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Fire!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weili caught my arm. “Arslan!”

I jerked away from her.

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

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

Inferno

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

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

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

“Arslan!” There was no answer.

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

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

“Wake up!”

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

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

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

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

Containment Operation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men obeyed.

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

“Darius!”

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head. “No, Captain.”

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

“Yes, Captain!”

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

“Yes, Captain!”

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

Men scattered.

Rays of Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yusuf returned to me. “Open your mouth.”

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

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

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

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

Three In a Row

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They need treatment now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interrogation

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

He pointed at Arslan. “You. Speak.”

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

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

“Why was there a lamp in the wagon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir?”

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

My eyes widened. I was cooked.

“Have you seen this before?”

I looked down and chewed on my lip.

“Veteran Guard Lee?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

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

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

Get My Whip

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

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

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

And tonight we had lost another wagon for nothing.

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

“Go on with your story,” Karim said.

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

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

“All guards, form a circle.”

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

Unrequited Love

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

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

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

“I find all three of you culpable.”

My stomach dropped.

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

Arslan opened his mouth.

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

She bowed her head, weeping silently.

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

I met his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused.

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

For some reason, that hurt even more.

The Choice

Karim stepped back to take in all three of us.

“I offer each of you the same choice.”

He lifted the bullwhip.

“Exile, or twenty lashes.”

A murmur went through the circle and died almost immediately.

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

His gaze passed slowly over us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I love you!”

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

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

Karim looked unsettled. “Are you sure you -”

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

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

The captain turned to me. “Darius?”

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

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

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

The Decision

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

He stopped before me. “Stand up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captain!” Hakim Yusuf shouted.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, Captain.”

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

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

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

“Captain,” Meilin said.

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

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

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

The Whipping

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karim shouted, “One!”

The whip cracked, and pain exploded across my back.

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

“Two!”

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

“Three!”

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

“Four!”

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

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

“Five!”

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

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

“Six!” And a vicious crack.

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

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

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

“Seven!”

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Related:

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

Gravedigger: A Short Story

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

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

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

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

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

Summer of Hate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Related:

Muslim’s Guide to Debt and Money Management Part 1

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

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

The post [Podcast] Will Your Credit Card Send You To Hell? | New Series appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16  | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22

* * *

Moving Backward

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

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

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

“Where is it then?”

“Under my belly fat.”

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

Ode to the Dead

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

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

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

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

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

“Memdooh?”

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

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

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

But Memdooh had fallen asleep, and did not reply.

Critical Condition

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” he said, “the hero awakens.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

“My horse.”

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

I moaned in pain. “Will I live?”

“Probably.”

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

An Imaginary Fish

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

“Your throw is terrible,” Haaris declared.

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t Tell

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

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

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

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

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

“None of that is true.”

“No?”

“And you? What do you say?”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Get out,” I said.

“Okay, but -”

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

Too Weak to Walk

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

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

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

I groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t fight fifty Afghans.”

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

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

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

“Put me down.”

“No.”

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

Beautiful Fool

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t have any apples.”

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

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

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

“We buried them this morning,” Shah said.

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

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

I felt ridiculous, being carried into this group.

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

“Choose your words wisely,” Ahmed said.

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

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

“How is she?”

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

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

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

“Five Star guards!” he called.

Men straightened instinctively.

“Fall in!”

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

Timur

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

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

“Brother Ahmed. Front and center.”

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

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

He paused, looking past us toward the graves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A murmur of assent passed through the ranks.

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

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

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

“Allah Himself tells us in the Quran:

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

He swept his unwavering gaze across the assembled group.

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

* * *

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

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

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

Captain of Guards

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not. The captain fell silent.

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

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

Front and Center

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

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

“Darius Lee. Front and center.”

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

“Stop calling me that.”

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

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

He paused, looking directly into my eyes.

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

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

“I promote you to Veteran Guard.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think he should be promoted to veteran poet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holding Back

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

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

“What about Longwei?”

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

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

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

I remembered Meilin telling me something similar after our duel.

“Is that a bad thing?”

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

With a pat on my shoulder, he departed.

A Night Like Deep River

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

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

The bucket sat beside my bedroll.

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

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

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

The camp was silent.

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

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

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

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

A Flicker of Light

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

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

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

My stomach tightened.

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

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

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

My jaw dropped.

Permission to Burn

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

For several seconds, I simply stared.

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

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

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

I looked around at the mountain of cloth surrounding us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Come back next week for Part 24 – The Whipping

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

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

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

Related:

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

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

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

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

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

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

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

The (Still) Salafi (Formerly) Feminist Tells All

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

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

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

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

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

What Is Feminism?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s So Bad About Feminism?

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

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

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

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

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

The Trauma to Feminism Pipeline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Victims of Modernity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not the Intersectionality We’re Looking For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the Streets to the Ivory Towers

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

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

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

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

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

References

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Related:

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The post Muslims and the F-Word: Feminism, Dhulm, and Jahiliyyah appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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* * *

Empty Eyes

The pass had narrowed until our caravan stretched into a long column that wound like a great river snake along the curving mountain road. The air was thin and bitingly cold. Longwei, Meilin and I were stationed near the rear of the caravan, beside wagon forty out of fifty. Longwei rode ahead of me, his weathered face grim beneath his fur cap. Meilin was behind, one hand resting near the hilt of her dao, her eyes roaming constantly over the cliffs above.

The front of the caravan was completely out of sight, far ahead and around a bend. Jagged cliffs hemmed us in on both sides, their gray faces pocked with caves and dark fissures that seemed to watch us like empty eyes. We carried our own scents with us: mule sweat, leather, and horse dung.

There was no calling of crows or hawks, no bleating of mountain goats, no adhaan or cooking smoke echoing up the mountainside from a distant village. The world was silent but for the hoofbeats and creaking wagon wheels of our caravan.

It wasn’t only me who was unsettled. Conversations had lapsed. No laughter sounded. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the caves, as if hordes of demons might pour forth at any moment. Riding easily on Belly’s back – he and I were like one creature at this point, we knew each other so well – I rubbed my hands together vigorously to warm them.

To break the tension, I quietly recited my favorite of Memdooh’s stanzas:

I ride from a northern land
curved sword in my hand.
I’m young but I’m hard
for I’m a caravan guard!

Belly flicked his ears, appreciating the enthusiasm in my voice. Heck, he probably knew the stanza himself by now.

“Boy,” Meilin hissed, “if you recite that poem one more time, you and I will duel again. And I won’t go easy this time.”

I chuckled at this. She’d dislocated my finger and bruised me from head to toe last time, and that was going easy?

Sergeant Karim came toward us, riding slowly along the length of the caravan, studying the heights instead of the road ahead. A brass signal horn hung around his neck, and his face was grim. Every so often he would point with two fingers.

“You. Tighten your helmet.”

“You, fasten that chin strap.”

“Shield on your arm, not your saddle.”

The guards obeyed without question. Men checked sword belts, adjusted bowstrings and settled helmets more firmly upon their heads. One teamster began humming nervously to himself until Karim silenced him with a glance.

“Keep your eyes open,” Karim called. “No one wanders. Stay with your wagons. If the horn sounds, you know your positions.” He continued toward the rear of the caravan.

The merchants instinctively drew closer to their teams. Guards loosened swords in their scabbards and rested their hands upon bow grips. Even the horses seemed to sense the tension. Ears flicked back and forth, nostrils flared, and more than one animal tossed its head uneasily.

Belly gave a low nicker. I reached forward and rubbed his neck. “I know, buddy. We’ll keep each other safe, like we always do.”

“Belly talking to you again?” Meilin asked. “Maybe you can get a bird to scout for us, like Prophet Sulaiman.”

A little later Karim returned from the rear.

The Tea House

“Care for a cup of tea, Sarge?” Meilin joked. This was a reference to the wagon we were guarding, which we colloquially called the Tea House, because it carried a small quantity of jade, several chests of silk and paper, and a great many crates of tea. Riding alongside, the scent of the tea drifted toward me, sweet and pleasant, strangely comforting amid so much unease.

He grinned, knowing that Meilin’s joke did not take away from her attention to her duty. “I’m holding out for Persian chai,” he replied softly. “They make it with saffron, rose and cardamom. No more talking. Listen for my horn.” A moment later, he was gone, moving forward.

The Tea House was pulled by four mules in tandem, two lead mules and two wheel mules nearest the wagon. The wheel pair supplied most of the braking and steering, while the lead pair provided the extra pulling power needed on steep grades. I had learned all of this on the journey, mostly from Longwei, who seemed to know something about almost everything.

I rode up beside the driver’s bench.

“Cover yourselves with the heavy blankets,” I told the driver and his young apprentice. “And keep a firm hold on the reins. Something’s coming.” I couldn’t have said how I knew this, but I was sure of it. I was discovering that I had good instincts for this kind of thing. My father’s training, perhaps.

The drivers glanced uneasily at the cliffs, then reached beneath the bench and spread thick wool blankets across their shoulders.

As for the two merchants responsible for the Tea House goods, they sometimes rode on horseback alongside their wagon, but today they had chosen to remain inside. Hearing my warning, they hurriedly pulled heavy quilts over themselves and crouched low among the cargo.

I fell back into position. I pushed my helmet more firmly onto my head, tightened the chin strap, and rested one hand on the hilt of my dao. My eyes searched the caves above while my other hand absently rubbed Belly’s neck.

“Steady, boy,” I murmured, and he flicked an ear in acknowledgment.

Cattle Horn

From somewhere far forward and above us came a high-pitched trumpeting sound. It was definitely not Sergeant Karim’s brass horn.

“What is that?” I called out to Longwei.

He glanced back at me. “Cattle horn. Not ours. Something’s happening.”

From the front of the caravan, a horse screamed. The sound was faint but unmistakable.

