Rural Japan is living through two forms of population decline at once, and Hyōgo Prefecture distills the whole structure into a single frame.

The first is the aging of business owners. Across Japan, hundreds of thousands of small firms are run by owners over seventy who have no successor—the so-called “2025 problem”—and when these businesses close, it is not only long-cultivated craft that disappears but managerial resources and infrastructure as well.¹ Hyōgo, a manufacturing prefecture of the first order, is home to numerous local industries—Banshū textiles, Miki hardware, Awaji roof tiles—and this concentration of handwork faces the same wave. Craftsmen grow old, no one comes to take their place, and the fires of the production centers go out, one after another.

The second decline is the drying-up of the workforce that keeps these sites running. Young people flow out to the cities, and manufacturing, seafood processing, and elderly care fall into chronic labor shortage. What fills this void is foreign labor—and the source that has surged most sharply in recent years is workers from Muslim-majority countries, chief among them Indonesia, home to the world’s largest Muslim population. Ironically, it is the countryside, rather than the cities, that most needs hands, and so the concentration of Muslim workers advances in rural areas. The Harima region of Hyōgo—above all Himeji, where the steel and machinery industries cluster—is one such typical point of reception.

Once a certain number of people come to live in the same area, a place for prayer is called for. Halal food shops open, prayer rooms are set up—one was installed near JR Himeji Station—and eventually the movement turns toward building a mosque. The growing number of mosques in provincial cities is less a matter of faith spreading than the inevitable consequence of an economic structure that fills labor shortages with migrant workers.

And yet the very local governments that ought to receive all this are themselves growing financially threadbare. Hyōgo’s finances have edged toward crisis under the long tail of debt from the Great Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake reconstruction, and should revenue be devoured by debt repayment, the measures that support coexistence with foreign residents—and the support for vanishing local industries and traditional culture—may be the first to be cut.

Thus Hyōgo has become a land where three transformations—vanishing local industry, newly rooting migrant communities, and thinning municipal finances—overlap all at once. A Miki hardware craftsman shuts down without an heir; people who came from Indonesia keep the Himeji factories running; the town is shaken over where their place of worship should be; and beneath it all the prefecture’s finances edge toward collapse. These are not separate events, but different cross-sections of a single shift in population and economic structure.

And it is into this landscape—of vanishing trades, arriving workers, and communities feeling their way toward a place of their own—that one young man has stepped, not as a migrant but as a guide: the first Japanese to lead Japan’s oldest mosque.

Yūsuke Fujitani (Yusuf), Kobe Mosque’s First Japanese Imam — From Question to Faith

A young man raised in a household with no ties to religion, who, taking as his thread a plain question that arose one day in a nursing-studies classroom, traveled through three countries—Pakistan, Malaysia, and Saudi Arabia—and eventually became the first Japanese leader of Japan’s oldest mosque. Yūsuke Fujitani, Muslim name Yusuf, thirty-three years old. His path is less a drama than a sustained chain of reflection, and it holds many suggestions for anyone thinking about how Islam is received in contemporary Japan and about what the front lines of multicultural coexistence actually look like. To trace his history is to read the story of one believer, and at the same time to hold up a mirror to the social change now quietly advancing in the provincial cities of Japan.

Patiently, insistently: Fujitani preaches at Friday prayers, the work at the heart of an imam’s daily life. (Photo: Tomohiro Oshima)

“Who Laid Down This Rule?”

Fujitani was born in Takarazuka, Hyōgo Prefecture. He was close to his mother’s family, visited the graves with his grandparents at Obon, made the New Year’s shrine visits, and celebrated Christmas—in his own words, a “quintessentially Japanese,” entirely ordinary Japanese household in which no particular faith was ever consciously held. Islam, let alone religion itself, lay outside the concerns of daily life. The first thing that turned him toward faith was, unexpectedly, in a university nursing-department classroom.

Pathology, anatomy, microbiology, maternal nursing. As he studied the workings of the human body in specialist depth, Fujitani found his eyes drawn to the intricacy of life. The human being has twenty-three pairs of chromosomes, forty-six in all; let even a single autosome be added or subtracted, and a child is born bearing some illness. The period of gestation is not a neat half-year or full year, but nine months—an oddly in-between figure. Why nine, and not twelve or six? A fertilized egg—sperm and egg, each no more than a liquid—joins together, repeats its cell divisions, and turns at last into an individual furnished with hands and feet. A microscopic living thing, visible only through a lens, becomes, before one knows it, a human. Confronted with the ATCG genetic information written into that process, he came to a halt.

“Where in the world did this meticulous set of rules come from?” The textbook teaches the mechanism in detail. But nowhere is it recorded who laid down the rule. Chance or mere drift seemed hard to credit. A smartphone, a pair of glasses—each has someone who designed it, someone who gave it the mechanism to function. If so, must there not be, behind a human body governed with such precision, some greater power, some being that ordained it—that is to say, God? That the sun rises in the east and sets in the west; that out of a hundred million people, he was born from this particular combination of parents and no other—these were not things he had chosen for himself. They could only be understood as ordained. And so he began, self-taught, to compare the world’s three great religions.

Comparing Three Religions, and Being Convinced by Islam

Fujitani had been, since high school, a young man who liked to read the international pages of the newspaper. Leaning now on library materials and the internet, he examined Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam one by one.

When he looked into Buddhism, he found that its teaching had originated in India and, in the course of reaching Japan, had passed through the syncretism of gods and buddhas before branching into some thirteen schools—Sōtō, Shingon, Rinzai, and the rest. Supposing the teaching of the founder, Śākyamuni, to be a hundred percent correct, there was nowhere in Japan a school that had inherited it in a pure, unaltered form. Were Śākyamuni sitting beside him, might he not say, “That is not what I taught”? Distorted and altered by human hands—feeling this, Fujitani did not go so far as to take the tonsure.

With Christianity, he unrolled the history of how the doctrine of the Trinity was established. Through successive councils—the first in 325, the second in 381—the Trinity was fixed, the minority Arian position pushed aside, and it spread with the sanction of the emperor of the day. If so, then the believers before 325, and Jesus himself, could not have believed in the Trinity. In a doctrine that ought to be the very core of the faith, he could find no historical unity. Here, too, he stopped.

Islam was different. Its scripture, the Qur’an—from the first chapter to the last—is used unaltered, one and the same. The object of worship is the invisible One God, Allah , holding no idol. This single point—that there is no idol-worship—struck Fujitani as decisive. Buddhist statues and household kamidana, images of Mary—all are made by human hands, and when they break, people put their palms together and restore them. Whether one believes or not, they become objects of worship and are made over again; that absence of any guarantee of permanence had long troubled him. It overlapped, too, with his memory of the Great Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake. To prostrate himself before an unseen One God gave him not the slightest hesitation. It also matched his sense that human beings need not grovel before one another—yet to prostrate oneself before God is natural.

On June 27, 2014, the twenty-one-year-old Fujitani passed through the gate of the Kobe Mosque alone, with no reservation and no appointment. No one had solicited him; he had no acquaintance among the believers beforehand. It was all a walk-in visit, arrived at at the end of self-teaching. He had meant only to look around, but as he spoke of his own reflections in answer to why he wished to enter, he made his declaration of faith (shahada) on the spot.

More Than Six Years of Study Across Three Countries

His life of faith began not as a dramatic change but quietly. Unable to tell his parents right away, he started simply by holding back from the ham and bacon at Sunday breakfast—”the flavor’s too heavy,” he would say. Pork dishes and alcohol, he let go of little by little.

Fujitani delivers the Friday sermon (khutba) from the minbar of the Kobe Mosque, before a congregation drawn from across the Muslim world—students, engineers, and self-employed traders among them. (Photo: Tomohiro Oshima)

Before long he set out on the road of serious study. For five months, from November 2015 through March of the following year, he crossed to Pakistan. Joining the Islamic revivalist movement known as the Tablighi Jamaat, he moved from mosque to mosque across the region, calling the local people to the night prayers and, through the dawn and midnight prayers, turning to face God himself. He was put on an IV three times for food poisoning, ran fevers, and endured the misery of things coming out from above and below alike—yet he never once thought of going home. In Japan there was scant place or occasion to study Islam. Here was a learning found nowhere else.

Next, for a year and three months from August 2016, he entered an Islamic seminary (a boarding school) in Malaysia and shored up the fundamentals, Arabic among them. In fact, he had already applied to the Islamic University of Madinah in Saudi Arabia beforehand, but on hearing that a decision would take two or three years, he chose the path to Malaysia as preparation for it. Then, in November 2017, his name appeared among the admitted on the university’s homepage.

In September 2018, the study abroad became real at last—with the exhilaration of finally standing at a campus he had gazed at again and again on Google Maps. The first two years were an Arabic course; the following four were Sharia (Islamic jurisprudence), all studied in Arabic. Multiple-choice, written work, reports, and the term examinations—all in Arabic. Under a rule by which failing the same subject twice meant, in principle, expulsion, tension ran through him at every exam. A grant-type scholarship provided roughly twenty thousand yen a month, and out of that he managed food and book costs alike. Getting in was comparatively easy; graduating was hard. He watched friends fail the same subject three times and depart.

This university gathers students from more than 170 countries. Burundi, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Laos, Sierra Leone, The Gambia, Senegal, Somalia, Sudan—seated beside classmates from countries where he had never imagined there were Muslims, Fujitani’s horizons opened wide. A classmate said to be Laos’s first convert is a friend of his still. Dormitory life had its moments too, such as when he raised his voice at a roommate making a video call in the dead of night because of the time difference. In June 2024, he graduated safely—the fifth graduate ever from Japan, a rarity that fits within the fingers of one hand. Graduation from this university, known as a prestigious institution in the Muslim world, became a great source of pride for him.

As the First Japanese Imam of Japan’s Oldest Mosque

With graduation ahead, Fujitani had been pursuing a job search in Japan in parallel. Putting on a suit for an online interview, he received an offer from a certain Osaka company that trades with the Middle East. He was to be valued as a user of Arabic. But he was asked to take part in drinking parties with business partners, and unable to come to terms with the handling of prayer times and such gatherings, he declined.

As if in its place, four mosques—Kobe, Sapporo, Nagoya, and Okinawa—called for him to come as a Japanese imam. He had been seeking a path to employment within Saudi Arabia as well, but it did not go as he wished. What he finally chose was Kobe, the place of his own entry into the faith and deep in ties for him. In this place, where believers he had trusted for ten years gather, they know one another well. In September 2024, Fujitani took up the post of imam at the Kobe Mosque.

Built in 1935 (Shōwa 10), this is Japan’s oldest mosque, and in its long history it is the first time a Japanese has become its leader. Full-time imams who are Japanese through and through number, together with the one at the Asakusa Mosque, only two in the whole country.

The heart of his work lies in receiving visitors. University students, company employees, people who want to open a halal shop, groups aiming at multicultural coexistence, firms taking on technical intern trainees—in two years he has exchanged business cards with more than two hundred people. He deals as well with government bodies—the Kobe city and ward offices, the police, the tourism bureau—and requests from universities, high schools, and junior high schools never cease. Those who gather at the Kobe Mosque are varied, from international students at Japanese-language schools to self-employed used-car traders to engineers; compared with the mosques of Osaka there are somewhat fewer of Indonesian background and a conspicuous layer of the self-employed—a regional character of its own. Many are people who came relying on a brother who had already started a business in Japan.

To the resident Muslims he keeps patiently preaching: do not loiter on the streets, refrain from cigarettes and noise, sort your garbage. To liken it to an all-school assembly at a junior high or high school, nine in ten listen, while one in ten do not—and that, he says, is not a matter of foreigners alone; the Japanese are the same. What matters is that precisely because there is a node called the mosque, a caution can be delivered to the whole community at once after the Friday prayer. Were there no mosque, people would scatter like lone wolves, and the friction that arises from differences of culture could burst out here and there, beyond any control.

Against the backdrop of the labor shortage in provincial cities, workers from the Islamic world keep increasing. In Himeji and elsewhere, there are movements to build new mosques. As residents grow in number, a place is needed to bind them together and to connect them with Japanese society. Fujitani is aware that there are voices uneasy about the growing number of mosques. And it is precisely for that reason that he devotes himself—quietly, but surely—not to excluding foreigners, but to building, as fellow human beings, a relationship of “we’re all in this together.” The faith of one young man, begun from a question, has now borne fruit as a firm role sustaining the front lines of Japan’s multicultural coexistence.

Related:

– Undecided Nation: How A Mosque In Kamagasaki Fills Japan’s Immigration Gap – A Photo Story

– When Azara Long Found Islam In A San Francisco Linen Shop : A Story From America’s Muslim History

The post The Stirring Of A Muslim Population In Japan: The Story Of Yusuke Fujitani appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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Fish in a Pond

By late afternoon, the heat had begun to fade. I had submitted to Hakim Yusuf long enough for him to wash my back, change the dressings and complain about everything I had done since waking. Afterward I put on a clean Five Star uniform, hung the brass horn around my neck, and went outside to find most of the other guards getting ready. Men who had spent months sleeping beside wagons and washing themselves from buckets were suddenly concerned with stains on their tunics, dust on their boots and whether their hair looked presentable.

At least I didn’t have that last problem.

A Persian officer arrived, accompanied by two soldiers. Ahmed spoke with him for a few moments, then turned to us.

“His Highness will receive us after Maghreb. Until then, he has invited us to tour the palace gardens, if we wish.”

Excited exclamations rippled among the guards.

We followed the Persians through an arched passageway and emerged into a garden larger than some villages we had passed on the road. Stone channels carried clear water between rows of cypress and fruit trees. Roses grew along the paths, and grapevines climbed wooden trellises overhead, creating tunnels of green shade. Pomegranate trees were heavy with fruit, and somewhere nearby I could smell jasmine. Fountains splashed into tiled pools where orange and white fish drifted lazily beneath the surface.

After months of dust, snow, mountains and mud, the place seemed almost impossible.

Looking at the fish in the pool, I remembered a day that seemed like forever ago, but in reality was only four years, perhaps. My father had already gone to the army. I went into town to sell my peanut crop, then to the Mayor’s house to collect my father’s pay. After that I entered the local temple, drawn by curiosity and a desire to pay reverence, or a feeling that there had to be something greater in this world. There was a stone-lined pool in the temple courtyard. I gazed at the orange carp for a long time. Their lives were peaceful but confined. Did they resent the conditions of their existence? Did they think? Did they feel? I had no idea.

How desperate and lonely I was back then. I might have died of heartbreak, if not for Far Away and Lady Two. In spite of all the sadness and violence I had experienced since then, I realized now that Allah was good to me. He was shepherding me, caring for me, and constantly giving me new opportunities.

Back then, gazing at the fish in the temple pond, I thought my life was like theirs, but now I saw things differently. I was a free man, a Muslim, a fighter. I was stronger than anyone around me guessed. I knew that. My strength did not come from the edge of the dao, however. “Be an agent of light, or an agent of darkness,” my father had said in the dream.

These thoughts were too big for me. My heart was trying to say something, but my mind didn’t know what it was. Looking up, I saw that the tour had moved on, and I hurried to catch up.

Birds Stuffed With Birds

We were passing beneath a trellis of grapevines when Longwei spoke. Hands clasped behind his back like a lecturer, he nodded toward the palace buildings beyond the trees.

“Enjoy this, boys. But this is nothing. Wait until we get inside.”

The men regarded him warily. Meilin had barely spoken to him since his bitter outburst at the campfire, and more than once I had noticed men who normally sought out his company choosing somewhere else to sit.

But this was Longwei. He had a certain charm and charisma that was irresistible.

“What do you mean?” Memdooh asked.

Longwei smiled, and guards drifted closer. “Persian princes are served thirty dishes at every meal.”

Memdooh blinked. “Thirty? What kinds?”

“Rice cooked with saffron. Lamb with nuts and fruit. Chickens stuffed with pigeons. Pigeons stuffed with… smaller birds.”

“What kind of smaller birds?” Bao asked.

“Hummingbirds. A true delicacy. You’ll talk about this night for the rest of your lives. No one back home will believe it.”

More of the men gathered around.

“I thought,” Ahmed said pointedly, “that our world back home would be overrun and destroyed. That we should all quit and run. Your words.”

Longwei waved this away. “I’m an old man. My body aches and I get in a bad mood. I was stupid. I apologize for that.”

