejoiced in its guidance. Our responsibility is to revive that culture—within ourselves, within our homes, and within our communities.

And for many of our young Muslims today, one of the most critical arenas for this revival is the university campus.

Building a Culture of Quran on Campus: Practical Steps

Reviving a Quran-centered culture does not begin with grand programs—it begins with consistent, intentional acts that shape hearts and environments. For students seeking to cultivate this culture on campus, consider the following:

1. Establish consistent Quran gatherings

Even if small, begin with a weekly circle dedicated to recitation and reflection. Consistency is more transformative than scale. The goal is not attendance—it is anchoring hearts.

2. Prioritize reflection (tadabbur), not just recitation

Create space to discuss meanings, themes, and personal takeaways. Ask: What is Allah ﷻ saying to us through these āyāt? Move from reading the Quran to being read by it.

3. Normalize Quran in shared spaces

Let the Quran be visible and audible—before meetings, after prayers, in moments of pause. Culture is built through repetition.

4. Connect the Quran to lived realities

Address stress, identity, purpose, relationships, and struggles through the lens of the Quran. Show that the Quran is not distant—it is deeply relevant.

5. Build leadership rooted in revelation

Encourage student leaders to frame decisions, priorities, and conflicts through Quranic guidance. A Quran-centered leadership produces a Quran-centered community.

6. Pair knowledge with action

Every gathering should lead to something practical—an act of charity, forgiveness, service, or personal change. The Quran was revealed to be lived.

7. Cultivate love, not just discipline

Remind one another of the virtues, rewards, and beauty of the Quran. A culture sustained by love endures far longer than one driven by obligation alone.

8. Begin with yourself

The most powerful daʿwah is personal transformation. Let your own relationship with the Quran be sincere, visible, and consistent. Hearts are moved by authenticity.

Reviving a Quran-centered culture is not beyond us. It begins the same way it began in Madinah—with individuals who choose to return to the Book of Allah ﷻ, consistently, sincerely, and collectively.

May Allah ﷻ make us from the people of the Quran—those who are His special people and His chosen ones. May He make the Qur’an the spring of our hearts, the light of our chests, the remover of our anxieties, and the guide of our decisions.

Related:

– The Art of Tadabbur: Enriching Our Relationship With The Quran

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

The post From The Chaplain’s Desk: From Madinah To Our Campuses, Reviving A Quran-Centered Culture 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

* * *

Preparing for the Journey

The next day was consumed by work.

Zihan Ma wanted the farm put in order before we left, so Haaris and I labored from dawn until nearly sunset. We repaired a loose section of fence near the north pasture, hauled water, split wood, cleaned the barn and replenished the feed bins. We cut and soaked fodder for the animals, mixing it with bean mash in great steaming buckets while the donkeys brayed impatiently nearby. The weather had turned colder still, and our breath hung white in the air.

Far Away spent most of the day asleep, but by afternoon he had begun moving about the house on his own. His splinted leg forced him into an awkward hobbling gait, and several times I moved instinctively to pick him up, but he glared at me with such offense that I relented.

Bao-Bao shadowed him everywhere.

The old cat behaved as though Far Away were some wounded soldier under her authority. She followed him from room to room, occasionally stopping to lick the fur around his ears or inspect his bandages with grave seriousness. Once I caught Bao-Bao cuffing him lightly on the head after he tried to jump onto a stool and failed.

I laughed despite myself.

“You see?” Haaris said smugly. “Bao-Bao likes him.”

“I think she thinks he’s her long-lost brother or something.”

“That too.”

Far Away eventually settled beside the stove and fell asleep again, while Bao-Bao curled protectively beside him like a guardian spirit.

That evening, after Maghreb, I sat alone in my room looking unhappily at my belongings. I owned very little: my blanket, travel pack, dao and spear, work clothes and the softer set of clothes I wore around the house or to sleep. I had nothing suitable for Jum’ah in a masjid, or a visit to family.

I imagined myself standing among wealthy merchants and educated men dressed like a scarecrow from a muddy farm. The thought filled me with embarrassment.

A while later there came a knock at the doorframe. Zihan Ma entered carrying a folded bundle.

“I nearly forgot,” he said.

He handed the bundle to me. Inside was a new suit of clothing: dark blue trousers, a long tunic of thick but soft cloth, and a black outer vest with careful stitching along the edges. Beneath the clothing lay a pair of sturdy black shoes. The clothes were beautiful and much nicer than anything I’d ever owned.

