Dr. Abdullah's Blog

In Islam, heroism is not extraordinary power—it is extraordinary conscience. Every act of service, truth, mercy, and responsibility is a step toward a better world. True heroes walk among us, choosing goodness daily. 1. The Hero Who Serves Nearby (Chore Champion) Heroism often begins close to home. Helping an elderly neighbor with chores—shoveling snow, raking leaves, or walking a dog—is an act of mercy. Islam honors such service. The Qur’an commands: “Worship Allah… and do g

He is the new Superior Court Commissioner in Los Angeles County, but titles alone do little to explain the meaning of Haaris M. Syed’s journey. In an age when public life often rewards spectacle over substance, his quiet perseverance stands as a reminder that integrity still matters—and that the most enduring forms of leadership are forged not in ambition, but in service. Those who know Syed speak less of rank and more of temperament. He is not given to grandstanding or rheto

Modern media systems do not operate in a vacuum. They are embedded in political economies shaped by ownership, capital concentration, advertising dependency, and strategic state interests. In much of the global North, major media outlets are structurally intertwined with corporations that benefit from defense contracts, sanctions regimes, energy markets, and geopolitical alignments. This reality does not require a conspiracy theory to explain bias; it requires only an underst

Rajab comes quietly. It does not arrive with celebration, nor does it announce itself with festivals or commands. Yet for centuries, Rajab has carried a special weight in human memory—as if time itself slows down to breathe. It is the seventh month of the Islamic lunar calendar, and it is one of the four sacred months in Islam. Long before Islam, even in the harsh deserts of Arabia, people knew that Rajab was different. In a world shaped by tribal wars and endless revenge, Ra

“You misuse your country’s resources. I will not allow you to do that.”“You cannot take care of what you own, so I am taking it over.”“Your watch is beautiful, but you do not know how to maintain it.”“Your wife is beautiful, but you do not respect her. I will take her.”“Your children are not your property. If you do not raise them as I instruct, the state will take them away.” When spoken inside a home, these words would be recognized instantly for what they are: the language

Across civilizations, long before clocks, satellites, or equations, human beings learned to read the sky the way a farmer reads soil or a sailor reads waves. The Sun was not merely a celestial body; it was a promise. Its weakening brought fear, its return brought relief, and its turning marked the rhythm of survival. Makar Sankranti, when seen in this wider human story, is not an isolated Indian festival but part of a global, ancient conversation between humanity and the heav

Inspired by Imran Khan and Habib Jalib I am not from Pakistan, but people like mr, in the neighboring country, where I was born have been punished for it. Yet, I admire not its army, not its nuclear, not its tanks, not its power elites, but those who resist tyranny. It is a tribue to them. Every age invents its own lamps—lamps that shine brightly, but only inside mansions. They illuminate marble halls while leaving entire streets in darkness. They are celebrated as symbols of

This is a rendering of Habib Jalib's poem, I will not concede, I will not surrender. That lamp which burns only in mansions, That dawn which rises for the joy of a chosen few, That order which shelters itself in the long shadow of private gain— That tradition, that darkened morning— I will not venerate. I will not bow to greet it. I am not afraid of the thrones that glare from above. I am not afraid of the hands that sign decrees in ink and blood. I, too, am Mansoor— Go, carr

At the end of a long walk across the rough terrain of my conscience—a journey measured not in miles but in questions—I arrived at the edge of the Pacific. The waves that once rose in restless assertion now stood subdued, ancient and indifferent, as if they had witnessed generations arrive in search of answers and depart carrying only deeper silences. The sun hovered there, both born and buried in the same breath. It was there that I heard a voice. It was calm, unburdened by t

There are moments in life when the body is forced into stillness and the mind begins to travel. In such moments, memory sharpens its voice, and questions long postponed return with insistence. What shaped us? What taught us to listen, to speak, to write with care? Often, the answer is not found in grand institutions or official milestones, but in quiet spaces where thought was allowed to grow without haste. The library has always been one such space—fragile, modest, and yet p