Bao clapped him on the back. “It’s alright. Tell us more about the princely ways.”

“They serve everything on solid gold plates,” Longwei continued. “And the cups are carved from crystal. There’ll be musicians playing while we eat, and beautiful girls dancing.”

That produced considerable interest, and a derisive snort from Meilin.

“What else?” someone asked.

“Fountains of rosewater. Servants carrying trays of sweets. Incense burning everywhere. And every guest has his own servant standing behind him with a great peacock feather, like this.” Longwei swept both arms back and forth behind Memdooh’s head. “Keeping you cool while you eat.”

I looked at the palace through the trees. “Where do they get that many peacocks?”

Longwei gave me a pitying look. “Darius, when you are a prince, people bring you peacocks.”

Meilin finally turned around. “Dear.”

Longwei cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Before Meilin could fire whatever missile her tongue had prepared, we passed through a part of the garden where a group of richly dressed men sat on a blanket on the grass, listening as another man recited poetry. The tour guide made a motion to Longwei, and he fell silent.

What Sort of Prince

The adhaan for Maghreb rose while we were still in the gardens, and only then did I realize there was a masjid within the citadel grounds. The adhaan was different from the one I was used to. It did not surprise me, as Karim had actually given us a talk about it:

“We are entering a land where the people practice Shiah Islam. We do not care about that. The world is vast, and whether you consider their practice right or wrong, it is for Allah to judge, not us. The Persians are our trading partners, and you will be nothing but gracious toward them.”

In spite of Karim’s talk, I was shocked to hear, “Ashhadu anna ʿAliyyan waliyyullah.” But I kept my mouth shut. I was in someone else’s homeland, not mine.

We followed others to the masjid, made wudu at a row of stone basins outside, and entered. Beside the door was a wooden rack holding rows of small, flat pieces of reddish clay. I noticed that every man who entered took one, so I did the same. I turned it over in my hand, wondering what it was for. I had the sudden terrifying thought that maybe someone would be stoned for a crime of some kind.

Feeling anxious, I followed the others into the prayer hall. As the lines formed, the men placed the pieces of clay on the floor before them. I breathed a sigh of relief and did likewise, still not knowing what it was for. Perhaps it was a tiny plate? And food would be served on it after salat? A few dates, maybe?

The masjid was filling with soldiers, servants, clerks and other men who worked within the palace.

Prince Farhad entered a few minutes later. Men made way for him, and I expected him to walk to the front and lead the prayer. Instead, he simply took his place in the first row. The lines formed, shoulder to shoulder, but everyone waited.

At last an elderly man in a black turban entered. He went directly to the front, and nodded to a man who called the Iqamah. Then he began the salat. I noticed that most of the men around me stood with their arms at their sides, as Karim had told us they would.

When we went down into sujood, I understood what the little clay tablets were for. The men around me placed their foreheads upon them. This made me uncomfortable, as I had never encountered it before. When we rose again, I quietly picked mine up and slipped it into my pocket.

After the prayer, Farhad exchanged a few words with the Imam and left. He did not come over to greet us or even acknowledge the Five Star guards. I watched him go, wondering what sort of prince he was.

The Prince’s Table

After the prayer, we were led through another courtyard, into a vestibule where we shed our shoes, then into a broad hall overlooking the gardens. Carpets covered the floor from wall to wall, and cushions had been arranged around rectangular white cloths on the floor. Servants moved quietly, setting out cups, pitchers of water, small dishes of herbs and bowls of yogurt.

Persian officials directed us to our places, with eight people at each cloth – four on a side. The Five Star men were mostly seated together, while Persian officers, nobles and palace functionaries occupied other cloths.

Captain Karim, Ahmed, Corporal Bao and I were directed to one of the cloths, and my eyes widened when I saw who sat opposite us. Prince Farhad was there, dressed in a fine white robe and turban, no jewelry whatsoever, and with a long, curved sword strapped to his back.

Beside him was the imam who had led Maghreb. There was also a broad-shouldered Persian officer who I recognized from the polo field as the chief of security, and an aloof middle-aged man named Reza Mirza who acknowledged us with a slight inclination of his head and nothing more.

With Ahmed translating, Farhad welcomed us and asked about the caravan. This pleased Karim, who launched into a description of our goods, including silk, porcelain, tea, medicines, lacquerware and other things that had survived the journey.

Farhad asked what we hoped to carry home from Persia.

“Carpets,” Karim said immediately. “Metalwork. Glassware, if we can pack it safely. Spices that are difficult to obtain in China. Anything from the Arab lands or the Ottoman territories that will fetch a good price in the east.”

Farhad nodded. For a prince, he seemed well versed in international commerce.

Servants began bringing the meal. Large platters of saffron rice were placed before us, followed by roasted lamb and chicken, stewed vegetables, flatbreads, herbs and bowls of thick yogurt.

There were no birds inside birds, however. Nor did I see gold plates, musicians, dancing girls or peacock feathers. I glanced across the room at Longwei. He happened to look up at that moment, saw me watching him, and immediately turned his attention to his rice.

A Strange Boy

I had never seen so much food in my life, and that was no exaggeration. I gave Longwei credit for telling the truth on that score. As I bit into a firm pastry stuffed with spiced beef, I suddenly remembered the day that I won the martial arts tournament, and how I returned to the bridge dwellers with a basket of steamed beef buns.

I remembered Teardrop, the delicate and sad young woman who used to watch people’s packs. Dragontop, the big old war veteran with one cloudy eye and three missing fingers, who always used to clap me on the back and tell me what a good boy I was. Ying Yue, the young widow with two small children, who told them stories at night to distract them from their empty bellies. And the brothers and sisters, some young and some old, who formed ranks and prayed the salat below the bridge. Were they still there, hungry and damp, and burning trash to stay alive on winter nights? Had some died of illness or neglect? No one was coming to help them. There were no banquets for them.

Ahmed turned to me. “His Highness says you seem deep in thought.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. “Before I became a guard I lived under a bridge in Deep Harbor. I was thinking of the people there. Hungry, cold, trying to survive. This food would save their lives.”

Ahmed translated, and Farhad gazed at me for a long moment, then spoke.

“He says,” Ahmed translated, “that you are strangely tender-hearted for a killer of assassins. And that if more of us were like you, the world would be a better place.”

I rubbed my short hair with one hand. “I don’t know.”

The Imam said something, and Ahmed translated: “Those people under the bridge, Allah sees them. He knows them. Society might forget them, but Allah does not. Their sabr will be rewarded beyond measure.”

I nodded at the Imam. I appreciated those words.

Farhad spoke, and again Ahmed translated: “He asks how you managed to kill the two men who attacked him.”

“I got lucky.”

Bao nearly choked on his food. “Lucky my ass. Ahmed, tell them how he killed nine men in the raid in Afghanistan and saved the entire rear of the caravan.”

“No, no.” I waved a hand at Ahmed. “Don’t tell that.”

Ahmed paused.

Karim looked at me. “Why not?”

“Because…” I made a helpless gesture. “I’m not proud of it. It just had to be done.”

Ahmed shrugged. “As you wish. I won’t tell.”

Farhad studied me for a moment, then asked another question.

Ahmed grinned. “He wants to know about your hair. If cutting it close and removing the eyebrows is a custom of your family.”

Bao burst out laughing.

“He got his hair burned off pulling two people out of a fire,” Karim said. “And then I whipped him.”

Ahmed and Farhad spoke for a minute. “He wants to know why you didn’t tell your captain sooner about the opium smokers.”

Everyone at our dinner setting was looking at me. Even Reza Mirza, who until then had shown about as much interest in me as he might have shown in a passing ant.

I swallowed. “One of them was a girl.”

Nobody said anything.

“I…” My face was getting hot. “I didn’t want her to get in trouble.”

Understanding appeared on Farhad’s face. He did not laugh, however. His gaze traveled across the hall toward the Five Star guards.

“That one?” Ahmed translated.

I did not look. It could only be Meilin or Weili, and I doubted Farhad would think it was Meilin. I nodded quickly.

Farhad smiled.

I stared down at my food and wished the ground would open and swallow me whole.

After that, the prince’s interest in me seemed to wane. He spoke extensively to Karim about the caravan, and promised to ensure the success of our mission. The caravan would remain here at the citadel. The top merchants in Herat would come to see our goods, and would bring samples of their own wares. Karim was extremely happy with this arrangement.

At one point he pointed to Shah, whose plate held the detritus of the huge quantity of food he had consumed. “Who’s the giant?” Farhad asked. “He might bankrupt me if you stay for too long.”

“Senior guard,” Ahmed told him. “He fought heroically when we were raided in Afghanistan. Killed many of the enemy.”

Farhad nodded thoughtfully.

Dessert was a sweet saffron rice pudding scattered with pistachios and scented lightly with rosewater, along with bowls of fresh grapes and sliced melon. I finally got my pistachios! If only I could take some for Belly. I took one spoonful of the pudding, then another, and wondered whether it would be terribly rude to ask for the entire bowl.

By the time I was done I thought I might pass out and sleep another three days, not from pain this time but from pleasure.

Nuts and fresh fruits were brought. I could not eat another bite, but I selected a beautiful green pear for Belly and put it in my pocket.

Not only were there no dancing girls at any point, but when the dessert trays were cleared, the Imam stood and gave a short sermon, in which he thanked Allah for guiding us to the worship of Him alone. He praised the shining example left to us by the Messenger of Allah, whose life exemplified sacrifice and courage. He spoke of Ali ibn Abi Talib, and his great love for Fatimah, and called for blessings upon them and their descendants.

It was a good speech, and I had no problem with any of it.

The Private Meeting

After that, we all began to rise and return to the caravan to sleep. The prince offered to give us quarters within the palace, but we were caravan guards. Our place was beside the wagons.

Before I could leave, however, the prince drew me and Karim aside, and asked us to accompany him to a private chamber. This seemed strange to me. Who would translate? Captain Karim’s Persian was passable but weak.

Saleh Azeri, the broad-shouldered chief of security, accompanied us, as did Reza Mirza. The latter had hardly spoken all evening, and I still had no idea who he was or why he was included in everything.

We were taken to a smaller room furnished with carpets and cushions, with a low table in the center. A servant brought a pot of tea and a plate of small round cookies, poured for each of us, then withdrew.

Farhad sat across from me, holding his cup in one hand. For what seemed like a very long time, he simply studied me. Finally he set down his cup. “The horse that threw me has been examined,” he said in perfect Mandarin Chinese. “It was poisoned.”

I stared at him. “You speak our language!”

Farhad smiled. “Apparently.”

“How?”

“When I was a boy, there was a Chinese Muslim at my father’s court. Master Ma. He was a scholar and physician. He remained with us for several years and became my tutor. He taught me your language, Eastern philosophy, and martial arts. But I have had few opportunities to speak the language since Master Ma returned home.”

Karim leaned forward. “No doubt the assassins hoped you would break your neck in the fall. And if not, you would offer a stationary target for the archers.”

Farhad nodded. “That is our analysis as well.” He looked at me. “What do you think, Darius?”

“Why did they do it? Do you have enemies?”

For some reason the prince burst out laughing. When he stopped, he merely said, “Yes.”

He drank some tea, then regarded me thoughtfully again. “I understood what they said about the raid, that you killed nine men. Why didn’t you want me to know?”

I fidgeted uncomfortably. “Because killing is not something to brag about.”

He nodded. “So. You can fight with a sword. Can you fight without one?”

The way of my people was false modesty. I was supposed to say, “No, I am useless, I have no skill.” But my father hadn’t been like that. My father had been proud, rough, and disdainful of weakness. Perhaps I took after him more than I liked to admit, because all I said was, “Yes.”

The Duel

Farhad raised his eyebrows. “Would you spar with me? A friendly match.”

I gaped in horror. “What? No!”

“What if I promise no repercussions if you win?”

I shook my head. “The thing is, Your Highness… You would not win.”

Karim was looking into his teacup, but I could see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Is that so?” Farhad said. “Such confidence.” He gestured toward Saleh Azeri. “What about my chief of security, then?”

Saleh was older than Karim, perhaps, and heavily built, with thick arms and shoulders. There was nothing soft about him. But there was something proud in the way he held himself, his back perfectly straight and his chin tilted slightly upward.

I hesitated. “I would not want to embarrass anyone.”

Farhad stared at me for half a heartbeat, then threw his head back and laughed.

Saleh’s face turned red.

“How about a soldier, then?” Farhad asked.

I considered this. “All I care about is the success of the caravan.”

The prince’s expression hardened. “Then it would behoove you to do as I wish.”

Karim patted my knee. “It’s okay.”

I nodded. “Very well. Although my stomach is still very full.”

“Preparing your excuses already, I see.” Farhad clapped his hands and called an order toward the door. A few minutes later a Persian soldier entered and bowed. He was perhaps thirty years old, and huge. He stood a head taller than me, and bulged with muscle. If I’d seen his footprints in the mud, I would have thought they belonged to a mythological creature.

Equally important, I could tell he was a skilled fighter. He had the efficient, graceful walk of a man who knew exactly where and how to place his feet. When Farhad explained what he wanted, the big soldier looked at me and smiled.

I smiled back, and it wasn’t false. I hadn’t had a genuinely exciting hand-to-hand duel since the tournament. At least, not one where the other guy wasn’t trying to kill me.

“Hold on,” Farhad said. He clapped his hands again and said something.

“He called for pudding,” Karim whispered to me.

Pudding? What on earth? Maybe all those muscles required hourly helpings of food.

Indeed, a large bowl of pudding was brought. Farhad gave a command, the bowl and a spoon were given to the soldier, and the man began to eat. We sat there like brainless grinning Buddhas and watched as the man ate the entire dessert.

“There,” Farhad said. “Now both your stomachs are full. Level playing field.”

We went to another part of the palace, where there was a large empty room with a polished wooden floor. Saleh spoke briefly to the soldier, who removed his outer garment and sword. I took off my horn and jacket and handed them to Karim. As an afterthought, I removed the pear from my trousers pocket. “Hold this too.”

The soldier and I faced one another. Farhad clapped his hands.

The Persian leaped forward as if he had wings, and came at me with a punch as fast as the beak of a heron when it snatches a fish from the river. I would not have thought such a big man could move so fast. His fists and feet came in powerful combinations.

But he was limited. His style of striking – at least so far – consisted of closed-fist punches and kicks, nothing more. Furthermore, his attacks were sequential. I was more versatile. I could hurt a man with my elbows, knees, forehead, fingers – even my shoulders. And because my empty hand fighting was based on the movement of the sword, I flowed from one technique into another without pause.

I could have finished it quickly. Instead I passed up opportunities to counter. I didn’t know how far I was expected to go. I wanted to see what level of force the soldier would bring to bear.

It was as if I had learned nothing from my duel with Meilin, for the man realized that I was holding back. His eyes tightened and his face flushed. He launched a kick at my stomach and I dropped an elbow to block, but at the last second he turned his hip and altered the trajectory of the kick, bringing his foot around and into the side of my head.

It was like being clubbed. I saw stars, and I stumbled. I heard Karim say something, but I didn’t know what.

So that was what we were doing. A not-so-friendly match. Okay.

The soldier held back, smiling triumphantly, perhaps thinking that the match was over.

He was wrong. I straightened up, took a deep breath, and fell into River Flow. My shoulders relaxed, and my arms were as light and loose as the wind. My feet were planted firmly on the ground, but ready to dart or leap. I did not see the soldier’s face anymore. I only saw shoulders, hips, knees… Pivot points, and targets.

He stepped forward and threw another kick, but this time I drove it sideways with the heel of my palm, then with the same hand flowed into a backfist to his nose. His head snapped back. I followed with an elbow to the sternum that would have collapsed most men.

He took one step backward. Blood trickled from his nose. He wiped it away and grinned.

Alright then. He’s a tough one.

The man launched himself into the air and threw a switch kick, where he faked with one leg then fired the other. I barely managed to slip to the side as the huge foot whizzed past my ear. I countered with a hard punch to his liver, sinking my weight and putting everything I had into it.

It was like punching a wall. The soldier gave a little grunt, then stood up straight.

He was simply too big. I could keep hitting him, but sooner or later one of those enormous fists was going to find me. There were some things, however, that muscle could not protect. No matter how big a man was, his brain needed blood.

I slipped inside his next punch, slid one arm beneath his armpit and wrapped it around his neck. I cinched my hands, and before he understood what I was doing, I had locked the arm triangle choke around his neck and shoulder.