I stared at them. “For me?”

“Who else?” Zihan Ma said mildly. “You cannot attend Jum’ah looking like a farm hand.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly. “Thank you,” I managed.

He nodded once and left without further words.

The Road North

We departed before sunrise on Jum’ah. I wore my clothing and shoes, the Muslim kufi cap Zihan Ma had given me, and the dhikr beads around my neck. I felt natty and pleased with myself, and happy to be going on this trip. A thread of worry worked its way through my gut – what would happen if we encountered my mother’s family? – but I waved my hand to dismiss these thoughts.

Still, I strapped my dao across my back. It was not only the threat of my mother’s family that worried me. Whatever Zihan Ma believed about violence, the roads were no longer safe. The memory of the six intruders had not left me. Life had repeatedly taught me an important lesson: that there were people out there who saw other human beings as nothing more than prey. I would not be caught unprepared.

The wagon creaked softly as we loaded our things. Lee Ayi packed food for the journey while Haaris secured blankets and water gourds. I strapped my dao across my back before climbing aboard. I also brought my travel pack and a few of the gold coins I’d brought with me to my aunt’s house. I had of course passed through Starling once before – for that, I’d learned, was the name of the city to the south where I’d been assaulted and where Zihan Ma’s sister lived. It had seemed chaotic and overwhelming back then. But at the time it was my first glimpse of a big city, and I was wounded and feverish. Maybe it was actually a nice place. There might be things to buy. I wanted to get something for Haaris in particular. I knew I’d been cold toward him lately, and I needed to make up for it.

Zihan Ma and Lee Ayi sat on the front seat of the wagon, and Haaris and I behind them. As I settled myself, I caught Zihan Ma looking at the dao. Not a glance, but a long, solemn stare. He said nothing, however, and that somehow felt heavier than disapproval.

The wagon rolled out through the gate and onto the main road. Frost silvered the fields. The morning air smelled of damp earth and smoke from distant cookfires.

At the crossroads the wagon turned north.

“Wait,” I said. “We’re not going to Starling?”

“No,” Lee Ayi replied from beside me. “We’re going to Deep Harbor.”

I sat up straighter. “Deep Harbor?”

“My mother lives there,” she explained. “It’s her birthday.”

My stomach tightened slightly at the mention of my grandmother. I had almost forgotten she existed.

The Vendor

We breakfasted on steamed vegetable buns and pickled cabbage as the donkeys ambled along and the wagon rumbled over the dirt road. Fog lay over the fields and road like the breath of an ice-dragon, and I pulled my tunic tight. All the farms we passed had high walls – many of which looked newly constructed – and had either heavy gates, or guarded entrances. Some sold their farm products at roadside stands.

We passed through a small village. and the air brought the scent of roasted chestnuts. Haaris pleaded for some. Relenting with exaggerated reluctance, Zihan Ma dismounted to haggle with a vendor selling a variety of roasted nuts heated in an iron pan over hot coals.

I dismounted to stretch my legs. The vendor, a thin man with a mustache, weighed the nuts on a scale, then scooped them into a paper wrapper, moving quickly with practiced hands.

The vendor cheated my uncle. I saw it with my own eyes. My father had taught me many kinds of scams and tricks, not necessarily to employ them, but to be aware. I bit my upper lip, wrestling with the question of whether to say something, but as it turned out it wasn’t necessary, for Zihan Ma stopped the vendor with an upheld hand.

“Your scale is rigged,” he said mildly. “You charge for a full measure, yet give less.”

The vendor spread his hands innocently. “Impossible, honored uncle.”

Zihan Ma reached into a coat pocket and came out with a small iron disk. “This,” he said, “is a half-jin measure.” He dropped it on the scale, and I watched as the needle on the scale settled on half a jin plus two liang.

The vendor’s face reddened, and he shot a glance at a burly man who stood nearby.

Zihan Ma followed the man’s gaze. “Your boss doesn’t know. You’re pocketing the difference.”

The vendor formed prayer hands and bowed deeply to Zihan Ma. “Please do not say anything, honored uncle. I beg you. I have a family…” He went on like this.

Ignoring him, Zihan Ma called out to the boss and informed him of what was happening.

The boss crossed his arms and set his jaw. “Why should I believe you? Maybe you’re the cheater. This man has worked for me for two years.”

