ABOLITION
EVERYDAY SH!T: THE PILOT ISSUE
Content Notice: incarceration, prison abuse, medical neglect, religion, spirituality
Abbas Naqvi (left) and Imrul Mazid (right), cofounders of the Philly Muslim Freedom Fund, stand for a portrait in Malcolm X Park in West Philadelphia
“Abolition, to me, starts the same way. It is not just about tearing down prisons or ending policing. It is about transforming the way we live, care, and build ourselves and with each other. It is about decolonizing not just our lands, but our minds. And just like in Islam, it begins with the Why?”
Islam has always been adamant about intention. Nothing in our faith is accepted without first making the conscious decision to do it. As a child, I was taught that even my prayers didn’t count if I rushed through them and didn’t acknowledge why I was praying in the first place. If my “heart wasn’t in it”, I had to start over. The action alone wasn’t enough—what mattered more was the intention behind it. As Muslims, we are encouraged to state our intentions out loud, serving as both a reminder and a renewal.
There were many nights in my childhood when I stayed up until sunrise just to make Fajr (morning meditation/prayers) on time, only to realize later that I had forgotten to set my intention—and I hated that. But this practice has been passed down to me by my parents, my grandparents, and my ancestors, and now that I am older, I am grateful for it. In Islam, this is called our niyyah. Niyyah is not only required for visibly religious/spiritual acts such as praying and fasting, but is encouraged for everything we do, even mundane tasks like grocery shopping, laundry, and washing dishes. When we align our niyyah with an Allah-centric framework, our actions are transformed—we become connected and grounded to them.
Abolition, to me, starts the same way. It is not just about tearing down prisons or ending policing. It is about transforming the way we live, care, and build ourselves and with each other. It is about decolonizing not just our lands, but our minds. And just like in Islam, it begins with the Why?
As I began to learn about abolition, I often found myself remembering my mother’s gentle whispers: “Say Bismillah” each time I would sit down to eat dinner. It’s such a simple act, yet it carries profound depth—transforming something as basic and instinctual as eating into a moment of higher consciousness.
Growing up in the ’90s, I didn’t have the language for abolition. My parents embodied the “American dream” and had “made it.” I was raised to believe in the model minority myth, to keep my head down, not to ask questions, and to assimilate. But intention is a powerful thing. The first time I helped raise bail funds, I wasn’t thinking about abolition per-se—I was just trying to help. The first time I fought for someone’s liberation, I didn’t yet question what it meant to dismantle an entire world. If we take this world apart, will we cease to exist?
But as I reflected more, I started asking myself: Why do we have to keep doing this (ie. crowdfund to raise money for someone unjustly arrested)? Why are so many people trapped in the cycle of violence and suffering—struggling to break free from incarceration, only to be pulled back in again? It’s as if we are constantly caught in a revolving door, where freedom feels more like a fleeting moment than a lasting state. These unjust systems we exist within seem designed to assert control, to make sure that freedom is never fully realized. It feels temporary because it is— it is built on an unstable foundation that will never truly allow for release. The question then became for me not just how to fight for freedom, but also how to make it permanent: how to break these endless cycles and build a world where liberation isn’t just a momentary escape, but an eternal state.
As a scientist trying to cure cancer, I know that the best way to avoid it is to never get it in the first place. But we live in a world where that is very difficult – poisonous chemicals are intentionally added to the soils that grow our food, and there is increased environmental degradation largely in low-income and Black/brown neighborhoods and communities— a world that was built to keep us sick. The same is true for the carceral system that is built on racist laws and white-supremacist culture. We are caged, and upon release, we are often funneled right back inside because the system is designed to keep us caged: the system perpetuates punishment long after physical incarceration ends. Upon release from imprisonment, individuals carry a tainted permanent record that severely limits their opportunities. Employment becomes difficult to secure, essential benefits are revoked, housing applications are frequently denied, and legal discrimination becomes the norm—despite having “done their time.” As a result, recidivism functions like a highly deterministic algorithm, so predictable, that it operates with almost zero margin for error.