The soldier stood up straight, which lifted me right up off the ground. Then the lunatic proceeded to charge across the room with me hanging on. He probably intended to smash me into the wall. Feet dangling, I maintained the choke and used the soldier’s movement to tighten it, eliminating the gaps. Just before we hit the wall, I swung my legs around to the side, taking myself out of the way. The soldier crashed into the wall himself. The man fell and I followed him down, tightening the hold further and driving my weight into his neck. This was crocodile style, not one of my primary styles but something my father had practiced occasionally. The soldier clawed at my arm, twisted violently, then went limp.

I released him and stood, then walked back to stand in front of the prince. I was still in River Flow, and I spoke almost dreamily.

“Crocodile smothers its prey.”

Saleh shot to his feet and hurried over. He knelt beside the soldier, put two fingers against his neck, then glared at me and growled something in Persian.

The prince was staring at the unconscious soldier. “That man,” he said in Mandarin, “is the best fighter in the division. He is a combat trainer.”

I looked down at the soldier. “Yes… He’s not bad.”

Farhad stared at me.

The security chief removed his weapons and threw them to the ground, then gave me a beckoning gesture with his hands. His intent was obvious. He wanted to fight.

In River Flow, nothing troubled me, and I felt no fear. I looked to Farhad. “Please tell the honorable Chief that he is a strong and capable man, but I was trained to fight from the time I could walk. I can see a man lift a teacup, and know his ability relative to mine. I will fight him if he wishes, but I will win.”

Farhad gazed at me incredulously. He translated.

The soldier on the floor was coming to. The man sat up and rubbed his eyes as if he’d just awakened from a beautiful sleep. Chief Azeri saluted the prince, snatched up his belongings, then departed without a word.

The Same Family

We returned to the carpeted meeting room and sat. Farhad poured himself another cup of tea.

“Lee Darius. Tell me about your family.”

It impressed me that he knew to say my names in the proper order. But I hesitated in answering his question. What was my family? I didn’t know where to start.

“Your father and mother,” Farhad clarified. “Brothers and sisters.”

“Oh. My mother died when I was young. My father joined the army and never returned. I have no siblings.”

“What of your father’s family?”

“A respectable Hui Muslim family. My aunt and her husband own a large safflower farm.”

He nodded. “Farming is the lifeblood of any nation. And your mother’s family?”

“The Shahs. No offense.” I knew that Shah meant king in Persian.

Farhad smiled. “No relation to the famous Shahs of the Five Star Trading Company, I imagine?”

“Yes. The very same.”

Farhad’s eyes narrowed. “And you are, what… A distant cousin?”

I shook my head slowly. “Shah Zheng, master of Five Star, is my grandfather.”

Farhad leaned back against the wall. “I don’t understand. Your status is very high. Why are you a caravan guard?”

“The Shahs didn’t know I existed until a year ago. I don’t think they know what to do with me.”

His eyebrows went up. “Such situations can be perilous. Believe me, I know. Any insights, Captain Karim?”

Karim looked at the ground and shifted uncomfortably in his place.

“What?” I demanded.

He cleared his throat. “I am not a Shah family insider, understand. But I know Shah Suliman fairly well. There is a possibility… I mean, this is speculation. But there is a possibility that you could be in danger when we return home.”

I frowned. “What do you mean? From whom?”

Karim pursed his lips. “From the Shahs. That’s all I can say. I don’t know any more, truly.”

I remembered something. “Zihan Ma never took me into Starling for Jum’ah. He always left me behind. He only ever took me to Jum’ah in Deep Harbor.”

Karim gave the tiniest nod.

Farhad broke in. “If I may. Darius, what do you inherit from your mother?”

I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. I have no idea.” I knew how childish I must sound. I had never given much thought to this question before. I remembered Shah Suliman telling me that I should go back to the farm and forget everything. But I never understood his intentions.

“Then I suggest you find out.”

The adhaan for Ishaa’ sounded from somewhere in the palace.

“We’ll pray right here,” the prince said.

I needed to perform wudu’, and was shown the way to a chamber with a stone basin and a flow of water that poured constantly from the mouth of a stone peacock.

The five of us prayed with the mysterious Reza Mirza as imam. He recited Surat Al-Insan, and his voice was soft and melodious. His recitation of the Quran was the first time I’d heard him speak.

The Offer

After salat we sat once again. The prince looked at Reza and tilted his head questioningly. Reza nodded.

“I would like to make you an offer,” the prince said.

I waited.

“I want you to remain here in Herat and join my personal guard. You will be well paid. A tutor will teach you Persian. You will be trained in personal protection protocols and techniques. You will be an employee, not a mawla. You can leave anytime you wish. But I think you will find the experience extremely rewarding.”

I stared at him. I realized my mouth was open, and I shut it.

Karim cleared his throat to speak, but Farhad held up a hand to forestall him. “I know he is a trusted employee. I will compensate you in exchange for releasing him from his contract.”

“I don’t know what to say, Your Highness,” I managed.

Farhad dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “You may cease the ‘Your Highness’ formalism in private. In any case, only Allah is the Most High. And speak your mind. I value directness.”

I took a breath. “Why me?”

Farhad seemed surprised by the question. “You saved my life.”

“I didn’t even know who you were.”

“Precisely. I have hundreds of men who will defend me because I am a prince,” Farhad said. “You ran toward two armed assassins when I was merely a stranger who had fallen from his horse. You had nothing to gain.”

I rubbed my chin, still baffled. “But I’m sixteen years old, I’m Chinese, and I’m a caravan guard.”

“You will grow older. As for being Chinese, I consider that an advantage. You have no family here. No tribe, clan, old alliances. No Persian noble whispering in your ear. If I give you an order, I need not wonder whose interests you are serving.”

“As for being a caravan guard,” he continued, “you have demonstrated extreme physical aptitude and courage. There is something else. This man whipped you.” The prince indicated Karim. “Yet here you sit with him, and I sense no resentment. Only respect. I like that.”

I pulled my head back in alarm.

“Not that I would whip you!” The prince waved a hand. “I’m just saying, I value that kind of… Well, I don’t know. It just seems very mature.”

“Loyalty,” Reza said softly. Aside from his recitation in salat, it was the first word I’d heard him speak. “Loyalty is everything. All else can be taught or paid for. But loyalty must come from the heart, and must be freely given. Loyalty is the beginning and the end of service. Nothing matters more.”

“Yes!” Farhad smiled and sat back against the cushions. “Loyalty. Oh, and one more thing. You are Sunni.”

“I don’t understand why that matters.”

“Herat is not Isfahan. Nor are the lands beyond it. Many of the people in the eastern part of the empire are Sunni. Afghans, Uzbeks, merchants from Central Asia, tribes whose loyalty to Persia has never been simple. For too long, men in authority in my country have treated some of these people like enemies. There have been… brutalities against the Sunni population. Kandahar is a particularly bad case in point. As a result, the Afghans are always on the edge of rebellion.” He held up a finger. “I am completely against these inequalities. If a man pays his taxes, obeys the law and does not take up arms against us, why should I turn him into an enemy because he folds his hands when he prays?”

This was interesting, but I still did not see what it had to do with me.

Farhad set his cup down. “I need Sunni Muslims in my service. Not as ornaments. Not so I can point to them and boast of my tolerance. If I promise a Sunni village that its masjid will be protected, they hear the promise of a Safavid prince. If they see honorable Sunni Muslims serving beside me, perhaps they will believe what I say.”

“It seems to me,” Karim said, “that doing what you say will cause them to believe what you say.”

Farhad gave him an annoyed look. “True enough, but it’s not always so simple.” He tapped his teacup with one manicured fingernail. “There are other problems. Governors who collect more than the treasury ever sees. Soldiers who wait months for their pay. Officers appointed because of their fathers rather than their abilities. Villages squeezed until the people have nothing left, then everyone is astonished when those people rebel.”

“Corruption,” Karim commented. “There’s plenty of it back home as well.”

“You’re a prince,” I said. “Can’t you just order it?”

Farhad laughed softly. There was no amusement in it. “That is what people who have never been princes imagine. There are powerful people who oppose my ideas.”

I thought of the poisoned horse. “The people who tried to kill you.”

Farhad nodded.

“Do you know who they are?” Karim asked.

“That is not a matter to be discussed with outsiders, Captain.”

“I’m an outsider,” I pointed out.

“If you entered my service, you would not be. What do you say?”

I chewed my lip. The prince’s offer was astonishing. It painted a picture of a life I could never have imagined. Persia was beautiful. What Farhad wanted to accomplish seemed good. I could learn a new language, see wondrous places, and, apparently, be paid well.

“Can I speak to my Captain in private?”

“Of course.” The prince stood. “I have a few matters to tend to anyway.” He and Reza departed.

Your Friend, and Your Captain

I turned to Karim. “What should I do?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“I’m asking your opinion.”

Karim rubbed his beard. “If you are asking me as a friend, I would tell you that this is an extraordinary opportunity. You would learn Persian, make powerful connections and receive training that few men from our homeland could obtain. Ten years from now, you might return home a wealthy man. It’s the break of a lifetime.”

I nodded. That sounded good. “But?”

Karim looked at me. “If you are asking Captain Karim of the Five Star Trading Company, then my answer is different.”

“What is it?”

“I need you.”

I tipped my head back. I had not expected that.

“We have lost men,” Karim said. “We have lost two wagons, and we still have thousands of li ahead of us. You are one of the best fighters I have. More importantly, you see things other men don’t. You make mistakes, sometimes stupid ones, but when everything goes wrong, you are the man I want there.”

I stared at him.

Karim sighed. “That’s it. As your friend, I advise you to take the prince’s offer. As your captain, I want you on the caravan.”

No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

“You need me?”

Karim frowned. “I just said so.”

“I know. I wanted to hear it again.”

“Don’t be annoying.”

Far Away

We sat in silence, drinking tea and eating biscuits with pistachios. Yet another reason to stay in Persia. Pistachios! But somewhere in my mind I saw Far Away asleep in a patch of sunlight. Was he dreaming of me? Did he miss me? I wondered if he had ever caught a fish in the stream behind the property. Could cats catch fish?

“What are you thinking about?” Farhad asked.

I nearly jumped. I hadn’t noticed his return. He and Reza sat in front of us.

“I’m thinking about my cat back home. I miss him.”

Farhad stared at me. “I offer you the world, and you’re thinking about your pet cat? I don’t know whether to laugh, or be offended.”

I tipped my head to one side. “He followed me. He ran away on the journey to my uncle’s farm. I traveled many days without him. Yet somehow he followed me. He showed up in the middle of the night, almost dead, and I nursed him back to health.”

The prince raised a palm questioningly. “And?”

“Loyalty,” Reza Mirza said. “The boy speaks of loyalty.”

I nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right. You, sir -” I nodded at Reza – “said that loyalty is the beginning and the end. Well, I am loyal to Five Star. More specifically, I am loyal to this man.” I looked at Captain Karim. “I am loyal to Memdooh, Kuangren, Gulnur, Meilin, and even Longwei who resents me. I am loyal to Deng Weili, who toyed with me. I am loyal to Hakim Yusuf, Corporal Bao, and Corporal Jian who died in front of me, and whose horn I wear around my neck.” I lifted the horn for Farhad to see. “I am loyal to my horse Belly, who has saved my life three times, and that is not an exaggeration. Maybe I’m an idiot. I wonder sometimes. But I came this far with all of them, through snow, fire and blood, and I will return home with them. After that, I do not know.”

My breath was heavy, and my heart full of emotion. My eyes flicked from one man to the next. Karim was watching me, and I could almost have sworn that he had a tear in the corner of one eye.

As for Farhad, his face broke into a wide grin.

“I see,” he said, “that I did not estimate your value highly enough. Well.” He rubbed his hands together. “There is nothing more to say. However, I still owe you, for you saved my life. If I cannot compensate you with the job of your dreams, then I will give you something else.”

The Prince’s Ring

Farhad reached inside his robe and drew out a silver chain that hung around his neck. A large, glittering ring dangled from the end. He slipped the chain over his head and held the ring out on his palm.

It was silver, set with a huge, deep red stone, surrounded by a row of smaller green stones. There was writing engraved on the silver band, but it was Persian and I could not read it.

“This belonged to my great-grandfather,” Farhad said. “He had these words engraved upon it, and they became the motto of our branch of the family. Justice is the foundation of kingship. It passed from him to my grandfather, then to my father and to me.”

I stared at the ring. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Obviously not. Hold out your hand.”

I did so, and he set the ring on my open palm. It was warm with his body heat. “It’s so heavy,” I said, and studied it closely. “Now I can tell my friends I held a prince’s ring.” I extended my hand to return it.

“No, Darius. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours.”

I blinked several times. I was stunned.

I knew what I was supposed to say. I should refuse. I should tell him that such a gift was too valuable, that saving his life had been my duty before Allah, that I could not possibly accept a treasure that had belonged to his family for generations.

But I wanted it. Not for what it was worth, but simply because I had never possessed anything so lovely.

I made a token attempt to refuse. “I can’t. It must be worth a fortune.”

“It’s not.”

I was confused. “Really?”

“It’s not worth a fortune, because it has no price. How can you put a price on a symbol that represents generations of continuity, service, dedication, and yes, power? How can you put a price on a token that will open doors anywhere in the world that my family is known and honored?”

Farhad reached out and closed my fingers around the ring. I could hear the sound of my breath in my own ears.

“Thank you seems an inadequate thing to say,” I told him.

“No more inadequate than me thanking you for saving my life.”

I hung the chain around my neck and slipped the ring into my tunic. It felt strange against my skin. I imagined that I could feel it beating like a tiny heart, whispering to me of the great opportunity I had given up, and the dangers that – I was sure – still lay ahead.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 28 – Death In District Nine

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

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

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

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The post Far Away [Part 27] – The Prince’s Ring appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Dr. Samaiya Mushtaq’s book “A Beautiful Patience: A Memoir of Marriage, Motherhood, and a Mission to Gaza” pulls readers into the story of her husband, Dr. Mahmoud Sabha, who went to Gaza on multiple medical missions – and takes us along on her own journey, struggling with fear, guilt, motherhood, and more.

In this episode, Dr. Samaiya shares the behind-the-scenes of the book process, from what it took to process her husband’s experiences in Gaza from shared anecdotes to the page, to her own personal struggles being home, and what we can do to support the ongoing genocide in Gaza and the rest of Palestine.

When Samaiya Mushtaq’s husband considers joining a medical mission in Gaza, she must face the quiet terror of what it might cost them. As a physician, she understands his calling—but as a mother of two young children, she fears the unthinkable. What if he doesn’t come back? In the face of uncertainty, they choose faith over fear: Mahmoud will go to Gaza; Samaiya will hold their lives together at home.

In Gaza, Mahmoud removes shrapnel, helps amputate limbs, and finds a colony of maggots in a wound that isn’t healing properly. In Texas, Samaiya nurses their infant at night and spends her mornings wrangling their toddler before signing in to work, only to do it all again in the evening. Each night, Samaiya and Mahmoud connect through messages and calls. While he tells her about his patients and asks about the kids, she can hear air strikes in the background.

At once devastating and inspiring, A Beautiful Patience is a poignant memoir that explores our responsibility to our families and fellow humans, the power of trusting in God, and different ways to persist and resist against all odds.

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The post [Podcast] Faith, Motherhood, and the Call to Gaza | Dr. Samaiya Mushtaq appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Three thousand people were killed in the September 2001 attacks on the United States, and in total several million have been killed during the wars waged by the United States since, which have long since exceeded any reasonable scale of retribution or security against militants whose profile they only enhanced. Though the hundreds of thousands of lives lost were not exclusively at the United States’ hands, in most cases American involvement triggered the conflicts and in virtually every case American involvement only exacerbated and militarized them further. Internationally, not only in non-Muslim countries, notions of Islam beyond the shifting conveniences of officialdom were securitized: treated as a potential threat rather than a religion.

The September 2001 attacks cemented into policy an international, borderless conflict that has yet to end. (Photo: Encyclopaedia Britannica)

Geopolitical Shifts behind America’s War in the Muslim World

Much of this stemmed from the 1990s, where in the aftermath of the Cold War the United States increasingly saw “radical Islam” as a threat. Ironically, what was then branded “radical Islam” had been key to winning the Cold War: forty years ago, and fifteen years before 2001, the United States was enthusiastically supporting an internationalized Muslim jihad against the Soviets in Afghanistan, one that helped bleed out its Cold War rival.