Now Karim’s horn did sound. One long blast, and one short. The signal for “attack at the front of the caravan.” From behind and around me, guards spurred their horses into a gallop, surging forward. I gave Belly a little kick with my heels as well, but instead of quickening the pace, he stopped dead.

I groaned. “Not now, Belly, please.”

“Darius,” Meilin snapped. “What are you doing? Let’s go.”

I knew that kicking Belly harder would not produce results. Instead I leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Then I froze and cocked my head.

“Wait!” I called out to Longwei and Meilin. Memdooh was riding past, and he paused as well. They circled back to me. Meilin’s face was flushed with excitement, Memdooh’s with what was likely fear, and Longwei looked entirely unfazed.

“What is it?” Longwei demanded. “You heard the signal. Get your damn horse to move.”

“It’s not that. I heard something from the rear. I think they might hit us there.”

Longwei glanced to the rear. There were no guards remaining back there except the six who formed a permanent rear guard, headed by Corporal Jian.

“I see nothing,” he said, but his tone held a note of doubt. “Jian carries a horn as well, he can signal if anything happens.”

I looked up sharply toward the caves at the rear of the caravan. “There it is again.” A cold knot formed in my stomach.

“What?”

“A rock falling.”

Longwei glanced irritably at the cliffs. “We’re in a mountain pass, Darius. Rocks fall. And I didn’t hear anything.”

“Neither did I,” Meilin admitted.

“My hearing is better than yours,” I said quietly.

The sound of fierce fighting drifted to us from the front of the caravan.

“It sounds bad up there!” Memdooh exclaimed. His voice held a note of panic. “We have to get up there or we’ll be whipped for dereliction.”

“I’m telling you,” I said, “an attack is coming at the rear. Those six men will be overrun. And what about the Happy Wagon? Gulnur is alone and defenseless.”

The third wagon from the rear was Kuangren and Gulnur’s matrimonial wagon. Some of the guards had painted flowers on it, and we had come to call it the Happy Wagon. Gulnur had fallen ill to some kind of flu, and was asleep back there. I knew these things because it was my job to know. All of us knew the status and contents of every wagon in our sector.

“How can you know that?” Longwei’s tone was irritated and angry.

“My gut.”

Meilin studied the cliffs above the rear of the caravan. The wind tugged at her hair. Somewhere up front, another scream echoed off the mountains. Finally, she nodded. “I trust the kid. Besides, there are plenty of guards up front. What if something does kick off back here?”

Longwei stared at her for a moment, then muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Wonderful,” he said. “We’ll all be whipped together.”

Rear Attack

Without another word, the four of us turned our horses and started toward the rear. We had not gone fifty paces when another cow horn bellowed from behind the caravan, loud and terrible, echoing through the pass.

Longwei stopped so abruptly that his horse reared. “Damn,” he growled. “The kid was right.”

“Heaven preserve us,” Meilin whispered.

The attack came all at once. Volleys of arrows poured forth from the small caves in the cliff. Corporal Jian toppled from his saddle without a sound. A mule shrieked and collapsed in the road, shafts protruding from its neck.

“Darius,” Longwei said softly, “remind me never to doubt your ears again.”

Men boiled out of the caves like soldier ants. They came on foot with wild cries, bounding like goats down the steep slope, wielding either short lances, or short, curved swords that looked much like my dao.

The four of us charged into the storm.

Three of the rear guards were down now. One of the surviving guards was struggling to free his leg from beneath his fallen mount while the other two fought desperately beside the last wagons.

The attackers numbered at least fifty. They scrambled down the slope in loose groups, shouting in a language I did not understand. Even in the midst of battle, I found myself struck by their appearance. The Afghan men were handsome – tall and lean, with high cheekbones and fierce eyes of blue, green, and amber. Their clothes were patched and faded, their boots worn nearly through. There was something hard and weathered about them, as if the mountains themselves had carved them into what they were.

At the rear of the attackers stood a middle-aged man with streaks of gray in his beard, shouting orders and pointing with his sword. Beside him loomed two enormous bodyguards carrying axes.

As we passed the Happy Wagon, Kuangren and Gulnur both stepped out. I’d thought Kuangren was on duty, but he must have been looking after his wife. He looked ridiculous in a nightshirt with no trousers and leather slippers, yet carried his bow and a fat quiver of arrows. His wife wore a long robe, and despite her pale, sweaty face, she too carried her bow.

From somewhere, Shah appeared. He was a big guard, tall and powerful, with bulging, muscular arms that threatened to tear his sleeves open. He carried a giant broadsword and could bash a man’s skull in even with the flat of the blade. I was happy to see him.

Orders

Longwei took one look at the battlefield. “Wedge formation!” he roared. “Straight through the center! Break them apart!”

My eyes roamed quickly over the battlefield, and I shouted, “No!”

Longwei wheeled toward me, astonished.

“What?”

“Kuangren! Gulnur!” I pointed at the gray-haired elder at the back. “Target the leader! Longwei, Meilin, flank them! Longwei, go right, Meilin, left. Kill the bodyguards, then attack from the rear. Memdooh, find high ground and empty your quiver. Check your lines of sight, don’t hit our men. Shah, you’re with me. We’re going up the middle. I need to get to Jian’s horn.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Longwei stared as if I had lost my mind. “Boy, know your place,” he growled.

Meilin looked from me to the Afghan commander and then back again. “Do as Darius commands!” she shouted. “You have your orders!”

Longwei looked like he’d been stabbed in the back. His eyes darted from Meilin to me, and I saw rage there. But he did not argue. He and Meilin rode in opposite directions, evading the oncoming force, and moving fast.

Trusting the men to do as I’d ordered, I plunged into the battle with Shah at my side. We had a huge advantage because we were mounted and the Afghans were not. Belly was steadfast, obeying the slightest pressure from my knees, and sometimes moving exactly where he needed to without prompting. We were surrounded by the deafening tumult of battle, but for all Belly cared, the noise might as well have been the sighing of the wind through a stand of eucalyptus trees.

Beside me, Shah cut men down as easily as a gardener might prune a thorny tree. He wasn’t even breathing hard, and I heard him chanting, “SubhanAllah wa bihamdihi, SubhanAllah wa bihamdihi, SubhanAllah wa bihamdihi.”

Two Shorts and One Long

A burly, middle-aged Afghan with a tangled beard like a juniper bush swung an axe at my midsection. Axes were much harder to block or parry than swords, and I didn’t try. I pulled Belly back just enough to let the axe swing by, missing me by the width of a pinky finger, then leaned forward and put my dao into his throat. I kicked him off the weapon, slipped an upward jab by a gangly youth of twenty or so, and lopped off his arm.

Corporal Jian lay before me. An arrow had pierced his chest. His black eyes stared blankly upward. He’d dropped the brass horn, and his outflung hand stretched toward it, as if he had been about to blow it when he fell, and had been reaching for it until the moment of his death.

I dismounted and closed Jian’s eyes.  Then I lifted the horn, raised it to my lips and blew two short blasts and one long. The signal for “attack at the rear of the caravan.”

For just an instant, the fighting seemed to pause all around me, like a dragon taking in a deep breath before blowing fire. Some of the Afghans uttered what could only have been curses. Then the dragon blew, and the fighting resumed.

Unfortunately I’d drawn attention to myself. A half dozen arrows winged my way. I dropped to the ground, snatched up a fallen shield and covered my head and neck. Most of the arrows missed. One bounced off the shield. But one pierced my left calf. I cried out in pain but there was no time to worry about it. A shadow loomed behind me and I turned a split second too late as a big Afghan came charging at me with a lance in one hand and a sword in the other. An instant before he reached me, an arrow entered his neck, and he crashed to the ground beside me. I looked around and saw Memdooh, standing atop a boulder, another arrow already nocked into his bow. He was pale and clearly terrified, but he grinned at me, and I grinned back. He’d saved my life.

Again, just to be sure, I raised the horn. This time I took a deep breath and blew as hard as I could. Two short, one long. Then I hung the horn around my neck, leaped back onto Belly’s back, lifted my dao and plunged into the fight.

A Belly Bite

A hand seized my boot and yanked.

I pitched sideways in the saddle, suddenly looking down into the furious face of a blue-eyed Afghan who was trying to drag me to the ground. I twisted, bringing my dao around, but before I could strike, Belly wheeled sharply and sank his teeth into the man’s shoulder.

The Afghan screamed. Belly shook him once, violently, like a dog worrying a rat, then flung him backward.

“Good boy!” I shouted. “You gave him a Belly bite!”

Belly pinned his ears and surged forward, apparently outraged that anyone had tried to steal his rider.

Men came at me from every direction. I did not kill everyone I faced. A man thrust a lance at me, and I parried the lance and slid my dao up the shaft to his hand, slicing his hand neatly in two. He screamed and dropped the lance as blood fountained from the hand. But he would live. I parried a sword stroke, slashed the attacker across the chest, then ducked as a lance passed over my head. An arrow whispered past my face, and I felt a hot sting along my cheek, followed by sudden wetness. When I touched my face, my fingers came away bloody. The arrow had only grazed me. But there was no time to be relieved.

My Muslim Brother

A young Afghan came through the press directly toward me. He was perhaps twenty years old, tall and lean, with fierce hazel eyes beneath a dark turban. His cheeks were sharp, his beard only beginning to fill in. He raised his curved sword to strike and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

Simultaneously, I lifted my dao to block and cried the same words: “Allahu Akbar!”

I froze.

Of course I knew the Afghans were Muslims. I had heard the adhaan in their villages. I had prayed beside them, eaten their bread and listened to their imams recite Quran. Yet until that moment, the men attacking us had existed in my mind only as raiders.

