By Ahmed Zaafran

There appears to be a growing trend amongst Muslims today where knowledge is used as a proverbial club that beats down anyone who differs with their line of thinking. Discussions regarding Islamic thought that were once considered sacred and adorned with manners (adab) between scholars, are now left to the internet blogs and vlogs, loaded with cursing, name-calling, and street-side fatwas (rulings) condemning entire groups of people to the fire. As a result, we have a generation of young Muslims feeling spiritually abused. Many wonder why they put so much effort into creating a loving relationship with their Creator, only to be oppressed by their supposed brother in Islam. Somehow, the intention behind “enjoining the right and forbidding the wrong” has become some sort of soap box where we beat each other down.  It’s time we all swallowed our pride and grew up a little.

And by a little, I mean a lot.

In Imam Al-Muhasibi’s Risala Al-Mustarshidin (Treatise for The Seekers of Guidance), he says to “protect your heart from having a bad opinion of people by the best possible interpretation.” In his explanation of this point, Imam Zaid Shakir says that by “covering up the faults of other Muslims, we are inviting God to cover up our faults.” This is derived from Qur’an 24:19 where God warns, “Those who love to broadcast the faults of the believers will have a painful punishment in this world and the next.” Now, this is not to say that we shouldn’t help our brothers and sisters through difficult situations, especially when we feel that their actions are leading them down a dangerous path. But there is a distinct difference between lifting them up by their bootstraps and pinning our heels down on their wounded necks. They are already shackled to the ground by the rigors of their daily trials. When we choose to harshly lambast others’ actions, oftentimes on misinformation or hearsay, it is quite possible that we are projecting our own fears and insecurities onto them. We have to check ourselves and our own intentions, and remember that when we look to others before we look within ourselves, our hearts can be ruined.

If you see someone who is struggling with their iman (faith), don’t be so quick to correct them. Don’t feel the need to fix them. You may be doing more harm than good.

Interestingly, while looking at patterns of behavior, we see trends within nature quite similar to our own. For example, crows are considered by biologists to be one of the most intelligent animals on the planet.

A group of them is called a murder.

They are called a murder because the group will sometimes kill a dying crow from their flock. As Muslims, we sometimes mimic crows when we blast our friends and family for their faults by focusing entirely on their flaws while forgetting that the person in front of us is someone we care about. We spiritually murder them.

We need some space to breathe spiritually. Most of us are trying to figure out how and why we practice our faith during a time of confused identity.  If only we could be the crow that takes a strong look at the murder, actively decides to break away from it, and serve as the tool that helps heal a broken soul.

“O Turner of the hearts, Turn our hearts towards Your Way.”

I was along for the ride so to speak.  My friend called me and said, “I have to go to see the family of this boy that was killed in Richmond, can you go with me?” I suppose even among Muslims there is strength in numbers, both of us being black, so I said, “Yes, I’ll go.”  I knew little or nothing about this killing except it was a young Palestinian boy.  To me, as a nurse for many years and a resident of Richmond for a few, I had grown hardened around this issue.  Even if I allowed myself to care, what would it matter? Each day another one is gone, and for what?

We entered the house and out of nowhere this petite, sweet faced and composed woman in a tidy hijab came to greet us.  As she put her arms around my neck, our eyes met.  Who was this? I wondered.  She was one of many women I’d meet that night.  As we settled in surrounded by kids and talking women, I found myself still trying to figure out who this boy was.

As the evening wore on, it became apparent that the woman who was making sure everyone was fed and cared for was the mother of the stricken boy.  I had never seen such poise.  In a corner, several women talked in conspiratorial tones; soon, klatches formed and the gossip was flying.  Young men milled around outside the house.  The anger was tangible.  I know that anger and youth is as volatile as gasoline and fire; I prayed that these young men stayed calm even though unwittingly the people inside were whipping up the flames with hearsay.

Another friend who was present asked me something.  I gave my two cents worth and before I knew it, I was included in a group of people accompanying the mother and family members to the police department.  For what, I had no idea ; I don’t think anyone really knew.  However, we had the momentum behind us.  I said, “I’ll figure out where to go and we can talk to the police.”  Why did I volunteer?  Well, I had to make sense of things.  It had been my life’s work to take chaos and make sense of it.  In the emergency room, it was expected of one to quickly make sense out of commotion; so here I was, the nurse pulling disparate ends together to make it work out.

The boy’s mother came to me and said, “Will you come?” I had no choice then, because when someone asks for my help, I immediately start trying to find solutions.

When I got to the police station the next morning, no one was there.  I thought to myself what a big mistake this was, but a friend drove up realizing that we were supposed to be at a different station.”