Nor was this the only case of American cooperation with Muslims during the Cold War. Apart from its now well-known alliance with the Gulf states and what might be termed “conservative” governments such as Turkiye, Jordan, and Pakistan, the United States also backed Muslim militants against China’s new communist regime in the 1950s. It also tended to take a less hostile stance toward Muslim independence than, for example, the colonial European powers Britain and France. Often in order to preempt a real or imagined Soviet threat, the United States took a more nuanced position on the independence of Algeria and Indonesia, the unity of Nigeria, and even provided key diplomatic support to Egypt against a British-French-Israeli axis in the 1956 war, seventy years ago this autumn. This may be weighed against American subversion of Iranian, Iraqi, and Indonesian governments that were seen as leftwing (with only occasional accuracy): in these cases, however, American anticommunism often originally had the support of many Muslim circles who shared an antipathy toward communists. For all its many Cold War sins, the United States was not pointedly anti-Muslim in the way of many other powers.

It was in the 1970s and especially 1980s, by which time it established a major command in the region to cover for Israel’s destructive war in Lebanon, that the United States began to adopt traces of the Islamophobic hostility we know today. The link was not coincidental: much of American Islamophobia stems from pro-Israel agitation, whether from Christian, Jewish, or even atheist sources, that portrayed Islam as an “other” against whom Israel served as an emblem of Western civilization: the neoconservatives who would launch the war on terror hailed from these circles. Robert Kagan, a rare member of these circles who has since partially recanted, noted a link between American Islamophobia and support for Israel, but got it backward: it was not organic pressure from American Islamophobia that drove Washington to back Israel, as he presumed; but rather pro-Israel propaganda, often linked to the far-right Likud party that still dominates Tel Aviv, that incited Islamophobia within the United States.

Even as it began to earmark “radical Islam” as a threat in the 1990s – leading to hostile policies against a growing range of Muslim countries and actors, including former Cold War allies – the United States was still not averse to occasional cooperation with Muslims where it saw fit; its stance toward the Bosnian genocide was, if self-serving, preferable to that of European powers despite a considerable effort by Israel’s lobbyists to vilify Bosnia, and its definitely self-serving campaign in Kosovo did help countless Kosovars. But these were exceptions to a growing rule of anti-Islam hostility that crystallized in September 2001.

Recently released politician Lindsey Graham was one of countless influential figures who sought to keep the United States at perpetual war with the Muslim world (Photo: CommonDreams)

International Islamophobia

Despite official claims that the war targeted “radical Islam” rather than Islam per se, American military, security, and policy officialdom often internalized or projected flatly anti-Muslim attitudes and propaganda from various circles, perhaps none so influential as pro-Israel, often rightwing but also in many cases “liberal hawk” circles who gleefully exported Tel Aviv’s prejudices about Arabs and Muslims to the United States, and – given enormous American international influence – beyond.

Even after the dust cleared in some of these wars, the process of securitization and systematic polarization has continued not only abroad but, like a boomerang, in Western countries. Politicians like Lindsay Graham and Ted Cruz; oligarchs like Peter Thiel, Elon Musk, and Larry Ellison; leading officials like Pete Hegseth and Sebastian Gorka; public blowhards like Douglas Murray and Mark Levin; and rabblerousers like Stephen “Tommy Robinson” Yaxley-Lennon and Laura Loomer have all drunk at the well of the “War on Terror”: many of them cut their teeth there. They have frequently traded in propaganda, outright lies, and incitement in league with anti-Muslim circles in other countries, from India and Myanmar to Ethiopia and South Sudan, from Russia and China to France and Britain. While these Islamophobic circles may not agree on everything else, their talking points and deliberate myopia are often so coordinated on (invariably inaccurate) minutiae, often copy-pasting the same phrases and expressions to repurpose to their own context, that there is no doubt as to a wide-scale exchange of material over the course of decades.

Western Muslims Found Wanting

With the eager support of the abovementioned circles, the war on terror at its peak targeted not only Muslim countries but also the “homeland” in the United States, and in the case of its European allies their own turfs. To varying degrees, without exception it produced a hyperactive, paranoid scrutiny of Muslim citizenry of whom proof of loyalty and condemnation of others was frequently demanded. Among other things, this has produced an unfortunately reactionary, defensive mechanism among many Western Muslims, who by and large have failed to take advantage of their relatively privileged position in the heart of the world’s most influential country.

Having lived myself in the West during much of the War on Terror’s peak, it would be hard to overstate the blanket hostility, usually pushed top-down by government or media circles and then diffused into society, that targeted Muslims during the period. Some went so far as to turn opportunistic “native informant” and pander to the worst paranoia against Muslims as a career move. The result was either outright victimization, or at least intimidation into sullen silence. While some Muslims did push back, whether in defending their religion against a barrage of calumnies or in undermining the hypocrisy of claims of Muslim aggression at a time when the United States itself was invading numerous Muslim countries, they have been far too few and, with a couple of exceptions, far too disorganized to make the sort of difference that was required.

When an Islamophobe supporting a blatantly contrived war or a genocide abroad challenges a Muslim to condemn his enemies or spouts lies about Muslims, the response has often stayed along the defensive lines divorced from the political context of the attack. The Iraq war, for instance, was roundly condemned internationally as a grave violation of every conceivable law, conducted on blatantly false premises, and is now recognized widely by the American public as a historic mistake. Some of the insurgency were undoubtedly brutes; many, however, were recognized even by their opponents as honorable men with legitimate grievances such as the destruction of their homes or the abuse of their families. At the time, however, American Muslims would frequently be challenged about “Islamic terrorism” in Iraq, and rather than situate it within the context of a brutal foreign invasion respond with a mealy-mouthed response along the lines of “Islam means peace and condemns terrorism”. In that confused response a key point, the idea that resistance to an illegal invasion automatically means terrorism, is already conceded. Yet such cases abounded, and have in fact continue, in one country or other, to the current day.

When the current genocide by Israel in Palestine began, far too many Muslims in the West instinctively moved to condemn blatantly invented Palestinian crimes rather than adequately confront the impending, openly advertised bloodbath. In fairness, Western Muslims’ objections might not have made much difference: the reservations of even Western public officials years later have not eroded Tel Aviv’s sadistic sense of impunity. But when it came to action that cleared their consciences from the oncoming annihilation of Palestine, it was left to the younger generation, often students on campuses, to demonstrate, under severe institutional and personal pressure, before the pressure told and the protest too flickered out, like a lonely candle in a gale.

The wreckage in the Gaza Strip, one of many regions pounded under the label of counterterrorism and the site of a genocide (Photo: The Japan Times)

The Failure of Muslim Governments

In one sense it is hard to blame Muslims in the West when so many Muslim governments speedily, often either in panic or for their own self-serving purposes, yielded the same ground. While the Iraq invasion was widely condemned, few Muslim governments offered anything more. Iraq at least made a splash; the war in Afghanistan drew almost no official condemnation despite the numerous fallacies and abuses that led to its eventual defeat, and the war in Somalia, swiftly catching up to Afghanistan as America’s longest war, is barely even noticed.

Worse yet was the tendency of many Muslim countries to copy-paste the securitization of Islam and repurpose it to their own purposes, usually to fight off some Muslim dissident and almost invariably, from the Sahel to Waziristan, leading to prolonged wars without clear direction or strategy. Terrorism is a serious problem wherever it occurs, but its definition has been so expanded that virtually any armed rebel is framed as a terrorist: some Muslim regimes go further and label any dissident, let alone militant, as a “khariji” in an attempt to give their sweeping securitization Islamic legitimacy. The fact that khawarij exist and the fact that a war on terror exists has been taken by too many Muslim countries as an excuse to paint every dissident as a rebel, every rebel as a terrorist, and every terrorist as a khariji.

When Muslim governments so easily accept securitization, it is hardly surprising that non-Muslim governments with Muslim opponents have done so. Perhaps the most notorious case is, of course, the genocide of Palestinians, wherein Israel has put on full, appallingly bloody, blast the most sadistic, destructive tunes of the same war on terror it cheerled. Whether Rohingya by Myanmar, Uyghurs by China, Chechens by Russia, Somalis by Ethiopia, or Kashmiris by India, anti-Muslim securitization has justified incredibly oppressive, bloody crackdowns under the generic label of countering terrorism.

A Forever War

So amorphous and adaptable is the label of fighting terrorism that to some extent the excuse is no longer needed. The networks, rhetorical tools, and propaganda produced and sharpened over the war on terror have taken on a life of their own, and are periodically cranked up by bad-faith actors for distinct purposes: whether by assaults on Somalis in the United States or Israeli provocateurs’ unpunished assaults on Muslims in the Netherlands. They have long since gone from mere security circles into distinct culture wars with serious human consequences: Hindutva fascists in India and white supremacists in Britain will fire the same unsubstantiated accusations and invective at Muslims, even using one another’s lies as proof that these are internationally shared concerns, and proceed onto lynchings and riots.

Meanwhile, the war on terror’s steady erasure of international boundaries and norms in the service of a securitization of Islam and a steady militarization has seen most of the Middle East erupt in flames, with the United States, faithful handmaiden to brutal Israeli misadventures across the region, once again up to its knees in a costly, unpopular, and destructive war. Twenty-five years after it began, and long after the lessons should have been learnt, the “war on terror” is as destructive and as confused as it ever has been. Most people are aware of that. Millions have paid the cost. But nobody will bell the cat.

Related:

The Continuing Relevance of the Bosnian Genocide

Fallujah Aflame: Remembering the Bloodiest Battle of the Iraq War

Rising to the Moment: What Muslim American Activists Today can Learn from Successful Community Movements during the Bosnian Genocide

The post Long War Without End: A Quarter-Century Since The War On Terror appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

“What do you want for your mahr?” is a question that piques dread in some, glee in others. Mothers advise their daughters to hide money from their husbands. Men wonder if it’s really true that “her money is her money, but your money is her money.” There are a lot of uncomfortable money conversations around marriage… so where do we even start?

That’s where Sannah Khan and Sinan Siyech of AML Finance come in! In this episode, they talk us through difficult money conversations, the fear behind 50k mahrs, and how we need to rethink our approach to marriage and money. And as a perk, check out their Pre-Nikah Money Matters Guide here (use code MM10 for 10% off!), and you can purchase their “My Situationship with Money” conversation cards here (use the code NEWDROP for £5 off).

Related:

When Tawakkul Isn’t Enough: Why Financial Silence Hurts Marriages

[Podcast] Muslim Money Matters: Do You Know How to Halal Hustle? | Adam Taufique

The post [Podcast] 50k Mahr, Hiding Money, & Who Pays for the Wedding? | AML Finance appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The Makkah Agreement has received significant attention in the Muslim world, where many have hinted at a coming Muslim NATO alliance. For many, this stands in contrast to the United Arab Emirates’ increasing military cooperation with Israel since the so-called Abraham Accords in 2020. The standing assumption is that these three Muslim countries will have more in common and will be likelier to come to each other’s support.

The agreement was tested immediately with the Houthis’ attack on the Saudi Jizan refinery, yet neither Pakistan nor Turkiye came to Riyadh’s aid to defend it. Ironically, when the UAE was bombed by Iran, Israel sent its Iron Dome battery over in secrecy. “Israel did the UAE a great favor during the war,” a US official told Middle East Eye on condition of anonymity.

This shows two contrasts between these two agreements. The Makkah Agreement was signed in Makkah after Pakistan’s prime minister Shehbaz Sharif and military commander Asim Munir performed Umrah. Turkiye’s Tayyip Erdogan arrived on the holy day of Jumaah, where the visiting leaders joined Saudi crown prince Mohammad bin Salman in prayer facing the Kaabah, the holiest site for Muslims, and finalizing the agreement. Meanwhile the agreements between the UAE and Israel are kept hidden and are not openly discussed, even though Israel in practice cooperated more with the UAE during the 2026 war than Turkiye and Pakistan did for Saudi Arabia.

This should bring us to an important point: where does the strength of the Makkah Agreement actually lie?

The Makkah Agreement brings with it a powerful symbolism of Muslim unity and promise of a better, more united future. There are reports that Bangladesh may join, and Turkiye has pushed for the inclusion of Egypt. This is one of the few initiatives that promises to connect the Muslim world. However, it is still an agreement to defend nation-states, and their interests, a defensive agreement and not necessarily one that promotes Islam and unity of Muslims above all else. It is sometimes difficult to distinguish between what promotes Islam and when Islamic symbolism is used to color what in reality is nation-state securing their interests.

Nevertheless, most would agree that this is a step in the right direction. But what would it take to develop this step further?

Turkish president Tayyip Erdogan, Saudi crown prince Mohammad bin Salman, and Pakistani prime minister Shehbaz Sharif mark the Makkah Accord (Photo: Turkiye Today).

All pacts and agreements between nations are ultimately operated by people. These people need to understand each other’s cultures, languages, and sensitivities. To promote this, we need first and foremost to promote studies across these countries.

The European Union, for instance, is held together by a number of initiatives, including the Erasmus+ program, which many university students know promotes exchanges for European student. The objective of the program is to provide transnational learning, cooperation and inclusions across European univerisities. This creates connections, cultural understanding, and love for the countries that aims to lead their future leaders toward strategic partnerships.

The Muslim world has been given the concept of the “Ummah” through the religion of Islam and this has created love and solidarity between average Muslims: in everyday conversations between Muslims we hear sympathy when they hear about issues in other Muslim countries, but little has been done to get to know one another across national borders. There were around 5000 Pakistani students in Turkiye in 2025, and most Pakistanis in Saudi Arabia were foreign workers, not students that engage intellectually with the culture, politics, and universities. By comparison, there were 48,000 in the United Kingdom and 10,000 in Germany alone. Meanwhile, Turkiye is actually the largest non-EU participant in the Erasmus+ program, and Saudi Arabia also sends many students to the United States, United Kingdom, and other Western countries.

When all these countries send their best minds to the West, what kind of cultural exchange is taking place between these countries? As somebody who has studied in Turkiye and Jordan, with a Pakistani background and a Norwegian upbringing, I can say that Norwegian people who have a large Pakistani community among them know more about Pakistan and its culture than many of the people I met in Jordan and Turkiye, even though the latter share the same faith and cultural closeness. Real interactions and exposure are needed in order to foster bonds.

To build on the soft power of the Makkah Agreement, person to person initiatives must first and foremost be established so as to create stronger bonds between different Muslim nations and cultures. One method could be increased educational mobility between member countries, so that culture, language, and other nuances are shared with those who will, in the future, be responsible for maintaining these agreements.

Related:

Exploring the Legacy of the Ummah: Why Turkiye is the Ideal Destination for a Family Vacation

Why Pakistan must not Side with the Saudi Bloc against Qatar

Necmettin Erbakan: Father of the Turkish Evolution

The post What The Makkah Agreement Is Missing appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

* * *

Questions

My fellow guards helped me onto Belly. I was grateful for it. My back was burning again, my calf throbbed where the poisoned arrow had gone through it, and the man who had tried to strangle me had apparently bruised every part of me that the Afghans and Captain Karim had neglected.

We rode back toward the wagons, and before we had even reached them, men began coming out from beneath the awnings. Someone must have carried word ahead of us, because by the time I dismounted, with two guards helping me down, half the caravan seemed to know that something had happened.

Memdooh was among the first to reach me. “Darius! We heard you killed two men!”

“Are you alright?” Meilin demanded. She took one look at my face and answered her own question. “No. Obviously not.”

I studied her for a moment. Her arm was still in a sling, but aside from that she was her usual sturdy, slightly chubby, oddly athletic self. In any other context, with a different set of clothing, she could have passed for a farm wife. So this woman had offered to take half my lashes…

I must have been smiling, because Meilin said, “Why are you grinning like an idiot?”

“Who were the men?” Memdooh asked. “Why did they attack you?”

“They didn’t. I attacked them.”

Memdooh blinked. “Of course you did.”

Before I could explain, Corporal Bao pushed his way through the gathering crowd. A number of the other guards came with him, all non-Muslims. They surrounded me closely, pushing my Muslim friends to the rear. There was something strange about the expectant way they looked at me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. They seemed unusually interested.

“Let him speak,” Bao said.

The men fell silent.

I looked around at them. They looked back at me.

