When I first met Michael in 2023, it was in a different mosque, the one at the former Sullivan Correctional Facility, a smaller prison near New York’s Catskill Mountains. At first, Michael seemed quiet and slightly standoffish. I’d see him in the yard most mornings, performing grueling workouts with his crew: push-ups on top of dumbbells, barbell curls that seemed never-ending, and synchronized squats until everyone was gasping for air.

Some evenings, I’d also see him in the gym hitting the heavy bag. In prison, everyone thinks they’re a boxer, but it’s rare to see the expertise and focus that he had. 

Initially, Michael’s air of intensity made me resistant to becoming friends with him. But once we began speaking regularly, our relationship developed around Islam. 

One evening, as we sat on the bleachers in Sullivan’s gym, Michael opened up about losing his mother. I’ve had many sleepless nights over the years, worrying about my own mother’s health. I started to see Michael differently that day.

Prison is very unpredictable

In 2024, after I was transferred to Shawangunk Correctional Facility, a friend approached me.

“The brother Rakeem is here. … He can barely walk,” he said. I heard the words, but they didn’t really register. It turns out, the Rakeem he was referring to was the same Michael who did extreme workouts and hit the heavy bag with equal parts ferocity and grace. 

One of the most difficult aspects of prison is unpredictability. When you’re free, there’s this perception that you have control over your life and what happens in it. In here, there’s a more acute sense of hopelessness. Everything, from the food you eat to medical care and where you work, is dictated by forces out of your control. 

When I first saw Rakeem at Shawangunk, I was shocked. He could barely keep his balance, even with the assistance of a walker. It seemed his legs were going one way and his upper body another. A few weeks later, he was given a wheelchair and moved to the specialized housing unit. 

The unit has 12 wheelchair-accessible cells that are double the size of standard cells and feature safety rails. I am housed above these men because of my work as a mobility assistant. Most days, I help the men get where they need to go — the medical unit, commissary, the package room. 

Rakeem’s surprising medical diagnosis

This past Ramadan, I made a vow to assist Rakeem. On that unseasonably warm afternoon in March, I rushed downstairs and waited for him to guide his wheelchair out of his cell with small kicking motions. 

“As-salaam alaikum,” he said in an upbeat tone. “Peace be upon you.”

One day, sitting on the thick, black rug of the mosque, Rakeem opened up about what happened to him. 

“I was washing clothes in my bucket, and I felt a sharp pain,” he said. 

At the time, Rakeem was housed at Clinton Correctional Facility, about four hours north of Shawangunk, near the Canadian border. 

“I went to sick call, and they transported me to [an outside hospital] after finding out I had appendicitis,” he said. “After that, everything else went wrong.”

Rakeem spoke about not being able to understand how his physical health had declined so quickly after his appendectomy. While in the infirmary, medical staff seemed hesitant to inform him of his prognosis. It wasn’t until a physical therapist viewed his MRI that it was confirmed that he had severe spinal issues. The bones in his spinal column were grinding against each other and compressing his disks in the process. Since then, he has struggled to keep his balance and experiences numbness in his fingertips.

“I fell, like, four times last night,” he said. “I hit my head and everything.” 

I had him take the kufi off his head so I could check for any wounds. I knew nothing about medical care, but I was concerned. I could tell he was in pain, but he insisted on waiting a few days before visiting the medical department. 

Rakeem is more concerned with being able to pray and fast with our Muslim community. Faith has been a constant throughout Rakeem’s life. As a child, he grew up in the Pentecostal Christian church. His mother instilled in him the importance of God and the power of prayer. 

In his early 20s, he decided to seek out something different. After hearing someone recite the Quran, he knew he’d found what he was looking for. Throughout his three decades in prison, Islam has been critical in changing his once-destructive lifestyle. It also serves as a beacon of hope while facing dying in prison. 

In 2018, I pleaded guilty to a sentence of 19 years-to-life for murder. I will be eligible for parole in 2035. Although there’s no guarantee that I’ll make my first parole board, it isn’t lost on me that I have a chance to be free. For Rakeem, the circumstances are different. After being convicted in a jury trial, he was sentenced to 100 years-to-life. 

Finding purpose in faith

It may seem paradoxical, but the flip side of the uncertainty of life behind bars is the repetitive monotony. Day in and day out you think your life is going one way; then, suddenly, some unexpected event can derail your sense of normalcy. That’s why many of us find purpose in something greater. For Rakeem, that has been his unwavering faith.

“I was content with the Qadr,” he said, referring to God’s plan. “Sometimes, Allah takes us through a thing to test us.” 

Rakeem often longs for the feeling of hitting the heavy bag and strenuous exercise, but he has channeled that energy into his connection with God through studying and worship. 

“I traded in the physical for the spiritual,” he said. 

Before long, I was snapped out of my haze by a resounding voice belting out familiar words in Arabic. I grabbed the handlebars of Rakeem’s wheelchair and lined him up next to our fellow Muslims. It was time to pray.