 |
| Palestinians attend Eid al-Adha prayers by the ruins of al-Al Rahma mosque destroyed by Israeli air strikes, amid the Israel-Hamas conflict, in Khan Younis, in the southern Gaza Strip, June 16, 2024. Photo by Mohammed Salem/Reuters |
Eid is a day of gratitude, a sacred moment when Muslims like myself turn toward Allah (God) with humility and thankfulness. It is a day when we reflect on the gift of life itself — the simple but profound blessing of breath, the beauty of nature, the sight of creation unfolding through our eyes, all manifestations of the glorious Creator of this vast and complex universe.
On Eid, Muslims around the world wake early, dress in new clothes, and gather to offer a special prayer after sunrise. We visit family and friends, share meals, and exchange gifts with children who run around in their bright, joyful attire. We give charity, not just through wealth, but through acts of kindness, through our smiles, and through our time and efforts. It is a day of joy, a day to submit ourselves to God, acknowledging that all blessings flow from Him, that all provisions belong to Him alone. And so, we are called to remember that life is not meant for indulgence and excess alone — it is meant for service, for helping the needy, the orphan, the widow, the wayfarer. That is the essence of our faith.
But this Eid, like so many others in recent years, is overshadowed by deep sorrow and grief. How can we celebrate fully when so much of the world is engulfed in suffering and injustice? How can I truly rejoice when the cries of Gaza, Yemen, Sudan, streets of United States and countless other places ring loudly in my ears? How can I feel peace when immigrants, refugees, and students from Asia, Africa, Middle East, South and Central America are being kidnapped by the U.S. government, detained, and threatened with deportation under the guise of national security? The dark cloud of fascism, of authoritarianism, is growing. Its shadow stretches over all of us.
How can I sit before a table filled with provisions—delicious food, sweet dates, and warm mint tea—knowing that my fellow students, Muslim and other faiths that are brothers and sisters to me are being torn from their homes, detained in cold ICE cells, stripped of their dignity by the very country that claims to champion freedom? How can I laugh under the morning sun when I know that families from the native indigenous community, black and brown people, Latino and Hispanic community—who have lived here for decades and centuries, who have built their lives in this land—are being torn apart, arrested, humiliated, and deported like criminals, when their only crime was seeking a better life?
How can I truly rejoice when mothers and fathers are handcuffed in front of their children, when people with no record, no wrongdoing, are locked away in internment camps, their humanity reduced to paperwork, their dreams crushed under the weight of a system designed to erase them?
The sweetness of my tea feels bitter against the backdrop of such injustice. And yet, I do not reject these blessings—I accept them with gratitude, but also with a deep, unshakable sense of responsibility. To eat, to drink, to live freely while others suffer is not just a privilege; it is a duty to fight for those who cannot. Every bite, every sip must fuel our resolve to resist, to speak, to act—until no one is left in chains, until no one is made to feel like a stranger in the home they built.
I cannot shake the unease that has settled into my heart. Even during Ramadan, I found myself unable to fully engage in the spiritual reflection that defines that sacred month. My days were consumed by traveling, by speaking engagements, by urgent conversations with activists and leaders from around the world — people who are stressed, terrified, and even considering leaving the country out of fear for their safety. This is the gravity of the moment we face. And yet, I see so many Americans lost in complacency — distracted by television shows, sports, Sunday barbecues, and the routines of work and family life.
Yes, living a normal life — working, raising children, paying taxes — is a human right. But what happens when those taxes fund bombs that rain down on Gaza, when that silence allows genocide to unfold, when that inaction enables the very growth of the fascism that now threatens to consume democracy itself? The American political class — both Democrats and Republicans — have blood on their hands. Their complicity in the horrors unfolding in Palestine, their unwavering support for militarized violence and occupation, is one of the greatest moral failings of our time.
And where is the moral clarity from Muslim leadership? Where is the courage? I am deeply disappointed, heartbroken even, by the silence and cowardice of Muslim clergy and leadership — both in the United States and in Muslim-majority countries. How can you stand by, watching your brothers and sisters in faith — your fellow human beings — suffer such brutality and remain quiet? Where is the prophetic voice that challenges oppression and calls for justice? The failure of Muslim leadership to rise to this moment is a disgraceful stain on the legacy of Islamic civilization. It is a betrayal not only of the people of Gaza and Palestine, but of the very principles of justice and dignity upon which Islam is built.
I do not pretend to know why God allows such suffering. I cannot explain why innocent children are torn apart by bombs, why women are forced to give birth without anesthesia, why entire generations are being mutilated and left to survive in the ruins of war. Perhaps one day, when I stand before my Creator on the Day of Judgment, I will find the answers to these questions. Perhaps then, I will understand God’s plan for justice and mercy.
But until then, I can only continue to do my work — to resist, to speak, to dissent — with the tools I have and the strength God gives me. And I call upon you, my fellow Americans and Muslim brothers and sisters, to rise to this moment. Do not let the comfort of routine numb you to the suffering of others. Do not allow silence and inaction to become complicity. Resist peacefully. Dissent nonviolently. Inspire others to speak out and act. Because the freedoms you enjoy today will not survive the rise of fascism and authoritarianism unless you defend them now.
And to my Muslim brothers and sisters — Eid Mubarak. May you cherish the blessings of your family and loved ones. But as you celebrate, remember those who cannot celebrate. Remember the families in Gaza who bury their children beneath rubble. Remember the students torn from their classrooms and detained by the state. Remember the refugees who wander without a home, without a future. Keep them in your prayers. Let their suffering move you to action.
And remember this: The most powerful force in this universe is not the American government, not NATO, not Israel. It is God. And God is Just. Justice will come, even if we cannot yet see its dawn.
Eid Mubarak. May God protect us all.
No comments:
Post a Comment