“Believe as you wish,” Zihan Ma said calmly. “It’s your loss.”

He was about to turn to leave, accepting the loss of a few copper coins. I could not accept that. It wasn’t the loss of the coins, but that someone might question the honor of this great man, the best man I had ever known. I pointed to the mustachioed vendor.

“Right front pocket,” I said. “He used a magnet to rig the scale.”

Looking skeptical, the boss slipped a hand into his employee’s pocket and found the magnet I knew was there.

As the boss seized the vendor and began to shout at him, Zihan Ma turned away. A little further down the road, he bought a bag of carrots. Back on the wagon, Lee Ayi, Haaris and I ate our chestnuts in silence as Zihan Ma fed the carrots to the donkeys.

The nuts were salty and rich. I kept licking my fingers for the salt. The vendor might have been a thief, but he cooked good nuts. The scene that had transpired with the vendor did not bother me. I had seen and been through much worse. But Zihan Ma was quiet, and seemed troubled.

Dishonesty

Donkeys fed, we continued on our way. After a while, Zihan Ma looked back at me and asked, “How did you know about the magnet?”

I gave a slight shrug. “My father taught me to ignore people’s words and watch their hands.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s good advice. What did you think of the chestnut vendor?”

Something told me that I was on unsteady ground. Zihan Ma rarely asked casual questions. I weighed my words. “Cheating is wrong.”

“I agree,” my uncle said. “Dishonesty troubles me greatly.”

“Yeah,” Haaris said. “That guy was a crook.”

“Dishonesty among family,” Zihan Ma went on, “is the worst of all, for the closer the relationship, the worse the hurt.”

My uncle glanced back at me, where I sat on the back bench with Haaris. Looking forward again, he said, “If two people practiced martial arts every Friday on my farm, I would likely hear of it. Farmworkers speak. Especially when they are curious.”

Neither Lee Ayi nor I answered. My throat was tight as I swallowed.

“And,” Zihann Ma went on, “if I found part of the far field trampled repeatedly, with familiar footprints in the soil, and if I saw a boy returning late at night carrying a dao…” He shrugged lightly. “I might make certain guesses.”

“Forgive me,” Lee Ayi blurted out. She dropped to her knees in the wagon and pressed her forehead to Zihan Ma’s knees as he drove. Her arms hugged his legs. “Husband, I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

Haaris’s face showed alarm. “What happened? What is it?”

Zihan Ma looked genuinely distressed. “Jade, sit in your place. This is not seemly.”

“No,” she said miserably. “I deceived you.”

He gently took her one arm and lifted her back to her seat.

“You are my wife, not my servant,” he said softly. “Enough.”

I wanted to apologize too. The words gathered in my chest, but would not come out. The truth was ugly and tangled: I was sorry for deceiving him, but not for training.

At last I lowered my eyes and said quietly, “I will do better.”

Zihan Ma turned his head to study me for a long moment, and I could not tell if he was satisfied or saddened.

“What are you guys talking about?” Haaris demanded again.

When nobody spoke, I answered him. “Your mom and I were practicing martial arts.”

He sat back with a puzzled frown. “Oh. That’s all?” After a moment, he added, “My mom knows martial arts?”

“All of us Lees do, apparently.” Though my words were dry, something inside me felt heavy. I had been called a liar without the word ever being spoken aloud, and worse still, it was true.

Yet what else could I have done? The dao, the training, the movement of my body through forms and strikes – these things felt less like choices and more like a current carrying me somewhere I could neither understand nor resist.

Sadaqah

For the rest of the drive, my thoughts were jumbled. I didn’t know how to feel. On the one hand, I was scared that Zihan Ma’s opinion of me was souring. I didn’t know what that might mean for my future. On the other hand, I was relieved that the truth was out. At least I didn’t have to pretend anymore.

As we approached the city, I encountered a world I had not seen before. Refugees crowded the roadsides. Some lived beneath crude shelters made of sticks and cloth. Others huddled beneath wagons or slept in ditches wrapped in blankets so thin they scarcely deserved the name. Children watched the road with hollow eyes.

“I had no idea it was this bad,” Lee Ayi said.

“It’s worse in Starling ,” Zihan Ma muttered. “The refugees are coming from the south in great waves.”

