Can Muslim women become scholars of Islam? Should they become Islamic scholars?

Zainab bint Younus speaks to Anse Tamara Gray, a Muslim woman scholar, all about the role that women play in protecting the Islamic intellectual tradition and why it’s so important for Muslim women to study Islam at various levels and capacities. Anse Tamara shares her vision for Muslim women becoming leaders of the Ummah, and introduces Ribaat University as a way to pursue those goals.

Shaykha Tamara Gray is a traditionally trained scholar of the Islamic sciences, having spent twenty years studying in Damascus. She also holds a doctorate in leadership from the University of St. Thomas and a master’s degree in Curriculum Theory and Instruction from Temple University.

Dr. Tamara is the founder and CEO of Rabata, an organization for Muslim women, by Muslim women, dedicated to providing Islamic education in beautiful, creative ways. She also serves as a Senior Fellow at the Yaqeen Institute and is a member of the Fiqh Council of North America.

Related:

ShaykhaTalk: Female Scholarship Or Feminism?

[Podcast] From The Maldives To Malaysia: A Shaykha’s Story | Shaykha Aisha Hussain Rasheed

Podcast: Muslim Women’s Spirituality In Ramadan

The post [Podcast] Guardians of the Tradition: Muslim Women & Islamic Education | Anse Tamara Gray appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

From the conversational intimacy of Chat GPT to the highly customized simulations of popular AI Companions such as Character.ai and Replika, millions now engage in private, sustained dialogues with digital entities programmed to simulate empathy, validation, and a seamless presence. While these platforms offer a digital “safe harbor” for those navigating isolation, we must ask: at what cost does “frictionless” intimacy come to the human soul?

The Innate Vulnerability to the Script

Our susceptibility to digital intimacy is not a modern accident, but a biological reality. In the mid-twentieth century, early experiments in computer science demonstrated that humans possess an innate psychological vulnerability to anthropomorphization – the tendency to project a personality, intentions, and consciousness onto simple computer scripts.¹ We are effectively hardwired to perceive a social presence and a “real” relationship even when we are interacting with nothing more than code.²

While these entities are programmed to simulate validation, they represent a steady erosion of the boundary between a tool and a friend. This push for “easy,” conflict-free relationships clashes with the Islamic value of the “moral search”—the hard work of growing our character and keeping our power to make real choices. Because these digital tools lack a real moral compass, they often fail to navigate the ethical and emotional complexities inherent in crises.³

A Tool for Learning vs. a Mirror for the Ego

Interestingly, the Qur’ān itself uses human-like descriptions of Allah , referring to the “Hand of Allah” [Surah Al-Fath: 48;10] or His “Eyes” [Surah Hud: 11;37]. These aren’t meant to define what God looks like, but are a teaching mercy; they make a “complex abstract morality” feel relatable so we can build a personal relationship with our Creator.

However, AI uses these human-like qualities for a very different purpose: to fake a friendship that has no real moral depth. When we treat a machine as a “companion,” we risk ignoring the sacred uniqueness of the human soul (rūh). While God uses these descriptions to pull us toward a higher authority, AI uses them to keep us comfortable in a simulated relationship that doesn’t ask anything of us.

While the story of Mūsa and Khidr [Surah Al-Kahf: 18:65–82] is a powerful example of mentoring, where the student is challenged by a perspective that shatters his own logic – the AI companion offers no such disruption. This interaction is life-changing precisely because it is difficult and pushes us to grow. In contrast, an AI interaction is “frictionless”. It acts as a mirror of the user’s own nafs (ego), and lacks the “otherness” necessary to develop true empathy. In essence, there is no conflict unless you start it, and the AI never pushes you to be a better person. 

The Atrophy of the Heart

“Real empathy and relationship skills involve learning how to handle disagreement and stand up to social pressure.” [PC: Schiba (unsplash)]

Without this independent pressure, our hearts can become weak. If our “growth” only ever reflects our own desires, we aren’t achieving tazkiyah (purification of the soul), but are instead stuck in a loop of telling ourselves what we want to hear.

Conclusion: Returning to the Community of Souls

In our tradition, well-being is more than just feeling “stress-free.” It is the active work of building God-consciousness (taqwa) through the “refining fire” of a real human community. We have to look past the “safe harbor” of a computer screen and return to the suhba (companionship) that truly matters.

To deepen this reflection within your own circles, consider using the following questions to spark a meaningful conversation about the future of our digital and spiritual lives:

Community Reflection Questions

1. In what ways have we started to prefer “frictionless” digital interactions over the “messy” reality of human community?
2. How can we reintroduce the “Khidr-like” disruption in our circles to ensure we aren’t just echoing our own nafs?
3. What practical boundaries can we set to ensure AI remains a tool for utility rather than a substitute for suhba?

Just as the human-like language of the Qur’ān is a bridge to a higher Truth, technology should only be a bridge to human connection, not a substitute for it. True well-being lies in the pursuit of haqq (truth) alongside other souls—a journey that requires a heart, a spirit, and a presence that no computer code can ever replicate.

Related:

– Faith and Algorithms: From an Ethical Framework for Islamic AI to Practical Application

– AI And The Dajjal Consciousness: Why We Need To Value Authentic Islamic Knowledge In An Age Of Convincing Deception

The post Digital Intimacy: AI Companionship And The Erosion Of Authentic Suhba appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

As Ramadan approaches, it is imperative for Muslims to purify their hearts of malice (ḥiqd). At its least harmful, malice diminishes one’s rank in the sight of Allah and obstructs a believer from performing voluntary acts of goodness. At its most severe, malice becomes a deadly spiritual disease associated with idolatry, unbelief, and even the practices of black magic.

The Messenger of Allah ﷺ instructed us to approach Ramadan with hearts free of malice, as indicated by his statement:

“On the middle night of Sha’ban, Allah Almighty looks down upon His creation, and He forgives the believers, but He abandons the people of grudges and malice to their malice.”¹ In another narration, the Prophet ﷺ said, “Allah looks down at His creation on the middle night of Sha’ban, and He forgives all of His creatures, except for an idolater or one who harbors hostility (mushāḥin).²” Imam al-Ṣan‘ānī explained that ‘one who harbors hostility’ refers to a person who carries malice in the heart.³

In a related narration, the Messenger of Allah ﷺ issued a grave warning:

“If not one of three evil traits is within someone, then Allah will forgive whatever else as He wills: one who dies without associating any partners with Allah, one who does not follow the way of black magic, and one who does not harbor malice against his brother.”⁴

In other words, a Muslim who deliberately nurtures malice against his brothers or sisters places himself in the company of idolaters and those who seek aid from devils. Malice is so heinous that Allah may withhold forgiveness from one who persists in it. As Imam al-Munāwī observed, “Malice is an evil portent. Its condemnation has been related by the Book and the Sunnah countless times.”⁵

Clearly, the Messenger of Allah ﷺ intended for believers to purify themselves of malice by the middle of Sha‘bān—at least two weeks before the arrival of Ramadan. To that end, we must develop a proper understanding of what malice is, how it undermines fasting, and the means by which it is treated, lest our Ramadan be corrupted from within before it even begins.

Malice: The Root of Evil

Imam Ibn Ḥibbān, who compiled the sayings of the Prophet ﷺ in written form, wrote plainly, “Malice is the root of evil. Whoever harbors evil in his heart will have a bitter plant grow, the taste of which is rage and the fruit of which is regret.⁶” There is no acceptable degree of malice, for the scholars have described it as “one of the mothers of sin.⁷” Unlike anger—which is often dangerous but occasionally righteous—malice is never praiseworthy. It is a weed in the garden of the heart and must be uprooted.

Shaykh Ḥasan al-Fayyūmī, one of the Hadith masters of the 9th century Hijrah, defined malice as “to internalize enmity and hatred.⁸” He explained that it is often described as the desire for revenge, and that its true nature emerges when rage cannot be released—because one is unable to retaliate in the moment—causing it to turn inward, fester, and ultimately transform into malice. In this sense, malice is unresolved anger: a smoldering fury that is retained and nurtured until it erupts in acts of vengeance. The desire for revenge and the pleasure of justified rage are beautified by Satan, yet in reality, they are a silent poison that corrupts the believer from within, masking the virtues of character and even sabotaging one’s fasting in Ramadan.

Malice is not a single spiritual disease, either, but rather a constellation of related sins that take root in the heart. Imam Ibn Ḥajar al-Haytamī listed unjust anger, envy, and malice as a single disease among the major sins.⁹ Further examination of the Hadith commentaries in which malice is mentioned shows that scholars consistently associate it with envy (ḥasad), arrogance (kibr), rancor (ghill), malevolence (ghish), hypocrisy (nifāq), rage (ghayẓ), and lingering grudges (ḍaghāʾin).¹⁰ Indeed, it could be said that ‘all roads lead to malice,’ for it is the central node through which Satan’s whisperings assail the heart. Therefore, purifying the heart of malice disarms the Devil of his most potent of weapons.

Fasting, when observed in accordance with both its outward rules and inward realities, is among the most effective means of treating malice in the heart. The relationship between the two is reciprocal: fasting purifies malice, while malice corrupts fasting. For this reason, the Messenger of Allah ﷺ urged believers to rid themselves of malice at least two weeks before the onset of Ramadan.

Fasting: A Treatment for Malice

“When I forgave and held no malice toward anyone, I relieved my soul of the anxiety of enmity.” Imam al-Shafi’i [PC: Christopher Stites (unsplash)]

When we fast, we deliberately train ourselves to refrain from retaliation and revenge. We cultivate patience, forbearance, and dignified self-restraint in the face of insult, in accordance with the Prophet’s ﷺ instruction, “If someone insults him or seeks to fight him, let him say: ‘Indeed, I am fasting.’¹²” This posture stands in direct opposition to the impulse of malice. Thus, one who truly fasts is actively resisting malice, even if unaware of its formal or academic definition.

In this light, the commentators understood what the Prophet ﷺ meant when he said,

“Shall I tell you what will rid the chest of disturbances? Fasting for three days each month.¹³” Imam al-San’ani explained, “Disturbances in the chest, that is, its malevolence, malice, rage, hypocrisy, or intense anger. This [ridding of disturbance] is due to the benefit of fasting.¹⁴” 

The righteous predecessors likewise linked fasting to the treatment of malice, specifically citing the Prophet’s ﷺ description of Ramadan as “the month of patience.¹⁵” Al-Ḥārith al-Hamdānī, may Allah have mercy on him, said, “Fasting the month of patience—Ramadan—and fasting three days each month removes disorders within the chest.” Mujāhid similarly said, “It removes agitation within the chest.” When asked what agitation in the chest is, he replied, “His malevolence.¹⁶” Imam Ibn Baṭṭāl clarified this linguistic connection, explaining, “Agitation in the chest refers to the inflammation of malice and its burning within the heart.¹⁷”

If malice is the node around which Satan gathers his weapons, then patience is the virtue through which Allah dispenses His cures—such as mercy (raḥmah) and sincere goodwill (naṣīḥah).

