Threads Volume 19 Issue 1

threads volume XIX | issue I

uc berkeley’s muslim student publication

welcome to threads, volume XIX issue I

previously al-bayan

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a slow start photos | sania elahi There’s peace in an early morning, where cold shadows are met with the warmth of the sun rising - still and quiet, this is the time to ease into the day ahead.

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board

alaa elshahawi editor-in-chief muriam choudhery managing editor sarah bellal copy editor mujahid zaman creative director

shahana farooqi web editor hanna shah finance director ali raza marketing director aamna abbasi social media director

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table of contents

2 a slow start 9 editor’s letter

28 through them

10 stargazing

38 celebrity dawah

14 found in translation

42 the weight of silk

18 heavy

44 three weeks

26 finding a home

52 da3mons.py 56 wet socks and art 62 how great is our God

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Readers, This publication was created and curated for all of you.

On behalf of the board and staff who worked tirelessly to make it happen, enjoy.

With love, Alaa Elshahawi

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stargazing words | adnan perwez photos | sania elahi

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t was a bitterly cold summer night the first time I went stargazing. The biting wind that twisted its way through the city blocks had pushed aside both the stray leaves on the sidewalk and the clouds overhead, leaving both street and sky palely glowing and utterly clear.

My friends and I had spent the better part of the past hour on those empty streets just getting out of town; our old, worn-out car slowly rumbling past sleepy shops and the seemingly never-ending expanse of the campus. The change, when it came, was striking; dimly lit apartment complexes suddenly gave way to barren, open fields as we finally reached the outskirts of Davis.

The car came to a crawl, before pulling off the narrow road to stop on one of the fields. We got out, shivering—the wind was so frigid that it almost sucked the air

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out of my lungs. I stepped forward onto the damp earth, my breath coming out in visible puffs as I walked away from the car—and looked up.

Perhaps the feeling that comes closest is that of swimming in a freezing river. If you slowly sink yourself in, inch by inch, you can brace your body and prepare for the inevitable cold. Throw yourself in, however, and the coldness will instead feel like a tangible, physical force, grabbing and pummeling your senses.

If we extend that tired parallel, stargazing would be comparable to hurling yourself into the depths of the Arctic. Suddenly, a thousand points of light from a thousand different directions flare out at you; the entire sky is filled with shapeless, ethereal fire. The great, familiar dull purple-black blanket that has always covered the city’s sky is suddenly ripped away, like a furious magician tearing away the curtain to deliver his final, heart-stopping showstopper—the twinkling, endless forms almost vindictive in their full, merciless glory as your head turns round and round, your eyes futilely trying to find a beginning or a middle or an end to stop, to rest, to focus on. But the stars are too many, and they twinkle and they dance, as the heart, the mind, the eyes, the breath - all are frozen in the frigid air.

What does it feel like to look out into infinity? Countless armies of philosophers and writers have tried to give a definitive, all-encompassing answer. Some state that the entire experience is one of Divine awe and can surely inspire nothing but humility. Others state the opposite—that the grand view does nothing but spur man to greater heights, providing an empty canvas to map his endless ambition onto. Those with a darker, bleaker worldview claim that they find the entire thing

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unsettling; that the stars remind them of nothing but their own insignificance, and so become an inescapable symbol of meaninglessness and nihilism.

Faced with these wildly different interpretations, it seems impossible to find a common thread that could somehow unify and connect all the clashing views—in fact, the single similar thing is that the views were expressed in the first place. The act of gazing upon the stars seems to evoke some primal, ancient instinct—the need for humans to somehow capture an indescribable experience; to boil it down and distill it into a substance that can be more easily understood and shared. Much like witnessing death or falling hopelessly in love, stargazing is a uniquely universal human experience that appears throughout nearly every major writer and poet’s work, across time and cultures.

Perhaps gazing at the stars reveals nothing more than that which is found when we gaze within ourselves. Perhaps we reflect and project our desires whatever is inside our heart out into the endless skies, and so find the same thing staring down at ourselves when we look up. Perhaps not - perhaps there truly is some type of inherent meaning among the stars, one that silently and even unknowingly affects all human hearts the same, universal way when one first truly looks upon them.

One thing I’ve come to know for certain is that stargazing warps one’s perspective of time. One moment you’re staring upwards; the next you find yourself losing your balance, feet scrambling to catch purchase on the damp earth as you barely stop yourself from falling in time. When you glance upwards again, you’re shocked to see countless of the stars fading, as light starts to bleed in.

And so you turn, hands deeply in your pockets as you walk back towards the car.

It’s already packed with yawning friends; you step inside the warm, sleepy interior and close the door. There’s a brief pause; then the silence is broken once and for all as the car rumbles into action, tires scratching against the fields, headlights bare against the thin veil of darkness.

Slowly, the familiar buildings and town start to come back into view, as the gentle babble of conversation starts up once again. But though you’re nodding and laughing along, your face is pressed against the cool glass of the window, heart still reflecting on the memory, eyes still gazing upwards.

Far, far above, the purple-black blanket stretches itself tightly, firmly reclaiming the sky and cloaking any glowing shapes underneath. Farther still, tendrils of pure pink light start to unravel themselves across the horizon, as dawn begins to settle in.

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found in translation

words | selem helil photos | zahra ansari

Hello. Salaam. Hola. Ciao. Salut. Kon’nichiwa.

A few weeks ago, my friend was telling me a story about the driver who tailgated her. She was going the speed limit, like a regular law-abiding citizen, and he cut her off the first chance he got. A few minutes later, she drove by him as he was getting pulled over by a cop. A single, perfect word came to my mind in response to her story.

“Issey.”

It is a word with an enormous presence in my Ethiopian-American family. There is no word for it in English, but it’s a way of expressing joy at something that is well deserved. Karma - good or bad. That was my mom’s response when I told her I was coming home for the three day weekend. Sometimes, though, it was something she said when she saw me up late studying for a test she had warned me to study for much earlier in the week. It’s more than a “Yay”, or a “You deserved it!” It expresses a much deeper satisfaction. It may not have an equivalent in English, but that does not mean the feeling isn’t universal.

“I will eat your liver.” Believe it or not, depending on where you are in the world, this is a term of endearment. Oftentimes we are unable to understand the cause of the differences in language and our inabilities to translate different terms—however, this expression actually has a very traceable, scientific etymology. One of the first major theories about the circulation of blood in the human body was made by Claudius Galen of Pergamon, a physician, philosopher, and writer from 2nd century

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A.D. Roman Empire known for his theories and research on the circulatory system.

