My wife and I have been thinking a great deal about how we divest our children from accolade culture when it comes to understanding how they value themselves in the world, and how they value their relationship to Allah .

This has not been as easy as it might seem, largely because the world is built on a diet of measuring ‘success’ – thus a successful child is one who attains high marks, receives accolades, has multiple degrees, until they are then successful in a high-paying profession. We’ve tried to make little adjustments to try and redress this; for instance, we might celebrate an end to their exams, as opposed to celebrating at the point of their results being released. To even purchase them gifts based on their effort, not based on their results.

Ultimately, we have been trying to encourage our children to experience the world as one that is connected to ihsan and taqwa – to not measure themselves by what the world informs them of what makes a human valuable.

Over the last two years, I’ve had the examples of others informing me of what a life filled with dignity looks like. The son of a friend took part in the Cambridge University encampment to protest the ongoing genocide in Palestine. The son was calling me seeking advice about what the encampment should and should not be doing. After a while, I called my friend to ask him about his son’s degree being at risk, and how he was engaging this action. My friend explained that he initially balked at the idea that his son might not be able to complete his education, but then reminded himself that a fulfilled life cannot be reduced to a degree from Cambridge, but has to be in the stances we take at times when courage is needed – no time more pressing than the midst of a genocide. I was impressed by my friend’s position – it seemed validating to know that other parents were willing to support their children take stances that might materially impact their futures.

More recently, I came to support the protests taking place at the SOAS Liberated Zone, where students have been attempting to force SOAS to divest from Israel academically and financially. In the process of making their demands, there has been a process of repressing pro-Palestinian voices among the student body by the SOAS student union and the administration of the Vice Chancellor, Adam Habib, known for calling the police on his own students during his previous role as the chancellor of a university in South Africa.

Among those who took part in the protests at SOAS is Haya Adam, a second-year Law and International Relations student who was suspended pending an investigation by the university. Although excluded from university premises, Haya continued to protest against the university and her personal treatment, highlighting the layers of complicity. Always at these protests, you will meet the wheelchair-bound Aunty Azza, the mother of Haya, staunchly standing by her daughter’s stance, regardless of the outcome. When you look at Aunty Azza, you don’t see a fear of her daughter’s future; you see a complete certainty in Allah’s Promise that a life lived in dignity and in defence of the oppressed, is far more valuable than anything else. Haya herself maintained that while she would always fight her suspension, she would never apologise for her advocacy of the Palestinian people.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak at a protest in support of Haya. As I listened to the other speeches and heard from Haya herself, I realised that there was very little I could actually do for her, other than express my solidarity. The protest was taking place just outside of the gates of SOAS, and I looked at the buildings that I would once frequent for my own Master’s in Law, having graduated twenty-one years ago. Seeing Haya, a small but very powerful young Muslim woman, I wanted to express my heartfelt solidarity, and so, when I took to the platform, I expressed that I would burn my SOAS Master’s certificate should she be expelled from the university – as an act of solidarity for her. My words were met with a great deal of applause, with Aunty Azza specifically taking me aside to thank me for my proposed gesture.

Two weeks later, I heard the news that Haya was indeed expelled after a sham investigation process. I thought back to my own public commitment to her that I would burn my certificate– and so I did, recording it to highlight my anger at the SOAS administration. This didn’t seem enough, though. It didn’t seem much of a sacrifice to just burn a piece of paper that I could easily re-order if I needed one again. I felt that there was no real sacrifice at the end of such a symbolic act. The following morning, I wrote to the SOAS administration to inquire into the process of having my degree unrolled from the university, as there is no formal process in doing so.

Since then, while the vast majority of people have expressed their support for my actions, there have also been some who questioned the efficacy of such an act. For them, burning or rescinding an accolade that I worked hard to attain (and I really did nerd out during my Master’s) was an unfathomable act. Why waste the time, effort, and money?

The first real answer is: because I told Haya I would do so. I hope that as long as I am alive, Allah will make me a man of my word, and because I had promised this, I decided that I would actually follow through. But, in the process of going further and seeking to rescind the degree, I came upon a different motivation for myself; one that desired to divest from these institutions and the stranglehold they have over what we consider to be a dignified and honoured life. That the Master’s degree means nothing to me in the midst of a genocide – that there is nothing that the accolade was able to give me that I could not have learnt from a book.

People spoke of it in terms of sacrifice, but to me, this small act of solidarity with our young sister was minimal at best. I did not go out and encourage others to do the same, and of course, they are welcome to. But this was not so much about how much change this would bring, as much as it was about divesting myself from a love of what we are taught ‘empirically’ makes us valuable. Haya, Aunty Azza, and our friends standing with them sent me their du’as, as did Palestinians – and so, all that is left is a hope that Allah accepts it – what is more valuable now? The du’as of the oppressed, or the certificate from a colonial institution invested in a racially segregated apartheid state? I haven’t come to think of it as a sacrifice, as much as it now feels liberatory.

Right now, there are hundreds of predominantly non-Muslims who have expressed their public support for the banned direct action group Palestine Action in the UK, forcing the police to arrest them. Just over a week ago, my friend, colleague, and former Guantanamo Bay detainee, Moazzam Begg, chose to be arrested alongside this group – all for the sake of sacrificing and taking risks to defend Palestine. Such actions are breaking the asphyxiation imposed on us by the global War on Terror – that arrest, charge, and conviction can no longer be seen as something to be ashamed of, but rather something that we celebrate as more and more people take risks for Palestine.

The world is changing, and with that, we must change our relationship to it. Can we encourage ourselves to sacrifice in different ways? Can we see our children expelled from their university campuses? Can we see ourselves being arrested for the sake of standing up for a cause? Can we see ourselves divesting from the very institutions that create harm in the world? If we can, then inshallah we will win – even if that means material loss in this life.

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