We both got in our cars and drove to the new station, expecting to see the family there.  As anticipated, they were there already.   The night before I had prepared a list of questions for the mother to ask the police; I find it always helps to be prepared.  If nothing else it would forestall the angry outbursts I was expecting from some of them.  We entered the police station and found to our dismay that the detective assigned to the case was not there.  My friend turned to me and wondered aloud, “What do we do?” Shrugging, I said, “Ask to talk to someone else, a supervisor”. After all, one of the main complaints from the family was that no one was telling them a cohesive story about what had transpired to lead to the shooting.

I stood there wanting to put myself in the shoes of the mother for a moment so I could get a bearing on what to feel, where to go, but of course, it didn’t happen that way.

A policewoman came out and approached the group.  She planned to talk to us right there in the waiting room.  I asked, “Isn’t there somewhere more private where we can talk?” She acquiesced and took us into the hallway just inside the door.  I said, “No, please, I think the mother of the young man who was killed wants to ask a few questions if you can give us the time.” She did not hesitate but walked us into a large conference room and sat us all down.  I pulled out the piece of paper and read off each question carefully while she answered each one calmly.  The family sat.

I said, “I have no more questions, please go ahead.”  The family asked what exactly had happened, if the responsible boy would get a mild sentence, why they let some of the kids go, and more to that effect. The mother also wanted her son’s belongings.  The Sergeant, however, said that it was too soon for the clothing to be given because it was needed for evidence.  So we left that day, some feeling a bit better, others clearly very angry.  Now we knew at least the perpetrator was not going to get bailed out and run; unlike so many, at least Asama’s killer was in jail.

On my way home I decided to stop by the halal store to pick up some meat.  As I stood at the counter waiting for the man to ring up my purchase, I noticed something.  My mind began to go back in time, years ago: there he was, a boy standing behind that counter.  He had dimples and he was what we called “thick.” I teased him a bit because he was always wiping his hands on his apron.  He took it kindly, and like a good Muslim boy, he would never look me in the eye; he would blush and look away, but there would always be that sly smile that told me, “Stop teasing me Auntie.”

Now I knew who was dead, the sweet-faced, dimpled kid who would ring up my purchases; the boy I had watched grow-up behind the counter of the store.  My heart sunk a bit lower in my chest.

They say he had a car he was very proud of. Boys are like that,  a nice car by street standards  that would draw attention – nice rims, a nice stereo.   He wasn’t into anything notorious; he was just a kid, proud of his ride. But it was Ju’mah, Friday, and time to be at the Mosque.

He was parked, showing off his stereo to his cousin who was along for the ride.  Neither of them were aware of anything happening around them.  They were enjoying their youth, their friendship, and likely making plans for the evening.  Isn’t this what young boys do?  Life is so good at this age.

In a van nearby, six kids with nowhere to go and no direction in life were out joy riding; Nickie was behind the wheel.  Nickie didn’t know Asama, Asama didn’t know Nickie, but there was something about Asama that Nickie didn’t like: his car.  Maybe Nickie thought, “That’s the car that “person x” was riding in that caused me some grief.” So he followed Asama and his cousin – maybe to get a better look, perhaps to get a better aim. The other kids in his car undoubtedly wanted out, tried to talk to him, “Naw man, that ain’t the car.”

But Nickie was hell bent on doing something, maybe he was just showing off, maybe he was jealous.  Whatever it was, for some reason he pulled out a gun and fired into Asama’s car, hitting Asama in the chest and hitting his cousin in the leg.  I can only imagine the pain, the shock, and the fear that enveloped the inside of that car. Two boys having fun, enjoying the fullness of life – suddenly hell bursts in on them and starts to wreak havoc. Asama tries to drive back to the Mosque, he is dying, and he knows it.  He says the shahadah (the attestation of faith for a Muslim).  The fact that a boy so young could have the mental fortitude to think to say these words says something about his unbelievable spirit.

And so he was buried.  His beloved car now laid bare in the police evidence lot, his torn and bloody clothing neatly packed in brown paper bags in the evidence room of the police department.

Nickie sits waiting, contemplating spending the rest of his life in hell.  He has confessed to shooting Asama, and according to the police sergeant, feels a great deal of remorse.  But nobody cares.  Nobody cares about Nickie – he is a killer, a cold blooded random killer.  He has a black face which makes it all the worse for me since I am black and Muslim. I always believe that even the killers are randomly picked by fate, the same fate that placed a kid in the womb of a mother who is a crack head, or the same fate that had them born in Richmond, California instead of Orange County.  Here I am a black woman, a Muslim, accompanying a family of Palestinians.  People I knew but didn’t know I knew, that’s how small the community is.   A boy I liked, teased and often talked to was gone.  I had no idea it was him.  I felt a creeping guilt.