Barefoot people trudged along the road with their packs on their backs. Women carried crying babies. An old man with one arm stood beside the road holding out a bowl without speaking. At one point we passed a woman crouched beside a tiny cookfire, boiling common weeds in a small blackened pot while two little girls sat beside her silently, too tired even to cry.

“Stop please,” I said suddenly.

Zihan Ma pulled gently on the reins.

I climbed down from the wagon and retrieved one of the wrapped food bundles Lee Ayi had prepared for the journey. The woman looked up at me uncertainly as I approached.

“For you,” I said awkwardly, offering the food.

One of the little girls stared at the bundle with enormous eyes. The sight of her struck me unexpectedly hard. I remembered another little girl, offering me a sweet treat on a stick while I was wounded and alone in the streets of Starling. I remembered her kindness, small as it had been, and how much it had mattered. Now it was my turn.

The woman accepted the food with trembling hands. “May the ancestors reward you,” she whispered.

Though I did not believe as she did, I said, “Thank you. May Allah make it easy.”

When I climbed back into the wagon, Lee Ayi rubbed my shoulder affectionately.

Zihan Ma smiled faintly. “The Messenger of Allah ﷺ taught that every bone in the body must give charity each day. Today Darius has given his sadaqah before the rest of us. He has set a good example.”

With some of the heaviness inside me lightened, I lowered my eyes awkwardly while Haaris grinned at me proudly.

Deep Harbor

As the sun arrived at its zenith, Deep Harbor appeared.

I had never seen a city so large. Gray walls rose high above the surrounding land, their watchtowers crowned with curved roofs. Beyond them I glimpsed tiled buildings packed together like scales upon a fish. But what struck me most was the river. It was enormous.

I had seen streams, ponds and irrigation channels all my life, but this moving expanse of water seemed like a living thing. Barges floated upon it carrying cargo beneath tall square sails. Smaller boats darted between them like water insects. Hundreds of birds wheeled overhead crying harshly. The air smelled of wet wood, fish, mud, smoke and river water.

I stared openly.

Haaris laughed. “You’ve never seen a real river before.”

“No,” I admitted.

The roads thickened with traffic as we approached the city: merchants, ox carts, laborers, mounted officials, wandering monks, and refugees pressed together in uneasy currents. I noticed that many people carried weapons, from spears to daggers, and a few swords.

The city gates stood open, guarded by weary soldiers carrying spears and wearing armor.

Inside was noise. Vendors shouted from crowded stalls. Metal clanged. Wheels rattled over stone. Steam and smoke drifted through the narrow streets carrying the smells of frying oil, fish, dung, incense and humanity packed too tightly together.

I turned constantly, trying to absorb everything at once.

“There,” Haaris said proudly, pointing ahead.

The masjid stood in the distance among the crowded streets like a place from another world, its twin minarets reaching for the sky.

Before we entered the masjid district, Zihan Ma pulled the wagon into a riverside stable yard thick with the smells of hay, manure and mud. Stable hands shouted, and a bell rang from a nearby ship where dozens of men unloaded crates onto a wooden pier. In the stable, many horses and donkeys were housed, some calmly eating, and others – not used to the city – were nervous, with ears swiveling. Our donkeys were a bit anxious, but Haaris stroked their faces and whispered in their ears, and they calmed down.

“You will not be able to enter the masjid with the dao,” my uncle whispered to me. “Conceal it in the wagon, under your blanket.”

I chewed my upper lip, thinking. The idea of leaving my weapon unguarded was abhorrent. But what choice did I have? I did as Zihan Ma said. He paid the stable keeper, and we proceeded on foot to the masjid.

I craned my neck, trying to take it all in. The towering structure was easily the largest I had ever seen. Its architecture resembled the surrounding Chinese buildings, with sweeping tiled roofs and carved beams, yet Arabic calligraphy adorned the entrance in flowing black strokes, and the minarets seemed to pierce the sky. Hui men streamed through guarded gates wearing robes, caps and turbans, speaking in a dozen accents and dialects, while women in hijab entered from a separate gate.

A Resolution at Jum’ah

Lee Ayi bade us all goodbye and entered through the women’s gate.

The adhan began. I had heard Zihan Ma call the adhan many times at the farm, and had learned to call it myself. But this was different. The muadhin’s voice rose high above the noise of the city, echoing against walls and rooftops until it seemed to fill the entire district.