Healing from the Disease

Malice is a malignant disease at all times of the year, not only during Ramadan, and its cure is not confined to fasting alone. Imam Ibn Qudāmah, citing the great Imam al-Ghazālī, teaches that the general remedy for diseases of the heart is to compel oneself to act in opposition to them.¹⁸ Thus, if a Muslim feels inclined to curse another person, he should instead force himself to pray for that person’s guidance and well-being—however distasteful this may feel to the heart. As Imam al-Ghazālī observed, such remedies are “very bitter to the heart, yet benefit lies in bitter medicine.¹⁹”

Building upon this insight, Shaykh Ṣāliḥ ibn al-Ḥumayd, one of the Imams of al-Masjid al-Ḥarām in Mecca, offers the following counsel:

Whoever is afflicted with the disease of malice must compel himself to behave toward the one he resents in a manner opposite to what his malice demands—replacing censure with praise and arrogance with humility. He should place himself in the other’s position and remember that he himself loves to be treated with gentleness and affection; thus, let him treat others in the same way.²⁰

Such, then, is your mission this Ramadan: to enter the month with a heart purified of malice, and to emerge from it fortified against this disease ever taking root again. Strive to place yourself in the position of those you resent, so that you may regard them with empathy and incline your heart toward forgiveness. If nothing else, keep the words of the Messenger of Allah ﷺ ever before your eyes, “Whoever would love to be delivered from Hellfire and admitted into Paradise, let him meet his end with faith in Allah and the Last Day, and let him treat people as he would love to be treated.²¹”

Success comes from Allah , and Allah knows best.

Related:

• Using Ramadan To Forgive Those Who Have Hurt Us In The Past
• Purification Of The Self: A Journey That Begins From The Outside-In

The post Starting Shaban, Train Yourself To Head Into Ramadan Without Malice appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

* * *

Acupuncture

The treatment room – the same room where I had first awakened after arriving here – was dimmer than the rest of the house, the shutters drawn halfway. Scrolls of neat black characters hung on the walls, and bundles of dried herbs dangled from the rafters, scenting the air with bitterness and earth. The padded table sat in the middle of the room, covered in a clean cloth. A small brazier glowed in one corner, and beside it the candle flame flickered.

“Your pain is behind the eye?” Ma Shushu asked the man.

“Yes,” the man whispered. “Behind the eye, into the neck. Always drumming in my head.”

“Hm.” My uncle’s voice was thoughtful but not sympathetic. “You drink wine. You stay up at night, worrying about profit and loss. You shout at your workers. Your liver is hot, your blood rises to your head.”

The man grimaced. “If you cure it, I will pay anything.”

“You will pay what is fair.” Ma Shushu took another needle, passed it briefly through the candle flame, then cooled it with a puff of breath. His hands were sure and unhurried. “And you will follow my advice.”

He pressed a fingertip gently along the man’s brow, then found a spot at the temple. With a tiny, precise movement, he slid the needle in. The man’s fingers twitched, but he did not cry out.

“If you tense, the qi will knot,” my uncle said. “Breathe slowly. In… and out.” He demonstrated, his own belly rising and falling in time with his words. “Tell me when the drum in your head changes.”

He moved smoothly around the table, balanced and focused. He placed needles at the back of the skull, the base of the neck, and the web between thumb and forefinger. Each insertion was as smooth as a well-executed strike. No wasted motion, no hesitation.

I found myself mapping his movements onto my father’s lessons. The lines of the man’s body were like the meridians in Five Animals forms – paths along which force flowed. These same points were striking targets or pain points in combat. Yet here the force was not a blow, but something invisible within the flesh. I did not understand it, but I could see that there was a system, as strict and exact as any martial form.

“Now?” Ma Shushu asked.

The man swallowed. His face had relaxed a little. “The drum is… softer,” he said. “Farther away.”

“Good.” Another needle. “And now?”

The man’s shoulders sagged. “The pain is gone,” he said, sounding surprised and very relieved.

Divine Wisdom

“Your body wishes to be well, but you poison it daily,” Ma Shushu told the man.

Haaris stood beside me, as silent as I was, though I saw his eyes shine with pride. He had seen this many times before.

Ma Shushu checked the needles, then stepped back. “You will lie like this for a while. When you rise, do so slowly. You will drink no more wine, is that clear? You come from an honored Hui family. You know drinking wine is against our faith, and your pain is proof of the wisdom of Allah’s prohibitions, though Allah’s commands need no proof. Everything that Allah commands is Divine wisdom for our benefit, not for Him. Allah the Most High is independent of all needs and wants. You could drink yourself into the grave, and it would not harm Allah in the least. It’s for you, do you understand?” Ma Shushu punctuated this last comment with a gentle finger tap to the man’s forehead.

“Yes, honorable sir,” the man said.

“You will go to bed early,” Ma Shushu went on. “Tomorrow you will not drink wine. Instead, walk in the fresh air. Send your workers home an hour before Maghreb. They have rights upon you, and if you do not treat them fairly, you will answer to Allah on Yawm Al-Qiyamah.”

“Yes, yes,” the man murmured. His voice was drowsy. “Whatever you say, Master Ma.”

Work for the Mind

My uncle extinguished the candle flame with a pinch of wetted fingers, then turned to us. “Haaris, watch him. If he tries to roll over, stop him. Darius, come with me.”

I followed him into the main room. He closed the door to the treatment room halfway, leaving it open enough that Haaris could call out if needed.

“How much did you understand?”

“A little,” I admitted. “You followed the meridian lines inside his body. Like forms that exist under the skin.”

He regarded me sharply. “How do you know about meridian lines?”

In reality, my father had taught me the meridian lines in order to be more precise in striking. These were the points where strikes and gouges could elicit maximum pain or even cause crippling injury. Stabbing the junction between the front shoulder and chest muscle, for example, or up into the armpit. Punching the solar plexus, or a knife hand chop into the philtrum, which was the groove between the upper lip and the base of the nose. But all I said to Ma Shushu was, “My father taught me.”

My uncle grunted, and I had the feeling he was surprised that my father knew the meridians, but he did not say so. “In this house,” he said, “there is work for the hands, the spirit and the mind. Your hands are capable, I have seen that. Now we must train the other two.”

I bowed my head slightly. “Yes, Ma Shushu.”

He clapped his hands once, lightly. “We will pray, then you may rest for an hour. After that, we will continue your studies.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Do not worry. Needles will not be involved.”

I almost smiled back, but caught myself. I was not yet ready to feel that light. Still, as I returned to bed to nap, I felt some of the weight of the day lifting from my shoulders. There were problems to be solved, secrets to be kept, and personalities to be learned. This was all more than I was used to. But I would figure it out. I had to.

Independent of All Needs

That night after supper, I shared the moon cake with Haaris. He told me he’d already had one in town, but I shared it anyway. He was very happy, and told me a funny story about something that had happened in town. A black horse had come charging through the main street, riderless, and a woman – a milk-seller – fainted with fright. Zihan Ma revived her, and the first thing she said upon waking was, “Don’t let my husband know about us!”

I was scandalized, but I chuckled. I knew from experience that when a person fell unconscious and revived, they might not know where they were, and might even remember having dreams, even if only a few seconds had passed. It was very strange.

Lying in bed that night, my mind drifted to Ma Shushu’s words to the wine-drinking merchant. I had always wondered at the foolishness of the villagers who left offerings of food in front of the statue, only to watch the food rot. What was the point? Yet Ma Shushu said that Allah is independent of all needs and wants. It means, I thought, that our worship is not about Allah’s ego. Our prayer is a way of lifting us out of the misery of this world. I might have contemplated this further, but sleep overtook me.

A Restless Boy

The next day after Fajr prayer Ma Shushu declared that I would join Haaris in the farm work.

“Husband,” Lee Ayi said. “Let him work with me a little longer. I have a lot of work this week, and he’s been very helpful. Besides, I want to get to know him a bit more.”

She spoke this lie very naturally, and Ma Shushu clearly suspected nothing, as he replied, “Certainly, if you wish.”

So I did housework with Lee Ayi for a handful of days, until my shoulder was healed.

One day, we were folding laundry together, standing at the low table by the window. The cloth was warm from the sun, faintly smelling of soap and air.

Lee Ayi shook one tunic out and said, almost idly, “We were not farmers, you know.”

I looked up. “Who?”

“The Lee family.” She smoothed the sleeve flat. “We lived in the city. Your grandfather was a clerk for a trading house when he was young. Later, he kept accounts for the mosque. People trusted him with money. Our family was respected.”

She folded with quick, precise movements.

“Yong was restless even as a boy. Always running ahead, climbing walls, getting in fights.”

I nodded. “That sounds like him.”

She gave a short huff. “He was brilliant, but difficult. My father would correct him, and Yong would listen, but only once. If the correction came twice, he would bristle.”

She stacked the folded cloth neatly.

“He was good at martial arts very early. Better than Jun De ever was.”

I hesitated. “Jun De?”

“Our older brother.” She did not look at me. “He drowned in the river when Yong and I were still young.”

I waited, but she did not elaborate.

Games and Races

When my shoulder was healed, I went out to work in the fields with Haaris.

Haaris worked hard, never complaining, singing to himself as he hauled water or guided the animals. He knew every task by heart. I was bigger and stronger than he was, and once I learned the rhythm of the work, we moved quickly. The fences were repaired, the firewood stacked, the pens cleaned. By the time the sun stood directly overhead, much of what normally took until Asr was already done.

Haaris was delighted. He taught me jianzi, where we took turns kicking a small shuttlecock made of copper coins wrapped in twine, with chicken feathers sticking out of it. The idea was to balance it on one foot and kick it up in place, and keep catching it on the foot. Haaris excelled at it, but the first time I tried it I sent it almost onto the roof of the barn, which made Haaris cackle like a chicken.

Another day, he challenged me to a race to the gate and back. I indulged him and let him win, but he knew what I’d done and stuck his tongue out at me, saying, “Boo!” At times, I found Haaris’s innocence difficult to relate to, but on the whole, he was a sweet boy, unfailingly polite and respectful. And handsome too. He had wide set black eyes and straight black hair that fell to just below his ears. His father was quite dark, and his mother very pale, and Haaris landed in the middle, which gave him a healthy glow.

When he wanted to run off to play tag with the donkeys and feed them oranges, that was too much. I left him to his games and went into the house to watch Ma Shushu work.