The West Philly-based political prisoner, the late Russell “Maroon” Shoatz, or Baba Maroon —an inspiration to us all— spent over 30 years behind bars, only to be released because of his life-threatening cancer. He passed away shortly afterwards. His story is a devastating reminder of how deeply interconnected our oppressions —cancer and incarceration– are. Cancer is now the leading cause of death among incarcerated individuals, accounting for 30% of all prison deaths. But this is more than a mere statistic—it is systemic medical neglect, delayed diagnoses, and an environment designed to shorten life rather than prolong it. Prisons are sites of premature death, where access to preventative care is nearly nonexistent, treatment is delayed until it is too late, and the trauma of incarceration itself takes a toll on the body. If we want liberation, we must create a world within a world—one where survival is not the ceiling, but the floor. This means dismantling not only the prison-industrial complex, but also all corollary systems that mimic it in normalizing neglect and dehumanization. A world that does not leave people to suffer in isolation, but instead ensures dignity, care, and healing. A life-sustaining world.
As an organizer with the Philly Muslim Freedom Fund, a Muslim-centered bail fund in the “Mecca of the West”, I understand that bailing someone out is not enough—it is just the beginning. And I was forced to learn that quickly. One young mother we helped bail out was met with eviction threats as soon as she was released. Her landlord didn’t bother to understand her situation, he just wanted her out. The system that caged her also ensured she had nothing to return to, ultimately fueling a cycle of recidivism—except that she was never convicted. Our work couldn’t stop at release. It had to include housing, healing, stability, and, most importantly, dignity. Dignity for our people.
At PMFF, we recognize our efforts as a communal religious duty, especially since Muslims comprise approximately 1% of the U.S. population, yet represent about 15% of prisoners—a significant overrepresentation. In Islamic terms, this is called wajib kifāyah, a collective religious obligation, as opposed to an individual duty like fasting during the month of Ramadan. Our faith teaches us that justice is not an isolated act but a shared responsibility, one that binds us to each other in action. This is why we are cultivating an ecosystem of support and a culture of care. We’re building and sustaining direct relationships with organizers on the ground—across housing, healthcare, job placement, education, and of course, the network of mosques—because each of these spaces demands intentional, culturally grounded approaches for our Muslim communities. This is also our way of honoring our matriarch Mama Aisha El-Mekki, Baba Maroon, and our ancestors. Because true abolition is not just about breaking chains; it’s about making sure we are not bound by new ones.
Islam has taught me that accountability starts with intention. We cannot change the world if we don’t first ask ourselves why. Are we acting from a place of love? Are we committed to each other beyond moments of crises? Are we building something that will last? True abolition also addresses these very same questions, which is why I think that Islam is abolition, and abolition is Islam.
The Quran and the Prophetic traditions teach us that there are different tiers of sadaqah, or charity (though I hesitate to use that word, but let’s take it as a rough translation). The highest form, called Sadaqah Jariyah, is something that provides continuous care to society—our World within this world. This could mean teaching someone how to read, because they might eventually teach others; making scientific discoveries because they will enhance our healing capacities; or creating art because it will inspire generations to come. It could also mean raising righteous children so that there are future generations of people doing good. Of course, you don’t need to be Muslim to see this—many spiritual traditions converge on these principles. But I challenge my Muslim siblings to re-interpret their understanding of the Quranic and Prophetic traditions, because I think abolition will be a natural by-product of that reflection, as it was for me.
Abolition begins with these intentions– to create a world where no one is disposable, where survival is not the goal but the starting point, allowing us to become connected with this world. Islam taught me that transformation begins from within—and at its core, abolition is the practice of becoming whole.
“Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves…” -Qur’an: Chapter 12, Verse 13.
Abbas Naqvi, based in West Philadelphia, holds a Ph.D. in Computational and Integrative Biology. He is a scientist-activist, dedicated community organizer, and co-founder of The Philly Muslim Freedom Fund.