I followed Zihan Ma and Haaris through the courtyard and into the prayer hall. The room was immense. Sunlight filtered through latticed windows onto thick carpets over polished wooden floors. Hundreds of men sat cross-legged, rich and poor alike. I saw merchants in fine silk beside laborers with patched sleeves. Old men leaning on canes. Young boys scarcely older than Haaris.

The khutbah was about the meaning of success in Islam. The Imam said that we insisted on measuring success in material terms, but in Islam that was meaningless. Rather, success was defined as nearness to Allah, sincerity with all people, righteousness in public and in private, and compassion in the home.

It was interesting, but maybe over my head. And I was distracted by the spectacle. When the prayer began, a thousand people stood shoulder to shoulder, and a hush fell over the assembly. I understood in that moment what it meant to belong to something greater than myself.

I resolved in that moment that I would try to be the man Zihan Ma wanted me to be. I would put away the sword and take up the acupuncture needles, the sewing thread, and the herbs. I would strive to be the best healer I could be, under his tutelage. It was a great opportunity to be more than I had been raised to be, more than my father had been. I would be a fool not to take it.

When the prayer ended, the worshippers flowed gradually back into the streets of Deep Harbor. The noise of the city returned all at once, as if someone had lifted a curtain. Vendors shouted, gulls wheeled overhead, and somewhere nearby a man hammered metal with steady ringing sounds.

Gifts

The streets near the river were crowded almost beyond belief. We passed spice merchants, tea houses, fishmongers, butchers and wandering peddlers carrying entire shops suspended from shoulder poles. Barges drifted along the river beside us while laborers shouted and unloaded crates by hand.

“Listen carefully,” Lee Ayi said as we walked. “My mother’s name is Safiya Bai. You will address her as Nai Nai.”

I nodded.

“My stepfather is Su Chen. You should call him Master Chen.”

Something in her tone made me glance sideways at her.

“He is… particular,” she said carefully.

“That means he’s mean,” Haaris translated helpfully.

“Haaris.”

“What? It’s true.”

Lee Ayi sighed. “Master Chen values manners very highly. Be polite. Speak little. Don’t argue with him.”

“I don’t argue with people.”

Haaris snorted so loudly that a passing merchant looked over. “You are arguing about arguing.”

“I am not.”

“Also you argued with me yesterday about whether crows can understand insults.”

“You were being silly.”

Haaris burst into laughter while even Lee Ayi smiled faintly.

We stopped beside a food stall where an old Hui man was pulling noodles by hand. He stretched and folded the dough so quickly I could hardly keep track of his hands. The noodles were dropped into boiling broth along with sliced lamb, greens and oil bright with chili.

We bought four steaming bowls and stood eating beside the man’s stall while gulls cried overhead. It was the best noodle soup I had ever tasted.

Nearby another vendor sold skewers coated in sesame and honey. Zihan Ma bought one each for Haaris and me.

As we continued through the marketplace, I found myself studying the stalls carefully. There were things here I had never imagined: tiny carved animals made of jade, lacquered boxes, clocks worked by water, silver rings, embroidered slippers, fishing lures with feathered hooks, paper lanterns painted like flowers.

At one stall I stopped short.

The merchant sold knives.

Not fighting knives. Folding knives, utility blades, skinning knives and carving tools. One particular knife caught my eye. It was compact and sturdy, with a polished wooden handle and a locking brass ring.

It was perfect for Haaris. I imagined buying it for him as a gift, and the delight on his face. Then I imagined Zihan Ma’s disapproving expression, and moved on.

A few stalls later I found an old man selling whistles carved in the shapes of birds. Some were painted brightly, others plain polished wood. When blown, they produced trilling calls remarkably similar to real birdsong. I remembered Haaris trying to learn to whistle through a blade of grass.

I picked up a swallow-shaped whistle carved from dark cedar. “I’ll take this one,” I said. The merchant wrapped it carefully in cloth.

It was the first time in my life I had ever bought a gift for someone. I was surprised by the warm, happy feeling in my chest. I found that I was smiling as I imagined how excited Haaris would be. I loved this feeling, and decided that I would buy gifts for the others as well. Maybe… maybe Zihan Ma would not be disappointed in me anymore if I got him something nice. My smile slipped for a moment as these sad thoughts intruded, but I continued shopping.