My entire body hurt. I was hot, exhausted, hungry, and missing the pistachios I could have had, and I had just learned that I was somehow in Persia and had apparently saved the son of the Shahanshah from two assassins.

I looked around at the men and raised my hands questioningly. “What?”

Bao smiled encouragingly. “Nothing. You must have questions.”

Questions… Yes. I did. “How is Gulnur?”

Three or four men immediately shouted in triumph. “Yes!” – “I told you!” – “Hand it over.” Several others groaned.

I stared at them. “What?” I said again, feeling indeed like the idiot that Meilin called me.

“Nothing,” Bao said quickly. “Gulnur is much better. Hakim Yusuf says she will live.”

“Alhamdulillah. That’s great.” Then I remembered what Captain Karim had told me. “I can’t believe we’re in Persia. How long was I asleep?”

This produced a much larger reaction. Men shouted, groaned and slapped one another on the back. One man cursed. Another raised both hands victoriously. Some men handed coins to others.

“Three days!” Bao said.

I forgot the strange behavior immediately. “Three days? SubhanAllah.” I ran my hand over my close-cropped hair. It was a weird sensation, but not unpleasant. Three days? I remembered drinking the medicine Hakim Yusuf had given me, then lying back and thinking that I wasn’t sleepy. After that there was nothing. That opium was powerful stuff. I resolved at that moment that I would avoid taking that drug again except in the most extreme circumstances.

I looked at Belly. He stood beside me with his head down, looking as tired as I felt. “Who took care of Belly?”

This caused an uproar. “That counts!” – “No, it doesn’t!” – “He asked about the horse!” – “He asked who took care of the horse. That’s not the same thing.” – “Of course it’s the same thing!” – “No! Asking if Belly is well is asking about Belly.”

Belly had raised his head at the sound of his name. I stroked his neck, feeling the pain in my back as I did so. He’d saved my life, not for the first time. If I ever went home, this horse was going with me. I would never part from him.

Corporal Bao raised both hands. “Quiet! Quiet!”

I frowned. “What are you all arguing about?” The sun and the exhaustion were starting to get to me. I noticed that my hands were trembling.

“Longwei, Meilin and Memdooh took turns caring for him,” Bao said. “He gave them trouble.”

“He gives everyone trouble,” someone said.

Thirty To One

Another non-Muslim guard pushed forward. “Darius, is there anything else you want to ask?”

A second man immediately shouted, “Don’t prompt him!”

“I’m not prompting him!”

“Let him speak!” Bao shouted again, and they all fell silent, staring at me like ravens watching a dying fox. I was beginning to think the opium had damaged my mind.

A guard near the back called, “What about Weili?”

Men shouted in protest, and Bao again yelled for them to shut up. They quieted, although several continued glaring at the man who had mentioned Weili.

I shook my head. “I don’t care about that.”

A tremendous groan rose from half the men, while the other half erupted in cheers. They turned to each other in huddles, passing something back and forth.

“What is wrong with all of you?” I demanded.

“Wait!” Memdooh cried.

He forced his way through the crowd and seized my arm, then apparently remembered that I was wounded and let go. “Captain Karim!” he shouted. “Captain! Come here!”

Karim had been speaking with Ahmed a short distance away, ignoring this whole hubbub. He turned.

“What?”

“Darius wants to talk to you.”

I frowned. “I do?”

Karim looked annoyed, but he came over as the guards parted to let him through.

I hadn’t intended to speak to him just then, but there was in fact something I had been wondering about.

“I heard you only gave me seven lashes.”

The crowd became utterly silent.

Karim studied me. “That’s right.”

“You sentenced me to ten.”

“I am aware.”

“I want the other three.”

For one heartbeat there was no reaction at all.

Then Memdooh went insane. “YEEEEESSSSSS!” He jumped into the air, both fists raised. “THIRTY TO ONE! I WON! THIRTY TO ONE!”

The crowd exploded. – “No!” – “You’ve got to be kidding me!” – “Who would ask for three more lashes?” – “I told you he was crazy!”

Memdooh was dancing now, his recently wounded leg seemingly forgotten. “Thirty to one! Pay me! All of you, pay me!”

I stared at him as men began reaching reluctantly into their purses. I was becoming genuinely angry now. I felt that everyone was playing some kind of ugly trick on me, and I was not in the mood at all.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded. “Memdooh?”

The young poet held out both hands as coins began dropping into them. “I won!”

“Won what?”

“The betting pool.”

Who Bet On Me Dying?

I looked at Corporal Bao, but he only shrugged.

I gave Memdooh a look that, if looks were iron, would kill. “You were betting on me?”

“On what you would say when you woke up,” Memdooh explained happily. Men continued to drop coins into his hands. “How long were you asleep, that was one. Gulnur was another. Belly. Weili. How’s Meilin’s arm? How is Memdooh’s leg? Did we recover anything from the Silk Store? One man bet you would ask for food.”

“I didn’t say half of those things.”

“Yeah, those people lost.” He began counting his coins.

“And you…” I swallowed hard. I could feel the anger growing in my chest, as hot as the sun above our heads. “You bet that I would ask Captain Karim for the other three lashes?”

Memdooh beamed. “Nobody else thought of it.”

I looked at Corporal Bao. “You organized this?”

For the first time he seemed to become aware of my rage. He held up a hand. “It was an innocent game.”

I stepped forward and seized Bao’s tunic with both hands. My fingers tightened and I brought my face close to his. I heard people saying, “Hey, whoa, no!”

“So you think my pain…” My breath was coming hard now, my nostrils wide. Corporal Bao was of Mongolian stock, and while short, his body was compact and powerful. Yet when he tried to pull away from me, he could not. As for me, all my pain had vanished. I felt all the muscles of my body working together, connected like links in a chain. My father used to say that we bring power up from the ground and transmit it through the legs, then the core, then the torso, and when we do this we become as immovable as a tree, or as irresistible as a charging elephant.

“Let me go!” Bao shouted, a note of panic in his voice.

I tightened my grip. “You think my pain, and injuries, and KILLING TWO MEN are amusing?” I brought my mouth to his ear and whispered. “Who bet on me dying? And who bet on me beating you to a pulp?”

Ahmed stepped close, as if the three of us were confidantes sharing a secret. Yet when he spoke he said, “Memdooh?”

I shot him a confused glance.

“Yes?” Memdooh replied.

“Gambling is haram, is it not? Darius, do you remember the ayah?”

I looked at Ahmed again puzzled. My grip on Bao loosened. “Al-Maidah,” I answered. “You taught me that when people were gambling on the archery contest. ‘O believers! Intoxicants, gambling, idols, and drawing lots for decisions are all evil of Satan’s handiwork. So shun them so you may be successful.’”

“No no no,” Memdooh protested. “This is not gambling.”

Ahmed, still looking at me, raised an eyebrow. “Indeed it is. Right, Darius?”

“I guess.”

“It’s a game,” Memdooh insisted.

“Did you wager money on an outcome you could not know or control?”

Memdooh looked down at the coins in his hands. His shoulders slumped.

Ahmed spread his hands. “That is haram money.”

“What’s the matter with all of you?” Hakim Yusuf came storming through the crowd, as men hastily moved out of his way. “Can’t you see this boy is wounded and exhausted? Go on with your work!”

The crowd scattered. Yusuf took one look at me and paused. “Darius,” he said softly. “You know who I am, right?”

I gave him a faint smile. “Yes.”

“We’re friends, right?”

“Right.”

“Let go of Corporal Bao.”

“Oh.” I opened my hands. “Of course.” I met Bao’s shaken gaze, then patted his chest. “Sorry.”

Suddenly my entire body sagged, and Hakim Yusuf caught me as my legs turned to jelly. Captain Karim rushed forward and helped him lead me to the medical wagon. Behind us, I heard Memdooh complain to Ahmed.

“What am I supposed to do with the money?”

“That,” Ahmed replied, “is an excellent question.”

No Opium

Hakim Yusuf washed the blood from my face and neck first, including some that had somehow gotten into my ear. Most of it belonged to the assassin Belly had bitten, though some was mine. Then he unwound the bandages from my back and made a sound through his teeth.

“What?”

“You’re supposed to let your wounds heal, Darius, not open them up again. Maybe you thought I needed more practice.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, I’m just teasing. I know you did what you had to do.”

Several of the lash wounds had torn open during the fight. Yusuf washed them carefully with warm water, then disinfected them with one of his medicines. That hurt badly enough that I gripped the sides of the cot and clenched my teeth. When he finished cleaning them, he prepared his needle and thread.

“No opium,” I said. “I don’t want to sleep another three days. That stuff is crazy.”

He smiled. “No worries. I can numb the skin locally.”

The anesthetic did its job and I lay still while he stitched me up. The wagon was hot despite the open flaps, and outside I could hear the ordinary sounds of the caravan: men calling to one another, horses snorting, someone hammering on wood.

When Yusuf finished, he spread ointment over the wounds and wrapped my torso in fresh bandages. Then he brought me a bowl of rice and lamb cooked until both were soft, along with bread and water. I ate everything.

A Heron In a Rice Paddy

I lay down and closed my eyes, and when I opened them again it was later afternoon, and Deng Weili was sitting on a stool beside my cot. For a moment I thought I was dreaming. Weili looked terrible. Her skin was pale and damp, there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her hair was tied back carelessly. She seemed thinner than I remembered. Her entire left cheek was bandaged. She was watching me.

“Darius.”

I turned my head away and looked at Hakim Yusuf’s back. He was puttering about at his mixing table, pretending to ignore us.

“I heard what happened. I heard you killed two men, and that they almost killed you.”

I said nothing.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice trembled. “For everything. Most of all for letting you take my lashes. Karim hurt you so bad.” With this last comment, she began to weep.

I looked at her then, but I did not speak.

“I’ve been sick,” Weili went on, drying her eyes with her sleeve. “Meilin has been taking care of me.”

I looked away again.

“Do you remember,” Weili said softly, leaning in close to me, “what Arslan said before he left?

Just the mention of Arsan’s name made me grimace. I was so tired of all this.

“He said,” Weili continued, “that he wasn’t the one I really loved. He said…” She hesitated. “He said I loved you. I told him he was wrong, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I -”

I raised my hand to stop her.

“Darius, please. I just want to -”

I raised my hand again and turned my face toward the wall.

“It’s because I’m ugly now,” she said bitterly. “My face is scarred. You’re just another shallow man. You only pursued me when I was beautiful.”

I turned back to her and took a deep breath. I had resolved never to speak to her again, but I realized now that certain things had to be said.

“You are not ugly and never could be,” I said. “Once, outside of Deep Harbor, I saw a tall heron standing in a rice paddy. It was so graceful, so pure. To me, you are more beautiful than that. I wouldn’t care if your whole cheek was melted off. To me, you will always be a tiger prowling through the forest, or a bright star in the sky. I remember the first time I saw you, at the archery competition in Deep Harbor, the way you stood so tall and confidently, and fired your arrows fast and true like a hero from a legend. I knew you were special even then.” I paused and licked my lips. “I’m sorry you lost your parents. I’m sorry that life has not been kind to you. I know you need someone you can count on. I thought I could be that person for you. But you used me, and when Arslan appeared you threw me away. Do you remember all the ugly names you called me? A creep, a jealous child, a rat. I don’t know what you think love is, Deng Weili, but that is not it. If I were to take you back, and love you once more, I could never trust you again. No. I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I don’t want to speak to you again, except what the job requires. You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”

Weili looked stricken. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Slowly her face shaped itself into a controlled, hopeful smile.

“You look very cute with your hair short like that, did you know that?”

I said nothing. She took a breath, tried again:

“I don’t know why I ever thought you were too young for me. There isn’t a man here who has half your courage, except for the Captain of course.”

I said nothing.

Her composure broke. Her lower lip trembled. “Give me another chance,” she pleaded. “I can be everything you ever dreamed of. It won’t be like before, it will be so much more.”

“No.”

She slapped me, then pulled her hand back and gasped, shocked at what she had done.

Yusuf shot to his feet. “Weili! Get out.”

She stood, took a few steps toward the entrance, then turned. “Darius, I’m sorry.” A moment later she was gone.

The Way of Things

I woke to twilight and the smell of something cooking outside.

Hakim Yusuf was nowhere to be seen. I sat up carefully and found a small bowl of dates on his table. I ate four of them, took two for Belly, drank some water, then dressed and gathered my things. I had spent enough time in the medical wagon.

Outside, the last traces of red had faded from the western sky. Most of the men were gathering for supper around the campfires, but I went to the water wagon. I made wudu, found a clean patch of ground and prayed Maghreb alone. When I was done, I found Belly tied with the other horses. He greeted me with a low nicker and pushed his nose against my chest.

“Yes, I know. Everyone is an idiot except you.”

He seemed to agree. I fed him the dates and he chewed them happily. Then I found his brush and spent some time working the dust from his coat. Belly stood quietly, occasionally turning his head to watch me. I brushed his neck, his shoulders and his broad back, then combed the tangles from his mane. It was something simple to do, and I liked the steady movement of my hand and the warmth of him beneath it.

When I finished, I took my pack and bedroll to the rear of the caravan, away from the campfires. I spread the bedroll on the ground and sat with my legs stretched out in front of me. Night had settled over the plain. Away from the fires the sky was crowded with stars, thousands upon thousands of them, more than I could ever see in Deep Harbor. My eyes wandered among them, picking out the constellations I knew.

I heard footsteps behind me, and glanced back. Captain Karim stood a few paces away.

“Why aren’t you eating supper with the men?”

“I don’t know.”

He studied me for a moment, then came over and sat beside me.

“A courier came from Herat. We are to dine at the palace tomorrow evening. I have to say, I’m happy about this. Prince Farhad could turn out to be a powerful benefactor. The bosses back home will be pleased. And we owe it to you.”

“I killed two men.”

“But it doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, does it? You feel like you should be bothered, but you’re not.”

I chewed on my lip. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“That’s the way of things.”

Then Karim said, “You put your hands on Corporal Bao today. You violated Five Star regulations and the proper conduct between a guard and his superior officer. Under any other circumstances, you would be disciplined.”

I gave a bitter laugh. “You want to give me those other three lashes now?”

“No.”

I looked at him. Was there anything in the world more solid than Captain Karim? A mountain could not be more dependable. He wasn’t friendly or kind, nor was he cruel. But you always knew where you stood with him. If my father was at one end of my life’s rope, and Zihan Ma at the other, then Karim was the firm earth on which I stood.

“What I want and expect,” he said, “is for you to apologize to Bao. Publicly.”

“Okay.”

“I mean right now. He’s sitting by the large campfire with the others.”

I looked toward the distant campfire. I could see the silhouettes of men gathered around it, eating and talking. “I just got comfortable.”

Karim grinned. “You’re a caravan guard. If you wanted comfort, you picked the wrong career.”

“So I’m learning.”

He stood. “Come on.”

Crispy Rice

Most of the guards were around the campfire, sitting on blankets, crates and even saddles, eating supper from bowls and plates. Conversation quieted as we approached. Weili was there, on the opposite side of the fire from where I stood. I ignored her.

Corporal Bao was sitting on an overturned bucket. He looked up at me, then at Karim.

I stopped in front of him, aware of everyone’s eyes upon me. I spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Corporal Bao, I’m very sorry. I had no right to grab you or threaten you. You are my superior officer. I apologize.” I wasn’t just going through the motions. I knew what I had done was unacceptable.

Bao stood. “And I apologize to you. I organized the betting pool. I thought it would be fun, but I didn’t stop to think about how it would feel to you.”

I nodded. “Alright.” We shook hands, and that was the end of it. I turned to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Bao called. “Sit down. Meilin saved a plate for you.”

Meilin was sitting on a folded blanket beside Longwei. She held up a wooden plate piled with rice, roasted lamb, flatbread and vegetables, along with a small bowl of yogurt. My stomach immediately reminded me that a few dates were not supper. I was ravenously hungry.

“Scoot over,” Meilin told Longwei.

Longwei muttered something under his breath, but moved.

I sat between them and accepted the plate. There was plenty of lamb, the rice had been spooned from the part of the pot where it had browned and crisped on the bottom, and there were no cooked carrots.

I looked at Meilin. “How did you know what I like?”

“Because we know you, Darius Lee.” She smiled. “You’re one of us. Even if you look like an adolescent kid now.”

Before I could stop her, she ran a hand playfully over my short hair.