Patients Rich and Poor

People came for treatment in a steady stream. Many were of the laboring class: farmers with hands split open from winter soil and cracked wooden plows; muleteers whose backs were knotted hard from sleeping on the ground beside the road; old women with knees swollen like gourds from decades of squatting in the fields; children burning with fever, their mothers’ faces pinched with fear; a charcoal burner coughing black dust into a rag; a silk porter with rope scars cut deep into his shoulders; and others of this kind.

These people brought payment in the form of goods: a basket of eggs, a large bundle of bok choy or daikon radish; or, in one case, a young pig, which Ma Shushu refused, explaining to the man that we did not eat pork. I saw the man return a week later with coins, after selling the pig, I supposed. Often the payment was insufficient, but Ma Shushu treated them all, turning no one away.

This was balanced out by occasional patients from the upper classes: merchants with delicate mustaches and jade rings; the wife of an official carried in on sedan chairs, veiled and silent, suffering from lingering weakness after childbirth; a young scholar with ink-stained fingers and eyes red from studying by oil lamp, tormented by headaches before his examinations; an elderly, heavyset matron attended by two servants, her pulse thin and fluttering from years of rich food and little movement; and once, discreetly at dusk, a high-ranking government official accompanied by two guards. This last one insisted the gate be closed, not wanting anyone to know he was ill.

These people paid in gold, and Ma Shushu spared no expense in their treatment, often using rare and expensive medicines.

Every now and then, there was a patient whom Ma Shushu admitted he could not cure. In these cases, he gave them medicine to relieve pain and alleviate symptoms temporarily. One case that stuck with me was that of a child who was perhaps six or seven years old, carried in by his mother because he no longer had the strength to walk.

He was terribly pale, his skin almost translucent, with faint bruises blooming along his arms and legs, though his mother swore he had not fallen or been struck. His belly was distended, his limbs thin, and his gums bled when Ma Shushu examined his mouth. He tired quickly, and when he smiled, it was with a terrible effort. His mother said he had once been lively, always running, always climbing, but now he slept most of the day and woke drenched in sweat, complaining that his bones hurt deep inside.

Ma Shushu listened, felt the child’s pulse for a long time, and examined his tongue. His face grew grave. He asked gentle questions, then took the mother into another room and spoke to her privately. I followed, standing beside the wall, listening.

“This illness is in the blood itself,” Ma Shushu said softly. “It is like rot in the roots of a tree. I can ease his pain, but that is all. He is dying.”

The mother bowed until her forehead touched the floor, not weeping, only breathing in short, broken gasps. Ma Shushu helped her up and pressed medicine into her hands, refusing payment. He spoke to her quietly about keeping the boy comfortable, about rest and cool water, about praying for patience and mercy.

After they left, the room felt heavy, as if the air itself had thickened. I had seen death before, but this was different. He was just a little boy, and there was no enemy to fight, no mistake to correct, no injustice to rage against. That night, long after the lamps were out, I lay awake thinking of the boy’s smile, and about the fact that even the greatest skill had limits.

Hope and Happiness

The next day, during Islamic studies lessons, sitting cross-legged on the floor with Haaris beside me, I asked Ma Shushu about the boy.

His solemn eyes flicked to mine. “He is very ill. It’s a blood-borne disease that strikes children. I have seen it before. I do not know what causes it.”

“I heard what you said to the mom. It doesn’t seem fair. You taught me that Allah has a plan for everyone, and that our lives have meaning. Why then take away a life so young?”

Ma Shushu rubbed his chin, chewing on one lip. “Part of imaan is to believe in Al-Qadar, Divine destiny, the good and the bad of it. Everyone dies, but why do some die young or suffer? This is the point at which human knowledge fails, and faith steps in. Our own Prophet Muhammad, sal-Allahu alayhi wa sallam, lost more than one child. One of them was Ibrahim, his beloved little son, who became ill when he was eighteen months old. The Prophet held him in his arms as he was ill, kissing him and smelling him. Then, as Ibrahim was breathing his last breaths, the Prophet began to weep silently. AbdurRahman ibn Awf said, ‘Even you, O Messenger of Allah?’ He meant that the Prophet had prohibited wailing and crying excessively over the dead. The Prophet said, ‘O son of Awf, this is mercy.’ Then, the Prophet wept some more, saying, ‘Verily, the eyes shed tears, and the heart is grieved, yet we will not say anything but what pleases our Lord. We are saddened by your departure, O Ibrahim!’”

“He was the Seal of the Prophets,” Ma Shushu went on. “The highest of humanity. Yet even he had to watch his son die. We cannot understand this, but we don’t allow it to affect our faith in Allah. Does that make sense?”

I nodded. I hadn’t really expected any other answer, and Ma Shushu’s words were profound.

“Do you want to ask something else?”

“My life has been difficult, did you know that?” I blurted out these words. I had never spoken of personal subjects to Ma Shushu, never opened up to him before.

“I have gathered that, yes.”

“My mother’s life was sad, and she died painfully. There were times, after my mother died, that I wished I could die as well, to be with her. I would have been jealous of that boy. I would have wanted to take his disease and die instead of him.”

“I’m very sorry. We didn’t know about your situation.”

Haaris often fidgeted during these lessons, but he had gone very still beside me, and I could feel the weight of his gaze upon me.

“I don’t feel that way anymore,” I went on, looking Ma Shushu in the eye. “If I had died, I would not have seen how my father changed before he died. And I would not have met you, and Lee Ayi, and my brother Haaris.”

I had meant to say my cousin, but for some reason my tongue said, my brother. When I said these words, Haaris burst into tears and threw himself upon me, hugging me. I lost my balance and tipped over. I laughed, but I held him to me and patted his back until his father helped him up.

Ma Shushu sat beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Darius. You say your mother’s life was sad, but I am very sure that there was something in her life that gave her hope and happiness. That something was you.”

* * *

Come back next week for Part 8 – Refugees At The Gate

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:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

Gravedigger: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 7] – Divine Wisdom appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

What does every new Imam need to know about being an imam? What do you do if you’re in a small community with minimal resources? How do you manage joining a new community, learning the ropes, and not biting off more than you can chew? In this episode, Sh. Mohammad Elshinawy shares his advice for new imams, community building, and reflections on his own imam experience.

Shaykh Mohammad Elshinawy is a Graduate of English Literature at Brooklyn College, NYC. He studied at College of Hadith at the Islamic University of Madinah and is a graduate and instructor of Islamic Studies at Mishkah University. He has translated major works for the International Islamic Publishing House, the Assembly of Muslim Jurists of America, and Mishkah University.

Related:

Don’t Take For Granted Your Community Imam I Sh. Furhan Zubairi

The Rise of the Scholarly Gig Economy and Fall of Community Development

The post [Podcast] The Parts of Being an Imam They Don’t Warn You About | Sh Mohammad Elshinawy appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

* * *

Training Ground

When the clothes were stacked in a hamper and the lines had been taken down, Lee Ayi said, “Wait here.” She disappeared into the house and returned with a wooden training dao that I had not known existed, as well as my own spear.

I froze, remembering my father’s ruthless training. What was this? Like brother, like sister? The blood rushed to my head, and my face turned hot. I was not that little boy anymore, and even my father had stopped abusing me eventually. My entire body tensed. In that moment, I could hear the cowbells as the animals grazed in the far field. I smelled the faint, sweet musk of the safflowers, and could feel my own heartbeat in the wound on my shoulder.

Lee Ayi handed me the weapons. “Yong trained you, yes?”

I stood mute, one weapon hanging limply in each hand.

“You don’t have to answer. I can see it in every step you take. Even the way you work. Your balance, poise and economy of motion. The subtle flourishes you add when sweeping the floor. The way you shift your weight. Well, my father trained me as well, though not as thoroughly as Yong.”

I swallowed. “Okay, so?” The words came out dry and hoarse.

She waved to the circle of clear earth where the clotheslines had hung. “This is my training ground. I need to practice.” She clenched a fist, a gesture so unlike her that I shifted my weight to the back foot. “It’s part of me,” she continued. “It’s in my blood. But Husband does not approve of martial arts, nor any form of violence. So every Friday I wait until he goes to Jum’ah and I practice alone. This is my secret. Maybe the farmworkers see but they mind their own business. But you are here now. Will you keep my secret?”

“And what do you need me to do?”

“What?” She shook her head. “Nothing. Just keep my secret. Will you do that?”

A Negotiation

“What is the real reason Ma Shushu did not take me to town?”

Lee Ayi tipped her head back, regarding me. A slow smile appeared. “You’re a negotiator, eh? My brother taught you many things.” The smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression. “Can we just say that he wants your shoulder to heal, and leave it at that?”

“Is that the truth?”

“Part of it.”

Lee Ayi looked down, spotted a small stone that had found its way into her training space, picked it up and chucked it. Then she stood straight and looked me in the eye. “Your Ma Shushu does not want the Shahs to know you exist.”

I frowned. I didn’t know what answer I had expected, but this wasn’t it. “Why?”

“Nur was Shah Zheng’s only daughter. He married three wives, but he apparently lost his fertility and could not sire another child. He is an old man now, and you, as his grandson, are his only surviving descendant. You are thus heir to the family fortune. But Zheng has a younger brother, Osman. He now runs the family business in all but name. He is a ruthless, unprincipled man. Husband is afraid that if Osman knew about you, he would kill you.”

The thought that my mother’s family, instead of being happy to know me, might want to kill me, made me feel empty inside. I walked to the washing basin and sat on the stone rim, putting my chin in my hand.

“I’m sorry,” Lee Ayi said. When I did not reply, she said, “And my secret?”

I waved to her to go ahead and practice.

A Single Step

She began with empty hands, and at first I barely watched.

My thoughts were still tangled in what she had told me about the Shahs, about my mother’s family and the danger attached to my very existence. I sat on the stone rim of the washing basin, my chin in my hand, staring at nothing in particular while Lee Ayi stepped into the cleared circle of earth.

Her movements were confident enough, practiced, familiar. She knew the basic Five Animals stances, strikes and forms. Tiger, Crane, Snake, Praying Mantis, Dragon. The transitions were there, but sometimes incomplete. One time she flowed from one posture into the next and forgot the intervening strike entirely, leaving a small emptiness in the form that my eye snagged on instinctively. Her stances were serviceable but shallow, her steps sometimes too short, as if she were reluctant to fully commit her weight.

I watched without comment.

When she stretched a hand and requested the wooden dao, and I tossed it to her, something changed. Her posture straightened. She turned her hips fully into the cuts, using her whole body rather than her arms alone. The blade whistled softly as it passed through the air. She was not elegant, and her repertoire was limited. But she was effective. There was intention behind every strike.