This man is my brother, I thought. My Muslim brother. The thought hit me like a stone from a catapult. He was a young man who performed his salat just as I did. Who bowed toward the same qiblah. Who perhaps had a mother waiting for him in one of these mountain villages, or a wife who had packed food into his satchel before he left.

Panic rose in my throat like bile. How could I kill him? A hadith of the Prophet, one I had learned from Ahmed, rang in my mind: “Insulting a Muslim is wickedness, and fighting him is kufr.”

Kufr! I could not fight this man. I could not kill these people. The young man lunged at my midsection. I barely twisted aside in time. His blade passed so close that it scraped the leather of my belt.

“Wait!” I shouted, but he paid no attention. “As-salamu alaykum!” I tried. Yet the man brought his sword down toward my head. I raised my dao into an umbrella block. Steel crashed against steel above my head, the impact jolting through my shoulders.

I did not counter. I could not bring myself to. My eyes darted from side to side, searching for some route of escape. Men fought all around us. Horses screamed. Dust filled the air. There was nowhere to go.

Was there a chance the man spoke Uzbek? “Aka!” I cried. The Uzbek word for brother. Yet the Afghan attacked again, anger and confusion in his hazel eyes. Perhaps he could not understand why I refused to strike. His sword swept toward my ribs.

I leaned away and parried late. The edge sliced through my coat without touching flesh.

He recovered instantly and raised the weapon for another blow.

I had no choice. Sooner or later one of his blows would get through. I feinted toward his head. When he lifted his sword to meet the false attack, I changed direction and drove the point of my dao into his chest.

His eyes widened.

For one terrible moment we stared at each other. The man’s mouth opened, but only a wet breath escaped. Then his sword fell from his hand, and he collapsed beneath Belly’s hooves.

Tears spilled from my eyes. If the man did indeed have a wife waiting for him back home, she would find only bitterness returning. Why had he made me do that? I wanted to climb down, kneel beside him and somehow undo what I had done. But even at my young age I knew that death is the one thing that cannot be undone. You can apologize to a man for insulting him. You can make restitution for hurting him. But death is a road that enters a dark cave and disappears from view. When you kill a man, you take away everything he will ever have.

The Retreat

Life, on the other hand, is a sea that at times lifts you up, and at other times crashes down upon you, and you either swim or drown. Another Afghan rushed me, and I cut his belly open. He might survive with help. A second came from my left, and I struck him across the temple with the guard of my dao, knocking him out. A third threw his axe at me, and I ducked it. It was as if half of the attacking force had suddenly decided that I was the main obstacle between them and success. Another man swung a sword at my leg. I blocked it and sliced upward. He leaned back but the tip of my sword caught his chin, cleaving it in two.

As quickly as the wave slammed into me, it receded. The fighting had become scattered. The Afghans were no longer advancing. A few continued to press, while others glanced behind them or began backing toward the caves.

“The commander is dead!” Longwei shouted. “Their commander is dead!”

I looked toward the rear of their force. Longwei and Meilin stood near the gray-bearded leader’s body. One of the hulking guards lay facedown nearby, an axe still gripped in one hand. The other was sprawled on his back with Meilin’s dao buried in his chest. As I watched, she put a foot on his chest and pulled it out.

A shudder seemed to pass through the attackers. Then they broke and ran.

Some fled up the slope toward the caves. Others ran down the road or leaped among the boulders, abandoning weapons and wounded comrades. The surviving guards cried out in triumph and started after them.

A Wagon

“They have a wagon!” someone shouted.

I turned.

A narrow trail branched from the main road behind the last wagon, descending steeply between two walls of stone. I had not noticed it before. Four horses were pulling one of our covered wagons down the trail at a reckless pace, the wheels bucking and bouncing over the uneven ground. Afghan men ran beside it, perhaps twenty of them, pushing at the rear and clinging to its sides.

The trail led directly toward the mouth of a great cave.

For a heartbeat I could only stare.

Then I looked around me, trying to understand what remained of the battle.

Perhaps thirty Afghans lay dead or wounded along the road and among the rocks. I was personally responsible for maybe ten of them. Several of our own guards were down as well. Longwei and Meilin – both breathing heavily, their clothing streaked with blood – stood over the bodies of the commander and his bodyguards. One side of Longwei’s face was purple with bruises. Meilin’s hair had come loose, one sleeve had been torn away, and one arm hung uselessly at her side, probably broken.

Memdooh lay curled beside the boulder from which he had been shooting. He clutched one leg while moaning through gritted teeth. A short sword lay near his hand, its blade red. He had fought even after he ran out of arrows. He had held his ground.

Gulnur lay on the ground beside the Happy Wagon.

Kuangren knelt over his wife in his nightshirt and slippers, his bow forgotten in the dust. He had gathered her into his arms and was rocking her, pressing his face against her hair. I could not tell whether she was conscious. Her robe was stained with blood.

Shah alone appeared untouched. The giant stood amid the bodies with his enormous sword resting against one shoulder, breathing as calmly as if he had merely finished chopping wood.

What to Do?

Men were looking at me. I still wore Corporal Jian’s horn around my neck. I had given the orders. Now the rear guards, the merchants, even some of the teamsters watched me, waiting to be told what to do next.

I had no idea.

Should we pursue the wagon? Tend the wounded? Secure the remaining wagons? Send men into the caves? The enemy was fleeing, but they might be drawing us into another ambush. Memdooh needed help. Gulnur might be dying. The surviving Afghans could regroup at any moment.

My thoughts collided uselessly in my head.

Then hoofbeats thundered up the pass. Sergeant Karim came charging around the bend at the head of a mass of mounted guards. Among them was Weili, her bow at the ready. Dust rolled behind them like smoke. Karim’s sword was red with blood, his armor dented, and the brass horn bounced against his chest as he rode.

Relief flooded through me so strongly that my knees nearly gave way.

River Flow

The sergeant reined in so hard that his horse skidded sideways in the dust. He took in the scene in a single sweep: the dead Afghans scattered across the road, Longwei and Meilin standing over the bodies of the commander and his guards, the wagon careening toward the cave, the horn hanging from my neck, and the men looking to me for orders.

His gaze settled on me.

“Recommendation?”

For a moment, I simply stared at him. My left calf felt as though someone had thrust a hot poker into it and left it there. Blood soaked my boot. My cheek burned where the arrow had grazed me. The world tilted strangely, and I swayed in the saddle.

Recommendation? Was he insane? I was sixteen years old. Half the men around us had gray in their beards. Sergeant Karim himself had fought in a dozen battles before I’d ever picked up a sword. Why was he asking me?

Then something happened inside me. The panic and pain vanished, and everything slowed. The screams, the dust, the clashing steel, the cries of the wounded – all of it receded into the distance. My mind became perfectly still, as clear as a summer sky. For the first time that day, I fell into River Flow.

From my perch atop Belly’s back, I pointed with my dao.

“Archers! Target the men running beside the wagon, not the horses! Weili, take the driver! Someone find Arslan! Get him here now!” Yes, I knew Arslan was a man with a problem. And he’d seduced Weili away from me. But he was the only man capable of bringing the wagon driver down at long range, and that was all that mattered.

“Shah and I will pursue the wagon,” Longwei called.

I turned to Karim. “I don’t know if you want that.”

“Do you want that?”

Entrusting me with such decisions was ridiculous, but – still in River Flow – I went with it.

“No pursuit!” I shouted. “Archers only. No one leaves the road.”

Karim nodded once, as if everything I had said were entirely reasonable. “Move!” he roared.

The surviving archers hurried into position. Memdooh, still lying beside the boulder, struggled upright and reached for his bow with trembling hands. I grinned fiercely at that. Courage was not a battle-hardened warrior who killed without emotion. Courage was this wounded young man, climbing to his feet to carry out his commander’s wishes. He might not be much of a poet, but he had the heart of a lion. Allah protect and preserve him.

Weili vaulted onto a rock overlooking the trail and drew an arrow from her quiver.

The wagon was perhaps two hundred paces from the cave.

Their Dirty Secret

“Loose!” Karim shouted.

Arrows hissed through the air. One of the Afghans running beside the wagon spun and collapsed. Another pitched forward beneath the wheels. A third cried out and clutched his thigh. But the others kept running, pushing at the wagon and shouting to one another. Weili, tasked with shooting the driver, missed, her shot going wide. It should have been an easy shot. I’d seen her shoot better on her worst day.

“Again!” I shouted. “Fire at will!”

A second volley flew, and a third. Another three men fell. The driver still sat hunched on the bench, lashing the horses onward.

Weili drew, exhaled, and released. Her arrow sailed wide, striking the rocks behind the wagon. She nocked another arrow, drew farther this time, and released. Again she missed. The wagon pulled farther away every second. It would soon be out of range.

“Where is Arslan?” Karim bellowed.

“I’m here!” Arslan arrived disheveled and panting, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked as if he had run half the length of the caravan. He carried his massive bow in one hand.

Karim pointed furiously at the fleeing wagon. “The driver! Bring him down!”

Arslan lifted his huge bow and pulled, but I saw that his arm trembled, and he was not able to draw the arrow all the way back to his cheek. He loosed, and the arrow fell short. He cursed, grabbed another arrow and shot again. This one fell short as well.

The wagon was almost at the cave now.

Longwei spurred his horse forward. “Sarge, let me pursue. We can still catch them!”

“No!” Karim roared.

Longwei wheeled back in disbelief. “Why?”

Karim pointed toward the yawning cave. “There could be a hundred men in there. We will not risk any more guards for one wagon. Darius already gave a command on this.”

“Darius,” Longwei muttered, and spit. No one else argued, and we watched helplessly as the last of the Afghans disappeared into the darkness. The wagon vanished after them, swallowed whole by the mountain.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Karim’s eyes moved from Weili to Arslan, then to me.

I knew why they had failed. I knew their dirty secret. But I said nothing about that. Instead I said, “If anyone is to be whipped for disobeying orders it should be me. It was my call to move to the rear.”