“Hey!”

Everyone laughed.

I looked across the fire at Bao. “You didn’t bet on whether I’d stay for dinner, did you?”

That brought another round of laughter.

Bao raised both hands. “No more betting.”

“Let me tell you all,” Longwei said, “about the time I found myself rappelling down a cliff in Tibet to escape twenty angry Buddhist warrior-monks.”

I began to eat, and after that I made no more conversation, for the hot food going into my stomach was like a gift and a homecoming. From time to time I looked up, and every time I saw Weili watching me. I did not meet her eyes.

Folly and Death

Around the time I was taking the last few bites, someone said, “I can’t believe we’re in Persia. We made it.”

“You know we’ll get major bonuses when we get home,” someone else said.

“Don’t count your gold before you’ve struck it.” This was Meilin.

“I’m going to open a theater,” Memdooh said. “This caravan thing is too intense.”

“A bakery in Deep Harbor for me,” Weili said, and her voice was quiet, devoid of her usual confidence.

“Enough!” Longwei’s voice carried, even when he did not raise it. Everyone fell silent. “Enough of this moronic prattling. Don’t you all understand that there will be nothing to go home to? Take what you have earned so far and stay here, or go anywhere else.”

“What do you mean?” Meilin demanded. “What are you saying?”

“The war,” Longwei said. “The war, the war. Don’t you understand? The invaders who now ravage our country cannot be stopped. They had turned east when we left. They will gut the great cities of the southeast, then return to the heartland. Everywhere they go they slaughter the people and burn everything to the ground. They are giants, some of them twice our size. Their armor and weapons are better than ours. Everything we have attempted against them has failed. Some of you know this.”

“It’s true,” Weili said softly. “They burned my village and killed my parents.”

“Mine too,” someone else said. “They threw the bodies on a pyre.”

“We are a great nation,” Bao protested. “We have never been conquered.”

“Have you fought them?” Longwei asked.

Bao shook his head. “Five Star guards get exemptions.”

“I have. I served two years. I was one of the few who survived my tour of duty. I have seen battle trenches so full of dead men you could march right across. I have come face to face with the invaders. One of them did this to me.” He stood and pulled up his tunic, and the men gasped at the livid scar that ran from just beneath his neck to the bottom of his generous belly. “I pushed my own intestines back into my body. They have a champion.” His voice fell, and men learned forward to hear. “He is the size of a giant. He fights with a sword in one hand and an axe in the other, and no armor. Before every engagement he steps forward. The invaders’ commander issues a challenge. Beat the giant, and the invaders will abandon our country and return home. No one has been able to so much as wound him. He has killed three hundred men in duels. His name is White Wolf.”

The men repeated this name in fearful whispers.

“Darius could beat him,” Weili said.

Longwei threw his head back and laughed, and the sound was like a slap to the face. “Darius is a puppy with sharp teeth. He has been lucky so far. White Wolf would tear him to pieces as a lion tears the flesh from -”

Karim stepped out in front of Longwei. I had not seen him arrive. “Stop,” he said. “Your words are foul, and your call to abandon the caravan is tantamount to betrayal.”

I saw that Meilin had moved away from Longwei and was staring at him in horror.

“To resist the invaders is folly and death,” Longwei went on. His face was twisted into a bitter mask, and his words came quickly now. “Our emperor should surrender and submit our land to their rule. But he loves his power and wealth, and because of this, our nation will fall, and from sea to sea we will become bones beneath their feet. To return to our land is folly and ruin. Our future is one of red suns and redder soil, stained with the blood of -”

Karim drew his sword and put it to Longwei’s neck. “One more word,” he said, “and I swear, I will end your life right now.” He looked around. “Everyone go to your wagons and bedrolls, and forget the words of Shaytan you heard spoken here, for his job is to cast despair into the hearts of men. Do not believe him, for Shaytan is a liar, and has always been so, from the moment he tricked Adam and Hawa into eating from the tree.”

The men dispersed, as did I. Two conflicting thoughts battled in my head. One, called up by Longwei’s words, was the image of my father, his body rotting in a trench. The other was Karim’s final statement: Shaytan is a liar, and has always been so.

The two thoughts chased each other in circles in my mind, until Karim’s words won. Longwei’s tirade faded away. Lying on my bedroll without a sleeping bag – it was not needed in this warm climate – I watched the stars wheeling above me. I thought of Zihan Ma, Lee Ayi, Haaris, Far Away and Bao Bao. They would not be slaughtered, and the farm would not be burned. Allah would not let that happen, and – by the will of Allah – neither would I.

Herat

The next morning, not long after we had eaten, a troop of Persian cavalry appeared on the road. There were twenty of them, all in matching uniforms, carrying long spears and curved swords. Their officer spoke with Captain Karim and Ahmed, and we learned that Prince Farhad had sent them to escort us into Herat whenever we were ready.

The banquet was not until evening, but Karim saw no reason to wait. For the first time since the raid in Afghanistan, I put on my Five Star uniform. It felt strange after so many days in loose clothing and bandages, and the sword belt pressed uncomfortably against my back. Still, when I looked down at myself I felt more like a caravan guard again and less like one of Hakim Yusuf’s patients.

We were on the road before noon.

I rode Belly near the front with Karim, Ahmed and the other guards, while the Persian cavalry surrounded the caravan. I noticed that Meilin no longer rode with Longwei, and other guards seemed to keep their distance from him as well.

As we approached Herat, the traffic grew heavier. Farmers drove carts piled with melons, grapes and vegetables. Merchants passed us with laden donkeys and camels. There were Persians, Afghans, Uzbeks and people I could not identify, speaking languages I had never heard. Some men wore enormous turbans, others tall caps or fur hats, and the women seemed to favor bright colors and flowing garments.

Then we passed through the city gate, and I forgot about the people.

Herat was green.

After the barren mountains and dry plains we had crossed, I could hardly believe it. Water ran through channels beside the streets. Trees rose above garden walls, and vines spilled over them. Here and there I caught glimpses through open gates of courtyards filled with flowers and fruit trees. Beyond the rooftops rose slender minarets and great domes covered in colored tile.

A little farther on we passed a masjid grander than any building I had seen since Samarkand. Four impossibly tall minarets rose above the surrounding rooftops, and the entrance was framed by an enormous pointed arch covered in blue and turquoise tiles, patterned with flowers, stars and flowing Arabic calligraphy. Seeing it, my mouth fell open in astonishment. Beyond it I could glimpse a broad courtyard surrounded by arched galleries, with a row of fountains at its center for wudu.

It was astounding to me that men and women could build such things. I remembered the ayah in Surat Al-Baqarah where Allah tells the angels that He will create a khalifah for the earth:

˹Remember˺ when your Lord said to the angels, “I am going to place a khalifah on earth.” They asked ˹Allah˺, “Will You place in it someone who will spread corruption there and shed blood while we glorify Your praises and proclaim Your holiness?” Allah responded, “I know what you do not know.”

I could almost imagine that one of things Allah knew, and that the angels did not know, was this: “You cannot imagine what they will build.”

Neither could I, until I had embarked on this journey. I found myself staring back at the masjid until the wagons carried me out of sight.

The streets were so crowded that the caravan slowed to a crawl. People stopped to stare at us. I supposed forty-eight enormous Chinese wagons guarded by Chinese soldiers were not something the people of Herat saw every day.

There were camels everywhere. I had seen a few since leaving China, but here they seemed almost as ordinary as horses. Some traveled in long strings, laden with bales and baskets, moving through the crowds with their long necks held disdainfully above everyone else. Every time we passed them, I stared like a foreigner in a strange land, which of course I was.

Something struck me: this city did not stink. Deep Harbor had stunk of garbage, sewage, body odor, mud and salt. Yet this crowded city, which was hot and therefore should have smelled even worse, actually carried scents of jasmine and spice. And yes, camels too. That was unavoidable.

We followed the Persian cavalry deeper into the city until the streets widened and the crowds thinned. Ahead of us rose a massive fortified complex of high walls and towers.

I looked at Ahmed. “Is that the palace?”

He nodded. “The citadel.”

That reminded me of something.

“Who’s going to guard the wagons while we’re eating?”

“I don’t know. We’ll figure something out.”

I frowned. Five Star had already lost one wagon to the Afghans and most of the Silk Store to the fire. What remained belonged to the company, and I couldn’t imagine Captain Karim leaving it sitting outside the palace while every guard went inside to eat roasted lamb with a prince.

A Little Naivete

The citadel gates opened.

Our Persian escort rode through as a gate guard waved us in.

The first Five Star wagon followed them, and the guard kept on waving.

I stared. “We’re all going in?”

Apparently we were.

One by one, all forty-eight wagons passed beneath the gates. The horses, the drivers, the servants, the guards, everyone. Persian soldiers directed us into an enormous outer courtyard where there was room for the entire caravan. More soldiers stood along the walls and at the gates.

I laughed. So that was who was going to guard the wagons.

The palace itself rose beyond another set of walls. It was unlike anything I had seen in China. Arched entrances were covered in intricate blue and turquoise tile, and beyond them I could glimpse shaded courtyards, gardens and fountains. Everything seemed designed on a scale meant to remind a visitor that whoever lived here possessed more wealth and power than he did.

Memdooh rode up beside me, staring.

“I’m definitely going to write a poem about this.”

“That’s great,” I said, “but it still won’t be as good as:

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

Memdooh turned slowly toward me, then he gave me an appreciative smile. “That was a good one, huh? It seems a bit… naive now.”

I shrugged. “Maybe a little naivete is a good thing.”

Happy Wagon

Once the caravan was settled in the courtyard, the drivers unharnessed the teams and led the horses away to be watered and fed. Persian servants showed us where we could draw water, and Captain Karim immediately tasked men to inspect and repair the wagons.

Hakim Yusuf found me while I was helping unsaddle Belly.

“Come to the medical wagon when you’re finished. I want to look at your back and change the bandages.”

“I will. There’s something I want to do first.”

I made my way through the rows of wagons until I found the Happy Wagon. I recognized it immediately by the flowers painted along its sides. I knocked on the wooden frame.

Kuangren pulled back the curtain. His face brightened when he saw me.

“Darius! Come in.”

I removed my boots and climbed carefully inside.

I had never been inside the Happy Wagon before, and I was surprised by what they had made of it. A colorful carpet covered the floorboards, and cushions were arranged along the walls for sitting. Their belongings were neatly stored in baskets and wooden boxes, and little touches here and there made the wagon seem less like something used to haul goods across the world and more like a tiny home.

Gulnur sat propped against several cushions. I remember the first time I’d seen this daughter of a Kyrgyz chieftain. Her entire tribe had ridden hard out of their city, in pursuit of Kuangren the scoundrel, who had apparently dishonored her. She’d carried a bow on her back and a knife at her hip, and she had seemed like a falcon, fierce and uncontrollable.

Since she’d been wounded at the raid, however, she had lost a great deal of weight. Her face was thin and her hands looked almost delicate, but when she saw me she smiled.

“Darius.”

I sat across from her. “How are you?”

“Better every day. Hakim Yusuf says I will recover completely. I only need time.”

“Alhamdulillah for that. I’m so glad.”

Kuangren sat beside her, cross-legged, and took her hand in his. He hardly resembled the drunken, carousing rebel who had caused Captain Karim so many problems in the early days of the journey. He was quiet now. In his other hand he held a sabha, moving the beads slowly through his fingers.

“Do you remember,” I said to Kuangren, “when Karim threatened to nail your boots to a wagon with your feet inside them?”

He laughed, but before he could say anything, Gulnur patted him on the head, the way one would do to a child. “No need for that anymore.”

Kuangren put on a mask of pretend anger. “You’d better stop that, woman, or you’ll see just how wild I can still be.”

“By all means,” she replied. “Show me.”

I cleared my throat uncomfortably. “I wanted to tell you both something,” I said. “Both of you fought extraordinarily well in the raid. You held your position even when the Afghans swarmed us. You did exactly what needed to be done. I am sorry how it turned out.”

Kuangren looked at me for a long moment.

“We were only following your commands, Darius,” he said. “And we would do the same today, tomorrow or next year. There is nothing to apologize for.”

My eyes suddenly filled with tears. I rubbed them quickly with the heels of my hands and stood.

“I have to go. Hakim Yusuf wants to change my bandages.”

Gulnur smiled. “Go. Before he comes looking for you.”

I paused at the doorway. “We call this the Happy Wagon, did you know that?”

Kuangren smiled. “It is well named.”

I studied him, remembering how he’d been forced under threat of death to convert to Islam and marry Gulnur.

“No regrets?”

Before he could speak, Gulnur reached out and covered her husband’s mouth with one hand.

“Goodbye, Darius.”

* * *

Read Part 27 – The Prince’s Ring

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 26] – Shaytan Is A Liar appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

The Muslim Book Awards (MBA) is an annual celebration of Muslim voices in publishing, from mainstream publishers, Islamic publishers, or authors who self-publish. Hosted by MuslimMatters.org and featuring a panel of well-known Muslimah reviewers from Bookstagram, the MBA takes in nominations before finally judging the entries and announcing the winners on MuslimMatters!

MuslimMatters is proud to host the Muslim Book Awards.

What is Muslim Bookstagram?

Muslim Bookstagram is the unofficial name for the niche space on Instagram where Muslim book lovers reside! It is a vibrant community of readers, writers, librarians, bookstore owners, and all those who are bookishly inclined.

Book reviews are shared, new and old publications highlighted, and deep discussions about publishing, representation, and storytelling are had. Muslim Bookstagram has become both an amazing space for valuable conversations and a resource for Muslim parents, as well as anyone else interested in diverse, representative literature.

Who are the judges of the MBA 2026?

Amire Hoxha is a mechanical drafter by trade, a reader by heart, and the author of “AMAR’S FAJR REWARD“! Her meticulous nature helps her identify quality and assess books. Aside from her online presence, Amire has established, curated and grown her local masjid library for 7 years. Her background in Islamic knowledge has made her an authentic resource for Muslim parents wanting authentic Islamic books. Follow her on Instagram: @muslimkidsbooknook

Shifa Saltagi Safadi is the author of SISTERS ALONE (Putnam 2026), KAREEM BETWEEN (Putnam 2024), the AMINA BANANA chapter book series (Putnam 2025), the picture book THE GIFT OF EID (Holiday House 2025), and indie Muslim published SPELL IT LIKE SAMAR (2019), HEAVEN AT MAMA’S FEET (2021) and PEPPERONI, PITCHES, AND OTHER PROBLEMS (2021). Shifa shares her favorite Muslim books on her online instagram bookblog @shifasaltagisafadi and is an ELA middle school teacher, so books are basically her whole life! Shifa was born in Syria and immigrated to the US with her parents as a young girl. She lives near Chicago (GO BEARS!) with her husband and four children.

Kirin Nabi is a former Islamic School Librarian who now stewards three little free libraries, and posts about children’s and YA books by Muslim authors or books containing Muslim characters at www.islamicschoollibrarian.com. Find her on Instagram: @islamicschoollibrarian

Zainab bint Younus is a Canadian Muslim woman who writes on Muslim women’s issues, gender-related injustice in the Muslim community, and Muslim women in Islamic history. She also provides in-depth book reviews of Muslamic literature on her Instagram account, covering everything from YA and adult fiction, academic treatises, and Islamic religious literature. You can find her on Instagram (@bintyounus) and support her via Patreon.

Follow the Muslim Book Reviewers on Instagram to keep up with the latest news about the Awards, catch up on previous finalists and winners, and a peek at what the judges have in store!

Calling all Muslim authors, illustrators, and publishers!

Submissions are restricted to Muslim authors, illustrators, and publishers. If you’ve written, illustrated, or published a Muslim-books-awards-worthy book, we want to know about it!

Application Requirements:

Written by a Muslim author

A Muslim story: The story must involve clearly Muslim characters and at least some reference to elements of Islam.

Islamically appropriate: The story must not promote beliefs or actions that are clearly prohibited by Islam or go against Islamic values. This does NOT mean that characters don’t experience serious conflicts or go through challenges; it does mean that the final message should not be something that promotes unIslamic beliefs or actions (e.g. shirky beliefs, promoting LBGTQ relationships, praising zina).

Published between January 2026-December 2026.

English language: Unfortunately, we do not have the resources or ability to include non-English-language books.

Must be prepared to provide complimentary physical copies to all 4 judges. (One mailed out to each judge at their personal address. No special mailing requests will be permitted.)