His father is a big man.  No, he is huge.  He looks like he could throw a rock and knock a man out with it (without a slingshot).  His fists are the size of cantaloupes.  I see the anger shaking him, making him say things.  I see it. I hear it.  I am far beyond sad.  I am still aching from the death of Oscar Grant and the verdict.  He is saying everything under the sun except “I want to kill that boy for killing my son.” I have brought my video camera hoping to get the family to talk about their feelings.   But the father was clearly there tonight to talk about his hate for the Richmond Police Department.

We had all gone to the Richmond City Council Meeting weeks ago, to speak during the two minute open session. “What are you going to say?” I was asked. “Hurry get your slip so you can say something for Asama.”  I racked my brain.   No one else said what they were going to say, how would I know what to say?  So I sat there with the pink slip in my hand waiting for inspiration.

And then suddenly it came.  I am a medical professional.  I am a Public Health Nurse.  Crime is epidemic in Richmond, like some disease, like Ebola silently taking one after another, unstoppable… There is no vaccine, no shot, and no medicine.  I scribbled something on the paper.  I was always conscious of Asama’s sweet mother nearby; her heart broken, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.  I had to say the right thing…

My name was called and I stood up.

“Good evening City Council members, I want to thank you, and the Police department for rapid and immediate resolution of this heinous crime.  I would also like to ask you to use all your resources including your Public Health department to address this epidemic of violence in your city.  If people started dropping dead of measles or cholera, you would mobilize every available doctor, nurse, policeman and paramedic.  But when our kids are being killed by ‘bullets’ no one blinks an eye.  I urge you to address this as a Public Health issue.”

I felt it wasn’t enough, it went over their heads.  We just got to vent, that’s all.

Tonight I am at their home again.  This time I am a bit lonely; no one I know is here.  By now, I have met all the family.  The mother Fayza is as always perfect, smiling the smile of a mother who is constantly on the verge of tears but who is being brave for everyone else.  I hand her the questions for the interview we are going to do.  She takes it to look it over.  I have my video camera.  My friend arrives with a shaykh, one I have seen before.  He sits looking uncomfortable, unclear as to what has happened besides a murder.  The father fills him in.

I videotape the shaykh as he makes some good points.  Of course, everyone cannot get a shaykh when their kid dies.  Asama’s family is lucky in this way.

But still, in the young, I sense unsettledness.  I feel that need to “do” something.  There is nothing to do but wait, which is not something the youth do well.

I want to comfort them by saying, I know, I know.  You want to hurt them like they hurt you.  You want to rip apart their lives as they did yours.  You have not only the anger of the righteous but also as a brother, sister, cousin who had a beloved friend ripped from you too soon.  But one thing we have heard over and over again is we know not the time that we will be called home.  Some will go by bullet, some by car accident, and some by cancer.  Some will go by stroke, some by unknown reasons, and some by war.  But we all go.  We hope it is at the end of life, when we have finished “living,” resolved a few things, and maybe even built things for others.  At eighty – perhaps then we will be ready.  Not in the blush of youth with vigor and strength still in the bones.  We are not supposed to go in our beauty, not at the height of life.  How cruel, how utterly wasteful and sad.  And yet as the elders say, “Allah is still on the throne” and so He is; even today when feelings are like a Ferris wheel, round and round, up and down.

I have never had words for mourning.  I have never had the ability to soothe so easily because my tongue is locked up in emotional turmoil at times like this.  So there is a poem, from a movie that was said at the funeral of a dear friend who had died unexpectedly.  I believe that poem is fitting here.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

W. H. Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message; He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Friday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

And so for situations where there are no words, I offer these, which seems to sum it up well enough.

Death, according to the Qur’an, is not the end of man’s life; it only opens the door to another, a higher form of life:

“We have decreed death among you, and We are not to be outdoneIn that We will change your likenesses and produce you in that [form] which you do not know.” (56:60-61).

On May 31, Israel attacked – in international waters – the Freedom Flotilla, a six ship fleet carrying aid to the besieged Gaza Strip. The Flotilla was carrying 10,000 tons of aid and about 700 peaceful activists from all over the world. The Israeli Defense Force (IDF) raided the biggest ship, the Mavi Marmara, killing at least 9 people and injuring scores of other civilians, and seized the rest of the ships, bringing them in to an Israeli port. They then proceeded to arrest and/or deport the activists. This wasn’t the end of the assault—the Rachel Corrie, an Irish ship named after the activist who was crushed to death by an Israeli army bulldozer as she protested over house demolitions in Gaza in 2003, also attempted to sail to Gaza with aid days later, and was also intercepted by Israel. On June 7, the Israeli Navy killed four Palestinians off the Gaza coast.

