Ruminations: Race, Travel, + Ramadan

What does it mean to be a "strong Black man," rooted in faith, standing in the river of history, navigating a spiritual journey to serve others?

In the “Ruminations” series, I explore loosely connected introspections without seeking to provide any specific guidance or necessary solutions. For more context, read the first one, which is about 2024.

“I have primarily attempted to provide an overview of [the black radical movement], to introduce or re-examine certain major and lesser-known participants and creators, to suggest some of the critical issues, themes, ideologies, and questions. In every period, I have tried to indicate the internal contradictions and external opposition to the surging of the river, always seeking to comprehend the sources of hope that drew people forward in spite of the terrors of the night.”

–Vincent Harding, There is A River¹

Race

I grew up privileged, and I definitely don’t consider myself a Black Radical. But maybe I am?

Although my maternal and paternal families hail from Washington, D.C., my parents fled to the suburbs a few years after I was born. At that time, D.C. was known as the nation’s murder capital, and they wanted to shield me from the criminal life—both witnessing it and, potentially, being drawn into it. As a result, my childhood and adolescence felt disconnected from the broader Black community.

But this disconnect wasn’t something I consciously recognized. For example, I once thought my P.E. teacher was Black simply because of his olive complexion. While my parents made an effort to teach me about Black history—my first book report, in the second grade, was on Benjamin Banneker—in my young mind, people were just people. My Blackness was merely a layer of my identity, and Black History Month felt like just another February. My perception of it was further complicated in 2005 when I heard Morgan Freeman say that Black History Month is “ridiculous.”

Fast forward a decade. My relatively newlywed, pregnant Ethiopian wife commented offhand during a conversation: “InshaAllah (God willing), he’s going to be Ethiopian.” Something in me shifted. For the first time, I felt a deep sense of pride in my Blackness. I responded, “No. He’s going to be the epitome of an African-American. You’re African, and I’m American.” But that moment also brought two realizations: first, the only way my son would learn about his father’s heritage is if I taught it to him, and second I needed a deeper understanding of myself to teach him.

So, in true nerd fashion, I sought guidance from the elders in my community and ordered every book they recommended on Black history and the sacrifices made by those who came before me—sacrifices that had afforded me the privilege I had long taken for granted.

“Well, I’ve done a lot of traveling and, I think over all, travel does broaden one’s soul. If anything at all, that’s probably the most important of what’s happened to me during the past five or six months.”

–Malcolm X²

Travel: Ethiopia, The Gambia, Jamaica

I haven’t traveled extensively. In fact, outside of my time in Makkah, I have only traveled internationally three or four times. But, “like a river, sometimes powerful, tumultuous, and roiling with life,”³ I have noticed a developing theme.

Ethiopia

As university students in Saudi Arabia, the government provided us with a monthly stipend and a free round-trip ticket to visit our families. In 2014, however, with the arrival of our newborn son and the financial strain that comes with having a baby, I was broke and could not afford to return to America with my family. That year became the only one I did not return home.

Fortunately, some of my colleagues figured out a hack—we could exchange the value of our government-issued tickets for cheaper tickets and pay a nominal fee. Even with this workaround, it was still not enough for us to return to the States. At the same time, my in-laws were preparing for their first visit to Ethiopia since immigrating to America twelve years earlier. We decided to join them, and I set foot on the African continent for the first time.

It took me time to fully grasp the significance of being in Africa. This was my first international trip outside of Saudi Arabia. Feeling lost in translation and standing out like a sore thumb, I stayed close to my in-laws. When my father-in-law planned a visit to Merkato—the largest open-air market in Africa—I jumped at the opportunity to tag along.

Merkato was a stunning spectacle. While my father-in-law haggled with a shopkeeper over solar electricity equipment, I sat on the second-floor balcony, trying to absorb the scene before me. A random donkey ambled down the street, loosely led by its owner, next to vendors with carts full of goods. Only then did I truly understand the “carrot or the stick” metaphor. In the distance, the silhouette of the grand mosque framed the vibrant hustle and bustle. Muslims and Christians blended into a beautiful tapestry of humanity: Muslim men donning kufis and henna-dyed beards, Christian men with high-taper fades and traditional goatees, Muslim women in niqabs, and Christian women wrapped in netala.

Yet, what struck me most was not the harmonious coexistence of religious communities but the fact that everyone was melanated.

The absence of White people took me by surprise. I found myself playing a mental game of “Where is Waldo,” scanning the crowd to spot White individuals. I could count them on one hand. For the first time, I was in a place where Black people were the overwhelming majority. Growing up, I had attended an almost exclusively Black masjid after moving near the inner city, but this felt entirely different. Here, there was no stepping outside to be reminded of your otherness.