With the spear, however, she struggled. Her grip was too far down toward the end, and her hands did not slide smoothly enough on the wood as she changed grips. She overextended on slashes and used her muscles to slow the spear down at the end of the movement, rather than using her body to bounce it back or whip it around, which resulted in slow recoveries. A couple of times I winced involuntarily. My father would have beaten me if I’d done that.

When she finished, she stood in the middle of the circle, hands on her thighs, breathing hard. Sweat darkened the collar of her tunic and ran down her temples.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

I gave a half shrug. “You’re strong. And fit.”

She gave me a sharp look. “That’s not an answer.”

“You’re pretty good with the dao.”

“And the rest?”

I threw up my hands and blurted, “Why are you asking me? I’m just a kid.”

She snorted. “You are that. But you know more than you reveal.” She wiped her face with her sleeve and regarded me steadily. “Show me something of your own.”

I felt my shoulder throb in warning. “What do you mean?”

“Something small,” she said. “One form. Slowly. We can’t risk you opening that cut.”

I should have refused. Every lesson my father had drilled into me screamed that this was a mistake. We kept our skills secret, we did not show them off. But something in her gaze held me there, not challenging, not pleading, simply certain. And anyway, she was family.

I stepped into the circle.

Dragon Surveys His Domain

The earth felt different beneath my feet, packed and bare. I took one wide step forward and dropped into a deep stance, sweeping my hands down to one hip, then drawing them up in a wide arc. The movement finished with my hands snapping back into a tight guard, balanced and ready.

I straightened and saluted, one fist against an open palm. The hand of war and the hand of peace.

“Dragon surveys his domain,” I said.

Lee Ayi stared at me. Her face had gone very still. “You are highly trained.”

I did not answer.

She extended the dao, handle toward me. I pursed my lips and grimaced. “You know I’m injured.”

“Your left shoulder is injured. Use your right hand.”

My nostrils widened as I inhaled deeply, then let it out. “Why?”

“I want to see.” Her tone was deadly serious.

I swallowed. “Only a little.” I took the dao and twirled it easily in my hand, closing my eyes, warming up my muscles.

I saluted with the dao, raising it above my forehead and parallel to the ground, then stepped slowly to my left, bringing the dao up in a number one roof block that flowed into a slash to the neck of an imaginary enemy. I continued with this slow motion dance, reaching around with my hand and pulling, slashing, then spinning away into a thrust that was only a feint that turned into another slash.

I stopped and faced Lee Ayi. “Crane circles the hill.”

She regarded me solemnly. “You killed two men.”

Shock widened my eyes as I remembered the two robbers I’d killed and buried in the peanut field. But how could she know? My brain raced, then I realized – feeling like an utter fool – that she meant the movement I had just done. It was a form, a prearranged sequence in which I killed two imaginary opponents.

“Yes.”

She gestured. “More.”

I twisted my mouth to one side. “Why?”

“My father taught me that sequence, but I forgot it. I want to see more.”

River Flow

I let out a breath that was almost a sigh. Then I took a long diagonal shuffle step one way then the other, attacking with a series of slashes from different angles as my feet danced lightly across the dirt.

As I moved, I fell into River Flow. There were no more cowbells, no afternoon sun heating my face. No Lee Ayi, even. Without plan or awareness, my movements sped up. I leaped up and came over the top with a thrust, but it was a feint that pivoted into a cutting diagonal slash at the last instant. My body had missed this. I was a flame of fire, my movements too fast for an untrained eye to follow. The dao was a part of me. Anything I could envision, I could do.

Many mediocre fighters fought with nothing but the blade, but I was better trained than that, and I threw kicks that snapped out and back, punches that made my wounded shoulder ache, and hits with the pommel of the sword that flowed into elbow strikes that flowed into short-range slashes and thrusts. Never was I out of balance, never did I hesitate or falter.

The dao was a shadow that darted behind my back and around my head, surged high and dropped low, and struck from unexpected angles. In River Flow my parents were not dead, and Far Away was not lost. There was only the movement and my imaginary enemies, and I was in harmony with them. When they pushed forward I slipped to the side to let them pass. When the enemy charged I parried and let him run into the point of my sword. When he slashed I side stepped and matched his slash, cutting along the length of his arm. There was no opposition, no clash. My father had repeated this many times: “The enemy tells you how to kill him.”

I forgot that my aunt was there. My movements became more dramatic. I moved as I used to in my solitary practice sessions, after my father had gone. At one point I did a forward somersault in the air, coming down with a vertical slash, which reversed into an upward slash intended to catch the enemy’s hand. These were movements my father could no longer perform himself, but had coached me through, and some were movements I myself had invented when I practiced alone, after he had gone.

I stopped when the pain in my shoulder reminded me where I was. I stood in the circle, breathing deeply but comfortably. I did not know how much time had passed. Perhaps enough to lower a bucket into the well twice and pull it back up.

Turning, I saw Lee Ayi’s face. She looked stricken. I knew immediately I had done the wrong thing. Stepping forward, I bowed deeply and offered her the sword with both hands, the edge facing me.

Not Gentle

She snatched the dao out of my hands. Her face was pale, her jaw tight. “You shame me.”

I looked away, my gaze alighting on the tall elms that sheltered the house. “That was not my intention.”

“I know.” She exhaled once, sharply. “I have never witnessed such skill. Not even from Cai Lee, and he was a grandmaster. How did you learn that?”

I met her eyes. My gaze was uncompromising. “My father trained me from the time I could walk. He was not gentle.”

“Fathers are sometimes not gentle. That doesn’t mean they -”

“Haven’t you seen my scars?” I nearly shouted. My nostrils flared as I yanked my sleeves up, showing her the many scars on my arms, from cuts my father had given me with the spear, the wooden dao and even the live dao. Some were pale and faded, while others were pink and raised.

She blinked. “I thought from the rough peanut vines, or the hoe.”

I pulled my shirt up and threw it on the ground. “And these?” My stomach and chest also bore long scars.

Her anger was gone, replaced by dismay. “Yong did that?”

“I told you. He was not gentle.”

Her lower lip trembled, and a pair of tears rolled down her dusty cheeks, leaving clean tracks. “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“Your cut has reopened.”

I looked at my shoulder and indeed she was right. The bandage was stained deep red.

Gently, my aunt took my hand, led me into the house, washed my wound and re-bandaged it.

“You rest,” she said. “I will finish today’s housework. Don’t tell Husband about what we did today. Or about your wound.” She began to leave, then turned and said, “I’m sorry.”

When she was gone I lay in my bed, wishing that Far Away was here to cuddle up next to me and purr. I knew I had hurt Lee Ayi in more ways than one. I felt like my past was a heavy chain around my neck. It would always be there. I would never be free.

Moon Cake

In the late afternoon a man came to the house on horseback. He was perhaps thirty, dressed in a merchant’s jacket with brass buttons. His face was pale and slick with sweat. Lee Ayi ushered him into Ma Shushu’s treatment room and had him lie on the padded table and wait.

Ma Shushu and Haaris returned not long after. Haaris said he had a surprise for me and handed me a small box. Opening it, I found a round pastry of some kind.

“What is it?”

Haaris gaped. “You never had a moon cake? It’s filled with sweet bean paste and nuts.”

I wasn’t in the mood for Haaris’s unsullied, childish enthusiasm. I thanked him, deposited the moon cake in the pantry, and went back into the bedroom to lie down. This was not to be, however, as Ma Shushu popped his head into the room and asked me to come to the treatment room.

I found Haaris there as well. Ma Shushu was tending to the merchant. He had long, very thin needles that he heated in a candle flame, then inserted with quick, steady hands into the man’s scalp, neck and the backs of his hands.

The man on the table had his eyes squeezed shut. “My head,” he muttered. “Like a drum being beaten from the inside.”

Ma Shushu glanced up at me. “How was work today?”

“It was fine, sir,” I said, tucking my chin into my chest, feeling the weight of secrets bearing down on me. “How was Jum’ah?”

“Good, alhamdulillah. The masjid was full.”

“I have never been to a masjid, or a Jum’ah. I would like to go.” I waited to see how he would respond.

“Oh. Well. Let’s focus our attention on the patient for now. Darius, what I do is called acupuncture. It is an ancient method of healing. You may watch, but you must remain silent.”

I retreated a few steps, put my back to the wall, and watched. How strange this household was. My father had been a dangerous, half-broken man who abused me, drank, stole, and gambled away what little money he had. But he had never lied to me about anything. I was quite sure of that. Yet here in this beautiful, wealthy household, populated with kind and talented people, everyone lied. They lied to me and to each other, and I lied to them.

Did that mean that I was becoming less like my father, and more like these people? I was very confused.

“Darius, are you paying attention?” I heat the needles first to make sure they do not poison the blood.”

I refocused my attention. For good or ill, this life was my future. I must learn, work hard and do my best to fit in.

“Yes, Ma Shushu.”

* * *

Read Part 7 – Divine Wisdom

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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:

Zaid Karim, Private Investigator, Part 1 – Temptation

Gravedigger: A Short Story

The post Far Away [Part 6] – Dragon Surveys His Domain appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

* * *

Darius’s First Prayer

As ordered, I rose at dawn without prompting – I could almost hear my own cow back home calling, wanting to be milked – and dressed to tend to the morning duties.

As I walked toward the door, Haaris took my hand to stop me. “Not yet,” he said. “We have to pray Fajr.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but Zihan Ma entered from the front door, sleepy-eyed, but with his face and beard dripping water. He said gently, “Make wudu’. Haaris, show him how.”

Haaris led me out into the cold, to the outhouse. It was a long walk, as the outhouse was on the edge of the property next to the safflower fields, in an area where the land sloped downhill. There was a hedge planted in front of it, shielding it from view, and I saw that there were actually two of them. Haaris explained that it was a twin-pit system, in which one pit was allowed to decompose while the other was in use. When fully decomposed, it would be emptied and the waste would fertilize the fields. The latrines stank a bit, of course, and flies buzzed about. That was normal.

We relieved ourselves, then walked back to the house. On the western side of the house there was an open space with clothes lines strung up. The well was there, surrounded by a circle of flat stones, and with a large stone basin beside it. Using a ladle to scoop the water, Haaris showed me how to wash my hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, hair, ears and feet.

“You do this every morning?” I was amazed, for I had typically not bathed more than once every three or four days.

“More than that,” Haaris said.

Inside, a large bamboo fiber mat had been laid down in the living room. We arranged ourselves in a formation, with Ma Shushu in front, myself and Haaris behind him, and Lee Ayi behind us. I understood that we were about to begin a religious ritual of some kind. Lee Ayi had assured me that they did not pray to statues, and that was obvious, as there was no statue in sight. According to her, they prayed to Allah, an eternal, all-powerful being.

“What if I am not yet ready to participate in this ritual?” I asked.