This Is War

“We’ll talk about that later,” Karim said. “What’s next?”

I swallowed, then called out. “Medics! See to the wounded. Our wounded first, then the Afghans.”

“Almost right,” Karim said. He called the chief medic over. “Our wounded only. Do not touch the Afghans.”

“But they’re Muslims,” I said.

He studied me. There was a newfound respect in his gaze. He didn’t seem angry about the loss of the wagon. Some part of me realized that none of this was new to him. He’d done all this many times.

“I’m no religious expert,” Karim said, “but being Muslim doesn’t mean we sacrifice our lives to their greed. We have limited medical supplies, and a caravan to protect. We will be on the move very soon. The Afghans can return for their own dead and wounded. This is war.”

He began to give orders to load our dead onto the wagons. I realized that by “very soon” he meant right now. He meant to get the caravan moving again immediately.

It was becoming harder to think. The crystal clarity of River Flow faded, and the pain rushed back into my body. My calf felt as though it were on fire, and my cheek too felt hot, as if I’d been slapped very hard.

Someone was saying my name. I looked down. At some point the shaft of the arrow had broken off – I hadn’t even noticed – but the arrowhead was still in my leg. Blood streamed from the wound and ran down Belly’s side. The mountains spun around me, and I swayed in the saddle. The dao slipped from my fingers, and I felt myself falling.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 23 – Delirium

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

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

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

Related:

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

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 22] – The Raid appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Happiness and the Source of Good

As public awareness of mental health issues increased in the 2000s, professionals and influencers have recommended affirmations or mantras to foster a sense of well-being. You wake up in the morning and repeat positive sentences. You ‘manifest’ the best things so you capture energy from the verbalizations.

However, Islam, fourteen hundred years ago, already gave us daily du’as: our morning and evening adhkar. Here are a few of these du’as, and how we can internalize them in our pursuit of happiness.

Happiness has to come from the source of all that is good: Allah. Happiness is also a subjective feeling, and psychologists have even commented on how humans can convince themselves of happiness through things like cognitive reframing. So the combination of these two: a desire to be happy, and seeking happiness from Allah, is built into these daily adkhar. It’s important to remember that the value of these phrases is not from the rote uttering, but from believing them wholeheartedly with every repetition.

Du’a No. 1: “I Am Pleased With My Lord”

Our ruh, our soul, was not created for this fleeting world; it was destined to reunite with Allah. In this temporal realm, there will always be a tinge of sorrow, a wave between moments of grief and joy. Because, eternal, pure, unadulterated happiness lies only in our meeting with our Maker.

“There is no Muslim who says, in the morning and evening: ‘Radaytu billahi Rabban wa bil-Islami dinan wa bi Muhammadin nabiyyan’ (I am pleased with Allah as my Lord, Islam as my religion and Muhammad as my Prophet), but that he will have a promise from Allah to make him pleased on the Day of Resurrection.” [Sunan Ibn Majah #3870]

An easy way to make this adkhar a habit is to connect it with a task: I’ll start saying it when I open the ground coffee, or as I make my bed. Repeating this du’a, as we prepare breakfast or commute to work, slowly transforms us. We begin to realize our contentment: we, whom Allah has guided, we, upon whom He has bestowed His mercy, are indeed content with Allah as our Lord, His Messenger as our Prophet, and this religion, in all its beauty and wisdom. We, who may not understand every commandment and every test, but still strive, are content with this world view and content with Allah.

Du’a No. 2: “Allah Is Sufficient”

The Prophet ﷺ advised us to seek solace by reciting: “Hasbunallah wa ni’mal-Wakil” (Allah is Sufficient for us, and He is the Best Disposer of affairs).” [Riyaadh as Saliheen 409]

Since the footage of Gaza flooded our phones, we’ve seen first hand how strong this phrase is. We’ve seen it said by the father holding his beheaded child, or the brother carrying his martyred brother, or the mother finding her child’s burnt flesh. We’ve heard it over and over from the strongest of our ummah. So shouldn’t we, with our ordinary daily struggles, say it even more?

When we relinquish the reins of our lives to Allah, acknowledging His supreme control, we experience an unimaginable freedom. We give every moment to Allah, trusting that He is the Best Disposer of our affairs, from the mundane to the monumental. “And Allah is the best of planners.” [Qur’an 8:30]

I used to be afraid of driving, but a Christian woman once told me: “Every time I get in the car, I ask Jesus to take control of the steering wheel, so while I’m driving I know he’s got me.” I never thought of my fear that way, so now I repeat this du’a and have full faith that Allah has it all under His control and I just have to have trust.

Because who can write your story better than Allah, the All-Knowing, the Most Gentle, the Mutakabbir and Al-Musawir? Your story, woven with both joy and sorrow, might at times feel like an arduous journey, marked by trial after trial. But it is not a tragedy, it is a happily ever after, because your story does not end in death. Your story ends in an eternal Paradise where endless conversations await with your Maker and those you cherish. In Jannah, the love of Allah surrounds you, “Indeed, Allah loves those who rely upon Him.” [Qur’an 3:159]

This trust in Allah’s perfect plan is a sweet surrender: He promised you Paradise, and you gave yourself to His plans.

Du’a No. 3: O Changer of Hearts

Anas narrated: “The Messenger of Allah ﷺ would often say: Ya Muqallibal-qulub, thabbit qalbi ‘ala dinik‘ (‘O Changer of the Hearts! Strengthen my heart upon Your Religion.)’ So I (Anas) said: ‘O Prophet of Allah! We believe in you and what you have come with, but do you fear for us?’ He said: ‘Yes. Indeed the hearts are between two fingers of Allah’s fingers, He changes them as He wills.'” [Jami` at-Tirmidhi #2140]

Allah is the maker, molder, and owner of our hearts. Often, sadness is a state we fall into, and we allow ourselves to remain there, sinking deeper until it seems impossible to climb out. We bury and wallow in our sadness. Our bodies then follow suit, lethargically, and getting out of the hole is much harder once we dig into it.

If we remain sure in our faith, the rocky moments in life won’t shake us. You won’t suddenly stop praying. You won’t stop reaching for your Qur’an. You’ll only keep going, keep asking, and keep hoping for an eternal akhira, over a life filled with issues. This happens with a strong heart, and a strong heart is a gift from Allah, if only you ask for it consistently.

So when the bad days happen, and when you can’t seem to get a break, and each test keeps coming: you just tell yourself, this is the life of this world; what would it be, if not filled with hardship? Jannah is coming ~ a better and everlasting life is coming.

Conclusion

Once we get into the habit of daily adkhar, it becomes so natural that even on rushed days, or relaxing days, we feel incomplete without them. We do not need the daily affirmations of the new wave of pseudo science. We already have these du’as in our sunnah, taught by the Messenger ﷺ, and directly given from Allah. Your Creator knows you best, and knows exactly what you need.

Related:

The Dua Of The Overwhelmed Believer

What Shaykh Muhammad Al Shareef Taught Us About Making Dua

The post Du’as for Happiness: Finding Joy Through Daily Adhkar appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Historical Fact

In the realm of Islamic scholarship, female scholarship is sometimes defined as Islamic teachings that are transmitted by a woman scholar or female student of knowledge with an unbroken chain stretching all the way back to the Prophet ﷺ. This has always been part of our Islamic heritage. The earliest and most famous female scholar is none other than our Lady Aisha bint Abu Bakr (RA), the youngest wife of the Prophet ﷺ. She narrated over two thousand hadiths over the vast spectrum of sacred law.

A Common Misconception

There is a troubling misconception in some circles that female scholarship is now a thing of the past, and no longer what it used to be. There is a claim that there are not many female memorizers of the Qur’an, fiqh teachers, experts on hadith, and so on. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Female scholars exist. Not only do they exist, they are busy teaching. Many female scholars are doing the incredible work of raising their own families throughout their seasons of life, and teaching and learning along the way with the support of their husbands and/or families.

There are also female scholars who are unmarried, divorced, widowed, or don’t have children – what connects all of them is a deep love for Allah, His Prophet ﷺ and a passion for teaching and upholding sacred law. In both the Muslim heartlands all over the world and diaspora Muslim communities in the West, you will find female scholars and their students.

Connecting Women with Scholarship Today

What may be harder in this age of so much fragmentation is connecting female students with female scholars in person. However, the beauty of the online world is how much we can access female scholarship online. Rabata has recently launched The Ribāṭ university for women. There are other women-only resources such as Gems of Light, Jannah Institute, Al-Huda Institute in North America. Daar Aisha College is another example of a women’s-only Islamic centre in Australia.

There are also many institutions in North America such as Tayseer Seminary and Qalam Institute which serve both male and female students, and have male and female teachers, as well as Isra Academy in Australia.

In Malaysia, where I am based, alhamdulilah, female scholarship is very much the norm. Masjids are designed for women in the most thoughtful of ways: there are separate rooms outside of the prayer areas that are available so menstruating women can still attend classes to teach and/or learn, babysitting services during Ramadan during tarawih so mothers can concentrate and beautiful, large masjids with entrances for both men and women, including elevators and ramps for the elderly.

This intentional accessibility for women across all ages is a very strong contributing factor to the following: women’s Islamic education, women’s strong relationship with the masjid as an institution, and a training ground for young children to be accustomed to women’s presence and activity within the masjid.

I have never, ever, been barred from entry in any masjid in Malaysia, alhamdulilah, and I’m so grateful I have never had to enter a creepy back entrance to enter the women’s prayer area.

There are many brilliant asatizah and shaykhaat teaching in Islamic universities, private institutions, and schools. My children attend a local Malaysian government school and amongst their favourite teachers are the kind ustadhs and ustadhas. However, it’s not perfect here either, and there is always room for improvement.

