Photo courtesy of Marquette University

Fatih Harpci, Ph.D., joined Marquette University’s Campus Ministry last summer as MU’s Muslim chaplain. 

As students in Marquette University’s Arabic Language and Culture Club set up calligraphy and henna stations, an Arabic clothing display and a Middle Eastern buffet Feb. 13 to celebrate Arabic culture, MU’s new Muslim chaplain Fatih Harpci milled about. Instead of heading home on a dark, cold Friday evening after a full workweek, Dr. Harpci attended the students’ event. 

Tall and slim with a wide smile, he quietly walked up to groups of students or faculty members and quickly engaged in conversations. Why the smile? “It’s sunnah (the traditions and practices of Prophet Muhammad that serve as a model),” he told the Wisconsin Muslim Journal. 

“I am here to listen to the needs, struggles and stories of Muslim students,” Dr. Harpci said in an interview in Marquette Today, a publication for the Marquette Community, about his role as the Muslim chaplain at Wisconsin’s largest private university and one of the largest Jesuit universities in the country. He also views “fostering healthy interfaith relationships on campus and beyond” as an important part of his duties, he said.

“We are thrilled to have Dr. Harpci here supporting our Muslim students and encouraging students of other faiths to connect with them and get to know their Muslim classmates,” Steve Blaha, director of MU’s Campus Ministry, told the Wisconsin Muslim Journal. “We’ve had Dr. Harpci serve on a number of panels. He is a terrific speaker who always fosters an environment dedicated to lifting up people of faith and encouraging dialogue.”

Serving Muslim students and developing interfaith understanding—these are hallmarks of Dr. Fatih Harpci’s work in southeastern Wisconsin for more than a dozen years. 

Teaching about Islam

Dr. Harpci is a full-time associate professor of religion at Carthage College in Kenosha, a college affiliated with the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. He is there except for five hours on Mondays and Fridays, when he is fulfilling his part-time job as the Muslim chaplain at Marquette. 

With only about a dozen Muslim students at Carthage, the vast majority of its student body knows little about Islam, he said. When he joined Carthage in 2014, the Religion Department had one course on Islam. It was named “Islam,” Dr. Harpci told WMJ. He has since developed four solo-taught and three team-taught classes in Islamic studies that are popular course offerings at the private liberal arts college.

Dr. Harpci is uniquely prepared to explain Islam to people of other faiths. Although he aspired to study medicine after high school and had the required grades, the politics in Turkey (where he was born and raised) prevented a practicing Muslim from entering elite professions at the time, he told a Marquette University Wire reporter.

Dr. Fatih Harpci is a full-time associate professor of religion at Carthage College in Kenosha.

Accepting his fate, he earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Islamic theology from Marmara University, a leading university in Turkey with an internationally esteemed religious studies program. His concentration was on fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence) and hadith (teachings and examples of the Prophet Muhammad).

His next stop was Moravian Theological Seminary in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, a university dating back to 1742 with roots in the Moravian Church, a Protestant Christian denomination. Harpci was the first Muslim seminarian in the school’s history. There, he completed a Master of Arts in Theological Studies with a thesis on the necessity of interfaith dialogue.

At Temple University in Philadelphia, Harpci earned a doctorate in Islamic studies. His dissertation examined hadith about Jesus, particularly about his second coming and messianic roles, Dr. Harpci said.

He knows several languages. Turkish is his native language. He is fluent in English, and he reads and writes Arabic at a high level. “I did not have experience traveling in or living in Arabic-speaking countries,” he added. “But when it comes to reading and understanding traditional texts, whether the Quran or hadith, I have no issue.”

He also knows Ottoman Turkish. “It’s not really a separate language,” he explained. “But it is written in Arabic script. It was used before 1923, when Atatürk came to power. It doesn’t come in handy often, but might if I’m doing some archival research.” 

Dr. Harpci’s published research and academic presentations frequently address common topics in the Abrahamic traditions (Judaism, Christianity and Islam). Who is My Neighbor? Philanthropy in Light of the Prophetic Model, published in 2020 by Indiana University Press’ Journal of Muslim Philanthropy & Civil Society, examines the duties of Muslims towards their neighbors and concludes Muslims are “to do good (ihsan) to their neighbor who is near and distant, regardless of their ethnic, racial or religious background, and that charity is an excellent way to do good to both Muslim and non-Muslim neighbors.

His dissertation on the numerous references to Jesus in hadith is in the publication pipeline. It is expected to be a chapter in a book titled Jesus, Son of Mary, to be published “very soon, inshallah” by the Society of Biblical Literature, Dr. Harpci said. “My chapter is titled Jesus in Hadith Literature.”

In his 2014 co-authored book, Sultan of Hearts, Prophet Muhammad, Dr. Harpci details the exemplary life of Prophet Muhammad.

Serving Muslim students

Dr. Harpci has passed the halfway mark of his first academic year as MU’s Muslim chaplain with the new year. He works in MU’s Campus Ministry, a department whose mission is “to meet the diverse spiritual needs and interests of Marquette University’s student community.” 

He is at MU Mondays and Fridays, 9 a.m. – 2 p.m., usually in his office in MU’s Alumni Memorial Union (AMU 236F), “right behind the information desk on the main floor, near the Muslim prayer space,” he told WMJ in an interview Monday. An article on the Marquette Wire, MU’s student media, reports, “He can be reached anytime at fatih.harpci@marquette.edu.”

“I will be primarily responsible for providing spiritual support, programming, leadership, community engagement and outreach to students in the Marquette University Muslim community, including non-practicing individuals,” Dr. Harpci told Marquette Today in November. 

Muslim students stop by his office to talk about whatever is on their minds, Dr. Harpci said. Like all students, they have family struggles or deal with grief. “I just tell them I am here,” he said. “I want to give them spiritual support. I’m mainly here to listen. I don’t promise I can solve anything.”

Strengthening interfaith ties

Since joining Marquette at the beginning of the academic year, Dr. Harpci has worked to increase understanding in the rest of the community about issues Muslim students face, he said. “The first thing I did was check into halal meals. We have halal offerings on campus, but are they of good quality? Do the students know where to find them? I talked with the company that provides meals on campus to learn more about it. Where do they get their meat? What choices do they offer?

“Another thing I did was to communicate to Muslim students where we have prayer spaces. There are three locations right now that are available for Muslims to pray.”

One challenge is finding MU’s Muslim students to share information with them. Dr. Harpci knows of about 200 Muslim students on campus, but those are only the ones who checked a box on their registration form indicating their religion. “Of course, there are others who didn’t check the box,” he noted.

A strategy he is using to find Muslim students is to network with different offices and organizations that may intersect with them. For example, he is in touch with someone working with African American students, another in the International Student Office, and with some student organizations. He is working with the International Student Office to plan a meet-and-greet session with international Muslim students when they come to campus.

Dr. Harpci wrote a letter to the Marquette University community about Ramadan to help raise awareness across campus about this holy month for Muslim students. He also spoke about Ramadan in mid-February at a Soup and Substance lunch gathering for all students, faculty and staff interested in attending.

He also delivers khutbahs (sermons) at Friday prayer services. “And sometimes I give chances to students who want to give a khutbab. We rotate,” he said.

One of the next issues he hopes to tackle is finding a permanent home for Friday prayers. “The location changes from one week to the next. I want to say we have about 40 to 50 students attending, both men and women.” Establishing a permanent prayer space “is a discussion we have on the table,” he said.

Dr. Harpci started a Quran circle that meets right after Friday prayer. The short study sessions focus on a verse or two. “We have about 20-25 minutes before students have to rush to class,” he said. “We don’t have time to get in too deep, but this is not simply a translation either.”

During Ramadan, “we’ve had two iftar dinners (for breaking the daily fast). And I organized another one off campus at the Turkish American Society of Wisconsin.” The iftars are open to all, and Dr. Harpci said he would be pleased if non-Muslims join in. 

Beyond campus

Dr. Harpci’s role in southeastern Wisconsin’s Muslim and interfaith communities extend beyond campus. He is featured in the 2020 book Interfaith Engagement in Milwaukee: A Brief History of Christian—Muslim Dialogue, edited by Irfan A. Omar, Ph.D., an MU associate professor of theology, and Kaitlyn C. Daly, a Marquette University graduate. It identifies Dr. Harpci as a leader in interfaith programs in Milwaukee, saying, “A key member of TASWI (Turkish-American Society of Wisconsin) and a professor of religion at Carthage College, Prof. Fatih Harpci has led the dialogue and discussion from the Muslim side for several years. Harpci is a noted scholar and committed practitioner of interfaith dialogue, academically as well as in praxis.”

He is an active participant in worship at the American Albanian Islamic Center of Wisconsin and serves as a speaker at many Muslim and interfaith events and programs, including those of the Muslim Women’s Coalition, the Milwaukee Interfaith Conference and others.

When he does get home to his wife Selma and two sons, 6 and 9 years old, his life does not slow down. His sons have been waiting for him to play, he said. 

“Just let me get this coat off,” he tells them.

Credit: Artist Zahra Gulraiz created this image in honor of US Air Force Aaron Bushnell who self-emulated in front of the Israeli embassy in Washington, DC two years ago today in protest of his country’s complicity in genocide.