He believed that the liver was responsible for producing and circulating the blood in a system that completed all the tasks related to nutrition and growth, and his was the first widely-believed major theory about the circulatory system. The theory was partially disproved by Ibn al-Nafis, a Syrian-Egyptian physician during the 13th century. The heart was established as the only center of circulation in the 17th century by William Harvey, an English physician.

For a millennium, Galen’s theory that venous blood was produced and distributed in the liver was accepted. By the time science discredited Galen’s liver theory, expressions about love that were tied to the liver had already been absorbed into the Persian language, Farsi, and, to this day, have continued circulating throughout the centuries and generations.Though the terminology is rooted in outdated science, it is still the basis of the phrase, “I will eat your liver”, and is just as common in the Persian Empire, present-day Iran. There is no way, I, a non-Farsi speaker, can define Iranian liver-lingo, but there is an aspect that can be understood universally. After all, idioms are better comprehended than they are translated. It is just as natural as “heartbroken” or “that made my heart flutter” is to most Americans. We don’t even think about the scientific connections to the circulatory system.

Language is more than just a set of words. It is the context in which people understand the world around them and communicate with the society they are a part of, historically and in modern times. The ancient texts of Buddhism, Hinduism, and Jainism have been preserved and passed down orally. Hadith, which originated as oral history and stories about the Prophet Muhammad, is a central guide in the Muslim belief. Language has often been passed down and edited from generation to generation, and at times even forgotten or misunderstood. Thanks to globalization, problems with ability to understand are becoming an increasingly less prevalent issue, at least with major languages. Different languages have often been a barrier between different cultures and people, but they don’t have to be. It can be a way to understand communication a little better.

On second thought, there is so much more I could have said in response to my friend. “What a backpfeifengesicht!” (German for a face badly in need of a fist) “You’re such a schlimazl.” (Yiddish for a chronically unlucky person) “That was a jayus.” (Indonesian for a lame joke that elicits amusement out of good natured silliness) Okay, that last one might not be the correct response in the specific conversation... but you see what I mean. Another language means a whole other culture, set of words, and customs, and there is so much to learn from that. Sometimes we learn about our differences, and how far back they can go - like heart-broken versus liver-broken. We discover that our differences can come solely in the way we say a word. But, more often, we learn about the strengths and similarities in human sentiment and the universality of language. Next time, instead of ignoring the bilingual people in your community, take advantage of the fact that they know a whole other way to communicate—be a pochemuchka and learn about it.

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* * “heavy” in Urdu

words | anonymous

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usic has always been personal for me. I can identify phases of my life by which song or album I was listening to at the time.

Coming to Berkeley, I felt unfulfilled. I came from a competitive school where going anywhere that wasn’t “Ivy League” was subpar.

I was determined to excel at Berkeley, but feared failure. This fear of failure served as a source of motivation initially, but slowly grew into something more dangerous. As I reflect now, “I feel like this year is really about, like, the year of just realizing stuff. And everyone around me, we’re all just, like, realizing things.”

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Fall Semester I used moving to Berkeley as a distraction from the lack of fulfillment and fear of failure. A distraction from the unrealistic expectations I had set for myself. My freshman year began with my growing friendship with my roommate. She helped pull me through my frustrations with school during the fall semester. We adopted a spontaneous, girls-out-on-the-town attitude. It was a classic case of two desi girls who had never met, but had 48,993 mutual friends. Classic! We shared the excitement of being away from home and defining ourselves outside of our nuclear families. To prevent feelings of homesickness, I was able to compensate by going home bi-weekly.

When I went home, I was reminded that I was loved. I didn’t forget this in the fall, but it is always nice to be reminded. This eased the transition into Berkeley as well as alleviated some of the stress I’d learned to internalize.

Har ghadi badal raha hai roop zindagi (Every moment in life is changing) While being independent had perks, the absence of home cooked meals really affected me. My mom helped by sending care packages that included food she had cooked and frozen. Soon, my every meal became naan with microwaved cheese.

Healthy and nutritious!

Moving away was still difficult. Up until this point, my utmost goal was to attend a good school, and now—here I was. Upon my arrival, I was swamped with misinformation about classes and majors. As a person who was largely defined by academic excellence, this was jarring. I hadn’t anticipated having trouble navigating my academics. And yet, I was having difficulty with general chemistry (which

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I later found out would have been satisfied by my AP Chemistry score).

On the first anniversary of my grandmother’s death, I attended a discussion centering on Kanye’s relationship with his mother. The discussion was accompanied by the song “Hey Mama”—a song he wrote for her at the height of his career.

To say they were close would insult their relationship; Donda is the reason for Kanye’s success.

Now I feel like it’s things I gotta get Things I gotta do, just to prove to you You was getting through My grandmother was my Donda. After his mother died, Kanye could not perform this song without breaking down. The emotions he felt for his mother were embedded into the song. When she was gone, the emotions remained—but now tainted by her gaping absence. Hearing about this relationship reminded me of the one I had lost just one year prior. After the discussion I met my roommate outside Dwinelle and cried. It has been difficult for me to listen to the song since.

I just want you to be proud of me (Hey Mama) I first heard Kendrick Lamar’s “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst” as I walked home from chemistry lecture. I’d become frustrated about my lack of direction. It was difficult to complete simple tasks.

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I’ll never fade away.

I asked an advisor for advice regarding a major with a 3.4 G.P.A. cap. She replied “Oh, is it difficult?”

I’ll never fade away.

The G.P.A. bars for majors. Different advisors told me different things. Even after reaching out for help, I felt confined.

I’ll never fade away.

As Kendrick sings this, his voice fades out.

Despite insisting he was not going to, he does indeed fade. In an effort to combat this seemingly unavoidable fate, I used the will “to never fade away” as motivation for academics, a new environment, and an overall new era in my life. But I finished feeling confused and upset—with a growing frustration with myself and the system.

Spring Semester The tone of spring semester was starkly different from that of fall. I decided to take three technicals, even though I hadn’t fully recovered from transitioning to Berkeley. The urgency of making the G.P.A. for my major intensified. The thrill of being in a new place faded as reality hit. In the midst of all the chaos, I looked to music as a constant. I would listen to the same song repeatedly for several days or weeks.

I found good friends in spring. Though I couldn’t visit home much, I was able to find a home at school as I grew closer to friends and cousins who lived locally.

Moreover, I rediscovered The Office—a primary source of comfort. I would watch an episode every night to help me sleep.

There’s a lot of beauty in ordinary things. Isn’t that kind of the point?