Every age draws its own maps—not only of borders and rivers, but of fear. If one were to chart the modern world by the number of people imprisoned for their beliefs, a different atlas would emerge: a geography of silence, where nations are measured not by mountains or markets, but by how many voices they have chosen to lock away. These are not always countries at war, nor always dictatorships in uniform. Some hold elections, issue constitutions, speak the language of sovereig

Even today, the heat of thought has not cooled within me. Time has not dulled the intensity of reflection, nor has silence erased the long-cultivated discipline of speech that refuses to flatter power. Beneath the surface of ordinary days, something remains awake—an old restlessness, a living conscience. Against the unclean customs of oppression, a persistent ache of rebellion still beats in the chest, reminding the heart that submission to injustice is not peace, and obedien

My heart did not shout. It did not accuse. It whispered—and that whisper was enough to undo me. It sharpened my conscience the way a blade is honed on stone: slowly, deliberately, painfully. It asked me to stand still and look inward, not at who I claimed to be, but at who I had become. It made me weigh my words, not by how elegant they sounded, but by how truthful they were. It forced me to confront my silences—the pauses I defended as wisdom, the quiet I disguised as patien

During the long hours of dialysis, when the body is tethered to machines and time slows into something almost meditative, my mind drifts backward. I ask myself—quietly, insistently—what it was that truly transformed my life. Where did the turning begin? Socrates Drinking the Poison Again and again, my thoughts return to a long walk: from the new campus to the old building, across stretched and uneven terrain, under skies that seemed wider then. It was not merely a passage bet

In the quiet rhythm of everyday life, people walk the same streets yet inhabit different inner worlds. Some carry a gentle light within them; others move under the weight of longing and unrest. The difference is rarely visible. Both rise in the morning, work, struggle, and hope. Yet the quality of their lives—how heavy or how luminous they feel—depends on something deeper than circumstance. It was this truth, intuitively understood long before modern psychology, that led the

There is a distinction that human history has repeatedly blurred, sometimes deliberately and sometimes out of fear: the difference between God and religion. Religion presents itself as a pathway to God, yet over time it often begins to behave as if God were dependent on it. God, however—if the word has any meaning at all—cannot depend on institutions, rituals, clergy, languages, or borders. Dependence flows in only one direction. Religion needs God to survive. God does not ne

History is rarely moved by faith alone. More often, faith is summoned—sometimes sincerely, often opportunistically—to sanctify power. The martyrdoms that shape Sikh memory unfolded in such a world, where religion was repeatedly invoked as justification, even as its own moral foundations were violated. The Qur’an speaks with clarity on justice: “Let not hatred of a people cause you to swerve from justice. Be just; that is nearer to righteousness”  (Qur’an 5:8). The Prophet Muh

If Bangladesh has recently seen Hindus beaten or killed by mobs, that is not just a crime against a minority community—it is a crime against the moral core of Islam itself. The Qur’an makes the sanctity of life explicit: killing the innocent is a grave sin, and justice is not optional. It also states plainly that belief cannot be coerced (“no compulsion in religion”). When a Muslim participates in mob violence, especially against a vulnerable minority, he is not acting from d

Long ago, in a land of olive trees and stone paths, a child was born whose story would travel across centuries and continents. Christians call him Jesus Christ. Muslims call him ʿĪsā ibn Maryam—Jesus, the son of Mary. Millions of people love him. Millions follow his teachings. And yet, the story of Jesus is told in two different ways. Not as enemies. Not as opposites. But as two paths that share some moments and separate at others. To understand Jesus fully, we must listen to

Why Is There Something Rather Than Nothing? Sometimes a quiet question sneaks into a thoughtful mind. Not how  things work—like how birds fly, or how phones send messages—but something more profound: Why is there anything here at all?  Why is there a universe instead of empty nothing? Why do stars shine? Why do people think, wonder, and ask questions? This question does not begin with religion. It starts with wonder —the feeling you get when you realize that the world did not