I find myself asking this question over and over again as I bear witness to the blatant abuse of power. Whether it is the ongoing genocide in Gaza, the power struggle in Sudan or Congo, the senseless war in Ukraine, the intentional nondisclosure of the rest of the Epstein files, the militarization of ‘law and order’ in America, the crackdown on civil liberties at home and abroad, or the desecration of the Earth through pollution and resource extraction, largely thanks to the US military as illustrated in the recent documentary Earth’s Greatest Enemy, my shock and outrage compel me to act. I know I am not alone.

Answering that question manifests in different ways: protests and campaigns; education through independent media, webinars, and forums; financial support through mutual aid networks; economic pressure through boycott and divestment; nonviolent resistance; bearing witness to state violence at home and abroad; disrupting the supply chain of military equipment and components; or artistic expression, to name a few. For Aaron Bushnell, a US Air Force pilot, he made the ultimate sacrifice with self-immolation on the steps of the Israel embassy in Washington, DC two years ago today.

“I will no longer be complicit in genocide. I’m about to engage in an extreme act of protest. But compared to what people have bene experiencing in Palestine at the hands of their colonizers, its’ not extreme at all. This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal.” — Aaron Bushnell

Today also marks 32 years since Meir Kahane follower and extremist Baruch Goldstein gunned down 29 Muslim worshipers during pre-dawn morning prayers of Ramadan at the Ibrahimi mosque in Hebron. That is long before before October 7^th and points to the consistent record of state violence against Palestinians since the launch of Zionism by Theodore Herzl at the First Zionist Congress in Basel, Switzerland in 1897. Even though that form of extremism was outlawed in Israel at the time, Kahane followers now hold leadership positions in the Israeli government. In fact, Israel’s Minister of National Security Ben Gvir proudly hung a portrait of Goldstein in his home in the settlement of Kiryat Arba in Hebron until he decided to run for office in 2000.

It is up to each and every one of us to decide what action to take based on our own level of awareness and risk assessment. Awareness is key, and awareness requires education. At a gut level, it is not difficult to declare GENOCIDE BAD as Sim Kern entitled her recent book on Zionism and Palestine. You don’t have to be an expert on the Middle East to come to that conclusion. You do have to be in touch with our shared humanity. And yet how many people remain silent because they don’t feel it is their place to speak out?

Sim would say the hesitation is by design. Doubt yourself, write off the entire situation as too complex, and it will continue because we didn’t stop it. For people who are still roped into Zionist hasbara (Israeli propaganda), Israel is defending itself and dead Palestinians are collateral damage. But 20,000 children killed in ‘self-defense’ doesn’t make any sense. It wreaks of Israeli exceptionalism where Israel is the eternal victim that justifies anything to uphold an exclusive Jewish state in the name of protecting the Jewish people. That narrative simply weaponizes antisemitism instead of actually fighting it as Peter Beinart explains in his recent book Being Jewish After the Destruction of Gaza. This sentiment is echoed by Palestine solidarity activists, as anti-Zionist Jews or non-Jews alike will point out.

So I urge people to trust their gut but also to educate themselves and others. The era of swallowing Israeli narratives is over, though far too many still make a hefty meal our of them, particularly Christian Zionists who support Zionism to fulfill Biblical prophecy to ensure the return of the Messiah even if that means that Jews who do not embrace Christianity will burn in Hell. This strange partnership is only getting stronger with the convening of the first joint Judeo-Christian Zionist Congress.

To set the record straight, Palestinian voices are telling their own story and more and more people are listening. Just as many Jews are deconstructing the decades of indoctrination they were subject to through synagogues and summer camps, the focus of the film Israelism, others are questioning the prevalent myths of Israel as outlined in Ilan Pappé’s Ten Myths About Israel. And Israelis — from top leaders to soldiers to talk show hosts — are being fully transparent about their disdain for Palestinian life and intention to take the entire land of Palestine and beyond for themselves as alluded to by US Ambassador to Israel Mike Huckabee in a recent interview with Tucker Carlson.

I cannot tell you what to do in response to the normalization of state violence, but I can tell you to do something, to tap into the outrage of the current moment, and find a way to challenge this destructive path that is destroying the Earth, people’s lives, and their livelihood. If you don’t know where to start, ask yourself if everyone deserves to live with dignity, the golden thread of my memoir Crossing Borders: The Search for Dignity in Palestine. If your answer is yes, imagine what that looks like for you, your neighbors, your town, your country, and the peoples of the world. Anything short of dignity is subjugation of many for the benefit of the few. Find your moral compass. Find your voice. Find your humanity.

The Muslim holy month of Ramadan, featuring celebrations, prayers, pre-dawn breakfasts and post-sundown meals, began at sunrise in the Middle East and a day later in much of Asia. In the Muslim lunar calendar, months begin only when the new moon is sighted, which can lead to variations of a day or two.

A worker cleans the Sunehri Masjid ahead of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan in Peshawar, Pakistan.Photograph: Bilawal Arbab/EPA

A person in traditional attire offers a drink to someone inside a car in a decorated market street as Muslims prepare for Ramadan in Damascus, Syria.Photograph: Yamam Al Shaar/Reuters

A worker, centre, paints decorations in preparation for Ramadan in downtown Beirut, Lebanon.Photograph: Hussein Malla/AP

Palestinians keep the spirit of Ramadan alive for their children and families despite widespread destruction and harsh living conditions.Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images

Indonesian Muslims hold a Rukyatul Hilal using rubu to observe the new crescent moon, which determines the start of Ramadan at Al-Mabrur mosque in Surabaya, Indonesia.Photograph: Robertus Pudyanto/Getty Images

A crescent moon shines in the sky on the first day of Ramadan in Sana’a, Yemen.Photograph: Yahya Arhab/EPA

Muslims in Malaysia performing tarawih, or evening prayers, to mark the first night of Ramadan at the National Mosque in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images

Muslim devotees wait to receive iftar meals to break their fast on the first day of Ramadan at the Wazir Khan mosque in Kabul.Photograph: Wakil Kohsar/AFP/Getty Images

Shiites observe the crescent moon to determine the start of Ramadan in Najaf, Iraq.Photograph: Anmar Khalil/AP

Muslims offering tarawih on the first night of Ramadan at the Grand mosque of Istiqlal in Jakarta. Indonesia, the world’s most populous Muslim nation, is set to begin observing Ramadan on Thursday, coinciding with millions of Muslims worldwide beginning their month-long fast from dawn to dusk.Photograph: Willy Kurniawan/Reuters

A drone light show takes place at Al-Azhar mosque, celebrating the upcoming holy month of Ramadan, in the old Islamic area of Cairo, Egypt.Photograph: Mohamed Abd El Ghany/Reuters

A man performs the evening tarawih prayers on the first night of Ramadan at the Umayyad mosque in Damascus, Syria.Photograph: Ghaith Alsayed/AP

A Palestinian family living in the Tel al-Hawa neighbourhood breaks their first Ramadan fast near the rubble of their home destroyed after the Israeli attacks on Gaza.Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images

A boy looks through a window as worshippers offer prayers inside the mosque at the shrine of Hazrat Ali Hajveri, popularly known as Data Darbar, in Lahore, Pakistan.Photograph: Murtaza Ali/NurPhoto/Shutterstock

Turkish Muslims start Ramadan with prayers in Utrecht, the Netherlands.Photograph: ANP/Shutterstock

Historic Baščaršija, a bazaar, is decorated with moon and star-shaped illuminations to celebrate Ramadan in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina.Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images

Photo by Yaseen Najeeb

Islamic Society of Milwaukee Religious Chair Waleed Najeeb, M.D., leads the planning of the ISM-Main’s observance of Laylat al-Qadr, a dusk-to-dawn prayer and worship program.

Longtime Milwaukee Muslim community member Sameer Ewis, known to all as “Abu Tariq,” waits all year long to attend Laylat al-Qadr (the Night of Power). He has participated every year without fail for 30 years, he said.

“We don’t sleep until after the morning prayer. We spend the whole night at the jama’ah (mosque), praying, making supplications and listening to teachings, Abu Tariq said. “It’s the night I feel closest to the Creator. It’s a very special night!”

As Abu Tariq puts it, “There are 12 months in a year. Allah chose the month of Ramadan as the holiest, the best. And in Ramadan, the best night is Laylat al-Qadr. I can’t explain my feelings for it. That night is equal to my life.”

Photo courtesy of Abu Tariq

Longtime Milwaukee Muslim community members Sameer and Mona Ewis (Abu and Um Tariq)  are pictured last spring at the 8th-grade graduation of their grandson Zaidan (center). Their sons Ahmad and Tariq stand to the left. In front is their granddaughter Janna. To Um Tariq’s right is her daughter-in-law Walaa and grandson Taha.

Laylat al-Qadr marks the night the angel Gabriel revealed the first verses of the Qur’an to Prophet Muhammad. Muslims pray and worship throughout the night until sunrise, knowing God’s blessings and mercy will flow and their worship will be abundantly rewarded. 

The specific night is not known, except that it occurs during the last 10 days of Ramadan on an odd-numbered night. Since Muslims understand their prayers and worship are especially rewarded on Laylat al-Qadr, many pray and worship fervently during that entire period. 

“If you ask for something on Laylat al-Qadr, most probably Allah will give it to you,” Abu Tariq said.

“Laylat al-Qadr is expected to be March 15 this year, according to many scholars, but no one really knows for sure,” said ISM Religious Chair Waleed Najeeb, M.D. The observance will be held at the Islamic Society of Milwaukee-Main at  4707 South 13th St.

Bring the full experience to Milwaukee

Waleed Najeeb grew up in Damascus, where observances of Laylat al-Qadr filled every mosque. “I always looked forward to it and tried to go to the mosque as early as possible, just to be able to get inside,” he recalled. “Every mosque overflowed with people and many even prayed outside on the street.