Farther along I found something for myself: a soft leather money belt worn beneath the clothing, with a hidden inner compartment stitched cleverly into the lining. I examined the stitching carefully before buying it. No one looking at it would guess it concealed anything valuable. That alone made me trust it.

At another stall I found a beautiful medical needle set housed in a slim bamboo case alongside fine silk thread. The needles were more delicate than the ones we used at the farm.

“This is excellent steel,” the merchant insisted. “Made in the western provinces.”

I bought it for Zihan Ma and dropped it into my travel pack.

“What’s that?” Haaris asked, craning his neck.

“You’ll see.”

“Come, Darius,” Zihan Ma said. “It’s time to go.”

“One minute!” Hastily I began studying the nearby stalls. My gaze landed on a table covered in combs, pins and ornaments. Some were wooden, and others were fashioned from shell or polished bone. One comb caught my attention. It was simple but elegant, carved from dark wood with tiny inlaid flowers of mother-of-pearl near the handle. I picked it up.

Lee Ayi’s hair was almost always tied back hurriedly for work. I realized suddenly that I had never seen her own anything decorative at all.

“That one,” I said.

The vendor smiled knowingly.

I smiled to myself, thinking of how much fun it would be to give these gifts to my new family. I would surprise them when we returned home. It would be exciting!

We moved away from the river, and the homes around us improved, becoming large, with high walls and ornate gates. We stopped in front of a grand home – a palace to my eyes – with a colorfully dressed guard at the gate.

Lee Ayi regarded me solemnly. “This is Master Chen’s house. Remember what I told you. Do not speak unless spoken to.”

Something in her tone put me on edge, and I felt my warm, cozy feeling disappear.

* * *

Read Part 12 – Accused

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The post Far Away [Part 11] – Deep Harbor appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

His recent conversation with Shehzad Ghias was useful, though not in the way his admirers imagined. It did not reveal Ghamidi as a subtle political thinker. It revealed the limits of a mind that mistakes abstraction for depth, defeatism for realism, and imperial common sense for divine law. The interview was less political analysis than metaphysical HR training for colonized Muslims: accept the hierarchy, avoid disruption, rebuild quietly, and please do not inconvenience the powerful.

Ghamidi repeatedly invokes “the laws of the world,” as though geopolitics were governed by the moral equivalent of gravity rather than by sanctions, coups, occupations, assassinations, military bases, puppet monarchies, and the American rules-based order — that elegant phrase meaning: rules for you, exemptions for us. His abstraction is not innocent. It performs a function. By dissolving empire into “worldly laws,” it removes perpetrators from the scene. There is no Washington, no Tel Aviv, no Riyadh, no Rawalpindi; only “reality,” descending upon Muslims like bad weather.

This is why his politics so often arrive pre-defanged. He speaks endlessly of consequences when Muslims resist, but rarely with the same urgency about the consequences of occupation, siege, colonial plunder, or state terror. The oppressed are advised to calculate carefully. The oppressor is treated as a geological fact. Israel bombs, America sanctions, generals disappear civilians, monarchs fund devastation — and Ghamidi clears his throat to ask whether the victims have properly assessed the balance of forces.

This is not realism. It is selective realism. A realism that becomes exquisitely rigorous only when the weak contemplate resistance, and strangely poetic when the powerful commit crimes.

His treatment of Iran is especially revealing. To say that Iran “accepted Israel” before the revolution and therefore had no conflict worth mentioning is to confuse the tranquillity of a client regime with peace. The Shah’s Iran was not a neutral paradise rudely interrupted by religious zealots. It was a Western-backed police state, sustained through repression at home and alignment with imperial power abroad. Its “stability” was the stability of a boot pressed firmly on the neck of society. Apparently, if the boot is polished in Washington, some people mistake it for civilization.

Ghamidi’s framework cannot process anti-colonial agency because it has no serious place for colonialism. Muslims, we are told, declined because they failed in knowledge and collective morality. Convenient. Colonial violence becomes background noise. Coups become footnotes. Sanctions become weather. Occupation becomes context. The Global South’s long encounter with European and American savagery disappears into a sermon about civilizational failure. One half-expects the next lecture to explain that Algeria’s colonized masses should have improved their study habits.