The Reality of Female Scholarship

Some male scholars being unaware of female scholarship does not negate its existence. Many Muslims – both men and women – aren’t aware of the historical and ongoing legacy of female scholarship. It simply isn’t considered a big enough priority. There isn’t enough uplifting of female scholarship in general.

This is directly connected, in my opinion, to the fall of the caliphate and post-colonial brainwashing. Both of these disasters continue to have a direct impact on every single part of the Islamic reality, including awareness of and access to female scholarship. Shaykh Muhammad Akram Nadwi and his groundbreaking book “Al-Muhaddithat” is a must-read for everyone for highlighting the rich history of female Islamic scholarship.

Alhamdulilah, Islamic scholarship that we see today is directly connected to the contributions of past female scholars such as Aisha (may Allah be pleased with her) as well as present day female scholars and students of knowledge. Our deen is a dynamic one which responds to present-day realities e.g. the epidemic of secret second marriages, zakat scandals etc.

Dr. Mariam Sheibani

Female scholars have answers and invaluable contributions to these deeply problematic issues. Dr Mariam Sheibani has a brilliant research paper on secret second marriages Deceptive Debauchery: Secret Marriage and the Challenge of Legalism in Muslim-Minority Communities and many other brilliant publications.

Dr Deina Abdelkader, Dr Zainab Alwani and Dr Tamara Gray were amongst the female scholars who wrote the extremely important Dissenting Opinion to the Council’s Position on Zakāh.

Many, many female scholars and students of knowledge all around the world signed off on the Statement Against Abuse: The Female Scholars Network. We exist. We are here, and inshaAllah, we are not going away.

The Importance of Lived Experience

Female scholars offer something male scholars simply do not: the lived experience of embodying the deen, throughout all our different seasons of life. Female scholars offer girls and women of all ages the gift of understanding the correct application of sacred law in our daily lives. We also model study and career possibilities for our daughters, and normalise the pursuit of Islamic knowledge for our sons.

From the arrival of our menses in our teens, to the fiqh questions that come up when we are newly married or pregnant, to the grief that comes with pregnancy loss – these seasons of life can only be deeply understood by a female scholar who has experienced the same. These are all powerful opportunities to turn to Allah, and what better way than through the guidance of a female scholar who has walked that same path?

Safety and Accountability

Not only do female scholars add to the rich tapestry of what Islam has to offer, but it is often a much safer option for children and women to study with them. We can no longer ignore the tragic realities of so many sexual scandals with male scholars. Only Prophets are protected from sin. The unquestioned power and authority given to male scholars in positions of religious leadership create environments ripe for abuse. Mohammad Saleem’s abuse of children is a horrific example. More recently, an imam in New York was arrested for molesting two young girls on the masjid property.

This is not to say that all male scholars should be treated with suspicion, but it’s important to be aware that abuse exists in our communities too and to put measures in place to prevent this from happening. Shaykh Danish Qasim and Danya Shakfeh, Esq. from In Shaykh’s Clothing have developed a Code of Conduct for Islamic Organisations and a contract to help safeguard Muslim communities from abuse. The use of contract law can hold abusers accountable, and dissuade potential abusers from thinking they can get away with it. These systems can be put in place well ahead of time e.g. doing background checks on every single potential teacher long before any children are harmed.

Although there are a minority of Muslim women who also abuse other women and children and enable male abusers, we have seen far too many reported incidents of male teachers who have grossly abused their power. The reality is that most abuse is not reported, so what we see in the news is actually the tip of the iceberg. Muslim communities worldwide need to continue having discussions and building awareness about abuse so we can protect our most vulnerable.

The Hurma Project is also an incredible resource, driven by God-centered academic research by Dr Ingrid Mattison and Dr Rania Awaad. Maristan also offers resources for mental health care for Muslims affected by abuse.

Real-World Impact

Female scholars offer compassionate solutions for real-world difficulties that women face – challenging in-laws, inheritance squabbles, infertility struggles and bereavement, to name a few. When handled poorly by well-meaning but clumsy male scholars, so many of these issues can end up driving Muslim women far away from Islam.

This fatwa on whether or not a woman can work, at first glance, looks harmless. But how common is it in the West, especially, to find a women-only work space? What if she does not have male mahrams she can count on to look out for her? Limiting her access to work will not help her. Over, and over again, incorrect interpretations of Islam have led to devastating cruelty to women and children in the name of God.

This is why we need thoughtful scholarship that considers women’s realities on the ground within the Shari’ah to help establish a Prophetic society. The Ma’ruf Commons, led by Dr Mariam Sheibani, is a “research and education organization that develops programs and resources for Muslim communities to advance intentional learning, spiritual formation, and ethical practice, integrating religious values into both public and private life.” (Quote from website)

It is a brilliant example of traditional Islamic scholarship meeting contemporary challenges through the lens of deep Prophetic compassion and wisdom. Among the many resources Dr Mariam Sheibani shares include a brilliant paper by PhD candidate Samah Marei titled What Happened to Islamic Family Law in the Modern Era? There is so much nuance when it comes to applying Islamic law in the modern era, especially when Muslim minorities answer to Western secular legal system, or when problematic cultural norms conflict with Islamic law in Muslim-majority contexts.

A Still Valuable Perspective

However, women scholars aren’t infallible and are also impacted by biases, including problematic cultural beliefs about women that have no basis in the Shari’ah. There are unfortunately some who also issue problematic fatwa. Despite this, it’s important to remember that female scholarship offers an alternative perspective that is still valuable and protective, inshaAllah.

Related:

The Light of Female Islamic Scholarship: Da’wah, Difficulty, And Determination

The Woman Who Corrected Umar: Mahr, Tafseer, and Advocacy

The post Female Scholarship In Islam: A Living Legacy [Part 1] appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16  | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20

* * *

A Hard Land

Not every Afghani village welcomed strangers so openly. Some watched from behind shuttered windows. Others gathered silently upon distant ridges, leaning upon spears and old hunting bows. They neither threatened nor greeted us. They simply watched until we disappeared into the next valley.

“The kindest village may hide a thief,” Sergeant Karim reminded us one morning as we resumed our march. “The coldest village may be perfectly honest. Judge no one too quickly.”

I’d imagined our journey from here would be a gradual descent into a Persia that was hot and flat, where masjids towered to the clouds, and where the streets were paved with alabaster and pearls. Well, maybe not exactly, but something like that. Instead we began to climb. As we did, the land grew harder, and the people too.

The fertile valleys of Central Asia gave way to mountains that seemed designed to keep men apart. Villages clung to rocky hillsides like weeds. Fortified towers overlooked narrow passes, and nearly every settlement appeared prepared for war. The roads wound through barren valleys strewn with boulders, while jagged peaks watched from every direction. In some places the mountains rose so high that sunlight reached the valley floor only briefly each day.

The men here wore loose trousers beneath long tunics, with woolen cloaks draped across their shoulders against the cold mountain air. Turbans and pakol-style caps were common. Most of the men carried weapons openly. Even boys scarcely older than Haaris often wore knives at their belts.

Many villages were closed and fortified, with guarded walls. When it was possible, we traded with the locals. We ate flatbreads baked in clay ovens, roasted lamb seasoned with unfamiliar spices, rice studded with raisins and carrots, and thick yogurt. More than once I found myself wishing Lee Ayi could taste some of it. She would have loved to learn the recipes.

The caravan grew tense as we crossed those lands. Extra guards rode the perimeter. Watches were doubled. The merchants spoke in quieter voices. Even the horses seemed nervous. Karim spent much of his time studying maps and questioning locals about conditions ahead.

What Happened to Us?

Meanwhile, Weili continued drifting farther away from me.

At first I told myself I was imagining it. Then I told myself it did not matter. Eventually I found myself searching for her without meaning to. I invariably found her beside Arslan. They rode together, practiced together, shared meals, and spent hours struggling through one another’s languages. The more comfortable they became together, the less interested she seemed in having even the shortest conversation with me.

One evening, after watching them laugh together beside a campfire while Arslan mangled Chinese pronunciation for her amusement, I finally reached the end of my patience.

I found her later near the horse lines, checking a bowstring by lantern light. For several moments I simply stood there watching her work. I had rehearsed the conversation in my head dozens of times. Now that the moment had arrived, I had no idea how to begin.

“What happened to us?” I finally asked.

She glanced up, surprised. “Us?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” she said. “I really don’t.”

The answer irritated me immediately. Why couldn’t she just be honest? “We used to spend time together.”

“We still do.”

“Maybe you greet me in passing and ask how I’ve been. That’s it.”

She lowered the bow.

“Darius…”

“You spend all your time with him now.”

Understanding flickered across her face. “Oh.”

Something about that response made my temper flare. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What exactly do you want me to say?”

I folded my arms. “We spent months together. We studied together. We talked every day. We shared things about our lives. We meant something to each other. Then this man appears and suddenly I’m invisible. We don’t ride together, you don’t come to study the Quran with me, you don’t ask about me. We’ve barely spoken since I told you about my birthday.”

I wanted to say, I miss you, you hurt me, you abandoned me. But I could not bring myself to say such words aloud.

Her expression shifted from confusion to disbelief. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“You can’t?”

“No. It’s outrageous.”

The anger I had been carrying for weeks finally boiled over. “What do you mean, outrageous? You’re the outrageous one. You were supposed to be with me. You were my girl.”

The words escaped before I could stop them. The instant they left my mouth, I knew how they sounded.

Weili’s face hardened. “Darius, I never promised you anything. Absolutely nothing.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” She spat the question like a rock she’d found in her food.

“Yes, but I thought -”

“You thought wrong. I was your friend. That’s all. We traveled together. We studied together. We became friends.”

“Then why did you stop being my friend?”

“Only a child would ask that question.”