“It was very spiritually renewing,” he remembered. “You literally feel the mercy of God entering your heart. You feel God is listening to your supplication. You feel you are becoming a new person spiritually.” As Najeeb grew into a young man, he not only participated in observances in Syria, but also helped plan and organize them. 

After moving to the United States at 24, he found the program for Laylat al-Qadr was abbreviated. Rather than praying and worshiping together until sunrise, participants marked the completion of the month-long reading of the Quran with sweets and fellowship, then everyone went home, he said.

Eager to replicate the meaningful experience he grew up with for the community here, Najeeb proposed a full, night-long program. “Initially, there was some resistance,” he said, “but gradually, it became very popular.”

The program he initiated, and is still practiced today, begins with Isha prayer (the evening prayer), after the breaking of the Ramadan fast at sunset, and continues to Fajr, the dawn prayer, when fasting for the day begins. It includes the final Quran recitation, which concludes the month-long reading of the entire holy scripture and different kinds of prayers throughout the night, Najeeb said.

“Everyone breaks the fast at home then comes for Isha prayer,” he explained. “Then we pray Taraweeh (voluntary prayers exclusively for Ramadan) and conclude the Quran. You get a spiritual reward for completing it and we also have a physical reward, some sweets and snacks. It feels like a blessed meal we are sharing together. Then we go back to worship until about 5 o’clock in the morning, when we have suhoor (a meal before a day of fasting). 

“MAS (the Muslim American Society) provides and serves food,” Najeeb added. “You’ll have tens of people serving the thousands in attendance. It is just beautiful. You feel you are eating with your larger family. You feel connected to everyone. People eat quickly and move on so the next people can have their turn. 

An American Laylat al-Qadr

“What differentiates the experience here from Syria and other countries is that here you can literally see every ethnicity from all over the world represented and participating together that night,” Najeeb said. “They come with their beautiful, cultural dress, all of them coming with one goal, one purpose—to receive the mercy of God and forgiveness of God with an open heart. It’s beautiful to see.

“There are maybe 4,000 people in the Islamic Center that night, yet you feel peace and tranquility, as everyone focuses on their relationship with God,” Najeeb continued. “Some are worshiping together. Some will take personal time to connect with God in their own way. Yet, we all feel connected.

“I’m especially happy that night because I know many other Muslims throughout the world, especially those in front of me in Islamic Center, are being transformed, forgiven and renewed,” Najeeb said. “I’ll be exhausted by the end of the night, but so happy.”

New this year

“Every year, we have been turning hundreds away because we don’t have space for them in the masjid,” Najeeb said. “We are using the upstairs, the downstairs, the community hall, the center hall, the gym. Still, we have to turn many people away.”

This year, ISM is planning to duplicate the program at the Islamic Community Center at 815 W. Layton Ave. “We will run a parallel program with the same imams leading it but with different timings. The imams will be moving between the two places, doing their parts of the program throughout the night.

“With this approach, we can accommodate every person who would like to participate.”

Many of the youth will choose to go to the ISM Community Center on Layton because they like to be together, Najeeb added.

Laylat al-Qadr is one of the most important and sacred nights in the Islamic calendar.

Lots of people make it happen

Najeeb does a lot of work for the event, but it is not a one-man show, he said. The ISM Religious Committee helps with planning and organizing, he said. “We have a minute-by-minute schedule and everyone has a role.”

Likewise, the imams and youth directors from ISM’s three mosques participate, as well as imams from other mosques in Greater Milwaukee. Also, community volunteers help, he said.

“ISM Security Committee is responsible for managing the large number of people and the vehicles entering and exiting the parking lot. Office staff has been working on communication and marketing, as well as informing everyone about the logistics and rules we must follow. They also focus on the setting, the microphones and sound system, ordering supplies and food.

“Our housekeeping staff is also very busy, working hard to prepare the Islamic Center and keeping it clean through the night. And they have the cleanup afterwards as well.

“Hundreds of people will be participating to make this happen.”

“I want to give credit to Brother Waleed,” Abu Tariq said. “He does his best to make it a special night for all of us. He created a program that lifts our spirituality. He works hard for it and is always there from start to finish.”

Advice for newcomers

Abu Tariq shared this advice to newcomers: “Get there early. Last year so many people couldn’t get in. The masjid was at full capacity the entire night.

“Break your fast quickly and get to the masjid immediately to find a spot!”

As the call to prayer softens the edges of dusk, kitchens across South Asia begin their quiet transformation. Dough rises beneath muslin cloths, milk simmers into silk, and dates are deseeded, split open with care. 

Hundreds of miles away, in the shadow of minarets along the Istanbul Strait, the same choreography unfolds. Outside neighbourhood bakeries, families once queued for warm Ramazan pidesi, its golden crust stamped with a lattice pattern.

On Ottoman tables, delicate sheets of gullac absorbed rose-scented milk, much as rice does in kheer and phirni, closer to home. This is how flavour travels through faith, migration, empire, and memory. 

What was once baked in the ovens of the Ottoman world now echoes in roghni naan, a fluffy flatbread, and sheermal, a mildly sweet saffron bread. What once trembled in silver bowls in Istanbul shimmers today in clay dishes of phirni across Lahore and Karachi. 

This bridge between the past and the present is meticulously documented by a traveller who does not simply taste a city; he listens to it. He watches how steam rises from street carts, how families gather around a table at sunset, how bread is broken not just to eat, but to share. 

In the digital age, where food often becomes spectacle, Hamza Bhatti has built his platform on something far more enduring: connection.

As a food and travel storyteller and brand ambassador for the global tourism platform GoTürkiye, his lens moves fluidly between bustling bazaars, seaside cafes, heritage streets, and contemporary dining rooms.

His content does not isolate cuisine from context; it frames flavour within architecture and faith. And nowhere is that interplay more visible than in the shared culinary threads between South Asia and Türkiye.

“Honestly, whenever I look at something like pide or gullac, I see memory travelling across borders,” he tells TRT World. 

“When I tried pide for the first time in Türkiye, I immediately thought of roghni naan back home. And gullac, that delicate sweetness, took me straight to kheer and phirni.”

The connection, for him, is not accidental, nor is it purely culinary.

“What fascinates me most isn’t just the similarity in ingredients, flour, milk, sugar, ghee, it’s the historical journey behind them,” he says.

In that evolution lies the story he wants to tell.

“As a content creator, I’d love to explore that shared culinary DNA with my audience. To show them that when we sit down to eat sheermal in Lahore or a dessert in Istanbul, we’re participating in centuries of shared history,” Bhatti says.

Not just food

Bhatti’s storytelling is never confined to the plate alone. 

His content seamlessly shifts between viral street food discoveries and refined dining experiences, between hidden alleyway grills and panoramic waterfront restaurants. 

So how does he decide what takes centre stage, the dish, the destination, or the human being behind it?

His answer reveals the instinctive rhythm behind his work.

“For me, food is never just food,” he says.

“Sometimes the dish is the hook, like a viral street food that visually grabs attention. But very quickly, I find myself drawn to the person behind it. The uncle who has been making the same pide for 30 years. The family running a kebab shop for three generations. That human layer changes everything.”

“Other times, the destination itself tells the story. A seaside town, the call to prayer echoing, narrow streets, suddenly the food feels like part of a bigger atmosphere.”

His creative process, he explains, is guided less by algorithms and more by emotion.

“So my process is emotional, not formulaic. I ask myself: What moved me the most in this moment?

“If it’s the taste, I focus on that.

“If it’s the story of the chef, I follow that thread. If it’s the city’s energy, I let the location breathe,” Bhatti says.

“The best content happens when all three intersect naturally.”

As he films along the shores of the Istanbul Strait, capturing plates of pidesi against the silhouette of minarets, he is not merely documenting cuisine; he is situating it within centuries of lived culture.

Which leads to a deeper question: in an age of rapid consumption and aesthetic reels, how essential is cultural immersion compared to simply tasting the cuisine?

For Bhatti, there is no competition between the two.

“For me, cultural immersion is everything.”

“You can eat the same dish in a five-star restaurant and in a small alley, and they will feel completely different because of context.”

He recalls filming in Istanbul, not just what was plated, but what was felt.

“When I filmed in Istanbul, it wasn’t just about what was on the plate, it was the Bosphorus breeze, the historic skyline, the way tea is served with conversation. In Pakistan, it’s the same, the truck art, the roadside chai culture, the laughter around a table.”

The food connection

This connection is not merely a modern sentiment but a documented reality preserved in the historical archives, a territory navigated with precision by Tarana Husain Khan, a food historian and culinary revivalist whose work breathes life into them.

While she acknowledges that the precise journey of every flatbread into Mughal courts cannot be fully traced, the culinary traditions preserved in Rampur, a colonial-era princely state in northern India, reflect centuries of migration and cultural exchange.

One example is sheermal, a mildly sweet saffron bread that evolved across regions shaped by Persian, Central Asian, and South Asian influences. 

The Rampuri version closely resembles the Afghan roti (bread), yet differs significantly from the layered, thick, spiced bread, baqarkhani, associated with Awadhi cuisine — the royal culinary tradition of Lucknow in northern India, long linked to the Mughal court. 

Made from refined flour, ghee, milk, and sugar, Rampuri Sheermal is thick and soft, traditionally prepared without nigella seeds or an egg glaze, though it is often garnished with dried fruits.

