This summer our (my two youngest and I) journey to understanding collective suffering began with: oppression is not confined to one people or one moment in history. It is a pattern—repeated, documented, and carried across generations. I wanted my daughters to understand this early in their lives, to see how history echoes itself when we fail to witness it. I chose to read American Indian Stories by Zitkála-Šá as part of my effort to teach my two daughters about the Indigenous peoples of the United States. I wanted them to understand that colonization and oppression are not isolated injustices from the past, nor issues limited to distant lands—they are global patterns that have shaped entire peoples for centuries. Through what I learned in this book, I hoped to help my daughters see how oppressed communities across the world share similar struggles, and how their paths toward freedom, healing, and decolonization often mirror one another.
Zitkála-Šá’s voice made this teaching possible. In the opening chapters—particularly Impressions of an Indian Childhood—she paints her early life with such lyrical warmth that I could almost feel the prairies she played on, hear the songs her mother sang, and sense the deep communal bonds that shaped her world. She describes her mother’s stories, the gentle humor of her uncles, the freedom she enjoyed running through nature, and the spiritual life interwoven with every aspect of Dakota culture. Her mother’s quiet grief over the loss of her husband to white soldiers becomes one of the first lessons Zitkála-Šá receives about the costs of colonization, yet even that grief is wrapped in strength, dignity, and love for her people.
Sharing these scenes with my daughters allowed me to present a fuller picture of Indigenous life—one often distorted, simplified, or erased in mainstream narratives. Zitkála-Šá’s descriptions challenge the stereotypes they may one day face in textbooks or popular culture. She portrays her community not as victims or as relics of the past, but as vibrant, spiritually grounded, morally rich human beings. Teaching my daughters this felt like an important act of justice—offering them a truth they will rarely be handed freely.
But as I continued reading, the tone of the book shifted sharply. In The School Days of an Indian Girl, the nurturing warmth of the reservation gives way to the harshness of the missionary boarding school. Zitkála-Šá recounts her terror on the train as strangers take her away from her community. She recalls hiding under a bed in a desperate attempt to avoid having her hair cut—a sacred part of Dakota identity, only trimmed in times of deep mourning. Yet the missionaries drag her out, and as she describes the “cold blades” slicing through her braids, she writes of feeling her spirit break. Her words helped me explain to my daughters how colonization seeks not only to take land but to break cultural and spiritual continuity.
She is punished for speaking her language, isolated for expressing emotions, and shamed for the very things that once defined her. In one scene, she describes the loneliness of being unable to pray in her own way and the guilt imposed on her by a Christian framework that viewed her traditions as “sinful.” These are not distant historical wounds; they echo in current events today.
Around the world, communities continue to face cultural erasure, suppression of language, separation of families, and attempts to reshape identity under systems of domination. Whether we look at Indigenous peoples across the Americas still fighting to protect their homelands, Palestinians facing displacement and attempts to erase their identity, Uighur Muslims stripped of culture and faith, or communities in Africa bearing the long-term scars of colonization—the patterns are strikingly similar. Zitkála-Šá’s story, though deeply personal, gave me the language to help my daughters recognize that oppression is interconnected, and that our empathy must be interconnected as well.
Islam guides us in this understanding. Allah commands:
“O you who believe! Stand firmly for justice, as witnesses to Allah, even if it be against yourselves or your parents or your relatives.”
(Surah An-Nisā’, 4:135)
This verse teaches that justice is not optional—it is a divine obligation that requires courage, honesty, and moral clarity. The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ emphasized that the believers are like one body: when one part hurts, the whole body feels the pain. Teaching my daughters about Indigenous experiences became a way to teach them this prophetic truth. The pain of another people is not separate from us; it calls us to stand with them, even when the injustice is not directed at us personally.
Zitkála-Šá’s later essays, especially An Indian Teacher Among Indians, reveal the emotional toll of living between two worlds. When she returns home, the very education meant to “civilize” her instead alienates her from her own people. She no longer feels fully rooted in the reservation, yet she knows she will never belong in the white institutions that shaped her schooling. This ache of in-betweenness—of being split by colonization—reflects a spiritual wound many oppressed or displaced peoples share.
Islam teaches that true dignity comes from Allah alone, and that no system or oppressor can strip away the inherent honor He placed in every human soul. This helped me show my daughters that Indigenous resistance is not only political—it is deeply spiritual. It is the refusal to let identity be erased, the courage to remember who you are, and the insistence on telling your own story even when the world tries to silence it.
Reading American Indian Stories and teaching its lessons to my daughters became more than an educational exercise. It became a spiritual practice—an act of witnessing, of honoring truth, and of connecting their hearts to the global human struggle for justice. Islam teaches that standing with the oppressed brings us closer to our Creator, and that lifting the burdens from others is among the most beloved actions to Allah (swt).
I wanted my daughters to understand that learning about injustice is not meant to leave us despairing. Instead, it should awaken compassion, responsibility, and humility. Zitkála-Šá’s voice—poetic, courageous, and deeply human—reminds us that healing begins when we listen with sincerity, honor the truth, and stand with those who carry generational grief. Through these lessons, I hope my daughters grow into women who recognize suffering wherever it exists and who work, in the light of faith, to help heal it.
May Allah swt make us people of justice and compassion. Protect the oppressed in every land and heal their wounds. Guide our ummah to walk with empathy, courage, and truth. Let our hearts stand firmly with those who suffer, and make this path a means to draw nearer to Him.
Author bio: Miriam Mohamed is a mother to seven children and a granny to two cats! She loves trying new things and learning cool facts. She has taught in an Islamic school setting, has experience assisting children with special needs, and enjoys volunteering and being a part of the community. Miriam lives in Chicago with her beautiful flowering cherry tree and big family.
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