That was the moment when I knew there was nothing more to say. On some level I knew that her resorting to diminishing me in that way meant that she had no genuine answer to my question. And anything I said would be devalued as a childish complaint. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from saying softly, “I’m sad. I feel alone.”

I knew these words did in fact sound childish. I didn’t say it to garner sympathy. I said it because it was a deep truth, and I was in pain.

Her face hardened. “I’m sorry. But that’s not my fault. I’m not your wife or your fiance. So don’t try to manipulate me or blackmail me emotionally.”

For several moments neither of us spoke. Then she picked up her bow. “If you misunderstood our friendship, I’m sorry. Truly. But that isn’t my fault. It’s best if we don’t talk anymore.”

With that, she walked away.

A Major Sin

The next several days were a bad time for me. Up until that moment, I’d still had hope that Weili would come back to me. I loved her. I had imagined a future with her as my wife. She’d dote on me like Gulnur did on Kuangren. She’d give me many children like Ahmed’s wife had done. We’d have our own home, and Far Away would live with us.

Now that was all shattered.

There were moments, as we rode along narrow trails beside steep cliffs, when I thought about throwing myself over the side. Even with all the hardship I had been through, I had never experienced such thoughts before.

Once I nearly did it. I let myself fall back to the rear of the caravan. When the caravan turned a corner around a mountain ridge, I held back. The path was narrow, with a sheer mountain face on one side, and a vast drop on the other. I dismounted from Belly, and removed his tackle – his saddle, bridle and cinch – so that he would be free to go on his own. Then I stepped to the edge of the cliff. My toes projected over the edge. Far, far below, a raging river was a tiny silver ribbon.

I knew this was a major sin. Suicide was haram in Islam, as it was a rejection of Allah’s plan. I breathed the frigid air, and when I let it out my breath billowed visibly out over the precipice. Perhaps Allah would understand my pain and be merciful with me.

“Belly will miss you,” said a voice from my heart.

“Belly will be fine,” replied my logical mind.

“What about Far Away?” my heart voice said. “No one loves you like he does. He nearly died following you. He’s still waiting for you to come home. If you could soar through the sky back to the farm, you would find him right now, perched on the wall beside the road, watching for you to return.”

My logical mind had no reply to this, and I burst into tears. I could not do this. It wasn’t that I feared death. If it were nothing but an empty void, I would welcome it. But in my heart I trusted Allah. He would make a way forward for me, a way out of my pain. He would bring me back to those who truly loved me, and who I loved.

I was about to step away from the edge when my boot skidded on loose shale. Pebbles rattled away into the abyss. My arms flew out instinctively as I struggled to regain my balance. I teetered over the edge. Vertigo made my head spin. No! I didn’t want to die!

Before I could fall, Belly lunged forward and seized the back of my tunic in his teeth. The sudden jerk pulled me off my feet in the opposite direction. I landed hard on my back in the middle of the road, staring up at the cold blue sky.

For several heartbeats I could only breathe.

Belly stood over me, licking my face until I reached up and laid a trembling hand against his neck.

“Alright,” I whispered. “I’m alright.”

Always Dangerous

Belly had saved my life, and I’d learned a powerful lesson in that moment. I wanted life, not death. That was unquestionable. Weili had broken my heart, yet she had not broken me as a human being.

Yet the sadness persisted. I distracted myself from thoughts of Weili by reviewing Five Animals forms as I rode, and by reciting Quranic surahs. At night, I practiced my fighting techniques. More than that, I threw myself into training with a kind of desperation.

Whenever the caravan halted for the evening and my duties were complete, I would take up my dao and walk beyond the last wagons where there was room to move. I began with the fundamentals of my family art: tiger, crane, leopard, snake, dragon.

I repeated the forms until my clothes clung with sweat despite the mountain air. When one form ended, another began. I imagined opponents rushing me from every direction. I cut, spun, ducked beneath invisible blades, sprang over imaginary obstacles, and rolled across the rocky ground before coming up with my sword already moving.

Where the forms ended, my imagination began. My movements were acrobatic, perhaps unrealistic, and always dangerous. With a blade as sharp as mine, a wrong move could sever one of my own limbs.

The younger guards began gathering to watch.

“You’re trying to kill yourself,” Brother Ahmed observed one evening.

“It wouldn’t matter,” and I meant it. Suicide was one thing – I’d established that I would not do that – but death in an accident or in battle wouldn’t be my fault.

He looked at me for a moment, then nodded sadly.

A Smart Horse

I often talked to Belly as I rode. “I should have kept my mouth shut,” I told him one afternoon.

He flicked an ear.

“I know. You’re right.”

Another flick.

“You always take everyone else’s side.”

One of the merchants riding behind us laughed. “Who are you talking to, Darius?”

“My horse.”

“The horse talks back?”

“Sure, why not?”

“What does he say?”

“That I’m an idiot.” That brought laughter from several riders nearby.

Before long it became a running joke. “If anyone has questions,” Meilin called out one afternoon, “ask Belly. He has all the answers.”

“He talks about you too,” I told her.

“What does he say?”

“That you’re a great fighter but meaner than a bear.”

She snorted. “He’s smart.”

I never told them that Belly had saved my life. Then they’d really think I was cuckoo.

A New Rogue?

Kaungren had by now recovered from his lashing. He walked upright again, and resumed his duties, though he and his wife were still granted the luxury of a private wagon. He no longer sneaked into passing towns and returned with locals hot on his heels.

Instead, Arslan seemed to have taken his place as the disobedient rogue. Three times, as we passed villages, I saw the young archer split from the caravan and ride into town on his own. He always made sure to do so when Karim wasn’t watching. Initially I thought nothing of it. I knew he spoke Persian, as did these locals. I thought maybe he was going into town to trade, or buy personal supplies. But I also worried that he might be pulling a Kuangren – going into town to drink, gamble, or steal. This worried and angered me, because he might bring disaster upon us.

Or so I told myself.

I confronted him after one of these unsanctioned side trips. The caravan had stopped to feed and water the horses. These mountains were strange, for the air was cold, and the wind cut through the passes like Karim’s bullwhip, scouring one’s skin; yet the sun had an oddly piercing glare that made you want to seek shelter. But there was work to do, and the best you could do was drape a cloth over your head and stay busy. It was a hard land, and I found myself thinking that I would never want to fight people who had grown up in this land.

I found Arslan sitting in the shade of a wagon, rather than tending to his horse. He claimed he’d gone into town to buy a few arrowheads. His eyes were vacant and his speech slow, and there was a strange scent about him that was familiar, but that I could not identify. Yet he was not drunk, for I knew the signs all too well from my father’s alcoholic binges, and I did not see those signs on Arslan.

I dismounted Belly and stood before him.

“What are you into?” I demanded. “What’s your story?”

“I’m to good thing,” he replied in my language, and his speech was slow and dreamy. Not slurred like when a man was drunk. More like he was sleepwalking.

“Leave Weili alone,” I told him flatly. I had no right to say this, but I said it anyway.

“You think she girl for you?” He smiled faintly, and continued in his own language, saying something that sounded to me like “If she was your girl, she would be your girl.”

I studied him. He was a tall and broad-shouldered young man with a wide face. Muscular and prematurely bald. Handsome. There was something almost beatific about his face, as if he were in perpetual prayer. And he was the best archer I’d ever seen. He could shoot me down from five hundred paces, but in any type of hand to hand combat I would demolish him. Then we’d see who was a child, and who was a man. I wanted to kick him and say, “Get up and fight.” I almost did.

But what was the point? He was right. If Weili loved me, she would be with me. I shook my head and rode away.

I briefly considered telling Karim about Arslan’s unauthorized disappearances. But that wasn’t my way. I wasn’t a tattletale. Such a tactic would for sure not bring Weili back to me. And I still didn’t actually know what Arslan was up to.

Enemy of the State

That night, the skinny kid with the scraggly beard – Memdooh – was reciting poetry again. I saw a number of faces I recognized around the fire, including Weili’s. Arslan was nowhere to be seen. This cheered me, and I went and sat cross legged next to Weili. She turned and saw me, and to my surprise she gave a rueful smile. “I was too harsh in what I said,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I felt warmth rush through me like a great draught of steaming hot tea. “Forget about it,” I whispered back. We fell silent in order to listen to Memdooh. He swayed back and forth and gesticulated with his arms as he chanted:

My horse is a Mongolian.
He’s small, I can’t control him.
His temper is hot
but he never stops.

I’m no Mongolian,
but I’m red hot.
My arm is lightning,
my sword is faster than thought.

I rolled my eyes at this. Memdooh was a decent fighter, but if his arm was lightning, my farts were thunder.

The proclamation is made
the hour is late
They classify me
with the enemies of the state.

There was some muttering at this. Criticism of the emperor was not permitted in our land.

Demons pour forth
from a crack in the land
None of them guess
what I have in my hand.

I draw my sword
and empty my head
They can’t kill me
if I’m already dead.

This was intriguing. He was talking about River Flow. Yet Memdooh did not fight in River Flow. In battle he shouted in anger, bellowed in triumph and occasionally screamed in fear. Not that there was anything wrong with fear.

We’re far from home –
strange cities and bazaars –
Yet we’re never alone
For we are Five Stars.

Memdooh waved his arm in a flourish and we knew he was done. The audience applauded and broke up. Weili approached the young poet, and I accompanied her.

“That was amazing,” Weili gushed. “So good, so much fun. How did you learn to do that?”

“My grandfather was a poet,” Memdooh boasted. “He studied with the great Wu Weiye.”

“That last stanza was spot on,” I said. “But what was that about being an enemy of the state?”

He looked me up and down. “I am not a rich, comfortable Hui like you, brother Darius. My people are White Mountain Turki Muslims from Altishahr.”

I stared at him blankly.