Such changes in flavour and technique are rarely accidental. Khan’s research traces these transitions through 19th-century Persian manuscripts preserved in the Rampur Raza Library, showing how Mughal and Awadhi food traditions gradually merged into the royal cuisine of Rampur.

While the original Ottoman pide is a soft, slightly enriched wheat bread, often brushed with egg wash and speckled with nigella seeds, Dadi notes that when the Mughals, deeply influenced by Persian refinement, brought this staple to India, the recipe transformed. 

“India is a land of dairy,” she says. 

Instead of water, the dough began to swim in milk and heavy helpings of ghee. To satisfy the Mughal love of aroma, bakers added saffron, cardamom, and rose water, turning a simple staple into the Sheermal and the flaky, melt-in-your-mouth Roghni Naan, which remain cornerstones of Awadhi cuisine today.

This shift from light to rich is even more visible in the transition from the Ottoman gullac to phirni and kheer. 

While gullac relies on delicate, paper-thin sheets of wheat starch hydrated in milk, South Asia’s version took a different path, given its “sugarcane belt” and the richness of buffalo milk. 

Dadi observes that the Indian technique was one of reduction; by slow-cooking rice in high-fat milk, much like the process of making Rabri, the dish transformed from a light, starchy layer into a creamy, comforting pudding. 

While gullac remains a visual masterpiece of the Ramadan table, phirni has become a year-round “comfort food,” often served in earthen bowls that impart their own history to every bite.

Beyond the indulgence, Dadi often weaves a “medical reason” into her food history. 

“It represents sweetness with nourishment,” she tells TRT World, noting that the combination was likely a fuel for warriors and travellers who needed sustained energy.

The glucose of the date provides an immediate spark, while the fats in the buffalo-milk cream ensure that the energy is released slowly into the body.

However, her historical reverence comes with a modern disclaimer: “Have it in small portions,” she warns, reminding us that while these dishes were designed for those facing the rigours of war or a long day of fasting, they are a rich luxury for our modern, sedentary lives.

Few chefs understand this bridge between accessibility and heritage quite like Chef Rida Aftab, the culinary expert at HUM Network, a major Pakistani media company.

Speaking to TRT World, when asked how she would translate the spirit of Ramazan pidesi for South Asian homes, she does not begin with technique; she begins with meaning.

“Ramazan pidesi is more than bread, it’s a ritual. Baked fresh at sunset during Ramadan, it carries centuries of Ottoman baking tradition.”

And then, gently, she moves into adaptation rather than replication. 

As many South Asian homes don’t have stone ovens, they often cook on gas stoves or use tavas, a slightly concave metal griddle used in South Asian kitchens to cook rotis, parathas and other flatbreads over direct heat.

“We already make roti, naan, kulcha, or sheermal, so instead of recreating bakery-style pide, I’d reinterpret it in a familiar framework, but instead of the classic round bakery loaf, we make thick oval flatbreads and press the traditional criss-cross pattern with fingers dipped in oil. We cook on a heavy tava and finish directly over flame for light charring. 

“And very similar to Turkish style, we brush with egg wash, and sprinkle sesame/kalonji (nigella) seeds, which are already beloved in South Asia,” she tells TRT World.

Then she pauses to explain why this translation matters.

“It keeps the identity, such as seeds and softness, uses familiar techniques, and honours its Ottoman roots. So, food evolves, but symbols matter. The lattice, the seeds, the timing at sunset, that’s the soul.”

It is in that final sentence where the Bosphorus meets the Indus. The lattice represents continuity.

The same continuity appears in something as simple and sacred as a date. In Türkiye, dates stuffed with walnuts and kaymak offer understated luxury at iftar: creamy, nutty, naturally sweet. 

In South Asia, dates are no less symbolic, no less nourishing.

“In South Asia, dates appear in equally soulful ways. At times blended into milkshakes for iftar, at other times stuffed with almonds and pistachios. Then we also simmer dates in milk to make quick rabri-style desserts and we also fold dates into sheer khurma during Eid,” she says.

Food into continuity

But in an era of viral recipes and thirty-second transformations, where does history sit? Does narrative still matter?

For Chef Rida, the answer is immediate and firm.

“Preserving historical narrative in modern cooking shows matters deeply,” she continues.

“Today’s cooking shows often focus on speed, hacks, viral presentation, but dishes like Ramazan pidesi or stuffed dates are tied to the Ottoman bakery queues before sunset, intergenerational memory and migration stories, and when we strip history away, we turn food into content. When we preserve narrative, we turn food into continuity,” she says.

“Especially in Ramadan programming, telling the story connects diaspora communities and makes young viewers proud of their culinary heritage. And history doesn’t have to feel academic.”

In her kitchen, whether on television or online, technique may be simplified, ovens may be replaced with tavas, and ingredients may shift with geography. But the memory remains intact.

In Chef Rida’s world, heritage is protected within the kitchen’s rhythms.

And connection travels not just through geography, but through faith, migration, and empire.

Few understand this connection more intimately than Chef Mehboob Khan, widely recognised for his presence on MasterChef Pakistan, a Pakistani reality cooking competition.

Known for his deep respect for culinary heritage and technique, Chef Mehboob has explored Türkiye firsthand, an experience that profoundly shaped his understanding of how intertwined our food histories truly are.

Chef Mehboob says his journey to Türkiye changed how he looks at Pakistani cuisine.

He says when he visited Türkiye, he realised how deeply connected food traditions are, yet how little they are consciously acknowledged. 

According to him, many of us don’t actually know what our “original” dishes are. We don’t always know where they came from, which rulers influenced them, or which regions left the strongest imprint on what we now call Pakistani cuisine.

“Our food,” he says, “is layered, shaped by different regions, different eras, but we rarely stop to trace those influences”.

Chef Mehboob had hoped to visit Gaziantep, a city renowned worldwide for its culinary excellence, considering it, in his opinion, an ideal place for any chef to experience food at its most traditional form. Although he couldn’t make it there, he travelled to Antalya, Istanbul, and Ankara.

Surprisingly, he found himself deeply moved by Antalya’s food culture. While Istanbul offered immense variety and abundance, he felt Antalya’s traditional depth and historical grounding stood out more strongly.

“Their food,” he says, “is deeply tied to their culture, and their past”.

He shares that earlier in his career, he firmly believed that traditional food had to be prepared exactly as it had always been. However, over time, his philosophy evolved.

He explains that even a dish like nihari, if cooked ten times, can be prepared ten different ways. 

It is a slow-cooked South Asian beef stew, simmered for hours with warming spices, traditionally eaten for breakfast in Pakistan and parts of India.

For him, repetition does not mean rigidity. No matter how perfect a recipe becomes, he feels there is always room to rethink, reinterpret, and refine it.

And during Ramadan, perhaps more than any other time of year, those shared traditions continue to live quietly and warmly on South Asian tables.

An undated photograph of Nurul Amin Shah Alam, 56, provided by his family [File/Handout : Nurul Amin Shah Alam’s family via Reuters]

A nearly blind Rohingya refugee from Myanmar has been found dead in Buffalo, New York, days after the United States Border Patrol left him miles away from his home following his release from a county jail, authorities said.

The body of Nurul Amin Shah Alam, 56, was located by police officers in the city in upstate New York on Tuesday evening, a Buffalo Police Department spokesperson said on Wednesday.

Shah Alam had been missing since February 19, when US Border Patrol agents dropped him off at a coffee shop following his release from a county jail.

Mayor of Buffalo Sean Ryan, a Democrat, said in a statement on Wednesday that Shah Alam’s death was preventable and the result of “inhumane” decision-making by federal immigration authorities.

“A vulnerable man – nearly blind and unable to speak English – was left alone on a cold winter night ‌with no known attempt to leave him in a safe, secure location,” Ryan said.

“That decision from US Customs and Border Protection was unprofessional and inhumane,” he added.

Several US representatives called for an investigation into the circumstances of Shah Alam’s death on Wednesday, including Grace Meng, a Democrat representing areas of New York City, who described a “shocking breach of responsibility and basic humanity by federal enforcement”.

Mohamad Faisal, one of Shah Alam’s children, said nobody had told his family or their lawyer where their father had been left by authorities after his release from prison, according to the Reuters news agency.

Faisal said the family were Rohingya refugees from Arakan state, officially known as Rakhine state, in Myanmar, and that his father could not read, write or use electronic devices.

Community members and loved ones carry the body of Nurul Amin Shah Alam during his funeral service, in Buffalo, New York, US, on Thursday [Craig Ruttle/Reuters]

He said his father’s arrest a year ago was due to a misunderstanding after police were called when Shah Alam wandered onto private property, while carrying a curtain rod he had purchased as a walking stick due to his impaired vision.

His father had not understood when police, speaking in English, told him to drop the curtain rod, and he was held in jail for close to one year, before being released following a misdemeanour plea deal, Faisal said.

His father had only wanted to “eat home-cooked food” and “be united with the rest of [his] family”, he added.

In a statement to Investigative Post, a Buffalo-based news outlet, a US Customs and Border Patrol spokesperson said agents dropped Shah Alam off at a coffee shop after agents determined he had entered the country as a refugee and could not be deported.

“Border Patrol agents offered him a courtesy ride, which he chose to accept to a coffee shop, determined to be a warm, safe location near his last known address, rather than be released directly from the Border Patrol station,” the agency said.

“He showed no signs of distress, mobility issues or disabilities requiring special assistance,” the spokesperson said.