Updates from the Flotilla Raid

Since the beginning of the raid, depending on where you get the news from, the facts have been unclear. Israel made a number of claims relating to the actions and intentions of those on board the ship. Israel first claimed that the ship was carrying “terrorists.” It then went on to release audio tapes which allegedly showed, during a radio exchange with the Gaza flotilla, some of the passengers telling the Israeli Navy to “go back to Aushwitz.” Finally, Israel stated that its raid of the Flotilla was within its legal rights as it was at war with Hamas and acting in self-defense.

However, emerging evidence refutes every single Israeli claim. As for the “terrorist” claim, Democracy Now reported that the IDF quickly retracted its statement because there was no evidence for that accusation. But the biggest scandal was the audio tapes, which the IDF admitted it had doctored. In a statement on June 5^th, the IDF issued a “clarification” regarding the audio recordings of the transmission between the Israeli Navy and the Flotilla, stating that they had been edited down and the source of the statements were unclear.

As for Israel’s claim that it was acting in self-defense, interviews with the passengers on board showed that this was clearly not the case. According to eye-witness accounts, the IDF shot an unarmed passenger first. The Guardian reported, on June 4^th, that according to an autopsy nine men were shot a total of 30 times and five were killed by gunshot wounds to the head. When the goods on board the ship were inspected, no weapons were found. The activists on the ships defended themselves with, as an Israeli spokesperson admitted, “sharp objects” and sticks. Israel’s argument that it intercepted the ships because they were attempting to break its ‘legal’ blockade has been proven by many lawyers as well as human rights organizations and UN bodies to be false because its blockade of Gaza is illegal.

The blockade, as of June 7, has been ongoing for 1090 days. The UN Human Rights Council issued a report showing that Israel’s restrictions of both imports to and exports from Gaza were inconsistent, which left the civilian population with inadequate nutrition. The Israeli human rights organization Gisha reported that examples of items that were barred include cumin, cardamom, ginger, dried fruit, fresh meat, fishing rods, and fabric for clothing among other items. No reconstruction material, such as wood, plaster or cement was allowed in, meaning all those whose homes were destroyed in the 2009 war are effectively homeless. In March 2009 (the most recent time statistics are currently available) 65 percent of the population was living below the poverty line, with 37 percent living in extreme poverty. As the occupying power under the Fourth Geneva Convention, Israel is mandated to provide adequate food and medical supplies and a failure to do so may be considered a war crime.

Worldwide Condemnation

This attack by the Israelis has sparked worldwide condemnation. South Africa, Turkey, and Ecuador recalled their ambassadors to Israel. Brazil, Egypt, and Spain summoned Israel’s ambassador while Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Austria, and Greece summoned the heads of the
Israeli diplomatic missions in their capitals. At the UN, China, Russia, Venezuela, Argentina, India, and Cuba strongly condemned the action. Syria, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, and other Arab countries denounced the Israeli carnage. Despite this widespread condemnation, the US simply “deeply regret[ed]” the loss of life.

What can people do?

Unfortunately, the exact number of people killed is still unknown as Israel has yet to release a complete list. Many of the video recordings by the passengers were confiscated. VirtualMosque.com has published a list of action items, which everyone should pledge to take up.

Additionally, and perhaps more importantly, Muslims should make a concerted effort to contact media outlets to cover these events fairly. Robert Fisk was asked during a talk in the UK, “Do you think there is a Zionist media lobby in the UK?” and his response was, “There doesn’t need to be.” He went on to explain the number of letters and emails that journalists would receive any time they published anything that was perceived to be even slightly anti-Israel. The case isn’t so different in the US and Muslims need to act as a bloc to change media perception.

Finally, du`a’ (prayer) is key. As the issue slowly fades away from the mainstream media, we have a duty, at the very least, to pray for them.

Omar Regan is the son of Imam Luqman Abdullah, the Muslim Imam who was gunned down by federal authorities last month in Detroit.  Regan says that his father was wrongfully murdered, but also states that he resented law enforcement because “they didn’t care about people in the hood.”  In spite of that, he earnestly asserts that his father did not promote violence and was always a proponent of peaceful dissent.

Regan, who is an entertainer, is most known for his “halal” comedy shows. Regan arduously draws funny stories from his personal life and tries to maintain a positive attitude throughout adversity. He shared memories of growing up with his father in a recent interview with this site. The following are excerpts from that interview.