I became nostalgic for a less stressful, happier time.

I started going to the gym. I recognized that my health was deplorable; I was lethargic, sluggish, and I had gained weight. So with the encouragement of friends I started to improve the physical aspect of my life.

One of my happiest memories in spring was my birthday. I was exhausted from the week. When I woke up the next day, my roommate acted quite suspicious.

She insisted I get ready for the day at 8 A.M. With a knock on the door, my

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parents surprised me with presents and loving warmth. I felt overwhelmed. My friends threw me a surprise party. I was immensely grateful to see my parents again. I was also grateful for my friends, but crumbling internally under the weight of my obligations.

Through the f ire, to the limit, to the wall For a chance to be with you, I’d gladly risk it all From a spiritual perspective, I began to reconnect with my faith. I prayed. I read.

I also decided to switch to halal zabiha meat, which gave me discipline.

I’m tryna keep my faith But I’m looking for more Somewhere I can feel safe And end my holy war Though spring semester had its share of happy moments, they seemed almost insignificant as the negatives burgeoned. I was hardly able to go home because of my course load. I spent weekends working, and wouldn’t come home from studying until two in the morning. I began to distance myself from close friends. My once go-with-the-flow attitude developed into disinterest. I began to isolate myself. When I did participate, I had increasing difficulty making decisions. Whether choosing a sandwich or major, I was unsure. My lack of direction amplified. I felt increasingly alone. My friends and family were able to alleviate some stress, but I needed more.

Don’t have much strength to f ight So I look to the light As I neared the middle of the semester, I began slipping behind on school work, which magnified my already growing feeling of inadequacy. I gained weight, and my food situation hadn’t improved.

Oh, no longer am afraid of the night Cause I, I look to the light Spring break came. I had to leave home early because I had two midterms immediately after break. I forced myself to study but soon realized how behind I was. I felt so trapped. I felt drowned. I tried to listen to cooling, relaxing, calming music.

Go bright light Scour the forest My frustrations spiraled. Developed. Continued.

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Through the night Searching for a Sign of life I became punished and tortured myself Memories of fears and strife for letting myself get this behind on my work, I can follow you Your heart beats just like I wanted it to And you want it to for not being quick to understand the material, Behind the road you wait for long for disappointing for disappointing for disappointing So can you help me I’ve got to break free from these chains oh from these chains everyone.

Get out your guns it’s time to start a f ight My thinking was muddled. I could not sort out my overwhelming bucket of emotions and make sense of them. I was in turmoil. This was the first time that I considered suicide. The thought was recurring for much of the semester.

Silence It is still difficult for me to listen to Young the Giant.

My biggest mistake was not reaching out for help at this point. While there were warning signs of my mental instability throughout the year, I wish I had asked for help during spring break. However, I belittled my own emotions, thoughts and feelings. Squashed them. There couldn’t be anything wrong with me. Other people had it much worse than I did. This was my justification for not externalizing, for not reaching out for help, for internalizing, for hurting myself.

This is something I still struggle with.

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Summer Semester After the semester came to a close, I began to have frequent panic attacks, induced by the slightest introduction of stress. My lethargy worsened and my appetite was nonexistent. I thought my symptoms were caused by something physical.

It took a conversation with my doctor about depression to finally ask my parents for help.

I started therapy in the early part of summer. My therapist helped me find clarity in my thoughts and emotions. Soon, I was able to decipher how I felt and why I felt that way on my own through writing.

The week I started therapy, I decided to go to the gym for the first time that summer. After those forty-five minutes I went home, but I felt different. My family was huddled in my parents’ bed watching Netflix. When I walked in they all yelled excitedly that I was home, and told me to come watch with them. I felt light. I had this urge to smile and laugh. I wasn’t sure why. That is when I realized I was utterly consumed by elation. I was, for the first time in years, weightless.

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i remember growing up in my mother’s house a house of God how before each meal we would fold our hands and pray how each sunday we would wear our best clothes and spend an hour or two at the church down the street how i learned the stories of matthew, mark, luke, john but most importantly how i learned the stories of jesus christ and his sacrifice as my one true savior

finding a home

i remember, i remember and i remember the day when i finally read for myself the words in the book my mother carried in her heart

words | kaylee hunt

how those words were met with blind eyes how those words were heard with deaf ears how those words were greeted with a cold heart and i remember the silence of my soul as each passing day i drifted further and further from the house of God from the indifference and the performance of religion in my mother’s house of God the prayers of my friends and the prayers of my family were empty words to one without their God

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the years continued to pass in moments of trying to make sense of who i was i knew there was a God but not the God of my mother who hid behind the stories of jesus christ not the God of my mother who hid behind the stories of the disciples not the God of my mother who hid behind the disguise of being devout i knew there was a God and i found Him for myself but not in the book of my mother i found Him in the classroom of my world religions course in a passage of the Quran and i found Him as i knelt and repeated lā `ilāha `illā-llāh, muhammadur-rasūlu-llāh i remember growing up in my mother’s house a house of God and i remember finding in my own time a home with God

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through them photos | mujahid zaman

I like people-watching. It’s a little voyueristic, but I can’t help but enjoy the unrequited intimacy that comes with watching someone play fetch with their dog on Ocean Beach or walk down Telegraph Avenue. The photos that follow try to capture that feeling. Take some time to get to know the people in each picture. Live vicariously through them.

The rest of this text is filler because I didn’t like how this page looked with just the first paragraph but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Enjoy. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Nulla tristique ex sed commodo feugiat. Integer egestas molestie massa, a commodo dui auctor sed. Integer efficitur venenatis nulla in condimentum. Praesent porttitor arcu leo. Maecenas nulla massa, ullamcorper eu consequat quis, finibus sit amet sapien. Morbi a felis vestibulum, feugiat nulla eget, volutpat nulla. Etiam facilisis ante et justo egestas, finibus ullamcorper ante laoreet. Fusce leo leo, facilisis a fringilla sed, sollicitudin commodo ex.

Sed ut rutrum ipsum, tincidunt efficitur ligula. Etiam augue ligula, condimentum vel vulputate et, iaculis eget velit. Cras pretium interdum ultricies. Vivamus lobortis pulvinar sagittis. Praesent volutpat massa a erat ultricies, non sagittis dolor cursus.