Temperatures in Buffalo, a city near the Canadian border, were below freezing last weekend.

The death is being investigated by homicide detectives, the spokesperson from the Buffalo Police Department said, according to Reuters.

Shah Alam’s death comes as an immigration crackdown enforced by the administration of US President Donald Trump is facing increased scrutiny.

At least six immigrants have died in Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agency custody since the beginning of this year.

Second from left, Hadrat Hakim poses with great grandsons Aayan Henry, Aajmal Henry and Nasir Moorman. 

A pair of Milwaukee matriarchs 

Before we go back to the beginning, we will highlight two women who helped lay the foundation for Milwaukee’s Muslim community with their behind-the-scenes servant leadership: Sr. Hadrat Hakim and her sister-in-law, Lathita Ahmad.

Sr. Hadrat Hakim-the rock

“My mom is the rock of the whole community, the foundation,” Kalim Hakim said. Many of Milwaukee’s Muslims in the early days were students at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Marquette and other universities, he explained. They came from Turkey, Egypt, Somalia, Jordan and Palestine. 

“And whose house did they come to? Who do they remember? My mom,” he exclaimed.

“We had one Eid when the whole community came to my mom’s house to eat and celebrate the festival. In fact, several times she invited the whole community to her house,” Karima said. “We prayed in and outside her house,” on Milwaukee’s Northside, near North Avenue. “The neighbors had never seen anything like it.”

Over the years, Sr. Hadrat did a lot of cooking and baking for community events and fundraisers, family members agreed. She and her husband Jalil Abdul Hakim helped repair and clean the old school building that became what is today the Islamic Society of Milwaukee and mosque at 13th Street and Layton Avenue. 

Their children also pitched in. In the early days of the ISM, “we were always there, doing whatever needed to be done,” said Karima, recalling her early teen years. Her mother, Sr. Hadrat, led her family and the community by example, she said.

Dedicated to fulfilling her Islamic obligations, at 70, Sr. Hadrat performed the Haj, the required Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca in Saudi Arabia. In 2000, she went on a pilgrimage with a travel group of people, mostly from Chicago.

Auntie Lathita-a servant leader

“Auntie Lathita is the epitome of a servant leader,” Sr. Lathita Ahmad’s great niece and Sr. Hadrat’s granddaughter Hadiyyah Clark told WMJ. (Sr. Lathita is Jalil Abdul Hakim’s sister.)

The Dawah Center has long had a clothing drive to help people in need. Decades ago, Sr. Hadrat’s son Kalim’s wife noticed the white box for clothing donations overflowed and spilled onto the floor. She decided to collect them, wash them and distribute them to community members who would benefit from them. When she died, the clothing drive stopped.

Then Sister Lathita stepped up. “The torch wasn’t passed to Auntie Lathita,” Hadiyyah explained. “She chose to do the work because no one else was doing it. She asked the brothers at the masjid what would be done with the clothes and they responded they would take them to Goodwill or somewhere to donate, she recalled in an interview last week with WMJ. 

“Why?” she asked.

“They keep coming in. We have to take them somewhere,” they responded.

Hadiyyah explained what happened next. “Auntie Lathita said, ‘I will be the Goodwill. And, I’ll be cheaper and give the money to the Dawah Center.’ She took the clothes home and washed them at her own expense. In exchange for clothes, she asked those who could afford it for a small donation, but gave items freely to those who could not. The monetary donations went directly to the Dawah Center Sunday School program.

When she retired from her job as a nursing assistant, Sister Lathita did this work by herself, with occasional help from two of her former co-workers, “two good Christian women who were always kind.” 

Hadrat Hakim, Lathita Ahmad and Karima Hakim stop for a photo after jummah (Friday) prayer at the Milwaukee Islamic Dawah Center.

Sr. Lathita has continued this work into her senior years and her children, Bilal, Raqib, Uthman and Akhira, have stepped up to help, Hadiyyah said.  “She doesn’t think about her legacy. She said, ‘You just do what needs to be done. Giving clothes to people makes you feel good because they need it. It makes them feel good and you as well.’

“She asks Allah to make her children strong in Islam and to be good Muslims,” Hadiyyah added. “She’s showing her children how to do that by being a living example of a true servant leader.”

Sr. Lathita’s daughter Akhira summed up what her mother’s example taught her, saying, “If you’ve got it, you give it. And, you don’t look for it to come back.”

Now, back to the Hakim family story.

Planting roots in Milwaukee

“Our first family members living in Milwaukee would be my parents, Jalil Abdul Hakim and Hadrat Hakim,” Kalim Hakim said. “My father was born in 1923 and my mother in 1928. They were born Muslim and came to Milwaukee as a couple. My father had lived in Texas as a small child and my mother in Mississippi.

“They were ambitious and Milwaukee during the sixties and seventies was very industrial, with a lot of factories and bustling with work. There seemed to be a good work ethic here. They came to Milwaukee to create a better life for themselves.”

“But there were no masajid (mosques) here at all,” Kalim noted. There was the Nation of Islam’s Masjid Sultan Mohammad No. 3 in Milwaukee, but the Hakims followed the path of Sunni Islam.

Jalil Hakim (right) walks behind groom Abdallah Clark during the wedding of Hakim’s daughter Karima at the Kenwood Methodist Church near the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. The church provided Muslims with place to pray on Fridays. 

A handful of Muslims

“Mahmoud Atta and his father were some of our first acquaintances with other Muslims,” Sr. Hadrat said. “Mahmoud came here from Palestine as a boy. He and his dad lived with us for a while.” (The late Mahmoud Atta is the father of Islamic Society of Milwaukee executive director Othman Atta, Muslim Women’s Coalition founder Janan Najeeb, Bayan Salous, wife of Franklin alderman Nabil Salous, and Milwaukee businessman Ihsan Atta.) 

“When Mahmoud was living with us, we would have jummah prayer in our house,” Sr. Hadrat said. “That was before he went back home and married Intisar. I knew him as a teenager going to school; he graduated from West Division.

“Every Friday, we would put a blanket down on the floor in our living room,” Sr. Hadrat recalled. “We had jummah prayer on our living room floor. Mahmoud was our imam. That was the beginning, about 74 years ago,” Sr. Hadrat said.

“I didn’t know any other Muslims except the Attas and our family,” Karima said about her childhood in the sixties and seventies.

“Back then, we had copies of the Quran, but not a lot of translations were available,” said Kalim. “There was not a lot of information about Islam available, period. It was very, very rare to find a copy of any hadith.” There was no internet. We would rely on what we could gather from anyone who had studied.”

A brother in the community, “Khalid Walid, also called ‘Chief,’ was a student of a mufti who studied at Al Azhar in Egypt,” he continued. “So, Khalid Walid learned from this shaykh and he started teaching my father and mother. He was considered the most knowledgeable amongst the group.”

Sr. Hadrat added, “Mahamoud Atta was one of the biggest helpers in the group for teaching Islam.”

Growing and building

What started with two or three families praying at the Hakim’s house grew. And as the community grew, so did the need for a masjid (mosque), a school and other Islamic organizations. 

As the hub of Milwaukee’s early Muslim community, the Hakims worked hard with their fellow Muslims to establish a mosque—starting with a storefront for Friday prayers to space in a church near the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, to the Muslim House, a mansion on 31st and Kilbourn that the community purchased in 1976 as its first masjid. The Hakims and others had worked to raise funds. Legendary basketball star Karim Abdul Jabbar, who played with the Milwaukee Bucks, donated a check for $500. “That was a large donation at the time,” Kalim said.  

The community outgrew the Muslim House and, in the early 1980s, sold it, raised more money and purchased an old school at 13th and Layton, the site of the Islamic Society of Milwaukee-Main. Everyone worked together to make it happen, they said.

“My husband, Jalil Hakim, was one of the real founders of the Muslim House, the Islamic Center and the Dawah Center,” Sr. Hadrat said. 

“He worked really hard for the community during the time of the Muslim House,” Karima added. The Hakims did whatever they could do, they agreed.

The good old days

In the seventies and early eighties, Milwaukee’s Muslim families spent a lot of time together, the Hakims said. During Ramadan, “we used to go to each other’s houses at night,” Sr. Hadrat said. “Every night we’d break fast at a different family’s house. 

“All the sisters would get together at each other’s homes,” Karima said. “They would come to our house and we would go to theirs.”

“We all knew each other because we were always getting together,” Sr. Hadra added.

“Everybody in the community came,” Karima said. “It wasn’t separated by race or ethnic background. Everybody joined in together.

“When all those students came to our house, we had so many different cultural foods, I didn’t even learn how to make American food,” Karima exclaimed. “I was raised amongst so many different cultures, and that was Islam to me.” 

“When we started the Muslim House on Kilbourn, Karima was one of the kids running around everywhere,” Sr. Hadrat recalled. “We had the biggest family, with four sons and two daughters.”

“I was 13 and 14 years old, and we used to go there all the time,” Karima said. “They’d have jummah prayers and martial arts training. A couple of grandmasters would come and train the kids.”

“One of the grandmasters was your brother, Kalim,” Sr. Hadrat noted. 

“Abbas Yassin was the other,” Kalim added.

Once the community moved to the old school at 13th and Layton, “I’d be in the kitchen where I’d bake and bake,” Sr. Hadrat said. “We always had bake sales. We needed to raise money to get curtains and fix the place up.”

“I remember the kitchen,” said Karima. “We got in there and cleaned it up and tried to make it ours.”

“We worked hard in that building,” Sr. Hadrat agreed. “Cleaning and painting, baking and selling by the dozens.”