The Gambia

For some reason, I find a unique sense of clarity in underprivileged countries. It is as if a part of my brain clicks into place, the pace of life slows down, and I begin to notice and appreciate the more subtle things around me. One example is “Billy’s Coffee Shop”—a simple spot run by Gambian Rastafarians who serve instant coffee on a corner marked by a picket fence, set off a dirt road overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It is just down the street from my Shaykh’s zawiya, which was the sole reason I found myself in The Gambia in the first place.

I went in with no expectations. The zawiya itself is a modest home that Shaykh Muhammad Haydara Al-Jilani—descended directly from Shaykh Abdul-Qadir Al-Jilani (d. 561/1166)—uses to welcome and host guests. Despite being the host of a prestigious conference attended by scholars such as Dr. Umar Faruq Abd-Allah, Shaykh Walead Mossad, Shaykh Ahmed Saad Al-Azhari, and others, he is an incredibly unassuming man. The conference was held at a stunning Moroccan-style resort, yet Shaykh Muhammad mainly remained silent throughout the event, diverting attention away from himself at every opportunity.

I watched him closely, time and time again. If he entered a room and everyone’s gaze naturally turned to him, he would immediately find someone unexpected to direct attention toward. It was baffling yet beautiful. Somehow, despite his quiet demeanor, he managed to organize delicious, meat-filled lunches and dinners for all the attendees without drawing any notice to himself. It was a master class in embodied love and service.

After the conference, my wife and I were blessed to move into the zawiya and stay another week. With 80% of the attendees having departed, the atmosphere slowed down, allowing us to build deeper connections with the remaining students and spend more personal time with Shaykh Muhammad. Meals continued to arrive—now including breakfast—and during one of them, I asked him, “Is this the type of food you all typically eat? I assume meat is expensive.” He replied simply, “Al-Hamdulillah (hallelujah).” Later, when I asked other Gambians, they told me that such meals were far from the norm. Shaykh Muhammad had gone out of his way to ensure we felt comfortable and welcomed.

After one of those meals, Shaykh Muhammad looked at me and said, “Abdul-Malik, now you’ve come to Africa. You have to go back and be a strong Black man!” His words startled me. What did he mean? Did he see something in me that I could not see? Did he sense a weakness or a lack of strength in my identity? How does a connection to the continent transform a person? I responded with a simple “InshaAllah (God willing),” but I have spent the last three years reflecting on that statement.

Jamaica

Getting to Jamaica was an ordeal. Just an hour away from landing in Montego Bay, we were informed that the runway had been damaged. The plane had to turn around and fly to Miami to refuel. After waiting on the runway there for three hours, we flew back to Jamaica at a slower speed because we were now carrying too much fuel. It was chaotic, and I have reflections on that journey to share another time. Suffice it to say that by the time I arrived, I was utterly exhausted.

As I waited in line at passport control, back in a majority-Black country, I was surprised when the officer spoke English. I was ashamed and could not blame my reaction on fatigue. Despite the officer’s uncanny resemblance to one of my uncles, something about my conditioning had programmed me to expect that he would speak a language I would not understand. That moment forced me to confront the subtle ways American exceptionalism had shaped my thinking.

Jamaicans, however, are remarkably proud people. Despite being a poor Caribbean country, they exude pride in their Jamaican identity and African heritage. The two seem almost inseparable. They do not soften their accents or adjust their mannerisms to accommodate outsiders, yet they remain incredibly welcoming, kind, and generous. Even when our car broke down, leaving us stranded for hours in the heart of Montego Bay, I never felt unsafe or out of place.

Immersed in this cultural backdrop, I had an epiphany: I do not have to be anyone but myself. “I don’t care to learn more fiqh (Islamic law),” I told respected scholars. “I know my lane and who to consult if I have fiqhi questions. I want to serve people pastorally.” As I mentioned in Ruminations: 2024, “Everything I think about revolves around it, which is not random. I want others to feel loved.” I am not claiming that my approach is correct or one to be emulated, but this was the first time I confidently shared these intellectual sentiments with my teachers and peers.

I do not believe in serendipity; Allah always has a plan, even when we fail to see it clearly. My “aha moment” happening in Jamaica was no coincidence. The same year Bob Marley: One Love debuted, I found myself in the land that inspired his timeless message. The chorus to One Love—“One love, one heart, let’s get together and feel alright”—captured precisely what I have dedicated my life to.

"Black people at our best are a great people, a world-historical people, precisely because in the face of chronic systemic hatred we have dished out, every generation, love warriors of the highest level of spiritual and moral excellence. ... When you look at the history of Black people, it's hard to find other folks who have been so terribly terrorized for 400 years, but keep dishing out freedom fighters who call for the freedom of everybody."