On growing up with his father…

Growing up with my father, I grew to know that his style of pedagogy entailed being strict and stern about learning and being constructive. He didn’t like us wasting time.  His motto was “don’t waste time. Always study. Always read.” At the same time we had so much fun. In our early childhood we would entertain ourselves by banging pots and pans together and making up our own songs.  That pretty much encapsulated how we grew up; namely, we had a balance.

We were given responsibilities at an early age to ensure that we were  mature individuals; yet our home was always a safe and comforting haven. Our father was principled against all forms of mistreatment and took diligent care of his children and community. He didn’t like the government because of their negligence toward our impoverished community. He had a plan and would always say, “I want you all [his children] to grow up so you can help the people.”

His whole life was basically centralized on that principle: helping the underserved people of our city. For this reason, he devoted his long-term residency to Detroit’s neglected areas. He drove taxis for 20 years so that he could have a schedule that easily accommodated the five daily prayers. The prayers were very important to him. Through this business, he built a personal connection with many taxi cab drivers.

On how his father became an imam….

I was one of the first muadhins at Masjid an-Noor.  I would call the adhan and he would lead the prayer. It is important to note however, that he didn’t even want to be the imam.  He frequented Masjid an-Noor and was studying at Chicago, which was one of his favorite things to do (i.e.  studying Islam). When the people of the masjid were breaking off, innovating, and doing things outside of Islam and he said, “We can’t allow this, we must stick to the Qur’an and sunnah.”

So they knew him for his commitment to knowledge and told him that he had to be the imam. In spite of his ardent refusals, they persisted in asking him and he finally conceded to their request and became the imam of Masjid al-Haqq in the slums of Detroit.

On his father carrying a firearm….

My father started carrying a gun after he was shot three times in drive-bys. Law enforcement harassed him a lot, and street gangs didn’t like him because he told them to take their drugs somewhere else.  We were outside the masjid and they came and open-fired at the masjid.  These things happened when we were young. After he got shot 3 times.  He started saying “Hey man.. I don’t wanna get shot again.”

On his father’s relationship and attitude towards non-Muslims…

A ton of non-Muslims are in the neighborhood and speaking right now about how much they used to love my father and how they knew him well on a personal basis.  Non-Muslims were never an issue, yet the media is saying otherwise. His only issue was with  trouble makers.  There are many non-Muslims that stood up for my dad, and are still standing up for him today. For years he was helping feed the people, volunteering with soup kitchens. Pastors in the neighborhood had sermons about him that mentiond what a great man he was and how the media had the wrong perception.  There’s an uproar in the community that is rooted on the loss of a noble resident and the lack of sympathy by the media.

On his father riling up his congregation with fiery sermons…

Sometimes after he got harassed by the police (such as when they broke a speaker when we were calling the adhan) he did have a fiery sermon.  “This is what is going on with these people,” he would say.  And he would wonder why they’re not messing with the drug lords.  We are trying to clean up the neighborhood and they were harassing us.

I can’t say that he incited violence at all.  He told people to depend on Allah and be afraid of Him instead of a few xenophobic police and government officials. He would critique these people for not abiding by their own laws.  That’s the kind of things that he would say.  That’s the “fire” they don’t like.

On the group that the FBI labeled as “The Ummah”…

“The Ummah” was not a group. It is the body of all Muslims.  I know what I learned from my father.  He quoted verses from the Qur’an that say not to break  into sects.

It’s what my dad and Imam Abu Jamil  stood for and sadly both of them are gone now.

I believe this alleged group “Ummah” and the malicious connotations that people ascribe to it are the works of the media and not my father. My dad would always talk about “the Ummah” when referring to the Quranic term of the followers of Muhammad (peace be upon him).

My father was against having an affiliation and his congregation being labeled a certain name.  So I know he wasn’t coining the term “the Ummah.”  It was really misconstrued in the same way that some people misconstrue Imam Siraj who is also a dignified Muslim-American. His teachings are also rooted on the foundation of freedom and prosperity for everyone. He makes me want to be a better Muslim.

On his career as a comedian…

I don’t even know how I can make any of this, the story of my father, funny.  But honestly, we had so much fun growing up so I guess I can contribute that to my father. He liked to laugh, but he didn’t like to laugh all the time because he was a man who spent his time productively.

Sometimes in my comedy bits, I over-emphasize my dad’s strict side because they were filled with valuable teachings.  It’s like when we watch kung fu movies, not cartoons, because they taught discipline. So I would use my father’s “strict” aphorisms in my comedy bits. He used to laugh at my comedy bits and say “that’s true.” He wanted me to make it easier on the people to learn Islam.  And that’s what I tried to do.  I tried to do it through comedy.