In the early days, not many Muslim families lived on the northside of Milwaukee who weren’t part of the Nation of Islam. Many Muslim immigrant families lived on the southside near the Islamic Center and some moved to Milwaukee’s Western suburbs. 

Consequently, the Hakim children didn’t find many Muslim children to play with in the city, but it was not a problem, Karima said. “All my life, I went to public schools. Being a Muslim here, everyone looked at me as different because I wore a hijab all my life, I carried myself differently and I just felt different from other kids. My father always told us to ‘Remember who we are.’

“But they were just curious,” she recalled. “There were no hostile feelings, no Islamophobia. I played with the neighborhood kids. There was no hatred of Muslims.”

Even reactions during the Iran hostage crisis in 1979 were short-lived, she said. “I remember I was out walking down the street with my kids (I got married at 16), and someone told me to go back home. I was thinking, you don’t realize my mom is half Native American. But that was the only time I heard that type of hatred until after 9/11.

“I think it’s better now,” she said, “because people began to wonder what this religion is. And more and more people learned about and accepted Islam.

“After I moved to Texas, when I’d visit Milwaukee and stand next to my mom at Friday prayers, or visit the Islamic Center, I was moved by seeing so many Muslims, shoulder to shoulder,” Karima said.

“Sometimes I wonder if they know how all this started.”

(Left to right) Imam Warith Deen Mohammed, Imam Jamil Al-Amin, and Malcolm X

The story of Islam in America is often told in fragments – moments of protest and prayer, of awakening and struggle, of communities finding themselves while trying to be fully seen by a nation that rarely understands them. Within this vast narrative, specific figures stand as defining peaks. Among them, three stand together like milestones marking different terrains of the same journey: Imam Warith Deen (WD) Mohammed, the quiet architect of traditional Sunni Islam in America; Imam Jamil al-Amin, the uncompromising defender of justice for Black America; and Malcolm X, the luminous bridge between the Black struggle and global Islam whose shadow shaped the moral and intellectual contours of the country. 

Comparing their spiritual paths is not to flatten them into simple categories — moderate and militant, reformer and revolutionary, political and spiritual. Instead, it is to understand how Islam in America matured through parallel visions, how contrasting experiences created space for a rich plurality, and how each man’s shared commitments fostered the diverse expressions of Muslim life in America today.

The Architect of Transformation

When WD Mohammed inherited the theologically unorthodox Nation of Islam (NOI) after his father Elijah Muhammad’s death, he also inherited one of the most complex religious and sociopolitical institutions in American history. He stepped into that role not as a firebrand but as a quiet reformer whose vision of Islam was both expansive and deeply rooted in orthodoxy. Unlike Malcolm, whose departure from the Nation created a significant rupture, WD Mohammed chose to transform the movement from within — methodically, gradually, and with a determined grace.

He guided countless African American Muslims into the global Sunni tradition, steering the community away from theological isolation and racial essentialism. Under his leadership, temples became mosques, ministers became imams, and the Quran replaced spurious racial mythology as the primary source of guidance. His tone — calm, studious, reflective — stood in contrast to the confrontational cadence that had defined earlier decades of Black Muslim activism.

Yet his contribution was no less revolutionary. He reimagined Muslim American identity not exclusively as an outpost of resistance, but also as a constructive pathway for national and moral life. WD Mohammed forged interfaith alliances, built educational institutions, and established organizations that legitimized American Islam in the eyes of both policymakers and spiritual religious leaders. Through patience and vision, he turned a community inward toward spiritual growth while guiding it outward toward civic engagement. He believed that Islam could heal America’s fractures not through confrontation, but through moral clarity and community building. His leadership was two steady hands shaping clay into form.

The Firebrand of Moral Resistance

If WD Mohammed was the architect, Imam Jamil al-Amin was the sentinel. Before his conversion to Islam, he was H. Rap Brown, one of the most electrifying voices in America’s Black Power movement. His speeches carried the weight of the cultural revolution; his words had been sharpened by the institutional violence and injustice of the 1960s. The state watched him closely, prosecuted him relentlessly, and pursued him long after his activism matured into disciplined Islamic faith. 

Imam Jamil shed the compromised rhetoric of the past but not its moral clarity. His transformation was not an abandonment of struggle, but rather its purification. He built a new community in Atlanta’s West End brick by brick, establishing a model of Muslim communal life rooted in service, safety, and moral discipline. There, drugs disappeared from street corners, families found stability, and young men found purpose.

Where WD Mohammed emphasized institutional legitimacy, Imam Jamil who passed away in November, emphasized moral sovereignty — communities free of addiction, state dependency, and moral decay. He believed that Islam offered liberation not only from sin but from the structures of oppression that produced it. It was a grassroots revolution, intensely local and yet grounded in global Islamic ethics.

But his fearlessness came with a price. His lifelong surveillance under the Counterintelligence Program (COUNTERPRO) followed him into his Islamic leadership. His controversial conviction in 2002 for the murder of a sheriff’s deputy — despite contradictory evidence and a confession from another man — created an open wound in America’s Muslim community. Many saw him as a political prisoner, a casualty of a justice system still acting out the prejudices of the past. And yet Imam Jamil’s leadership was the leadership of a man who refused to bend. His example taught us that faith requires courage, that justice demands sacrifice, and that spiritual conviction must never be divorced from earthly struggle.

The Bridge Between 

Between WD Mohammed and Jamil al-Amin stood Malcolm X — neither their mirror nor their opposite, but the archetypal leader from which both drew different lessons. Malcolm taught WD Mohammed the necessity of theological reform; he taught Jamil al-Amin the necessity of moral resistance. 

Malcolm’s pilgrimage to Mecca shattered the boundaries of race by deepening his understanding of Islam, opening the door for WD Mohammed’s sweeping reforms. His denunciation of American injustice, sharpened by his unique courage and poetic rage, became the template for Imam Jamil’s moral activism. Where Malcolm searched for a unifying vision, WD Mohammed sought permanence. Where Malcolm confronted the state, Imam Jamil confronted the street. 

Malcolm’s charisma lay in transformation through rhetoric; WD Mohammed’s, in transformation through institution; Imam Jamil’s, in transformation through action. All three believed deeply in Islam’s redemptive power. All three saw Islam as the path to human dignity for African Americans. But their methods reflected different interpretations of the same Quranic command: “Stand firmly for justice, even if it is against yourselves” (Quran 4:135). 

The Strength of American Islam

The differences between these leaders were not signs of fracture but of maturity. Islam in America did not grow through a single voice or unified strategy. It grew through multiplicity — through the soft-spoken reformer, the community builder, the revolutionary, the negotiator, the intellectual, the imam on the corner, and the imam in the hall of Congress. WD Mohammed taught Muslims how to enter American institutions with moral confidence. Imam Jamil taught them how to resist the injustices of those same institutions. Malcolm X taught them how to reclaim identity, dignity, and agency in a country that sought to deny them all three. Together, they created a moral ecosystem, one that nurtured the mind, protected the community, and confronted oppression.

Their Shared Commitment

Despite contrasting styles and divergent paths, one commitment bound these men together: the dignity of Black life. Each refused to accept the racial hierarchy imposed by American society and believed Islam provided a vocabulary of spiritual and racial equality. For these three foundational Muslim American leaders, leadership was not about visibility but accountability to God, to community, and to the truth. 

WD Mohammed left behind institutions, schools, mosques, interfaith councils, and a stable Sunni American Muslim identity. Imam Jamil left behind a generation of street leaders transformed into community protectors, a blueprint for urban Muslim communal life, and an unresolved legal battle that continues to stir the conscience of the faithful even after his death. Malcolm left behind a universal language of dignity that transcended race and faith, animating movements across the globe. Taken together, they offer Muslim Americans — and all Americans — three necessary tools: vision, courage, and truth. Vision without courage becomes abstraction. Courage without vision becomes chaos. Truth without both becomes silence. WD Mohammed provided the vision. Imam Jamil provided the courage. Malcolm provided the voice.

To study these men is to encounter the complexity of Black Muslim leadership — its theological evolution, its political entanglements, its spiritual depths, and its unyielding love for justice. They were not perfect, but they were principled. They were not identical, but each was indispensable. And though their roads diverged, their destination was the same: the creation of a community rooted in God, dignity, truth, and liberation. American Islam stands today on the shoulders of many, but few carried its weight as they did. WD Mohammed, the builder; Jamil al-Amin, the defender; Malcolm X, the awakener. Three men — three legacies — one horizon.

Photos by Sandra Whitehead

Medical College of Wisconsin Professor Aasim I. Padela, M.D., founder and president of the Initiative on Islam and Medicine, discussed Islamic bioethics during a January workshop on end-of-life decisions at the Islamic Society of Milwaukee.

The Islamic Bioethics & End-of-Life Healthcare Decisions workshop had just begun when one of the speakers received a WhatsApp message. Aasim I. Padela, M.D., Professor of Emergency Medicine and Medical Humanities at the Medical College of Wisconsin, and the founder and president of the Initiative on Islam and Medicine, stepped up to the podium. 

“While I was sitting here, I got this on my phone. ‘My brother has been dealing with AML (acute myeloid leukemia), which is an aggressive cancer type, for the last two years,’” he read. “’He’s a medical student and most of us in the family are physicians. We were discussing end-of-life decisions. As a medical family, we are very well-versed in the medical aspects. Basically, AML has a five-year survival rate of 33%. We are having a hard time with trying to understand the Islamic side. He is intubated in the ICU. What should we do?’ 