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celebrity dawah words | omar mir khaled

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he human experience is as much a part of interacting with the people around us as it is predicated on individual journeys of self-discovery. This aspect of human nature, and the fact that modern technology has made it easier than ever to become embedded in the lives of others, are what engender the notion of celebrity, a concept which revolves around the irrational, often feverish interest in another person simply because we have the means of “knowing� about them. Celebrities exist because we allow them to; nothing actively creates them; rather, the passive obsession with learning about other people’s lives, driven by some deep-rooted dissatisfaction in our own, continually fosters this celebrity-curious culture. Knowing about other people and partaking in their experiences vicariously through social media is not inherently problematic.

However, what can become disconcerting is when we objectify and consume these experiences of others, entertaining ourselves with their subjective narratives.

One interesting thing about Muslims is that there is no single person, location, or rejection of ideas that defines who we are.

This beautiful faith has a universal message which transcends time and region, and it does not create space for the concept of celebrity to creep in, with the wisdom that we may lose sight of the only One worthy of our interest and devotion, Allah (SWT). Unfortunately, the era in which we live is unique in that the ability to expose ourselves to the stories of others has made it easy to develop unnatural curiosities for so-called celebrities. As a result, Muslims can lose what it means to become the optimal version of ourselves.

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Furthermore, this curiosity has led to an epidemic in which our interaction with Muslim celebrities is predicated on how much entertainment and enjoyment we can consume from them, bypassing the profound education and wisdom they are trying to impart. Teachers and scholars have been personified into larger-than-life heroes simply because of the platform they possess. The “celebrity shuyookh” are not inherently at fault; we, the people who look up to and are inspired by them, are to blame for allowing ourselves to become entrenched in more than their education, permitting our sincerity to falter in the process.

In the summer of 2016, I had the opportunity to attend the annual ICNA Convention in Baltimore, Maryland. Lost among thawb-wearing men with beards and women donning salwar kameez and hijab, I struggled with my cousin toward the entrance of the ballroom to attend our next session. In a space which functioned as nothing more than an escalator landing, there were hundreds of Muslims fighting and clawing their way into an already packed ballroom. They all had the same goal: a chance to listen to a certain speaker and view him in plain sight. My cousin and I came as close as we could to the entryway, already jammed behind dozens of sisters wrestling with security guards, but we knew our efforts were in vain and there was no way we could make it inside. Walking dejectedly back to the elevator from whence we came, we ran into a sister screaming at a security guard. “It’s Nouman Ali Khan! I paid a lot of money to see him! You have to let me in!” The man at whom she was roaring probably did not have the slightest clue who Nouman Ali Khan was, but was just following fire safety protocol. I couldn’t help but feel both sorry for the man and oddly disappointed in this sister whose sense of entitlement and anger was in sharp juxtaposition with the theme of peace and tranquility that characterized Ustadh Nouman’s talk that day. Unfortunately, that sister manifested the sentiments and behaviors of

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hundreds more like her whose approach toward attending an Islamic convention or lecture, particularly the ones headlining “big name celebrities”, is distinguished by a thirst for entertainment and desire to get their money’s worth. Ostensibly, these functions are meant to convey profound lessons and guidance that we are in need of, and in many ways they accomplish this. But when our intentions are clouded by the perception of such events as nothing more than exhibitions featuring our favorite Shaykh, as if they are a character from some TV show or a Comic Con cast appearance, the meanings we are supposed to derive from these conventions are quickly diluted away into superficial moments of updating our Snapchat stories or checking in on Facebook. What is even more disheartening to see is that the very celebrities whom we cannot help but gawk at and admire become nothing more than empty vehicles of insight that are supposed to inspire and motivate us on demand, instead of the complex, storied, immensely knowledgeable individuals that they are. Ustadh Nouman, in his honest wit, said it best himself: “When I’m at these conventions, I feel like a statue. All of a sudden someone will grab me and say, ‘Brother Nouman! Give me a picture!’ And I’m like, ‘Ok, don’t kill me.’” In our aim to become better Muslims, we have turned our teachers and scholars into distant monoliths, people who serve to entertain us and be the reason for impressing others when we can get a selfie with them. This attitude is a direct result of allowing ourselves to become engrossed in a culture of celebrification. What is even more troubling about this, however, is what this celebrity dawah culture has done to our intentions.

One of the most consequential aspects of the proliferation of celebrity Imam culture is the rise in Muslim youth who aspire to be like these popular shuyookh.

As Shaykh Saad Tasleem discusses in an interview with Muslim spoken word poet and fellow celebrity Boonaa Mohammed, it is great that there are young Muslim Americans who look up to Muslim speakers, scholars, and activists. The fact that Muslim youth actually consider these people their role models rather than artists, actors, or athletes is in itself commendable. However, one of the inconspicuous dangers behind this sense of admiration, Shaykh Saad describes, is why these young Muslims actually hope to be like them. When a young Muslim brother, or even sister, says that they want to be just like Imam Suhaib Webb or Ustadha Yasmin Mogahed, many of these young people arrive at that aspiration for the wrong reasons. In a society where celebrification runs rampant, Muslims seem to constantly seek attention. Having the ability to be easily recognized, travel the world, deliver lectures on a stage, and meet an abundance of people grants a level of fame that many naive and ill-intentioned Muslim youth are willing to chase after if it means that these things are incumbent with becoming a “scholar” or “shaykh”.

I have constantly struggled with this challenge, developing a strong desire for acquiring such a title upon watching a particularly inspirational khutbah by Shaykh Yasir Qadhi or attending an Islamic convention. On many occasions, I have felt immense motivation to dedicate my life to becoming a public Islamic figure, only to come back and question for what reason I had that motivation, realizing that it was partly, if not entirely, based on a desire to become famous. After many experiences and periods of reflection on this issue, I have recognized just how important inten-

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tion, especially when it comes to seeking Islamic knowledge, is. In Sahih Muslim, Prophet Muhammad (May Allah honor him and grant him peace) said that for the one who sets out on a path of knowledge, Allah (SWT) will make the path to Jannah (heaven) easy. But in another hadith, the Prophet of Allah (May Allah honor him and grant him peace) described three people who seek knowledge but will end up in the Hellfire; one of those three is the person who seeks knowledge so that the faces of the people will turn toward himself. After hearing this hadith, it began to take on a whole new meaning for me when understood in the context of seeking knowledge and whether my intentions are sincere. It very well could be the difference between entering Jannah or being thrown into the Hellfire. I know that there are many Muslim youth out there who struggle with these same challenges, and it is clear that this is one of the harmful repercussions of the celebrity culture in which we live.