Ma Shushu gazed at me solemnly. “Nothing will happen. There is no compulsion in religion. You will still be a part of the family.”

I remembered my father’s words: “The only one to worship is Allah.” He had not explained, but my heart told me that if he were here, he would not object to this ritual, even if he himself did not participate. I exhaled, feeling my chest relax. “I will pray with you. But I don’t know what to do.”

“Just imitate Haaris’s movements for now. We will teach you the words later.”

I raised my hands as Haaris did, and Ma Shushu began to recite. The words were foreign, but his voice was deep and pleasant, and the rhythm of the chanting was hypnotic. I felt myself falling into River Flow, just as I did when practicing Five Animals. We bowed, stood, prostrated, sat, prostrated, and stood again. At one point we looked right and left, and I did not know the prayer was finished until Ma Shushu turned in his place and sat cross-legged.

“How do you feel?” he asked me.

I felt close to tears, was the truth. All those times I had stopped and watched the people in the temple, and felt envious of them in spite of their stupidity, and felt a pull to join them – now I understood why. I felt small and humble, but not humiliated, and certainly not stupid. Rather I felt elevated, not in a literal sense, but as if my heart had grown in my chest. I could not express any of this, and in the end I only said, “I feel calm.”

Ma Shushu nodded. “That is a good way to feel.”

Women’s Work

I was prepared to go out and start the farmwork, but Ma Shushu stopped me. “Not yet. Your shoulder is not ready. Only light housework for now.”

First I swept the entire house. Then Lee Ayi set me to work at the low table near the window, where the morning light poured in, deep and yellow. I sifted a huge sack of rice to remove small stones, and when that was done I shelled peanuts into a clay bowl, the dry skins crackling softly between my fingers. I worked quickly but methodically, not missing anything. My shoulder still ached, but the work was slow and did not strain it.

The scent of the peanuts reminded me of home, and I found myself missing Far Away and Lady Two. My poor cat. Where was he now? Running from house to house at night, pawing through the garbage for a scrap? A dairy cow was valuable, someone would always care for her. But a stray cat with no parents who loved him, no home, no job? They would throw stones and chase him away. I sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Lee Ayi asked as she rinsed a pile of vegetables.

I shook my head, saying nothing.

Outside, I could hear goats bleating and the dull thump of hooves, the steady noises of a working farm that went on without me.

Lee Ayi moved quietly in and of the room, taking the vegetables outside to dry on woven trays, and lifting lids to check simmering pots. Every so often she glanced at me, not to hurry me, but to be sure I was not favoring the wounded arm too much.

“You work like your father,” she said at last.

I looked up, startled. “Is that good or bad?”

She smiled faintly. “Both.”

She sat across from me and began stripping safflower petals from their heads, her fingers quick and practiced. The petals fell into a shallow basket like small flames.

“I feel bad,” I said, “that I am doing women’s work, while Haaris is outside by himself.”

Lee Ayi gave an annoyed click with her tongue. “There is no men’s work and women’s work. There is only work. All work holds dignity. A cook and a floor sweeper are no less dignified than a horse trainer or an army general. As Muslims, we serve Allah by serving humanity. When you work to benefit others you are working for Allah, and that is the highest calling.”

This was a foreign concept to me. What did humanity have to do with me? My father had never believed in serving anyone nor benefitting anyone except himself, me and my mother. Perhaps a compromise would be to understand it as service to family. By serving this family, I served Allah. I could accept that.

Highway Robbery

“Yong was always restless,” Lee Ayi said, as if reading my mind. “Even as a boy. Cai Lee tried to beat it out of him. It did not work. The harder Father pushed, the more Yong pushed back.”

I said nothing. I had never heard my father spoken of as a child.

“He had no patience for books,” she went on. “Nor for rules. The only things that ever held his attention were fighting and gambling. Martial skill came to him as easily as breathing. Gambling too. He was very lucky. Or perhaps very cursed.”

Her mouth tightened briefly, then relaxed again.

“He never cared for religion. Not even a little. When he began drinking as a teenager, Father said enough was enough. He cast him out. No food, no money, no place by the hearth.”

She did not look at me as she said this, but at the safflower petals.

“I used to meet him in secret,” she said quietly. “I would bring him steamed buns, or rice wrapped in cloth. A few coins. He always said he would pay me back one day.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “He never did.”

I would have smiled at the ridiculous notion of my father paying anyone back for anything, but the image of him as a hungry youth wandering the roads sat badly in my chest. As my father had lived, so had I as well. Was that the curse my aunt spoke of? Would I pass the same curse on to my own children?

“One day,” she continued, “Yong came upon a carriage stopped on the road, surrounded by three thieves. Highwaymen. Atop the carriage sat a noble Hui family, the Shahs. Among them was their daughter, Shah Nur. She was sixteen years old and beautiful. Yong fell in love at first sight.”

I froze, watching Lee Ayi intently. Shah Nur was my mother. I had never heard this story before, nor did I know anything about my mother’s family.

Lee Ayi went on: “I suspect if not for the beauty of Shah Nur, Yong would not have interfered. But he took it upon himself to attack the highwaymen. He carried nothing but a staff, while the highwaymen were armed with swords. Yet Yong killed one of the robbers in seconds. Seeing this, your grandfather, Shah Zheng, dismounted and joined in, taking the dead robber’s sword. Between them they drove the other two off.”

It was easy for me to imagine my father doing that. In my mind I could picture the entire battle, and could describe precisely what moves Yong had performed. This was the only incident I’d ever heard of in which my father’s fighting skills had been used to help someone. I felt proud of him.

The Shahs

“The Shahs,” Lee Ayi went on, “are descended from Sa’d ibn Abi Waqqas, the companion of the Prophet, peace be upon him, who brought Islam to our land. They are the most noble of us all, and the most wealthy, as they organize and finance huge caravans that carry goods from here to India, Persia and Turkey.”

“I saw a caravan once,” I enthused, pleased to be able to tell Lee Ayi something she did not know. “We passed it on the road from my family’s town to the city. It had fifty horse-drawn wagons, can you believe it? They were loaded up with textiles, spices, armor, pistachios, and other things I could not see. It was guarded by many men. I never thought there could be so many armed men outside of the army.”

“Did the wagons bear an emblem of a mountain peak surrounded by five stars?”

“Yes!” I grinned at her. “How did you know?”

“Those wagons belong to the Five Stars Trading Company. That is the Shah family’s company.”

I gaped. “One family owns all of that?”

“And much more. Anyway, Shah Zhen rewarded Yong well for saving their lives. It was more money than he had ever seen. It happened, however, that as he had fallen in love with Nur, she too was captivated by him. For the Shah family, such a match was out of the question. Yong was nominally Muslim, but he was a nobody, a lout. So Yong met with Nur secretly and convinced her to leave with him. It was madness. But she was young and brave, and ready for an adventure. They used the money to buy a farm in another town. They disappeared.”

She resumed stripping petals.

“After you were born, Yong came back only once, alone, to give us the news. But the Shah family had never stopped looking for Nur. They put a price on Yong’s head. He knew if he stayed, he would bring danger to us all. So he left again and never returned. We knew that you existed, but that was all.”

I set the last peanut into the bowl and rubbed my fingers together, brushing away the skins. A multitude of thoughts swirled in my head. I didn’t think my poor mother had gotten the adventure she dreamed of. My father had never been cruel to her, had never beaten her, but neither had he been the loving husband she must have hoped for. He had a temper, he shouted at times, he went to town to drink and gamble, and he was in and out of jail as far back as I could remember. Our farmhouse was decrepit and non-productive, and we had been very poor. And now Shah Nur, daughter of a great and noble family, was buried in a small flower-lined plot behind an abandoned, broken-down farmhouse.

I must have been silent for a long time, because I found Lee Ayi beside me, rubbing my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said. “What’s done is done. Your mother is with Allah, just as we all will be one day. The best thing you can do is remember her love for you. That is her legacy.”

I nodded. Feeling the need to defend Yong Lee, I said, “My father did better in the end. He changed.”

Lee Ayi nodded. “I believe it. He joined the army to provide for you. That was an act of love.”

My lower lip trembled at that, but I managed to stifle it.

Dhuhr

At that moment, Ma Shushu came in from outside, his arms and face again dripping water. “Time for Dhuhr,” he said simply.

We laid out the mats. Lee Ayi adjusted my cushion so I would not strain my shoulder. Haaris was still out in the fields, his voice carrying faintly as he called to the animals.

“What about Haaris?” I asked.

“He is tending to the animals,” Ma Shushu said. “He will pray on his own.”

I felt a flush of heat rise up my neck. The boy was outside working while I was in here, clean and sheltered, shucking peanuts and sifting rocks out of rice. I reminded myself of Lee Ayi’s words: All work holds dignity.

When the prayer was over, Ma Shushu – seeing my obvious embarrassment – said, “You will be back in the fields soon enough. Do not borrow tomorrow’s pride today.”

After prayer, we ate a simple meal. Rice, greens, a little salted fish. I ate slowly, forcing myself to be mindful.

Lee Ayi made a plate and asked me to take it out to Haaris. I found him in a wide, grassy field on the other side of the outhouses. I hadn’t even known this field existed. The scent of the grass was rich in my nostrils. Haaris sat on a boulder, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, holding a bamboo switch and watching the cows, donkeys, and goats as they grazed. His boots were dirty, and he looked tired. He accepted the plate eagerly and began to devour it.

“Watch the baby goat.” He indicated with the chopsticks. “It keeps trying to headbutt the calf.”

I squeezed in next to him on the boulder and watched. The goat was more than a baby – maybe six months old, I would guess, though my eye was unpracticed – while the cow’s calf was younger but much bigger. As I watched, the goat bleated loudly, reared up on its hind legs and aimed its forehead at the calf, which was busy grazing. At the last instant the calf moved its head to the side and the goat missed. Haaris laughed out loud, spitting a bite of green beans.

I smiled as well. “The goat is a fighter.”

“Say ma sha-Allah.”

“What is that?”

“Oh, it’s like, this is something good that Allah made.”

“Repeat it.”

Haaris repeated the phrase, and I did my best to pronounce it.

“I’d better get back,” I said.

“I’ll see you soon,” Haaris promised. “We have studies.”

Studies

I changed the sheets on the beds then took the food scraps – vegetable peels and such – out to the compost pile. Outside, the sounds of the farm went on. Inside, the day settled around me like a garment I was still learning how to wear.

A few hours later Haaris and I sat on woven mats in Ma Shushu’s study, the afternoon light slanting in through the window and laying a pale rectangle across the floor. A low desk stood before him, its surface worn smooth, with a stack of books neatly arranged at one corner. Haaris sat cross-legged beside me, already alert, his back straight and his hands folded in his lap as if lessons were a form of prayer in themselves.