“I often get texts like this,” Dr. Padela said. “Obviously, they want an Islamic response. Should they keep him on intubation or should they withdraw life support?”

Dr. Padela asked the audience, “Imagine this is your child in the I.C.U., a young person with aspirations to be a doctor, facing an aggressive cancer. What do you do? What does Islam have to say?” He promised to return to this question after providing frameworks for the many aspects one must consider when making decisions about the end of life.

About 50 people attended the four-hour workshop, Islamic Bioethics & End-of-Life Healthcare Decisions, held Jan. 31 at the Islamic Society of Milwaukee. It featured experts with backgrounds in medicine, palliative care, hospice and Islam. Speakers made presentations and led discussions about practical steps, resources and strategies to help Muslims “transition from a state of uncertainty about end-of-life healthcare to thoughtful preparation for it,” a workbook given to participants stated. 

The workbook, Islamic Bioethical Considerations for End-of-Life Healthcare: A Guide for Muslim Americans Navigating End-of-Life Decisions with Islamic Values and U.S. Healthcare Tools, aims to support Muslim Americans as they navigate end-of-life healthcare in a way that honors both Islamic ethics and U.S. laws, it states. Its publication was sponsored by the Initiative on Islam and Medicine, the Muslim Community & Health Center and the Medical College of Wisconsin. For more information about the workshop and workbook, email contact@medicineandislam.org.

At the workshop, Dr. Padela, an Islamic bioethics expert and clinical researcher, addressed Islamic bioethics in end-of-life decisions. Renee Foutz, M.D., a hospice educator and clinician, explained what hospice is and isn’t, clarifying misconceptions and answering questions from the audience. 

A case study review concluded the workshop. A panel of three medical professionals, Padela, Foutz and Ismail Quryshi, M.D., from Froedtert and MCW (who practices hospice and palliative care and internal medicine) used the case study “to bring all the workshop topics from theory to practice,” team member and community academic researcher Laila Azam, Ph.D., M.B.A., told the Wisconsin Muslim Journal.

This article focuses on Dr. Padela’s discussion of Islamic bioethics in end-of-life decisions.

Developing education about Islam and end-of-life decisions

Both the workshop and workbook drew on more than a decade of research, community engagement and Islamic ethical scholarship. Over the past four years, a multidisciplinary team of academics and community leaders in southeastern Wisconsin advanced the research and developed educational materials. The team included representatives from MCW, MCHC, and local and national hospice and palliative care programs. 

Dr. Padela explained: “We brought together experts from different domains, from chaplains to hospice directors, to people like myself bringing Islam and Biomedicine, and members of the Muslim community to create this workshop and other materials like the booklet.”

The goal has been to give Muslim Americans the knowledge and context of end-of-life decisions they will face, as well as resources and guidance to prepare for those decisions, and engage in planning with their families.

Applying Islamic ethics to end-of-life decisions

Dr. Padela’s “entire career has been devoted to exploring both sides of Islamic biomedicine,” he said. “I spent time studying in Cairo, studying sharia and Arabic. I also spent some time as a fellow at the Oxford Center for Islamic Studies, researching issues related to Islamic moral theology, and I continue to spend time with scholars from our tradition, studying various topics privately or in classes to try to get a handle on how we mine our tradition to address issues at the intersection of Islam and biomedicine.”

Dr. Padela also has a B.A. in Classical Arabic & Literature and a B.S. in Biomedical Engineering, both from the University of Rochester, an M.D. from Weill Cornell Medical College, an M.S. degree in Health & Health Care Research from the University of Michigan and experience in multiple fellowships and research positions. 

“A lot of us want to hear an expert explain just what Islam has to say,” he said. “This is not that kind of talk. Our tradition has many different ways of thinking about what is right and good. And medicine is not just the healthcare system,” he explained. “There’s a philosophy and theology to medicine. There is sociology and economics, financial drivers and healthcare policies.

“There’s an entire social science perspective about what’s occurring. You also have to look through social, scientific, biomedical and philosophical lenses. The Fiqh Council of North America, for example, brings experts together from different domains so they can understand the problem correctly and offer new U.S. guidance … about how to prepare for and think about death.” The purpose of this workshop is to help community members begin preparing for decisions about the end of their own lives and those of their loved ones. 

“Islam encourages planning for all stages of life—including our return to Allah,” the workbook says. The workshop and the guide serve as starting points for individuals to explore Islamic teachings and their own wishes regarding death and dying. They “support approaching the end-of-life with peace, understanding and trust in Allah’s mercy.”

About 50 people attended a community education workshop Jan. 31 on Islamic bioethics and end-of-life healthcare decisions.

Preparing for death in America

When we think about a “good death,” we picture ourselves at home, surrounded by comfort from a loving family. “But here in the United States today and in many industrialized countries, what we have is ‘medicalized death.’ The fact is that the majority of people here die in a hospital, sometimes sedated, in sterile environments, surrounded by the beeps and bongs of machines.” 

While people desire to die at home, often they’re not prepared to think of how to get there, he said. The system is set up in a way that makes it easy to end up in a hospital. It requires work on our end to die at home.

“And 80% of deaths in the United States occur where there is some conversation about withdrawing or withholding life support. Do you want to have CPR? Do you want to be DNR (do not resuscitate)? Most Muslims ask religiously, ‘What can we or can we not do?’

“A lot of healthcare resources are spent in the last moments of life,” he observed. “There’s a larger myth in our society that more is better, that new is better. Neither is necessarily the case. More interventions don’t necessarily lead to better health outcomes. New technology doesn’t necessarily mean better. That myth drives people to the healthcare system.

“We can’t just ask ourselves these questions at the last moment,” Dr. Padela said. “That’s why we are having this workshop … I would argue that what we need is to consider what dying well looks like in our tradition and for ourselves, then fit our decisions in that.”

Let’s talk about death

The team surveyed 150 Muslim Americans in Chicago, asking if they had talked with their doctor or loved ones about their end-of-life care decisions. They found the majority of individuals had not even thought about talking with someone else. “They said they were not ready to talk,” Dr. Padela noted. “Why are we passive participants in one of the most important aspects of our life, our death?”

One problem is knowledge gaps about medicine—what is palliative care? What is hospice? What exactly does a “Do Not Resuscitate” order mean? Are these things Islamically approved? How does medicine define death? What is death in Islam?

Another problem is that we don’t talk about the end of life with our families and in our communities.  “We should today unburden our future selves and our loved ones by investing in these conversations, seeking knowledge and understanding,” Dr. Padela said.

Exploring end-of-life decisions now will give us much more than the preparedness for that time in our lives or in the lives of our loved ones, Dr. Padela explained. “That’s because to understand the end of life, we have to have a complete picture of what our life journey is.”

Facing questions in the I.C.U.

Ideally, Muslims will pursue answers to various end-of-life questions long before they must make them, Dr. Padela said. To learn to make the right decisions, he suggested considering the example of the Prophet, hadith and fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence). “To follow the Prophetic example, we have to set our affairs in order because we don’t want to have that baggage when we are facing the Day of Judgment.” Dr. Padela urged the audience to look up the stories about the Prophet as he faced his last days. He asked if he owed anyone anything or any retribution for something he had done, Dr. Padela noted.

In addition to examples from the Prophet’s life, Dr. Padela discussed medical and Islamic definitions of death, and Islamic jurisprudence.

“Now, let’s talk about withholding or withdrawing life support,” Dr. Padela said. In Islam, “healthcare seeking is not mandatory except in cases where it is life-saving … And it is often not the dying individuals themselves who will be making the decisions. It is often family members or physicians. The obligation moves to us.

“So, if a patient is obligated to seek treatment, then we, as their caregivers or physicians, are obligated to provide the treatment they are obligated to take.” An exception is when the treatment is neither lifesaving nor certain to prevent death or harm, he said. 

The decision to withhold or withdraw care becomes complicated when a patient has an advanced directive in which they said they don’t want some lifesaving support. As the surrogate decision-maker, you must decide not only what your loved one wants but also what you can and cannot do.

 He gave the example of a woman who had a tracheostomy and had been attached to a ventilator for a long time. She didn’t want to live that way and asked to be taken off the ventilator when she came down with pneumonia. “But the pneumonia was not going to kill her.” If you were her son, you would have to think about not just what she wanted but what you can do. “Do you want to be a party to sin or not?

He would have to consider not only how she defined the quality of her life but also what Islam requires, Dr. Padela said. In Islam, the goal is not, ‘Can I live independently?’ The goal is to be able to perform good works that will benefit me in the afterlife. Will the medical treatment bring someone back to a state where they can cognitively do things that are of benefit for their afterlife?

 “From the fiqh, when people who are invalids make dua (prayers), their prayers are like the prayers of the angels; you might say they’re experiencing a very poor quality of life. I’m telling you theologically that they are at the level of the angels.”

As the workbook concludes: “For Muslims, caring for a loved one who is nearing death is not just a medical or logistical obligation; it is a deeply spiritual act with plentiful opportunities for service and patience that carries tremendous reward. 

“Providing comfort, maintaining dignity and surrounding a loved one with care and remembrance of Allah can turn a difficult experience into a profound and transformative moment, for both the patient and those who care for them.”