Although it may seem like the future is gloomy, there is reason to be optimistic. As Muslims, especially Muslim youth, we need to learn that attending Islamic conferences and lectures goes beyond experiencing those events for entertainment. Rather, instead of consuming the experience like any other dunya-related expenditure, we should try our best to integrate it into our lives, going beyond the #SelfiewithNAK on our Instagram and Twitter posts and acknowledging that the knowledge and education that we gather transcends any superficial amusement we may get from the exposure itself. More importantly, we need to constantly renew and readjust our intentions when it comes to seeking Islamic knowledge. Instead of creating ambitions to become like a particular celebrity Shaykh or Imam so that we can satiate the secret desire in our hearts to attain notoriety and fame, the aspiration to become like these amazing people should be embedded in the desire to achieve a higher level of Taqwa (God consciousness). We should ultimately aim to earn the pleasure of Allah (SWT), while becoming better versions of ourselves and benefitting the people around us. If we can understand these things and truly internalize and apply them in our daily lives, I believe that we can make a substantive change in the greater community. Understanding that not everyone has to become a celebrity or a public figure to impact positive change in the world is the first step; in whatever field or endeavor we end up pursuing, having the proper attitude and intention behind our pursuit of Islamic education and our aim to make ourselves better Muslims will be monumental in reversing the negative aspects of celebrity culture that exist today.

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the weight of silk

no one told me how much silk would weigh

words | kaylee hunt photo | sania elahi

i thought— it would not be cumbersome i thought— it could not encumber me but the moment i wrapped the silk over my head

from the burden of having to be someone i am not of having to dress to impress

i felt the weight of the world and its judgment

of having to act for an audience of strangers

no one told me how much silk would weigh

of having to worry about the judgement of people

who would judge me regardless

of who i am

of how i dress

of how i act

i felt the weight each day as i would pass people on the streets and while i sat in my classes but i had to pretend that its burden, that its presence never affected me never touched me in more than the caress of the silk on my hair

this silken crown is a promise that all that matters in this life is the way i play a role assigned to me is the way i dress the wounds of the aching is the way i act when no one is watching is the way i am judged by Allah

—but i felt it— in the sideways glances in the discomfort of strangers in the whispers in the avoidance of my silken head

no one told me how much silk would weigh

truthfully it has made me weep it has left me without the ability to speak to cry and give my peace

but i have come to find that it weighs more than expected —at first— but then you feel free

that this silk this crown it is my decision it is my way of proclaiming myself free

no one told me how strong silk would make me

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three weeks photos | zahra ansari

Girl washing her face Jerash Refugee Camp Jerash, Jordan

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Candles at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre Jerusalem

Graffiti in a Hebron marketplace Hebron, West Bank 45

Golden hour outside the Tent of Nations, an educational and environmental farm Bethlehem, West Bank

Mount of Olives Jerusalem 46

Church of the Holy Sepulchre Jerusalem

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Skateboarder at Qalqilya Skate Park Qalqilya, West Bank

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Rocket remnants Sderot, Israel

Israeli border fence with Gaza in the distance Sderot, Israel 49

Church of Nativity bell tower Bethlehem, West Bank

Facade of an abandoned building Hebron, West Bank 50

Abandoned building Hebron, West Bank

This last summer, I embarked on a three week trip to Israel, Palestine, and Jordan to study the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The trip was physically and emotionally exhausting to say the least, but I made sure to take my camera with me wherever I went in order to help me process everything I felt. Despite the draining days, I found myself in a constant state of awe of the beauty of the region. From the stunning architecture of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to the soft hues of the Dead Sea, the beauty of the Middle East is unparalleled. Through these photos, I hope to give you a glimpse of what was both an eye opening, humbling, and overall unforgettable three weeks.

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da3mons.py da3mons.py da3mons.py da3mons.py words | salik tehami photos | usa network

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n his quest to capture the anger of millennials toward society and its conformist hierarchies, director Sam Esmail created the ever-candescent Mr. Robot which can only be described as a psychologically thrilling work of art. As USA Network’s prima donna show, Mr. Robot has captivated audiences by the millions by relating to their frustrations through Elliot, a mentally unstable programmer who’s holy grail quest is to dismantle a conglomerate best described in two words: Big Brother.

Contributing to its monumental success is its addressing of themes that are often stigmatized and swept under the rug, such as income inequality, mental health, activist hackers, and corporate negligence. But what does the show’s popularity say about sentiment in America regarding the current state of the country?

Elliot, the show’s protagonist, helms an activist hacker group aptly known as FSociety whose main purpose is to bring down the appropriately named Evil Corp.

Guided by his questionable narration, the show explores the decisions Elliot must make given the various situations he faces. Does he unethically infiltrate and violate the privacy of the company he currently works for to exploit Evil Corp? That is, are his evident sins justified so long as they are for the greater good? But Elliot’s greater good is definitively different from Evil Corp’s greater good. Whose greater good prevails? This self-perpetuating cycle eats away at Elliot and enables a delicate multi-faceted conversation between the viewer and Elliot, creating a window through which the viewer can peer into the realms of Elliot’s fragile mental state.

A recurring motif in Mr. Robot is Elliot’s dead father, who can represent different things at different lapses in Elliot’s mental metamorphosis. The viewer often sympathizes with Elliot’s bug-eyed nine yard stare coupled with his speech impediment that is a physical manifestation of the mental instabilities he faces. Esmail’s incorporation of often abusive flashbacks of Elliot’s dead father constantly harassing him during moments of heavy despair lends itself to Elliot’s case and augments viewers’ sympathy toward him. However, it may very well be one of Esmail’s goals to use sympathy as a mechanism to cement viewer loyalty toward Elliot and therefore the viewer inadvertently justifies Elliot’s wrongdoings. Elliot commits the same offens-

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es as Evil Corp, yet viewers manifest their loyalty toward Elliot through their empathetic relationship with him and as a result, turn a blind eye and condone his actions through silence.

The peer into Elliot’s mind is an interesting take on storytelling because so many of us find ourselves faking, second guessing, forgetting, wishing something had never happened—and that is exactly what Elliot feels when he escapes his delusional episodes, where he hallucinates interactions with his dead father. Elliot’s multiple personalities are a byproduct of his desire to possess different qualities at different times in his life that are entirely circumstantial and environmental—much like us when we daydream hypothetical situations or responses to events in life. His Mr. Robot persona, embodied by recurring appearances of his dead father, symbolizes the decisive and goal-driven attitude that some of us wish we were emboldened with at times. His soft spoken, calculating demeanor on the other hand represents all of us in new situations in which we are confronted with the unknown and are often left paralyzed, unable to think, speak, or act. Both of these personalities are

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aggrandized through Elliot and are brought to life in our conversations with him.