Ma Shushu began with numbers.

He drew figures in charcoal on a wooden board, simple at first. Counting, grouping, dividing. Haaris answered quickly, eager to please. I was slower, unused to putting numbers to paper, but the logic of it came easily enough. When Ma Shushu shifted from grain tallies to weights and measures, I leaned forward without realizing it. This was useful knowledge. Real knowledge. The kind that kept accounts honest and prevented quarrels.

“Math is justice,” Ma Shushu said, tapping the board once. “If you cannot count, someone else will count for you, and it won’t be in your favor.”

After that came reading and writing. Haaris fetched brushes and ink while Ma Shushu laid out a sheet of paper. He wrote a single character and explained its strokes, the order, the balance. Haaris practiced carefully, tongue caught between his teeth. When it was my turn, my hand felt clumsy around the brush, but Ma Shushu corrected my grip without comment and had me try again.

“Slow,” he said. “Meaning comes from care.”

My father had taught me to read and write by drawing characters in the dirt, using the wooden training dao. I had literally grown up writing with a sword. However, I was not used to the brush, or the small scale. Once my hand became accustomed to the grip, and I learned to ease the pressure and make everything smaller, my hand began to flow. The brush whispered across the page.

“Have you done this before?” Ma Shushu asked. “You pick it up fast.”

“My father taught me using a – “ I stopped myself. “A stick.”

“A stick?” Ma Shushu sounded offended. He shrugged. “Well. Not everyone has resources.”

I stiffened for a moment, not sure if my father was being criticised. Then I took a breath and relaxed. I did not want to see my father and Zihan Ma as opposites or opponents. My father’s lessons in Five Animals had literally saved my life. Once, at the town fair, I had seen a relay race, where the teammates passed a red ribbon from one to the next. I imagined my father passing a ribbon on to Zihan Ma. I was that ribbon. That was my hope, anyway.

When the ink was set aside and the brushes rinsed, Ma Shushu poured water into three small cups. He drank first, then gestured for us to do the same.

“Now,” he said, “we speak of deen.”

Haaris shifted closer, his expression changing. This was his favorite part, I could tell.

Ma Shushu did not open a book. He rested his hands on his knees and looked at us, first at Haaris, then at me.

“All of it begins with tawheed,” he said. “The Oneness of Allah.”

He did not raise his voice or dramatize the words. He spoke as if stating a fact as simple as the sun rising in the east.

“There is one Creator. Not many. Nor should anything else in the creation be worshiped. When you understand this, many other questions become smaller.” He went on to explain the concept of tawheed and its many applications to our lives. I began to understand that this central belief of Islam was deep and all-encompassing.

“That is enough for today,” he said eventually. “Tomorrow we continue.”

“What do you think?” Haaris asked me when the lesson was over.

“I think I have a lot to learn.” That was the best I could offer.

Jum’ah

The next day was Friday. Once again I was relegated to housework. Once the early morning tasks were done, Ma Shushu and Haaris began hitching the donkeys to the carriage. The carriage was piled high with safflowers that the farm laborers had harvested yesterday.

“Are we going to town?” I asked.

“Haaris and I are going,” Ma Shushu said. “It’s market day, and it’s Jum’ah, the main day of prayer for Muslims. We will deliver the safflowers to my sister and a few others, then attend prayer.”

“What about me?”

Ma Shushu did not meet my eyes. “Your shoulder is not healed yet. The jostling of the carriage would not be good for you.”

As they departed, all I saw was the back of the wagon and a heap of flowers. I waved, but no one saw me. The whole thing was very strange, and I couldn’t feeling there was something I wasn’t being told.

They were hardly out of sight when Lee Ayi called me to the west side of the house. She nodded to the clothes on the lines.

“Help me take these clothes down and fold them,” she said, speaking quickly. “Then take the lines down.”

“Some of the clothes are still damp,” I remarked as I took down a pair of Haaris’s trousers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lee Ayi replied. “We’ll put them back up later.”

This made no sense to me, but I did as ordered. Lee Ayi worked fast, rushing, which was not like her at all.

* * *

Read Part 6 – Dragon Surveys His Domain

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:

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

The post Far Away [Part 5] – There Is Only Work appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

It is a Sunday night, which means work tomorrow; the beginning of yet another week where I will carry my invisible yet ever-so-heavy grief around with me: finding that smile when greeting others, listening attentively, and communicating, because, as expressed in every language, life must go on. It’s now a little over a year since I lost my father. I have carried on in the best way I can, making sure I only cry behind closed doors. You see, the problem with that is, you are then always expected to carry on – so the invisible weight of grief becomes even heavier on the already constricted heart. 

Understanding Fate

At times, usually when I’m driving, I remind myself of the immense blessing of grieving for my father well into my forties. Allah , Ar-Rahman, blessed me with a kind and loving father for over four decades – a gift many hundreds of people have not been privileged to have. I have seen close friends and family lose loved ones at much younger ages, and they have carried on beautifully. Why then does my heart hurt in this way? Am I an ungrateful soul? I’m not sure I know the answer to this. Can a grateful heart not feel pain?  Isn’t pain also an emotion felt by the living, just as gratitude is? Just because I cry, does it mean I am not accepting of Allah’s beautiful and perfect decree in my life? 

It is the human in us. The very thing that differentiates us from all of Allah’s Creation is our ability to feel continuously. We love and are loved, but this does not mean that we don’t experience sorrow or are exempt from hurting others. We can be grateful, yet have endless tears. This is what makes us humans with hearts: a heart that is more than an organ, a heart that feels. This is what my year-long exclusive membership to the emotional field of grief has taught me. It is one of the many emotional states that will now be with me – until I myself leave this dunya. I can hide it, but I cannot avoid it. I may never find the right words to describe it, but every inch of my beating heart will feel it every single day. 

Grieving As A Believer

“Life has to go on, but how should a heart carrying the badge of grief carry on?” [PC: Duniah Almasri (unsplash)]

Life has to go on, but how should a heart carrying the badge of grief carry on? The Qur’an and the Seerah of Prophet Muhammad are my answer. You would think worship is easier for the one who loses someone dear, but no one talks about how you freeze with worship when grieving. How the heart has a yearning to connect with its Lord, but the mind remains still, lost and struggling to move. It is then that the years of holding the mus’haf close to the heart help revive it for worship. It is then, -knowing that the tears running down Muhammad’s (saw) face after losing his infant child, knowing he continued with his role as the last Prophet of Islam-, that this helps you take steps towards living life. We know about all the losses in his life, from before his birth; from the death of his father, to losing his mother, grandfather and then later his beloved wife and uncle. The seerah weighs heavily with death and grieving, but life, purpose and calling upon Allah continue. It is then that you are reminded of what a real human experience of grief is, because in the example of the Prophet Muhammad , we know is for us the ideal believer and human. 

I don’t think anyone truly learns to live with grief. I think it can be soul-consuming; we either park it somewhere or find a way to carry it with us – but it is always there. At times, the intensity of missing someone, remembering their face, the pain they lived with, the sacrifices they made, all of this and more, can make us feel lost and detached from the every day of life. It is for these moments that having a daily relationship with the Qur’an brings focus back into our day, allowing us to understand how life can feel bearable.

For many years now, I have run a group of daily Qur’an recitation with other sisters. We recite ten verses a day and read the translation of the same ten verses. This has been running for over a decade now, but it was in my year of grief that the group was my anchor and I realised the true blessing of having a daily relationship with the Qur’an. For all the verses I had read and learnt about, they came as a soothing balm in my time of hurt. It allowed me not to be dismissive of feelings but rather gave meaning and purpose to the overwhelming fear that comes with mourning someone we love. It is a form of therapy, but with the Words of Allah – His Speech – how can we not find comfort in it? 

 “Your Lord has not forsaken you” [ Surah Ad-Duha;93:3]

Dua’ – A Gift For The Deceased And For The Living 

After a year-long journey of wiping away tears at night and walking with a forced smile during the day, I have taught myself to make dua’ for my father’s soul in a way I have not done so before. There is an enormous comfort in knowing that when we make dua’ for a departed soul, they benefit from it. 

Abu Huraira narrated that “The Messenger of Allah ﷺ said, ‘Verily, Allah Almighty will raise the status of his righteous servant in paradise, and he will say, ‘O Lord, what is this?’ Allah will say, ‘This is (due to) your child seeking forgiveness for you.’” [Sunan Ibn Majah]

I cannot express in words how much relief this provides me. To know that my good actions can aid my father now allows me to continue; it allows me to want to do good, and it also helps this private experience to feel acceptable. 

Allah , The Most Wise, in His Wisdom permitted us, His servants, to know about this; to know that we can benefit those who have left the dunya. This knowledge that He has shared with us of the unseen is of great benefit for both the living and the dead. 

Abu Huraira reported: The Messenger of Allah (saw) said: “When the human being dies, his deeds end except for three: ongoing charity, beneficial knowledge, or a righteous child who prays for him.” [Sahih Muslim]

It is by knowing this that a grieving believer can refresh and re-intend to carry out good. It is by knowing that I shall make every tear a means of dua’ for my father, but also live such a life that I do both: attempt at being a righteous child of my father’s, but also leave behind children who will also pray for me in this way. In order for this to happen, there is much work. And this is faith. This is what faith is like for us Muslims. It is not something confined to our prayer mats, but has to be present when we do everything else; and this includes when and how we grieve, too. It is only because of faith that I am able to navigate the waves of sorrow and understand its permanent residence in my life. 

Related:

– Unheard, Unspoken: The Secret Side Of Grief

– Sharing Grief: A 10 Point Primer On Condolence

The post Keeping The Faith After Loss: How To Save A Grieving Heart appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

This study proved that – unsurprisingly – sandwich generation carers are at a greater risk of mental health struggles and need support. 

Equity In Eldercare

In my youthful naivete, I strongly believed that when it came to looking after one’s ageing parents, it had to be distributed equally according to the number of children. By my logic, if an elderly couple had four children, then all four of them had to take turns to look after their parents. Only children have the responsibility of caring for both ageing parents with no siblings to lean on, except for a loving and supportive spouse, if they have one.

Many decades later, I have come to realize that no matter how many children there are in a family, except in rare circumstances, the bulk of eldercare usually falls on one adult child and his/her spouse and children. One of my friends, a Malaysian cardiologist who encounters many ageing elders, echoes seeing the same thing in her clinical practice across both Muslim and non-Muslim families.

The rise of individualism in today’s world is probably a driving force in elder neglect. When families lived closer together, the norm was for all children to help in the care of their elders. With the rise in economic migration and diaspora Muslim communities, the elders who did not move with their children are often left behind in their old age. 