Heightened tastes … Orghum and sweetcorn mixed with mixed nut pastes, garnished with raisins, crushed nuts, honey, and hibiscus sugar chunks. Photograph: Ala kheir

Today starts the first week of Ramadan, and I have the great pleasure of digging into The Sudanese Kitchen by Omer Al Tijani. The war in Sudan has been going on for almost three years now, and Ramadan is a month that arrives with heightened feelings for those fasting in the middle of conflict and displacement. The cookbook, a first-of-its-kind collection of Sudanese recipes, is both a celebration of Sudan and a reminder of all that is at stake.

Food culture on the ground … Sudan’s political story is heavily linked to its gastronomy. Photograph: Mazin Al Rasheed Zein, Manuel Krug, Antonie Robertson

Al Tijani first realised he needed to learn how to make his own Sudanese food while he was a student at the University of Manchester in the early 2010s. The packages of treats his mother prepared never lasted long enough; he grew sick of student food and began looking for recipes, but there were few resources. Over 15 years, his passion for tracing and documenting Sudanese recipes took him all over Sudan, and his work became, as he told me, “bound” in Sudan’s political story. He gathered recipes and food culture on the ground during the revolution that overthrew president Omar al-Bashir, Sudan’s dictator of 30 years.

“As I embarked on the project,” Al Tijani told me, we were “embroiled in the revolution, we drove all over Sudan during fuel cuts, protests, sit-ins. Khartoum itself was teeming with revolutionary spirit.”

What he found is a cuisine that is not uniform, just as Sudan is not.

A diverse country and cuisine

Mix of influences … women prepare dried okra in the yard of a typical Sudanese house. Photograph: Ala kheirSudanese food, Al Tijani tells me, encompasses a colossal range of dishes across a vast country, mixing African and Arab influences. But because Sudan’s political and economic power was centred in Khartoum and the heartlands of the country’s elites, so much of

Sudan’s food is unknown to its own people. The Sudanese Kitchen, he said, is a revelation to both non-Sudanese and Sudanese people. He himself was astonished to find that mushrooms were grown in parts of Sudan, and that they were cooked in a dish called “chicken stew without bones”. (I tell him that I was similarly astonished that “gurasa”, a thick salty pancake that was a staple in our household, was not something everyone else consumed. It was like hearing that others didn’t eat toast.)

Perusing the book is an experience of meeting the country, so diligently has Al Tijani traced recipes to regions and topographies. But there is an inescapable sense of loss that hovers over the whole endeavour. One made even more poignant by all the imagery of homes, yards, and mothers and grandmothers at their stoves. For so many, life is either suspended or erased due to a war that has led Sudan to experience the largest displacement and hunger crisis in the world.

Food in the long shadow of war

Relics of joy … a man making agashe, a grilled meat dish, in El Obeid, central Sudan. Photograph: Ala kheir

If The Sudanese Kitchen had come out before the war, it would have inspired a very different response. Today, it feels like something much more fraught and inflected with trauma. “It hit a nerve with many people,” Al Tijani said. “Many were emotional at the launch – it was the first time the country came back to them, it was alive again, it was well again, it was full of joy. It inspired a visceral reaction.”

Now, Sudanese food is simply no longer the thing that you enjoy in peace, even if you are not in the conflict zone. It is a reminder, an artefact, a relic, even a symbol. I was reminded of meeting a friend for dinner in Nairobi, a city that is now the home of many Sudanese refugees, and seeing a drink on the menu named after the iconic Sudanese female warriors of the past, the “kandakas”. “Once your culture becomes a cocktail,” my friend said, “you know your country is in trouble.”

Food now, Al Tijani said, is “not just dinner” but something you are experiencing in a new way that is hard to process, outside home and context. This feeling is even heavier during Ramadan. Al Tijani described the aura around Ramadan in Sudan: how hyper-domestic it is, how swirlingly social. Sudanese food has little street or casual cafe-friendly features. Heavy in long-stewed meat dishes; hand-processed and cut leaves and spices; fermented, hand-spun savoury crepes and pancakes; it’s not a cuisine you are grabbing in the street. It’s something you go home for.

The aura of home … mullah tagalia is a dish of ground beef and ground okra in a rich tomato sauce. Photograph: Ala kheir

Even before Ramadan starts, the streets are full of caramelised and dried ingredients for juices and stews. “The few days at the start of Ramadan are a culinary climax. People are way more open in Sudan during Ramadan,” Al Tijani said – houses open up, and invitations are extended. “The whole preparation takes weeks. Your house looks different, it feels different. Different people are in it because you can’t prepare for Ramadan on your own. So you’ll find women going from one house to another.”

There’s a whole social formation and opening up of domestic spaces that makes the sense of loss of those spaces even more painful. is right – Ramadan used to feel like a wedding. On top of that, I think, there is the heightened taste of the food itself, consumed after a long fast, that forges a love and passion for its richness. Breaking the fast with a hot, salty, lemony broth of peanut paste, for example, is – no pun intended – a religious experience.

Keeping Sudan on the map

Made with love … Omer Al Tijani making kunafa malfufa pastry on a hotplate. Photograph: Ala kheir

With food, though, Al Tijani said, there is an element of keeping something alive. We are all renegotiating our relationship with an identity that is still very much alive, and a country that is being destroyed. “Ever since the war, I have felt even more of a calling to make it a mission of mine,” he said of getting information about Sudan out to as many people as possible.

“For me, this book is my form of resistance. The one way that I can put Sudan on the map to counter destructive narratives, to tell Sudan’s story. It’s the opposite of erasure; these are fixed things. We lived in these houses, we cooked these ingredients, we used these utensils – this is how we constructed our lives.

A sand sculpture bearing the message ‘Welcome, Ramadan’ stands along a Khan Younis beach on the eve of the Muslim holy month. The artwork was created by Yazeed Abu Jarad, a Palestinian artist who fled his home in Beit Lahiya, northern Gaza Strip, in the ongoing war [Bashar Taleb/AFP]

Palestinians in Gaza are entering Ramadan with heavy hearts, as the Muslim holy month’s traditional festivities give way to grief and survival concerns during a fragile “ceasefire” that Israel violates on a daily basis.

“There is no joy after we lost our family and loved ones,” said Gaza City resident Fedaa Ayyad. “Even if we try to cope with the situation, we can’t truly feel it in our hearts … I am one of those who cannot feel the atmosphere of Ramadan.”

Ramadan began on Wednesday in Gaza, typically a period when Muslims fast from dawn to sunset while embracing family gatherings, spiritual devotion, contemplation, and generosity.

The reality in Gaza, however, is grim. Israel’s genocidal war has killed at least 72,061 people and wounded 171,715 since October 2023, according to the Ministry of Health. It has also shattered infrastructure and displaced the majority of the population. Financial hardship dominated conversations in markets this week.

“There is no cash among the people. There is no work. It is indeed Ramadan, but Ramadan requires money,” said Gaza City resident Waleed Zaqzouq, calling on merchants to recognise people’s economic struggles.

“Before the war, people lived a dignified life,” he added. “The situation has completely changed in the war, meaning people have been devastated and worn down.”

Harsh winter conditions have intensified suffering, with extreme cold killing children, and torrential rains flooding displacement camps and collapsing damaged buildings.

“There is much that has changed from this Ramadan to Ramadan before the war,” reflected Raed Koheel from Gaza City. “In the past, the atmosphere was more delightful. The streets were lit up with decorations. All streets had decorations. Our children were happy.”

Nevertheless, amid the overwhelming destruction, some Palestinians endeavour to maintain Ramadan traditions. In Khan Younis, calligrapher Hani Dahman painted “Welcome, Ramadan” in Arabic among the ruins as children looked on.

“We are here in Khan Younis camp, trying to bring happiness to the hearts of children, women, men and entire families,” Dahman said. “We are … sending a message to the world that we are people who seek life.”

Decorative Ramadan lights now hang among the debris. Mohammed Taniri, witnessing these efforts, observed: “When they provide such beautiful, simple decorations, it brings joy to the children. Despite all the hardships, they are trying to create a beautiful atmosphere.”

Muslim worshippers perform evening Tarawih prayer on the first night of the holy fasting month of Ramadan at the Great Omari Mosque, which was damaged during the Israel’s war on Gaza, in Gaza City. [Abdel Kareem Hana/AP Photo]

Palestinians hang decorations beside the rubble of destroyed homes as they prepare for the holy month of Ramadan in Khan Younis, southern Gaza Strip. [Abdel Kareem Hana/AP Photo]

A Palestinian vendor sells food in a market before the holy month of Ramadan in Gaza City. [Mohammed Saber/EPA]

Palestinians displaced during the two-year Israeli offensive wait to fill water containers in Gaza City. [Dawoud Abu Alkas/Reuters]

Palestinians displaced during the two-year Israeli offensive wait to fill water containers in Gaza City. [Dawoud Abu Alkas/Reuters]

Under the “ceasefire” deal between Israel and Hamas that came into effect in early October, at least 600 aid trucks were supposed to enter the Strip each day. However, the actual number allowed in by Israel is far less. [Abdel Kareem Hana/AP Photo]

In addition, there are daily violations by Israel. Attacks on the war-devastated enclave have continued nearly daily since the “ceasefire” began, killing more than 600 Palestinians. [Mahmoud Issa/Reuters]

Palestinians celebrate the start of the holy fasting month of Ramadan in Gaza City. [Jehad Alshrafi/AP Photo]

Families that once had full tables during Ramadan before the war, more than two years ago, now organise their fasting day around aid distribution schedules. Many rely on soup kitchens as Israel refuses to allow in more aid and basic supplies to Gaza. [Dawoud Abu Alkas/Reuters]