As we traveled from Casablanca to Mirleft, the desert wind at our backs and the call to prayer occasionally reaching our ears, I kept thinking about what it means to be Muslim — not just in word, but in action.

The man driving us — fasting, bearded, quiet for most of the ride — suddenly turned and said, “I will charge you 300 dirhams more.”

No discussion. No explanation.

I asked him, “Is this how the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) treated his guests? Is this the fast you’re keeping?”

And I remembered Allama Iqbal’s piercing verse:

“Masjid to bana di shab bhar mein imaan ki hararat walon ne
Mann apna purana papi hai, barson mein namazi ban na saka.”

They built a mosque overnight, with the passion of faith,
But the soul within remains unchanged, unable to become devout even in years.

That verse echoed again when we crossed into Morocco from Senegal. The immigration officer — uniformed, smug — slid our passports together and said “gift,” gesturing for a bribe. My father later asked me, “Is it Islamic there?” I replied, “Yes… but I haven’t met a Muslim yet.”

But then — there was Hakim in Dakhla, who gave us a lift in his beat-up construction truck with nothing but a warm smile.
There was Abdul Mohammad Sidi in Nouakchott, who helped us from the shared taxi to our hotel with zero expectations.
These men expected nothing, gave freely, and quietly walked away.

This Eid, I want to reflect on that.

Let’s not divide ourselves into good Muslims, bad Muslims, practicing, non-practicing.
Let’s not build mosques and forget to open hearts.
Let’s not fast with our mouths and feed our egos.
Let’s not label others — let’s live Islam, quietly, humbly, like Hakim and Abdul.

This Eid, I just want to say:
Let’s try harder.
Let’s feel more.
Because we are only as alive as we allow ourselves to feel.