Cultural Expectations vs Islamic Obligations

There seem to be many cultural “myths” when it comes to caring for elders. In Malaysia, where I live, the responsibility for eldercare often lies with adult daughters, even if families have sons. This may be due to the strongly matriarchal society and women often being the main income earners. In other parts of the world, the emphasis is on adult sons looking after their parents, even if they also have daughters. Desis have an expectation of the eldest son caring for his parents, when the actual work gets shifted onto his wife. 

The reality is this: Islamically, eldercare responsibility lies on all adult children, regardless of gender. Caring for one’s parents is a fardul ‘ain (individual responsibility), and not a fardul kifayah (communal responsibility). One child caring for an ageing parent does not lift the responsibility from other children.

An Unfortunate Bias

“The reality is this: Islamically, eldercare responsibility lies on all adult children, regardless of gender.” [PC: Raymond Yeung (unsplash)]

Caring for her in-laws is not her Islamic obligation – her obligation is to care for her husband, children, and her parents! Undoubtedly, she will be rewarded for caring for her in-laws, but once again, that is not her obligation. A daughter-in-law caring for her husband’s parents is a recommended act which is not lost on Allah . 

However, it’s important to realize a burnt-out daughter-in-law will be less likely to fulfil her actual obligations: her husband and children. May Allah guide and have mercy on all of our families, and help us all do better.

No Easy Answers, But Everything Is From Allah

When it comes to equitable eldercare, there is no one-size-fits-all solution for families who are spread throughout the globe. Even with all adult children in the same city, eldercare is probably not distributed equitably either. Someone will have to sacrifice something for an unknown period of time.

In the best case scenario, all adult siblings step up in their best ways possible, put their differences aside, and work as a team to care for their ageing parents. Sadly, this is not always the case. When eldercare is left to only one adult child and his/her household, it can be so frustrating to ask for help, only to have minimal response from other siblings. 

What helps is always turning to Allah and making choices that align with His Pleasure. If you are bearing the load of eldercare, please know that this is a sign of Allah’s Love and honouring of you, through service to your elderly parents. Their dua’s for you will bring about tremendous goodness to you – even if it may not be immediately apparent.

Tips For Making Eldercare Easier

If you are the main carer for both elders and young children, here are some tips that may help:

1) Build a strong support network: Nobody can look after elders or children on their own without burning out, let alone when looking after both age groups! Please don’t wait until you are on the brink of a mental breakdown, but rather proactively have a conversation with family and/or loved ones, and discuss how everyone can help support you in caring for the elders under your care.

2) Build in breaks: Try your best to build in regular daily, weekly, monthly and yearly ‘pressure release valves’ – for lack of a better term. When family comes to visit and spends quality time with your ageing elder, use that opportunity to rest and recharge.

3) Elder vacations: Before elders struggle with more severe health issues, arrange for them to go for a holiday in another adult child’s household. Even if they might be reluctant to leave their comfort zone, this break will give a much-needed respite for the main household of carers.

4) Acceptance: Sadly, as health issues often worsen in old age, there will come a time when ageing parents will no longer be able to travel. This is the time for them to be visited and cared for, especially by adult children who live far away or are absent for other reasons.

Imam Ahmad narrated that Usamah bin Sharik (may Allah be pleased with him) said, “I was with the Prophet Muhammad (Alla when the Bedouins came to him and said, ‘O Messenger of Allah, should we seek medicine?’ He said, ‘Yes, O slaves of Allah, seek medicine, for Allah has not created a disease except that He has created its cure, except for one illness.’ They said, ‘And what is that?’ He said, ‘old age.’” [Ahmad, Tirmidhi, Abu Dawud]

Conclusion

Marriage is a lifelong commitment that not only includes the care and raising of children, but also the care and burying of elders. When families were closer together and Islamic values were more prevalent, discussions around eldercare weren’t even necessary among siblings. Elders were cherished and cared for by their adult children and grandchildren until the end of their long and blessed lives.

Now, there needs to be a revival of more intentional conversations around eldercare, especially with the rise of individualism and the cultural bias that expects only eldest/youngest sons to do the heavy lifting. Every single adult child has a role to play, even if it’s inconvenient. The door of service to our elders is a golden opportunity that only lasts for as long as they are with us in this dunya. Once they pass away, that door closes, never to be opened again.

Related:

– Avoid Financial Elder Abuse Through Islamic Principles

– Restoring Balance In An Individualized Society: The Islamic Perspective on Parent-Child Relationships

The post The Sandwich Carers: Navigating The Islamic Obligation Of Eldercare appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

* * *

Safe

I drifted in and out of a gray place. Sometimes I was in my father’s house and the rats were chewing at my shoulder instead of the crop. Sometimes I was in the temple pool, and the carp had human faces and they were all my father, all of them judging me in silence.

Once I woke up enough to feel something sharp slide into my skin near the wound, and I tried to fight, but a strong hand pressed my good shoulder down and a calm voice said, “Lie still. I am drawing the heat out. Do you want to keep the arm or not?” Then the darkness pulled me under again.

When I finally woke properly, I lay on a narrow pallet in a small, clean room. My shoulder throbbed dully. The air smelled of herbs, smoke, and something bitter I did not recognize. Light filtered in through a paper-covered window, soft and white. Shelves on the walls held clay and glass jars containing herbs, and I knew not what else. A rectangular plaque on the wall displayed words in a flowing script that I could not read, and an ornate wooden desk and chair stood beneath the window, with a stack of books atop the desk.

I had never seen so many books, and thought that this family must be very wealthy. I saw my traveling pack in the corner, but there was no sign of my weapons. My tunic had been washed and repaired.

I suddenly remembered my money kept in a secret pocket inside my tunic. I clutched frantically and felt the purse beneath the shirt, the weight of the money still there. The movement sent a bolt of pain through me so sharp that I gasped.

“Easy.” The word came from my left and just behind me.

I turned my head. A woman sat on a low stool beside the bed. She was short, with strong hands stained faintly with safflower dye. It was the woman who had stood at the doorway, though she no longer seemed as fearsome as she had then. Even if no one had told me, I would have known she was my aunt, as she looked so much like my father she could have been his twin. Maybe she was his twin, for all I knew. She was a beautiful woman, lean and strong, with smooth features and high cheekbones. It occurred to me for the first time that if she was beautiful, perhaps my father was handsome. I had never thought of him that way.

“Your purse is intact,” she said. “We are not thieves. You are safe here.” She held a damp cloth, and now she reached out and wiped my face with it, as if I were a much younger child. Then she helped me sit just enough to sip from a cup. The water was cool and tasted faintly of some bitter root. I grimaced.

“It will help,” she said. “My husband boiled it with herbs for the fever. Now stay here, do not move.” She rose and stepped out of the room, and a moment later, the man I’d encountered at the door earlier stepped into the room. His face was dark and handsome, with a thick black mustache and inquiring black eyes. His hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves. Behind him peered the boy I had seen behind him at the door, his eyes bright and curious.

“Hi,” the boy said. “I’m Haaris.”

Questions

“Hush, do not speak to him,” the father said. He nodded to me. “I am Zihan Ma. I am a healer. How is the shoulder?”

“It hurts,” I said honestly.

“That’s normal.” He stepped forward and laid a hand on my forehead. “The fever has broken, alhamdulillah.” Gently, he pulled the tunic off my shoulder. A strip of cloth was wrapped around my upper arm to hold the bandage in place. With quick, practiced fingers, he loosened the cloth around my arm and lifted the edge of the bandage.

Cool air touched the wound. I hissed.

“Hold still.” He studied it for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “The flesh is no longer angry. It will leave a scar, but you will keep the arm.”

The boy edged closer. “Can I see?” he whispered.

“Let him breathe.” Zihan Ma glanced down at me. His eyes were measuring, weighing me as my father used to weigh a prospective victim with a single glance. “You can stay another day and night to rest, but then you must leave. This is not a hospital, nor an orphanage. We cannot care for you.”

“But -” I stammered. I felt as if I’d just been struck in the stomach. “Where will I go? I have no one else.”

Jade Lee touched my arm gently. “Where are your parents?”

I breathed deeply, trying to get myself under control. “My mother died when I was seven. My father, Yong Lee, went to fight the invaders. They say he is dead. I came here to find you.”

Jade Lee drew her head back, staring at me. “What is your name?”

“I am Darius Lee, son of Yong Lee, son of Cai Lee.” That was all I knew of my ancestry.

“Eh?” Jade Lee seized me by the shoulders. “Darweesh? Is it really you? Of course it is, look at you! You look just like your mother. I am your aunt!” She seized me and embraced me tightly, and I went completely stiff. No one had ever hugged me except my mother, and my father just that one time. Sensing my discomfort, she pulled away again. “You say Yong is dead?” Her voice softened. “Was it the drinking?”

I shook my head. “He quit drinking in the end. He enlisted in the army and died fighting the invaders. The Mayor would not let me stay on the farm alone, even though I brought in the peanut crop by myself.”

She looked stunned. “He enlisted? But why? He never cared about anything but himself, and certainly never cared about politics or patriotism. He did not even care about his faith.”

“Rats destroyed our crop. I believe… I think he wanted to do something for me. To provide me with a future.” I shrugged. “We never spoke of such things.”

“How did you get the shoulder wound?” Zihan Ma asked. His tone was firm but not accusatory.

“Two robbers attacked me in the town. A constable stopped them.” I did not mention that I had sliced a man’s face open.

“You smelled strongly of wine. Are you a drunk like your father?”

“Husband!” Jade Lee rebuked. “That is no way to speak of the dead.”

“It is the living I am worried about. You know what Yong was like.”

Zihan Ma’s words angered me, but I restrained myself and spoke calmly. “I do not drink. I poured wine over the wound to clean it. And my father was more than what you say.”

“Why do you carry weapons?”

“The dao was a parting gift from my father. The spear, too, was his.” I did not tell him that I had killed two men with the dao. That was definitely not something he needed to know.

A Plea

It was obvious that Zihan Ma was not happy about me being here, and suspected that I brought trouble to his door. Maybe he was right. My whole life had been a struggle. I was like a piece of metal being shaped by a blacksmith. There might be a moment of quiet, but another hammer blow was coming soon enough.

But I sensed that Zihan Ma was a good man. Judging by Haaris’s health and apparent innocence, and Jade Lee’s overall well-being, I knew that I would not be beaten here, I would not be cursed. I would be fed and treated decently, and I needed that so badly, I was desperate for it. I had told myself that I could take to the road and survive on my own, stealing and grifting, but now that I sat in this comfortable home, with hot food on the table, I cringed at the thought of leaving.