He sighed. “What the Chinese called Xinjiang. In the far northwest.”

“Oh.” I nodded.

“The Chinese invaded us. So yes, I am an enemy of the state.”

“Yet you work for Five Stars, a company that serves the emperor.”

He glared. “I have my reasons.”

Weili pulled me aside. “Can’t you just enjoy a thing without analyzing it?” she demanded. “You don’t always have to prove how smart you are.”

It felt like I’d been slapped. So much for leaving our fight behind and making up. Still, there was something on my mind and it couldn’t wait.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. “There’s something strange going on with Arslan. He sneaks into local villages sometimes. And there’s something about him, something weird. Like he’s not completely awake. He’s all dreamy and distant. I don’t know what it is. But you need to be careful. There’s something not right about him.”

Something that might have been guilt flickered across her face, but it was so quick I could have imagined it. It was replaced almost immediately by outrage.

“Are you spying on him?” she hissed. “What about me, are you spying on me? You nasty little creep, stay away from us!”

I took a physical step back, as if I’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. My mind went completely blank.

Weili turned and stalked away.

A Thief Among Us

Over the next several days, things began disappearing.

At first no one thought much of it. A pair of ivory chopsticks went missing. Then a whetstone. Someone spent an hour searching for his leather belt before finally borrowing another. Brother Ahmed misplaced his prayer beads, only to discover them hanging from his saddle where he himself had left them. A merchant complained that his ink brush had vanished, then sheepishly found it tucked inside a ledger. One of the cooks searched everywhere for a small pouch of cumin before deciding he must have left it behind at the previous campsite.

Longwei loudly declared that old age had finally caught up with the caravan.

“We’ve marched so far,” he announced, “that our memories have refused to come with us.”

That drew some laughs.

Then one of the merchants discovered that six silver coins had disappeared from his purse.

The following day another merchant reported that a small pouch of saffron, worth nearly its weight in silver, had vanished from his wagon. A teamster swore someone had taken his wife’s jade hairpin, which he carried wrapped in cloth as a gift for his return home. Before long, another merchant found that several tiny packets of cinnamon and cloves had disappeared from a locked chest.

No one laughed anymore.

Those were not the sort of things a man misplaced.

Each item was small enough to slip unnoticed into a pocket, valuable enough to exchange in almost any village, and nearly impossible to identify once sold.

From then on, every man counted his belongings before bedding down for the night. Purses were tied beneath tunics instead of left beside bedrolls. Merchants began sleeping with one hand resting on their strongboxes. Conversations grew quieter, and more than once I caught men studying one another with narrowed eyes.

One evening I overheard two merchants speaking in low tones.

“It’s Kuangren,” one said. “It has to be.”

“But,” the other objected, “I heard that his own wife’s ivory comb went missing.”

The first one chuckled. “It takes a cold-hearted man to steal from his own wife. That Kuangren is incorrigible.”

I shook my head. The old Kuangren had been a fool, a gambler, and a womanizer, but he had never stolen from the caravan. And the man who now prayed beside Brother Ahmed every evening scarcely resembled the one who’d been whipped in Kyrgyzstan. To steal from his own wife? Impossible. He doted on her. More than once I had seen him helping Gulnur carry water.

No, it wasn’t Kuangren.

Opium

A thought nagged at me, and eventually I sought out Hakim Yusuf.

I found him trimming dried herbs outside his wagon.

Without looking up he smiled. “Nothing is bent sideways today, I hope.”

“No.”

“Good. Have you come to assist me?”

I smiled ruefully. “Not yet, sorry. I need to ask you about something.” Without naming Arslan, I described the condition in which I had seen him beneath the wagon. His slow speech and distant expression. The strange sweetness in the air around him. The dreamy look in his eyes.

Hakim Yusuf stopped trimming the herbs. “Opium.”

The certainty in his voice startled me. “You know about it?”

He gave a little wave of his hand. “I don’t know who you’re referring to. I know the symptoms.”

“What is it?”

“We physicians use it as a medicine. It’s very useful to dull pain before a difficult procedure. If I have to operate or amputate, for example.”

I snapped my fingers as recognition struck. “That’s how I know the smell!”

Hakim nodded. “Many physicians use preparations derived from opium, but diluted, and only when necessary. No one would use it raw. It’s too powerful.”

“Why would someone take it if he’s not injured?”

Hakim shook his head sadly. “Why do we humans do anything? We are foolish creatures. Allah offered the burden to the heavens and the earth and they refused it, but we took it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It brings a feeling of peace… even bliss. Particularly the first time. It allows a man to forget his pains and regrets for a while. Don’t we all want that? But it extracts a heavy price.”

“You mean it’s expensive?”

“Yes, it is, but the price I refer to is addiction. A man discovers that yesterday’s dose no longer satisfies. He takes more, then more again. Before long the good feeling is gone, and he is only taking it to avoid the severe pangs of withdrawal. He stops caring about anything but the drug, and to get it he will lie and steal. Eventually it will kill him.”

That sounded like being trapped in a nightmare. For a moment I actually felt sympathy for Arslan. Who wouldn’t want to escape the pain of this life for a while? But…

As if hearing my thoughts, Hakim Yusuf  said, “Such a man would be a danger to the caravan.”

I chewed on my lip. “Where would this opium come from? How would a man get his hands on it out here in the middle of nothing?”

Hakim looked toward the dark mountains surrounding us. ““Much of the opium traded across these lands begins right here.”

I followed his gaze. “Afghanistan?”

He nodded. “One would only have to enter a local village to buy some. You know what, that’s a good idea. I’m a bit low, maybe I should stock up. I’ll talk to Karim…” He entered the wagon and started puttering about.

I called out my thanks and left. It all made sense. Arslan was the thief, selling the stolen items to fuel his addiction. But, I realized, there was nothing I could do. First, I had no proof. Second, even if I could prove it, Arslan would be whipped and exiled. I wouldn’t mind seeing that. But Weili – who, I suspected, already knew about Arslan’s problem – would hate me forever. She would never, ever forgive me.

A Flicker of Light

Three nights later we camped in a narrow valley where a small cave overlooked the caravan from a low ridge. The mountains pressed close around us, shutting out all but a ribbon of sky overhead. The air carried the bite of approaching winter, and after evening prayer everyone gathered close to the cook fires until the flames burned low. Gradually the laughter faded. One lantern after another winked out until only the sentries remained awake.

Weili had accused me of spying on Arslan. It hadn’t been true then, but it was now, in a way. I made a point out of checking his duty station during the day, and his bedroll at night. Walking  past his bedroll now, I found it empty.

It might mean nothing. Men often wandered away from camp for a few moments of privacy. But as I was settling my blanket beside Belly, I noticed a brief flicker of orange light among the rocks above us. It vanished almost immediately, as though someone had cupped a hand over a flame.

I should have called for another guard to accompany me, and maybe even alerted the Sarge. But I did not. Without waking anyone, I climbed the rocky slope. Loose stones shifted beneath my boots. The night was silent except for the whisper of the wind threading through the pass.

The smell reached me before the cave did. It was faint, sweet, and strangely familiar.

When I stepped into the cave, I froze in shock. The cave itself was shallow, scarcely more than a hollow in the mountainside. Its ceiling was blackened by years of smoke. A tiny oil lamp burned, throwing wavering shadows across the stone walls.

There, in the light of the lamp, with their backs against the rock, sat Arslan and Weili. He sat with one knee raised, head lolling to the side, seemingly asleep. As for Weili, a long pipe resting loosely in her fingers. Wisps of pale smoke drifted lazily upward before disappearing into the darkness. I could hear the tiny hiss of the lamp flame. The sweet smell of the smoke hung heavily in the still air, clinging to my clothes.

Weili smiled as though I were an old friend arriving for tea.

“Darius.” There was love in the way she spoke my name, and it nearly broke my heart.

“Come,” she said, and she lifted the pipe toward me with slow, dreamlike generosity. “You try.”

“Weili,” I said, and my voice broke.

“You are so good,” she said dreamily. “You always loved me. No one…” She inhaled from the pipe, then let the smoke rise slowly from her mouth. “Ever loved me before. I never… deserved you.”

My mouth fell open. What was she saying? Hope surged in me. I reached out a hand.

“Then come with me. Forget Arslan. He’s a thief, he’s rotten. You don’t need him, you don’t need  this drug. It’s poison. Hakim Yusuf told me so.”

Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “You told Hakim Yusuf about me? You rat!” She tried to stand, but her legs gave out and she slumped back to the ground. “Get out of here. I’m with Arslan now, get it through your brick head.” She picked up a loose stone from the cave floor and flung it at me. I ducked as it flew past.

Arslan roused from his stupor. “What…. going on?”

With her eyes on me, Weili threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Nothing, my love.” She passed him the pipe, and he inhaled.

I wanted to run away. Instead I said, “You’re better than this, Deng Weili.”

She released her hold on Arslan and slumped against the wall of the cave. “No,” she said sadly. “I am exactly this. You loved…” She twirled a finger in the air, trying to think of a word. “A mirage. Go away, Darius.”

I stumbled out of the cave. Tears made icy sideways tracks on my face as the wind hit.

There was nothing I could do. If I went to Sergeant Karim, I knew what would happen. Twenty lashes for Arslan for sure, for the thefts. As for Weili, I did not know. What if she had stolen as well?

An Eerie Pass

Personal items continued to go missing. Men cursed under their breath and searched one another’s faces with growing suspicion.

I said nothing.

Each complaint felt like another stone added to the burden I was carrying. And every day that I remained silent, I became a little more ashamed.

The mountains grew higher. The valleys narrowed until the road became little more than a ledge carved into the mountainside. Dark cave mouths peered down from impossible heights, some scarcely larger than doorways, others wide enough to swallow an entire wagon. I found myself studying them more often than the trail beneath Belly’s hooves.