Through these ephemeral moments, we stop seeing Elliot as a vulnerable character with whom we empathize, but as a reflection of our innermost selves: vulnerable, lost, with a part of us aching to achieve something great. Elliot’s something great is the dismantling of Evil Corp, a company that seemingly owns all means of production in Mr. Robot’s universe and thus dictates policy, freedoms, standard of living, and regulations. However, a government so bent to the will of its corporate overlord is not as outlandish as it may seem. This past year, support for a Vermont Senator’s presidential campaign reached a fever pitch and was primarily based on dismantling the firm grip that large companies had on government policy and political machines. Although Sanders’ followers never participated in activist hacking (or did they?), their concerns became mainstream and powered the engines of a political revolution in the making. The systemic inequality that America finds itself in today with no respite lends itself to Mr. Robot’s wildfire popularity, particularly in its haunting reminiscence to a real life Evil Corp that exposes the corruptness of politically-backed conglomerates.

Evil Corp bears an uncanny resemblance to a conglomerate of yesteryear: Enron Corporation.

Although their suspiciously similar logos are enough to make that connection, their reverence in their respective time periods is what makes this allusion particularly haunting. Enron was tasked for bringing the United States into the 21st century, a job so daunting that it may have caused even Atlas to shrug. With executives Kenneth Lay and Jeffrey Skilling at the helm in their Houston headquarters, the “Ask Why” company aspired to be the one-stop source for energy, commodities, and plant development in America with proxy companies all around the world. America fell in love with Enron. But soon, hubris caught up with Enron. Enron figured if it could trade energy, it could trade anything, anywhere, hence the birth of its virtual marketplace where they popularized and commercialized the electronic trading of commodities.

Newsprint, television advertising time, management and insurance risk—all of these were converted into contracts, known as derivatives, and were sold to investors. Enron poured billions into these trading ventures, which failed more often than not. It turned out Enron was good at inventing businesses, but incompetent at running them—that is to say they were expert manufacturers of illusions and daydreaming, much like Elliot. For a time, Enron swept its failures into creative hiding places, but ultimately the truth come out and confidence in the company collapsed, resulting in peering questions and audits on an unprecedented scale. The company embodied the get-obscenely-rich-quick cult of yuppies from the 90’s that grew up around the intersection of digital technology, deregulation, and globaliza-

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tion. It rode the zeitgeist of speed, hype, novelty and swagger. It was a green energy company, but the green stood for money. Its eventual collapse in what became the largest bankruptcy filing at the time halted America’s reverence for the business that made it “ask why”.

Evil Corp is no different. This direct parallel adaptation of Enron to Evil Corp is one of the main drivers of the show’s flagrant popularity. Americans’ frustration with Enron has never been remedied; yes, new regulations arose, yet companies and their political backers continue to loophole their ways out of rules and regulations and as a byproduct, they continue to scam consumers and rig markets in their greedy favors. Esmail’s decision to make Evil Corp the symbolic protagonist of the show validates the frustrations Americans feel, thus drawing them to a show that not only relates to their desire to escape reality into a realm of daydreaming, but also a show that substantiates their grievances with the ever-corrupt corporate America. From Enron to the bailing of the banks in 2008 to the current Wells Fargo scandal, Esmail is intricately creating a safe space, if you will, where viewers and their concerns are not only legitimate but actively addressed through Elliot’s holy grail mission of taking down Evil Corp.

Of all the reasons that can be attributed to Mr. Robot’s success, it all really boils down to Esmail’s ability to recognize anger and frustrations in a society, a talent he picked up as an observant of the aftermath of the Arab Spring in Egypt. He then channeled the grievances of American society in a show where, not only they were addressed, but actively reconciled through the genius that is the character of Elliot. Elliot is not a character. Elliot is us. Elliot is a deep, psychological reflection of each and every one of us, seeking to avoid the burdens of life—which we often do by ignoring these burdens, pretending they don’t exist, or blaming their existence on circumstances beyond our control. This connection is unique to Mr. Robot in that Esmail has breached the barrier between viewer and show by manifesting an emotional connection out of relatability and moreover, making the viewer feel like they matter. Do they really? Is Mr. Robot going to solve our problems? Will the Bernie Sanders prophesied political revolution take flight? Will corporate America ever learn its lesson? These are all unknown, but that’s not the point. Esmail didn’t create this show to affirmatively say yes or no to these questions, but to make viewers feel substantiated in every sense of the word, an art that comes across effortlessly and is executed masterfully.

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W

et socks are one of the most excruciatingly annoying experiences anyone can endure. It can ruin your entire day and will without a doubt put a person into a despondent, lackadaisical state—simply horrible. It is said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. However, if that first step is squishy—with that eerie coldness reverberating through your foot and up your spine—said journey is rendered non-existent, as the journeyman likely goes back to bed. But, being the courageous trailblazer I am, even wet socks could not deter me from completing the mission I had set out toward: go to the Asian Art Museum to write a potentially pretentious article that would contain occasional bouts of alliteration.

Well...painstaking is an exaggeration. And saying I wasn’t deterred is a lie. I had actually returned home to change after being rudely splashed on by a car, in the midst of which I realized that staying at home was a much better alternative to traveling to San Francisco under such perilous conditions (i.e. light rain). It was here that I began to extrapolate from this initial thesis, and concluded that staying at home was the best option regardless of the situation. While I was building what I predict will soon become my moral philosophy, my phone began to ring. I answered after perhaps the third ring so as not to appear desperate for human interaction—it

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wet socks and art words | musab reza photos | ameen younis

was a friend of mine who asked if I was still going to go to the museum. This is as close to deus ex machina as it gets in my dull life, and I immediately replied with a chipper, “YES.” Let me predicate, rationalize my enthusiasm: I had earlier posted on social media a request of accompaniment to the museum so as not to succumb to the foreboding sense of loneliness that surrounds us all. Everyone cheekily ‘liked’ the post; no one was actually willing to go, however. As a side note, I took from this ordeal a very real lesson: that Facebook “friends” are perhaps not always your real friends. A truly shocking revelation and an even more valuable maxim to live by.

You’re welcome.