 No AI, whether used for writing or illustrations.

Additional notes:

• Applicants must be prepared to provide sample pages upon email request.
• There is no cost to apply besides mailing the books.
• Books that are mailed are considered property of Judges henceforth. No special requests at where to donate afterwards will be allowed. In addition, books submitted are for awards purposes only and not for reviewing. It is up to each judge’s discretion if they would like to review the books on their seperate platforms at any time.
• All books submitted for the awards will be carefully considered and fairly judged by the group as a whole, which may mean that every judge may not read every single book.

Books that are NOT the right fit for submissions:

• Activity books
• Curriculum/ textbooks
• Ebooks
• AI books
• Books created with Canva Art

Submit Your Book!

Click here to submit your favorite Muslim publication of 2026 for the Muslim Book Awards!

Submissions will close on September 15, 2026, and winners will be announced in January 2027! There’s not much time, so hurry to submit your books today!

Related:

The Muslim Book Awards 2025 Winners

Muslim Book Awards 2025: Finalists

The post The Muslim Book Awards 2026 appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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

* * *

Vendor of Your Soul

My father sat across from me beside a campfire, sharpening a knife on a whetstone. Sparks rose into the darkness above us. He looked older than I remembered, with short hair that had gone entirely white.

“You look terrible, son.”

“I have killed many men.”

He shrugged. “So?” He speared a pear with his knife, and took a bite.

I stared. “I thought you were allergic to pears.”

He gave me a smile that raised goosebumps on my skin, and after a moment I realized it was because I had almost never seen him smile.

I gathered my thoughts. “I never wanted to kill anyone. I didn’t want to kill the blue-eyed man. He was Muslim.”

“So are you.”

I looked away. “I told him to stop. I called him brother. But he made me kill him. And my girl left me, and I saved her, and I got whipped anyway. I don’t want to be here anymore. I hate them.”

My father took another bite. “You know what I didn’t understand when I was alive?”

“What?”

He looked up, and there was a peacefulness in his gaze that I had never seen before. It made him look like a completely different person. Was this the father I could have had? A man who would have loved my mother and I, and treated us kindly? This thought nearly shattered my heart.

“I studied Islam, did you know that?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I had all the best tutors. Religion, poetry, martial arts, mathematics. But I was a rebel. There is a hadith, one of An-Nawawi’s forty. You may have heard it. The last part says, “The Quran is a proof either for you or against you. Every person starts his day as a vendor of his soul, either freeing it or causing its ruin.”

I nodded my head. “Zihan Ma taught me that one, but I don’t understand it.”

“Every day you wake up and you have a choice. Obey Allah or not. Be an agent of light, or an agent of darkness. Be a healer, caravan guard, painter, poet, blacksmith or robber. But sometimes the initial choice leads you to situations where you are compelled. Being a caravan guard means you must fight. Yet every day is a new sunrise. If you’re not happy with the choice you made, make a different one. The world is vast. I was a poor vendor of my soul. Be better than me.”

“I’m not better than you. You robbed people. You made merchants kneel in the dirt. I saw noblemen beg for their lives. But you never killed anyone.”

“I did later, as a soldier.”

I stared into the fire. “That’s different. You killed the invaders. You’re a better person than me.”

My father barked a laugh. “Not even in your dreams.” He took another bite of the pear, then stretched his arms languidly. Though his hair was white, his arms were well muscled. I flinched as a starling came flitting out of the darkness and landed on his shoulder.

Of course, I realized. This is a dream.

Nevertheless, here was my father sitting in front of me.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He smiled ruefully. “I was a drunk and a criminal. I neglected you on the best days, and beat you on the worst. You, on the other hand, have a heart as big as the empire. You are sweet and kind, and not afraid to follow your own path. You are the only good thing to come from my life.” His voice broke, and he covered his eyes with one hand. “I love you, Darius.”

My Hair!

I awoke to find my eyes brimming with tears.

Hakim Yusuf’s blurry face floated above me. Daylight filtered through the canvas roof of the medical wagon, and I could hear the familiar creak and rattle of wheels. We were moving. Hooves clopped against hard ground outside.

I was lying on my stomach. When I tried to move, pain tore across my back. I cried out and went rigid, gripping the blanket beneath me.

“Easy,” Yusuf said. “I’ll help you sit up.”

Just the act of sitting up made my vision go red with pain. My back hurt so much I could hardly breathe.

“Drink.” He brought a cup to my lips and I drank cautiously. The water was cool and sweet, but my throat seized and I immediately coughed, spraying half of it down my chin.

“Slowly,” Hakim Yusuf said. “The water is not going anywhere.”

My mouth tasted foul, like smoke and old medicine. My throat was still raw, though not as bad as before. I could smell herbs, sweat, vinegar and something bitter that I associated with Yusuf’s medicines. Beneath it all was the warm, dusty smell of the wagon itself.

I lifted my hand to push my bangs out of my eyes, as I typically did in the morning, and realized that I didn’t have any bangs. My hand shot to my head, and my eyes widened as I felt a scalp covered with close-cropped hair – little more than stubble.

My stomach dropped, and I felt like I might cry. “My hair! Hakim, what did you do to me?”

His expression was solemn. “Much of your hair was burnt off in the fire. I had to cut it all short to check for scalp burns.”

The fire. I had forgotten. Memory returned in pieces. Fire. Weili screaming. Arslan on the floor. Smoke so thick I could not breathe. Karim pacing before us with his hand on his sword. I remembered gripping the wheel of the Spice Market. The whip cutting me open. The smell of cassia, and the memory of my mother making a cupcake. Karim counting, Seven! Then nothing.

“I need to see what I look like.”

Yusuf brought a small handheld mirror, and held it before me. I gazed at my reflection mournfully, hardly recognizing the apparent child who gazed back.

“I look like I’m thirteen years old. Now Weili will really think -” I cut myself off, remembering that I no longer cared what Deng Weili thought.

I chewed my lip, remembering Weili’s burned face and pitiful weeping. I wanted to know how she was. I wanted to know if Yusuf had successfully treated her cheek, and if she was alright. Why wasn’t she here in the wagon? Where was she? I wanted to know many things, and I almost asked. But I remembered her professing her love for Arslan, and shouting that she needed him, even after he rejected her while I nearly died saving them both. In the end I held my tongue.

“Weili is going through opium withdrawal,” Yusuf said. “Meilin is caring for her. It is an agonizing process, and she must suffer through to the other side.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He shrugged. “Nevertheless.”

They All Hate Me

I sighed. “Did Karim finish the ten lashes?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Yusuf stared at me as if the answer should have been obvious. “You fell unconscious.”

“Karim said if I fell, he would tie me to the wheel.”

“He didn’t.”

I took a deep breath, let it out. “I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore. They all hate me.”

He put the cup to my lips again. “Drink again.”

I obeyed, more slowly this time.

“Did you hear what Meilin said before you were whipped?”

I thought, then shrugged. “Something about chopping off my foot?”

He laughed. “That was sarcasm. She requested to take half your lashes.”

“She did?” I was very surprised. Meilin of the barbed tongue? Meilin the hard case? Meilin, who’d beaten me black and blue with a wooden sword, wanted to share my punishment?

“Why would she do that?”

“Because people here care about you and admire you. Even the Captain. Otherwise he really would have tied you to the wheel and finished the ten.”

Not Your Father

I looked at Yusuf. I remembered being on my hands and knees in the snow, unable to stop coughing. I remembered his arms around me. I remembered him saying, I know it hurts. I’ll take care of you. I’m with you. Don’t be afraid.

The people of Five Star were my comrades. I fought beside them. Ate with them. Slept beside them. Some I liked, and some I did not. Maybe they hated me, maybe they admired me as Yusuf said. Captain Karim had trusted me with rank and responsibility, and I respected him, but then he’d whipped me. In my mind I understood the necessity, but it still galled me.

Yusuf was different. If I were weak, he would not despise me. If I failed, he would not turn away. When I killed, he did not glorify it. He wanted nothing from me except that I live and be well. He was perhaps the only true friend I’d ever had.

“You are nothing like my father,” I said.

He gave me a surprised look. “Sorry.”

I laughed, which caused my shoulders to move, which pulled on the skin on my back, and I followed the laugh with a groan. “Don’t be sorry. My father was not kind. Except in my dreams, where he’s apparently a great guy.”

“Maybe I’m more like your uncle, the healer.”

“No. Well, yes, in some ways. But he didn’t trust me.”

“Darius…” Yusuf sat on his stool and exhaled loudly. “You are… I can’t think of a good word. You are endowing me with qualities I do not possess. That’s normal, because I am a healer, I care for you. But that’s my job. I get paid for it. You could be a murderer of innocents, and if you were brought to me injured I would treat you. I’m not your father or your uncle, and because of that I don’t have to discipline you when you misbehave. I don’t have to argue when you make poor choices. I don’t have to decide whether to trust you or not. All of this makes me seem like the most kind, gentle, loving man in the world, when in reality I’m just your physician. For all you know, I’m a complete bastard in my personal life.”

I chewed roughly on my lip. “Why are you saying these things?”

“Because I don’t want you to compare your father or uncle to me and find them lacking. They carried responsibilities that I do not. I don’t know either one of them, but I am absolutely sure they both loved you, even if they made mistakes. As for me, don’t make me into something I’m not. I like you very much. You’re a good kid. You’re smart, brave and tough, and you’d make a great healer. But I’m your physician, Darius. Don’t ask me to replace your father or your uncle.”

These words hurt, but what could I say? What I said in the end was, “Okay.”

He sighed. “Let’s get some food in you.”

A Measured Dose

He brought me a small bowl of broth with bits of shredded meat and soft-cooked grain, and three dates. I had not realized how hungry I was until I smelled it. Yusuf fed me a few spoonfuls at a time. The broth was salty and rich, and might have been the finest thing I had ever tasted. After half the bowl, however, my stomach rebelled.

“No more.”

He nodded. “I would have stopped you anyway.”

As for the dates, I wrapped them in a cloth napkin and stuffed them into my trousers pocket to give to Belly later.

When Yusuf lowered me onto my stomach again, the movement pulled at the wounds across my back. I clenched my teeth and buried my face in the bedding until the pain subsided.

Yusuf watched me.“I can give you something for the pain.”

“What is it?”

He hesitated long enough to make me suspicious. “Opium.”

I raised my head. “No way. Are you crazy?”

“Darius -”

I made a slashing gesture and shouted, “No!” The sudden movement sent another sheet of pain across my back, and I gasped.

Yusuf regarded me with kind eyes. “Listen, please. It’s not the same thing Arslan was using. Yes, it’s the same plant. But he was cooking it over a lamp and smoking it for pleasure. I am giving you a measured dose as medicine. You are injured, you are in great pain, and your body needs rest.”

I said nothing.

Yusuf rested a hand on my arm.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I said softly. In spite of his words about being a bastard – which seemed silly – at that moment I trusted him more than anyone else in the world.

Hakim Yusuf measured the opium with great care, dissolving it into a little warm water before holding the cup to my lips.

“Not too fast.”

I drank. It was bitter, and I made a face.

Yusuf took the cup away. “Now sleep.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Wait.”

I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, the medicine wasn’t working, I must have a natural immunity or an especially strong constitution, maybe because I was a martial arts expert – but before I could formulate an argument, something changed. The pain in my back did not disappear all at once. Rather, it began to recede, flowing away from me like a tide. The throbbing in my leg went with it, followed by the ache in my burned hands and arms. A delicious tingling spread outward from my belly and chest, running through my veins like a warm river until it reached my fingertips and toes.

I sighed.

For the first time since the raid, nothing hurt.

My body sank into the bedding. I could hear the wheels turning and the mules plodding along, but the sounds were distant, as if the caravan were traveling away from me rather than carrying me with it.

So this was the feeling Arslan had been chasing.

The thought troubled me, but only for a moment.

Waves of Heat

When I opened my eyes again, I was hot.

Not merely warm. Hot. My skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, my mouth was so dry that my tongue seemed stuck to the inside of my cheek, and my bladder felt ready to burst.

I pushed myself upright and groaned as the wounds across my back pulled tight. The pain was still there, but it was nothing like the agony of the last time I had awakened. I sat for a moment with my head bowed, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

“Alhamdulillahil-ladhi ahyana ba‘da ma amatana wa ilayhin-nushur,” I muttered. All praise is due to Allah, who gave us life after He caused us to die, and to Him is the return.

Ahmed had taught me that. I said it every day upon awakening.

Passing my hands over my head, I discovered once again that my hair had been shorn. What an embarrassment. Although I had to admit that the feeling of the rough stubble beneath my palms was interesting.

The medical wagon was empty. Sunlight poured through the open rear flap. I was wearing nothing but my trousers and the bandages that encircled my torso. I filled a tin cup from the water jug and drank deeply. My hand was surprisingly steady.

I could not strap my dao across my back – it would hurt too much – so I put on a belt and hung the scabbard from my hip. Then I climbed barefoot from the wagon, and the sun struck me like an open furnace. What was this place? Why was it so hot?

I stopped with one hand on the wagon and squinted upward. The sky was a hard, brilliant blue, and the sun blazed almost directly overhead. I had known hot summer days in my homeland, but I had never felt heat like this. For one confused moment I wondered if I had actually died, and the prayer I had just recited had been more appropriate than I realized.

Was this the Day of Judgment?

I had read that on that Day the sun would be brought close over the heads of humankind, and people would sweat according to their deeds, some so deeply that they would nearly drown in it. I looked around half expecting to see the dead rising from their graves.

Instead I saw the Five Star caravan.

The wagons stood in a long line beside a dusty road, their canvas covers glowing white beneath the sun. Beyond the road stretched a field of tall brown grass, baked nearly golden. Something about this reminded me of my uncle’s safflower fields, even though the color was different. Waves of heat shimmered, making the distant landscape quiver as if I were seeing it through water. Far beyond that, impossibly, rose a range of great mountains with snow gleaming on their peaks. Hadn’t we just been in those mountains? I frowned, but no sensible thought came to my mind.

Our horses and mules grazed in the dry field, and perhaps thirty of the guards had gathered beneath several awnings. They were eating, talking and laughing, throwing dice, playing xiangqi, and – in one group – studying the tall, narrow cards used in the game of ma diao. Someone shouted at someone else, followed by a roar of laughter.

I needed to relieve myself rather urgently, so I went the other way.

An Awkward Gait

I slipped between two wagons and found myself looking across an entirely different landscape. Here the brown grass ended abruptly at a broad canal, and on the far side of the water stretched an immense field of green. Men on horseback were riding hard in the distance, racing back and forth across the field. Their shouts occasionally carried to me on the hot wind, along with the faint thunder of hooves.

I was alone on this side of the wagons.

Farther ahead, beyond the end of the caravan, a small grove of trees grew beside the canal. That would do for privacy.

I started toward the grove, moving as quickly as I could manage. This turned out to be more difficult than I had expected. My limbs felt like a collection of branches bound together with strips of cloth, each one functioning without consulting the others. My eyes were crusted with sleep, my gait was awkward, and my stomach felt like a yawning cavern. I could not remember the last time I had eaten.

The dust was hot beneath my bare feet. The canal beside me looked as cool as an autumn morning. I could imagine kneeling there, plunging my face into it and drinking until my stomach was full. But Hakim Yusuf had warned me more than once never to drink water that had not been boiled.

I trudged on toward the trees.

Two For You, One for Me

Something bumped me between the shoulder blades and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I spun, and found myself staring into the enormous brown eyes of a short, sturdy black horse with a white stripe down his forehead and back.

“Belly!”

I threw my arms around his neck and pressed my face against him. He stood patiently while I hugged him. I had not realized until that moment how badly I needed to see someone I loved.

He smelled different. There was something unfamiliar in his coat, a dry, dusty smell mixed with grass and some flower I could not identify. I buried my face in his mane and breathed it in.

“I missed you, buddy.”

Belly immediately began sniffing me. He pushed his nose into my trouser pocket.

“I don’t have anything.”

He snorted and nosed the pocket.

“There’s nothing there.” I shoved a hand into my pocket and encountered a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“Oh.”

I pulled it out. Three dates lay inside a cloth napkin, somewhat squashed but otherwise intact.

Belly snorted. I held out two dates and Belly swept them up with his lips and chewed noisily. A moment later he worked the pits to the front of his mouth and spat them into the dust.