–Dr. Cornel West⁴

Ramadan

This year’s Black History Month was unique for me in several ways: for the first time, it triggered a deep introspection around race, and its conclusion seamlessly transitions into the sacred month of Ramadan. Later in the introduction to There is a River, Vincent Harding remarked,

“I have operated on the assumption that the attempt to keep faith with a people’s best hopes demands that we try to search out the positive vision of truth and justice that caused them to stand against the destrictive negative forces around them. Beyond the protest, resistance, and rebellion, what was the freedom they sought? What were the sources of their visitation and hope?”⁵

My Blackness and my Islam are two inseparable pillars of my identity. Much like fasting, the extent to which I internally wrestle with them is something known only to Allah unless I choose to share it. However, as an Imam, the implications of this struggle extend far beyond just myself.

“For upwards of a quarter century, from the beginning of the Third Resurrection,⁶ Blackamerican Sunni Muslims have struggled, at times more consciously than others, with an Immigrant Islam that monopolized religious authority and thus the interpretation of the meaning of Islam in America. Initially complicit in this process, Blackamerican Muslims have come to recognize the probative value of their own culture and history. As more and more of them become proficient in the religious sciences of the classical Tradition, the clash-of-civilizations mentality of Modern Islam will give way to an approach that is much more recognizably appreciative of American history and virtues.”⁷

Ramadan’s fast is not merely an external physical action—abstaining from eating and drinking. That is the base minimum requirement for Muslims. For those with higher aspirations, fasting is also an internal spiritual pursuit: refraining from everything made impermissible by Allah. Beyond that, the most profound fast is abstaining from everything other than Allah Himself—what scholars call Faqr (spiritual poverty).

If we think of Faqr in purely materialistic terms, we might associate it with having nothing. On the contrary, Faqr is when our love for Allah outweighs our desire for anything else. As Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said, “Richness is not the abundance of wealth, rather it is self-sufficiency.” True self-sufficiency is in recognizing, regardless of how strong we may be, la howla wa la quwata illa billah (there is no might or power except by Allah).

Seeking faqr is a monumental task and the lifelong journey of those seeking to be true believers. Allah says in the Qur’an, “True believers fight for the cause of Allah.”⁸ We must fight and fast from our wants and desires. For me, that includes fighting my insecurities. Who I am is His decree, but I am responsible for what I do.

I do not believe the monopolization of religious authority Dr. Jackson mentioned was driven by malice. Perhaps my perspective is naive, but it is not my concern. As a Black Imam, standing two or three generations into the Third Resurrection, I must embrace my Blackness while also recognizing that Blackness is not monolithic. This understanding is essential for my spiritual journey and equally critical for those I serve.

“This is the final risk of my work, the risk of hope. The only history I know is one that drives us into the future, moving like a river towards our best possible evolution. So I am willing to take this history of my people as a sign of all human possibility. I see the way we have com, the chains we have broken, the visions we have maintained as a broadside invitation to all people. Our history joins with that common hopeful element in all histories of human struggle for community and calls each of us to develop our great hidden capacities to dream, to imagine a new American society, to become full participants in its creation, bursting with our courage and hope the barriers of all political, economic, and social institutions that now hold us in bondage to our worst selves.”

–Vincent Harding⁹

The river flows, carrying with it stories of struggle, resilience, and hope. It winds through time, carving paths around barriers, breaking through walls, and nourishing everything in its reach. To stand in its current is to feel the weight of history and the pull of a future shaped by faith and courage. My Blackness, like the river, has been a journey—a turbulent, evolving force that reminds me of who I am and what I carry. It is not a still pond, stagnant and safe, but a surging force that demands honesty, strength, and surrender. As I move forward, I am reminded that this river’s ultimate course is always toward the ocean, toward Allah, where all struggles converge, and where true purpose flows. In the rush of its waters, I find clarity, and in its depth, I find peace.

Ultimately, with Allah is all success.

1. Harding, Vincent. There Is a River: The Black Struggle for Freedom in America. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1981. xxii.

2. X, Malcolm. Malcolm X Speaks: Selected Speeches and Statements. Edited by George Breitman. New York: Grove Press, 1965, 62.

3. Harding, xix.

4. West, Cornel. “Black Love: A Love Like No Other”, Masterclass. https://www.masterclass.com/classes/black-history-black-freedom-and-black-love/chapters/black-love-a-love-like-no-other

5. Harding, xxi.

6. “The Third Resurrection refers not simply to the period during which Sunni Tradition gains recognition among Blackamerican Muslims but to the era in which Blackamerican Muslims emerge as self-authenticating subjects rather than dependent objects of and in this tradition.” See Jackson, Sherman A. Islam and the Blackamerican: Looking toward the Third Resurrection. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. 5-6.

7. Ibid., 96-96.

8. Quran 4:76.

9. Harding, xxv.