After meeting up with this friend, who from this point on shall be referred to as “H,” we headed to the bus stop. During this portion of our travels, H, as he tends to, began to ask a series of questions that challenged me on an existential level. The first and quintessential of which was, “So, why are you writing an article about a museum visit?” I replied to this worthy query in the most dignified way imaginable:

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“‘Cos’ I felt like it.” H, remaining steadfast, kept probing me, trying to engage me on a deeper level. I, being the virtuoso that I am at conversation, kept deflecting these questions that prompt introspectives (a dreaded prospect to me) with masterful utterances of “Uh-huh,” “Okay,” “I hear you, but…” and finally an “Idk.” The crux of the matter was not that I was too tired, depressed, cynical, sarcastic, uncaring, horrible, unwilling, unenthusiastic or lethargic to answer these questions—I simply did not know the answer. That very first, fundamental question challenging my motivations for writing this article unsettled me—not because I could not provide a satisfactory answer to H, but because I could not justify it to myself. My decision to go to the museum, nay, my decision to write for threads at all was completely impulsive. It was an impulsive decision made by an impulsive (unstable) person. In fact, most of my life decisions are governed by my irresponsible impulsiveness, and I often defend my decisions after the fact instead of making my decisions based on fact. For instance, and this is purely hypothetical, if I were to binge watch Parks and Recreation instead of doing organic chemistry problem sets, it would not be because I saw more utility in watching the magnum opus of network television than in doing problem sets. I would instead say afterwards that the reason I did this is because Nick Offerman is amazing and organic chemistry problem sets are not.

While I was waging a silent war within my psyche, slowly realizing that perhaps I had no innate attraction to art or writing itself and was a primal, uncouth creature, it became time to board the the most sanitary and enlightened rendition of public transport, ever—BART. As H and I took seats in our not stuffy, not at all over-capacitated car, my mental anguish continued. Then H, with no provocation, began to recite aloud a passage from the Qur’an. There was no worry of receiving odd looks—loudly reciting a book in a foreign language scales relatively low in terms of the off-putting occurrences one may witness in the never-ending adventure that is BART. I joined in, and all my worries regarding the visit dissipated. We read and critiqued each other, mostly H unto me, until we were at the doorsteps of the museum. We entered.

I was immediately taken aback by how not amazed I was. The overall schema of the place was certainly exquisite, with grand-looking furnishings, fancy glass elevators and a general air of grandioseness. But a part of me, the part of me that had impulsively decided to go to this museum, wanted the experience to be like when Harry

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first saw Hogwarts—eyes ajar, whispering ‘wow.’ Regardless, H and I trudged on, and slowly, my characteristic skepticism shifted, and I found myself truly in awe of some of the pieces and, eventually, the experience itself.

The first exhibit we went to was the chashitsu c.1500, or the Japanese teahouse. It was simplistic in design and serene in effect. The tools with which the tea would have been traditionally prepared were left in formation, and the floor was covered in the traditional tatami mats; it seemed like a typical enough setting. But as H elucidated, there was much more subversive work being done by the inanimate teahouse than I was acknowledging. Why did a sense of pervasive calm flood me when I saw the teahouse? Why was it that I regarded it as naturally simplistic when in fact the tea-making process one would have witnessed inside was a fragile, intricate process? Indeed, there was a deliberateness in the design of the teahouse that projected and spoke to an intrinsic placidity that was meant to be found in this setting. The spaciousness of the room juxtaposed with the coziness one would have felt in the more localized tea-circle equilibrated in a manner that almost forcibly proliferates a sense of relief.

It was from this moment, that I began to somewhat understand the various interplays between certain pieces and the dynamics that were being created by design.

There was at first a realization of the purposeful positioning of the pieces and imposed path selection by virtue of architectural design—an epiphany that was more or less prompted by H basically telling me what was occurring. Essentially: Why had we chosen the path we did? Why were the pieces arranged the way they were? The slight tilt of a wall, a difference in lighting, all cohesively aligned to form a singular path that everyone takes in viewing the pieces. It is not the only option available, but it is almost always the option taken. Certain older sculptures from the Kofun period c. 300 were positioned right in front of pieces from the Heian period (794-1185). A deliberate move that allows even the least keen of observers (me) to appreciate the difference in craftsmanship. Earlier pieces lacked specific features and were constructed from clay-like material, while the later pieces were highly refined and distinct and were demonstrative of more advanced technological capacities, like metallurgy.

With all this in mind, I still do not know what I expected from the visit to the museum, what I craved from writing an article about said visit. Maybe I wanted something to speak to me, to reveal something about human nature, my nature, that had been veiled from me prior. For the last two years, I have been badgered by people portending themselves as enlightened folk regarding the virtue of art. I have been ruthlessly and relentlessly told how art lifts and defines the human spirit, of how art liberates and man imprisons. No one has told me what art is, only what art does—therefore I do not have the faintest idea of what art is. I thought perhaps that going to an ‘Art’ museum would resolve that issue. It only complicated it. How can a mizusashi or water container, for instance, be art? Surely the craftsman who made it intended its creation for the sake of utility, not artistic merit. I do not know, and I doubt I will ever resolve these crises of mine.

What I do know is what I cherish, and what I cherish I commit to heart and

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memory. I will remember the feeling of wet socks. I will remember the dread I felt when I feared going by myself to a big, scary museum. I will remember the elation I felt when H negated that horrendous proposition by joining me. I will remember us reading together on BART and ordering overpriced, sub-par chinese food after visiting the museum. That skip in chronology was deliberate. I doubt I will remember the names, times, and subtexts of the pieces I saw. But I will remember the deliberateness with which they were displayed, and how the concept of intention spoke me to me in those few moments.

I would like to end here on a suggestion. I suggest to myself that perhaps I should once in awhile, not too often, maybe barely ever, take pause to distinguish the deliberateness with which I govern myself. There is a unique, sometimes never realized, intentionality in everything. Being able to recognize those intentions is truly remarkable.

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how great is our God words | sarah bellal & haroon dean

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Chi-city native, Chancellor Jonathan Bartlett, better known as Chance The Rapper, is one of the most disruptive artists in the music industry. His most recent release, Coloring Book, debuted at #8 on the Billboard 200, the first release to make the charts based solely on streams. Refusing to sign with a label, Chance has challenged the discourse of mainstream hip-hop, the distribution of creative property, and how to give back after reaching success.

The following depicts a conversation between two Muslims who love Chance’s positive gospel vibes and want to explore what his disruption of the music industry means for young Muslim-Americans. Haroon Dean is a graduate of UC Berkeley, and he doesn’t do the same drugs no more. Sarah Bellal is a sophomore at Cal who is probably asleep on BART right now.

HD: “AIGHT AIGHT, FOR MY REAL FANS” SB: I THINK IT’S ABOUT TIME TO TALK ABOUT LIL’ CHANO FROM 79TH! HD: I agree, real quick, why do YOU love Chance the Rapper?