I no longer monitored Arslan’s movements, or tried to talk to Weili. I divorced myself from the entire matter, and tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. But her words haunted me: You always loved me. No one ever loved me before. Those words went around and around in my head like a pair of squirrels chasing each other endlessly. Her little show of affection toward Arslan didn’t bother me at all, but her saying, “I never deserved you” – that was like an arrow in my gut.

We crossed a rocky pass with high mountains on either side. The mountains were riddled with caves. The entire place was blanketed in an eerie silence. Even the birds seemed reluctant to enter that pass.

The attack came without warning.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 22 – The Raid

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

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

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

Related:

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

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 21] – Opium appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Southern Lebanon has been devastated by the Israeli assault; ruins dot the county of Nabatieh.

A significant aspect in the ongoing war and negotiations between the United States and Iran has been the related Israeli attack on Lebanon, whose Shia community and in particular Hezbollah militia has close religious, historical, and political ties to Iran. As it has done for over fifty years, the Israeli military has intermittently attacked Lebanon since 2024, but this latest round that began in spring 2026 has received proportionately far less attention than earlier attacks despite enormous bloodshed and its direct relevance to both the war in the Persian Gulf and the genocide of Palestine. More than anything, the war and a blatantly lopsided ceasefire that went into effect last month has exposed the limitations and bluster of a Lebanese government that loudly asserts its privileges but chronically fails to meet its responsibility, especially security against a rabidly aggressive neighbor.

The area most obviously abandoned to repeated Israeli attack is the largely Shia south, which has suffered immense damage not simply during the mid-2020s but from Israeli incursions, on and off, for over half a century. The south is often pathologized, certainly by Israel but also by domestic Lebanese critics, as a reckless hotbed whose fealty to Hezbollah will only bring peril to Lebanon at large. Yet Hezbollah, for all its faults, has managed a security and level of services that the Lebanese government has never afforded the region.

Nor are the southern Shias alone as scapegoats for Lebanon’s plight. Historically, one group after another has been blamed whenever Lebanon’s integrity is violated: at the moment it is Hezbollah and Shias in the south; earlier it was Syrian refugees and their largely Sunni supporters in areas such as Arsal and Sidon; earlier it was alleged Sunni “jihadists” in cities such as Tripoli; and earlier, at the outset of the 1975-90 war, it was Palestinians and their Lebanese supporters across a number of the country’s demographic groups, largely Muslims or Druze.

Lebanon was originally set up in the 1920s by France as an enclave for the region’s Christians, especially Maronites who shared the Catholic faith of most Frenchmen. At the time, anti-Muslim sentiments ran deep within French colonial policy, which largely caricatured the Muslim majority of the region as naturally predisposed to violence against minorities. In addition they were inclined to side with Maronites in a long-running feud with Druze, another of Lebanon’s minorities. It was only belatedly and grudgingly that France resorted to a long-outdated formula of splitting power between the elites of various confessional groups. Yet the fact that even in a newly formed Lebanese state Muslims, Sunnis and Shias, soon outnumbered Maronites contributed to the system’s inherent tensions, which were already apparent in the 1950s and resurfaced with major violence in the 1970s.

During this period, conservative and rightwing Lebanese politicians, often but not always Maronites, were inclined to resort to an ossified form of nationalism that exceptionalized  Lebanon and pretended that it existed in a regional vacuum. Where links with France were seen as natural in preserving this Lebanese exceptionalism, links with outsiders – whether those of Sunnis with Palestinians or of Shias with Iran – were treated with suspicion. Today, after the 1980s Lebanese war’s resolution contributed to an officially more equitable adjustment in the confessional balance of power, this nationalism manifests itself chiefly in loudly decrying the “foreign links” of Hezbollah with Iran while ignoring those of every other Lebanese actor with other foreign powers.

The lopsided peace deal that Joseph Aoun and Nawaf Salam’s Lebanese government struck with Israel has virtually signed away practical Lebanese independence when it comes to the United States and its approved regional states, while loudly asserting Lebanese sovereignty when it comes to disarming Hezbollah. This rests on the pretence that Hezbollah does not have a major domestic constituency based off years of not only warfare but genuine sociopolitical services. It also rests on ignoring countless Israeli provocations and incursions throughout Lebanese history, since long before Hezbollah was founded.

The irony is that time and again Lebanese ultranationalists, who frequently scapegoat their compatriots for undermining the state, have time and again been the quickest to give way and even collaborate when the country is actually invaded: this was the case throughout Israel’s repeated invasions since the 1970s and largely through the thirty-year Syrian occupation of Lebanon. Both these invasions were directed, principally and initially, at the Palestinians in Lebanon. One reason that many other factions and most of the Lebanese government faded meekly away before these invasions, which came at the cost of not only Palestinians but Lebanese citizens as well, was because Palestinians had been scapegoated for Lebanon’s sociopolitical problems.

When the Syrian occupation of Lebanon ended in 2005, complaints about the occupation, its corruption and abuses, were commonplace among rightwing and conservative Lebanese nationalists: yet it had been the same current who had welcomed and benefited from the original 1976 invasion in order to crush their Palestinian opponents. Many rightwingers, particularly the populist far-right militias of the so-called Lebanese Front and the South Lebanon Army, supported the even more brutal 1982 Israeli invasion, which installed their leader Bashir Gemayel as a shortlived vassal before his assassination. The Palestinians’ removal as a significant factor from Lebanese politics only brought the turn of other Lebanese citizens, ranging from Sunni Islamists in the north and Shia Islamists in the south to Druze leftists in the east, to come under attack by either the Syrian or Israeli armies, or both.

The most significant of these have been the Hezbollah group, which is now some forty years of age. An unusual closeness to Iran, who sent a large number of military “advisors” to train and equip the group in the 1980s, was frequently noted, yet treated as an exception, by rival groups and factions themselves close to one foreign power or other. In its early years Hezbollah fought Israel and, alongside Palestinians and Sunni Lebanese, the Syrian occupation of Hafiz Assad. Eventually and controversially, Iranian brokerage prompted a Hezbollah rapprochement with Syria, to the extent of assisting Assad’s son Bashar during the 2010s war.

Collaboration with the Assads, in which Lebanese nationalists were themselves involved until it fell out of fashion, is not the main criticism of Hezbollah. Rather, like the Palestinians of the 1970s, Hezbollah is blamed for having provoked Israeli “reprisals” in the service of a foreign agenda, thereby weakening the Lebanese state. Yet the record is clear that Israel has repeatedly, deliberately, and systematically attacked Lebanon since long before Hezbollah existed. The Lebanese state itself has little record to which it can point, certainly not in the south, even during peacetime. And as for foreign agendas, the scapegoating of resistance in Lebanon – whether that resistance was by Palestinians in the 1970s or Hezbollah in the 2020s – has long been led by those actors who were most amenable to actual foreign invasions of Lebanon, whether by the Assads’ Syria or by Israel.

Under fire: Lebanese army commander Rodolf Haykal has come under sustained foreign criticism for his reluctance to attack Hezbollah on behalf of Israel.

The year 2026 brings several anniversaries of this record. In summer 1976, Assad dispatched a major invasion to support the Lebanese rightwing against a combination of leftist, Muslim Lebanese, and especially Palestinian opponents: this brought about three decades of occupation where the Assad family famously manipulated and shaped the Lebanese political process. Israel’s role was even worse: having already mounted an invasion all the way to Beirut as well as made repeated raids during the 1980s, in the spring of 1996 and the summer of 2006 Israel again made major, pointedly brutal incursions into southern Lebanon: it was here that the Israeli military gave a moniker to its longstanding tradition of deliberate viciousness, the “Dahiya Doctrine”, named for a town that was flattened over and over as a form of pressure. The Dahiya Doctrine has of course been on full view in other Israeli misadventures, notably Gaza. Yet as in Gaza, it had little demonstrable military effect: instead, particularly in summer 2006, Hezbollah shot to international fame for having outlasted and outfought a more powerful Israeli foe.

Despite the bruising blows that the group has suffered over the Israeli invasion of 2024-26, there is no indication that Hezbollah will fold on this occasion either: indeed, as Lebanese army commander Rodolf Haykal among others has recognized, the group’s prestige has only soared after fighting Israeli invasions. Once more, as in the summer of 2006, it is the Lebanese government that has looked impotent and inept, browbeaten by the United States into accepting a lopsided agreement. Wiser exceptions to this rule, such as Haykal, were subjected to diplomatic snubs and a smear campaign by neoconservatives in Washington, such as Lindsay Graham, and their confederates in Israel: he was accused of having “gone rogue” and defeatism against Hezbollah. Defeatism against Hezbollah, a Lebanese group operating in its homeland, was apparently a bigger crime than defeatism against a pointedly brutal Israeli invasion.

That the country invading Lebanon could accuse the Lebanese army commander of being a “defeatist” against his own compatriots is an indication of the ludicrous expectation that the Lebanese state is meant to act not as a government for its citizens but a check against those same citizens. That is, of course, how Israel and thus, unfortunately, much of Washington see the Muslim and Arab worlds at large: that is to be expected. What is particularly absurd is that Lebanese “nationalists” with a long and almost seamless record of collaborating with foreign invasions should then turn on their own compatriots in the name of strengthening the Lebanese state. Very often, as in the case of the rightwing, this is accompanied by anti-Muslim prejudices that in effect call into the question of Lebanese Muslims, whether it was the Sunnis of the 1970s or Shias since the 1990s.

No state is strengthened or its people served by a hostile foreign invasion. But the pretence that Iran is the only foreign actor involved in Lebanon serves as a method of justifying actual foreign invasions, with undisguised brutality and contempt for Lebanese life, by far worse actors. The Lebanese government and its supposedly nationalist supporters do their country a major disservice with this selective patriotism.

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