“Sir,” I said. “Ma Shushu.” (It was hopeful of me to address him formally as Uncle Ma). “If you’ll let me stay, I won’t be a burden. I brought in two peanut crops on my own, without help. I had a cow. I’m used to hard work. I know what my father was like, everyone does. But I won’t steal from you or make trouble.”

I reached into my coat, took out my purse, and tried to empty it onto the bed. But my hand shook, and the nine gold coins spilled out, some onto the bed and some rolling across the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I was growing increasingly panicked. “This is the money from my father’s enlistment, and the monthly salary he sent, and from my last peanut crop. You see, I have no need to steal. You can take it. You’ll see how hard I work. Please.”

With the last word, my voice broke, and I began to sob. I was deeply ashamed of this, and pulled my tunic over my face. I had not even wept for my father’s death, and here I was crying to be allowed to stay in the home of virtual strangers. My aunt leaned in quickly and pulled me to her.

“You poor boy,” she said. “Of course you can stay. Isn’t that right, husband?”

I pulled out of my aunt’s embrace and wiped my nose and eyes with my coat.

“Please, Daddy,” Haaris said. “Let him stay.”

Zihan Ma gave a slight nod. “All this pleading is unnecessary. You are family, Darweesh. Of course, you may stay; that is a given.” Haaris had already picked up the fallen money, and Zihan Ma returned it to me. “Keep your money, put it away.”

From that moment on, I was part of the family. I always addressed my aunt as “Lee Ayi” – Aunt Lee – and Zihan Ma as Ma Shushu.

Recovery

They let me sleep again after that, and the rest of the day blurred. In the evening, Lee Āyí changed my bandage, then fed me a delicious chicken soup that, by itself, nearly made the entire ordeal worthwhile.

After that, Haaris sat cross-legged on the floor and told me stories of the goats and the donkeys and the cat named Bao, as if he had decided that words alone could keep me alive. The younger donkey, he said, loved to eat watermelon. “He takes huge bites,” he laughed. “Gobbles it right down to the rind.” I tried to imagine this, and found myself smiling. At the same time, I was a bit jealous, as I had never eaten watermelon myself!

The next morning, I woke to feel thin, hot needles pricking the skin around my shoulder; I tensed, but Ma Shushu’s voice came calm and unhurried: “Breathe. In and out. Let the qi move.” I did not know what qi was, but I obeyed. I felt vastly improved. The pain in my shoulder was down to no more than a slight ache. By lunch time, I was out of bed and walking. My head felt clear, and my limbs were my own again.

My aunt helped me sit on a cushion in the main room, then proceeded to set food on the table. It was a low wooden table polished smooth by years of elbows and bowls, and on it were dishes that made my stomach clench with hunger. Steamed greens glistening with sesame oil, soft white rice piled in a clay bowl, slices of beef in a dark, fragrant sauce, pickled radish, braised eggplant, and a tureen of soup filled with mushrooms and tofu. To me, it looked like a feast for a noble.

Home Now

We sat on woven mats. The warmth of the room seeped into my bones, and for a moment I simply breathed in the scents – ginger and garlic, simmered broth, cooked meat. Lee Āyí took her seat beside Haaris, and Ma Shushu settled across from me, his knees cracking softly as he folded his legs.

Before anyone lifted a bowl, he raised his hands slightly and said, “Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem.” Then he spoke a short prayer in a steady, calm voice, asking Allah to bless the food and the family and the guest who had come into their home.

I stared blankly, unsure if I should bow my head. I desperately wished not to offend these people, but I could not bring myself to worship something that, for all I knew, was yet another statue. My aunt noticed. Something in her eyes softened – not pity exactly, but a recognition of what had been missing in my life all these years.

“Darweesh,” she said gently, “your father taught you nothing of our faith, did he?”

Her tone was neither surprised nor harsh; rather, it held the sadness of someone confirming what they already suspected.

“No, he did not,” I said quietly. “I once heard the name Allah, but I do not know what it means. My father… disliked the worship of statues. If that is what you do, I cannot participate. I do not mean to offend you, truly. Please forgive me.”

Ma Shushu said, “Statues?” and his face reddened. I had indeed offended him. But my aunt put a hand on his arm to still him, and spoke to me: “We do not worship statues. We are Hui people, you, me, and both your parents, and their parents, and so on. Our people have been Muslim for over a thousand years. We worship Allah, the Creator of all. The One who gave us life, provides this food, who has always existed and will always exist, and who knows all things. Unlike the idols, we did not create Him. He created us.”

I mulled this over, trying to conceive of such a being. “But,” I finally said, “if this – Allah – created all things, then who created him?”

“No one. He is Eternal. This world, the sun and moon” – she waved a hand – “and the stars in the sky are like grains of sand in Allah’s Hand. He is a merciful God, full of generosity and forgiveness. He hears our prayers and is closer to us than our own jugular veins.”

I swallowed, not knowing what to say. This sounded like a wonderful fairy tale. On the other hand, I’d had a lifelong fascination with temples, and a yearning to lose myself in the worship of a deity who was actually worthy of my adoration. Wasn’t that a sign of some knowledge inherent in my soul? Some recognition that such a being must exist?

Ma Shushu put up a hand. “It does not matter for now if you believe as we do. You will be required to learn this religion, which is called Islam, but you will not be forced to practice it. Now let us eat while the food is hot.”

“Yes, Darweesh,” my aunt said. “Husband is right. You will learn. You are home now.”

The word home struck me strangely. I did not know what to do with it, so I pretended not to hear.

We began to eat. The cat, Bao, appeared as if by magic, and sat beside Haaris, licking her lips. As we ate, Haaris dropped small pieces of beef fat for Bao, who chewed them so noisily that I almost laughed. I tried to restrain myself and to eat in a civilized way, but after the first few bites, my hunger overcame my manners – what few I had. The food was soft and warm and rich in ways I had forgotten were possible. When I devoured a bowl of rice and tofu too quickly, Haaris grinned and pushed the pot toward me. “We always cook plenty,” he said. “Mama says growing boys eat like wolves.”

Aunt Lee swatted him lightly. “Do not tease Darweesh.”

I cleared my throat. “Actually, Lee Ayi, my name is Darius. That is what my father always called me.”

She smiled. “Very well. Darius. You gave us quite a fright, you know. You arrived at our door stinking of wine and rot, then fell like a sack of millet. We didn’t know what to think. And your wound was already poisoned. One more day and you would have lost the arm. Alhamdulillah that you got here when you did.”

“I… walked,” I said. “I saw Auntie Ming in the town. She gave me directions.”

“And gave you a few sharp words I imagine,” said Ma Shushu. “She never liked your father.”

“Never mind that,” Lee Ayi said. “We’re just glad you didn’t walk yourself into an early grave. Here. Eat.”

Duties

As we ate, Ma Shushu wiped his mouth with a cloth and cleared his throat. “Darius,” he said, “you will have duties here, as every member of this household does. Work must be done properly.”

I nodded, a piece of beef half-chewed in my mouth.

“For now, we will give you light work only. But when you are recovered, you will rise at dawn with Haaris. First task: milk the cows. They must be calm, so move slowly and speak softly. When they are milked, let them and the donkeys out to graze in the west field. After that, shovel the dung from the stalls—take it to the compost heap behind the barn. Then feed the chickens and collect the eggs before the sun grows strong. The goats receive their feed as well, and check that none have wandered into the safflower rows.”

I was nodding along. “Yes, Ma Shushu.”

“Good. When the morning tasks are done, you will return to the house for lessons. Reading, writing, arithmetic, and the basics of our deen.”

I had no idea what he meant by deen, but I remained quiet, and he went on:

“In the afternoon, you are free. The hired hands tend to the fields. You may help them if you wish, but it is not required.”

Nothing he said dismayed me. Compared to fighting off rats with a shovel, killing thieves in my doorway, or tending a field alone from dawn until darkness, these tasks felt almost light. The idea of studies was strange, but not frightening.

“I understand,” I said. “I can do all of it.”

“Certainly you can,” he replied. His voice held no doubt, only calm assurance.

My Lee Ayi refilled my bowl again, and this time I forced myself to eat slowly. Haaris asked questions about my father, my farm, crops, cow, and my dao. I answered what I wished and ignored the rest. The soup warmed my chest; the rice softened the edges of my hunger; the quiet murmur of family around a table – something I had never known – settled over me like a heavy blanket I did not want to shrug off.

For the first time since leaving home, the tightness in my chest eased.

“Your God, Allah,” I asked. “Does He have a temple?”

“We call it a masjid,” Ma Shushu replied. “There are many. There is one in town, you probably walked past it.”

“Does it have a pool with carp?”

Haaris grinned widely. “It does! How did you know? And there’s a cat that sleeps there too. And it has soft carpets and pretty designs on the walls.”

Old Friends

When the meal was finished, Lee Ayi brought out a small plate of sweetened peanuts, roasted and glazed. I stared at them, at the familiar shape and smell. My father had grown peanuts with his bare hands, cursing the heat and the rats and the soil itself. He had tried to build something that would provide. These peanuts were nothing like ours, for they were larger, sweeter, and coated with honey. But they brought my father’s face to my mind in a way that hurt with a sweet kind of pain.

“You are safe here,” my aunt said again, as if answering a question I had not spoken.

I lowered my gaze and nodded. I believed her, though some part of me was sure that something would happen to wreck it. Such comfort, food, and care were not meant for me; they never had been.

That night, the cat, Bao, tried to climb into my small bed. I pushed her away. I was still mourning the loss of Far Away, and was not about to replace him with some old farm cat. Bao hissed, and went to Haaris’s bed instead.

When everyone was asleep, I crawled out of bed and padded silently to the small storage room where my weapons had been placed. I took the dao in its scabbard and strapped it to my back. My aunt said this was a safe place, and I believed her, but I couldn’t truly comprehend that word, safe. How could anyone guarantee that? I had been on my own for a long time, and had killed men in my own home; men who had come to murder me. Safety was in my hands, not anyone else’s. Safety was something I purchased with daily training, sweat, blood, and aching muscles. Sleeping without a weapon felt like sleeping with my hands tied behind my back.

Returning to bed, I pulled the blanket over me. My shoulder still ached, but pain and I were old friends. Pain, hunger, fear, loneliness. These were real things, things I believed in and trusted, because they were honest.

I thought about the – what had Ma Shushu called it – the masjid? The Muslim temple, with its thick carpets and outdoor pool. The concept of childhood was alien to me, but when I imagined it, I thought of sitting beside the pool, trailing my fingers in the water, and watching the fish, without worry or fear. Perhaps I could go to the masjid one day and watch the carp, and listen to the prayers, and be a child for a while. If such a thing was ever meant for me.

My eyelids grew heavy, and I slept.

* * *

Read Part 5 – There Is Only Work

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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:

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

A Wish And A Cosmic Bird: A Play

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