I laughed, then ate the third date myself, upon which Belly stared at me balefully.

“What? You had two. I had one. That’s fair.” I tucked the empty napkin back into my pocket. “I need a ride, buddy.”

I put one foot into the stirrup, pulled myself upward and immediately felt the wounds across my back stretch. I hissed through my teeth and nearly dropped back to the ground, but Belly stood perfectly still, and I made it.

I patted Belly’s neck. “Let’s go.”

Upon reaching the grove, I brought Belly to a halt in the shade of the first trees and slid carefully to the ground.

“Wait here.”

He flicked an ear.

“I mean it. Don’t go anywhere.”

Belly lowered his head and began tearing at a patch of grass.

The shade felt wonderful after the merciless sun. I picked my way deeper into the grove, stepping carefully over roots and fallen branches with my bare feet. Cicadas buzzed overhead, their shrill chorus rising and falling. The trees were mostly oak, but there were also many tall trees that were heavy with bunches of pink seed pods. Some had split open, and I realized to my surprise that these were pistachios. In my country these were quite expensive, but apparently here – wherever this was – they grew wild. Amazing, subhanAllah.

It was all very foreign, and I had a feeling I might still be dreaming. If my father showed up with a starling on his shoulder, I’d know for sure.

A small stream trickled between the trees. Perfect. I relieved myself, then bent down and washed my hands in the stream. The cool, fresh water felt like a gift from the Creator, which it was. I rinsed out my mouth, then my nose, then washed my face thoroughly. I realized that without even meaning to, I was performing wudu. I would pray in the grassy field, then I would collect an armful of pistachios for myself and Belly. As I washed, the memory came to my mind of my dream father saying, “I love you, Darius.” Why had he said that? My eyes welled up, and I splashed water onto my face. Stop being silly, I told myself. This might all feel like a dream, but it’s not.

Assassins

I was washing my feet when I heard horses approaching from somewhere on the opposite side of the grove from where I had entered. I continued my ablutions, unworried. The hoofbeats came closer, then slowed and stopped. I heard the creak of saddles, the jingle of tack and the soft thump of feet hitting the ground.

There came the faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps on vegetation. Leaves crackled softly. Dry twigs broke. Whoever it was moved stealthily, but total silence was impossible in a dry forest like this one.

There was no conversation, no words spoken at all. That bothered me.

Complacency is deadly.

My father used to say that during our training sessions, usually when I was soaked in sweat and so exhausted that I could barely lift the wooden dao. Sometimes he would wait until I thought the lesson was over, then suddenly rap me on the head with his sword.

The moment you think nothing can happen to you is the moment you’re most vulnerable.

I was done washing, but my gut told me to wait and stay silent. I remained crouched beside the stream, listening. A branch cracked somewhere ahead. By luck, I had positioned myself beside a screen of bushes. The leaves were thick enough to conceal me but offered gaps through which I could see.

Two men were moving through the trees.

They did not look like Afghans, nor any of the races I had seen so far on the journey. Both had dark hair and heavy beards, and wore loose trousers tucked into leather boots, with long tunics belted at the waist and sleeveless outer coats. All their clothing was dark in color. One wore a wrapped black turban, while the other had a rounded felt cap. Their noses were long and straight, and their eyebrows heavy. Their faces were deeply browned by the sun. Each carried a recurved bow in one hand and wore a quiver high across his back.

The bows did not alarm me. Half the men I had encountered since leaving my homeland seemed to carry them. It was the way these two moved that troubled me. They placed each foot carefully and made almost no sound beyond the sort of rustling a fox or hare might make. Neither spoke or even looked at the other. They seemed to know exactly where they were going.

I stayed low and watched.

The men reached the far edge of the grove and crouched among the trees overlooking the great green field. I studied the field carefully for the first time. From here I could see the horsemen more clearly, racing back and forth in groups, wielding long wooden mallets as they chased a small ball between the pounding hooves. This was a more sophisticated version of a game I had seen Uzbeks playing with a stuffed sheep’s stomach. Even from this distance I could hear the shouts of the players. The men playing wore colorful, ornate clothing, except for one who was dressed all in white. Around them, on the edges of the field, were stationed a few dozen guards all dressed in identical brown uniforms, and wearing swords. The polo players must be nobles or very wealthy merchants.

Suddenly those shouts changed as a horse went down.

It happened so quickly that I could not tell why. One moment the man in white was galloping across the field, and the next the animal pitched forward and rolled onto its side. The man in white was thrown, and rolled rather expertly. Men cried out. Several horsemen wheeled around and galloped toward him, while guards came running from the edge of the field. The fallen horse thrashed violently, its legs kicking at the air. The man in white stood and waved at the others to indicate that he was alright.

Trained Killers

The two men in front of me each drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it and raised his bow. They were assassins! They were aiming at the man in white. I had no idea who he was. I did not know why they wanted him dead. No matter the reason, I could not stand hidden among the bushes and watch two men murder an unarmed man.

I came to my feet in a smooth motion. All my earlier clumsiness vanished. I drew my dao and charged, as I shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

Both men jerked in shock and released their bowstrings. One arrow flew out across the field, but the other man had already begun turning toward me when he loosed. His arrow struck a pistachio tree with a loud pang, burying itself in the trunk.

They were fast. Both immediately reached for fresh arrows, but I was already on them. I veered sideways as the nearer man brought his bow around. I hacked my dao into his side just above the hip. The blade cut deeply and he screamed, folding around the wound.

The second assassin already had another arrow nocked.

I caught the wounded man before he could fall, pivoted and dragged him across my body. The bowstring snapped, and the man in my arms jerked violently as an arrow buried itself in his chest.

For an instant his companion simply stared. I threw the dying man aside and lunged at him, my dao flashing toward his neck.

He dropped his bow and moved with astonishing speed. His forearm struck mine while his other hand caught my wrist. He turned beneath my arm and twisted with such precision that pain shot through my hand and my fingers opened. The dao tumbled from my hand.

He’s trained. A trained killer.

The thought had barely formed before he slammed into me. I stumbled backward, and fire ripped across my back as the wounds from the whipping stretched and tore. I cried out, lost my footing and went down hard.

The assassin came down on top of me, closed one powerful hand around my throat and drove his elbow into my face. Light exploded behind my eyes. I tried to bridge him off me, but my body would not obey. Normally I would have thrown a man his size without even thinking about it, yet my legs trembled beneath me and my arms felt hollow. His elbow struck me again, and then again. I tasted blood.

Why was I so weak?

I caught his wrist and tried to turn it, but he tore free and struck me across the mouth. My head bounced against the ground. The trees above me blurred together, green leaves spinning against a brilliant blue sky.

Then I heard something crashing through the undergrowth. A horse screamed. The assassin looked up, and suddenly he was ripped away from me with such violence that he bellowed in fear.

Belly had him.

My horse had charged through the bushes and sunk his teeth into the man’s shoulder. The assassin shrieked and struck at Belly’s face, but Belly shook him viciously, dragging him sideways through the leaves.

The assassin somehow tore himself free, leaving a strip of cloth hanging from Belly’s teeth. He staggered away with one hand clamped over his bleeding shoulder, then spotted his bow on the ground and dove for it.

My dao lay several paces away. I scrambled toward it on my hands and knees, seized the hilt and turned just as the assassin snatched up his bow. His hand went for his quiver.

I threw the dao, powering the throw with both arms, committing all my strength to it.

It was a ridiculous thing to do. You did not throw away your only weapon, especially at a man with a bow. My father would have cracked me over the head for thinking of such a thing. Yet it was not blindly stupid. I had actually practiced this skill, mostly just for fun, both on my father’s farm and on Zihan Ma’s, using hay bales as targets. I knew my distances – how long was required for the dao to complete a revolution – and my aim was good. Yet I’d never imagined doing it in battle.

The dao flashed, spun once in the air and plunged into the assassin’s chest.

He stopped with his hand halfway to his quiver and looked down at the sword protruding from his body, then raised his eyes to me. His black eyes were wide in astonishment. He dropped to his knees, remained there for a moment as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do next, then pitched forward. His body struck the earth and drove the dao deeper.

My chest heaved as I sucked in air. The world tilted beneath me. I put one hand on the ground and waited for it to settle. My back felt wet beneath the bandages, and I knew many or all of the wounds had opened. My face throbbed, my throat hurt, and blood ran from my lower lip. Nearby, Belly snorted and stamped the ground, still furious.

Prisoner

Beyond the trees, men were shouting. Many men.

I struggled to my feet just as branches snapped behind me. Before I could turn, powerful hands seized both my arms.

I reacted instinctively, twisting and trying to wrench free, but the brown-uniformed guards were all over me. Someone kicked the back of my knee and forced me down.

“Let me go!”

The men shouted back in Persian. I recognized the language, though it sounded different from the Persian spoken by the Afghans. I understood a fleeting word or two. One of the men wrenched my arms behind my back, sending a terrible bolt of pain across my wounded skin.

“You don’t understand!”

Either he indeed did not understand or did not care. He wrapped a cord around my wrists and pulled it tight.

So much for collecting pistachios.

The men hauled me to my feet and marched me out of the grove, one man gripping each arm. Behind us, other guards dragged the bodies of the two assassins through the trees. Their bows, quivers, knives and my dao were gathered as well.

The brilliance of the sun struck me again as we emerged onto the green field. I squinted and stumbled forward, acutely aware that I was barefoot, half naked and bound like a criminal. The guards dropped the two bodies in the grass and arranged their weapons beside them in a neat row. My dao went down with the rest.

Someone led Belly out of the trees, and I was relieved to see that the man spoke to Belly gently, stroking his neck. Whoever it was had a way with horses. This alone calmed me a bit.

One of the guards turned to me and barked a question.

I caught perhaps one word in five. “I don’t understand.”

He repeated himself more loudly.

I tried the very rudimentary Arabic I had learned from Zihan Ma: “Laa afham.” I don’t understand.

He slapped me.

The blow struck my already battered face. My head snapped sideways and my ears rang. Belly reared up in protest, and men rushed to control him.

Before the interrogator could question me again, the thunder of hooves rolled across the field.

Every guard turned. A mass of horsemen had burst onto the green from the direction of the road, perhaps thirty of them, riding hard toward us. For one alarmed instant I did not recognize them through the dust and shimmering heat. Then I saw familiar clothing, weapons and faces.

Five Star.

Explanations

The brown-uniformed guards reacted instantly. Swords came free of scabbards in a metallic chorus, and a dozen men formed a defensive rank between us and the approaching riders. Farther out on the field, another group closed tightly around the man in white, who seemed uninjured except for a slight limp.

Our guards slowed when they saw the line of drawn swords. They halted well beyond sword range, horses tossing their heads and stamping the grass. Two men dismounted, and handed their weapons off to their companions.

Ahmed and Captain Karim.

They walked toward us slowly, unarmed, with their hands raised and empty. Karim looked grim. Ahmed called something out in Persian, his voice carrying easily across the field.

One of the Persian guards answered.

Ahmed replied, and there was a rapid exchange that I could not follow at all. The man who had struck me appeared to be in command. He gestured sharply, and Ahmed and Karim were permitted to approach.

Karim’s eyes went straight to me. His gaze traveled from my bare feet to my bound hands, then to the bloody bandages around my torso and finally to my badly bruised face. His expression became considerably less pleasant.

Ahmed saw the bodies. “What happened?” he asked me.

I swallowed. “I woke up and had to pee.”

Ahmed stared at me. “Are you kidding me? I mean after that.”

The Persian commander spoke sharply. Ahmed answered, then turned back to me.

“Tell us everything.”

So I did. I sped through the part about waking up, being disoriented, and entering the grove to relieve myself and wash up. I slowed down as I talked about the two men entering the grove without speaking, and how I had watched them through the bushes. I explained what happened when the horse fell, how the men had aimed their bows at the fallen rider, and what followed.

Ahmed translated as I spoke.

The Persian commander’s expression changed slowly. His eyes moved from me to the two dead men, then to their bows and quivers laid out in the grass. Finally he looked across the field toward the place where the horse had fallen. He shouted something.

A guard in the distance began searching through the grass. Several others joined him. After a moment one of them shouted and raised an arrow over his head.

The commander stared at it for a long moment, then looked back at me. He gave an order, and the cord around my wrists was cut.

I brought my hands around and rubbed them. I looked at Karim.

“They hit me.”

Karim’s jaw tightened. “I can see that.”

The Noble in White

Before he could say anything else the Persian guards suddenly straightened. The man in white was coming toward us. The guards surrounding him moved with him, but he strode ahead of them rather than hiding among them. He was perhaps thirty years old, tall and broad-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed black beard and the same long, straight nose many of the others possessed. His white coat fell to his knees and was embroidered along the collar and cuffs with gold thread. A wide sash encircled his waist, supporting a curved sword in a jeweled scabbard. His white turban was wrapped around a dark cap, with a small ornament of gold and green stone at its front. He was clearly a noble of some kind.

He did not look like a man who had nearly been crushed beneath a horse. Aside from the slight stiffness in his stride, and a few grass stains on his clothing, one would never guess that anything unusual had happened.

The guards parted for him.

He spoke quietly with their commander, who pointed first toward the bodies, then toward the weapons, and finally toward me. The man listened without interrupting. At one point he frowned and said something sharply. The commander bowed his head.

The noble looked at my swollen face, then at the red marks the cord had left around my wrists. He said something to Ahmed.

Ahmed translated. “He says that you came to his aid at great risk to yourself, and in return his men treated you like a criminal. He apologizes. And he says he will make it up to you.”

I did not know what to say to that. No noble had ever apologized to me before. In fact, very few people of any kind had ever apologized to me. Yet my father’s old disdain for nobles rose up in me, filling my throat until I felt I was choking. The wealthiest man I had ever personally known was Master Chen, and he had framed me for theft. Maybe this man in white was different, maybe not. Yet to me, the real nobles were Teardrop, the girl under the bridge in Deep Harbor who watched people’s belongings and shared her food with those who did not have any; or Meilin, who had offered to take half my lashes; or Far Away, my cat, who had followed me at terrible cost, out of love.

I cleared my throat. “Tell him I accept his gracious apology, and that while he is clearly a noble, that means nothing to me. I could not permit two men to commit murder while I watched. I would have done the same if their target was a street sweeper. He owes me nothing. Though if he would allow me to pick some pistachios for myself and my horse, I’d be grateful.” I gestured at the grove.

Ahmed stared at me. “Are you sure you want me to translate that?”

I nodded, and he did so.

The noble studied me. He looked as if he did not know whether to be offended, amused or impressed. Captain Karim cleared his throat to say something, but the noble put up a hand to forestall him, then spoke again at greater length.

Ahmed listened, and his eyebrows rose.

“He is not precisely a noble. In fact he is Prince Farhad Mirza, son of the Shahanshah, ruler of the Guarded Domains of Iran. He thanks you for the service you have performed for him and for the people of Iran. You and your companions are guests in his country. He insists that courage should be honored, and he invites the officers and guards of the Five Star caravan to a banquet tonight at the Dar al-Imara, the royal palace within the citadel of Herat.”

I stared at Ahmed, then at the noble – uh, the prince. Then at Karim.

“I don’t understand. Iran?”

Karim pressed his lips together. For some reason, he appeared to be fighting a smile.

“What we call Persia. You just saved the life of the prince of Persia.”

I blinked. “We’re in Persia?”

Ahmed translated.

For a heartbeat there was silence. Then Prince Farhad threw back his head and laughed. The guards around him joined in, and the field rang with their hilarity. Karim grinned from ear to ear.

I stood there barefoot and half naked, wondering if this meant that I could finally pick those pistachios.

* * *

Read Part 26 – Shaytan Is A Liar

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

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

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

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The post Far Away [Part 25] – To Save A Prince appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

In Episode 2 of the Muslim Money Matters mini-series, brother Adam Taufique breaks things down to the basics! What’s the difference between financial literacy and Islamic financial literacy? How should you start managing your money? Is it all just a numbers game? If you’ve ever struggled to even start handling your finances, this episode is for you!

ABCs of Financial Literacy Resources:

SukoonPath: Financial Literacy Through a Prophetic Lens

DebtFreeMuslims Podcast

“You Need A Budget!” app

Ramit Sethi’s “Money For Couples” Podcast

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The post [Podcast] Muslim Money Matters: Do You Know How to Halal Hustle? | Adam Taufique appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.