SB: Of the many, many things I love about Chance, one is when he raps about his relationship with God. His lyrics are about talking to God, struggling with his sins, and seeking refuge in Him. His emphasis on spirituality makes his music so easily relatable, even though I’m of a different faith background.

HD: Right, right. I think there is great power in the type of honesty he makes available in his art.

SB: Take “How Great” from Coloring Book as an example. It’s pretty much a gospel choir saying Allahu Akbar over and over. This song is meaningful to me, a 19 year-

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old Muslim who is navigating society, faith, and the intersections at which they clash. It’s glorious.

HD: I was actually on a hike a few months ago, and a brother told me exactly that. To him, the choir in that song sounded just like dhikr (praising God).

SB: I think his devotion to God through his craft shows me that faith is not separate from work or art—in fact, I find that those things are vastly more meaningful when they are interwoven with faith. Chance reminds me that the two are not mutually exclusive, and he gives me hope that I can be balanced between deen and dunya.

HD: I think the main reason I admire and love Chance as an artist is his ability to, as he’s said, “speak the noble things entrusted to [him],” i.e. talk about the greatness of God. And he can do that because he maintains full creative control over the production and distribution of his music: he owns his work. So as he decides to give it out for free, there’s no one to tell him otherwise.

SB: Bless him. I find the way he maneuvers being an artist in today’s music industry really admirable. He makes it a point to allow his music to be streamed for free to avoid the common traps that artists fall into early in their careers, which you’ve researched, correct?

HD: Yeah, I took some notes from his interview called ‘Art of Activism’ at the Institute of Politics, University of Chicago. Chance makes a couple of really imperative points regarding why he wouldn’t sign with a label, and what the possible consequences of that are. First, he describes these labels as ‘old machines’ with ‘cookie-cutter techniques,’ meaning that these major record labels are interested in reproducing replicas of previous artists—obviously for the sake of profit.

SB: And Chance would know considering he’s been, and is probably still being, courted by major labels.

HD: Yup, and so with this process of molding artists into replicas of past artists not only comes the stripping of intellectual property via contracts but also of individuality. There’s no major executive with the power to say that Chance’s work is too religious, because Chance is effectively his own executive.

SB: He also discusses what dealing with that executive would look like. What do those contracts entail, exactly?

HD: So in the interview, Chance breaks down the difference between a publishing and a record deal. As per his analogy: “a publishing deal is when you hand over the idea of your work, i.e. the composition, etc. So if I were to quote a line in another song, I would thereby have to pay royalties.

Whereas if I were to sample a work, that would be taking from a master copy that would be handed over to the label if I were to sign a record deal.” Funny enough, Chance then asks the audience if that makes sense and confirms that it doesn’t, calling it “goofy.”

SB: He also explains how music is old, but the concept of publishing music is new. However on the topic of disruption, Chance being an independent rapper is nothing new. I mean there’s Action Bronson, Joey BADA$$ with ProEra, among countless other indie rappers.

HD: Right, and don’t get me wrong, he isn’t recreating this version of the independent artist—that

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concept long predates him. At most, he’s the most known independent artist right now. But he is an independent rapper that’s choosing to let his fans listen to his music for free, and instead making profit off of merchandise and tours: that’s what’s disruptive. He’s tapping into the idea of providing the product free of charge, but then charging for services. That clearly has not been seen as of recent, and it’s got this innovative spirit that speaks to me as a techie. And so far, he’s garnered the title of being the first to be nominated for x (lost count) number of awards for an album whose metric is streams, not sales.

SB: The fact that he can line up all of these accolades while remaining independent is remarkable.

HD: Yeah, but he doesn’t just sit on his awards and milestones—he uses them as a launching point to affect change and engage in activism for the greater good.

SB: It is so interesting how he chooses to navigate the activist sphere. On the one hand you have artists who make their music overtly political, like Lupe Fiasco and Mos Def. Conversely, here’s Chance who in the UChicago interview mentions the challenge of knowing “when to be a mouth and when to be a fist.”

HD: And that’s a challenge that we have to address as Muslims through the course of our daily lives. What really caught my attention was when he explained how minorities lack any substantial control over major news outlets, and subsequently mainstream media is weaponized against them. And though his music isn’t necessarily politically, he confronts politics through physical activism.

SB: Which isn’t necessarily better or worse than what Lupe does. But Chance acknowledges that while writing socially conscious raps counts for something, it’s important to be physically present and active in the outside world. I laughed when he said, “There’s a time to be out in the streets and a time to be out in the tweets.”

HD: Little known fact—he’s actually tried his hand at stand-up comedy! But what really amazes me is that he was able to have the Grammy’s open nominations for streamed albums by leveraging his following that he gained from streaming his work for free. He’s also gone about having his songs played throughout radio stations across the nations with his project www.rapperradio.com.

SB: Yet another reason I love Chance—he’s really a model for grassroots community organizing. Whatever he achieves, whether it’s the Rapper Radio project, fundraising for sleeping bags for the homeless, or getting people registered to vote, he does so through mass support from his fans. Two years ago, he spearheaded a movement to end gun violence in Chicago. The city went forty-two hours without a single shooting.

HD: Subhan’Allah. All praises be to God. What moves me about this is how much of a harmonious presence he strives to be on and off record. On record, he’s talked about how he’s even willing to collaborate with Chief Keef, a rising star in the Drill

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movement. Drill is all about sensationalizing the violence of everyday life for profit.

At first, they would seem like natural opposites, yin and yang—and yet Chance has expressed openness to working with him to upset the expectations of an industry that would love nothing more than to profit off of pitting these two against each other.

SB: That’s real. Imagine if we were to practice that same type of compassion in our own interactions with people—and that’s just Chance remaining true to himself.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned from him is to always authentically come from a place of compassion. I want to know, where do you think we can apply the lessons you’ve learned from Chance and how he goes about his art?

HD: I would have to say: read everything. It’s amazing how, at first, Chance’s dad wanted him to be a politician. I think that’s important because Chance definitely carries this acute sense of awareness of the effect that his music has and the weight of his own political opinion. I can’t shake the fact that that must come from being well-read and aware of the situation of the people you live amongst—we can’t be removed from the condition of the people we live amongst and then expect to be their saviors. That’s not how activism works.

SB : Definitely. It’s ironic, really, the degree to which activist culture lacks that level of self-awareness. Hopefully we can all contribute to changing that.

HD: For sure. May Allah make us amongst those who are self-aware and who do right by the people.

SB: Ameen.

[END]

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