His claim that Muslims made no meaningful contribution to knowledge in five centuries is not analysis; it is civilizational self-flagellation dressed as sobriety. It is the sort of sweeping claim that sounds profound only until one remembers that entire peoples cannot be reduced to empire charts and Nobel-counting anxieties. Muslim societies have produced scientists, poets, jurists, engineers, philosophers, revolutionaries, artists, and intellectuals under conditions ranging from colonial devastation to authoritarian suffocation. But Ghamidi’s point is not historical accuracy. It is disciplinary pedagogy: Muslims must first be humiliated before they can be pacified.

This is the deeper pattern. Ghamidi’s political theology consistently turns moral attention away from structures of domination and toward the supposed recklessness of those who resist them. Palestine is not first a story of settler colonialism, ethnic cleansing, siege, and apartheid; it becomes a case study in poor strategic planning. Kashmir is not first about occupation and militarized humiliation; it becomes another lesson in imprudence. Iran is not first a target of decades of pressure, encirclement, sabotage, and demonization; it becomes a cautionary tale about revolutionary excess.

How tidy. How civilized. How useful.

The most revealing feature of this worldview is its coldness. It has the temperature of a policy memo. One may disagree with resistance movements, criticize their methods, question their judgment, or even condemn particular actions. But to speak of Gaza, Lebanon, Iran, Kashmir, or Afghanistan with the emotional range of a risk consultant is morally obscene. Babies are buried under rubble, families are erased, prisoners are tortured, societies are starved — and the “moderate” scholar arrives to remind everyone that capacity matters.

Capacity does matter. Strategy matters. Consequences matter. Only fools deny this. But strategy without solidarity is not wisdom; it is cowardice with footnotes. Prudence that never confronts power becomes collaboration by temperament. And a theology that instructs the oppressed to survive indefinitely while never developing a serious doctrine of resistance is not prophetic restraint. It is spiritualized submission.

This is why Ghamidi’s post-9/11 career matters. He emerged as the ideal Muslim reformer for an age of imperial war: urbane, textual, anti-militant, reassuring to liberal elites, and always ready to distinguish good Muslims from dangerous ones. Under Musharraf’s “enlightened moderation,” this posture helped provide theological furniture for a state aligned with America’s war on terror. Today, in a Pakistan suffocating under military authoritarianism, the same logic mutates easily into suspicion toward mass dissent, especially when dissent threatens the uniformed guardians of national captivity.

The journey is not accidental. The “moderate Muslim” demanded by empire was never merely someone who rejected extremism. He was someone who would define extremism so broadly that resistance itself became suspect. Someone who would police Muslim anger more energetically than imperial violence. Someone who would turn “khawarij” into a portable category useful against whoever disturbed the approved order.

Ghamidi’s admirers will insist this is unfair. He is consistent, they will say. Indeed, he is. That is precisely the problem. His consistency lies in his refusal to center the mustad‘afeen — the oppressed of the earth — as the starting point of political theology. He begins instead from order, stability, capacity, and consequence. These are not trivial concerns. But when they become supreme, justice is demoted to an aspiration for better times. The oppressed are told to wait until they are strong enough to deserve liberation.

History, inconveniently, was not made by people who waited for perfect conditions. Anti-colonial struggle has always involved risk, miscalculation, sacrifice, tragedy, and impossible choices. It has also involved imagination — the very thing absent from Ghamidi’s politics. His world is governed by fixed hierarchies masquerading as divine method. The powerful act. The weak endure. The scholar explains.

And yet the world is changing. Empire is not omnipotent. Zionism is not invincible. Muslim rulers are not identical with Muslim peoples. The Global South is not a classroom of defeated children awaiting instruction from cautious clerics. It is a historical force, wounded but not extinguished, betrayed but not silent.

Ghamidi’s tragedy is not that he counsels prudence. Prudence is necessary. His tragedy is that his prudence has curdled into political quietism, and his quietism into a theology of obedience. He has mistaken the command to avoid suicide for a command to avoid confrontation. He has confused moral seriousness with strategic paralysis. He has turned moderation into a velvet leash.

In the end, the question is not whether Muslims should be reckless. They should not. The question is whether Muslim political thought must be reduced to advising the oppressed to behave better under domination. Ghamidi’s answer, beneath all the elegance, appears to be yes.

Empire could not have asked for a better sermon.

[Disclaimer: this article reflects the views of the author, and not necessarily those of MuslimMatters; a non-profit organization that welcomes editorials with diverse political perspectives.]

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The post Op-Ed: Javed Ghamidi And The Theology Of Managed Defeat appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.